Saints of the Shadow Bible

table of theatregoers began singing a chorus from Oliver! He saw that Clarke was worried, unable to relax. ‘It’s a big case, Siobhan, but you couldn’t be handling it any better.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’m not just buttering you up.’

‘I’m sure you’re not.’

One of the women from the very vocal table squeezed by them on her way to the toilets.

‘Love’s young dream,’ she clucked.

‘If only she knew,’ Malcolm Fox commented.

‘John,’ Maggie Blantyre said, eyes widening as she recognised him. He was standing on the doorstep of the bungalow, collar up against a sudden flurry of sleet.

‘Mind if I come in?’ he asked.

It took her a moment to decide. ‘I was just tidying away the dinner things. .’ She stood back and opened the door a little more. Rebus stepped into the hallway.

‘Do you get any help?’ he asked.

‘Help?’

‘With Dod.’

‘Someone comes in at bedtime, and again first thing in the morning.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘It’s as much as he’ll allow. Here, let me take your coat. Is anything wrong?’

‘Just thought I’d drop by.’

‘If I’d known you were coming.’ She dabbed her fingers to her face.

‘You look fine,’ he assured her, while she draped his coat over the banister. ‘Dod’s not in bed, is he?’

‘In his chair.’ She motioned towards the sitting room door. ‘Watching TV while I wash up. Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Tea would be great. I’ll just go say hello.’

She nodded and began backing towards the kitchen as Rebus headed for the sitting room. Dod Blantyre was in his usual chair, and seemed to be wearing the same clothes as on Rebus’s previous visit, but with a stained tea towel draped around his neck.

‘Thought I recognised the voice,’ he said.

‘Evening, Dod.’

‘Get this thing off me, will you?’ Blantyre gestured with a trembling hand towards the tea towel. The room smelled of stewed beef. Rebus undid the towel and draped it over the arm of Blantyre’s chair. There was a trolley nearby with a beaker of liquid on it.

‘Want a drink?’ Rebus asked.

‘Double whisky, if you’re buying.’ Blantyre tried twisting his mouth into a smile.

‘Thought it was your round,’ Rebus replied, smiling back.

‘What brings you here, John?’

‘Just wondered how you were doing.’

‘I’m doing my best not to die — not just yet. I see Stefan’s been getting a kicking from your lot.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Silly of him to phone Saunders in the first place.’

‘Not a crime, though.’

‘Maybe not.’

‘They’ve not talked to me yet, but I know they want to.’

Rebus nodded.

‘And you too?’

‘And Porkbelly.’

‘Are you here to make sure we get our stories straight?’

‘I’m here because. .’

Rebus broke off as Maggie nudged open the door, carrying a tray. She’d made a whole pot of tea, and added a plate of chocolate digestives.

‘Milk?’ she enquired.

‘And no sugar.’ Rebus took the mug from her. It bore the Airfix logo and a painting of a Spitfire. ‘You used to make models,’ he said to Blantyre, suddenly remembering.

‘That’s right.’

‘There were a couple of them on your desk at Summerhall.’

‘He’d spend hours on them,’ Maggie Blantyre added. ‘Tiny pots of paint lying everywhere. Each detail had to be perfect.’

‘Just like police work, eh, John?’ Blantyre said.

‘Just like,’ Rebus echoed.

‘John and me need a minute to ourselves,’ Blantyre informed his wife.

‘To do with that man Saunders?’

‘Less you know, the better.’

She hesitated. Then she spotted the tea towel and picked it up. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen,’ she snapped, striding from the room. Rebus sipped from his mug and sat on the corner of the sofa nearest to Blantyre’s chair.

‘How much does she know?’ he asked.

Blantyre managed to shake his head. ‘How much do you know?’ he said.

‘Tell me about Philip Kennedy.’

‘Care to give me a clue?’

‘Slippery Phil. We got him as far as court but the verdict was not proven. Next thing, he’s found dead at home with a broken neck.’

‘Yes?’

‘You attended the post-mortem examination.’

‘Did I?’

‘According to Professor Norman Cuttle.’

‘Bloody hell — is he still alive?’

‘Good memory on him, too. Remembers you and Stefan being present. Then the senior pathologist — Professor Donner — invents an excuse to get him out of the room. When he returns, Kennedy’s stomach has been opened and Stefan has emptied a hip flask of whisky into it. Why would he do that, Dod? You were there, so I’m assuming you know the answer.’

‘What does Stefan say?’

‘Stefan thinks I should mind my own business — but this is my business.’

‘Kennedy was a scumbag of the first order, John.’

‘I’m not going to argue about that. But Stefan killed him and made it look like an accident. I mean, maybe it was an accident. I’m not saying he meant to push him down those stairs. But it happened, and he was quick to arrange a cover-up. Probably left one or two empty bottles lying around the place, but then realised that the autopsy would show Kennedy hadn’t been drinking. Donner was a mate and open to a bit of bribery. Cuttle wasn’t, and had to be out of the room for it to work.’ Rebus paused, and leaned forward. ‘But you were there, Dod. So you know how it went down.’

‘You’re jumping to conclusions, John.’

‘I hadn’t been a Saint long enough to be let in on it. But somehow Billy Saunders found out, and that meant he could kill Douglas Merchant knowing Stefan and you owed him one huge favour. Thirty years later, he might be on his way to jail again and he doesn’t want that. He’d be happy to trade what he knows. Stefan couldn’t let that happen. .’

Blantyre was trying to shake his head, his shoulders jerking.

‘Remember the gun, Dod?’ Rebus asked. ‘The one taken from Laurie Martin? The Saunders inquiry knows all about it. They think it’s the same one they pulled from the canal, the one used to shoot Billy Saunders. Now isn’t that neat? It disappears from Porkbelly’s drawer and thirty years later turns up again. .’

Blantyre fixed Rebus with a heavy-lidded stare. The silence stretched until he broke it.

‘Remember your promise, John? That night in the pub? The oath you swore?’