Ian Rankin - Saints of the Shadow Bible

But now Owen Traynor had entered the picture, and that was a complication. If he did a deal with Bell, the case would cease to exist — along with the evidence. Rebus had to do something. He looked towards Page’s office, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

‘Where’s Mr Happy?’ he asked.

‘Persuading the upper echelons to give him a press conference. He wants the world to get a good look at Tutankhamun.’

‘Any idea how long he’ll be?’

‘I think he went home for a change of shirt — always likes to look his best for the brass.’

Rebus pondered his options. He could take what he had to DCI Ralph at Torphichen. The Pat McCuskey inquiry had drawn nothing but blanks — there was always the chance they’d welcome Rebus with open arms.

On the other hand, what did he have in the way of hard facts? Probably not enough for a search warrant for the car park. Nick Ralph’s first step would be to interview the three students again, and they would almost certainly stick to their original stories. The paint on the door could be explained as a prank. They had placed their trust in Jessica’s father rather than CID.

Rebus couldn’t really blame them.

He needed more before he could go to Torphichen, so he sifted through the paperwork he had on Rory Bell, put it back in order, then fired up his computer and got ready to start a Google search of his own.

It took him an hour to spot what Esson had missed. Missed, or had failed to see as being of importance. Alice Bell’s father had died two years back when his car was hit by a van. The van driver’s name was Jack Redpath. He had been charged with dangerous driving. . but the case had never reached court. Or rather it had, but he hadn’t. He’d done a runner.

Such was the assumption of the local paper that had covered the case. Just the one mention. Rebus picked up the phone and managed to get through to someone in Central Region, who eventually connected him to an officer who remembered the incident.

‘Guy was divorced, living in a hovel and about to lose his job — maybe even do some time inside. He stuffed what few possessions his wife hadn’t taken into his car and offskied.’

‘You tried tracking him down?’

‘We did what we could.’

‘But he never turned up?’ Rebus scratched the underside of his jaw. ‘Have you got a record of the car he drove? Make and registration?’

‘Bloody hell.’ The officer gave a snort. ‘It’s Indiana Jones you need.’

‘Maybe so, but you’re what I’ve got. It was only two years ago — how hard can it be? Plus a photo or description of Redpath — and whether he was a smoker or not.’ He looked across to where Esson was still busy at her computer, her head resting on one hand, elbow against the surface of her desk. Rebus gave the officer his phone number and e-mail, ended the call, then filled the kettle and switched it on.

‘Just hot water, right?’ he asked. ‘No tea bag or coffee granules?’

‘Right,’ she agreed.

‘Having much luck?’

‘A lot of people seem to go walkabout.’

‘Any short cuts?’

‘There are organisations — they have websites, Facebook and Twitter accounts. .’ She turned to look at him. ‘You’ve got something?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Keeping it to yourself?’

‘For a little while longer.’

He poured her drink and handed the mug to her, before making tea for himself. But instead of drinking it, he went back to the toilets and stared at himself in the mirror. It made sense, didn’t it? Something kept hidden in a long-stay car park, where no one would ever come looking. A word or clue dropped to Alice Bell, who couldn’t resist telling her friends. They prise open the boot — are spotted — flee the scene. The car has to be moved, maybe got rid of.

Not along with its contents, but separate from them.

Two years since Jack Redpath ran.

Or didn’t run.

Was taken.

His room emptied to make it look like he had scarpered.

Calluses on the hands, the result of manual labour. Redpath, a plasterer by trade.

Rebus splashed water on his face, rubbing it dry with a clump of paper towels.

The forensic anthropologist would know — two years in the boot of a car, what a body would look like after. One thing Rebus was sure of: to get a corpse in a car boot, it needed to be placed almost in a foetal position.

Easily misinterpreted as having been seated. .

His phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number.

‘Yes?’ he answered.

It was the officer from Central.

‘Midnight-blue Ford Escort, eight years old. Used to run something sportier but the divorce settlement took care of that.’ The man reeled off the licence plate. Rebus told him to hang on, then went back into the CID suite and grabbed a pen and sheet of paper.

‘Repeat that, will you?’ he said, jotting the details down.

‘Plus I’ve e-mailed you a mug shot,’ the man went on.

‘Wasn’t so hard, was it?’ Rebus said. ‘But was he a smoker?’

‘Ten a day. Do I get to go back to actual real work now?’

‘With my blessing.’

Rebus put his phone next to the computer and opened his e-mail folder. Clicked on the attachment, then called across to Christine Esson. She studied the face, front and side views. Physical details were listed beneath.

‘Height, five-ten,’ Esson intoned. ‘Weight, a hundred and seventy pounds. Grey eyes, fair hair. .’ She retreated to her desk and returned with the autopsy photos. ‘So who is he?’ she said.

‘Would you say they’re the same person?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘No more than that?’

She shrugged.

‘I think it’s him. He was stored in a car boot, and then dumped in the docks.’

‘Stored for two years, you mean?’ She watched Rebus nod. ‘So where’s the car?’

‘Right here,’ Rebus said, holding up the sheet of paper. ‘Eight-year-old blue Ford Escort.’ He thought back to the cars in the multi-storey. No, it matched neither of them. It had probably been driven to Leith Docks with its cargo still on board. Then got rid of. Rebus picked up his phone and called the Road Policing Unit.

‘Any abandoned cars in the past couple of days? Tax disc almost certainly a year or more out of date.’ He described Jack Redpath’s Escort and then waited.

‘You think it’s out there collecting parking tickets?’ Esson asked.

‘Best-case scenario.’

‘And worst?’

Rebus just shrugged. He was listening to news that the information could take some time — the city’s traffic wardens would need to be questioned.

‘Soon as you can, eh?’ Rebus gave his details and put the phone down. ‘Now we wait,’ he told Esson.

‘Maybe you do, but I’m heading out to the shop. It’s lunchtime, if you hadn’t noticed — want me to fetch you something?’

‘Maybe a sandwich or a sausage roll.’ He dug into his pocket for change.

‘My treat,’ Esson told him. ‘A sandwich is probably healthier.’

‘Make it the sausage roll, then.’

She rolled her eyes and shrugged her arms into her jacket. Rebus remembered Deborah Quant doing the same, and his own instinct to help. When he’d suggested meeting for a drink sometime, she hadn’t turned him down flat. Then again, he didn’t have a number for her, excepting the one for the mortuary.

He headed out to the car park for a smoke, then remembered the phone upstairs could ring at any moment. So after three or four draws he nipped the end of the cigarette and returned it to the packet. He could hear the phone ringing on his desk from the top of the stairs, but it stopped as he entered the office. Cursing under his breath, he sat down and waited. Esson returned and handed him a paper bag. The lack of grease stains meant she’d ignored his request. The baguette contained ham salad.