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 into the sky with a thunderous roar, not quarter of a mile away. The car park advertised its special long-term rates and twice-an-hour shuttle service. An automatic barrier rose when Rebus took the proffered ticket from the machine. He drove slowly around the ground floor, unsure what he was looking for. Jessica had crashed her car not too far away. She was friends with the niece of the car park’s owner. The owner was less legit than might have been the case. Add to that the brand-new crowbar. . and Rebus still wasn’t sure. There was a cabin staffed by a single uniformed flunkey. The ground floor was half full. The cars looked like they belonged to middle management: Beemers, Audis, a couple of Jags and a Merc. He drove up the ramp to the next floor, which was quieter. One Range Rover had a film of dust over its windscreen. Maybe it belonged to someone who was enjoying protracted winter sun elsewhere. Rebus couldn’t blame them. The next floor was empty, as was the unsheltered roof, though it too had been laid out in marked bays. Rebus doubted the place ever got full. On the other hand, it was easy money — one member of staff, few overheads.

He stopped the Saab on the roof and got out for a cigarette. He could see the airport runway, an orange-liveried EasyJet plane coming in to land. Jessica’s car had crashed somewhere to the west. If she’d started her journey at this car park, she and Forbes had been driving away from the city. Towards his parents’ place? Possible. If Rebus had possessed more of a head for geography, he might be able to make out the house and grounds. As it was, he saw only a patchwork countryside and snow-capped hills beyond.

‘You okay there?’

The voice was amplified, metallic. Rebus looked around and saw a tall metal pole with a loudspeaker and camera attached to it. He gave it a wave and got back into his car. He was approaching the exit barrier when he saw the attendant emerge from his cabin. The man was at the barrier before him, waiting for a word. Rebus wound his window down again.

‘Everything all right?’ the man asked. He had a pockmarked face and irregular teeth, his eyes milky but wary.

‘Forgot something,’ Rebus explained. ‘Need to go back to the office.’

‘You went all the way to the roof.’

‘Is there a law against it?’

‘Maybe.’ The attendant was examining the scuffed interior of the Saab. Rebus meantime had slotted his ticket into the machine.

‘Must be a mistake,’ he said, staring at the display. ‘Six pounds fifty?’

‘That’s the minimum. Gets you four hours.’

‘I’ve hardly been four minutes.’

‘System’s automated — nothing I can do about it.’ The man wasn’t managing to disguise his pleasure at Rebus’s discomfort.

‘You telling me you can’t go back to that wee booth of yours and swing the barrier open?’

‘Company would haul me over the coals.’

‘Six-fifty, though.’

The man offered a shrug.

‘Rory won’t be happy when I tell him about this.’

‘Rory?’

‘Your boss.’ Rebus looked in vain for a flicker of recognition. ‘He owns this place.’

‘I’m just doing my job.’

‘Okay then, tell me this — these cameras of yours, do they film what they see?’

‘Why are you asking?’ Then it dawned. ‘You the police?’

‘In a manner of speaking. So do they record or don’t they?’

‘The machine wipes itself every forty-eight hours.’

‘And is there always a human being on duty?’

‘Always.’

‘So if I gave you a date and an approximate time. .?’

‘For what?’

‘Anything.’

The attendant straightened up and folded his arms. ‘That’s something you’d have to talk to management about.’

‘Meaning Rory Bell?’

‘I told you, I’ve never heard of him.’

‘So who do you deal with?’

‘The office is in Livingston.’

‘There’s a multi-storey there too — you ever do a shift at it?’

‘You need to speak to the management.’

‘Don’t worry, I will. Now are you going to let me out of here?’

‘Soon as you pay what’s due.’ The man turned away and walked back towards his booth. Cursing, Rebus looked for coins in his pocket, then realised the machine only accepted credit cards. So he stuck one in, entered his PIN and pressed the button for a receipt.

Livingston.

Rory Bell’s base.

Plus he had another car park there.

And. .

