‘Maybe the prisoner got shirty, made a grab for the book,’ Rebus suggested. ‘I could ask around.’
‘Your old buddies? You really think Stefan Gilmour would own up? Or Eamonn Paterson?’
‘Probably not.’ Rebus’s phone was ringing.
‘Morning, DI Clarke,’ he said, answering. ‘Enjoying the weather?’
‘Have you heard?’ she asked.
Rebus’s jaw tightened. He fixed Fox with a stare. ‘Heard what?’
‘Body fished from the canal this morning. Bank card in his pocket has the name William Saunders.’
‘Billy Saunders is dead?’
Fox took out his own phone and tapped in a number.
‘Looks like,’ Clarke was saying. ‘Body’s not been formally identified yet.’
‘Pulled from the canal?’
‘A quiet stretch near Dumbryden — not far from Wester Hailes police station.’
Fox was giving the news to the Solicitor General. He kept his eyes on Rebus, ready to pass on any wisdom.
‘Near Dumbryden,’ Rebus dutifully repeated.
‘And there’s another thing, John. .’
‘Did he jump, fall, or was he maybe pushed?’ Rebus interrupted her.
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Word is he’d been shot.’
‘
‘Shot,’ Fox said into his phone, eyes widening a little further.
‘Shot,’ Siobhan Clarke confirmed.
It had been decided to base the investigation at Wester Hailes. With the Pat McCuskey case in the process of being downgraded, officers were being moved from that team to the new one. By the time Rebus and Fox arrived at the canal, Clarke had been put in charge of the inquiry. DC Olivia Webster was with her, Clarke making the introductions from beneath a large black umbrella. Droplets of rain were dripping into Rebus’s eyes from his hair. Crime-scene tape had been strung across the canal path, onlookers gathering on the opposite bank. There wasn’t much in the vicinity other than an industrial estate and some wasteland. Ducks were sheltering between the thick reeds, heads tucked under their wings.
‘Grim,’ Rebus stated, taking in everything.
The canal was cleaner these days than in times past, but litter still floated on its oily surface, and nearby walls had become a sprawling canvas for the neighbourhood taggers.
‘Any CCTV?’ Fox asked.
‘On the industrial estate,’ Clarke told him. ‘We’ll be taking a look.’
‘What was he doing here?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘There can’t be many guns in the city.’
‘One more than we thought,’ Clarke commented.
‘What I mean is, where did it come from? Someone must know.’
She nodded. Miserable-looking uniformed officers were combing the ground in all directions. They wore waterproofs, and Rebus thought he recognised one or two from the perimeter search of Pat McCuskey’s homestead.
‘The diver’s going to have fun,’ he said to Clarke. ‘Hope his shots are up to date.’
‘Not the best turn of phrase, under the circumstances.’
‘You think the gun’s in there?’ Rebus gestured towards the canal.
‘Maybe.’
‘How many bullets?’
‘Just the one. Close range, middle of the chest.’
Rebus examined the path beneath their feet. ‘Bloodstains?’
‘Not found any yet.’
‘So the impact probably propelled him into the water. Any casings?’
‘Christ, John, we’ve only just got started.’ Clarke’s voice was brittle.
‘Room for any more on the team?’ he asked. ‘Malcolm and me know as much about Saunders as anyone. .’
‘We already have a job,’ Fox reminded him.
‘You don’t think the two just became one?’
‘We’d have to clear it with the Solicitor General.’
‘Don’t bother,’ Clarke broke in. ‘Neither one of you is coming on board.’
‘Dive team’s just arrived,’ a uniform announced from beyond the cordon. Clarke headed off in that direction, Olivia Webster at her heels. Rebus yanked his raincoat over his head, creating a little tent within which he could get a cigarette going.
‘You know why you’re not wanted?’ Fox was asking.
‘I think so,’ Rebus replied. ‘The Summerhall connection.’
Fox nodded slowly. ‘We need to talk to Macari. With Saunders out of the picture, her case is. .’ He swallowed back the conclusion of the sentence.
‘Dead in the water?’ Rebus obliged.
‘Which probably means I’ll be on CID duties sooner than expected.’
‘The whole force rejoices,’ Rebus said, before sucking on his cigarette. Clarke was coming back, brolly still held aloft, shoes muddied.
‘A change of heart?’ Rebus guessed.
‘We’ll need your notes,’ she said, her eyes on Fox. ‘Everything you’ve got on Saunders.’
‘Just as soon as you clear it with the Solicitor General’s office,’ Fox agreed.
‘I’ll add it to the list,’ she grumbled.
‘Malcolm would be an asset to you, you know,’ Rebus told her. ‘And he just happens to be between jobs. .’
Clarke studied Rebus, as though seeking the catch or waiting for a punchline. Then she nodded stiffly.
‘Fine,’ she said, turning to leave again.
‘Don’t say I never give you anything,’ Rebus said to Fox, patting him on the arm.
At the mortuary, Clarke and Fox changed into protective clothing, but at the door to the autopsy suite Clarke paused, eyes on Fox.
‘You sure you’re up to this?’ she asked.
‘It’ll be my first in a while.’
There was a sudden wailing from somewhere in the building.
‘The widow,’ Fox surmised.
Clarke nodded. ‘Change of plan,’ she decided. ‘You’ve met her before — go see if you can get anything out of her.’
‘Afraid I’m going to embarrass you in there?’ Fox gestured towards the door.
‘I’m sure you’d do fine, Malcolm. It’s a question of what’s most useful.’
‘You’re the boss, Siobhan.’
‘Thanks.’ Having said which, she pushed open the door and disappeared inside, leaving Fox with a glimpse of steel trolleys and gleaming instruments. Back in the changing room, he dispensed with the protective clothing and headed for the waiting area, where Saunders’s widow Bettina was keening and being comforted by a female friend.
‘They won’t even give her his things,’ the friend complained to Fox.
‘They’ll be returned as soon as possible,’ Fox said, unsure whether this was true or not. The mortuary was an anonymous slab of a building on Cowgate, and Cowgate itself a narrow, claustrophobic canyon which only came alive at night, thanks to its bars and clubs. Fox hadn’t been inside the mortuary in several years, the remit of the Complaints falling short of unexplained deaths. As a young beat officer he had attended a couple of post- mortem examinations, but with his eyes averted and trying not to inhale the various aromas.
‘My name’s Fox, by the way,’ he told the friend.
