Saints of the Shadow Bible

12

Footage from the police station was playing on the TV news channel in Rebus and Fox’s café of choice. They were in the Glasgow suburbs, and thankful for the satnav on Fox’s phone.

‘Never really got to grips with the roads here,’ Fox commented, as his Scotch broth was delivered.

‘Join the club.’ Rebus sat back a little, so that the waiter could place the steak pie in front of him. It came with chips, salad and a roll and butter.

‘Help me out,’ Rebus said to Fox.

‘You’re on your own, pal,’ Fox replied, tucking his napkin into his waistband. Then, after a glance at the wall clock: ‘And you’ve got about twenty minutes before we need to be elsewhere.’ Having said which, he picked up his spoon and got to work.

‘Did you always think you’d end up in the Complaints?’ Rebus asked.

‘Does anybody?’

‘Maybe not, but you seem to be good at it — judging by the number of cops who hate your guts.’

‘Yourself included?’

‘Maybe less so than before.’

Fox added some white pepper to the soup. ‘Somebody’s got to make sure we don’t take liberties — pun intended.’

‘And used many times before, I don’t doubt.’ Rebus removed some gristle from between his teeth. ‘But now that we’re getting to know one another, would that make you feel any worse if you had to bust me?’

Fox glanced up at him. ‘Maybe,’ he conceded.

‘You’d bust me anyway, though?’

‘If I needed to.’

‘Some bloody job that. Say I was trying to get some bawbag to confess, and they did end up confessing but I’d had to finesse a procedure or two. .?’

Fox smiled. ‘You think that puts you on the side of the angels?’

‘And you don’t?’

‘I’m not some bean-counter, John. Every situation is different, and circumstances are taken into account.’

‘Sounds like bean-counter talk to me.’ But Rebus was smiling too.

Fox checked the clock again.

‘You don’t think Stefan will grant us a few minutes’ leeway?’ Rebus asked.

‘Would you?’

‘Good point,’ Rebus was forced to agree, digging into the steak pie again.

‘Hey, take a look.’ Fox was gesturing towards the TV. Rebus saw the media outside Torphichen police station becoming restive as a man manoeuvred his way past them to get inside. The shot then cut to the same man leaving the building, while the newsreader explained that he was ‘businessman Owen Traynor from southwest London, whose daughter Jessica is the girlfriend of Patrick McCuskey’s son. .’

‘Good for you, Siobhan,’ Rebus muttered under his breath, before giving up on the pie and starting on the chips instead.

It was a three-storey hotel, all smoked glass and chrome, sited within easy reach of the M8 and M74 — a place where business traffic could stop for meetings or food or a bed for the night. Stefan Gilmour and his partner, the ex-footballer Barney Frewin, had built the place from scratch, and it had only been open three weeks. There were framed photos on a wall in the lobby showing guests at the official opening party, including Frewin and a few of his footballing cronies past and present, plus Gilmour’s girlfriend and some of her showbiz friends.

‘She’s still a beauty,’ Fox was forced to admit. Then, sensing Rebus’s look: ‘Used to see her on TV. .’

They were about to announce themselves at the reception desk, but Stefan Gilmour himself was walking towards them, calling out a greeting to Rebus. The two men shook hands, and Rebus introduced Fox.

‘Let’s make this quick,’ Gilmour said, sounding impatient. He was in shirtsleeves, no sign of a jacket. He summoned the lift, and once all three were inside, slipped a key card in and out of the slot before pressing the button marked PH.

‘Penthouse,’ he explained. ‘Not booked today, so we might as well.’

The doors slid open, and they were in a private hallway, doors leading off to living room, bathroom and bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave views towards the centre of Glasgow and the hills beyond. On the other hand, what Rebus mostly saw were motorway lanes and industrial units.

‘Impressive,’ Fox said, as Gilmour settled himself on one of the room’s two sofas, stretching his arms out along the back of it.

‘I just saw Owen Traynor on TV,’ Gilmour said. ‘What’s that all about?’

‘You know him?’ Rebus asked.

‘We were planning a hotel in Croydon — never quite happened, but Traynor was part of the syndicate. Now he pops up in Edinburgh. .’

‘He’s from Croydon originally,’ Rebus commented.

‘Hence his usefulness, John.’