The driver who had been first at the scene of Jessica’s crash — wasn’t she on her way home from work in Livingston at the time? So instead of taking the road back into the city, Rebus headed further out in the direction of Newbridge, and from there on to the M8. It didn’t take long to reach Livingston, though once there he was faced with a Mensa-level puzzle constructed almost entirely of roundabouts. Livingston was one of Scotland’s ‘new towns’, designed in the 1960s by planners who liked lots of circles in their diagrams. Second only to this passion seemed to be their crush on the word ‘Almondvale’. It cropped up time and again as Rebus sought his destination: Almondvale Boulevard, Way, Avenue and Drive. Not forgetting Parkway and Crescent — plus the football stadium where the local team played. In the end, Rebus conceded defeat and stopped to ask a pedestrian, who gave him directions to a multi-storey, just not the right multi-storey. Rather than take a ticket, Rebus left the Saab outside, found the security cabin and asked for directions. The attendant was able to help, and Rebus thanked him. Ten minutes later, he was driving into a four-storey car park — the top storey being its roof. There was no sign of life in the booth, though lights were on inside. Rebus drove around the ground floor, which was full. Mums with toddlers were loading bags into their vehicles, having returned from the nearby shopping centre. Next storey up there were fewer cars, and fewer again as Rebus climbed. As before, no one at all was using the bays on the roof. Rebus spotted the same set-up of speaker and CCTV camera, and manoeuvred the Saab back down the ramp. He parked on the next level and got out. He was alongside an unwashed Citroën. Across from it sat another car, covered with a dust sheet. The bay next to that was empty, but Rebus noted clumps of dirt, leaves and sweet-wrappers on the floor. If he were a betting man, he would have said a car had been parked there until recently — and it had been sitting in the multi-storey for some time. He took another look at the Citroën. Its tax disc had run out the previous year, and similar detritus had gathered beneath its wheels. When he ran a finger down the paintwork, he left a clean line, and his finger came away blackened. He crossed to the other car and began to lift the dust sheet, catching a glimpse of red bodywork.

‘Hell do you think you’re playing at?’ The man striding up the ramp wore the same uniform as Mr Bad Teeth from the airport multi-storey, but was a different breed altogether — ex-forces, maybe, and still able to take on a route march. Beefy arms, fists clenched, jaw jutting. The hair had been shaved from the skull and one ear had a chunk missing from it.

‘Early for a meeting,’ Rebus lied. ‘Just killing time.’ He made show of checking his watch.

‘Like fuck you are,’ the man spat.

‘Okay then,’ Rebus bristled. ‘You tell me — what am I doing?’

‘Whatever it is, you’re not staying.’ The man clamped a hand around Rebus’s forearm.

‘That could be classed as assault, pal.’

‘Oh aye? How about this?’ A fist crunched into Rebus’s stomach, and he felt his knees buckle. The same hand was digging in his coat, then his jacket’s inside pocket, tugging free the warrant card and flapping it open.

‘Detective Sergeant, eh? DS Rebus? Okay, I’ve got your name now, pal. And if you report any of this, we’ll be having another wee chat. So think about that.’

As the wallet was pushed back into Rebus’s pocket, he found enough strength to take a swing at his assailant. The man blocked it without too much effort, using his elbow, while his grip on Rebus’s other arm tightened still further. Then he let go and took a step back.

‘Any time you like, Grandad,’ he said.

‘I could have a squad car here in two minutes.’

‘I believe you — but remember what I said. Won’t just be out to wind you next time.’

Rebus flashed back to interview rooms down the years, the softening-up of suspects, the ‘accidental’ trips and falls. And now here he was, on the receiving end. He considered his options and found them wanting. Yes, he could call it in, and the scrapper in front of him would be arrested, questioned, cautioned — but to what end? He had learned something, and that was almost worth the short-lived pain and the residual embarrassment. Time was he would have gone blow-for-blow with the man.

Time was.

‘I’ll be back,’ was what he ended up saying.

‘Best bring a Terminator with you,’ his attacker said with a lopsided grin, watching as Rebus trudged back to the Saab. ‘Got your licence plate now too,’ the man added. ‘Means I can have your address any time I like.’

Rebus held one hand to his stomach as he drove, removing it only when he needed to change gear, which was often — all those bloody roundabouts again. He stopped at a fast-food place and got some fizzy orange. His mouth was dry, heart pounding. When his phone rang, he thought about ignoring it, but saw James Page’s name on the screen.

‘I’m on my way,’ Rebus answered.

‘Where from?’

‘Another errand.’

‘For Siobhan Clarke? Maybe I should ask her to confirm that.’

‘Up to you.’ Rebus slurped the ice-cold juice through a straw.

‘I’ve just spoken to Professor Quant about our floater. Bringing in Professor Thomas seems to have been useful. I think we’ve got a suspicious death here, and maybe even a murder.’

‘Murder? Not from what I saw at the second autopsy.’

