Forbes McCuskey was a few minutes early. He carried a Harris Tweed satchel over one shoulder and wore a three-quarter-length military-style coat, powder blue with brass buttons. Rebus led him to an interview room, where Siobhan Clarke was waiting. She had placed her folder — the one from the crash site — on the table in front of her. She gestured for McCuskey to sit down opposite. There was no chair for Rebus, but that was by agreement — he preferred to lean against a wall, always in the eyeline of the person being questioned.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Clarke. You’ve already met Detective Sergeant Rebus.’
‘So you’re his superior?’ McCuskey broke in.
‘I’m the senior officer here, yes.’
McCuskey nodded his understanding. He sat low in the metal chair with his legs splayed, as if he didn’t find it uncomfortable in the least. Clarke had opened the folder. She positioned a photo of the VW Golf in front of the young man.
‘Jessica was incredibly fortunate.’
‘I can see that,’ he said, nodding again.
‘Lucky someone was driving past — they phoned for an ambulance.’
‘Right.’
‘If someone had been with her in the car, they could have called the ambulance sooner. Might have made all the difference.’
‘But she’s going to be okay — she told me.’
‘It’s still going to take her longer to recover,’ Clarke bluffed, giving the news time to sink in. ‘Odd place for her to be. Has she told you what she was doing there?’
‘Said she just felt like a drive.’
‘Her father tells us she’s not the kind to put her foot down. .’
‘Maybe she hit a patch of oil.’
‘Road looked fine when we checked.’ Clarke made show of searching the folder, pulling out another photo. ‘Then there’s this.’
‘Yes?’ McCuskey’s eyes had narrowed in apparent concentration.
‘It’s one of her boots, found lying in the passenger-side footwell. Any notion how it might have ended up there?’
McCuskey gave a little pout, shaking his head.
‘See, the obvious conclusion — obvious to us, that is — is that Jessica wasn’t alone in the vehicle. She was the passenger. And after the smash, the driver hauled her across so it would look like her fault. Then he scarpered.’
McCuskey’s eyes met Clarke’s. ‘And you think that was me?’
‘Well, was it?’
‘What does Jessica say?’ When this received no answer, McCuskey barked out a short laugh. ‘I went to see her last night. If I’d run off and left her, would she have been so happy to see me? Would there have been tears in her eyes when we kissed?’
‘How did you twist your ankle, Forbes?’ The question had come from Rebus. McCuskey turned his attention towards him.
‘I told you — I just got one of the steps wrong on Jessica’s stairwell.’
‘Seen a doctor about it?’
‘It’ll be fine.’
‘Any other bruises or aches and pains?’
‘I wasn’t in the car with her. I don’t even drive.’
‘You don’t drive?’ Clarke couldn’t help glancing in Rebus’s direction as McCuskey shook his head in confirmation.
‘Do your parents know you’re here?’ Rebus asked into the silence. ‘No.’
‘Haven’t you told them about Jessica?’
‘Not yet.’
‘How about her father — do you get on with him?’
‘Only met him last night.’
‘He has a bit of a rep. You should google him, that’s what I did.’ Rebus had taken a few steps towards the table. ‘Not the sort of character you’d want to cross.’
‘Really?’
‘An investor in one of his companies started bad-mouthing him. Ended up in intensive care. Afterwards, he kept tight-lipped about who’d thumped him. And that’s just one of the stories.’ Rebus paused. ‘Which is why it’s a shame I let slip our little theory — the one about you being responsible.’
‘What?’ For the first time since entering the room, McCuskey looked nervous. Clarke was studying Rebus, trying to work out if he was telling the truth or bluffing. When he looked at her, his face didn’t change. Truth, then.
‘You have to tell him you’re wrong,’ McCuskey was saying. ‘You’ve spoken to Jessica and me — why would we lie?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rebus said. ‘But something like this. . it starts small but it can snowball, gathering up all kinds of crap as it rolls downhill.’
‘I can’t confess to something I didn’t do.’
‘Quite right,’ Clarke said, gathering together the photographs. ‘So that seems to be that. We just need an address for you, and you can be on your way.’
McCuskey stared at her. ‘And then what?’
