Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (12 page)

The Caledonian Hotel wasn’t really called that any more. It was, according to the signs on either side of its entrance, the Waldorf Astoria, and had recently undergone a major refit. Sited at the west end of Princes Street, it currently looked on to a carnage of tramline construction. Both Shandwick Place and Queensferry Street were closed to traffic so as to allow the works to progress. Pedestrians were sent through the equivalent of laboratory mazes, squeezing down narrow passageways, hemmed in by high mesh fences behind which sat the tramlines themselves. Rebus had left his Saab out front, with the POLICE notice on its dashboard, the doorman warning him that it might not stop him getting a ticket.

‘Saw a hearse get one once – and an ambulance.’

‘All part of Edinburgh’s rich tapestry,’ Rebus had responded, stepping into the hotel foyer. They called up to Owen Traynor’s room from the reception desk. Rebus was told to take the lift to the third floor. Traynor was waiting at his open door. He was in his shirtsleeves, the sleeves themselves rolled up, cufflinks again dispensed with. No tie. Trousers held up with dark blue braces. Shiny black brogues.

‘What is it now?’ the man barked.

‘Mind if I come in?’

Traynor hesitated, then led Rebus into not a bedroom but a suite, its living area turned into a makeshift office. The laptop computer was new – its box sat under the desk. On the sofa were bags from shops such as Ede & Ravenscroft and Marks & Spencer. From what Rebus could see of the computer screen, Traynor had been perusing spreadsheets.

‘How is Jessica?’ Rebus asked.

‘She’s in her room – physio’s there with her.’

‘Could we maybe go talk to her?’

Traynor stared hard at Rebus, then checked his watch. ‘Five minutes till the session ends. I take it you’ve some news for us?’

Rebus gave a twitch of the mouth.

‘You want a drink?’ Traynor was gesturing towards the minibar.

‘Bit early.’

‘Sure about that?’

Rebus looked at him. ‘You’ve been checking up on me?’

‘Internet’s a wonderful thing, Inspector.’

‘Detective Sergeant, actually.’

‘Why is that? I mean, you
used
to be an inspector – what did you do to piss them off?’

‘I stuck around.’

‘Something you seem to be good at, judging by the stories. A lot of results down the years . . .’

‘I didn’t realise the web knew so much about me.’

‘Never know what to believe, though – I’m betting you’ve looked me up online. Not all of it is accurate.’ There was a hard gleam in Traynor’s eye.

‘Just most of it?’ Rebus speculated. ‘Ah, but which bits . . . ?’

There was a knock at the door. Traynor answered and a young man stood there.

‘How’s she doing?’ Traynor asked.

‘I’ve given her some exercises I’d like her to try. Nothing too strenuous just yet.’

Traynor nodded and reached into his back trouser pocket, pulling out a wallet. The physio held up a hand.

‘We’ll bill you, Mr Traynor.’

‘Right.’ But Traynor pressed an English twenty-pound note on the man anyway. ‘Same time tomorrow?’

‘Of course.’ And with a smile, stuffing the tip into his pocket, the physio headed down the corridor towards the lift.

‘Not the NHS, then?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Not a bloody chance.’ Traynor turned to study him. ‘You sure you need to speak to Jessica? You can’t just tell me?’

‘Afraid not.’ Rebus could have added:
I want to see her reaction
. . .

Having checked he had key cards to both rooms, Traynor locked his door and knocked on his daughter’s, before sliding the key in and out of its slot.

Her room was smaller, but still had space for a sofa and chairs. There were fresh flowers in a vase on a table. She was wearing a simple dress, bare legs showing bruising from the crash, one ankle strapped. She still wore the neck brace and was lying propped up on the bed, three huge pillows behind her. The TV was on – a channel playing music videos. She muted the volume, then noticed Rebus.

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘Hello again, Ms Traynor.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Something that apparently has to be said in front of both of us,’ her father explained, folding his arms in readiness. Rebus wasn’t going to be invited to sit down, but that suited him fine. He made sure he had both father and daughter in his eyeline before commencing.

‘Earlier today,’ he said, ‘Patrick McCuskey was attacked in his home.’ He left it at that for the moment, content to gauge the reaction of the room. Jessica put a hand to her open mouth as if to stifle a gasp.

‘Forbes McCuskey’s father?’ Owen Traynor asked. ‘The government guy?’

‘The government guy,’ Rebus confirmed, his eyes on Jessica.

‘Is he . . . all right?’ she asked.

