‘Any further tests we could run. .?’
After listening, arms folded, for a few minutes, Clarke broke the meeting up, handing out fresh chores to those who needed them. Then she went in search of Fox, and found him in an adjoining room, going through boxes of folders.
‘What’s all this?’ she asked.
‘The Summerhall files,’ he explained. ‘They arrived this morning with the Solicitor General’s blessing.’
‘And?’
‘And this.’ He had found what he was looking for. He placed the relevant documents on the nearest desk. ‘It was when you mentioned the Falklands.’
Clarke peered at the report. It was dated October 1982 and concerned an army veteran who had been making too much noise late at night in his council flat. Neighbours had complained and — not for the first time — police officers had arrived to deal with the disturbance. The officers had found a small amount of cannabis and, lying on the coffee table in full view, a Browning pistol.
Clarke stopped and looked at Fox. Fox nodded and gestured for her to read on. The ex-soldier’s name was Laurie Martin. He was eventually charged with possession of drugs, but let off with a caution and the advice that he should enter a course of counselling.
‘Don’t suppose anyone had heard of post-traumatic stress back then,’ Fox commented.
‘Am I missing something?’ Clarke had turned the sheet over, but it was blank. ‘The gun didn’t make it on to the charge sheet.’
‘No,’ Fox said.
‘How come?’
He offered only a shrug. ‘Coincidence?’ he suggested.
‘You obviously don’t think so. A pistol — same make and probable vintage as the one used to kill Billy Saunders. .’ She was shaking her head slowly.
‘Should we bring Stefan Gilmour back in?’
‘What’s the point? I don’t see his name here.’ Clarke scanned the report again. ‘This is all there is? No record of the weapon going into an evidence locker? No mention of it in the courtroom?’
‘I could try doing a bit more digging — courts will have their own records. .’
‘Sounds like another haystack to me.’ She had taken out her phone and was finding a number on it.
‘Let me guess,’ Malcolm Fox said.
Rebus was seated in his car on Great King Street when he got the call.
‘Hiya, Siobhan,’ he said.
‘Where are you?’
‘The car park at Gayfield Square,’ he lied. ‘Trying to work up the energy for an hour or two of DCI Page’s company.’
‘Have you heard we found the weapon?’
‘The one used on Billy Saunders? Yes, congratulations and all that. .’
‘It’s a Browning pistol, probably brought home from the Falklands War. Ring any bells?’
‘Should it?’
‘Serial number has been removed at some point too, if that helps jog the memory.’
‘I’m not sure I. .’
‘Laurie Martin, John. Ex-army and failing to fit back into Civvy Street. He was brought to Summerhall by two patrol officers after a disturbance.’
‘Hang on, when was this?’
‘October ’82.’
‘I didn’t start at Summerhall until November.’
‘Laurie Martin’s name means nothing to you?’
‘No.’
‘He was being disruptive, so officers went to his door. He let them in and they found the pistol sitting in his living room.’
‘So?’
‘At some point in the story, the gun stops being a character. Doesn’t even look as though it was marked as evidence.’
‘Bit of a stretch to say the same gun was used on Saunders.’
‘And this is all coming as news to you?’
‘Scout’s honour.’
‘Is it worth me bringing it up with any of the others?’
‘The Saints, you mean?’
‘We had Gilmour in here earlier.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘He’s sticking to his version of events.’
‘That’s his privilege, I suppose.’
‘John. .’
‘I’m not the enemy here, Siobhan. Whatever happens, bear that in mind.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Fox is all over this, isn’t he? He’s been through every bit of paperwork from Summerhall and memorised the lot. Be careful he doesn’t lead you a dance. .’
Rebus ended the call and got a cigarette lit, flicking ash from the window. Then he called Eamonn Paterson.
‘It’s John,’ he said. ‘Can you talk?’
‘At a loose end, as per,’ Paterson replied. ‘What’s troubling you?’
‘They took Stefan in for questioning.’
‘About Billy Saunders? Stands to reason.’
‘Thing is, they’ve got the gun.’
‘Yes, I heard on the radio.’
‘What you didn’t hear is that they think it originally belonged to an old soldier called Laurie Martin.’ Rebus listened for a response, but there was silence on the line. ‘Now, Laurie Martin was before my time, but I
‘The man was a war hero, John. Yomped halfway across those bloody islands and got almost no thanks for it. He told us the stories that night — the custody sergeant came and fetched us so we could listen. Man needed psychiatric help more than anything, and he wasn’t going to get much of that in the clink.’
‘So you spirited away the gun? Shame you forgot to scratch it from the arrest report.’
‘What do you want me to say, John?’
‘I want you to tell me what happened to it.’
‘The gun? I haven’t the faintest notion. When we were leaving Summerhall, it just wasn’t in my drawer any more.’
‘Someone took it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Paterson paused. ‘There’s no way they can tie it to Saunders’s murder, is there?’
‘You tell me. Even if it’s circumstantial, it’s another piece of the jigsaw as far as Fox is concerned. And it’s a murder inquiry now, Eamonn — so don’t think it isn’t serious.’
‘I’m not stupid.’
‘Neither am I. You’d be wise to remember that. Okay, change of subject — fill me in on Slippery Phil Kennedy.’
‘Now there’s a name from the vaults. What’s Kennedy got to do with anything?’
‘You tell me.’
‘There’s nothing to tell — died in his house after a day’s boozing. Sleekit wee shite, too. We should have put him away, but we didn’t. “Not proven” was the verdict, that one time we got him to trial.’
Not proven: the ‘bastard verdict’ available to a Scottish jury when they thought the Crown had not done
