Saints of the Shadow Bible

Day Eight
14

Something Professor Cuttle had said — we were so busy. . lowlifes dropping dead or succumbing to injuries — took Rebus to the Summerhall files the following morning. Malcolm Fox had been summoned to a meeting with Elinor Macari elsewhere in the building. It was raining outside, the sky black. Rebus had hung his coat up to dry and slipped his shoes off, balancing them on a radiator. He padded across the office in his damp socks, opening box files and ledgers, seeking out anything from the days and weeks leading up to Douglas Merchant’s murder.

‘Not interrupting, am I?’ Fox said on his return. He was carrying two cardboard beakers of tea. ‘Do you take sugar? I can’t remember.’ He dug some sachets from his jacket pocket.

‘Thanks,’ Rebus said, prising the lid from the proffered beaker. ‘Macari’s coffee machine on the blink?’

‘I just prefer tea.’ Fox took a sip, wincing at the scalding temperature.

‘You left the door open.’

‘Maybe I just forgot to lock it.’

‘Or it could be that you’re starting to trust me?’

Fox blew across the surface of his drink. ‘Here’s the thing, John — you wanted back on the force at any cost. They told you you’d be bumped down the ranks and you said okay. It’s not about status with you; it’s about the job itself. Am I right?’

‘More or less. So you are beginning to trust me?’

‘Trust works both ways.’ Fox gestured towards the paperwork in front of Rebus. ‘So tell me what’s keeping you busy.’

‘Working on a timeline,’ Rebus explained, hoping he could keep things nice and vague. ‘What did the Solicitor General want?’

‘Billy Saunders is still missing. His phone hasn’t been used, but two hundred pounds was taken from a cash machine with his card.’

‘When?’

‘Night he disappeared. From a Bank of Scotland in Newington.’

‘So he’s either alive and running, or. .’

‘Someone took his card and made him hand over the PIN.’

‘Does Macari have a preference?’

Fox’s mouth twitched. ‘She wants Stefan Gilmour formally questioned.’

‘Because he had words with Saunders?’ Rebus watched Fox nod. ‘So do we bring him in?’

‘It’ll just be me, John, plus one of the fiscals. You’re too close to Gilmour.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘You know I’m right, though.’ He paused, his attention shifting to the box files. ‘Remind me why we need a timeline. .’

‘I thought you asked for one.’

‘Did I?’ Fox’s brow furrowed.

‘I reckoned maybe you wanted me kept busy,’ Rebus lied blithely.

‘Fine then,’ Fox said eventually. He noticed that Rebus was in socks, and looked towards the radiator. ‘At least brown shoes keep out the water,’ he commented.

Rebus opened another ledger and started reading.

He remembered most of the cases, but not all of them. An arson attack in Craigmillar. . a series of corner shops held up by a drug addict armed with a syringe. . several sexual assaults late at night in the Meadows (never officially linked, never solved). An off-duty constable had been attacked by a mob of football fans in a pub on Forrest Road. A tramp had been found dead in Greyfriars Kirkyard, bearing the signs of a beating. Cashpoint muggings, aggressive beggars, a pickpocket gang from Eastern Europe. The cells at Summerhall had been overflowing some nights. Then there was the cannabis haul from a lock-up in Dumbiedykes, and the stolen car that was used to ram-raid an off-licence.

All fun and games.

Rebus’s own name cropped up occasionally, as did his signature — at the bottom of reports he might or might not have typed. Cross-referencing the custody ledger against suspects arrested, he found that the bottom half of a page had been torn out.

‘Just for the record,’ he said, motioning for Fox to take a look, ‘it was like this when I opened it.’

Fox nodded. ‘I noticed that a while back.’

The last entry on the half-page still remaining gave details of a suspect detained a week before Merchant’s murder, while the first entry on the next page was from the same day.

‘Four hours or so missing,’ Fox commented. ‘Late afternoon to mid evening.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘If the custody sergeant were still around, I’d ask him.’

‘Deceased?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Name of Magnus Henderson.’

‘I remember him,’ Rebus said. ‘Red-faced cheery-looking chap, but when he put someone in a headlock they soon realised he wasn’t Father Christmas.’

‘Retired to the Costa del Sol. Died a couple of years back from a coronary.’ Fox prodded at the ledger with a finger. ‘You think there’s something there that needed to be got rid of?’

‘I’m pretty sure that would have been your first reaction.’

‘You’re right, but unless you or one of the other Saints is about to confess. .’

Rebus offered a shrug. ‘There are arrest records, other bits of paperwork that might provide an answer.’

‘Or else the custody sergeant just got a name wrong and tore the page out to save embarrassment.’

‘Maybe the prisoner got shirty, made a grab for the book,’ Rebus suggested. ‘I could ask around.’

‘Your old buddies? You really think Stefan Gilmour would own up? Or Eamonn Paterson?’

‘Probably not.’ Rebus’s phone was ringing.

‘Morning, DI Clarke,’ he said, answering. ‘Enjoying the weather?’

‘Have you heard?’ she asked.