Rebus nodded towards the TV. ‘News channels probably know more than me.’

She found one; the footage was a report from the Middle East, but a few words on the break-in ran along the bottom of the screen:
Scottish Justice Minister in hospital after burglary at his Edinburgh home
. . .

‘Except we don’t call it burglary up here,’ Rebus said by way of correction.

‘Is Forbes okay?’ Jessica Traynor asked. ‘Was he there when it . . . ?’

‘Father seems to have been on his own. Do you know the house, Ms Traynor?’

‘I’ve been there a few times.’ She paused. ‘How awful for Bethany.’

‘I’ve just come from the house – not too far from where your car went off the road. You weren’t maybe headed there, or away from there . . . ?’

‘What are you saying?’ Traynor had taken a step towards Rebus, fists clenching. Rebus held up both hands in a show of surrender.

‘Dad, it’s all right,’ Jessica Traynor intervened. ‘The officer’s only doing his job . . .’

But Rebus was holding Owen Traynor’s stare. ‘I don’t suppose
you
know the house, do you?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Never been there?’

‘No.’

‘Not tempted to have a word with young Forbes about the crash? Maybe you couldn’t find him so decided to give his father a piece of your mind instead?’

‘No.’

‘Only, you’ve not got a car, so I’m guessing it would have been a taxi or a rental, meaning a paper trail . . .’

Traynor was shaking his head, slowly and at length.

‘Dad? What’s he saying?’

‘Nothing, Jessica.’ Then, to Rebus: ‘I don’t even know where they live.’

Rebus looked doubtful. ‘When you looked up your daughter’s boyfriend online, a click or two would have taken you to Pat McCuskey. Such a public figure, I’m guessing his home address is out there somewhere.’

A smile flitted across Traynor’s face. He turned towards the bed. ‘He thinks maybe my blood was up and I went to give the McCuskey family a piece of my mind.’

‘But you didn’t, did you, Dad?’

‘I did not,’ Traynor confirmed, turning back to face Rebus. ‘I did not,’ he repeated.

‘Then it’s just a terrible coincidence, isn’t it, Jessica?’ Rebus had his eyes on Traynor’s daughter. She was twisting the TV remote in her hand, staring at it.

‘Coincidence,’ she echoed.

But Rebus could tell, all of a sudden, that she didn’t believe it.

‘He’s in a coma,’ Fox said as Rebus walked back into their shared office. ‘Got him stabilised, though, and not as near to popping his clogs as he was.’

Rebus blinked. ‘How do you know?’

Fox held up his phone, giving it a little wave. ‘The wonder of wi-fi,’ he explained.

‘I barely get a signal on mine,’ Rebus muttered. He looked at the paperwork piled up on every available surface. ‘Someone’s been busy.’

‘Did DCI Page decide you were surplus to requirements on the McCuskey case?’

‘That hurts.’ Rebus studied the paperwork again. The two original boxes had been joined by about ten more. ‘So what have we got here?’

‘Summerhall CID in its entirety, late seventies to mid eighties.’

‘You sure this is everything?’

‘You’re saying stuff will have walked?’

‘I’m saying filing wasn’t always a priority.’

‘Neither was handwriting, judging by what I’ve seen.’

Rebus had opened one file from 1983. He saw his own name at the top of an interview transcript. Domestic abuse at an address in Dumbiedykes. The names of victim and suspect meant nothing to him.

‘So much ancient history,’ he said.

‘Some of the procedures seem not to have changed since the Stone Age,’ Fox agreed.

‘We’re focusing on the Saunders case, though?’

‘The murder of Douglas Merchant, yes.’ Fox placed a hand gently on one thick file.

‘That’s not the stuff we went through yesterday,’ Rebus stated.

‘Freshly disinterred.’

‘Mind if I . . . ?’

‘Be my guest.’

Rebus picked the file up, feeling its heft. He sat with it, clearing space on the desk in front of him, and opened the cover. ‘Smells of mould,’ he commented.

‘Some of the pages needed to be prised apart.’

‘You’ve taken a look at it, though?’ He watched as Fox nodded. ‘And how often does my name come up?’

‘Hardly at all.’

‘Which is why you don’t mind me going through it?’ Rebus paused. ‘See, if I were a betting man, I’d stick money on you having noted everything in here. That way, if I lift anything, you’ll know – and that’ll be the gen you really need.’

Fox’s face remained inscrutable. ‘Just take a read,’ he said. ‘Then we can talk about it.’

