‘Worked for the competition,’ his friend added.
‘You always use the same petrol station?’
‘Tend to,’ the first driver conceded.
‘Fill the tank, break the monotony?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did Saunders use this particular pit stop?’
The second driver shook his head. ‘Petrol station in Powderhall, far as I know.’
‘You never saw him here?’
Fox received a further shake of the head from both men. He thanked them and headed for the counter.
‘Nice thinking, though,’ Clarke told him in an undertone.
‘Saunders drove a minicab, liked the night shift — petrol stations were a second home to him.’ He took out his warrant card again and showed it to the assistant.
‘You’ve been questioned about William Saunders?’ he asked.
The youth behind the counter appeared no older than a school-leaver. His face was peppered with angry- looking acne and his thick black hair looked like it had been styled with a pair of secateurs and a pot of glue. He agreed that he had already spoken with the police.
‘And your colleagues too?’
The youth nodded.
‘All of them?’
‘All except Patrick, I suppose.’
‘Patrick?’
‘He’s on holiday in Ibiza.’
‘Nice for him. When did he leave?’
‘Six days back. Finished his shift at six and was in the air by eight.’
Fox looked at Clarke. Like him, she had done the arithmetic.
‘So he was working here the day William Saunders was killed?’ Fox checked.
‘Suppose,’ the youth agreed, eyes darting between the two detectives, Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘He’s not in any trouble, is he?’
‘The officers you spoke to — they knew this, right?’
‘I think I told them. Somebody would have.’
Fox nodded. But he was thinking: maybe, and maybe not. There was just a hint of dismay on Siobhan Clarke’s face — someone on her team might have screwed up.
‘We need to talk to Patrick,’ Fox was saying. ‘Do you have his number?’
The youth shook his head. The minicab drivers were waving goodbye to him through the window as they returned to their vehicles. ‘You’ll have to ask my boss,’ he told Fox, waving back.
‘We’ll do that, then. Did you ever see Mr Saunders yourself?’
The youth shook his head again.
‘You always work the same shift?’
‘No, but I’ve been on nights for a few weeks.’
‘He never came in during that time?’
‘Don’t remember him.’
Fox nodded slowly. The payphone was on the wall next to the toilet. The sign warning that it was out of order comprised a pink Post-it note — easy to miss until you got close.
‘Anything else?’ the youth asked Clarke.
‘Just this,’ she said, placing a Bounty on the counter.
‘And your boss’s phone number,’ Fox added, as the youth got busy with the scanner. ‘The one kept for emergencies — we need to contact him tonight. .’
Outside, as she unwrapped the chocolate bar, Clarke told Fox it could probably wait till morning. He nodded his agreement, and drove them back to Wester Hailes so she could pick up her own car. The car park was near empty. The team would have clocked off. Overtime was available, but Clarke was running out of things for them to do outwith normal office hours. She looked tired, while Fox felt energised.
‘See you in the morning,’ he said, as Clarke opened her door and undid her seat belt.
‘That was useful tonight, Malcolm. Thank you.’
‘No problem,’ he assured her with a smile.
He drove fully quarter of a mile in the direction of home before pulling over to the kerb again, taking out his phone and searching his pockets for the scrap of paper the youth at the petrol station had given him.
Forbes and Jessica had been out all day, Jessica managing with the aid of a walking stick. They’d taken taxis, and avoided stairs and steps wherever possible. She’d felt the need for fresh air, for reminders that a city existed beyond the confines of her flat. A café, a restaurant, a park bench and a bar — and now they were back in Great King Street, climbing slowly but purposefully towards the sound of scrubbing and sobs.
It was Alice, on her knees on the landing, a bucket of soapy water by her side. She was using a brush on the door, trying to get the red paint off. Tears had dried on her cheeks. There were splashes of paint on the wall, and it looked as though she had already sluiced the stone floor.
‘What the hell?’ Forbes said.
‘It was like this when I got here,’ Alice explained breathlessly. ‘Your mum and her friends. . all that online hate. .’
Jessica was gesturing for Forbes to help Alice get to her feet.
‘You think that’s who did this?’ she asked.
Alice stared at her flatmate. ‘Who else?’
‘We both know.’ Jessica paused. ‘We
‘I will?’
‘In a bit. First we need to get this straightened out.’
All three headed for the living room, Alice drying her hands on the front of her already ruined T-shirt.
‘You need to phone him,’ Jessica told her.
‘But then he’ll-’
‘Know it was you,’ Jessica interrupted, finishing the sentence with a slow nod. ‘But maybe he’ll back off — right now, it’s just me and Forbes, isn’t it? And you’re the one who can do something about that.’
‘So the paint wasn’t for me?’ Alice asked.
‘Go call him,’ Jessica said.
‘My phone’s in my bedroom. .’
Alice went to fetch it, but ended up seated on her bed instead, feeling the sweat cooling on her back. How could she talk to him? What would he do once he knew? What would he do to
‘Not answering,’ she said as she walked in. Then she saw that Jessica too was making a call. Forbes’s eyes were on Alice. He looked nervous.
‘Who. .?’ Alice began to ask, but she broke off. She knew the answer well enough. It was written on Forbes’s face. .
Day Thirteen
24
Next morning, Rebus drove out towards the airport. He had got the addresses of Rory Bell’s multi-storey car parks from Christine Esson. He followed the signs from the A8 Glasgow road and found himself just north of the village of Ratho. When he lowered his window, he caught a whiff of sewage and pig farm. An aircraft was rising