‘Fascinating as all that may be,’ Fox broke in, ‘it’s not why we’re here.’

‘So why are you?’ Gilmour crossed one leg over the other.

Rebus stayed standing by a window, while Fox took an armchair. ‘It’s to do with Billy Saunders,’ Fox said.

‘I know — it was daft of me to phone him.’ Gilmour held up his hands, arms still stretched.

‘How did you get his number?’ Rebus asked.

‘Guy drives a minicab, John — how hard do you think it was?’

‘I’m guessing maybe money changed hands.’

‘No comment.’

‘Well,’ Fox interrupted, ‘maybe you’d care to “comment” on Mr Saunders’s sudden disappearance?’

Gilmour looked bemused.

‘His car was found abandoned on waste ground,’ Rebus explained. ‘Just when the Solicitor General was readying to question him more thoroughly.’

‘Whoa there.’ Gilmour leaned forward, elbows now resting on knees, hands clasped together. ‘You’re not going to blame me for that!’

‘What exactly did you say to him?’ Fox enquired.

‘I just wanted to know. .’ Gilmour broke off, fixing Fox with a look. ‘I’m not a cop any more, haven’t been for thirty years. Nothing to stop me wanting to ask the man what he was going to say to an investigation.’

‘Asking rather than threatening?’

‘Threats aren’t my style.’ Gilmour leapt to his feet. Pointing at Fox, he aimed his question at Rebus. ‘How can you hang around with this skid mark?’

‘So you asked Billy Saunders what he was going to say?’

Gilmour stood not three feet from Rebus, and eventually nodded by way of answer.

‘And?’ Rebus nudged.

‘And nothing — he didn’t want to talk to me. I doubt our little chat lasted twenty seconds.’ Gilmour paused. ‘I’m willing to bet you’ve applied to see his phone records — they’ll show I’m not lying.’

‘Did you call him back?’ Rebus asked.

‘Tried, but he wouldn’t pick up.’

‘And at no point did you offer an inducement?’ Fox added from his chair.

‘A bribe, you mean?’ Gilmour shook his head. ‘Tell you what I think, though — I think you lot scared him off. Thirty years after the fact and suddenly he’s going to be in the dock again. I’d probably have scarpered too.’

‘Nevertheless, Mr Gilmour,’ Fox commented, ‘it can’t be easy for you. You’ve got all of this now.’ He waved a hand, taking in the room and everything around it. ‘Stuff you did in the past, you think of it as long forgotten. This is your life now — unless Billy Saunders stands up in court and tells the world about the person you used to be.’

‘A good cop is who I used to be, the kind that put his neck on the line, the kind that made the public feel that little bit safer in their beds at night.’ Gilmour walked over and planted himself in front of Fox’s chair. ‘Whereas what I hear about you is you could never cut it in CID, near as dammit got down on your knees and begged for a Complaints posting.’

Fox got slowly to his feet, blood rising to his cheeks. ‘You know this doesn’t end it? Case can go ahead with or without Billy Saunders. I’m still going to be picking apart your little gang.’

‘He means us, John,’ Gilmour called to Rebus.

‘But you above all,’ Fox felt the need to clarify. ‘Saunders was your snitch and I reckon you’re the one who got him off. Whether you had any help is neither here nor there.’

‘Douglas Merchant was a scumbag who got what was coming to him. We should be looking at a commendation rather than a jail sentence.’

‘Keep telling yourself that,’ Fox advised. ‘The more often you and your pal Paterson say it, the less convinced you sound.’

‘Are we about done here? Because I’m hearing nothing that’s going to cause me even a sleepless five minutes. Billy Saunders can tell any story he wants; it’s going to be his word against Summerhall CID. Hearsay’s all you’re ever going to have.’ Gilmour jutted out his chin, almost toe to toe with Fox. Fox was opening his mouth, readying a response, when the lift doors shuddered open.

‘You here yet, Big Boy?’ A woman’s sing-song voice. ‘Reception told me to come up and wait. .’ She walked into the room and came to a stop, lips opening into an O.

‘Your next appointment?’ Fox pretended to guess, eyes on Gilmour.

‘I think you should leave,’ Gilmour said, his words edged with frost.