Rebus’s jaw tightened. He fixed Fox with a stare. ‘Heard what?’

‘Body fished from the canal this morning. Bank card in his pocket has the name William Saunders.’

‘Billy Saunders is dead?’

Fox took out his own phone and tapped in a number.

‘Looks like,’ Clarke was saying. ‘Body’s not been formally identified yet.’

‘Pulled from the canal?’

‘A quiet stretch near Dumbryden — not far from Wester Hailes police station.’

Fox was giving the news to the Solicitor General. He kept his eyes on Rebus, ready to pass on any wisdom.

‘Near Dumbryden,’ Rebus dutifully repeated.

‘And there’s another thing, John. .’

‘Did he jump, fall, or was he maybe pushed?’ Rebus interrupted her.

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Word is he’d been shot.’

‘Shot?’

‘Shot,’ Fox said into his phone, eyes widening a little further.

‘Shot,’ Siobhan Clarke confirmed.

It had been decided to base the investigation at Wester Hailes. With the Pat McCuskey case in the process of being downgraded, officers were being moved from that team to the new one. By the time Rebus and Fox arrived at the canal, Clarke had been put in charge of the inquiry. DC Olivia Webster was with her, Clarke making the introductions from beneath a large black umbrella. Droplets of rain were dripping into Rebus’s eyes from his hair. Crime-scene tape had been strung across the canal path, onlookers gathering on the opposite bank. There wasn’t much in the vicinity other than an industrial estate and some wasteland. Ducks were sheltering between the thick reeds, heads tucked under their wings.

‘Grim,’ Rebus stated, taking in everything.

The canal was cleaner these days than in times past, but litter still floated on its oily surface, and nearby walls had become a sprawling canvas for the neighbourhood taggers.

‘Any CCTV?’ Fox asked.

‘On the industrial estate,’ Clarke told him. ‘We’ll be taking a look.’

‘What was he doing here?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘There can’t be many guns in the city.’

‘One more than we thought,’ Clarke commented.

‘What I mean is, where did it come from? Someone must know.’

She nodded. Miserable-looking uniformed officers were combing the ground in all directions. They wore waterproofs, and Rebus thought he recognised one or two from the perimeter search of Pat McCuskey’s homestead.

‘The diver’s going to have fun,’ he said to Clarke. ‘Hope his shots are up to date.’

‘Not the best turn of phrase, under the circumstances.’

‘You think the gun’s in there?’ Rebus gestured towards the canal.

‘Maybe.’

‘How many bullets?’

‘Just the one. Close range, middle of the chest.’

Rebus examined the path beneath their feet. ‘Bloodstains?’

‘Not found any yet.’

‘So the impact probably propelled him into the water. Any casings?’

‘Christ, John, we’ve only just got started.’ Clarke’s voice was brittle.

‘Room for any more on the team?’ he asked. ‘Malcolm and me know as much about Saunders as anyone. .’

‘We already have a job,’ Fox reminded him.

‘You don’t think the two just became one?’

‘We’d have to clear it with the Solicitor General.’

‘Don’t bother,’ Clarke broke in. ‘Neither one of you is coming on board.’

‘Dive team’s just arrived,’ a uniform announced from beyond the cordon. Clarke headed off in that direction, Olivia Webster at her heels. Rebus yanked his raincoat over his head, creating a little tent within which he could get a cigarette going.

‘You know why you’re not wanted?’ Fox was asking.

‘I think so,’ Rebus replied. ‘The Summerhall connection.’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘We need to talk to Macari. With Saunders out of the picture, her case is. .’ He swallowed back the conclusion of the sentence.

‘Dead in the water?’ Rebus obliged.

‘Which probably means I’ll be on CID duties sooner than expected.’

‘The whole force rejoices,’ Rebus said, before sucking on his cigarette. Clarke was coming back, brolly still held aloft, shoes muddied.

‘A change of heart?’ Rebus guessed.

‘We’ll need your notes,’ she said, her eyes on Fox. ‘Everything you’ve got on Saunders.’

‘Just as soon as you clear it with the Solicitor General’s office,’ Fox agreed.

‘I’ll add it to the list,’ she grumbled.

‘Malcolm would be an asset to you, you know,’ Rebus told her. ‘And he just happens to be between jobs. .’

Clarke studied Rebus, as though seeking the catch or waiting for a punchline. Then she nodded stiffly.

‘Fine,’ she said, turning to leave again.

‘Don’t say I never give you anything,’ Rebus said to Fox, patting him on the arm.

At the mortuary, Clarke and Fox changed into protective clothing, but at the door to the autopsy suite Clarke paused, eyes on Fox.

‘You sure you’re up to this?’ she asked.

‘It’ll be my first in a while.’

There was a sudden wailing from somewhere in the building.

‘The widow,’ Fox surmised.

Clarke nodded. ‘Change of plan,’ she decided. ‘You’ve met her before — go see if you can get anything out of her.’

‘Afraid I’m going to embarrass you in there?’ Fox gestured towards the door.

