‘Easy to use, though? Could someone who’d never fired a shot in their life find their way around one?’
Rebus nodded, then asked how the questioning of Stefan Gilmour had gone.
‘He brought along a shiny lawyer.’
‘Only to be expected.’
‘Doesn’t make him look any less guilty.’
‘I’m guessing that’s what the media pack are thinking now too.’
Clarke’s phone had sounded, letting her know she had a text. She looked at the screen.
‘Uncanny,’ she commented. ‘That’s one of them now. Laura Smith.’
‘The
Clarke nodded. ‘She thinks I owe her for the gen on Forbes McCuskey and his dealing.’
‘She’d be happy enough if you told her you’ve connected Summerhall to the murder weapon.’
‘I’m not at that stage just yet.’ She looked at him again. ‘What’s happening about McCuskey?’
‘Father or son?’
‘Both, I suppose.’
Rebus got up and headed over to the bay window, pulling it open and crouching down so he could light a cigarette and blow the smoke outside.
‘I appreciate the thought,’ Clarke said. ‘Now, about the McCuskeys. .’
‘You probably know as much as I do when it comes to the break-in.’
‘Managed to link it to the son yet?’
‘No. .’
‘That sounds like you’re getting closer, though.’
‘Just from the way I said “no”?’
She nodded. ‘So here’s where we find out if you think you can trust me.’
‘I trust you.’
‘Then share.’
Rebus held up a finger. ‘You have to go first — how is Fox working out?’
‘He’s okay. A sharp mind, even if his CID skills are a bit rusty.’
‘Do you trust
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Even though he could still be playing for Elinor Macari’s team?’
‘I trust him,’ Clarke stated. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
Rebus blew smoke through the gap in the window. ‘Forbes McCuskey isn’t a big player. My guess is he just buys enough to sell on to his immediate circle — probably reckons it makes him look big and important. He gets the stuff from a doorman at the Gimlet.’
‘Darryl Christie’s pub?’
‘The same. Not that Christie knows anything about it.’ Rebus paused. ‘So when you question the doorman — name’s Deano, by the way — keep it low-key. He might be useful to us some day, but not if Christie’s booted him off the park.’
‘And why would I be questioning this Deano character?’
‘Because he was the passenger in Billy Saunders’s minicab. Needed to go to Niddrie for a bit of shopping. Says Saunders didn’t seem particularly antsy. The car was supposed to wait, but it didn’t.’
‘Anything else?’
Rebus shook his head.
‘And you were going to bring this to me first thing in the morning?’
‘Of course.’ He gestured towards her mug. ‘How’s the tea?’
‘I think the milk’s past it.’
‘Past it sometimes still does the job.’ He paused. ‘If you want to leave your car here, I can run you home. Don’t want you nodding off at the wheel.’
She was stifling a yawn, but shaking her head at the same time. ‘You know that your pal Gilmour connects to Owen Traynor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Been keeping that to yourself too?’
‘Obviously not — who told you?’
‘Laura.’
‘Another favour owed.’
‘The shining knight of the Better Together campaign is beginning to look pretty tarnished.’
‘This is why I don’t vote. My ex campaigned for devolution back in ’79. Drove me demented.’
‘But we’ve got the chance for a fresh start,’ Clarke teased him.
‘Thing about fresh starts, though, Siobhan. .’
‘What?’
‘They usually turn out to be same old in disguise.’
As Malcolm Fox sat by his father’s bedside, he thought of Professor Norman Cuttle. It had been on the tip of his tongue to reveal to Rebus that his own father was in a home not unlike the one in Colinton. Mitch Fox was dozing. Malcolm looked around the room, seeing the few select pieces of furniture from the old house, the ones Mitch had decided to keep. Everything else had either been split between Malcolm and his sister, or else sold. A line of saliva had dried to a salty crust on Mitch’s unshaven chin. The skin looked red and sore. Malcolm would mention it to the staff. They would have an excuse ready — they always did — but he would ask anyway, just so they’d know he was paying attention.
Fox was tired, but he wanted to stay until his father roused himself. That way he could say a proper goodbye. They’d been discussing the latest travails of Hearts FC, along with small talk about the weather and the trams. With a single snore, Mitch Fox blinked back to wakefulness.
‘I nodded off there,’ he confessed.
‘Testament to my conversational skills.’
‘Pass me the glass, will you?’
It wasn’t actually glass, but a toughened translucent plastic which would bounce if dropped. There was an inch of tepid water left in it, and Mitch drained it, shaking his head when his son offered a refill. He lay back against his bunched pillows and studied Malcolm.
‘Is that you finished in the Complaints?’
‘More or less.’
‘And they’ll have you back in CID?’
‘You don’t think I’m up to it?’
‘It’ll be hard going.’
‘I’m armour-plated.’
‘That’s the problem, though — you’re anything but. It’s why Complaints suited you. Paper-pushing rather than blood and guts.’
‘Is it that time again?’
‘What time?’
‘Whenever I visit these days, you always feel the need to stick the knife in.’
‘Do I?’
‘You know you do.’ Fox had risen to his feet so he could pace what floor space there was. He’d had a letter a few weeks back informing him that money could be saved were his father to share with another of the home’s clients. He’d been tempted, not because he couldn’t afford the fees but just to see the look on Mitch’s face — a small, cruel victory of sorts.
‘What are you smiling at?’ his father asked now.
‘Nothing wrong with your eyesight.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
‘I was just wondering whether I’d stop off for a Chinese on the way home.’
‘You don’t feed yourself properly.’
‘Better than some. Speaking of which, have you seen Jude?’
