Ian Rankin: Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘Absolutely — just as soon as you convince me his intentions are honourable.’

Clarke rolled her eyes and decided to busy herself making a coffee after all. Rebus stood his ground, mouth puckered, deep in thought. Then he ambled forward and leaned in towards her ear.

‘A lawyer,’ he whispered.

She froze for a second before spooning granules into a clean mug.

‘My, my,’ Rebus said. Her eyes were on him now, seeking an explanation. ‘It was when Macari and her team walked into the canteen,’ he obliged. ‘You straightened your back a little and checked your fringe. I thought maybe it was for her benefit. I don’t remember any of the men looking particularly bright or beautiful.’

‘Then you’re not much of a detective.’

‘It has been said. So is he taking you somewhere nice?’

‘Why do you need to know?’

‘Takes a bit of time to get gussied up — I was just thinking I could do Great King Street on my own. .’

But Clarke was shaking her head. ‘You’re still on “probation”, remember? One screw-up and you’re back where you started.’

‘Yes, boss.’ He paused. ‘So he’s not taking you anywhere posh? Means he’s not very senior — don’t tell me you’ve got yourself a toy boy?’

Clarke jabbed a finger into his chest. ‘Everybody has a breaking point, John.’ But she was smiling, and Rebus was smiling too. He turned towards Esson and Ogilvie.

‘Either of you two up for a bit of surveillance tonight?’

‘I’m warning you,’ Clarke said, jabbing him harder this time.

Great King Street was a wide thoroughfare in the New Town, stretching from Howe Street to Drummond Place. Three and four storeys high, the terrace had probably all been houses when built in the early nineteenth century, but now many of these had been subdivided into flats. Rebus had never been a huge fan of the New Town. For one thing, you had to climb a steep incline to get back to the city centre. There were also no front gardens, and parking was difficult. The door they were looking for had four buzzers beside it, with TRAYNOR/BELL at the top.

‘Presumably meaning top floor,’ Rebus muttered.

‘Maybe no one’s home,’ Clarke offered by way of consolation. But when she pressed the button, a voice crackled through the intercom.

‘Miss Bell?’ Clarke guessed.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s the police. We need to talk to you about Jessica.’

‘I knew it! Door’s unlocked — we’re on the top floor.’

‘I knew it,’ Rebus echoed, turning the handle.

By the time they had climbed the first flight, he was breathing heavily, and Clarke was asking him to remind her how he’d passed the physical. He coughed a reply and watched as a head appeared over the banister.

‘Up here,’ Alice or Alison Bell said. As she ushered the two detectives inside, Clarke decided to check.

‘It’s Alice,’ the student confirmed.

Rebus had expected high ceilings and airy rooms, but they seemed to be in the eaves. The hall was narrow, not helped by the presence of two bicycles. Alice Bell hadn’t bothered to ask for ID. She was leading them past the galley-style kitchen into the living room. Music was playing from an MP3 player hooked up to a speaker. It was classical — unaccompanied cello. An actual cello sat on a stand in one corner.

‘Yours or Jessica’s?’ Rebus asked, but Bell was concentrating on Siobhan Clarke.

‘I’m almost afraid to ask,’ she blurted out.

‘She’s going to be fine,’ Clarke assured her. The young woman’s knees seemed to buckle in relief and she sat down heavily on an armchair. Clarke and Rebus decided to settle themselves on the sofa. It was white and modern and just about up to the task.

‘What happened?’ Bell was asking.

‘A car smash. You’ve been worried about her?’

‘Texted her a few times — she missed a class this morning, and that’s not like her.’

‘Do you study art history too, Alice?’

The young woman nodded. She was dressed in a T-shirt with an unbuttoned cardigan over it, and black denims. No piercings that Rebus could see, and no tattoos. Her face was round and her cheeks slightly puffy, reminding him of a cherub in a painting, an effect heightened by curly chestnut hair.

‘How long have you known Jessica?’ Rebus asked.

‘Almost a year. She put adverts up around the department — room to rent — and I jumped at the chance.’ She paused. ‘She’s really going to be okay?’

‘Whiplash, sprains and bruises,’ Clarke explained. ‘Her father seems to think she’s a careful driver.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Not last night, though.’

‘What happened?’

‘The crash was the other side of the airport, on a country road. Any idea why she’d be out that way?’

Bell shook her head. ‘Is her father here?’

‘He’s with her at the Infirmary,’ Rebus said.

‘I should go see her.’

‘Any other friends who should be told?’ Clarke asked.

‘Her boyfriend, for example,’ Rebus added.

‘Forbes?’ Bell’s voice lifted a little. ‘Has no one. .?’ She broke off, hands clasped between her knees, staring at the varnished wooden floor.

‘We don’t have his contact details,’ Clarke confided.

‘I can phone him.’

‘That’s fine, but we’d like a word with him too.’ Rebus cleared his throat. ‘When did you last see Jessica, Alice?’

‘Yesterday. Around four or five.’

‘Here at the flat?’

‘She was headed off out.’

‘Headed where?’

‘Not sure.’

‘In her car, though?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And as far as you know, she hasn’t got friends in Kirkliston or Broxburn?’

‘I’m not even sure where those places are.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Stirling.’

Rebus digested this and glanced towards Clarke, unsure where else to go.

‘A number for Forbes,’ Clarke prompted the student. ‘And his surname.’

‘He’s Forbes McCuskey.’

‘McCuskey,’ Clarke echoed, adding the name to her phone.

‘As in Patrick McCuskey.’

Clarke looked up at Alice Bell. ‘The politician?’ Bell nodded, and Clarke turned her eyes towards Rebus, who gave a twitch of the mouth in response. Bell was digging her own phone out of a trouser pocket, finding Forbes McCuskey’s number. She recited it for Clarke’s benefit, then asked: ‘Should I ring him now?’

‘If you like.’

But Bell seemed to reconsider. She turned the phone over in her hand and said she would wait till she’d seen them out.

‘You’re still going to want to talk to him?’ she checked. ‘And it’s okay for me to warn him?’

Clarke was nodding her agreement.

‘All right then.’ The student had risen to her feet. Clarke and Rebus followed suit and Bell led them back along the passageway. Rebus was half minded to ask to see Jessica’s room, but knew he didn’t have a good reason. At the door, Bell shook hands with both detectives. She was readying to close the door when Clarke remembered that she didn’t have a contact number for Bell herself. The student reeled it off, then retreated into the flat.

‘“Warn him”?’ Rebus repeated.

‘Yes, I noticed that.’

‘So what do we do?’

She looked at her watch. ‘I need to go home and get changed for this cut-price dinner.’

‘Having given me a lift first, obviously.’

‘Up the hill to the Oxford Bar?’

‘We’ll make a detective of you yet. .’

Bia Bistrot was a small French-style restaurant on Colinton Road. Locals called the area Holy Corner due to a preponderance of churches at the intersection — Clarke counted four, though she couldn’t be certain how many were still active. David Galvin was already at the table. He beamed a smile as he rose to greet her. Tall and slim, he was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt, open at the neck. As she leaned in for a peck on the cheek, she asked if this was as casual as he cared to dress.