Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘We’re not a hundred per cent sure.’

Gilmour seemed to think for a moment. ‘You don’t seriously believe Owen Traynor might be in the frame for it, though?’

‘We’re ruling nothing out.’

‘Breaking into a man’s house? Smacking him just for being someone’s dad?’

‘Stranger things have happened. So tell me what you know of Pat McCuskey.’

‘Like I say, he was a nice guy.’

‘No skeletons in his closet?’

‘Not that I can think of.’ Gilmour paused. ‘You planning to mark a cross in that independence box, John? If the Yes campaign gets hold of Susanna. .’

‘Your penthouse guest?’

‘I’ll know it had to come from you or Fox.’

‘How about the receptionist who sent her up without checking? Is he or she still in a job? Because if you’ve fired them, you’ll have to add them to your little list too. That’s how it is, Stefan, when we start lying and cheating and concealing — it creates a lot of work, and nothing but.’

‘No skeletons in your cupboard, John?’ Gilmour managed a sour chuckle. ‘You’d need a space the size of IKEA to store them all.’

The line went dead, Gilmour determined to have the last word. Rebus sucked on his beer and went to turn the vinyl over. Rory Gallagher: ‘Sinner Boy’. He toasted the guitarist and slumped back on his chair to do some thinking. Then he picked up his phone and called Clarke.

‘What?’ she snapped.

‘Bad timing?’

‘I’ll call you back in half an hour.’

The phone went dead again. ‘Doing well tonight, John,’ he said to himself, lifting the bottle to his lips.

Clarke waited for David Galvin to come back from the toilet. It was a bar in the New Town — her choice, her patch. They had been polite at first, Galvin seeking to apologise. But then he’d thrown up his hands and asked what he was apologising for: ‘It’s not like I’m the one who called the Complaints!’ After which the arguing had commenced — albeit with voices never raised; that wasn’t the done thing in the New Town.

Pushing the table away from him, so that its edge jabbed her in the midriff, Galvin had then had to answer a call of nature. Or, Clarke reckoned, had gone to gather his thoughts in peace. While he was away, she thought back to the meeting she’d recently come from, held at Bute House on Charlotte Square. Just Nick Ralph and her, plus the First Minister and one of his special advisers. The First Minister had wanted updates — even though he seemed to have been briefed on everything the inquiry knew. He’d demanded ‘swift and decisive action’. He’d worn a tie covered in tiny saltire flags and hadn’t offered them anything to drink. Every thirty seconds or so a staffer would knock and enter, handing slips of paper to the First Minister for him to read. Sometimes he’d nod, and other times he would fold the note into his pocket. Couldn’t be easy, running a country while trying to plan for a future more than half its constituents didn’t yet seem to want.

‘Swift and decisive,’ the First Minister had repeated. ‘Let’s show the world what Scottish policing can do now the new model is in effect.’

‘Not quite in effect,’ Ralph had corrected him, receiving a hard stare for his efforts.

Clarke watched now as Galvin emerged, rubbing his hands together as if to reassure the room that he had remembered to wash them. He walked up to the table and just stood there, shaking his head slowly, as though disappointed in her. Then he exited the bar, never looking back.

‘Prick,’ Clarke said under her breath. She took another slug of wine and called Rebus. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said.

‘Anything I need to know about?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘You sound like you’re in a pub.’

‘Sharp as ever.’

‘Alone?’

‘As of thirty seconds ago.’ She sighed and rubbed at her eyebrows. ‘So what can I do for you, John?’

‘I saw Owen Traynor on the telly — nice work, bringing him in.’

‘Just seemed to make him angry.’

‘Angry is good. Angry means unthinking.’

‘Well we didn’t get anything out of him. How about you?’

‘Billy Saunders has gone AWOL.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Fox thinks maybe Stefan Gilmour slipped him a few quid to make himself scarce.’

‘And?’

‘Stefan denies it.’

‘What about you and Malcolm — not come to blows yet?’

‘We seem to be managing.’ Rebus paused. ‘Can I toss another tiny grenade into your foxhole?’

‘If you must.’

‘Stefan Gilmour knew Pat McCuskey — knew him well, I mean.’

‘Stands to reason.’ It was her turn to pause. ‘You’re not suggesting. .?’

‘Of course not. Though it did get me thinking. I know we discounted a political angle from the get-go, but on the other hand, politics in Scotland has never been so ugly. Lots of hotheads out there, and most of them nursing some grievance or other. Your boss doesn’t strike me as the type who’d want to disregard a possible motive. .’

‘I’ll mention it to him.’ She was still rubbing at her eyebrows.

‘Sure you don’t want my company? I can do witty repartee.’

‘I’m fine, John.’

‘Something to do with your lawyer friend?’

‘I said I’m fine.’

‘Well, if you ever need a shoulder to drink on. .’

She was smiling tiredly as she ended the call. The wine was finished. She’d had just the one glass and didn’t want any more. It was churning sourly inside her. Five or ten minutes’ walk and she’d be back at her flat. She paid the bill and headed outside. The air was crisp, the night sky clear. She remembered Rebus telling her that he used to drive through the city whenever he couldn’t sleep. Not with any great purpose in mind, just enjoying the feel of the journey. She could do that. Or she could veg out on the sofa with whatever was on TV. A book — when had she last picked up a book? But as she turned the corner into her street, a car door opened.

‘Siobhan?’

Clarke flinched, her eyes darting to left and right. You could never be too careful. But she recognised the owner of the voice, and walked towards the sporty Alfa Romeo.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘What do you think?’

The smile accompanying the question was warm but professional. Laura Smith — petite, with short brown hair — was the Scotsman newspaper’s chief crime reporter, and also, since recent cutbacks, its only crime reporter.

‘Hop in,’ Smith said. And before Clarke could demur, the journalist had ducked back into the car and closed the door. Music was playing from the stereo. The engine, however, was turned off and the interior was losing heat.

‘How long have you been here?’ Clarke asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

‘Maybe half an hour.’

‘You could have been waiting half the night.’

‘Comes with the job.’

‘I’d no idea you had my address.’

When Smith raised an eyebrow, Clarke knew she’d said something stupid. Smith worked the crime beat —