Saints of the Shadow Bible

towards him.

‘I told you — I just got one of the steps wrong on Jessica’s stairwell.’

‘Seen a doctor about it?’

‘It’ll be fine.’

‘Any other bruises or aches and pains?’

‘I wasn’t in the car with her. I don’t even drive.’

‘You don’t drive?’ Clarke couldn’t help glancing in Rebus’s direction as McCuskey shook his head in confirmation.

‘Do your parents know you’re here?’ Rebus asked into the silence. ‘No.’

‘Haven’t you told them about Jessica?’

‘Not yet.’

‘How about her father — do you get on with him?’

‘Only met him last night.’

‘He has a bit of a rep. You should google him, that’s what I did.’ Rebus had taken a few steps towards the table. ‘Not the sort of character you’d want to cross.’

‘Really?’

‘An investor in one of his companies started bad-mouthing him. Ended up in intensive care. Afterwards, he kept tight-lipped about who’d thumped him. And that’s just one of the stories.’ Rebus paused. ‘Which is why it’s a shame I let slip our little theory — the one about you being responsible.’

‘What?’ For the first time since entering the room, McCuskey looked nervous. Clarke was studying Rebus, trying to work out if he was telling the truth or bluffing. When he looked at her, his face didn’t change. Truth, then.

‘You have to tell him you’re wrong,’ McCuskey was saying. ‘You’ve spoken to Jessica and me — why would we lie?’

‘I don’t know,’ Rebus said. ‘But something like this. . it starts small but it can snowball, gathering up all kinds of crap as it rolls downhill.’

‘I can’t confess to something I didn’t do.’

‘Quite right,’ Clarke said, gathering together the photographs. ‘So that seems to be that. We just need an address for you, and you can be on your way.’

McCuskey stared at her. ‘And then what?’

Clarke shrugged, closing the folder. ‘If we need to talk again, we’ll let you know.’ She handed him a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen. ‘Address, please.’ As he wrote, she asked if he was a student. He nodded. ‘Which subject?’

‘Art history.’

‘Same as Jessica and her flatmate.’

‘We’re all in second year.’

‘Is that how you met?’

‘At a party.’ He had finished writing. The details were just about legible.

‘Arden Street?’ she checked.

‘Yes.’

‘That’s in Marchmont, isn’t it?’

McCuskey nodded. Clarke and Rebus shared a look: same street as Rebus’s flat. He glanced at the tenement number: about six doors up from him on the other side of the road.

‘Thanks again for coming in,’ Clarke was saying, rising to her feet. McCuskey shook hands with both detectives and a uniform was summoned to show him out.

‘Well?’ Clarke asked, once he had gone.

‘Girlfriend’s covering for him.’

‘He’s got a point, though — why would she do that?’

‘Could be she’s the forgiving type. He goes to her bedside, whispers a few sweet nothings and flutters those eyelashes — and that’s when they prepare their story.’

Clarke considered this, mouth a thin determined line. ‘And you really told Owen Traynor the whole story? After your little trip to the Ox, a few beers inside you. .?’

‘I just dropped in to see how the patient was doing. Coincided with McCuskey and Alice Bell leaving.’

Clarke was shaking her head slowly. ‘This is exactly the kind of thing you shouldn’t be doing. .’ She broke off as James Page appeared in the doorway.

‘What shouldn’t John be doing?’ he enquired.

‘Putting a bet on Raith Rovers for promotion,’ Rebus answered.

‘I’m inclined to agree.’ Page paused. ‘So where are we with this car crash?’

‘Not much further along,’ Clarke conceded.

‘In which case, probably time to drop it, wouldn’t you say? Nothing for us there, no point wasting effort.’

‘The boyfriend,’ Rebus said, ‘the one we think may have been in the car. .’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s the son of Pat McCuskey.’

‘Justice Minister?’

‘And poster boy for an independent Scotland.’ Rebus knew his boss’s feelings on the topic — like everyone else in the office, he’d had his ear bent by Page about the need for Scotland to remain part of the UK. ‘McCuskey heads the Yes campaign.’

Page digested this information. ‘What’s your thinking, John? A wee call to a friendly journalist?’

‘Only if we can find something that will stick. Otherwise it looks too political.’

‘Agreed.’

‘Hang on,’ Clarke said. ‘You’re planning to use the son to get at the father? Hardly seems fair.’

‘We all know how you’ll be voting, Siobhan.’

The blood rose to Clarke’s cheeks. ‘I just don’t think. .’

But Page had turned his back and was marching away. ‘Another day or two,’ he called out. ‘See what you can find.’

Clarke stared hard at Rebus. He spread his arms in a show of appeasement.

‘It’s not as if we have anything else to do,’ he argued.

‘And that little game you just played. .’ She stabbed a finger in Page’s direction.

‘I knew damned fine he’d go for it.’

‘He might, but I won’t.’

‘You’re disappointed in me.’ Rebus tried to look contrite. ‘But you have to admit, it’s not your typical set-up — Pat McCuskey and Owen Traynor. .’

‘I do wonder how a dodgy businessman like Traynor ends up pulling favours with the Met.’

‘Met are still a law to themselves, Siobhan — way we used to be.’

‘A time you clearly yearn for. Meantime, this lets you stir stuff up for the hell of it.’

‘But sometimes that’s how we find gold, too.’

‘And what sort of gold do you expect to find this time?’ She folded her arms in a show of defiance.

‘The stirring’s the fun part,’ Rebus said. ‘You should have learned that by now.’

‘Your dad’s not here?’ Rebus asked.

Jessica Traynor looked better. The device around her head had been replaced by a simple neck brace, and the top of her bed had been raised a little, so that she no longer had to stare at the ceiling.

‘What do you want?’ she asked.

‘Just thought I’d see how you’re doing.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Good to hear.’

‘My father’s at his hotel.’

Rebus noticed the mobile phone in her right hand. ‘Heard from Forbes today?’

‘A couple of texts.’