Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘Your sister’s another one who’s worried about you.’

‘Tell her not to bother.’

‘She says you’ve had a falling-out.’

‘I handed her fifty quid last week, went round a day later and she’d stocked up on booze and fags rather than food. Not a penny of it left.’

‘She needs looking after.’

‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’

‘Who else will do it if you don’t?’

‘You don’t think I’ve tried?’

‘Oh, you’re good at dishing out the money, but sometimes a little more is required.’

‘I come see you when I can. Though God knows why, since we always seem to end up like this.’

‘It would just give me a bit of solace if I knew the two of you were going to be all right.’

‘We’re getting by.’ Fox stretched out his arms and gave a shrug. ‘I wish I could say we’re both on course for our Nobel prizes, but there you are.’

Mitch Fox smiled sourly. ‘The pair of you were always this way. It drove your mother up the wall.’

‘I don’t remember that.’

‘No, butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. You’d carry the shopping, set the table. . But if you ever did something, you’d be quick to lay the blame on poor Jude, keeping your face straight as you lied through your teeth.’

‘Will this character assassination take long?’ Fox made show of checking his watch. ‘Only I’ve an appointment with a carry-out menu. .’

‘You really think you’ll cope when they drop you back into CID?’

‘I’m working a murder case right now — nobody’s scrawled any graffiti about me in the toilets.’

‘That’s something, I suppose.’ Mitch Fox’s eyelids were drooping again, his mouth hanging open half an inch.

‘I better be off, Dad,’ Fox said, returning to the bed and touching the back of his father’s hand. ‘Fancy an ice cream on the seafront this weekend?’

‘Will it be bracing?’

‘In Portobello? I think I can guarantee that.’

‘And is Jude invited?’

‘I’ll ask her,’ Fox said, giving the mottled hand a final squeeze, and feeling the pressure returned.

Day Ten 18

Mortonhall Crematorium had seldom been busier. Nobody lined the streets nearby, but journalists and camera crews had parked their cars and vans kerbside and were being corralled behind metal barriers on the other side of the road from the entrance to the crematorium grounds. The car park was full and mourners were awaiting the arrival of the hearse carrying Patrick McCuskey. Rebus doubted a tenth as many would turn out for Billy Saunders’s obsequies. They’d be lucky to fill the front two rows of the small chapel, whereas today, in warming sunshine, the large chapel had been reserved for family and close friends, with everyone else asked to pay their respects outside. A PA system had been erected so that the service could be relayed. Some of the mourners were asking each other if they qualified for a seat indoors. They broke off to watch as a fleet of official cars arrived, bearing senior politicians of all parties, plus police brass and the Lord Provost. A liveried chauffeur opened the back door of one Jaguar and Stefan Gilmour stepped out. He had travelled alone, and Rebus wondered if this was a message from the No campaign. Freshly interviewed as part of a murder inquiry, he might have become damaged goods. Most eyes were on the First Minister and his deputy, but Rebus watched Gilmour. Crisp dark blue suit, white shirt, black tie, sunglasses. Gilmour adjusted his cuffs and buttoned his jacket. Then he saw Rebus. As the politicians filed into the chapel, he headed in the opposite direction. Rebus was standing on the pavement next to a row of covered benches. He nodded a greeting at his old colleague.

‘What are you doing here?’ Gilmour asked in an undertone, removing the sunglasses and pocketing them.

‘Paying my respects.’

‘He was a good man, regardless of politics. Any closer to finding out who killed him?’

‘Not as far as I know. Bit of progress on Billy Saunders, though.’

‘Oh?’

Both men were pretending to be interested in the doors to the chapel and the people milling there.

‘The gun’s turned up.’

‘I heard.’

‘Might turn out to be the Browning that Porkbelly kept in his desk drawer.’

‘Won’t be easy to prove.’

‘Nevertheless, you might find yourself being interviewed again.’

‘Just what I need,’ Gilmour muttered.

‘Thing is, Stefan, it did disappear around the time you were getting your jotters.’

‘I resigned,’ Gilmour said by way of correction. ‘And lost out on a healthy chunk of pension as a result.’

‘If you hadn’t, the Complaints would have crawled all over us.’

‘And found plenty — don’t forget that, John.’

‘How can I?’

Gilmour turned his head to study Rebus. ‘Please tell me you don’t think one of us killed Saunders?’

‘Why not? Back then we were capable of just about anything — might still be true today.’ Rebus held Gilmour’s stare. ‘We were bad cops, Stefan. That’s the truth of it. And out of all of us, I’d say you’ve got most to lose.’

‘Maybe so, but I didn’t do it. What if I were to tell you Frazer Spence took that gun home?’

‘I’d think you were lying. The one Saint who’s not in the frame for this is Frazer.’

‘I doubt Dod Blantyre could have made it to the canal under his own steam.’

‘Which leaves me, you and Porkbelly — and I know it wasn’t me.’

‘What if it wasn’t any of us? Saunders had served time, knew more than a few nutcases. There could be any number of people out there with a grudge. You’re assuming it’s the same gun, but I’m not hearing any proof.’

‘The time you phoned him, did you try a bribe?’

‘Didn’t think it would work. I mean, he’d have taken the cash but then come back for more.’

‘In other words, you’d never have been free of him?’

‘Right.’

‘An admission that doesn’t really help your case.’ Rebus paused. ‘What is it he had, Stefan? What could he tell Macari and her team? I’ve been through the custody ledger and there’s half a page missing from the week before Saunders killed Merchant. It got me thinking — could there be something Saunders knew? He comes to you, tells you he’ll do a deal — forget all about it if you get him off next time he’s arrested. You couldn’t know he was going to bludgeon some poor sod to death, so you shook hands on it.’

‘The hearse is arriving,’ Gilmour said, nodding in the direction of the gates. A slow-moving procession of vehicles, the engines almost silent. Wreaths shrouding the coffin, allowing only glimpses of gleaming brass handles, varnished pale wood. In the car behind, the Justice Minister’s widow and son. The First Minister and his deputy had re-emerged from the chapel and were flanking the door, hands clasped as if in prayer, heads bowed.

‘Nothing to say, Stefan?’ Rebus whispered into his neighbour’s ear. Gilmour’s jaw was jutting as he watched the vehicles pull to a halt. The First Minister offered his condolences to the widow, along with a peck on the cheek.