Saints of the Shadow Bible

He turned to face Rebus, then nodded slowly before re-entering his daughter’s room. They watched him take his seat again.

‘You don’t think she was alone out there,’ Clarke suggested.

‘I don’t even think she was driving,’ Rebus replied.

2

In his cramped office — previously a storeroom off the main CID suite — Detective Chief Inspector James Page listened to their report. Gayfield Square police station was part of the city’s B Division, but that designation would soon vanish, and Page feared that the station itself would be closed, knocked down and redeveloped. The ‘Square’ outside was an area of grass which didn’t get mowed enough. Traffic rumbled up and down Leith Walk, sometimes causing the windows at the front of the building to vibrate. Not that this affected Page, his office having no windows.

‘So the boot ended up there how?’ he asked. Rebus and Clarke were both standing, since there was no space for any chair other than the one their boss sat on.

‘Whoever was driving fled the scene,’ Rebus explained. ‘That leaves two possibilities. One, she regained consciousness for a bit, realised she was alone, and dragged herself across to the driver’s seat.’

‘Why?’

‘To protect the other person. We would assume she’d been behind the wheel.’

Page considered this. ‘And the second option?’ he asked.

‘Is that the driver either didn’t black out or else came to before her. He or she panicked — for whatever reason — and hoofed it. But not before undoing her seat belt and hauling her across to the driver’s side.’

‘Not bothering to do up her seat belt after,’ Clarke added.

‘And you get all of this from the fact that a brown suede boot was in the wrong footwell?’ Page looked from Clarke to Rebus and back again.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘Well, say you’re right — what exactly does it change?’

‘Driver could have been drunk or stoned,’ Rebus offered.

‘Or taking part in an illegal race,’ Clarke said. ‘Or being chased — we really won’t know unless we keep looking. Jessica has a flat in Great King Street, shares with someone called Alice or Alison. There was also mention of a boyfriend.’

Page scratched at his nose while he thought.

‘Don’t want anyone thinking we were sloppy,’ Rebus prompted. ‘One quick visit to the flat should do it.’

‘We’d go this evening,’ Clarke confirmed. ‘This Alice or Alison is a student — might have classes during the day.’

‘All right then.’ Page had made up his mind. ‘But answer me this: why is it that nothing with you two is ever straightforward?’

‘Blame her,’ Rebus said, pointing a finger.

‘Blame him,’ Clarke said, at almost exactly the same time.

Out in the CID suite, they both took a series of deep breaths. It was always so airless in Page’s little cupboard, yet somehow he thrived there, as if discomfort were as vital to his well-being as oxygen. Two detective constables, Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie, were busy with paperwork. Clarke checked her phone for messages while Rebus made himself a coffee.

‘Out of milk,’ Esson warned him.

‘The amount we get through, we should chip in and buy a cow,’ Ogilvie added.

‘It would keep the grass down,’ Rebus agreed, staring down on to Gayfield Square, the windowpane thrumming as a lorry rattled past the end of the road. He offered to boil the kettle for Clarke but she shook her head.

‘Not if we’ve got no milk.’

‘I might have a sachet of powdered stuff in a drawer somewhere,’ Esson offered.

‘Powdered?’ Rebus said. ‘What is this, World War Two? I thought we were at the dawn of a shiny new country?’

‘Only if you can be bothered to vote for it,’ Clarke chided him.

‘I’ll tell you the box I’m ready to mark my cross in — a couple of drinks after Great King Street.’

But Clarke was shaking her head. ‘Dinner plans,’ she explained.

‘I thought it was all over with. .’ Rebus gestured towards Page’s office.

‘It is.’

Christine Esson decided that Rebus needed enlightening. ‘A single girl doesn’t go hungry for long in this town.’

‘Is that you speaking from experience?’ Ogilvie chipped in.

‘Who is it then?’ Rebus was asking Clarke from above the rim of his mug.

‘Am I not allowed a private life?’

‘Absolutely — just as soon as you convince me his intentions are honourable.’

Clarke rolled her eyes and decided to busy herself making a coffee after all. Rebus stood his ground, mouth puckered, deep in thought. Then he ambled forward and leaned in towards her ear.

‘A lawyer,’ he whispered.

She froze for a second before spooning granules into a clean mug.

‘My, my,’ Rebus said. Her eyes were on him now, seeking an explanation. ‘It was when Macari and her team walked into the canteen,’ he obliged. ‘You straightened your back a little and checked your fringe. I thought maybe it was for her benefit. I don’t remember any of the men looking particularly bright or beautiful.’

‘Then you’re not much of a detective.’

‘It has been said. So is he taking you somewhere nice?’

‘Why do you need to know?’

‘Takes a bit of time to get gussied up — I was just thinking I could do Great King Street on my own. .’

But Clarke was shaking her head. ‘You’re still on “probation”, remember? One screw-up and you’re back where you started.’

‘Yes, boss.’ He paused. ‘So he’s not taking you anywhere posh? Means he’s not very senior — don’t tell me you’ve got yourself a toy boy?’

Clarke jabbed a finger into his chest. ‘Everybody has a breaking point, John.’ But she was smiling, and Rebus was smiling too. He turned towards Esson and Ogilvie.

‘Either of you two up for a bit of surveillance tonight?’

‘I’m warning you,’ Clarke said, jabbing him harder this time.

Great King Street was a wide thoroughfare in the New Town, stretching from Howe Street to Drummond Place. Three and four storeys high, the terrace had probably all been houses when built in the early nineteenth century, but now many of these had been subdivided into flats. Rebus had never been a huge fan of the New Town. For one thing, you had to climb a steep incline to get back to the city centre. There were also no front gardens, and parking was difficult. The door they were looking for had four buzzers beside it, with TRAYNOR/BELL at the top.

‘Presumably meaning top floor,’ Rebus muttered.

‘Maybe no one’s home,’ Clarke offered by way of consolation. But when she pressed the button, a voice crackled through the intercom.

‘Miss Bell?’ Clarke guessed.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s the police. We need to talk to you about Jessica.’

‘I knew it! Door’s unlocked — we’re on the top floor.’

‘I knew it,’ Rebus echoed, turning the handle.