the shit out of you even as I stand here. Oh, and by the way, Alice? Nice touch, putting me on the trail of Forbes’s dealer. I’m guessing that was to stop me focusing on the crash, and for a while it actually worked.’
Forbes turned away from Rebus towards Bell. ‘You
‘I had to!’
Rebus heard the main door downstairs open and close — a neighbour, returning home, their feet sounding like sandpaper against the stone steps.
‘You need me,’ he persisted. The young man’s resolve was crumbling, his whole world in imminent danger of collapse. ‘You need to tell me what happened.’
‘Just go,’ McCuskey said, with something like resignation.
‘Who else is going to be there for you, Forbes?’ Rebus stretched out his arms to reinforce the point.
‘Well there’s always me.’
This time the voice came from behind Rebus. He turned just as Owen Traynor reached the landing. Jessica emerged limping from the flat, brushing Rebus aside and throwing herself into her father’s embrace. He ran his hand down her hair, eyes on Rebus.
‘You can bugger off now,’ he said. ‘I need a quiet word with my daughter and her friends.’
‘You can’t get involved in this,’ Rebus warned him.
‘Involved in what?’ Traynor made show of widening his eyes.
‘This isn’t your fight.’
Traynor, draping an arm around Jessica’s shoulders, began to steer her past Rebus into the flat.
‘We’ll be fine now, thank you, Officer,’ Traynor said. ‘Shut the door, Forbes, there’s a good lad.’
McCuskey had the good grace to look apologetic as he obeyed the Englishman’s command. Rebus shook his head slowly, steadily, until Forbes McCuskey disappeared from view. The click of the Yale lock echoed around the stairwell. He cursed under his breath, then took out a handkerchief and began rubbing the paint from his hand.
Christine Esson was busy at her desk when Rebus reached Gayfield Square.
‘MisPers,’ she informed him when he took a look over her shoulder at her computer screen. ‘Lots and lots of them — so thanks for that.’
‘Don’t blame me if you’re the IT wizard around here.’
‘Judging by the autopsy photos, it’s an archaeologist we need.’
‘Maybe put out a call for tombs that have been raided lately.’ Rebus patted her shoulder before settling himself at his own desk. He had checked the damage to his stomach, studying it with the help of the mirror in the toilets. The bruise was already forming, but he doubted any real harm had been done, other than to his pride. From what he’d seen of the cars in the multi-storey, none had been attacked by a crowbar. Just the one then — the one since removed from the scene. Drugs, he was thinking. They were the obvious answer. Could Forbes McCuskey have lifted them? Spotted on CCTV, the guard waking up and bellowing a warning over one of the loudspeakers. McCuskey and Jessica Traynor getting the hell out of there. But the barrier would have stopped them. And the machine only accepted credit cards. Meaning Rory Bell would have their faces and the licence plate from the CCTV, plus the card details. Easy enough to trace them. Especially if Forbes McCuskey’s card was registered to his parents’ home address. .
But now Owen Traynor had entered the picture, and that was a complication. If he did a deal with Bell, the case would cease to exist — along with the evidence. Rebus had to do something. He looked towards Page’s office, but the man was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where’s Mr Happy?’ he asked.
‘Persuading the upper echelons to give him a press conference. He wants the world to get a good look at Tutankhamun.’
‘Any idea how long he’ll be?’
‘I think he went home for a change of shirt — always likes to look his best for the brass.’
Rebus pondered his options. He could take what he had to DCI Ralph at Torphichen. The Pat McCuskey inquiry had drawn nothing but blanks — there was always the chance they’d welcome Rebus with open arms.
On the other hand, what did he have in the way of hard facts? Probably not enough for a search warrant for the car park. Nick Ralph’s first step would be to interview the three students again, and they would almost certainly stick to their original stories. The paint on the door could be explained as a prank. They had placed their trust in Jessica’s father rather than CID.
Rebus couldn’t really blame them.
He needed more before he could go to Torphichen, so he sifted through the paperwork he had on Rory Bell, put it back in order, then fired up his computer and got ready to start a Google search of his own.
It took him an hour to spot what Esson had missed. Missed, or had failed to see as being of importance. Alice Bell’s father had died two years back when his car was hit by a van. The van driver’s name was Jack Redpath. He had been charged with dangerous driving. . but the case had never reached court. Or rather it had, but he hadn’t. He’d done a runner.
Such was the assumption of the local paper that had covered the case. Just the one mention. Rebus picked up the phone and managed to get through to someone in Central Region, who eventually connected him to an officer who remembered the incident.
‘Guy was divorced, living in a hovel and about to lose his job — maybe even do some time inside. He stuffed what few possessions his wife hadn’t taken into his car and offskied.’
‘You tried tracking him down?’
‘We did what we could.’
‘But he never turned up?’ Rebus scratched the underside of his jaw. ‘Have you got a record of the car he drove? Make and registration?’
‘Bloody hell.’ The officer gave a snort. ‘It’s Indiana Jones you need.’
‘Maybe so, but
‘Just hot water, right?’ he asked. ‘No tea bag or coffee granules?’
‘Right,’ she agreed.
‘Having much luck?’
‘A lot of people seem to go walkabout.’
‘Any short cuts?’
‘There are organisations — they have websites, Facebook and Twitter accounts. .’ She turned to look at him. ‘You’ve got something?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Keeping it to yourself?’
‘For a little while longer.’
He poured her drink and handed the mug to her, before making tea for himself. But instead of drinking it, he went back to the toilets and stared at himself in the mirror. It made sense, didn’t it? Something kept hidden in a long-stay car park, where no one would ever come looking. A word or clue dropped to Alice Bell, who couldn’t resist telling her friends. They prise open the boot — are spotted — flee the scene. The car has to be moved, maybe got rid of.
Not along with its contents, but separate from them.
Two years since Jack Redpath ran.
Or didn’t run.
Was taken.
His room emptied to make it look like he had scarpered.
Calluses on the hands, the result of manual labour. Redpath, a plasterer by trade.
Rebus splashed water on his face, rubbing it dry with a clump of paper towels.
The forensic anthropologist would know — two years in the boot of a car, what a body would look like after. One thing Rebus was sure of: to get a corpse in a car boot, it needed to be placed almost in a foetal position.
Easily misinterpreted as having been seated. .