‘I’m sure you’d do fine, Malcolm. It’s a question of what’s most useful.’

‘You’re the boss, Siobhan.’

‘Thanks.’ Having said which, she pushed open the door and disappeared inside, leaving Fox with a glimpse of steel trolleys and gleaming instruments. Back in the changing room, he dispensed with the protective clothing and headed for the waiting area, where Saunders’s widow Bettina was keening and being comforted by a female friend.

‘They won’t even give her his things,’ the friend complained to Fox.

‘They’ll be returned as soon as possible,’ Fox said, unsure whether this was true or not. The mortuary was an anonymous slab of a building on Cowgate, and Cowgate itself a narrow, claustrophobic canyon which only came alive at night, thanks to its bars and clubs. Fox hadn’t been inside the mortuary in several years, the remit of the Complaints falling short of unexplained deaths. As a young beat officer he had attended a couple of post-mortem examinations, but with his eyes averted and trying not to inhale the various aromas.

‘My name’s Fox, by the way,’ he told the friend.

‘I’m Taylor — Taylor Craddock.’

‘We’ve met before, Bettina,’ he was saying to the widow. There was an untouched beaker of tea at her feet.

‘I remember,’ she said, rubbing at her eyes and sniffing. There were blue smudges on her knuckles, the remnants of ancient tattoos.

Craddock was explaining that the identification process had been traumatic. ‘Though he did look at peace, Bett, you have to say he didn’t suffer. .’

More platitudes followed, but Bettina Saunders was hearing none of them. She concentrated, red-eyed and blinking, on the wall across from her. There was nothing on it but a framed colour poster of a heathery landscape, puffy clouds and blue sky above. Fox decided to make Taylor Craddock the focus of his questions.

‘Billy didn’t make contact after he disappeared?’

She shook her head.

‘It’s just that we need to try to piece together his movements, maybe find out why he acted the way he did.’

‘Can’t this wait?’ Craddock chided him. ‘The woman’s in shock.’

‘I appreciate that, but the sooner we can get started, the better.’

‘Better for you or better for her?’ Craddock’s hackles were rising. Bettina Saunders placed a hand around her friend’s wrist.

‘It’s all right, Taylor. The man’s only trying to help.’ She fixed her eyes on Fox. ‘Billy was worried about going to court. Stands to reason that’s why he ran.’

‘But he didn’t exactly run, did he?’ Fox went on quietly. ‘He stayed in the city.’

‘Where else could he go? He was Edinburgh born and bred.’

‘Did he have friends nearby? Near that stretch of the canal, I mean?’

She thought for a moment, then shook her head.

‘And he never called you? Not even a text so you wouldn’t worry?’

‘Nothing.’ She looked down into her lap. ‘But he was up to high doh. Somebody phoned him one morning — that was the start of it.’

Stefan Gilmour, stood to reason. .

One of the mortuary attendants was standing in the doorway.

‘Inspector Fox?’ he enquired. ‘Got a minute?’

Fox smiled an apology towards the two women, hoping the relief on his face wasn’t too evident. The attendant led him to a small office, where a clear polythene bag sat on a desk.

‘Deceased’s possessions,’ the attendant explained. ‘Need you to sign for them.’

Fox studied the contents of the bag. There was a sheet of printout next to it, listing the individual items. Fox made sure it tallied.

‘Hundred and fifty in cash,’ he commented.

‘Despite which, judging by the state of his clothes, he was sleeping rough.’

‘Oh?’

‘Grubby, you might say.’

‘Speaking of which, where are they?’

‘Off to Forensics.’ The attendant paused. ‘We didn’t lift any of the money, if that’s what’s on your mind.’

Fox shook his head. ‘Last cashpoint he visited, he took out two hundred. Didn’t get through much of it, which tallies with sleeping rough.’ He lifted the bag. ‘Did the water bugger the phone?’

‘Might be okay when it’s dried out.’

There wasn’t much else — a handkerchief, chewing gum, house keys, loose change and the Bank of Scotland debit card, plus loyalty cards from Costa Coffee and Tesco.

‘No watch?’ Fox queried.

‘No watch.’

He double-checked the list before signing his name to the bottom of the sheet. ‘Autopsy finished yet?’

‘Might be another half-hour. They got the bullet though. Wedged between two of the vertebrae. You need to put the date.’

Fox added the date beneath his signature, which seemed to satisfy the attendant.

‘Were you there for the identification?’ he asked.

The attendant nodded.

‘How did the widow seem?’

‘She managed.’

‘Did she say anything?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary. You think she did it — crime of passion and all that? You should be swabbing her hands for gunpowder. .’

Fox studied the young man. ‘You watch too many films.’

The attendant shrugged. ‘Not much excitement around here — though we’ve still got the Justice Minister on the premises. Body’s due to be released to the family today.’

‘Counts as a busy week, does it?’

‘Place has been in the news and everything. Mind you, still doesn’t make for much of a chat-up line, saying you work here.’

‘I imagine not.’

‘Unless you’re into Goths, I suppose. .’