Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘The Complaints? Less than rigorous. As long as you got results, blind eyes could be turned. Mind you, we still thought of your lot as scum.’

‘I appreciate your candour.’

‘My pleasure.’ Rebus’s phone was buzzing. He looked at the screen. It was Siobhan Clarke. ‘Mind if I take this?’ he asked Fox. Fox didn’t look happy, but Rebus wasn’t about to wait for his answer anyway.

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked into the mouthpiece.

‘McCuskey’s at death’s door,’ Clarke announced.

Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘What?’

‘Looks like a housebreaking gone badly wrong.’

‘Christ.’

‘He’s being taken to the Infirmary.’

‘There’s an irony.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Same place as his girlfriend.’

‘I’m not talking about the son — this is the father. Pat McCuskey. As in our beloved Justice Minister.’

‘Just a coincidence, then?’

‘That’s what I’m wondering. He was attacked at his home sometime this morning.’

‘And?’

‘The home’s just the other side of the airport from the city.’

‘Not far from the scene of the crash?’

‘Not far at all,’ Clarke conceded.

‘Are you on your way there now?’ Rebus gestured for the loan of Fox’s pen. As Clarke recited the address, he jotted it on to the side of his cardboard cup. Ending the call, he handed back the pen.

‘Justice Minister’s been attacked in his home,’ he explained.

‘Oh?’

‘I have to go.’

Fox stared at him. ‘Why?’

‘A case I’ve been working on with DI Clarke.’ Rebus broke off. ‘This isn’t a ruse or anything — phone her back if you don’t believe me.’

‘I’m not sure even you would stoop that low.’

‘A vote of confidence if ever I heard one.’ Rebus got to his feet and grabbed the cup with the address on.

Outside, he poured the cold tea down the first grating he saw.

The house was an extended two-storey Edwardian property at the end of a gravel driveway and with no immediate neighbours. There seemed to be extensive grounds, including a paddock and stables. The road outside, narrow enough to start with, was already lined with vehicles belonging to journalists and the curious. Cameras were being hoisted, scripts checked, feeds established. A uniform stood guard at the wrought-iron gates and scrutinised Rebus’s warrant card before letting him through. A low rumble indicated that a flight was leaving the airport. Rebus watched the passenger jet rise skywards, not half a mile away, then turned his attention back to the house. The gravel extended almost all the way to the front door, meaning approaching vehicles were bound to be heard. Same went for intruders on foot. But then he’d no idea of the layout to the rear — and housebreakers seldom used the front door.

A scene-of-crime van was parked next to four cars. Rebus guessed that the newish Land Rover probably belonged, while the others were just visiting. He ran a finger down the side of Clarke’s Astra as he moved past it to the gaping front door. The wood-panelled hall reminded him of what they’d tried to do at the Sheriff Court, but this was the real thing. The suit of armour at the foot of the winding staircase was probably intended to show that the owner had a sense of humour. A vase had tumbled from its occasional table and now lay shattered on the parquet floor. There were muted voices in the sitting room and Rebus followed them until he was told to stop. A young woman in white overalls handed him a pair of elasticated paper shoes and warned him not to touch anything. Clarke stepped towards him. She was also in overalls and paper shoes, and was looking solemn. Video was being shot, photos snapped, surfaces dusted for prints.

‘He was found on the floor in here,’ she explained. ‘His private secretary was worried when he couldn’t be roused this morning. There was an eight-thirty meeting waiting for him. Usual driver had turned up but found the door locked and no sign of life.’ She saw his look. ‘They came in through the back — French doors with one pane punched out. Maybe they thought the house looked empty. .’

Rebus scanned the room. Expensive flat-screen TV untouched. Paperwork strewn across the floor. A Persian rug rucked up.

‘So what did they take?’ he asked.

‘Laptop, we think, plus both his mobile phones. Drawers have been opened in the bedroom — could be some jewellery’s missing.’

‘The wife?’

‘Is on her way back from Glasgow. She stayed there last night so she could take some clients to dinner and then see them again this morning.’

‘Clients?’

‘She’s a lawyer — American by birth.’ Clarke pointed out a framed photo of the couple. It had been knocked flat and now lay on top of the baby grand piano. Wedding day: low-cut off-white dress for her, traditional Highland outfit for her beaming partner.

‘Has anyone told the son?’

‘Left a message on his phone asking him to call back.’

‘He might not, if he thinks it’s about the crash.’

‘I stressed that it isn’t.’

Rebus saw another photo — it showed McCuskey’s wife on horseback. She was dressed informally — jeans and a checked shirt, and no headwear of any kind.

‘What do the medics say?’

‘He was either coshed or hit his head on something when they tried to grab him. Lump like an ostrich egg on the back of his skull and they’re worried about internal bleeding.’

‘So there could be some damage?’

Clarke nodded slowly.

‘If they came on foot, that would explain why they didn’t take much. On the other hand. .’

‘We’re hiking distance from civilisation.’

‘So there might well have been a car waiting.’

‘I’ve got uniforms scouring the perimeter.’

‘How long before you talk to the media?’

‘Won’t be me — Page is on his way.’

‘Stopping off en route for a haircut and a new suit?’ She couldn’t help but smile. ‘Politicians are going to want a briefing,’ Rebus warned her. ‘This is one of their own, remember.’

‘I’ve already had the First Minister’s office on the phone. He wants to visit the hospital, plus they’re sending someone to check we’re being thorough.’

‘Is there anything on the laptop the government wouldn’t want getting out?’

‘They’re going to come back to me about that.’

‘He was the Justice Minister, after all.’

‘Plus leader of the Yes campaign.’

‘I doubt we can put unionists in the frame, Siobhan.’

‘Doesn’t mean political capital can’t be made out of it — same as Page wanted when we found out who Forbes was.’

‘I’d say that particular plan has just been put out with the bins. But let’s stay focused on the main event — why do we think this morning rather than last night?’

‘Mr McCuskey spoke to his wife at eleven thirty, by which time he was tucked up in bed. When he was found