him up as a sacrifice.’
Paterson seemed to have no answer to this. He lifted his glass again, but put it down without drinking. ‘We’re old men, John. You think I’d do any of the stuff I did in Summerhall, knowing what I do now? Every night I lie in my bed and think back on the people we were. But you won’t find those versions of us any more.’
‘Except for whoever killed Billy Saunders. And it wasn’t Frazer Spence.’
‘Stefan isn’t going to own up to it.’
‘The meeting with Saunders had to be arranged — somewhere traces will exist. Maybe on CCTV, maybe on a phone. Siobhan Clarke won’t rest till she’s peered into every last corner.’
‘Good luck to her.’ Paterson was rising to his feet. ‘Next time I see you might be Dod’s funeral — you realise that?’ He took one last look at the contents of Rebus’s glass. ‘Soft drinks and playing things by the book. Who’d have thought it?’
Rebus watched as his one-time colleague left the pub. There was a slight limp — maybe his hip was playing up. And a stoop to the spine, too. But at one time Paterson had struck a fearsome figure — using his heft to intimidate suspects, hardening his face to suggest violence was not out of the question. Rebus could well visualise him tipping Phil Kennedy out of his chair. Maybe that was as far as it had gone. Then again, with Kennedy’s head resting against the cold concrete floor, the temptation would have been to haul it up by the hair and thump it down again. Rebus remembered Stefan Gilmour rubbing his hands together as if washing them clean. He had glimpses of entering the CID office and the conversation ending, or changing.
‘Not any more,’ Rebus said to himself, heading to the bar for a whisky.
23
‘Good of you to meet me,’ Rebus said, shaking John McGlynn’s hand. McGlynn was younger than he’d expected and wore a black V-neck T-shirt below the jacket of his tailored suit. They were in the foyer of the Balmoral Hotel on Princes Street.
‘I can only offer a few minutes,’ McGlynn apologised.
‘Probably all I’ll need.’
There were some chairs by the reception desk, so they sat down. McGlynn exuded restless energy, his eyes alive to possibilities. ‘Stefan said you’re interested in Rory Bell,’ he began.
‘I don’t know much about him.’
‘Am I allowed to ask why he’s on your radar?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
McGlynn digested this. ‘Well I can’t say it surprises me. A few businesses got on the wrong side of him when he tried selling them his services.’
‘I’ve heard the rumours. Is that what happened to you?’
McGlynn shook his head. ‘He came to me looking for a favour, actually. Couple of years back, this was. I own a few car parks in Glasgow, and Bell was interested. No way I wanted him as a partner, though — or anywhere near my firm. But I did seem to whet his appetite. Next thing, he’d got himself a couple of multi-storeys — one by Edinburgh Airport and the other in Livingston.’
‘The airport?’
McGlynn nodded. ‘Your ears seem to have pricked up.’
‘Might be something or nothing.’ Near the crash scene. . Bell’s niece’s pals going off the road. .
‘Would that be a genuine something or nothing or a policeman’s something or nothing?’ McGlynn was smiling.
‘Do I need to answer that?’
‘Not really.’
‘Anything else you can share regarding Rory Bell?’
‘He’s left me and mine well alone — I’d hate to think that might change because I’ve talked to you.’
‘It won’t.’
‘I’m only here because of Stefan.’
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘You’ve known Stefan a while?’
‘A few years.’
‘Get on well with him?’
‘I’ve no complaints.’ McGlynn checked the time.
‘He’s had a bit of bad publicity lately — you reckon he’s coping with it?’
‘He’s Stefan Gilmour — bullets bounce off him.’ McGlynn was rising to his feet, extending a hand for Rebus to shake. ‘Are you telling me his armour might be weakening?’
‘Would that cause something of a feeding frenzy?’
‘Business is business, Mr Rebus. Lot of hungry mouths out there. .’
With a farewell nod, McGlynn walked in the direction of the restaurant, a member of staff giving a little bow as they met. Rebus headed out front, where his car was parked. The tram works were just as bad this end of Princes Street. He listened to the gripes of the Balmoral’s liveried doorman as he smoked a cigarette.
‘Place deserves better than this,’ the doorman told him. ‘Capital city? Makes what we’re doing to it a capital crime.’
‘So tell me who to arrest,’ Rebus offered.
‘What would be the point? Damage is already done.’
‘True enough,’ Rebus said, unlocking the Saab and getting in.
He preferred Glasgow to Edinburgh, though he chose to live in neither. Partly it was the people — too many of them, mostly just passing through. Then there was the narrowness of the streets, which felt claustrophobic. The layout made no sense until you drove into the New Town, and even there the roadworks and diversions meant you could not rely on satnav. No matter how much time you’d given yourself, it almost always took longer to get anywhere.
He was in a white van today, nicely anonymous. A small van, empty apart from a set of overalls, some everyday tools and a litre-sized pot of paint. Reaching his destination, he found a parking space and got out, climbing into the blue workman’s overalls. He saw the name on the intercom, and pressed one of the other buttons. Someone was home, and they buzzed him in; didn’t even ask his business. That was Edinburgh for you: people kept to themselves, no interest in others. Up the stairs, pausing at the top and listening at the letter box. No hint of life within. It had taken a while to track the place down. The Golf had been registered to an address in London, surname Traynor. But then at the funeral the McCuskey son had been pictured with his girlfriend, named in the media as Jessica Traynor. Simple enough after that, and here he was. He looked around. The skylight above him was covered in protective mesh and bird crap. The interior walls were cream-coloured and graffiti-free. And the door was pale green. Pale green was fine. Crouching, he prised the lid from the paint with a screwdriver. The paint was a lighter shade of red than he would have liked — not quite the colour of blood. Taking a step back so as to avoid the splash, he made ready to deliver his message.
The same mortuary attendant told Rebus that once again his timing was off.
‘They were due to start at quarter to five,’ Rebus complained, receiving a shrug in response.
Rather than interrupt proceedings, Rebus took a seat in the viewing area. Glass panels separated him from the action, and there were rows of uncomfortable benches to sit on. He had always meant to ask someone about the benches — it seemed to him that a couple of dozen onlookers could be accommodated, but he’d never seen more than a handful at a time make use of them.
Noticing him, Deborah Quant gave a little wave with one of her instruments. She was dressed in scrubs and a face mask, as was her companion. Rebus guessed the man must be the forensics bod Quant had mentioned. An assistant worked in the background, bagging and labelling. The whole procedure looked painstaking, and was being recorded by a microphone which also transmitted to a speaker in the ceiling above Rebus.
‘We had to start a bit early,’ Quant said for his benefit. ‘Professor Thomas here is a forensic anthropologist.
