Ian Rankin - Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘Professor Thomas,’ Quant explained, again for Rebus’s benefit, ‘has found evidence of bruising. Nothing that would have caused a fatality, unless there were underlying health issues.’ She paused. ‘I missed them first time round.’

‘Easily confused with lividity,’ Thomas reassured her.

‘Death occurred two to three years ago.’ Quant’s eyes were on Rebus. ‘A DNA fingerprint should be straightforward enough, but someone needs to check the missing persons files — for the whole of the UK.’

‘No biggie, then,’ Rebus muttered, knowing she couldn’t hear him. She could see him, though, and smiled, sensing what he was thinking. He tapped a finger against the top of one arm.

‘Distinguishing features?’ she asked her colleague.

‘No tattoos. No scars. No signs he was ever operated on. Dental records might be another route to establishing identity. I’d say the work was basic British NHS. Calluses on hands suggest manual labour of some kind. Or maybe he just enjoyed DIY. Ingrowing toenail on left foot, but hard to say if he’d had it treated or not. Nothing very exciting in the stomach or lungs. He was probably a moderate smoker. Might have killed him eventually.’

Rebus did a mime of a knife slashing a throat.

‘Suspicious death?’ Quant asked.

‘The fact is, he hadn’t been in the water more than a day or two, and died several years before. So whether the death is suspicious or not, there are questions that need answering.’

Quant turned her attention to Rebus again. ‘Body was wrapped in something woollen — maybe a tartan travel rug; we have blue and red fibres. It covered the torso and the legs to just above the knees. This would have had to happen soon after death for the skin to adhere to the fibres. Once atrophy sets in, the epidermis is less obliging.’

Rebus nodded slowly, then mimed taking a drink. Quant’s forehead creased.

‘Was he a drinker?’

Her colleague looked up, but Rebus was shaking his head and pointing at her.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘No, sorry, I’m busy later.’

‘Too busy to attend the Glasgow dinner,’ Professor Thomas added, sounding put out.

Rebus shrugged and mouthed the words ‘Just an idea.’ She nodded and got back to work.

It was dark by the time Siobhan Clarke and Malcolm Fox reached the canal. It had been Fox’s idea — try to work through the sequence of events. So they had parked on the industrial estate and started off from the alley where Billy Saunders had been sleeping.

‘Though we don’t know for sure this is where he was,’ Clarke argued, buttoning her coat against gusts that seemed to have originated in the Arctic.

‘We don’t,’ Fox agreed. ‘But he wanted a meeting nearby, somewhere he felt he knew the terrain. Once he was on the towpath, he would have plenty of notice of anyone coming from either direction.’

‘He didn’t trust the person he was meeting?’

Fox nodded. ‘Maybe reckoned they’d bring back-up.’

‘Stefan Gilmour and the Saints?’

Fox just shrugged. They were clambering up the slope. The canal wasn’t well lit. In fact, the only real illumination came from lamp posts beyond its other bank, behind railings and next to the main road.

‘Someone could have been watching from there,’ Clarke surmised.

‘Watching, yes. But to get to the nearest bridge and then end up here. . that’s a walk of a good five or six minutes.’

Clarke folded her arms. ‘And Saunders was shot at close range. So whether he trusted his visitor or not, he allowed them to get close.’

‘Close enough to talk.’

‘Talk or listen.’ Clarke thought for a moment. ‘Let me know if any of this leads you to believe we’re not discussing Stefan Gilmour. .’

‘Well for one thing, Gilmour’s not an easy man to get to. Phone number’s not in the book, unlike George Blantyre and Eamonn Paterson.’

‘You’ve checked?’ She watched as Fox nodded. ‘And Rebus?’

‘Is ex-directory.’

She considered this. ‘It was an arranged meeting, right?’

‘Had to be.’

‘And whoever Saunders met wasn’t the one who initiated it?’

‘Hard to do when they’d no idea how to reach him.’

‘Unless the plan to meet pre-dated his little vanishing act.’

‘True,’ Fox allowed. ‘But I don’t think that’s what happened.’

Clarke looked at him. ‘You’ve been giving this some thought?’

‘Trying to think like a detective,’ he answered, with a thin smile.

‘And?’

‘And we have a man who’s terrified of something — so scared he abandons his car in another part of town, far from where he knows he’s going to hole up. Hotels won’t do, and he can’t rely on friends — to be absolutely safe, he needs to sleep rough. Can’t use his bank account or phone — both could be traced, or at the very least would indicate he’s still alive and kicking. For the same reason he can’t contact his wife to let her know he’s safe.’ Fox paused. ‘But there’s someone he needs to see. Easiest way to set up a meeting is if he calls them.’

‘Nearest working phone box is almost two miles away.’

‘But there’s the petrol station. From CCTV, we know he bought snacks there.’

‘Except that their public phone has been out of order for almost a fortnight.’

‘Something he might not find out until he tried using it.’

She saw now where Fox was going. ‘Staff knew him. Might have loaned him their phone.’

‘Of course, they’ve been interviewed. But do we know they were asked the right questions, shown a good clear photo of Saunders?’

‘Worth a second go?’

‘I’d say so.’

‘And we’re not just clutching at straws here, Malcolm?’

‘Maybe we are.’

‘Stefan Gilmour is capable of it, isn’t he?’ Clarke was gazing at the surface of the canal. It looked dark and oily, and even in daylight would give no hint of what lay beneath.

‘No doubt in my mind,’ Fox answered. ‘Way he’s built his empire, he takes no prisoners.’

‘I remember reading once that the successful tycoon sees the world the same way a psychopath does.’

‘I’m not saying Stefan Gilmour is a psycho.’

‘He’s just a man with goals unachieved and successes to protect.’

‘You think a forensic psychologist might help us nail him?’

Clarke shook her head. ‘Let’s stick to what we know.’

‘Meaning?’

‘We follow leads, Malcolm. Starting with your petrol station. .’

The only other customers when they got there were two licensed minicabs. The drivers had parked next to the shop and were inside, drinking coffee from a coin-operated machine and exchanging gossip. Fox made straight for them, pulling out his warrant card.

‘Did either of you know Billy Saunders?’ he asked.

‘Knew of him,’ one driver said.

‘Worked for the competition,’ his friend added.

‘You always use the same petrol station?’

‘Tend to,’ the first driver conceded.

‘Fill the tank, break the monotony?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Did Saunders use this particular pit stop?’

The second driver shook his head. ‘Petrol station in Powderhall, far as I know.’

‘You never saw him here?’

Fox received a further shake of the head from both men. He thanked them and headed for the counter.

‘Nice thinking, though,’ Clarke told him in an undertone.

‘Saunders drove a minicab, liked the night shift — petrol stations were a second home to him.’ He took out his warrant card again and showed it to the assistant.

‘You’ve been questioned about William Saunders?’ he asked.

The youth behind the counter appeared no older than a school-leaver. His face was peppered with angry-looking acne and his thick black hair looked like it had been styled with a pair of secateurs and a pot of glue. He agreed that he had already spoken with the police.