Ian Rankin - Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t sound so worried — I told him you’d left something behind the other night.’

‘So how’s Dod doing?’

‘Same old.’ She paused. ‘It was fun seeing you at the house.’

‘Nice to catch up — just a shame about the circumstances.’

‘That man Fox has been on the phone, asking if Dod would be up for answering a few questions. Dod tells me you’ll know about that.’

‘Sort of.’

‘And if he really doesn’t want to talk. .?’

‘I suppose his doctor could write him a note.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Another pause. ‘It’s not that he has anything to hide. It’s just that he’s not up to it.’

‘Understood.’

‘But will Fox see it that way?’

‘Doesn’t really matter, does it?’

‘Dod doesn’t want to go to his grave with a black mark against his whole career. Surely you can see that?’

‘Of course.’

She seemed to relax a little, as though relieved he was now sharing her burden. ‘Maybe we could meet for a coffee after Silverknowes — it would be lovely to see you.’

‘At the house, you mean?’

‘There’s a café on Roseburn Terrace. I sometimes take an hour out and sit there. Dod seems to manage without me. .’

‘Do they do food?’ Rebus enquired.

‘Just sandwiches and baked potatoes.’

‘Then I’ll see you there at half-one.’

‘Always supposing you can bear to leave Silverknowes.’

‘Always supposing,’ Rebus echoed with a smile.

He was five minutes early, but she was already there, seated at a table by the window, the window itself opaque with condensation.

‘John,’ she said in greeting, rising and pecking him on the cheek. Then the familiar touch of her thumb as she brushed away the lipstick. ‘I ordered a pot of tea — is that okay?’

‘Fine.’

She didn’t want anything to eat, but Rebus ordered a toasted ham sandwich. When he turned from the waitress, Maggie Blantyre was studying him intently.

‘Have you left a mark on me?’ he asked, rubbing at his left cheek.

‘I was just thinking back. You were a lovely lot — a real gang of friends.’

‘The job does that to you.’

‘And a lot more besides.’

‘Despite which, here I am.’

‘Here you are,’ she said, lifting her teacup. But then her smile faltered. ‘There are times I wonder. .’

‘What?’

‘How things might have turned out — if we’d been a little braver.’

‘You and me, you mean? At the time, I seem to remember we thought we’d taken leave of our senses.’

‘But thinking back. .’

‘The past’s a dangerous place, Maggie.’

‘I know it is — look at what this man Fox is trying to do.’

‘It’s not Fox, it’s the Solicitor General — she wants to retry Billy Saunders, and for that to happen she needs to know nothing’s going to bite her arse in the courtroom.’

‘You paint a lovely picture.’

Rebus’s phone was buzzing. ‘I need to take this,’ he apologised, seeing Clarke’s name on the screen.

‘Of course.’

He got to his feet and exited the café. ‘Siobhan?’ he said by way of greeting.

‘Pat McCuskey just died,’ she said, no emotion in her voice.

‘Shite.’

‘It’s now a murder inquiry. A team’s being assembled at Torphichen.’ Meaning the C Division HQ on Torphichen Place. Made sense: nearest manned station to the crime scene. Come reorganisation, there’d be something called the Specialist Crime Division to investigate serious cases, but not yet.

‘I can be there in five minutes,’ Rebus said.

‘Your name’s not been mentioned, John. I don’t mean to say you won’t be needed in future. .’

‘But you’re in?’

‘At the moment, yes.’

‘And Page?’

‘No, not Page — and not Esson or Ogilvie either. Seems they only need an extra DI right now.’

Rebus had taken the opportunity to get a cigarette lit. Through the window he could see his toastie being delivered. He indicated for it to be left there.

‘How sure can we be that it’s murder?’

‘I agree — he could have fallen, smashed his head. Might have a better idea after the autopsy.’

‘On the other hand, calling it murder might stir things up a bit — put a bit of pressure on whoever did it. Small-timers, maybe not expecting to find anyone home. .’

‘Have you managed to get the word out around town?’

‘As best I can.’ Rebus paused. ‘Media’s going to be all over this.’

‘Not to mention McCuskey’s colleagues. Speaking of which, his private secretary did switch off the TV — you were right about that.’

‘Anything sensitive on the laptop?’

‘It’s password-protected.’

‘Not exactly Fort Knox, then.’

‘Thing is, the Yes campaign isn’t quite the same thing as the current government.’

‘So there could be stuff his office doesn’t know about?’

‘We’re checking.’ Clarke paused. ‘I’m guessing it makes the son untouchable.’

‘Maybe, maybe not. I still think it’s odd this should happen so soon after the crash.’

‘Lifting just enough in the way of valuables to make it look like a robbery?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You think I should take it to DCI Ralph?’

‘Nick Ralph’s in charge at Torphichen?’

‘His is the name I’m hearing.’

‘Good rep. And if he’s asked for you, that consolidates it.’

‘Shucks.’

‘On the other hand, giving me a body-swerve has to count against him.’

Inside the café, Maggie Blantyre seemed to be fretting that his lunch was getting cold. Rebus nodded for her benefit, took a final drag on the cigarette and flicked its remains into the gutter. ‘Got to go,’ he told Clarke.

‘If you do hear anything about the stuff that got lifted. .’

‘I’ll give it to you so you can get your gold star from teacher.’

‘You better had, or it’ll be a Chinese burn next time I see you in the playground.’

Rebus ended the call and went back indoors.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. But Maggie was on her feet, shrugging her arms back into the sleeves of her coat.

‘I need to be getting back,’ she explained. ‘I’ve left money for my tea.’

Rebus spotted the neat pile of coins next to her saucer.

‘But we’d hardly got talking,’ he complained.

‘Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea.’ She smiled at him and touched his tie with the tips of her fingers. ‘But I’m sure Dod would like to see you, if you ever felt like visiting.’

‘Maggie. .’

‘Sit down and eat.’ She patted him on the chest and was gone.

Rebus stood there for a moment, wondering whether he was expected to follow, maybe be that bit more demonstrative. But his stomach was growling and he had to be at the Sheriff Court by three. The waitress was asking if everything was all right.

‘Hunky-dory,’ Rebus told her, settling himself back down at the table. There was lipstick on Maggie’s cup, and she had left enough money to pay the bill in full.

‘Terrible news,’ Eamonn Paterson said.

‘Terrible,’ Malcolm Fox agreed.

The three men were in the office at the Sheriff Court. Fox had set up a tape recorder but no video. Rebus noticed that no effort had been made to tidy away all the paperwork — quite the reverse, in fact. Fox had ensured the place looked good and messy, as if industry happened here, as if paperwork had been pored over time and again, evidence amassed. He had his A4 pad out — or maybe it was a different one. Reams of writing within, some sections capitalised or underlined. No doodles, not a thought wasted. Precision and diligence.