The woman was young — mid twenties maybe. Dyed red hair and a short coat below which was a presumably shorter dress. Rebus thought he recognised her from one of the photos in the lobby. She’d had a footballer’s arm draped around her. Perfume was filling the room, replacing the oxygen.

‘We’re going,’ Rebus stated, making his way towards the hall. Gilmour was avoiding eye contact, but that was just fine. Maybe there was some parting shot from Fox, but if so Rebus didn’t hear it. The two men stood together as the lift doors closed and they began their descent. Nothing was said until Rebus paused by the display from the party, checking that he was right about the visitor.

‘Cheating on a woman like that,’ Fox commented, shaking his head as he pressed the tip of a finger to Gilmour’s girlfriend’s face.

Up in the penthouse, there was a call on Gilmour’s phone. He was going to ignore it until he checked the name on the screen.

‘Back in a minute,’ he barked to his visitor, retreating to the bathroom and closing the door. ‘Long time no hear.’

‘Took you long enough to pick up.’

‘I’m rushed off my feet. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m after a favour. Do you still know anyone on the force in Edinburgh?’

‘I might.’

‘Only a friendly face wouldn’t hurt.’

‘What’s this about, Owen?’

‘I want to know what really happened the night Jessica had her smash.’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘My daughter, Stefan. Her car went off the road and the cops seem to think her boyfriend was behind the wheel. Next thing, his dad’s attacked in his home and they pull me in.’

‘The dad in question being Pat McCuskey?’

‘I just need someone who can keep me in the picture.’

‘Best guy I can think of is called John Rebus.’

‘Anyone but that bastard!’ Traynor snarled.

‘You’ve met him, then?’

‘Enough to know I want to smack his face. So can you help me out?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You were a prick back in the day, Stefan, and you’re still being a prick.’

‘I suppose I can ask around, maybe pull some strings.’

‘Try not to sound too thrilled about it. And call me when you get news.’

The phone went dead and Gilmour stared at it. ‘Don’t bother thanking me,’ he scolded it. He could hear his visitor putting on some music in the living room. Instead of joining her, he locked the bathroom door and settled himself on the toilet pan, head in hands, wondering what to do about Billy Saunders.

When Rebus’s phone rang that evening, he knew who it would be. He could still feel the steak pie like a solid weight in his stomach, so had decided on a liquid dinner of a couple of bottles of IPA. He was starting the second of them as he answered.

‘I want to apologise,’ Stefan Gilmour said.

‘For what?’

‘It isn’t what you think, John.’

‘Does she qualify as one of those WAGs I read about in the redtops?’

‘She’s got a knack for getting herself on guest lists.’

‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

There was silence on the line.

‘I mean it,’ Rebus said. ‘On the other hand, I can’t vouch for Fox.’

He listened as Gilmour drew in breath through his teeth. ‘I need to know whose side you’re on, John.’

‘Aye, it seems to be a popular question these days.’

‘I can’t believe you’d want a piece of pond life like Fox cutting me off at the knees.’ Statement rather than question.

‘A bit of trust might help,’ Rebus retorted. ‘So how about you telling me what sort of hold Saunders had over you? See, my guess is that’s why you were phoning him — maybe to tell him it was no longer relevant, or that you had something on him.’

‘There was never any “hold”, John.’

‘I think you’re lying.’

‘Then there’s not much more to say.’ Gilmour paused. ‘And probably no point me asking you to intercede with your new friend Fox?’

‘You mean ask him to forget about the WAG?’

‘It would be worth a case or two of malt — you still like a whisky now and then, don’t you?’

‘You can’t buy everybody, Stefan. And if you considered me a pal, you wouldn’t even feel the need to try. .’

‘Fair enough.’ Gilmour sounded beaten. ‘I just think it’s crazy to waste time and money on a case that’s going to go nowhere. And even if it did go to trial, all it would do is fluff up Elinor Macari’s feathers. Because this is one big ego trip for her — her way of telling the world she was right to bring in the double jeopardy clause. Nothing to do with justice, John — we’re just the same pawns we always were.’

‘You’re not exactly a pawn these days, Stefan.’

‘But she wants to make me one. Know why? Because of the No campaign. She’s an SNP appointment and a lifelong supporter. And suddenly she has the chance to chuck a couple of darts at the No campaign’s public face.’

‘You, in other words?’

‘Of course!’

‘Have you been asked to comment on Pat McCuskey?’

