Saints of the Shadow Bible

phone provider — but worth taking another look.’

Clarke nodded her agreement. ‘Inspector Fox here,’ she explained to the room, ‘has been helping the Solicitor General’s office form a case against William Saunders. Thirty years ago, Mr Saunders was charged with the murder of a man called Douglas Merchant. The case fell apart due to police incompetence. .’

‘Incompetence or collusion,’ Fox corrected her.

‘Anyway,’ Clarke went on, ‘those files will be coming here as soon as I’ve cleared it with Elinor Macari. And as Inspector Fox is the expert, he’ll be the one to answer any questions you might have.’

‘A good starting point,’ Fox added, ‘might be the detectives who were responsible for the collapse of the case against Saunders. One of them, Stefan Gilmour, contacted Saunders by phone. We’ve questioned him once, but now that a murder has been committed. .’

Clarke had been nodding throughout. ‘We’ll bring him in,’ she stated.

‘The Stefan Gilmour?’ someone asked.

‘The only one I know of,’ Clarke confirmed.

Fox was impressed.

Clarke had stamped her authority on the group, giving an immediate sense of order and purpose to the inquiry. There had been room for some levity — just enough so that everyone could relax into their given tasks. Afterwards, she squeezed through the throng towards the desk he was sharing.

‘You’ll get me those files from the Solicitor General?’ she prompted.

‘I’ve put in a call. Waiting for her to respond.’

‘Or we could just go and fetch them. .’

‘Best not to get on the wrong side of her — not this early in the game.’

Clarke seemed to sense the truth of this.

‘I’ll track her down,’ Fox said. ‘You think it ties in, don’t you?’

‘Rule nothing in and nothing out.’

‘I didn’t really glean anything from the widow.’

‘I hope you don’t think I was going easy on you?’

‘I think we both know you really were.’

‘You’d met her before, making you the obvious candidate.’

Fox nodded and decided to drop the subject. ‘It’s good the bullet was found,’ he said.

‘And the casing,’ Olivia Webster interrupted, coming towards them and waving her phone. ‘It was in the water.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Not so far.’

‘Evidence suggests he was sleeping rough,’ Fox said. ‘Maybe not too far from where he ended up.’

‘The industrial estate?’ Clarke suggested. ‘Maybe we should go take a look — as soon as you’ve tried the Solicitor General’s office again.’

For want of anything better to do, Rebus returned to Gayfield Square, where DCI James Page had been left with only a skeleton crew. He was seething, prowling a line from his cupboard-sized office across the floor of the CID room and back again.

‘It’s not that I don’t think Siobhan’s perfectly capable,’ he commented.

‘Agreed,’ Rebus said. ‘Always annoying, though, when the action’s elsewhere.’

Page glowered at him, trying to work out whether sympathy or mockery was being offered. Rebus’s face gave nothing away.

‘I suppose your own little adventure with Malcolm Fox is coming to an abrupt halt?’ Page eventually countered.

‘A few ends to trim off first,’ Rebus lied, checking his watch. ‘In fact, I should get over there and give him a hand. .’

‘So we can expect you back at your desk here bright and early tomorrow?’

‘Of course.’ Rebus gave a little salute before turning to leave.

Outside, he stood in the car park, smoking a cigarette. There were no messages on his phone, and no point in heading to the office at the Sheriff Court — Fox had locked up on their departure, and Rebus hadn’t bothered asking for the key. Instead, he tapped in Stefan Gilmour’s number. It went to an answering machine, so Rebus hung up. But a moment later a text popped up on his screen. It was from Gilmour — In a meeting. I’ve heard about S. Don’t worry.

S for Saunders. What was it Rebus wasn’t supposed to worry about? The threat to all the Saints, or just to Gilmour? Was he saying that he didn’t blame Rebus for the increased attention?

‘Bloody hell, John,’ Rebus muttered to himself as he crushed the remains of the cigarette underfoot.

He got into his Saab and drove to Torphichen Place. The media presence had lessened — maybe they’d heard the results of the autopsy. Inside, DCI Ralph nodded a greeting. He seemed flustered, which probably explained why he didn’t question a stranger’s arrival in his midst. There was a heavy, almost drowsy atmosphere in the office. Rebus recognised it from dozens of previous investigations. Adrenalin and process carried you through the initial stages of an inquiry, but if progress stalled, there came a creeping inertia. All the phone calls had been made, all the interviews conducted. You were going over old ground constantly, for want of anything else to do. Or you headed down unpromising paths which led to dead end after dead end. All of it sapping the strength and the spirit. Especially galling when the team had become fragmented — Rebus sensed that the loss of Clarke and the few others she’d taken with her weighed heavily. Many hours of effort had been expended, and by now, answers were expected. Without them, self-worth would deflate, team morale flag.

One short tour of the main room told Rebus all of this. He headed into a smaller office where a solitary detective constable, jacket over the back of his chair and sleeves rolled up, was working away at a computer. There was a kettle, and Rebus asked if it was all right to make himself a brew.

‘Long as you’ve got a pound for the kitty,’ the young man said.

Rebus nodded, noticing the tin tea caddy with the slot in its top and the word MONEY taped on one side. He switched the kettle on and asked the officer if he wanted anything.

‘My shout.’

‘Coffee, thanks. One sugar, no milk.’

Rebus nodded again and got to work. He sifted through some change from his jacket, then, with back turned, lifted the caddy and gave it a shake, so that its contents rattled, before returning the coins to his pocket.

‘No milk, one sugar,’ he said, placing the mug on the corner of the desk. Then he asked the young man’s name.

‘Alan Drake.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Rebus stuck out his hand. ‘I’m John Rebus.’

‘I know.’

‘Probably been warned off talking to me, eh? Big bad wolf and all that.’

‘No, it’s just. . well, everybody knows you.’

‘You can ignore most of what you’ve heard.’ Rebus picked up his mug and scooped the tea bag into a bin.

‘You mentored DI Clarke,’ the young man stated.

‘No one “mentors” Siobhan — all she ever learned from me was what not to do.’ Rebus had come around to the side of the desk, so he could see what Drake was working on.

‘Deceased’s diary,’ the young officer obliged. ‘His office has been helpful. .’

‘The Justice Minister was a busy man,’ Rebus commented. ‘What about the night prior to his death? Have we anything on that?’

‘A rare evening off,’ Drake conceded. ‘Watched a couple of episodes of a TV show called Spiral. Supper from the freezer and some preparatory work for the next day. Replied to a dozen e-mails — personal as well as business — and made a few calls.’

‘I see you’ve got the records.’ Rebus gestured towards the printouts.

Drake nodded. ‘Landline and mobile. I’ve got names for everyone he spoke to or texted.’

‘And they’ve been interviewed?’