Ian Rankin - Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘What are you drinking?’ he asked her, but she shook her head.

‘On my way somewhere,’ she explained.

‘The lawyer again?’

‘Maybe.’ She had changed into fresh clothes, maybe just a dab of make-up. And perfume — subtle but present. ‘So how did you get on with Owen Traynor?’

‘He admitted everything,’ Rebus stated. Just for a moment she was taken in, but then she scowled. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Shiv, but he says he had nothing to do with it.’

‘You asked him to his face?’

‘In front of his daughter,’ Rebus added. ‘Hers was an interesting reaction.’

‘In what way?’

‘I just sensed that cogs were turning; she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Her dad meantime has created his own little office so he can keep on doing whatever it is he does.’

‘Meaning he’s sticking around?’

‘Looks like.’

‘Not running, the way someone guilty might?’

‘There’s something else — were you at the house when the wife arrived?’

‘No.’

‘Young Forbes was behind the wheel.’

She took a moment to consider this. ‘Can’t really haul him in now, though, can we?’

‘With his dad in intensive care, you mean?’

‘Page would have kittens.’

‘Wouldn’t want the media falling out of love with him.’

‘He’s got half the office going through folders of housebreakings in the city. Old-timers dragged in and questioned. .’ She looked at him. ‘Doesn’t feel like locals, though, does it?’

‘The man just wants a quick result — that way the politicians will love him too.’

‘Can you put word out? See if anyone’s heard anything?’

‘I don’t have the contacts I used to.’

‘Thing is, no one else I’ve spoken to has any . It’s a skill that seems to have died out.’

‘Do we have a list of what was taken?’

‘It’s getting there.’

‘Get me a copy and I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks. Anything else I should know?’

‘Just that me and Foxy are best buds now.’

‘Somehow I doubt that.’ She couldn’t help smiling.

‘Then let’s just say he’s thawing.’

‘Really?’

Rebus gave it three beats. ‘No, not really,’ he admitted. The smile was still there as she shifted the Astra’s gearstick into first, giving him a little wave with the fingers of her right hand.

Back inside the bar, Rebus was asked if Alistair Darling was being brought in for questioning, since he was heading the No campaign.

‘Aye, or that mate of his, Stefan Gilmour,’ someone else piped up.

‘Guy like that can spend his way out of any amount of trouble,’ the first speaker argued. ‘See, when you back out of buying a football team, tends to leave you with a bit of spare cash — am I right, John?’

‘Absolutely, Dennis,’ Rebus said, handing over his last five-pound note to the barman.

Alone in the flat in Great King Street, Alice Bell splashed water on her face and dried it with a towel, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes were reddened from crying, and she knew the pillow on her narrow single bed would be damp to the touch. She had closed the shutters in her room, aiming to blot out as much of the world as she could. Her knees were threatening to buckle as she made her way to the kitchen, hands brushing the hallway walls as if for support. With her mug of green tea, she settled at her desk in the living room. Her laptop, notes and books — what did any of these mean? Her throat felt cramped, heart pounding. When her phone rang suddenly in the silence, she gave a little gasp of fright. Forbes’s name was on the screen, so she answered.

‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

‘I should be asking you that. I’m sorry about your dad. I tried calling earlier. .’

‘I know, thanks. Wasn’t in a position to answer.’

She listened to him exhale noisily.

‘And your mum?’ she asked.

‘Soldiering on.’

‘It was a break-in. .?’

‘Of course it was.’

‘No connection. .?’

‘Let’s not even get into that, Alice, okay?’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘Of course I’m not sure !’ He paused, his voice calming. ‘Look, I need to go. Have you been to see Jess?’

‘She was sleeping.’

‘You spoke to Owen? You know he blames me? He phoned me to tell me as much.’

‘You need to steer clear of him.’

‘I plan to. Jess should be home in a day or two, and with any luck he’ll bugger off back south.’

‘This all feels like my fault,’ Alice said quietly.

‘We’re in it together, Alice. United we stand and all that. Talk to you tomorrow, yeah?’

‘Okay,’ she said, listening as he ended the call. She placed the phone on the surface of the desk and stared at it.

‘Divided we fall,’ she whispered to herself, closing the lid of her laptop.

Rebus’s pub crawl started at opening time the next morning — not that he was on anything other than soft drinks. Clarke had sent a list of the stolen items to his phone, plus photographs provided by the McCuskeys’ insurance company: pearl necklace, antique brooch, Rolex watches. The laptop was expensive, but whoever had taken it had left its cable behind. Same went for the missing mobile phones — both chargers still plugged into power points. Pat McCuskey himself had yet to regain consciousness, though the word ‘coma’ was being avoided in the news bulletins. At least one tabloid was stirring up a debate on crime and punishment, and every paper Rebus had seen had run the story on its front page.

The pubs he visited were in unglamorous corners of the city, from Granton to Gorgie and the Inch to Sighthill. Some of the old places had closed. They were either boarded up or had been demolished and replaced by fast-food outlets. Rebus felt like an explorer returning to find that some wilderness had been tamed. Those haunts that did still exist were doing little or no business, the staff complaining about supermarket drink deals and the smoking ban.

‘Lot of the old punters would rather stay at home, puffing away in front of the horse racing with a dozen cans of Special Offer. .’

And that was another thing: lifestyle choices had hacked away at Rebus’s network of faces. Some had passed away without him knowing; others had grown senile and moved in with family members in distant climes. Hasn’t been in for a while , Rebus would be told. Or: Never see him around these days . In some pubs, the staff had no idea who he was talking about.

‘Used to drink in here all the time,’ Rebus would persist. ‘Tall guy, thick mop of silver hair, worked on the buses. .’ Followed by yet another shake of the head. Even the hardened eleven a.m. regulars would struggle to recall ‘Big Tony’, ‘Shug the Spit’ and ‘Ecky Shake’. Rebus would recite the list of stolen property to anyone who’d listen, and leave a card behind the bar with his number on it. He had texted Fox to ask if he was needed before the three p.m. interview with Eamonn Paterson. Fox had replied: You’ve been talking to him then? No other way you’d know .

‘Nice work, John,’ Rebus had muttered to himself.

He was on his way to the final pub of his dispiriting tour when his phone rang. Not a number he recognised, but he answered anyway.

‘Hello, you.’

Maggie Blantyre’s voice, instantly recognisable.

‘Hi there, Maggie. Everything all right?’

‘Fine. Are you in the car?’

‘On my way to Silverknowes.’

‘For your sins, eh?’

‘Something like that. I didn’t know you had my number.’

‘Porkbelly gave it to me.’