‘I hardly need to,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m not going to forget a case like Douglas Merchant. It near destroyed the Saints and put Stefan Gilmour out of a job.’

‘No harm done in the long run, though – for everyone except the dear departed Mr Merchant.’ Fox pointed towards the file. ‘There are photos in there – family photos. Wife and kid. He had three sisters, too, all of them saying how he always looked after them, right from when they were little. Far as I know, they’re all still with us. Maybe they think of him a few times a week, still missing him . . .’

‘You auditioning for daytime TV?’

‘I’m just looking at the reality of the situation. Someone ends up dead, there are ripples – lots of lives affected. It’s not just about the Saints, John. The Saints got a slap on the wrist and that was that.’

Rebus considered this for a moment, then asked when the Solicitor General was going to interview Billy Saunders.

‘Soon. Very soon.’

‘He was a crook, remember – maybe he still is. How will anyone know if he’s spinning them a story?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Not my problem.’

Rebus was skimming the file at random. Some of the badly typed sheets had faded. He remembered the typewriter – the o was so fierce, it punched a hole through paper whenever you hit it. Handwriting was blotchy in some places where damp had got to it. He found a photo of the dead man – a glossy square with a white border. Taken in a pub somewhere, Merchant hoisting a tumbler of whisky, glassy-eyed and with a gap-toothed grin.

‘Did you know him?’ Fox was asking.

‘Merchant?’ Rebus shook his head, still studying the photograph.

‘But you probably met Billy Saunders, him being the station’s star pupil when it came to snitching?’

‘That wasn’t the way it worked,’ Rebus explained. ‘If you had a contact on the street, you kept him or her to yourself as much as you could. Otherwise one of your colleagues might try a bit of poaching. You’d arrange meetings in parks, or maybe you’d just happen to bump into them in a noisy bar, somewhere you couldn’t be overheard. They’d ask you for a light and drop a name into your ear while you got the match struck. No mobile phones in those days, so meetings could be difficult to arrange. But it had to be face to face – that way you could look them in the eye.’

‘And why would you need to do that?’ Fox sounded genuinely curious.

‘Because usually, when they were giving you a name, there was a reason for it. Could be they just wanted to dump someone in the shit – a competitor maybe, or someone who’d crossed them.’

‘So it wasn’t always just about the cash incentive?’

‘There was never a lot of cash. That was the other thing – some of them did it just for the buzz it gave them. But sometimes that meant they gave you a story for the sake of it.’

‘In other words, fed you a pack of lies?’

Rebus nodded.

‘And who was your snitch, back in those days?’

‘I didn’t really have one. I was just beginning to get the feel for who knew stuff and who didn’t, and who might be willing to pass something my way.’

‘There was a reporter for the
Scotsman
called Albert Stout . . .’

‘I remember him – bane of our lives.’

‘He worked hard on the Merchant case – and a few more besides.’

‘He hated the police.’

‘I get that impression from the stories I’ve read – the slant he puts on them.’

‘He can’t be still alive?’

‘Eighty-seven and living next to a golf course in Gullane.’

‘Bloody hell. He smoked forty a day.’ Rebus paused. ‘You’re going to talk to him?’

‘He’s on my list. As is the pathologist who did the autopsy on Douglas Merchant.’

Rebus sought his memory for the name. ‘Before Professor Gates?’

‘His predecessor, yes – Professor Norman Cuttle, who also happens to be a spry eighty-seven.’

‘You’re nothing if not thorough,’ Rebus said, making sure it didn’t sound too much like a compliment. ‘Before or after you talk to Stefan Gilmour and the others?’

‘Depends on availability. Speaking of which, we were just getting started this morning . . .’

‘Were we?’

‘Plenty more gaps I’d like you to help me fill.’ Fox was producing his A4 pad from a drawer. Rebus looked at his watch.

‘Do we get time-and-a-half after five o’clock?’

‘You
did
offer your services . . .’

‘I did, didn’t I?’ Rebus acknowledged, leaning back in his chair.

That evening, in the back room of the Oxford Bar, Rebus was halfway down his first pint of IPA when Eamonn Paterson arrived and offered a top-up. Rebus shook his head, so Paterson returned from the bar with a pint of his own and a couple of packets of salted peanuts.

‘Don’t say I never treated you right,’ he said. They were seated in the same corner where Rebus had talked to Fox. ‘So you’ve managed to get your feet under the table, eh?’