Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘You going to slam me into a wall, knock me out cold again? That’s the way you and your lot always liked to operate. .’

But Rebus wasn’t listening. His attention had shifted to the mobile phone gripped in Meikle’s right hand. He snatched at it and saw that its recording function was on. With a grim smile, he tossed it into a thicket of gorse. Meikle gave a little yelp of complaint.

‘This the way you want it to go, Peter?’ Rebus asked, stubbing the remains of his cigarette against the wall. ‘Always watching over your shoulder for someone like me? Waiting for the day a dog goes sniffing where it shouldn’t and starts to dig?’

‘You’ve got nothing and you are nothing,’ Meikle spat.

‘You couldn’t be more wrong. See, I’ve got you.’ A finger was stabbed into Meikle’s chest. ‘And as long as you’re unfinished business, that makes me something you need to worry about.’

He turned and headed back through the gateway. Meikle watched him climb into the Saab and start the engine. The car sped off with a burst of smoke from its exhaust. Swearing under his breath, Meikle began trampling down the gorse in search of his phone.

The Chief Constable’s leaving party took place at the canteen of Lothian and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue. He was heading to a new post south of the border and no one seemed to know whether anyone would take over his role. The eight regional Scottish forces were soon to be amalgamated into something called Police Scotland. The Chief Constable of Strathclyde had been given the top job, leaving seven of his colleagues scratching around for fresh opportunities.

A perfunctory attempt had been made to turn the canteen into a festive location — meaning a couple of banners, some streamers and even a dozen or so party balloons. Tables had been covered with paper tablecloths. There were bowls of crisps and nuts, and bottles of wine and beer.

‘Cake’s arriving in half an hour,’ Siobhan Clarke told Rebus.

‘Then I’m out of here in twenty.’

‘You don’t like cake?’

‘It’s the speeches that’ll no doubt accompany it.’

Clarke smiled and sipped her orange juice. Rebus held an open bottle of lager, but had no intention of finishing it — too gassy, not cold enough.

‘So, DS Rebus,’ she said, ‘what did you get up to this afternoon?’

He stared at her. ‘How long are we going to keep this up?’ Meaning her use of his rank — detective sergeant to her inspector. A decade back, the roles had been reversed. But when Rebus had applied to rejoin, he’d been warned of a surfeit of DIs, meaning he would have to drop to DS.

‘Take it or leave it,’ he’d been told.

So he’d taken it.

‘I think I can string it out a little longer,’ Clarke was saying now, her smile widening. ‘And you haven’t answered my question.’

‘I was looking up an old friend.’

‘You don’t have any.’

‘I could point to a dozen in this very room.’

Clarke scanned the faces. ‘And probably as many enemies.’

Rebus seemed to ponder this. ‘Aye, maybe,’ he conceded. And he was lying anyway. A dozen friends? Not even close. Siobhan was a friend, perhaps the closest he’d ever had — despite the age gap and the fact she didn’t like most of the music he played. He saw people he’d worked alongside, but almost no one he would have invited back to his flat for whisky and conversation. Then there were the few he would gladly give a kicking to — like the three officers from Professional Standards. They stood apart from the rest of the room, pariah status confirmed. Yet they had a haunted look — as with the Cold Case Unit, so too with their particular jobs: packed off elsewhere come reorganisation. But then a face from the past was squeezing through the throng and heading in Rebus’s direction. He stuck out a hand, which Rebus took.

‘Bloody hell, I almost didn’t recognise you there,’ Rebus admitted.

Eamonn Paterson patted what was left of his stomach. ‘Diet and exercise,’ he explained.

‘Thank God for that — I thought you were going to tell me you had some sort of wasting disease.’ Rebus turned towards Clarke. ‘Siobhan, this is Eamonn Paterson. He was a DS when I was a DC.’ While the two shook hands, Rebus continued the introduction.

‘Siobhan’s a detective inspector, which has her under the cruel delusion she’s my boss.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Paterson said. ‘When he was wet behind the ears I couldn’t get him to take a telling, no matter how hard I kicked his backside.’

‘Some things never change,’ Clarke conceded.

‘Eamonn here used to go by the name of Porkbelly,’ Rebus said. ‘Came back from a holiday in the States with the story he’d eaten so much of the stuff a restaurant had given him a T-shirt.’

‘I’ve still got it,’ Paterson said, raising his glass in a toast.

‘How long have you been out of the game?’ Clarke asked. Paterson was tall and slim, with a good head of hair; she wouldn’t have said he was a day older than Rebus.

‘Nearly fifteen years. Nice of them still to send me the invites.’ He waved his wine glass in the direction of the party.

‘Maybe you’re the poster boy for retirement.’

‘That could be part of it,’ he agreed with a laugh. ‘So this is the last rites for Lothian and Borders, eh?’

‘As far as anyone knows.’ Rebus turned towards Clarke. ‘What’s the new name again?’

‘There’ll be two divisions — Edinburgh, plus Lothians and Scottish Borders.’

‘Piece of nonsense,’ Paterson muttered. ‘Warrant cards will need changing, and so will the livery on the patrol cars — how the hell’s that supposed to save money?’ Then, to Rebus: ‘You going to manage along to Dod’s?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘How about you?’

‘Could be another case of last rites.’ Paterson turned towards Clarke. ‘We all worked together at Summerhall.’

‘Summerhall?’

‘A cop shop next door to the vet school on Summerhall Place,’ Rebus explained. ‘They knocked it down and replaced it with St Leonard’s.’

‘Before my time,’ she admitted.

‘Practically Stone Age,’ Paterson agreed. ‘Not many of us cavemen left, eh, John?’

‘I’ve learned how to make fire,’ Rebus countered, taking the box of matches from his pocket and shaking it.

‘You’re not still smoking?’

‘Someone has to.’

‘He likes the occasional drink, too,’ Clarke confided.

‘I’m shocked.’ Paterson made show of studying Rebus’s physique.

‘Didn’t realise I was auditioning for Mr Universe.’

‘No,’ Clarke said, ‘but you’ve sucked your stomach in anyway.’

‘Busted,’ Paterson said with another laugh, slapping Rebus’s shoulder. ‘So will you make it to Dod’s or not? Stefan’ll likely be there.’

‘Seems a bit ghoulish,’ Rebus said. He explained to Clarke that Dod Blantyre had suffered a recent stroke.

‘He wants one last gathering of the old guard,’ Paterson added. He wagged a finger in Rebus’s direction. ‘You don’t want to disappoint him — or Maggie. .’

‘I’ll see how I’m fixed.’

Paterson tried staring Rebus out, then nodded slowly and patted his shoulder again. ‘Fine then,’ he said, moving off to greet another old face.

Five minutes later, as Rebus was readying his excuse that he needed to step out for a cigarette, a fresh group entered the canteen. They looked like lawyers because that was what they were — invitees from the