‘What the hell have you done, John?’ he muttered to himself. He stared at James Page’s door, willing himself to go knock on it and ask forgiveness and one more chance.
Just one more.
‘No chance. .’
Forbes McCuskey ended the call.
‘That was the police,’ he said.
He was seated in Jessica’s flat. Alice Bell sat at her desk. Her laptop’s screen saver had been activated. She was halfway through an essay she hadn’t touched in days and had no enthusiasm to finish. Jessica was on the sofa, playing with the last bottle of her prescription pills. Owen Traynor was in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, hands in trouser pockets.
‘Which police?’ he asked.
‘DCI Ralph — he’s in charge of my father’s case.’
‘What does he want?’
‘He says he needs to see us — me, Jess and Alice.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘No.’
‘We’re finished,’ Jessica said, voice trembling.
‘You don’t need to be afraid of the police,’ her father reassured her. ‘They’ve got nothing on you, because you
‘First thing in the morning at Torphichen police station.’
‘No problem, then. Everything will be sorted long before that.’
Alice Bell realised that he was standing directly in front of her. She looked up towards his face. He was holding out his mobile phone.
‘Punch in Uncle Rory’s number again, will you, sweetheart?’
She did so, and he plucked the phone from her hand, pressing it to his ear, listening first of all to the ringtone, and then to Rory Bell’s questioning voice.
‘It’s me,’ Owen Traynor said. ‘So do yourself a favour this time and listen. .’
25
‘This was the second place Siobhan said to try.’
Rebus looked up from his table. He was seated in the corner by the window in the back room of the Oxford Bar. There were a couple of smokers outside, visible through the glass, and he’d been readying to join them. But now Malcolm Fox was standing in front of him, hands in pockets, a thin smile on his face.
‘The first being. .?’
‘Arden Street.’
‘So you went there?’
Fox shook his head. ‘I disagreed with her analysis.’
‘Am I due a bollocking?’ Rebus asked. ‘Because — trust me — I’m really not in the mood.’
‘How about a drink instead?’ Fox nodded towards Rebus’s near-empty pint. Rebus studied the man, wondering what his angle was. Then he nodded.
‘IPA,’ he said.
Fox retreated to the bar and Rebus stuffed his cigarettes and matches back into his coat. The bar was quiet — midweek, mid evening. There was a folk night planned for later, but Rebus would be making himself scarce before then. His car was outside and he knew a breathalyser would do for him. He rubbed a hand through his hair and exhaled noisily, hunching over the table.
‘Here you go,’ Fox said, placing the fresh drink in front of him. He’d fetched a can of Coke for himself, plus a glass filled with ice. ‘Cheers.’
Rebus watched him fill the tumbler, the ice cubes crackling.
‘Do you go to AA?’ he asked.
‘Not any more.’
‘And you can come into a pub and not feel tempted?’
‘Of course I’m tempted.’ Fox settled himself on a chair. ‘I’m only human — despite what you might think.’ He lifted his drink. ‘You look like you’ve had a day of it.’
‘Did Siobhan send you to play Good Samaritan?’
‘Is one needed?’
‘You’ve really not heard? Page has had enough of me. I took something to the McCuskey inquiry that was rightfully his.’
‘Oh.’
Rebus stared at him. ‘I’d’ve thought Page would have been straight on the blower.’
Fox shook his head again. ‘I don’t think Siobhan knows.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘The Saunders case.’
‘Hauling me in for further questioning?’ Rebus took a mouthful of beer, hanging on to the glass while he stared Fox out.
Fox rested his arms against the edge of the table, leaning in towards Rebus. ‘Saunders set up a meeting with his killer. He wanted to use the phone at a petrol station, but it was out of order. There was a kid behind the till — he’d got to know Saunders’s face from the few times he’d been in buying food. So when Saunders offered him a tenner for the loan of his mobile, the kid agreed. Saunders promised it was a local call and took the phone outside. The call lasted six and a half minutes.’
‘That precise?’
‘I was able to get the records. Took me most of today. Pinpointed the exact time the call was made. Not quite three hours before Saunders was killed.’
‘That sounds suspiciously like proper detective work.’ Rebus raised his glass in a silent toast. ‘So let me guess — he was phoning Stefan Gilmour?’
But Fox shook his head. ‘It was an Edinburgh number, a landline. Listed in the phone book, so easy for Saunders to track down.’
‘Eamonn Paterson?’
Another shake of the head. ‘George Blantyre.’
‘Dod?’ Rebus’s eyes narrowed.
‘Saunders spoke to him for six and a half minutes.’
Rebus was recalling Stefan Gilmour’s words:
‘You’re telling me a man who can’t get out of his own armchair managed to haul himself to a canal path halfway across town?’
‘Seems improbable,’ Fox agreed. ‘But there is another explanation. .’
He let his words drift off, knowing Rebus would see what he meant.
Rebus gnawed at his bottom lip, then arched his neck to stare at the ceiling. No matter how often they painted it, it seemed to retain a nicotine sheen.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said eventually. Then: ‘So why aren’t you there right now?’
‘Thought you might want to tag along.’
‘Siobhan’s idea?’
Fox shook his head. ‘Mine, actually. She needed a bit of persuading.’
‘Why is she staying away?’
‘She’s in a meeting with the bosses, laying it all out for them.’ Fox finished his drink and gestured towards
