Ian Rankin - Saints of the Shadow Bible

A perfunctory attempt had been made to turn the canteen into a festive location — meaning a couple of banners, some streamers and even a dozen or so party balloons. Tables had been covered with paper tablecloths. There were bowls of crisps and nuts, and bottles of wine and beer.

‘Cake’s arriving in half an hour,’ Siobhan Clarke told Rebus.

‘Then I’m out of here in twenty.’

‘You don’t like cake?’

‘It’s the speeches that’ll no doubt accompany it.’

Clarke smiled and sipped her orange juice. Rebus held an open bottle of lager, but had no intention of finishing it — too gassy, not cold enough.

‘So, DS Rebus,’ she said, ‘what did you get up to this afternoon?’

He stared at her. ‘How long are we going to keep this up?’ Meaning her use of his rank — detective sergeant to her inspector. A decade back, the roles had been reversed. But when Rebus had applied to rejoin, he’d been warned of a surfeit of DIs, meaning he would have to drop to DS.

‘Take it or leave it,’ he’d been told.

So he’d taken it.

‘I think I can string it out a little longer,’ Clarke was saying now, her smile widening. ‘And you haven’t answered my question.’

‘I was looking up an old friend.’

‘You don’t have any.’

‘I could point to a dozen in this very room.’

Clarke scanned the faces. ‘And probably as many enemies.’

Rebus seemed to ponder this. ‘Aye, maybe,’ he conceded. And he was lying anyway. A dozen friends? Not even close. Siobhan was a friend, perhaps the closest he’d ever had — despite the age gap and the fact she didn’t like most of the music he played. He saw people he’d worked alongside, but almost no one he would have invited back to his flat for whisky and conversation. Then there were the few he would gladly give a kicking to — like the three officers from Professional Standards. They stood apart from the rest of the room, pariah status confirmed. Yet they had a haunted look — as with the Cold Case Unit, so too with their particular jobs: packed off elsewhere come reorganisation. But then a face from the past was squeezing through the throng and heading in Rebus’s direction. He stuck out a hand, which Rebus took.

‘Bloody hell, I almost didn’t recognise you there,’ Rebus admitted.

Eamonn Paterson patted what was left of his stomach. ‘Diet and exercise,’ he explained.

‘Thank God for that — I thought you were going to tell me you had some sort of wasting disease.’ Rebus turned towards Clarke. ‘Siobhan, this is Eamonn Paterson. He was a DS when I was a DC.’ While the two shook hands, Rebus continued the introduction.

‘Siobhan’s a detective inspector, which has her under the cruel delusion she’s my boss.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Paterson said. ‘When he was wet behind the ears I couldn’t get him to take a telling, no matter how hard I kicked his backside.’

‘Some things never change,’ Clarke conceded.

‘Eamonn here used to go by the name of Porkbelly,’ Rebus said. ‘Came back from a holiday in the States with the story he’d eaten so much of the stuff a restaurant had given him a T-shirt.’

‘I’ve still got it,’ Paterson said, raising his glass in a toast.

‘How long have you been out of the game?’ Clarke asked. Paterson was tall and slim, with a good head of hair; she wouldn’t have said he was a day older than Rebus.

‘Nearly fifteen years. Nice of them still to send me the invites.’ He waved his wine glass in the direction of the party.

‘Maybe you’re the poster boy for retirement.’

‘That could be part of it,’ he agreed with a laugh. ‘So this is the last rites for Lothian and Borders, eh?’

‘As far as anyone knows.’ Rebus turned towards Clarke. ‘What’s the new name again?’

‘There’ll be two divisions — Edinburgh, plus Lothians and Scottish Borders.’

‘Piece of nonsense,’ Paterson muttered. ‘Warrant cards will need changing, and so will the livery on the patrol cars — how the hell’s that supposed to save money?’ Then, to Rebus: ‘You going to manage along to Dod’s?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘How about you?’

‘Could be another case of last rites.’ Paterson turned towards Clarke. ‘We all worked together at Summerhall.’

‘Summerhall?’

‘A cop shop next door to the vet school on Summerhall Place,’ Rebus explained. ‘They knocked it down and replaced it with St Leonard’s.’

‘Before my time,’ she admitted.

‘Practically Stone Age,’ Paterson agreed. ‘Not many of us cavemen left, eh, John?’

‘I’ve learned how to make fire,’ Rebus countered, taking the box of matches from his pocket and shaking it.

‘You’re not still smoking?’

‘Someone has to.’

‘He likes the occasional drink, too,’ Clarke confided.

‘I’m shocked.’ Paterson made show of studying Rebus’s physique.

‘Didn’t realise I was auditioning for Mr Universe.’

‘No,’ Clarke said, ‘but you’ve sucked your stomach in anyway.’

‘Busted,’ Paterson said with another laugh, slapping Rebus’s shoulder. ‘So will you make it to Dod’s or not? Stefan’ll likely be there.’

‘Seems a bit ghoulish,’ Rebus said. He explained to Clarke that Dod Blantyre had suffered a recent stroke.

‘He wants one last gathering of the old guard,’ Paterson added. He wagged a finger in Rebus’s direction. ‘You don’t want to disappoint him — or Maggie. .’

‘I’ll see how I’m fixed.’

Paterson tried staring Rebus out, then nodded slowly and patted his shoulder again. ‘Fine then,’ he said, moving off to greet another old face.

Five minutes later, as Rebus was readying his excuse that he needed to step out for a cigarette, a fresh group entered the canteen. They looked like lawyers because that was what they were — invitees from the Procurator Fiscal’s office. Well dressed, with shiny, confident faces, and led by the Solicitor General for Scotland, Elinor Macari.

‘Do we need to bow or anything?’ Rebus murmured to Clarke, who was fixing her fringe. Macari was pecking the Chief Constable on both cheeks.

‘Just don’t say something you might regret.’

‘You’re the boss.’

Macari looked as though she’d made several stops on her way to the party: hairdresser, cosmetics counter and boutique. Her large black-framed glasses accentuated the sharpness of her gaze. Having swept the room in an instant, she knew who needed greeting and who could be dismissed. The councillor who headed the policing committee merited the same kiss as the Chief Constable. Other guests nearby had to make do with handshakes or a nod of the head. A glass of white wine had been fetched, but Rebus doubted it was anything other than a prop. He noticed too that his own bottle of lager was empty, though he’d vowed to save his thirst for something more deserving.

‘Got a few words stored up in case she drifts this way?’ he asked Clarke.

‘I’d say we’re well out of her orbit.’

‘Fair point. But now she’s arrived, the presentations can’t be far behind.’ Rebus held up the packet of cigarettes and gestured in the direction of the outside world.

‘Are you coming back?’ She saw his look and gave a twitch of the mouth, acknowledging the stupidity of the question. But as he made to leave the canteen, Macari spotted someone and made a beeline for them, so that Rebus had to swerve past her. She frowned, as if trying to place him, going so far as to glance at his retreating figure. But by then she had reached her prey. Siobhan Clarke watched as the most senior lawyer in Scotland took Malcolm Fox by the arm and led him away from his Professional Standards cohort. Whatever was about to be discussed, a modicum of privacy was required. One of the canteen staff had arrived in the doorway, holding the cake, but a gesture from the Chief Constable told her the ceremony would have to wait until the Solicitor General was ready. .