Clarke shrugged, closing the folder. ‘If we need to talk again, we’ll let you know.’ She handed him a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen. ‘Address, please.’ As he wrote, she asked if he was a student. He nodded. ‘Which subject?’
‘Art history.’
‘Same as Jessica and her flatmate.’
‘We’re all in second year.’
‘Is that how you met?’
‘At a party.’ He had finished writing. The details were just about legible.
‘Arden Street?’ she checked.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s in Marchmont, isn’t it?’
McCuskey nodded. Clarke and Rebus shared a look: same street as Rebus’s flat. He glanced at the tenement number: about six doors up from him on the other side of the road.
‘Thanks again for coming in,’ Clarke was saying, rising to her feet. McCuskey shook hands with both detectives and a uniform was summoned to show him out.
‘Well?’ Clarke asked, once he had gone.
‘Girlfriend’s covering for him.’
‘He’s got a point, though — why would she do that?’
‘Could be she’s the forgiving type. He goes to her bedside, whispers a few sweet nothings and flutters those eyelashes — and that’s when they prepare their story.’
Clarke considered this, mouth a thin determined line. ‘And you really told Owen Traynor the whole story? After your little trip to the Ox, a few beers inside you. .?’
‘I just dropped in to see how the patient was doing. Coincided with McCuskey and Alice Bell leaving.’
Clarke was shaking her head slowly. ‘This is exactly the kind of thing you shouldn’t be doing. .’ She broke off as James Page appeared in the doorway.
‘What shouldn’t John be doing?’ he enquired.
‘Putting a bet on Raith Rovers for promotion,’ Rebus answered.
‘I’m inclined to agree.’ Page paused. ‘So where are we with this car crash?’
‘Not much further along,’ Clarke conceded.
‘In which case, probably time to drop it, wouldn’t you say? Nothing for us there, no point wasting effort.’
‘The boyfriend,’ Rebus said, ‘the one we think may have been in the car. .’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s the son of Pat McCuskey.’
‘Justice Minister?’
‘And poster boy for an independent Scotland.’ Rebus knew his boss’s feelings on the topic — like everyone else in the office, he’d had his ear bent by Page about the need for Scotland to remain part of the UK. ‘McCuskey heads the Yes campaign.’
Page digested this information. ‘What’s your thinking, John? A wee call to a friendly journalist?’
‘Only if we can find something that will stick. Otherwise it looks too political.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Hang on,’ Clarke said. ‘You’re planning to use the son to get at the father? Hardly seems fair.’
‘We all know how you’ll be voting, Siobhan.’
The blood rose to Clarke’s cheeks. ‘I just don’t think. .’
But Page had turned his back and was marching away. ‘Another day or two,’ he called out. ‘See what you can find.’
Clarke stared hard at Rebus. He spread his arms in a show of appeasement.
‘It’s not as if we have anything else to do,’ he argued.
‘And that little game you just played. .’ She stabbed a finger in Page’s direction.
‘I knew damned fine he’d go for it.’
‘He might, but I won’t.’
‘You’re disappointed in me.’ Rebus tried to look contrite. ‘But you have to admit, it’s not your typical set-up — Pat McCuskey and Owen Traynor. .’
‘I do wonder how a dodgy businessman like Traynor ends up pulling favours with the Met.’
‘Met are still a law to themselves, Siobhan — way we used to be.’
‘A time you clearly yearn for. Meantime, this lets you stir stuff up for the hell of it.’
‘But sometimes that’s how we find gold, too.’
‘And what sort of gold do you expect to find this time?’ She folded her arms in a show of defiance.
‘The stirring’s the fun part,’ Rebus said. ‘You should have learned that by now.’
‘Your dad’s not here?’ Rebus asked.
Jessica Traynor looked better. The device around her head had been replaced by a simple neck brace, and the top of her bed had been raised a little, so that she no longer had to stare at the ceiling.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘Just thought I’d see how you’re doing.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Good to hear.’
‘My father’s at his hotel.’
Rebus noticed the mobile phone in her right hand. ‘Heard from Forbes today?’
‘A couple of texts.’
‘He tells me you met at a party.’
‘That’s right. I went there with Alice and got talking to Forbes in the kitchen.’
‘Just like the song, eh?’
‘What song?’
‘Before your time,’ Rebus admitted, gesturing towards her phone. ‘A couple of texts, you say — I’m guessing one before he came in to talk to us and one after?’
