Saints of the Shadow Bible

at it.

‘Divided we fall,’ she whispered to herself, closing the lid of her laptop.

Day Five 9

Rebus’s pub crawl started at opening time the next morning — not that he was on anything other than soft drinks. Clarke had sent a list of the stolen items to his phone, plus photographs provided by the McCuskeys’ insurance company: pearl necklace, antique brooch, Rolex watches. The laptop was expensive, but whoever had taken it had left its cable behind. Same went for the missing mobile phones — both chargers still plugged into power points. Pat McCuskey himself had yet to regain consciousness, though the word ‘coma’ was being avoided in the news bulletins. At least one tabloid was stirring up a debate on crime and punishment, and every paper Rebus had seen had run the story on its front page.

The pubs he visited were in unglamorous corners of the city, from Granton to Gorgie and the Inch to Sighthill. Some of the old places had closed. They were either boarded up or had been demolished and replaced by fast-food outlets. Rebus felt like an explorer returning to find that some wilderness had been tamed. Those haunts that did still exist were doing little or no business, the staff complaining about supermarket drink deals and the smoking ban.

‘Lot of the old punters would rather stay at home, puffing away in front of the horse racing with a dozen cans of Special Offer. .’

And that was another thing: lifestyle choices had hacked away at Rebus’s network of faces. Some had passed away without him knowing; others had grown senile and moved in with family members in distant climes. Hasn’t been in for a while, Rebus would be told. Or: Never see him around these days. In some pubs, the staff had no idea who he was talking about.

‘Used to drink in here all the time,’ Rebus would persist. ‘Tall guy, thick mop of silver hair, worked on the buses. .’ Followed by yet another shake of the head. Even the hardened eleven a.m. regulars would struggle to recall ‘Big Tony’, ‘Shug the Spit’ and ‘Ecky Shake’. Rebus would recite the list of stolen property to anyone who’d listen, and leave a card behind the bar with his number on it. He had texted Fox to ask if he was needed before the three p.m. interview with Eamonn Paterson. Fox had replied: You’ve been talking to him then? No other way you’d know.

‘Nice work, John,’ Rebus had muttered to himself.

He was on his way to the final pub of his dispiriting tour when his phone rang. Not a number he recognised, but he answered anyway.

‘Hello, you.’

Maggie Blantyre’s voice, instantly recognisable.

‘Hi there, Maggie. Everything all right?’

‘Fine. Are you in the car?’

‘On my way to Silverknowes.’

‘For your sins, eh?’

‘Something like that. I didn’t know you had my number.’

‘Porkbelly gave it to me.’

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t sound so worried — I told him you’d left something behind the other night.’

‘So how’s Dod doing?’

‘Same old.’ She paused. ‘It was fun seeing you at the house.’

‘Nice to catch up — just a shame about the circumstances.’

‘That man Fox has been on the phone, asking if Dod would be up for answering a few questions. Dod tells me you’ll know about that.’

‘Sort of.’

‘And if he really doesn’t want to talk. .?’

‘I suppose his doctor could write him a note.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Another pause. ‘It’s not that he has anything to hide. It’s just that he’s not up to it.’

‘Understood.’

‘But will Fox see it that way?’

‘Doesn’t really matter, does it?’

‘Dod doesn’t want to go to his grave with a black mark against his whole career. Surely you can see that?’

‘Of course.’

She seemed to relax a little, as though relieved he was now sharing her burden. ‘Maybe we could meet for a coffee after Silverknowes — it would be lovely to see you.’

‘At the house, you mean?’

‘There’s a café on Roseburn Terrace. I sometimes take an hour out and sit there. Dod seems to manage without me. .’

‘Do they do food?’ Rebus enquired.

‘Just sandwiches and baked potatoes.’

‘Then I’ll see you there at half-one.’

‘Always supposing you can bear to leave Silverknowes.’

‘Always supposing,’ Rebus echoed with a smile.

He was five minutes early, but she was already there, seated at a table by the window, the window itself opaque with condensation.

‘John,’ she said in greeting, rising and pecking him on the cheek. Then the familiar touch of her thumb as she brushed away the lipstick. ‘I ordered a pot of tea — is that okay?’

‘Fine.’

She didn’t want anything to eat, but Rebus ordered a toasted ham sandwich. When he turned from the waitress, Maggie Blantyre was studying him intently.

‘Have you left a mark on me?’ he asked, rubbing at his left cheek.

‘I was just thinking back. You were a lovely lot — a real gang of friends.’

‘The job does that to you.’

‘And a lot more besides.’

‘Despite which, here I am.’

‘Here you are,’ she said, lifting her teacup. But then her smile faltered. ‘There are times I wonder. .’

‘What?’

‘How things might have turned out — if we’d been a little braver.’

‘You and me, you mean? At the time, I seem to remember we thought we’d taken leave of our senses.’

‘But thinking back. .’

‘The past’s a dangerous place, Maggie.’

‘I know it is — look at what this man Fox is trying to do.’

‘It’s not Fox, it’s the Solicitor General — she wants to retry Billy Saunders, and for that to happen she needs to know nothing’s going to bite her arse in the courtroom.’

‘You paint a lovely picture.’

Rebus’s phone was buzzing. ‘I need to take this,’ he apologised, seeing Clarke’s name on the screen.

‘Of course.’

He got to his feet and exited the café. ‘Siobhan?’ he said by way of greeting.

‘Pat McCuskey just died,’ she said, no emotion in her voice.

‘Shite.’