Fox turned to face him. ‘We’ve been looking for a reason why Gilmour would work so hard on a snitch’s behalf. This theory’s as good as any I’ve heard.’
‘Why would Gilmour kill Merchant? Why would anyone other than Billy Saunders kill Merchant?’
‘You’re right — might not be Stefan Gilmour. Might have been someone close to Stefan Gilmour.’
Rebus rolled his eyes. ‘You know how stupid you sound right now?’
‘I can see why you’d want to think that. Because if Gilmour was protecting someone, that puts all the Saints back in the picture. . including you, John.’
Rebus stuck out a hand to grab a fistful of Fox’s coat, but the man’s reflexes were sharp. He caught the hand and pushed it away, then stood his ground, going up on his tiptoes.
‘You really want to do this?’ he asked. ‘You’re twenty years older than me and couldn’t climb the Scotsman Steps unless there was a drink at the top.’
‘And you’re in peak physical condition, I suppose?’
‘Not necessary, John — I just need to be that little bit fitter than you. .’
Rebus took a moment to ponder this, then he managed a resigned smile. ‘Okay then, Action Man,’ he said. ‘Stand down the mission. .’
‘You know that in my shoes you’d be considering the selfsame hypotheses.’
‘I wouldn’t be in your shoes, though.’
Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why not?’
Rebus glanced down at Fox’s footwear of choice. ‘They’re brown,’ he stated. ‘One thing I learned from Uncle Frank. .’
‘No brown shoes?’
‘No brown shoes,’ Rebus agreed.
‘And Uncle Frank is. .?’
‘Frank Zappa.’ Rebus saw the blank look on Fox’s face. ‘The musician.’
‘I hardly ever listen to music.’
‘That’s one more strike against you, then,’ Rebus stated with a slow shake of the head.
That evening, Rebus and Clarke rendezvoused at Great King Street.
‘Autopsy result is in,’ she told him. ‘No signs of a physical assault on McCuskey. He cracked his head against the corner of the stone fireplace and bleeding to the brain did the rest.’
‘So is it still being treated as murder?’
She gave a shrug. ‘Procurator Fiscal’s office hasn’t decided yet. But whoever broke in, their defence could be that he was already unconscious when they arrived. He tripped and fell, maybe having just heard the glass breaking.’
Rebus nodded. ‘No marks on the body at all?’
‘Nothing conclusive.’ Clarke paused. ‘You ready?’
When he nodded, she pressed the buzzer for Jessica Traynor’s flat.
‘Hello?’ The voice on the intercom was Alice Bell’s.
‘It’s Detective Inspector Clarke. Is Jessica there?’
‘What do you want?’
‘We need a word with her.’
‘She’s supposed to be convalescing.’
‘This’ll only take five minutes, Alice.’
A few seconds later, the buzzer sounded as the door was unlocked. Clarke pushed it open and Rebus followed her up the winding stairs.
Alice Bell stood in the open doorway of the flat. Clarke offered a smile and asked how Jessica was doing.
‘All right, I suppose.’
‘She’s managing the stairs?’
‘I doubt she’ll be using them much for the next week or so.’ Bell led them inside. Jessica Traynor — minus neck brace — was stretched out on the sofa in the living room, one ankle still strapped, with the TV remote, an iPad and her mobile phone close to her. Books lay open on the room’s only table, next to a laptop whose screen seemed to show the opening paragraph of an essay. Bell sat down at the table while Rebus and Clarke stayed standing.
‘If you could just give us a minute to ourselves,’ Rebus said to Bell.
‘I want her to stay,’ Jessica Traynor protested.
‘Some things are best said in private,’ Rebus warned her, but Traynor shook her head.
‘Are you on the mend?’ Clarke asked.
‘Supposedly. I’m taking co-codamol for the pain. Makes things nicely spacey.’
‘Is that a prescription?’ Rebus enquired. ‘Or are you getting it from your boyfriend?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘We hear he sells drugs, Jessica,’ Clarke explained.
‘Rubbish!’ Traynor barked. ‘Who told you that?’
‘You’re saying it isn’t true?’
‘Of course it’s not true,’ Alice Bell interrupted. ‘And we’d know, wouldn’t we?’
‘You probably would, yes,’ Clarke agreed. ‘But I can appreciate you might not want to admit it.’
‘It may come as news to you,’ Jessica Traynor said, ‘but Forbes’s father has just died. You’re really going to drag him to a police station and accuse him of dealing drugs? All because somebody spun you a bullshit story?’
Rebus took a step towards the sofa. ‘When you called me last night, Jessica, you were on the verge of telling me something. “They’ll kill me”, you said. Sounds as if there are people out there you’re afraid of, people your father can’t protect you from.’
‘She’s already told you,’ Alice Bell said, rising from the table. ‘She’s taking painkillers. Half the time she doesn’t know what she’s saying.’ She had settled herself on the arm of the sofa, next to Jessica Traynor’s head. Reaching down, she stroked her flatmate’s hair. ‘She shouldn’t even be talking to you now.’
Rebus’s stare was directed at Traynor. ‘Who are they, Jessica?’ he asked. ‘Who is it that’ll punish you if you talk to us? Were they there the night of the crash? Are they after Forbes too?’
‘Time for another of these, I think.’ She produced a bottle of pills which had been tucked beneath her on the sofa. ‘Fetch me some water, will you?’
Alice Bell got up and headed for the kitchen. Once she’d left the room, Rebus approached Traynor, crouching down in front of her, his face inches from hers.
‘We can help, Jessica. Maybe we’re the only ones who can. You just need to trust us.’
The student’s eyes were glassy, but she was listening.
‘Talk to Forbes,’ Rebus went on. ‘Let him know we’re on your side. Then give us a call. .’
He was getting back to his feet again as Alice Bell returned with a half-filled glass.
‘I think it’s time for you to leave,’ Bell said, determination in her voice. The childproof cap on the pill bottle was defeating her friend, so she took it from her and opened it.
‘You need to go easy on those,’ Clarke advised.
‘Then I won’t.’ Traynor shook three small tablets into the palm of her hand and scooped them into her mouth, taking the glass from Bell and drinking from it. Afterwards, she gave a satisfied sigh and laid her head down on the sofa, closing her eyes.
‘Don’t let her take too many,’ Clarke warned.
‘Time for you to leave,’ Alice Bell repeated, pointing towards the door.
Siobhan Clarke was stretched along her own sofa, a cookery programme on TV and a microwave meal on a tray on her lap, when her mobile rang. It was Laura Smith, wanting an update.
‘The office is closed for the night,’ Clarke told her, stabbing at a forkful of food.
‘I hear the post-mortem result was inconclusive.’
‘Then you know as much as I do.’
‘You can really switch off? At home, I mean?’
‘I’d be a sad case otherwise.’