She ignored this. ‘I’m still not really sure why you’re here. .’
Rebus offered a shrug. ‘It just bugs me when people lie to my face. I start to wonder what it is they’re afraid of. In your case, it might be something or nothing, but until I know for sure. .’
‘Would it really matter if Forbes was in the car?’ She was staring at him.
‘If he was in the car, that means he left you there. Didn’t phone for help or flag down a passing motorist. .’
‘I don’t see why the police would be interested in any of that.’
Rebus gave another shrug. ‘What about your father? Won’t he be interested?’
‘It’s not really any of his business, is it?’
‘Fair enough.’ Rebus watched as she checked the screen of her phone. Maybe she had messages and maybe she didn’t. ‘How long till you get to leave here?’
‘I’ve got to talk to a physio first.’
‘They’ll probably tell you to stay away from fast cars for a while.’
She managed a half-smile.
‘And country roads at night,’ Rebus added. ‘West Lothian isn’t called the Badlands for nothing.’
She looked up at him. ‘Badlands?’
‘Because it’s largely lawless.’
‘That explains a lot.’ Rebus waited for more, but she pressed her lips together. A classic tell: she knew she’d let something slip.
‘Jessica, if there’s anything you feel you need to-’
‘Get out!’ she yelled, just as a nurse entered the room. ‘I want him to leave! Please!’
Rebus already had his hands up in a show of surrender. He walked past the nurse and into the corridor.
Badlands?
That explains a lot.
Explained what, though? Something had happened that evening. Rebus made a little mental note to check back — the comms room at Bilston Glen would have records of anything that had been reported. Illegal races? Locals trying to scare the tourists?
‘Something or nothing,’ he muttered to himself, exiting the hospital and readying to light a cigarette. A black cab had pulled up. The passenger had left the back seat, preparing to pay the driver at the passenger-side window. Basic error by someone who was used to a different system — in Edinburgh you paid before getting out. Rebus walked over and waited behind Owen Traynor. He seemed to be wearing the same suit but a fresh shirt. The driver passed over some change and a receipt, and Traynor turned away, startled to find Rebus right in front of him.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said.
‘Sorry, sir. I was just leaving.’
‘You’ve been to see Jessica?’
Rebus nodded.
‘And?’
‘And what, Mr Traynor?’
‘Do you still think that boyfriend of hers was behind the steering wheel?’
‘It’s a scenario.’
‘Well maybe she’ll tell me.’
Rebus doubted it, but didn’t say as much. ‘Probably simpler for everyone if we just drop it,’ he suggested instead. ‘Whatever the truth is, Jessica’s standing by Mr McCuskey.’
‘Yes, but if he did that to her. .’
‘Like I say, sir, better to just let it be. We don’t want anyone doing something daft, do we?’
Traynor stared at him.
‘You see what I’m saying?’ Rebus went on.
‘I’m not sure that I do,’ Traynor drawled.
‘You have a reputation, Mr Traynor. And I’m interested how you came by your friends in the Met.’
‘Maybe I’m just a member of the right clubs.’ Traynor began edging past Rebus, making for the hospital entrance.
‘My town, my rules,’ Rebus called out. But Owen Traynor showed no sign of having heard.
‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Malcolm Fox said, rising from the table and extending a hand towards Siobhan Clarke. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Brian’s already on it.’ She nodded towards the counter. The café owner was busy at the espresso machine. The place was only a hundred yards or so down Leith Walk from Gayfield Square, but she didn’t know any other cops who frequented it. Making it a safe rendezvous, more or less.
Clarke slid on to the banquette opposite Fox. They’d met before, but just barely.
‘I heard you were on your way out of the Complaints,’ she said. ‘That can’t be comfortable.’
‘No,’ Fox agreed, rubbing a hand across the tabletop.
Reorganisation again — internal-affairs officers were not exempt. Their Edinburgh office was about to be trimmed. Besides which, Fox had served his allotted time. He was being shipped back to CID, where he would work alongside men and women he’d investigated, in stations he’d investigated, stations where he would be mistrusted if not reviled.
The café owner brought over Clarke’s cappuccino and asked Fox if he wanted a refill. Fox nodded.