Gilmour seemed disconcerted by the change of tack. ‘Yes,’ he eventually conceded.

‘You must have sparred with him a bit?’

‘All the time. Lovely guy, though. Once we’d finished the public debate, he was always game for a private drink and a bit of a laugh.’

‘Sounds like you knew him pretty well. The family too?’

‘Family were kept out of it.’ Gilmour paused. ‘I did meet Bethany a couple of times.’

‘Have you sent your condolences?’

‘Of course. My point is — that’s what the police should be focusing resources on, not the likes of Billy Saunders.’

‘Can you think of a reason why anyone would want to attack Pat McCuskey?’ Rebus asked.

‘It was a housebreaking, wasn’t it?’

‘We’re not a hundred per cent sure.’

Gilmour seemed to think for a moment. ‘You don’t seriously believe Owen Traynor might be in the frame for it, though?’

‘We’re ruling nothing out.’

‘Breaking into a man’s house? Smacking him just for being someone’s dad?’

‘Stranger things have happened. So tell me what you know of Pat McCuskey.’

‘Like I say, he was a nice guy.’

‘No skeletons in his closet?’

‘Not that I can think of.’ Gilmour paused. ‘You planning to mark a cross in that independence box, John? If the Yes campaign gets hold of Susanna. .’

‘Your penthouse guest?’

‘I’ll know it had to come from you or Fox.’

‘How about the receptionist who sent her up without checking? Is he or she still in a job? Because if you’ve fired them, you’ll have to add them to your little list too. That’s how it is, Stefan, when we start lying and cheating and concealing — it creates a lot of work, and nothing but.’

‘No skeletons in your cupboard, John?’ Gilmour managed a sour chuckle. ‘You’d need a space the size of IKEA to store them all.’

The line went dead, Gilmour determined to have the last word. Rebus sucked on his beer and went to turn the vinyl over. Rory Gallagher: ‘Sinner Boy’. He toasted the guitarist and slumped back on his chair to do some thinking. Then he picked up his phone and called Clarke.

‘What?’ she snapped.

‘Bad timing?’

‘I’ll call you back in half an hour.’

The phone went dead again. ‘Doing well tonight, John,’ he said to himself, lifting the bottle to his lips.

Clarke waited for David Galvin to come back from the toilet. It was a bar in the New Town — her choice, her patch. They had been polite at first, Galvin seeking to apologise. But then he’d thrown up his hands and asked what he was apologising for: ‘It’s not like I’m the one who called the Complaints!’ After which the arguing had commenced — albeit with voices never raised; that wasn’t the done thing in the New Town.

Pushing the table away from him, so that its edge jabbed her in the midriff, Galvin had then had to answer a call of nature. Or, Clarke reckoned, had gone to gather his thoughts in peace. While he was away, she thought back to the meeting she’d recently come from, held at Bute House on Charlotte Square. Just Nick Ralph and her, plus the First Minister and one of his special advisers. The First Minister had wanted updates — even though he seemed to have been briefed on everything the inquiry knew. He’d demanded ‘swift and decisive action’. He’d worn a tie covered in tiny saltire flags and hadn’t offered them anything to drink. Every thirty seconds or so a staffer would knock and enter, handing slips of paper to the First Minister for him to read. Sometimes he’d nod, and other times he would fold the note into his pocket. Couldn’t be easy, running a country while trying to plan for a future more than half its constituents didn’t yet seem to want.

‘Swift and decisive,’ the First Minister had repeated. ‘Let’s show the world what Scottish policing can do now the new model is in effect.’

‘Not quite in effect,’ Ralph had corrected him, receiving a hard stare for his efforts.

Clarke watched now as Galvin emerged, rubbing his hands together as if to reassure the room that he had remembered to wash them. He walked up to the table and just stood there, shaking his head slowly, as though disappointed in her. Then he exited the bar, never looking back.

‘Prick,’ Clarke said under her breath. She took another slug of wine and called Rebus. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said.

‘Anything I need to know about?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘You sound like you’re in a pub.’

‘Sharp as ever.’

‘Alone?’

‘As of thirty seconds ago.’ She sighed and rubbed at her eyebrows. ‘So what can I do for you, John?’

‘I saw Owen Traynor on the telly — nice work, bringing him in.’