‘Nevertheless.’

‘Look, I can see what you’re doing — everyone around you seems to be heading a big case, so you want one too. But the Procurator Fiscal’s office will laugh you back to Gayfield Square if you go to them with this. There’s no evidence to back you up.’

‘There are bruises.’

‘I’ve got a few of those myself. Doubt very much I’ll die from them.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Tickety-boo.’

‘And you’re really on your way here?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So what do you think we do about the floater?’

‘For starters, maybe stop using that word. Then you set up a trawl of missing persons, going back as many years as necessary. He was white-skinned, fair-haired. We know his height and build. An appeal is a good idea — get his description out there.’

‘Right.’

‘Christine Esson’s the expert — she’ll know where to start.’

‘Thanks, John.’

‘Any time, boss.’

‘How long till you get here? Twenty minutes? Half an hour?’

‘Soon as I can — scout’s honour.’

‘But we both know you were never a scout.’

‘You’ve rumbled me,’ Rebus confessed. Then: ‘Forgive me for saying, but you sound a bit cheerier.’

‘News from on high: no plans to scrap Gayfield Square.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘Aye, me too. But doubtless you’ll do something to sour my mood before long.’

‘I dare say.’ Rebus ended the call and gave his stomach another rub. He had one slight detour to make before Gayfield Square. And some big questions that needed answering.

Great King Street was lined with cars, except for a stretch of single yellow line at the end. Rebus parked and placed the POLICE sign on the dashboard. He was close by Drummond Place, with its central splodge of green space, protected by high railings and available only to keyholders. He walked back along the street until he was outside the door he wanted, pressing the buzzer for the flat marked TRAYNOR/BELL.

‘Yes?’

The crackly voice belonged to Forbes McCuskey.

‘It’s DS Rebus. I need a word.’

‘There’s nothing for you here.’

‘Let me in or I swear I’ll kick down the door.’

There was silence. Then a buzzing as the door was unlocked. Rebus pushed it open and managed the stairs fine. The blood was rushing in his ears by the time he reached the top, but he hadn’t had to pause for breath. The door was closed, so he thumped on it. His hand came away stained pink. Looking again, he saw that paint had been thrown at the door, then wiped off. Whoever had cleaned it had tried to be thorough, but the stone floor beneath Rebus’s feet was stained too. The door was eventually opened, Forbes McCuskey standing there.

‘I’m collecting for the UVF,’ Rebus said, holding up his palm.

‘Jessica says this is intimidation. She says I should phone a lawyer.’

‘Want to borrow my mobile?’ Rebus held it out towards the young man. ‘I don’t care what the hell you do, Forbes. And I can appreciate you’re scared.’ He indicated the paint marks on the floor. ‘You’ve had a visitor. I think maybe they went to your home too. Expected to find you rather than your dad.’ He paused. ‘Can I come in?’

‘We don’t want you here.’

‘Maybe not, but I think you need me. How else are you going to be rid of Alice’s Uncle Rory?’

‘Christ. .’

The utterance came from a doorway beyond.

‘Hello there, Alice,’ Rebus said, though he couldn’t see her. ‘You’ve managed to make it up with Forbes and Jessica, then? I suppose you had to — the three of you have to stick together, too much to lose otherwise.’ Then, to Forbes McCuskey: ‘I’ve just been visiting the multi-storey in Livingston. You took Jessica there for a look. I’m guessing it must have been Alice who let it slip, maybe one night after a party — a couple of drinks or a toke too many. Alice’s scary uncle and some car he’d told her about. Something in its boot? A crowbar would be needed if someone wanted to know what it was.’ Rebus paused, his eyes fixed on those of the student. ‘Am I getting warm, son?’

‘Tell him to go away!’ A different voice, louder, almost hysterical: Jessica Traynor.

‘The gang’s all here,’ Rebus said with a smile. ‘Crisis meeting sort of thing? How come Alice can’t just go have a word with Uncle Rory?’

‘It’s too late for that!’ Alice Bell cried out. Rebus tried shuffling into the hall, but McCuskey was determined to block him.

‘Come back when you’ve got a warrant,’ he said, a determined look on his face.

‘Might be too late by then, Forbes. You saw what happened to your dad.’

‘We don’t know what happened!’

‘We can take an educated guess, though,’ Rebus argued. ‘And you three are more educated than me, so I’m guessing you’ve come to a few conclusions.’ He paused again. ‘And they’re scaring 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 told him?’

