Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘Aunt Dorothy’s with her. I’m just collecting some of my stuff.’

‘Your mum’s okay, being in the house. .?’

‘I did suggest a hotel.’

‘Not the Caledonian?’ Rebus cautioned.

McCuskey nodded his understanding. ‘Jessica’s there. .’

‘Next door to her father. Have you been to see her?’

McCuskey shook his head.

‘She’ll have been in touch, though, having heard. .?’

‘I’ve talked to her, yes.’ McCuskey’s eyes locked on Rebus. ‘Were you really just passing?’

‘I live down the road,’ Rebus admitted, seeing no harm in it. ‘On my way to Margiotta’s. I’m at number seventeen, second floor — if you ever want to talk.’

‘Talk? What about?’

‘Maybe why you lied to us.’

‘Did I lie?’

‘You said you couldn’t drive, yet I saw you behind the wheel, with your mum in the passenger seat.’

The young man was shaking his head. ‘I said I don’t drive, I never said I couldn’t if I have to.’

‘You were attempting to mislead us, Mr McCuskey. And all it’s done is made me even more curious about the night of the smash.’

‘You can’t still be going on about that?’

‘It’s unfinished business — and with what happened to your dad. .’ Rebus left the end of the sentence hanging and started on his way. ‘Number seventeen,’ he reminded McCuskey. ‘My name’s on the bell. .’

Once inside his flat, Forbes McCuskey dug his phone from his pocket and made a call.

‘It’s me,’ he said. Then, in response to a question: ‘Yeah, I’m all right, I suppose. A bit numb, to be honest. But I’ve just been talking to that guy Rebus.’ He listened for a moment, wandering through to the kitchen and opening the fridge, in search of something to drink. ‘Apparently he lives on my street, which is a nuisance, and he’s still harping on about the crash. But here’s the thing — the thinking seems to be that Jess’s father might have been behind the break-in. That could play well for us, take a bit of the heat off.’ He paused again to listen, glugging milk from a carton. ‘No, not that heat. Speaking of which, I better try ringing Jess. .’

He ended the call and went through to his room, falling back on to the bed and staring at the ceiling. There was some dope under the mattress and he would smoke it in a little while. Maybe he’d drink some wine, too, or neat tequila. Anything to stop him thinking about his father and what had happened — what might have happened.

‘You dickhead,’ he muttered to himself, covering his eyes with his forearm. ‘What the hell have you gone and done. .?’

Slowly, the tears began to come.

‘Can I come up?’

‘Where are you?’ Siobhan Clarke asked.

‘Standing outside.’

She went to the window to take a look. Her flat was on the first floor of a utilitarian block just off Broughton Street. Fox was standing in the middle of the road, his phone pressed to his ear.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked him.

‘I’d rather tell you in person.’

She scanned her living room. It was presentable — more than presentable. But still, she didn’t want to share it with Fox. ‘I’ll come down,’ she said into the phone. ‘There’s a bar around the corner we can go to.’

‘I don’t drink,’ Fox reminded her. ‘And this isn’t really a social visit.’

‘Two minutes,’ she said, ending the call and wondering whether to bother making herself presentable.

The bar was called The Basement because it was in a basement, reached by a short flight of stone steps from the pavement. It was gloomy and the furniture looked like props from the Alien films. There was a traditional pub almost the same distance away in the other direction, but Clarke had chosen this place because she sensed Fox would be less at ease in it. The drinkers were young, the music as jagged as the seats and tables. Clarke ordered a glass of white wine and Fox a spiced tomato juice.

‘Can’t hear myself think,’ he complained, so Clarke relented and led them back outdoors to the tiny courtyard where smokers could usually be found. There was a bench attached to the wall and a couple of slatted tables, plus a scattering of wicker chairs. They sat opposite one another with their drinks. The night was chill, and Clarke wrapped her coat around her, pleased to see that she was better prepared than Fox, who wore only a thin dark blue suit, shirt and tie.

‘Better?’ she enquired.

‘Quieter, certainly.’ He buttoned his suit jacket as he spoke. ‘I’ll make this brief — it’s about you and David Galvin.’ He watched for her reaction and she couldn’t help but give one, her eyes widening slightly, glass stopping halfway to her mouth.

‘What about him?’

‘He works as a fiscal depute.’

‘I know that.’

‘On the Procurator Fiscal’s staff.’

‘To state the blindingly obvious.’

‘And the two of you are an item?’

‘What the hell has that got to do with you?’

Fox held up a hand to appease her. ‘It shouldn’t have anything to do with me — except that Professional Standards has been contacted anonymously, and that communication has been passed along.’

‘Anonymous?’

Fox nodded. ‘But obviously from someone Galvin works beside. Maybe someone with a grudge.’

‘So what does the message say?’

‘It simply informs Professional Standards that the two of you are spending a lot of time together and that you know one another intimately. .’

Had she been any less furious and irritated, she might have found his language amusing. Instead of which, her face remained stony as she told him to go on.

‘There’s not much more,’ he admitted with a shrug. ‘Messenger says we should maybe look into your relationship, in case there’s any element of impropriety to be found.’

‘Such as me influencing David and vice versa?’

‘I suppose so.’ Fox shifted a little, his drink untouched as yet. ‘Do many people know about you and Mr Galvin?’

‘I’ve not told anyone.’ She gave him a hard stare. ‘It’s not that I think we’ve got anything to hide. .’

‘Of course.’ Fox paused. ‘And on his part. .?’

‘Sounds as if he might have told one person at least.’ She lifted her phone. ‘I better talk to him.’ But then she studied the illuminated screen. ‘Soon as I can get a signal.’

‘Maybe leave it till morning,’ Fox advised. ‘Give yourself time to reflect.’

‘Always erring on the side of caution, eh? Never doing anything in the heat of the moment?’

‘Goes with the job,’ he said with a shrug.

After a moment, Clarke put her phone down again and lifted her drink. She took a couple of sips, before asking him how things were going with Rebus.

‘Hard to say.’

‘Because you can’t tell me, or because you don’t know?’

‘More the latter than the former. I’m just not sure where I stand with him. There’s so much happening behind his eyes. .’

‘I know that feeling.’ Clarke hoisted her glass again. ‘He’s like one of those chess wizards, the ones who play