‘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
‘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
‘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?’
Rebus had texted Paterson to say as much. He nodded slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose and swallowing back a yawn.
‘Not quite got his trust yet, though,’ he said. ‘Everything’s kept behind a locked door and Fox is the only one with a key.’
‘He’s sent out invitations, you know. Wants me at three p.m. tomorrow.’
‘Guess who else he’s asking.’
‘Who?’
‘Albert Stout and Norman Cuttle.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Paterson puffed out his cheeks and exhaled.
‘It’s Stefan he’s after.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Saunders belonged to Stefan. Stands to reason Stefan would be the one pulling strings to get him off that murder charge.’ Rebus paused, studying Paterson over the rim of his glass. ‘Unless you know different.’