‘Just seemed to make him angry.’

‘Angry is good. Angry means unthinking.’

‘Well we didn’t get anything out of him. How about you?’

‘Billy Saunders has gone AWOL.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Fox thinks maybe Stefan Gilmour slipped him a few quid to make himself scarce.’

‘And?’

‘Stefan denies it.’

‘What about you and Malcolm — not come to blows yet?’

‘We seem to be managing.’ Rebus paused. ‘Can I toss another tiny grenade into your foxhole?’

‘If you must.’

‘Stefan Gilmour knew Pat McCuskey — knew him well, I mean.’

‘Stands to reason.’ It was her turn to pause. ‘You’re not suggesting. .?’

‘Of course not. Though it did get me thinking. I know we discounted a political angle from the get-go, but on the other hand, politics in Scotland has never been so ugly. Lots of hotheads out there, and most of them nursing some grievance or other. Your boss doesn’t strike me as the type who’d want to disregard a possible motive. .’

‘I’ll mention it to him.’ She was still rubbing at her eyebrows.

‘Sure you don’t want my company? I can do witty repartee.’

‘I’m fine, John.’

‘Something to do with your lawyer friend?’

‘I said I’m fine.’

‘Well, if you ever need a shoulder to drink on. .’

She was smiling tiredly as she ended the call. The wine was finished. She’d had just the one glass and didn’t want any more. It was churning sourly inside her. Five or ten minutes’ walk and she’d be back at her flat. She paid the bill and headed outside. The air was crisp, the night sky clear. She remembered Rebus telling her that he used to drive through the city whenever he couldn’t sleep. Not with any great purpose in mind, just enjoying the feel of the journey. She could do that. Or she could veg out on the sofa with whatever was on TV. A book — when had she last picked up a book? But as she turned the corner into her street, a car door opened.

‘Siobhan?’

Clarke flinched, her eyes darting to left and right. You could never be too careful. But she recognised the owner of the voice, and walked towards the sporty Alfa Romeo.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘What do you think?’

The smile accompanying the question was warm but professional. Laura Smith — petite, with short brown hair — was the Scotsman newspaper’s chief crime reporter, and also, since recent cutbacks, its only crime reporter.

‘Hop in,’ Smith said. And before Clarke could demur, the journalist had ducked back into the car and closed the door. Music was playing from the stereo. The engine, however, was turned off and the interior was losing heat.

‘How long have you been here?’ Clarke asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

‘Maybe half an hour.’

‘You could have been waiting half the night.’

‘Comes with the job.’

‘I’d no idea you had my address.’

When Smith raised an eyebrow, Clarke knew she’d said something stupid. Smith worked the crime beat — she was obviously equipped with the resources.

‘You want to ask me about the McCuskey case,’ Clarke guessed.

‘You brought Owen Traynor in.’

‘Can’t fault your powers of observation.’

‘He’s a man with a past.’

‘He is indeed.’ Clarke watched as Smith drummed her fingers against the steering wheel in time to the music. She didn’t recognise the tune, would have classed it as ‘disco’ if such a thing still existed.

‘And he has a daughter called Jessica,’ Smith went on, ‘who wrote off her VW Golf only a few days back. Nice straight stretch of road and somehow she loses control.’

‘Again, you’re scarily well informed.’

‘No need to be sarky.’ Smith switched off the music and twisted her body towards Clarke. ‘Jessica’s boyfriend is Forbes McCuskey, whose father then ends up dead after a break-in at the family home.’ She paused. ‘And you bring in Owen Traynor for questioning. Let me guess what his motive might have been. .’

‘We were just checking a few details, Laura.’

‘I’m sure you were. How did it go with the First Minister, by the way?’ Pleased with the look of surprise on Clarke’s face, Smith smiled again. ‘I have spies everywhere,’ she explained.

‘He wants us to find whoever did it.’

‘Understandable. Meantime, he has to find a new face to front the Yes campaign without looking callous. Is Rebus keeping his nose clean?’

‘I’m not his mother.’

‘How has he managed to wangle his way into the Saunders inquiry?’

Clarke gave Smith a glower. ‘You’re in danger of coming across as smug, Laura.’

‘Just well informed, as you say,’ Smith corrected her. ‘You know Stefan Gilmour left the force because of Saunders? And now he helms the good ship No. .’

