Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘That must be me, then. Working days seem to get longer all the time.’

‘Poor you. Editor running you ragged?’

‘It’s not him; it’s just the job.’

‘Then put the phone down and go for a walk, maybe catch a film. .’

‘Chance would be a fine thing. Have you done anything with that tip I gave you?’

‘Forbes and his drugs? Everyone seems to be denying it.’

‘There’s a surprise. And the interview with Owen Traynor. .?’

‘Was a matter of routine.’

‘I had a chat with the political desk here — you know he’s friends with Stefan Gilmour, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Clarke lied, suddenly interested but hoping it didn’t show in her voice. ‘But I’m impressed your political desk knows.’

‘Since he’s prominent in the No camp, the Yes supporters have a little file on Gilmour. Traynor’s name is in there. Some business venture from a few years back.’

‘Not really relevant,’ Clarke said, scribbling a note in the front-page margin of an old Evening News.

‘There could still be political capital to be made out of it. With Pat McCuskey gone, the Yes people would love some dirt on his equivalent in the No camp.’

‘I dare say they would.’

There was silence on the line, then a sigh from the journalist. ‘I’m wasting my breath, aren’t I?’

‘It’s yours to waste, Laura.’

‘I gave you Forbes McCuskey — don’t forget that.’

‘I won’t.’ Clarke ended the call and compared the dish on the TV screen with the food on her plate. ‘No contest,’ she said, scooping up another forkful.

Day Eight 14

Something Professor Cuttle had said — we were so busy. . lowlifes dropping dead or succumbing to injuries — took Rebus to the Summerhall files the following morning. Malcolm Fox had been summoned to a meeting with Elinor Macari elsewhere in the building. It was raining outside, the sky black. Rebus had hung his coat up to dry and slipped his shoes off, balancing them on a radiator. He padded across the office in his damp socks, opening box files and ledgers, seeking out anything from the days and weeks leading up to Douglas Merchant’s murder.

‘Not interrupting, am I?’ Fox said on his return. He was carrying two cardboard beakers of tea. ‘Do you take sugar? I can’t remember.’ He dug some sachets from his jacket pocket.

‘Thanks,’ Rebus said, prising the lid from the proffered beaker. ‘Macari’s coffee machine on the blink?’

‘I just prefer tea.’ Fox took a sip, wincing at the scalding temperature.

‘You left the door open.’

‘Maybe I just forgot to lock it.’

‘Or it could be that you’re starting to trust me?’

Fox blew across the surface of his drink. ‘Here’s the thing, John — you wanted back on the force at any cost. They told you you’d be bumped down the ranks and you said okay. It’s not about status with you; it’s about the job itself. Am I right?’

‘More or less. So you are beginning to trust me?’

‘Trust works both ways.’ Fox gestured towards the paperwork in front of Rebus. ‘So tell me what’s keeping you busy.’

‘Working on a timeline,’ Rebus explained, hoping he could keep things nice and vague. ‘What did the Solicitor General want?’

‘Billy Saunders is still missing. His phone hasn’t been used, but two hundred pounds was taken from a cash machine with his card.’

‘When?’

‘Night he disappeared. From a Bank of Scotland in Newington.’

‘So he’s either alive and running, or. .’

‘Someone took his card and made him hand over the PIN.’

‘Does Macari have a preference?’

Fox’s mouth twitched. ‘She wants Stefan Gilmour formally questioned.’

‘Because he had words with Saunders?’ Rebus watched Fox nod. ‘So do we bring him in?’

‘It’ll just be me, John, plus one of the fiscals. You’re too close to Gilmour.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘You know I’m right, though.’ He paused, his attention shifting to the box files. ‘Remind me why we need a timeline. .’

‘I thought you asked for one.’

‘Did I?’ Fox’s brow furrowed.

‘I reckoned maybe you wanted me kept busy,’ Rebus lied blithely.

‘Fine then,’ Fox said eventually. He noticed that Rebus was in socks, and looked towards the radiator. ‘At least brown shoes keep out the water,’ he commented.

Rebus opened another ledger and started reading.

He remembered most of the cases, but not all of them. An arson attack in Craigmillar. . a series of corner shops held up by a drug addict armed with a syringe. . several sexual assaults late at night in the Meadows (never officially linked, never solved). An off-duty constable had been attacked by a mob of football fans in a pub on Forrest Road. A tramp had been found dead in Greyfriars Kirkyard, bearing the signs of a beating. Cashpoint muggings, aggressive beggars, a pickpocket gang from Eastern Europe. The cells at Summerhall had been overflowing some nights. Then there was the cannabis haul from a lock-up in Dumbiedykes, and the stolen car that was used to ram-raid an off-licence.

All fun and games.

Rebus’s own name cropped up occasionally, as did his signature — at the bottom of reports he might or might not have typed. Cross-referencing the custody ledger against suspects arrested, he found that the bottom half of a page had been torn out.

‘Just for the record,’ he said, motioning for Fox to take a look, ‘it was like this when I opened it.’

Fox nodded. ‘I noticed that a while back.’

The last entry on the half-page still remaining gave details of a suspect detained a week before Merchant’s murder, while the first entry on the next page was from the same day.

‘Four hours or so missing,’ Fox commented. ‘Late afternoon to mid evening.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘If the custody sergeant were still around, I’d ask him.’

‘Deceased?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Name of Magnus Henderson.’

‘I remember him,’ Rebus said. ‘Red-faced cheery-looking chap, but when he put someone in a headlock they soon realised he wasn’t Father Christmas.’

‘Retired to the Costa del Sol. Died a couple of years back from a coronary.’ Fox prodded at the ledger with a finger. ‘You think there’s something there that needed to be got rid of?’

‘I’m pretty sure that would have been your first reaction.’

‘You’re right, but unless you or one of the other Saints is about to confess. .’

Rebus offered a shrug. ‘There are arrest records, other bits of paperwork that might provide an answer.’

‘Or else the custody sergeant just got a name wrong and tore the page out to save embarrassment.’