Ian Rankin - Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘And your colleagues too?’

The youth nodded.

‘All of them?’

‘All except Patrick, I suppose.’

‘Patrick?’

‘He’s on holiday in Ibiza.’

‘Nice for him. When did he leave?’

‘Six days back. Finished his shift at six and was in the air by eight.’

Fox looked at Clarke. Like him, she had done the arithmetic.

‘So he was working here the day William Saunders was killed?’ Fox checked.

‘Suppose,’ the youth agreed, eyes darting between the two detectives, Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘He’s not in any trouble, is he?’

‘The officers you spoke to — they knew this, right?’

‘I think I told them. Somebody would have.’

Fox nodded. But he was thinking: maybe, and maybe not. There was just a hint of dismay on Siobhan Clarke’s face — someone on her team might have screwed up.

‘We need to talk to Patrick,’ Fox was saying. ‘Do you have his number?’

The youth shook his head. The minicab drivers were waving goodbye to him through the window as they returned to their vehicles. ‘You’ll have to ask my boss,’ he told Fox, waving back.

‘We’ll do that, then. Did you ever see Mr Saunders yourself?’

The youth shook his head again.

‘You always work the same shift?’

‘No, but I’ve been on nights for a few weeks.’

‘He never came in during that time?’

‘Don’t remember him.’

Fox nodded slowly. The payphone was on the wall next to the toilet. The sign warning that it was out of order comprised a pink Post-it note — easy to miss until you got close.

‘Anything else?’ the youth asked Clarke.

‘Just this,’ she said, placing a Bounty on the counter.

‘And your boss’s phone number,’ Fox added, as the youth got busy with the scanner. ‘The one kept for emergencies — we need to contact him tonight. .’

Outside, as she unwrapped the chocolate bar, Clarke told Fox it could probably wait till morning. He nodded his agreement, and drove them back to Wester Hailes so she could pick up her own car. The car park was near empty. The team would have clocked off. Overtime was available, but Clarke was running out of things for them to do outwith normal office hours. She looked tired, while Fox felt energised.

‘See you in the morning,’ he said, as Clarke opened her door and undid her seat belt.

‘That was useful tonight, Malcolm. Thank you.’

‘No problem,’ he assured her with a smile.

He drove fully quarter of a mile in the direction of home before pulling over to the kerb again, taking out his phone and searching his pockets for the scrap of paper the youth at the petrol station had given him.

Forbes and Jessica had been out all day, Jessica managing with the aid of a walking stick. They’d taken taxis, and avoided stairs and steps wherever possible. She’d felt the need for fresh air, for reminders that a city existed beyond the confines of her flat. A café, a restaurant, a park bench and a bar — and now they were back in Great King Street, climbing slowly but purposefully towards the sound of scrubbing and sobs.

It was Alice, on her knees on the landing, a bucket of soapy water by her side. She was using a brush on the door, trying to get the red paint off. Tears had dried on her cheeks. There were splashes of paint on the wall, and it looked as though she had already sluiced the stone floor.

‘What the hell?’ Forbes said.

‘It was like this when I got here,’ Alice explained breathlessly. ‘Your mum and her friends. . all that online hate. .’

Jessica was gesturing for Forbes to help Alice get to her feet.

‘You think that’s who did this?’ she asked.

Alice stared at her flatmate. ‘Who else?’

‘We both know.’ Jessica paused. ‘We all know. Now let’s get you inside. Forbes will take over cleaning.’

‘I will?’

‘In a bit. First we need to get this straightened out.’

All three headed for the living room, Alice drying her hands on the front of her already ruined T-shirt.

‘You need to phone him,’ Jessica told her.

‘But then he’ll-’

‘Know it was you,’ Jessica interrupted, finishing the sentence with a slow nod. ‘But maybe he’ll back off — right now, it’s just me and Forbes, isn’t it? And you’re the one who can do something about that.’

‘So the paint wasn’t for me?’ Alice asked.

‘Go call him,’ Jessica said.

‘My phone’s in my bedroom. .’

Alice went to fetch it, but ended up seated on her bed instead, feeling the sweat cooling on her back. How could she talk to him? What would he do once he knew? What would he do to her ? She felt a shiver run down her, all the way to her toes. Holding the phone to her ear, she found the strength to head back to the living room.

‘Not answering,’ she said as she walked in. Then she saw that Jessica too was making a call. Forbes’s eyes were on Alice. He looked nervous.

‘Who. .?’ Alice began to ask, but she broke off. She knew the answer well enough. It was written on Forbes’s face. .

Next morning, Rebus drove out towards the airport. He had got the addresses of Rory Bell’s multi-storey car parks from Christine Esson. He followed the signs from the A8 Glasgow road and found himself just north of the village of Ratho. When he lowered his window, he caught a whiff of sewage and pig farm. An aircraft was rising into the sky with a thunderous roar, not quarter of a mile away. The car park advertised its special long-term rates and twice-an-hour shuttle service. An automatic barrier rose when Rebus took the proffered ticket from the machine. He drove slowly around the ground floor, unsure what he was looking for. Jessica had crashed her car not too far away. She was friends with the niece of the car park’s owner. The owner was less legit than might have been the case. Add to that the brand-new crowbar. . and Rebus still wasn’t sure. There was a cabin staffed by a single uniformed flunkey. The ground floor was half full. The cars looked like they belonged to middle management: Beemers, Audis, a couple of Jags and a Merc. He drove up the ramp to the next floor, which was quieter. One Range Rover had a film of dust over its windscreen. Maybe it belonged to someone who was enjoying protracted winter sun elsewhere. Rebus couldn’t blame them. The next floor was empty, as was the unsheltered roof, though it too had been laid out in marked bays. Rebus doubted the place ever got full. On the other hand, it was easy money — one member of staff, few overheads.

He stopped the Saab on the roof and got out for a cigarette. He could see the airport runway, an orange-liveried EasyJet plane coming in to land. Jessica’s car had crashed somewhere to the west. If she’d started her journey at this car park, she and Forbes had been driving away from the city. Towards his parents’ place? Possible. If Rebus had possessed more of a head for geography, he might be able to make out the house and grounds. As it was, he saw only a patchwork countryside and snow-capped hills beyond.

‘You okay there?’

The voice was amplified, metallic. Rebus looked around and saw a tall metal pole with a loudspeaker and camera attached to it. He gave it a wave and got back into his car. He was approaching the exit barrier when he saw the attendant emerge from his cabin. The man was at the barrier before him, waiting for a word. Rebus wound his window down again.

‘Everything all right?’ the man asked. He had a pockmarked face and irregular teeth, his eyes milky but wary.

‘Forgot something,’ Rebus explained. ‘Need to go back to the office.’

‘You went all the way to the roof.’

‘Is there a law against it?’