‘Are you going to print any of this?’

Smith looked thoughtful. ‘A few hard facts wouldn’t go amiss. Way things are, post-Leveson, the lawyers will redact anything that can’t be corroborated.’

‘I’m too close to the inquiry,’ Clarke said, shaking her head. ‘Fingers would point straight at me. .’

‘You know I can make sure that doesn’t happen — it’s all in the phrasing.’

‘Right now, I’m not sure I know much more than you do,’ Clarke argued.

‘But there’ll come a point when you do. The paper’s constantly updated online — if I’m even ten minutes ahead of the pack, it means I publish first.’

Clarke was shaking her head again. Smith stuck out her bottom lip in a show of mock unhappiness.

‘I’ve not come to the table empty-handed,’ she announced. ‘Might be something or nothing, but as a show of good faith. .’

‘What?’ Clarke asked.

‘And you won’t just go away and forget about me?’

‘Spit it out.’

Smith paused for a few moments, then took a deep breath. ‘Word is,’ she said, ‘Forbes McCuskey’s the go-to guy if you want a better class of illegal substance. Posh student parties in all those flats bought by mumsy and dadsy.’

‘The son of the Justice Minister?’

‘Delicious, isn’t it? I heard it from two normally reliable sources. Even set up a bit of a surveillance — had a photographer with me and everything. Never caught him, though.’

‘So we’re talking unsubstantiated rumours?’ Clarke, while sounding sceptical, still had a question. ‘Where’s he getting it?’

Smith offered a shrug. ‘Not sure it originates in Edinburgh — do your lot know of any dealers who could be sending stuff down the chain?’

‘I’ll look into it.’

‘A note of caution — this is a son grieving for his father, remember.’

‘Meaning there’s nothing you can do with it?’

Smith shook her head. ‘Would I be trading it otherwise?’ she asked, with that same sweet, professional smile.

Rebus was asleep in his chair when his phone woke him. He didn’t recognise the number, but answered anyway, massaging his eyes back into focus with his free hand.

‘John Rebus,’ he said.

‘You’ve got to stop hassling my dad!’

‘Jessica?’ Rebus walked over to the record deck and lifted the stylus from the run-out groove. Side two of Beggars Banquet — how had he managed to sleep through so much of that? ‘I didn’t know you had my number.’

‘You gave Forbes your card.’

‘So I did.’

‘Now listen to me — just leave him alone!’

‘Forbes or your dad?’

‘Dad’s not done anything — he doesn’t deserve this. .’ She seemed to be trying to control a sob.

‘Has he taken it out on you, Jessica?’ Rebus asked.

‘Of course not — but I can see it’s eating him up. They named him on TV, and now people keep phoning him.’

‘You’re still at the hotel?’

‘Checking out tomorrow.’

‘You’ll go back to your flat? What about your father?’

‘He needs to be in London. What he doesn’t need is this hanging over him.’

‘Then tell me what happened,’ Rebus said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The night of the crash. .’

There was silence on the line. He thought for a moment she’d hung up. But then came a crackling sound as she exhaled noisily.

‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘They’ll kill me.’

‘Who’ll kill you?’ He gave her time to answer, but none came. ‘You’re Owen Traynor’s daughter — no one’s going to kill you.’

‘I just can’t. Don’t ask me again.’

‘You can expect to see me at your door tomorrow. Does it involve Forbes? Or maybe his father?’

But this time she really had ended the call. Rebus rang back, but her messaging service picked up. He added her number to the contacts list on his phone, then patted the phone against his cheek as he went back over the conversation.

They’ll kill me.

Who the hell were they?

No mention of Forbes McCuskey, just this plural threat. Did Owen Traynor know or suspect? If someone were menacing his daughter, what would he do? Would the red mist descend? Did he have friends he could call on?

Expect to see me at your door. .

His mind flashed to the doorway of Dod Blantyre’s bungalow, and Maggie standing there, looking radiant. Her words to him at the café: How things might have turned out — if we’d been a little braver. And Stefan Gilmour: No skeletons in your cupboard, John?

We start lying and cheating and concealing. .

His brain felt foggy: too many connections, too much loose, frayed wiring.

He made himself a mug of tea, stuck Solid Air on the turntable, and slumped back in his chair, ready for a long night’s thinking.