Ian Rankin: Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘Jessica,’ Clarke began, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Clarke and this is Detective Sergeant Rebus. How are you feeling, or is that a stupid question?’

‘Like I got hit by a car.’

‘I saw the state of your Golf. The airbag probably saved your life. Silly not to have your seat belt fastened.’

Traynor stiffened as he took this in. Jessica’s eyes widened. ‘I always do up my seat belt,’ she protested.

‘The motorist who found you, the one who called for the cavalry, says you weren’t strapped in.’

‘Couldn’t it have come undone on impact?’ Traynor asked.

‘I’ve not heard of that happening,’ Clarke told him. Then, to his daughter: ‘Any idea why one of your boots ended up on the passenger-side floor?’

‘I don’t understand.’ Jessica Traynor’s eyes flitted from one face to another.

‘There you are in the driver’s seat,’ Clarke obliged, ‘but one of your Uggs somehow lands the other side of the central console. Again, it’s something I’ve not come across before.’

Her father leaned in towards her. ‘The officers were asking me earlier if someone was maybe driving too fast behind you, causing you to do what you did.’

‘I don’t know what happened.’ Tears were filling Jessica Traynor’s eyes.

‘Was there some sort of race going on?’ Clarke asked. ‘Maybe you got in the way and they forced you off the road?’

‘No. .’

Traynor had risen from his chair. His daughter had her eyes screwed shut and he was asking her if she was in pain.

‘I don’t want to think about it,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want to remember any of it. The car went off the road, that’s all.’

With her hand still in his, Traynor turned towards the two detectives. ‘Probably best if you leave now. Give her some time to recover.’ His eyes told them he would brook no argument. But still Clarke lingered. It was Rebus, however, who spoke.

‘We just need Jessica’s address here in Edinburgh.’

‘Why?’ The question came from the bed. Jessica had balled her free hand into a fist. Her eyes were still closed but her face looked pained.

‘We just do,’ Clarke said.

Traynor gestured towards the corridor. ‘Jessica,’ he said, ‘just try and relax. I’m going to show the officers out.’

‘I still don’t understand why they’re here.’

‘They’re leaving right now.’ He gave her wrist a final squeeze, then let it go, extending an arm to indicate to Rebus that he should lead the way.

Once they were out in the corridor and the door was closed, he proffered the address. Clarke tapped it into her phone.

‘Speaking of which. .’ Traynor held out a hand, palm up. Clarke dug his daughter’s phone from her pocket and handed it over.

‘Does Jessica have flatmates?’ she asked.

‘Another student. Her name’s Alice or Alison — I only met her once.’

‘Does she know about Jessica?’

‘I’m guessing she’d be here if she did.’

Rebus had a question of his own. ‘Is Jessica seeing anyone?’

‘A boyfriend? There was someone called Forbes. She hasn’t mentioned him lately.’

‘Is Forbes a first name or a last?’

‘I’ve really no idea.’ Traynor’s eyes were trained on the window and the bed beyond. ‘I need to get back.’

‘If she confides anything. .’

He turned to face Rebus, then nodded slowly before re-entering his daughter’s room. They watched him take his seat again.

‘You don’t think she was alone out there,’ Clarke suggested.

‘I don’t even think she was driving,’ Rebus replied.

In his cramped office — previously a storeroom off the main CID suite — Detective Chief Inspector James Page listened to their report. Gayfield Square police station was part of the city’s B Division, but that designation would soon vanish, and Page feared that the station itself would be closed, knocked down and redeveloped. The ‘Square’ outside was an area of grass which didn’t get mowed enough. Traffic rumbled up and down Leith Walk, sometimes causing the windows at the front of the building to vibrate. Not that this affected Page, his office having no windows.

‘So the boot ended up there how?’ he asked. Rebus and Clarke were both standing, since there was no space for any chair other than the one their boss sat on.

‘Whoever was driving fled the scene,’ Rebus explained. ‘That leaves two possibilities. One, she regained consciousness for a bit, realised she was alone, and dragged herself across to the driver’s seat.’

‘Why?’

‘To protect the other person. We would assume she’d been behind the wheel.’

Page considered this. ‘And the second option?’ he asked.

‘Is that the driver either didn’t black out or else came to before her. He or she panicked — for whatever reason — and hoofed it. But not before undoing her seat belt and hauling her across to the driver’s side.’

‘Not bothering to do up her seat belt after,’ Clarke added.

‘And you get all of this from the fact that a brown suede boot was in the wrong footwell?’ Page looked from Clarke to Rebus and back again.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘Well, say you’re right — what exactly does it change?’

‘Driver could have been drunk or stoned,’ Rebus offered.

‘Or taking part in an illegal race,’ Clarke said. ‘Or being chased — we really won’t know unless we keep looking. Jessica has a flat in Great King Street, shares with someone called Alice or Alison. There was also mention of a boyfriend.’

Page scratched at his nose while he thought.

‘Don’t want anyone thinking we were sloppy,’ Rebus prompted. ‘One quick visit to the flat should do it.’

‘We’d go this evening,’ Clarke confirmed. ‘This Alice or Alison is a student — might have classes during the day.’

‘All right then.’ Page had made up his mind. ‘But answer me this: why is it that nothing with you two is ever straightforward?’

‘Blame her,’ Rebus said, pointing a finger.

‘Blame him,’ Clarke said, at almost exactly the same time.

Out in the CID suite, they both took a series of deep breaths. It was always so airless in Page’s little cupboard, yet somehow he thrived there, as if discomfort were as vital to his well-being as oxygen. Two detective constables, Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie, were busy with paperwork. Clarke checked her phone for messages while Rebus made himself a coffee.

‘Out of milk,’ Esson warned him.

‘The amount we get through, we should chip in and buy a cow,’ Ogilvie added.

‘It would keep the grass down,’ Rebus agreed, staring down on to Gayfield Square, the windowpane thrumming as a lorry rattled past the end of the road. He offered to boil the kettle for Clarke but she shook her head.

‘Not if we’ve got no milk.’

‘I might have a sachet of powdered stuff in a drawer somewhere,’ Esson offered.

‘Powdered?’ Rebus said. ‘What is this, World War Two? I thought we were at the dawn of a shiny new country?’

‘Only if you can be bothered to vote for it,’ Clarke chided him.

‘I’ll tell you the box I’m ready to mark my cross in — a couple of drinks after Great King Street.’

But Clarke was shaking her head. ‘Dinner plans,’ she explained.

‘I thought it was all over with. .’ Rebus gestured towards Page’s office.

‘It is.’

Christine Esson decided that Rebus needed enlightening. ‘A single girl doesn’t go hungry for long in this town.’

‘Is that you speaking from experience?’ Ogilvie chipped in.

‘Who is it then?’ Rebus was asking Clarke from above the rim of his mug.

‘Am I not allowed a private life?’