Ian Rankin - Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘Maybe.’ The attendant was examining the scuffed interior of the Saab. Rebus meantime had slotted his ticket into the machine.

‘Must be a mistake,’ he said, staring at the display. ‘Six pounds fifty?’

‘That’s the minimum. Gets you four hours.’

‘I’ve hardly been four minutes.’

‘System’s automated — nothing I can do about it.’ The man wasn’t managing to disguise his pleasure at Rebus’s discomfort.

‘You telling me you can’t go back to that wee booth of yours and swing the barrier open?’

‘Company would haul me over the coals.’

‘Six-fifty, though.’

The man offered a shrug.

‘Rory won’t be happy when I tell him about this.’

‘Rory?’

‘Your boss.’ Rebus looked in vain for a flicker of recognition. ‘He owns this place.’

‘I’m just doing my job.’

‘Okay then, tell me this — these cameras of yours, do they film what they see?’

‘Why are you asking?’ Then it dawned. ‘You the police?’

‘In a manner of speaking. So do they record or don’t they?’

‘The machine wipes itself every forty-eight hours.’

‘And is there always a human being on duty?’

‘Always.’

‘So if I gave you a date and an approximate time. .?’

‘For what?’

‘Anything.’

The attendant straightened up and folded his arms. ‘That’s something you’d have to talk to management about.’

‘Meaning Rory Bell?’

‘I told you, I’ve never heard of him.’

‘So who do you deal with?’

‘The office is in Livingston.’

‘There’s a multi-storey there too — you ever do a shift at it?’

‘You need to speak to the management.’

‘Don’t worry, I will. Now are you going to let me out of here?’

‘Soon as you pay what’s due.’ The man turned away and walked back towards his booth. Cursing, Rebus looked for coins in his pocket, then realised the machine only accepted credit cards. So he stuck one in, entered his PIN and pressed the button for a receipt.

Livingston.

Rory Bell’s base.

Plus he had another car park there.

And. .

The driver who had been first at the scene of Jessica’s crash — wasn’t she on her way home from work in Livingston at the time? So instead of taking the road back into the city, Rebus headed further out in the direction of Newbridge, and from there on to the M8. It didn’t take long to reach Livingston, though once there he was faced with a Mensa-level puzzle constructed almost entirely of roundabouts. Livingston was one of Scotland’s ‘new towns’, designed in the 1960s by planners who liked lots of circles in their diagrams. Second only to this passion seemed to be their crush on the word ‘Almondvale’. It cropped up time and again as Rebus sought his destination: Almondvale Boulevard, Way, Avenue and Drive. Not forgetting Parkway and Crescent — plus the football stadium where the local team played. In the end, Rebus conceded defeat and stopped to ask a pedestrian, who gave him directions to a multi-storey, just not the right multi-storey. Rather than take a ticket, Rebus left the Saab outside, found the security cabin and asked for directions. The attendant was able to help, and Rebus thanked him. Ten minutes later, he was driving into a four-storey car park — the top storey being its roof. There was no sign of life in the booth, though lights were on inside. Rebus drove around the ground floor, which was full. Mums with toddlers were loading bags into their vehicles, having returned from the nearby shopping centre. Next storey up there were fewer cars, and fewer again as Rebus climbed. As before, no one at all was using the bays on the roof. Rebus spotted the same set-up of speaker and CCTV camera, and manoeuvred the Saab back down the ramp. He parked on the next level and got out. He was alongside an unwashed Citroën. Across from it sat another car, covered with a dust sheet. The bay next to that was empty, but Rebus noted clumps of dirt, leaves and sweet-wrappers on the floor. If he were a betting man, he would have said a car had been parked there until recently — and it had been sitting in the multi-storey for some time. He took another look at the Citroën. Its tax disc had run out the previous year, and similar detritus had gathered beneath its wheels. When he ran a finger down the paintwork, he left a clean line, and his finger came away blackened. He crossed to the other car and began to lift the dust sheet, catching a glimpse of red bodywork.

‘Hell do you think you’re playing at?’ The man striding up the ramp wore the same uniform as Mr Bad Teeth from the airport multi-storey, but was a different breed altogether — ex-forces, maybe, and still able to take on a route march. Beefy arms, fists clenched, jaw jutting. The hair had been shaved from the skull and one ear had a chunk missing from it.

‘Early for a meeting,’ Rebus lied. ‘Just killing time.’ He made show of checking his watch.

‘Like fuck you are,’ the man spat.

‘Okay then,’ Rebus bristled. ‘You tell me — what am I doing?’

‘Whatever it is, you’re not staying.’ The man clamped a hand around Rebus’s forearm.

‘That could be classed as assault, pal.’

‘Oh aye? How about this?’ A fist crunched into Rebus’s stomach, and he felt his knees buckle. The same hand was digging in his coat, then his jacket’s inside pocket, tugging free the warrant card and flapping it open.

‘Detective Sergeant, eh? DS Rebus? Okay, I’ve got your name now, pal . And if you report any of this, we’ll be having another wee chat. So think about that.’

As the wallet was pushed back into Rebus’s pocket, he found enough strength to take a swing at his assailant. The man blocked it without too much effort, using his elbow, while his grip on Rebus’s other arm tightened still further. Then he let go and took a step back.

‘Any time you like, Grandad,’ he said.

‘I could have a squad car here in two minutes.’

‘I believe you — but remember what I said. Won’t just be out to wind you next time.’

Rebus flashed back to interview rooms down the years, the softening-up of suspects, the ‘accidental’ trips and falls. And now here he was, on the receiving end. He considered his options and found them wanting. Yes, he could call it in, and the scrapper in front of him would be arrested, questioned, cautioned — but to what end? He had learned something, and that was almost worth the short-lived pain and the residual embarrassment. Time was he would have gone blow-for-blow with the man.

Time was.

‘I’ll be back,’ was what he ended up saying.

‘Best bring a Terminator with you,’ his attacker said with a lopsided grin, watching as Rebus trudged back to the Saab. ‘Got your licence plate now too,’ the man added. ‘Means I can have your address any time I like.’

Rebus held one hand to his stomach as he drove, removing it only when he needed to change gear, which was often — all those bloody roundabouts again. He stopped at a fast-food place and got some fizzy orange. His mouth was dry, heart pounding. When his phone rang, he thought about ignoring it, but saw James Page’s name on the screen.

‘I’m on my way,’ Rebus answered.

‘Where from?’

‘Another errand.’

‘For Siobhan Clarke? Maybe I should ask her to confirm that.’

‘Up to you.’ Rebus slurped the ice-cold juice through a straw.

‘I’ve just spoken to Professor Quant about our floater. Bringing in Professor Thomas seems to have been useful. I think we’ve got a suspicious death here, and maybe even a murder.’

‘Murder? Not from what I saw at the second autopsy.’

‘Nevertheless.’