Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘Maybe if you were to show me,’ he offered.

Bairstow dragged his fingers through his beard while he debated with himself. ‘All right then,’ he said, adjusting his baseball cap. ‘It’s over here.’

He led Rebus behind the shack towards where several cars were parked. One of these was an olive-green Land Rover, and Bairstow opened the back, reached in and held something out towards Rebus.

‘It’s a crowbar,’ Rebus said. He took it and weighed it in his hand.

‘Nearly new, too,’ Bairstow added. ‘Price sticker’s still on it.’

Rebus studied the sticker. ‘Bought from B and Q.’

‘It’s not exactly industrial quality.’

‘But you thought you’d have it all the same?’

Bairstow lowered his eyes.

‘And this is all you took?’

‘There wasn’t anything else.’

‘Nothing from the car’s actual cabin?’

‘I’ve told you.’

‘And when you brought the VW back here. . I’m guessing you stripped it down? Any surprises?’

The man shook his head.

‘Just this?’ Rebus said, lifting the crowbar.

‘Just that,’ Reece Bairstow agreed. ‘And if you’re asking me, I’d say it’s only been used once or twice.’

‘Once or twice on what, though?’ Rebus asked, receiving no answer.

Alice Bell pushed home the key and turned it, opening the door to the flat. She listened to the silence before entering. Closing the door after her, she tiptoed along the hall, holding her breath. She had tried to think of somewhere else she could go, but had come up with nothing. This was all she had.

‘Well, well,’ Forbes drawled as she entered the living room. ‘If it isn’t the Whore of Babylon. .’ He was seated on the sofa, stony-faced. Jessica was next to him, her damaged ankle resting on his lap, phone held in both hands, as if she’d just finished texting.

‘I’m sorry,’ Alice said, colour flooding her face.

‘For opening your legs to my old man? It’s my mother you should be apologising to.’

‘She decided she’d rather tear clumps out of me.’

‘Can you blame her? Jesus Christ, Alice. .’

‘You want me to go?’ Bell was staring not at Forbes but at Jessica. It was McCuskey, however, who answered, his voice rising.

‘Of course she wants you to go!’

‘I can speak for myself,’ Jessica Traynor said, wincing as she removed her leg from his lap and twisted round to face her flatmate.

‘Have you seen?’ she asked, angling the screen of the phone in Alice’s direction. Alice took a step forward. It was a Facebook page, filled with hate for her.

‘And Twitter’s not much better,’ Jessica added with quiet sympathy.

The tears came, Alice pressing her hands to her eyes as if to dam them. She stumbled backwards into the armchair and sat with head bowed, shoulders heaving.

‘I’m sorry, so sorry, so sorry. Oh God, oh God. .’

McCuskey had risen to his feet and started pacing the room, Jessica keeping her eyes on him lest he make a lunge at Alice.

‘She’s already a pariah,’ Jessica told him. ‘I doubt you can bully her half as well as the trolls on here.’ Waving her phone towards him.

‘It’s a mess,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Or should I say, one more mess.’

‘We seem to be becoming experts.’

‘Because of her.’ He jabbed a finger towards Alice, who was still intoning the same words of apology.

‘Sit down, then,’ Jessica said calmly, ‘and let’s think about what we need to do.’

He did eventually sit, and listened, and after a little while Alice started listening too.

That night, Rebus was in his armchair at home, dozing, when the bell rang. He got up, rubbing life back into his facial muscles, and lifted the stylus from Hard Nose the Highway before heading into the hall. He pressed the intercom and asked who it was.

‘Stefan,’ came the reply. ‘We need to talk.’

‘Better come up, then,’ Rebus said, pushing the button to unlock the main door. He left the door to his own flat ajar and went back into the living room, wondering what the millionaire would make of it.

Entering, Gilmour surveyed his surroundings. ‘Thought you might have got round to a fresh coat of paint,’ he commented.

‘I did that ten years back.’

‘Seemed a lot more homely when Rhona was in charge. How is she, by the way?’

‘Fine.’

‘One daughter, right?’

‘Right,’ Rebus said. ‘Do you want a drink?’

‘I’m okay, thanks.’

‘Take a seat, then.’ Rebus settled back into his chair. There was an unfinished cigarette in the ashtray, so he relit it, squinting into the smoke.

‘I’m not staying,’ Gilmour told him. ‘Had a couple of meetings and now I’m headed back west.’

‘I take it you’ve heard from Porkbelly and Dod?’

Gilmour nodded. His hands were in his coat pockets. He was dressed for business — suit and tie, gloss-black shoes not yet broken in. ‘Is it supposed to impress me, John, all this hounding of the Saints? You reckon you’re outside the tent now, pissing in?’

‘I’m nowhere, Stefan. DI Clarke is the one with the map.’

‘From what I hear, you used to own her — what happened?’

‘You’ve had your spies check up on me? Better tell them they’re misinformed.’

Gilmour was studying the room again. ‘I could find you something better than this, you know. A penthouse in the Grange, maybe. .’

‘If I play along, you mean? Lead Clarke and her team a merry dance?’

‘You’re living in the past, John — the fact you’re still in this flat tells me that. But Rhona’s not coming back, is she? Time you started considering your future — what there is of it.’

‘Constitution of an ox,’ Rebus said.

‘Even so, another ten or twenty years and you’ll be history. You need to think what you’ll be leaving behind for your daughter.’

‘If you’ve come here to bribe me, just mention a sum.’

Gilmour seemed to consider this, then he shook his head. ‘You can’t be bought, John. But turning me down would give you a rush, so I’m not going to give you the opportunity.’ He paused. ‘But I do have something.’

‘Oh aye?’

Gilmour shrugged. ‘It’s not much. You can take it or leave it.’

‘I’m all ears.’

Gilmour removed his hands from his pockets and folded them in front of him. ‘That old pistol — the one everybody’s so excited about. .’

‘Yes?’

‘Dod was the one who lifted it from Porkbelly’s desk.’ Gilmour paused. ‘Think about that, will you? Because the last time I saw that gun was thirty years ago, and it was tucked into Dod Blantyre’s waistband.’

‘You spinning me another line, Stefan?’

Gilmour shrugged again. ‘I wanted it for myself, and Dod knew that. My last day at Summerhall, I opened the drawer to take it, but Dod laughed and wagged a finger, then patted his jacket, letting me know he’d beaten me to it.’