‘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 you’re what I’ve got. It was only two years ago — how hard can it be? Plus a photo or description of Redpath — and whether he was a smoker or not.’ He looked across to where Esson was still busy at her computer, her head resting on one hand, elbow against the surface of her desk. Rebus gave the officer his phone number and e-mail, ended the call, then filled the kettle and switched it on.

‘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. .

His phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number.

‘Yes?’ he answered.

It was the officer from Central.

‘Midnight-blue Ford Escort, eight years old. Used to run something sportier but the divorce settlement took care of that.’ The man reeled off the licence plate. Rebus told him to hang on, then went back into the CID suite and grabbed a pen and sheet of paper.

‘Repeat that, will you?’ he said, jotting the details down.

‘Plus I’ve e-mailed you a mug shot,’ the man went on.

‘Wasn’t so hard, was it?’ Rebus said. ‘But was he a smoker?’

‘Ten a day. Do I get to go back to actual real work now?’

‘With my blessing.’

Rebus put his phone next to the computer and opened his e-mail folder. Clicked on the attachment, then called across to Christine Esson. She studied the face, front and side views. Physical details were listed beneath.

‘Height, five-ten,’ Esson intoned. ‘Weight, a hundred and seventy pounds. Grey eyes, fair hair. .’ She retreated to her desk and returned with the autopsy photos. ‘So who is he?’ she said.

‘Would you say they’re the same person?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘No more than that?’

She shrugged.

‘I think it’s him. He was stored in a car boot, and then dumped in the docks.’

‘Stored for two years, you mean?’ She watched Rebus nod. ‘So where’s the car?’

‘Right here,’ Rebus said, holding up the sheet of paper. ‘Eight-year-old blue Ford Escort.’ He thought back to the cars in the multi-storey. No, it matched neither of them. It had probably been driven to Leith Docks with its cargo still on board. Then got rid of. Rebus picked up his phone and called the Road Policing Unit.

‘Any abandoned cars in the past couple of days? Tax disc almost certainly a year or more out of date.’ He described Jack Redpath’s Escort and then waited.

‘You think it’s out there collecting parking tickets?’ Esson asked.

‘Best-case scenario.’

‘And worst?’

Rebus just shrugged. He was listening to news that the information could take some time — the city’s traffic wardens would need to be questioned.

‘Soon as you can, eh?’ Rebus gave his details and put the phone down. ‘Now we wait,’ he told Esson.

‘Maybe you do, but I’m heading out to the shop. It’s lunchtime, if you hadn’t noticed — want me to fetch you something?’

‘Maybe a sandwich or a sausage roll.’ He dug into his pocket for change.

‘My treat,’ Esson told him. ‘A sandwich is probably healthier.’

‘Make it the sausage roll, then.’

She rolled her eyes and shrugged her arms into her jacket. Rebus remembered Deborah Quant doing the same, and his own instinct to help. When he’d suggested meeting for a drink sometime, she hadn’t turned him down flat. Then again, he didn’t have a number for her, excepting the one for the mortuary.

He headed out to the car park for a smoke, then remembered the phone upstairs could ring at any moment. So after three or four draws he nipped the end of the cigarette and returned it to the packet. He could hear the phone ringing on his desk from the top of the stairs, but it stopped as he entered the office. Cursing under his breath, he sat down and waited. Esson returned and handed him a paper bag. The lack of grease stains meant she’d ignored his request. The baguette contained ham salad.

‘It’s like being at one of those health spas,’ he muttered. But he demolished it anyway.

When the phone rang again, he snatched at it.

‘Thought you were in a hurry,’ the RPU officer complained.

‘I am.’

‘So why didn’t you answer earlier?’

‘Call of nature. Now what have you got?’ Rebus listened for a moment. ‘Taken away to be scrapped?’ he repeated for Esson’s benefit. ‘Yesterday?’ He reached for his pen again. ‘Do we know which scrapyard?’ He began taking down the details but then broke off. ‘Yes, I know it,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

He finished the call and made another, but no one was answering. Cursing, he stuffed his phone into his pocket and got up from the desk.

‘What do I tell the boss when he gets back?’ Esson asked.

‘That his sartorial elegance has shamed me into doing a bit of shopping.’

She smiled and gave him a little wave as he made for the door. Then she left her own desk and crossed to Rebus’s, taking her prawn sandwich with her. She studied the photo of Jack Redpath on Rebus’s computer screen.

