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Synopsis
Rebus and Malcolm Fox go head-to-head when a thirty-year-old murder investigation resurfaces, forcing Rebus to confront crimes of the past.
Rebus is back on the force, albeit with a demotion and a chip on his shoulder. He is investigating a car accident when news arrives that a case from thirty years ago is being reopened. Rebus’ team from those days is suspected of helping a murderer escape justice to further their own ends.
Malcolm Fox, in what will be his last case as an internal affairs cop, is tasked with finding out the truth. Past and present are about to collide in shocking and murderous fashion. What does Rebus have to hide? And whose side is he really on? His colleagues back then called themselves “The Saints” and swore a bond on something called the Shadow Bible. But times have changed, and the crimes of the past may not stay hidden much longer—and they may also play a role in the present, as Scotland gears up for a referendum on independence.
Allegiances are being formed, enemies made, and huge questions asked. Who are the saints and who are the sinners? And can one ever become the other?
Release date: January 14, 2014
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Print pages: 400
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Saints of the Shadow Bible
Ian Rankin
Where are we going?”
“We’re just driving.”
“Driving where, though?”
Rebus turned to look at his passenger. The man’s name was Peter Meikle. He had served almost half his adult life in various Scottish and English prisons and had the pallor and bearing common to excons. His face needed a shave and his sunken eyes were black, wary pinholes. Rebus had picked him up from outside a betting shop on Clerk Street. A few sets of lights and they were heading past the Commonwealth Pool and into Holyrood Park.
“It’s been a while,” Rebus said. “What are you up to these days?”
“Nothing you lot need worry about.”
“Do I look worried?”
“You look the same way you did when you laid me out in 1989.”
“That far back?” Rebus made show of shaking his head in surprise. “But be fair, Peter, you were resisting arrest—and you had a temper on you.”
“You’re saying you didn’t?” When Rebus made no answer, Meikle resumed staring through the windscreen. The Saab was on Queen’s Drive now, skirting the cliff-like Salisbury Crags on the approach to St. Margaret’s Loch. A few tourists were trying to feed bread to the ducks and swans, though a troop of swooping gulls seemed to be winning more than its fair share. Rebus was signaling right, beginning the climb that would snake around Arthur’s Seat. They passed joggers and walkers, the city vanishing from view.
“Could be in the middle of the Highlands,” Rebus commented. “Hard to believe Edinburgh’s somewhere down below.” He turned again towards his passenger. “Didn’t you live around here at one time?”
“You know I did.”
“Northfield, I seem to think.” The car was slowing, Rebus pulling over and stopping. He nodded in the direction of a wall with an open gate. “That’s the shortcut, isn’t it? If you were coming into the park on foot? From Northfield?”
Meikle just shrugged. He was wearing a padded nylon jacket. It made noises when he twitched. He watched Rebus break open a new pack of cigarettes and light one with a match. Rebus exhaled a plume of smoke before offering the pack to Meikle.
“I stopped last year.”
“News to me, Peter.”
“Aye, I’ll bet it is.”
“Well, if I can’t tempt you, let’s just get out for a minute.” Rebus turned off the ignition, undid his seat belt and pushed open his door.
“Why?” Meikle wasn’t budging.
Rebus leaned back into the car. “Something to show you.”
“What if I’m not interested?”
But Rebus just winked and closed the door, heading around the car and across the grass towards the gateway. The keys were still in the ignition, and Meikle studied them for a good twenty or thirty seconds before cursing under his breath, composing himself and opening the passenger-side door.
Rebus was the other side of the park’s perimeter wall, the eastern suburbs of the city laid out below him.
“It’s a steep climb,” he was saying, shading his eyes with his free hand. “But you were younger then. Or maybe you weren’t on foot—bound to be a mate’s car you could borrow. All you had to tell them was you had something needed shifting.”
“This is about Dorothy,” Meikle stated.
“What else?” Rebus gave a thin smile. “Almost two weeks before she was reported missing.”
