Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘You really think you can keep your nose out while we question your pals?’

‘I’m busy on the Jessica Traynor crash.’

‘Still?’

‘New name I need to look at — Rory Bell. Villain who might be a player in West Lothian.’

‘Same name as Jessica’s flatmate,’ Fox commented.

‘What?’

‘Isn’t the flatmate’s name Bell?’

‘It’s not that uncommon.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Fox said, walking over to the window and sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Ever since I started hanging out with you, I seem to be seeing conspiracies everywhere — conspiracies, connections and coincidences. Think we’re due a break in this bloody weather any time soon?’

But Rebus had stopped listening.

‘DI Clarke says hello,’ Rebus told Laura Smith.

‘She owes me a favour,’ Smith retorted.

‘She knows that, which is why these coffees are on her.’

They were in a spacious modern café near the foot of Holyrood Road, across the street from the offices of the Scotsman. Stripped wood, the day’s newspapers, and workers from the nearby BBC building. The café sold food, but all Smith had wanted was the biggest latte they would give her. Rebus had paid for a croissant to go with his cappuccino. He tore a piece off and dunked it before popping it into his mouth.

‘Very French,’ Laura Smith said.

‘I’ve never been.’

‘Never been to France?’ She sounded disbelieving.

‘Or anywhere else, for that matter.’ He chewed and swallowed. ‘Scotland’s always been more than enough to be getting on with.’

‘And we do live in interesting times.’

‘Reckon independence will do you out of a job?’

‘I doubt we’ll go crime-free overnight.’ She smiled, and stirred her drink.

‘Too much to hope for,’ Rebus agreed.

‘You said you wanted to pick my brains?’ she nudged eventually.

Rebus nodded. ‘I’m assuming Albert Stout was before your time?’

‘I wasn’t even born when he was in his heyday.’

‘Back then, crime reporters drank in the same lunchtime pubs as us. Bought us a dram or two and we’d tell them stories — not necessarily true stories, mind.’

‘Now it’s coffee and croissants.’ She looked at him. ‘I’m not sure you think that’s a change for the better. .’

Rebus managed a smile. ‘I’m interested in a guy called Rory Bell — do you know him?’

‘Heard of him,’ she admitted, eyes narrowing. ‘Is there something in this for me?’

‘Might be, in the long run. Depends on what you can tell me.’

‘He’s early thirties. Used to be muscle for one of the Glasgow gangs. Branched out, but was soon persuaded he’d live longer if he relocated. Lanarkshire wasn’t quite far enough. Last I heard, he’d set up shop in Livingston.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Security. If businesses turn him down, they might suffer the odd break-in or arson attack.’

‘Nice.’

‘He also has shares in a haulage company. One of their drivers was done last year for smuggling duty-free ciggies.’

‘Told the court he was doing it off his own bat?’

She nodded and took a sip of coffee, savouring it. ‘A few trailers have gone AWOL from yards, too — rumour that one of Bell’s rigs might have been the culprit. It all adds up.’

‘But no prosecutions as yet?’

She shook her head, studying him above the rim of her oversized cup. ‘I’m not doling all this out for the good of my health.’

‘Understood.’ Rebus paused. ‘Any run-ins between Bell and Darryl Christie?’

‘They seem to be doing a good job of tiptoeing round one another. Christie’s business is predominantly bars and clubs, and Bell hasn’t gone there yet. Though he did slip up when he tried selling security to one pub in Falkirk. . Turned out it belonged to Christie, something that only came to light after its windows had been put in.’

Which explained the grievance felt by Christie — and maybe why he wanted Rebus to have his competitor’s name.

‘Suddenly you’ve got a twinkle in your eye,’ Smith noted.

‘Might be the onset of cataracts,’ Rebus explained. Then: ‘Bell’s definitely from Glasgow?’

‘That’s when he first came on the radar.’

‘But he was born there? Grew up there?’

‘I’d need to check.’

‘Could you do that and get back to me?’ Rebus handed her his business card.

She held the card between the tips of two fingers. ‘I don’t like that this is one-way traffic.’

‘Think of it more as a contraflow — there’ll be a green light on your lane soon enough.’

The door burst open and a young woman a few years younger than Smith scoured the room before heading for their table, her eyes fixed on the journalist.

‘Your phone’s off,’ she said, catching her breath.

‘I’m in a meeting.’ Smith gestured across the table towards Rebus.

‘You’ll want to see this.’ She was holding an iPad, turning its screen towards Smith. ‘It’s from about an hour ago, but it’s already gone viral.’

‘Amusing cats? Infants taking a tumble. .?’

‘How about a furious widow?’ The young woman tapped the screen and a video began to play. Rebus had got up from the table and come around to see. The footage was shaky, presumably taken with a passer-by’s mobile phone. Looked to Rebus like the university buildings on Buccleuch Place, the uglier edifices of George Square in the background. The clip lasted only fifteen or twenty seconds, but the widow was recognisably Bethany McCuskey. With the sound turned up, her expletives came with a distinct American accent. She was lashing out at a young woman, whose bag of textbooks fell to the ground during the attack.

‘Filthy whore! Little goddamned slut!’

Followed by squeals from the victim as she attempted to defend herself from the blows. Then a glower from McCuskey in the direction of whoever was filming, before she turned and marched towards a small silver sports car.

The clip ended and Laura Smith looked at Rebus with widening eyes. ‘The Justice Minister’s widow,’ she stated.

Rebus could only nod.

‘But who was she attacking?’ the assistant asked.

‘No idea,’ Smith said.

Rebus cleared his throat. ‘Maybe that red light you were complaining of has just changed,’ he said. ‘She’s Jessica Traynor’s flatmate.’

‘Jessica Traynor? You mean Forbes McCuskey’s girlfriend?’ The crime reporter’s eyes widened further. ‘My God, do you think. .?’ She had turned towards the screen again. Without looking at Rebus, she asked him if he had a name.

‘No name,’ he lied. Rory Bell and Alice Bell within two minutes of each other — Laura Smith would have sniffed something, something Rebus still wasn’t sure was actually there.

‘If Pat McCuskey was sleeping with a friend of his son’s,’ the assistant was speculating, ‘could make the