‘Maybe,’ she said to herself. ‘Just maybe. .’ She fixed her eyes on the doorway. She hadn’t known John Rebus long, but she knew he was good at this, like a bloodhound given a scent and then left to do what it was best at. Form-filling and protocols and budget meetings were not Rebus’s thing — never had been and never would be. His knowledge of the internet was rudimentary and his people skills were woeful. But she would lie for him to James Page, and take the rap if caught. Because he was a breed of cop that wasn’t supposed to exist any more, a rare and endangered species.

And she would miss his kind when they did — as they would — eventually vanish from the world.

It was the scrapyard Jessica Traynor’s Golf had been taken to. The same German shepherd rose to its feet and bared its fangs as Rebus got out of his car. Eddie Duke emerged from the shack and snapped at it.

‘Boris! Pipe down!’

Then, to Rebus, and indicating the Saab: ‘Just leave it there. We’ve got a bit of a backlog, but we’ll get round to it when we can.’

‘That’s hilarious,’ Rebus said, looking as though he’d never found anything less funny in his life. ‘I’ve been trying to phone you.’

‘I told you, we’re busy.’ He gestured towards the compactor, which was squeezing the life out of its latest victim. Rebus could hear the dying gasps of metal, plastic and glass. Reece Bairstow was working the machinery. Rebus noticed a car number plate resting against the wall next to the guard dog. He walked over and picked it up, ignoring the dog’s growls.

‘This car?’ he asked.

‘Was blocking a street in Granton. Obviously abandoned.’

‘And is now. .?’

The man gestured once more towards the compactor. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

Granton: just along the coast from Leith. Rebus dropped the number plate and marched towards the machine, yelling for it to be switched off. Bairstow did as he was told. His boss was a couple of yards behind Rebus, repeating his question. Rebus peered into the compactor. He could smell engine oil. The blue Ford Escort had been reduced to a third of its size, and wouldn’t be carrying passengers again. Rebus looked at the two men.

‘You stripped it?’

Bairstow checked with Duke before answering. ‘Someone had already picked it clean.’

Not that it looked clean — even mangled as it was, Rebus could make out the thick coating of dust.

‘Been stored for a while, would you say?’

Bairstow nodded.

‘Check the boot?’

‘I didn’t take anything.’

‘We removed the tyres and hubs,’ his boss added. ‘Some of the electrics. The engine was pretty well shot. .’

‘I want it out of there,’ Rebus ordered. ‘A scene-of-crime team will come and examine it.’

‘For what?’

‘Just get a hook or whatever on it and pull it back out. Throw a tarp over it and keep it safe.’

‘There was a bit of a smell, you know,’ Bairstow conceded. ‘Back seat and the boot.’

‘And the boot was easy enough to open?’

‘Lock was bust. Looked like someone had taken a. .’

‘Yes?’ Rebus fixed his eyes on the man.

‘A crowbar to it.’ Understanding now exactly why Rebus might want the car kept.

Nick Ralph listened to the story with arms folded, lips puckered. He was seated behind his desk at Torphichen.

‘It’s thin, John,’ he said, after about a minute’s thought.

Rebus had walked into the station and straight up to Ralph without any preamble. The first words out of his mouth had been ‘Can I talk to you?’

‘I’ve seen you before,’ Ralph had responded, after which Rebus had introduced himself.

Now the two men were engaged in a staring contest, Ralph rocking slightly in his chair.

‘Very thin,’ he eventually said, breaking the silence.

Rebus just shrugged and waited.

‘You’re saying this man Bell killed Redpath as retribution of sorts?’

‘Yes.’

‘And stored the body for a number of years in a car park? Pat McCuskey’s son finds out, so Bell goes after him?’

‘That’s my thinking.’

‘And you brought it to me rather than DCI Page. .’

‘He’s not in charge of the McCuskey inquiry, sir. And if I can be frank, without the leads I’ve just given you, you seem to be stalled.’

‘Is that so?’ Ralph’s shoulders stiffened. He took a deep breath, picked up his phone and ordered a scene-of-crime team to the scrapyard.

‘And the multi-storey?’ Rebus suggested. But Ralph had already put down the phone.

‘One step at a time, John. We need to bring in the students and hear what they have to say.’

‘They won’t have anything to say.’

‘Still has to be done. And after that, we can talk to Rory Bell. If it went down the way you say it did. . did Pat McCuskey smack his head while trying to get away?’