“It was eleven years ago…”
“Two weeks,” Rebus repeated. “Your story was you thought she’d gone to stay with her sister. Bit of a falling-out between the two of you. Well, there was no way you could deny that—neighbors couldn’t help hearing the shouting matches. So you might as well turn it to your advantage.” Only now did Rebus turn towards the man. “Two weeks, and even then it was her sister who had to contact us. Never a trace of Dorothy leaving the city—we asked at the train and bus stations. It was like you were a magician and you’d put her in one of those boxes. Open it up and she’s not there.” He paused and took half a step towards Meikle. “But she is there, Peter. She’s somewhere in this city.” He stamped his left foot against the ground. “Dead and buried.”
“I was questioned at the time, remember?”
“Chief suspect,” Rebus added with a slow nod.
“She could have gone out drinking, met the wrong man…”
“Hundreds of pubs we visited, Peter, showing her picture, asking the regulars.”
“Tried thumbing a lift then—you can lose yourself in London.”
“Where she had no friends? Never touching her bank account?” Rebus was shaking his head now.
“I didn’t kill her.”
Rebus made show of wincing. “This is just the two of us, Peter. I’m not wearing a wire or anything; it’s for my own peace of mind, that’s all. Once you’ve told me you brought her up here and buried her, that’ll be the end of it.”
“I thought you weren’t working cold cases anymore.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Edinburgh’s being shut down, transferred.”
“True enough. But not everyone would be as informed as you seem to be.”
Meikle gave a shrug. “I read the papers.”
“Paying particular attention to police stories?”
“I know there’s a reorganization.”
“Why so interested, though?”
“You forgetting that I’ve a history with you lot? Come to that, why aren’t you retired—you must be on full pension by now?”
“I was retired—that’s what the Cold Case Unit was, a bunch of old hands still itching for answers. And you’re right that our caseload has gone elsewhere.” Rebus’s face was by now only a couple of inches from Meikle’s. “But I’ve not gone, Peter. I’m right here, and I was just getting started on reopening your case when it was taken away from me. Well, you know me, I like to finish what I start.”
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Sure about that?”
“You going to slam me into a wall, knock me out cold again? That’s the way you and your lot always liked to operate…”
But Rebus wasn’t listening. His attention had shifted to the mobile phone gripped in Meikle’s right hand. He snatched at it and saw that its recording function was on. With a grim smile, he tossed it into a thicket of gorse. Meikle gave a little yelp of complaint.
“This the way you want it to go, Peter?” Rebus asked, stubbing the remains of his cigarette against the wall. “Always watching over your shoulder for someone like me? Waiting for the day a dog goes sniffing where it shouldn’t and starts to dig?”
“You’ve got nothing and you are nothing,” Meikle spat.
“You couldn’t be more wrong. See, I’ve got you.” A finger was stabbed into Meikle’s chest. “And as long as you’re unfinished business, that makes me something you need to worry about.”
He turned and headed back through the gateway. Meikle watched him climb into the Saab and start the engine. The car sped off with a burst of smoke from its exhaust. Swearing under his breath, Meikle began trampling down the gorse in search of his phone.
The Chief Constable’s leaving party took place at the canteen of Lothian and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue. He was heading to a new post south of the border and no one seemed to know whether anyone would take over his role. The eight regional Scottish forces were soon to be amalgamated into something called Police Scotland. The Chief Constable of Strathclyde had been given the top job, leaving seven of his colleagues scratching around for fresh opportunities.
A perfunctory attempt had been made to turn the canteen into a festive location—meaning a couple of banners, some streamers and even a dozen or so party balloons. Tables had been covered with paper tablecloths. There were bowls of crisps and nuts, and bottles of wine and beer.
“Cake’s arriving in half an hour,” Siobhan Clarke told Rebus.
“Then I’m out of here in twenty.”
“You don’t like cake?”
“It’s the speeches that’ll no doubt accompany it.”
