Saints of the Shadow Bible

she was obviously equipped with the resources.

‘You want to ask me about the McCuskey case,’ Clarke guessed.

‘You brought Owen Traynor in.’

‘Can’t fault your powers of observation.’

‘He’s a man with a past.’

‘He is indeed.’ Clarke watched as Smith drummed her fingers against the steering wheel in time to the music. She didn’t recognise the tune, would have classed it as ‘disco’ if such a thing still existed.

‘And he has a daughter called Jessica,’ Smith went on, ‘who wrote off her VW Golf only a few days back. Nice straight stretch of road and somehow she loses control.’

‘Again, you’re scarily well informed.’

‘No need to be sarky.’ Smith switched off the music and twisted her body towards Clarke. ‘Jessica’s boyfriend is Forbes McCuskey, whose father then ends up dead after a break-in at the family home.’ She paused. ‘And you bring in Owen Traynor for questioning. Let me guess what his motive might have been. .’

‘We were just checking a few details, Laura.’

‘I’m sure you were. How did it go with the First Minister, by the way?’ Pleased with the look of surprise on Clarke’s face, Smith smiled again. ‘I have spies everywhere,’ she explained.

‘He wants us to find whoever did it.’

‘Understandable. Meantime, he has to find a new face to front the Yes campaign without looking callous. Is Rebus keeping his nose clean?’

‘I’m not his mother.’

‘How has he managed to wangle his way into the Saunders inquiry?’

Clarke gave Smith a glower. ‘You’re in danger of coming across as smug, Laura.’

‘Just well informed, as you say,’ Smith corrected her. ‘You know Stefan Gilmour left the force because of Saunders? And now he helms the good ship No. .’

‘Are you going to print any of this?’

Smith looked thoughtful. ‘A few hard facts wouldn’t go amiss. Way things are, post-Leveson, the lawyers will redact anything that can’t be corroborated.’

‘I’m too close to the inquiry,’ Clarke said, shaking her head. ‘Fingers would point straight at me. .’

‘You know I can make sure that doesn’t happen — it’s all in the phrasing.’

‘Right now, I’m not sure I know much more than you do,’ Clarke argued.

‘But there’ll come a point when you do. The paper’s constantly updated online — if I’m even ten minutes ahead of the pack, it means I publish first.’

Clarke was shaking her head again. Smith stuck out her bottom lip in a show of mock unhappiness.

‘I’ve not come to the table empty-handed,’ she announced. ‘Might be something or nothing, but as a show of good faith. .’

‘What?’ Clarke asked.

‘And you won’t just go away and forget about me?’

‘Spit it out.’

Smith paused for a few moments, then took a deep breath. ‘Word is,’ she said, ‘Forbes McCuskey’s the go- to guy if you want a better class of illegal substance. Posh student parties in all those flats bought by mumsy and dadsy.’

‘The son of the Justice Minister?’

‘Delicious, isn’t it? I heard it from two normally reliable sources. Even set up a bit of a surveillance — had a photographer with me and everything. Never caught him, though.’

‘So we’re talking unsubstantiated rumours?’ Clarke, while sounding sceptical, still had a question. ‘Where’s he getting it?’

Smith offered a shrug. ‘Not sure it originates in Edinburgh — do your lot know of any dealers who could be sending stuff down the chain?’

‘I’ll look into it.’

‘A note of caution — this is a son grieving for his father, remember.’

‘Meaning there’s nothing you can do with it?’

Smith shook her head. ‘Would I be trading it otherwise?’ she asked, with that same sweet, professional smile.

Rebus was asleep in his chair when his phone woke him. He didn’t recognise the number, but answered anyway, massaging his eyes back into focus with his free hand.

‘John Rebus,’ he said.

‘You’ve got to stop hassling my dad!’

‘Jessica?’ Rebus walked over to the record deck and lifted the stylus from the run-out groove. Side two of Beggars Banquet — how had he managed to sleep through so much of that? ‘I didn’t know you had my number.’

‘You gave Forbes your card.’

‘So I did.’

‘Now listen to me — just leave him alone!’

‘Forbes or your dad?’

‘Dad’s not done anything — he doesn’t deserve this. .’ She seemed to be trying to control a sob.

‘Has he taken it out on you, Jessica?’ Rebus asked.

‘Of course not — but I can see it’s eating him up. They named him on TV, and now people keep phoning him.’

‘You’re still at the hotel?’

‘Checking out tomorrow.’

‘You’ll go back to your flat? What about your father?’

‘He needs to be in London. What he doesn’t need is this hanging over him.’

‘Then tell me what happened,’ Rebus said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The night of the crash. .’

There was silence on the line. He thought for a moment she’d hung up. But then came a crackling sound as she exhaled noisily.

‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘They’ll kill me.’

‘Who’ll kill you?’ He gave her time to answer, but none came. ‘You’re Owen Traynor’s daughter — no one’s going to kill you.’

‘I just can’t. Don’t ask me again.’

‘You can expect to see me at your door tomorrow. Does it involve Forbes? Or maybe his father?’

But this time she really had ended the call. Rebus rang back, but her messaging service picked up. He added her number to the contacts list on his phone, then patted the phone against his cheek as he went back over the conversation.

They’ll kill me.

Who the hell were they?

No mention of Forbes McCuskey, just this plural threat. Did Owen Traynor know or suspect? If someone were menacing his daughter, what would he do? Would the red mist descend? Did he have friends he could call on?

Expect to see me at your door. .

His mind flashed to the doorway of Dod Blantyre’s bungalow, and Maggie standing there, looking radiant. Her words to him at the café: How things might have turned out — if we’d been a little braver. And Stefan Gilmour: No skeletons in your cupboard, John?

We start lying and cheating and concealing. .

His brain felt foggy: too many connections, too much loose, frayed wiring.

He made himself a mug of tea, stuck Solid Air on the turntable, and slumped back