‘Either that or he was in a fighting mood — they wrestled him to the floor and he connected with the fireplace.’

‘Accidental death, then?’

‘More like culpable homicide. Plus the initial break-in. There’ll be plenty to charge Bell with, don’t you worry.’

If we find anything useful in the boot of the Escort.’

Rebus accepted this with a shrug.

‘Well.’ Ralph was rising to his feet, signalling that the meeting was over. He reached out his hand for Rebus to take. ‘We’ll let you know.’

‘Maybe I could oversee the SOCOs.’

But Ralph shook his head. ‘I’m not the kind to forget favours done, John, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

‘It’s not.’

‘Well then, as soon as I have news, I’ll be in touch.’ He made the gesture again with his hand, and this time Rebus shook it.

He heard nothing until half past five.

Every half-hour he’d been taking out his phone, checking it had both charge and signal. When it did eventually ring, he almost dropped it in his haste to answer.

‘Rebus,’ he said.

‘John, it’s Nick Ralph.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Neither good news nor bad, really. Fibres were found, and the lab will check if they match the ones from the body pulled out of the dock. It’s not always an exact science, though.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘The team did comment on the residual smell — definite whiff of decay, though that’s unlikely to convince a jury.’

‘But it is Jack Redpath’s car.’

‘Yes, it is. And you may well be right that the chap hauled from Leith Docks is Redpath. That’s why I suggested to your boss that one of his relatives is contacted and asked for a DNA sample — wouldn’t be conclusive unless the man boasts an identical twin, but it would let us know we’re on the right path.’

‘You’ve spoken to James Page?’

‘As a courtesy.’ Ralph paused. ‘Which is when I discovered that you hadn’t said anything to him after our meeting. Hope I’ve not dropped you in it.’

‘Not at all.’ Rebus looked around the empty office. Christine Esson had clocked off, and so had practically everyone else in the building. He wondered if Page would be on his way here right now, full of righteous indignation.

Answer: yes.

Because there he stood, filling the doorway, face reddened, eyes furious.

‘Speak of the devil,’ Rebus said into the phone, before pressing the cancel key. Page was advancing on his desk.

‘How dare you!’ he exploded. ‘That floater is my case!’

‘He’s not a “floater” — if I’m right, his name is Jack Redpath and he connects to the McCuskey killing and a lot more besides.’

‘All of which should have been given to me, so that I could decide what to do with it!’

‘Granted,’ Rebus said. ‘But you were a bit busy grooming yourself for the cameras and the brass. That left me here as the senior officer, and I acted like one.’

‘You did this to get at me — no other reason! Clear your desk and get the hell out. Go ask your good friend at Torphichen for a job. Or maybe you know someone at Wester Hailes. You better hope you’re wanted somewhere, because you’re not wanted here!’

‘It’s been a pleasure,’ Rebus said.

‘It really hasn’t. Everyone warned me: Rebus is a loose cannon; he’s off the scale; you can’t trust him; he’s past his sell-by. Everybody told me that, and a lot worse too. Ask yourself this: how many cop shops in this town would have given you the chance? Not a second chance either, but a sixth or seventh or eighth? I did it because at heart I thought you were a good cop — a copper’s cop, the kind from the old days that I used to hear about but hardly ever seemed to meet.’ Page paused. The fire had been damped. If anything, he seemed fatigued and — yes — genuinely disappointed.

‘Sorry I let you down,’ Rebus conceded.

‘It seems to be your speciality.’

‘I can’t disagree — and you did say I’d sour your mood sooner rather than later. For what it’s worth, DCI Ralph knows this is your investigation. He told me as much.’

‘He shouldn’t have had to do that, though, should he?’

‘No, he shouldn’t.’

Page nodded slowly at the admission. Then he turned towards his cupboard of an office, went inside and closed the door. A moment later it opened again. He placed an empty cardboard box on the floor and slid it towards Rebus’s desk.

‘For your stuff,’ he said. ‘I want you gone in ten minutes.’

The door closed once more. Rebus sat there for half a minute or so, then got up and fetched the box. Placed it on his desk, then realised that he didn’t need it. There was almost nothing here that belonged to him. He hadn’t been back in CID long enough to accumulate anything.

‘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 did nothing.’ He looked around the room, making sure he had everyone’s attention. ‘We stick to the plan, and you leave everything to me.’ Then, to Forbes: ‘When does this guy Ralph want to see 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. .’

Загрузка...