‘Black coffee, no sugar,’ he reminded the man.
‘Because you’re already too sweet?’ Clarke pretended to guess, eliciting a wry smile. She leaned back a little and turned to watch the pedestrians on the pavement outside. ‘So why am I fraternising with the enemy?’ she asked.
‘Maybe because you know I’m not the enemy. The Complaints exists so that cops like you — the good cops — can thrive.’
‘I bet you’ve said that before.’
‘Many times.’
She turned towards him. He still had the same wry smile on his face.
‘You need a favour?’ she guessed, receiving a slow nod by way of reply. His coffee arrived and he touched the rim of the saucer with the tips of his fingers.
‘It’s to do with John Rebus,’ he stated.
‘Of course it is.’
‘I’ve got to talk to him.’
‘I’m not stopping you.’
‘The thing is, Siobhan, I need him to talk. And if the request comes from me, he’ll doubtless respond with a few choice words.’
‘Request?’
‘Order, then. And it won’t be coming from me, not ultimately. .’
‘The Solicitor General?’ Clarke suggested. Fox tried not to look too surprised that she knew. ‘I saw her making a beeline for you at the Chief’s leaving do.’
‘She’s entrusted me with a job.’
‘A Complaints job?’
‘My last,’ he said quietly, staring at his saucer.
‘And if you break a sweat, she rewards you how? A big promotion? Something to lift you off the pitch and into the directors’ box?’
‘You’re good at this.’ Fox’s admiring tone sounded genuine enough.
Clarke knew now what David Galvin had been hinting at during dinner at Bia Bistrot. How are things working out with your old sparring partner? Toeing the line? Obeying orders?
‘You really think I’m going to hand you John on a plate?’
‘It’s not Rebus I want — it’s people he knows, or used to know. I’m going back thirty years.’
‘Summerhall?’
Fox paused and studied her. ‘He’s talked about it?’ She shook her head. ‘So how do you know?’ But he had worked it out within a few seconds. ‘That leaving do,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Eamonn Paterson was there. I saw him with Rebus. .’
‘Then you know as much about Summerhall as I do. And I’m still no further forward as to why I should help you.’
‘Whatever happens, I’m going to end up asking Rebus some questions. I just think it would smooth things a little if there was a referee of some kind.’
‘A referee?’
‘To ensure fairness — on both sides.’
She took a sip of coffee, then another. Fox did likewise, almost exactly mirroring her.
‘Is that supposed to be an empathy thing?’ she queried.
‘What?’
‘Aping me to make me think I’m the one with the power?’
He seemed to consider this. ‘You picking up your cup reminded me mine was there, that’s all. But thanks for the tip — I’ll bear it in mind.’
She stared at him, trying to gauge the level of game being played.
‘It’s good coffee, by the way,’ he added, this time slurping from his cup. Clarke couldn’t help but smile. She went back to watching pedestrians while she considered her options.
‘Thirty years is a long time,’ she said eventually.
‘It is.’
‘Something’s supposed to have happened at Summerhall?’
‘Possibly.’
‘And it involved John?’
‘Tangentially — I don’t think he’d been there that long. He was pretty junior. .’
‘You know he’s not going to give up any of the men he worked with?’
‘Unless I can persuade him otherwise.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Clarke said.
‘My problem, not yours. I’d just like it if you could get him to sit down with me.’
‘So what are we talking about? A few statements altered? Lies told in court? Prisoners tripping and falling on their way to the cells?’ She waited for him to answer.
‘A bit more serious than that,’ he obliged, placing his cup back on its saucer with the utmost care. ‘So Rebus has never talked to you about it?’
‘Summerhall, you mean?’ She watched him nod. ‘Never a word.’
‘In which case,’ Fox said, lowering his voice despite the fact they were the café’s only customers, ‘you maybe won’t have heard of the Saints?’
‘Only the band.’
‘This was a band of sorts too, I suppose. Saints of the Shadow Bible, they called themselves.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘I’m not exactly sure — the files from the Solicitor General’s office don’t seem to be complete.’
‘Sounds vaguely Masonic.’
‘That might not be too wide of the mark.’
‘And officers at Summerhall were members?’
‘They were the only members, Siobhan. If you worked there as a detective at that period, you were a Saint of the Shadow Bible. .’