Clarke smiled and sipped her orange juice. Rebus held an open bottle of lager, but had no intention of finishing it—too gassy, not cold enough.
“So, DS Rebus,” she said, “what did you get up to this afternoon?”
He stared at her. “How long are we going to keep this up?” Meaning her use of his rank—detective sergeant to her inspector. A decade back, the roles had been reversed. But when Rebus had applied to rejoin, he’d been warned of a surfeit of DIs, meaning he would have to drop to DS.
“Take it or leave it,” he’d been told.
So he’d taken it.
“I think I can string it out a little longer,” Clarke was saying now, her smile widening. “And you haven’t answered my question.”
“I was looking up an old friend.”
“You don’t have any.”
“I could point to a dozen in this very room.”
Clarke scanned the faces. “And probably as many enemies.”
Rebus seemed to ponder this. “Aye, maybe,” he conceded. And he was lying anyway. A dozen friends? Not even close. Siobhan was a friend, perhaps the closest he’d ever had—despite the age gap and the fact she didn’t like most of the music he played. He saw people he’d worked alongside, but almost no one he would have invited back to his flat for whisky and conversation. Then there were the few he would gladly give a kicking to—like the three officers from Professional Standards. They stood apart from the rest of the room, pariah status confirmed. Yet they had a haunted look—as with the Cold Case Unit, so too with their particular jobs: packed off elsewhere come reorganization. But then a face from the past was squeezing through the throng and heading in Rebus’s direction. He stuck out a hand, which Rebus took.
“Bloody hell, I almost didn’t recognize you there,” Rebus admitted.
Eamonn Paterson patted what was left of his stomach. “Diet and exercise,” he explained.
“Thank God for that—I thought you were going to tell me you had some sort of wasting disease.” Rebus turned towards Clarke. “Siobhan, this is Eamonn Paterson. He was a DS when I was a DC.” While the two shook hands, Rebus continued the introduction.
“Siobhan’s a detective inspector, which has her under the cruel delusion she’s my boss.”
“Good luck with that,” Paterson said. “When he was wet behind the ears I couldn’t get him to take a telling, no matter how hard I kicked his backside.”
“Some things never change,” Clarke conceded.
“Eamonn here used to go by the name of Porkbelly,” Rebus said. “Came back from a holiday in the States with the story he’d eaten so much of the stuff a restaurant had given him a T-shirt.”
“I’ve still got it,” Paterson said, raising his glass in a toast.
“How long have you been out of the game?” Clarke asked. Paterson was tall and slim, with a good head of hair; she wouldn’t have said he was a day older than Rebus.
“Nearly fifteen years. Nice of them still to send me the invites.” He waved his wineglass in the direction of the party.
“Maybe you’re the poster boy for retirement.”
“That could be part of it,” he agreed with a laugh. “So this is the last rites for Lothian and Borders, eh?”
“As far as anyone knows.” Rebus turned towards Clarke. “What’s the new name again?”
“There’ll be two divisions—Edinburgh, plus Lothians and Scottish Borders.”
“Piece of nonsense,” Paterson muttered. “Warrant cards will need changing, and so will the livery on the patrol cars—how the hell’s that supposed to save money?” Then, to Rebus: “You going to manage along to Dod’s?”
Rebus shrugged. “How about you?”
“Could be another case of last rites.” Paterson turned towards Clarke. “We all worked together at Summerhall.”
“Summerhall?”
“A cop shop next door to the vet school on Summerhall Place,” Rebus explained. “They knocked it down and replaced it with St. Leonard’s.”
“Before my time,” she admitted.
“Practically Stone Age,” Paterson agreed. “Not many of us cavemen left, eh, John?”
“I’ve learned how to make fire,” Rebus countered, taking the box of matches from his pocket and shaking it.
“You’re not still smoking?”
“Someone has to.”
“He likes the occasional drink, too,” Clarke confided.
“I’m shocked.” Paterson made show of studying Rebus’s physique.
“Didn’t realize I was auditioning for Mr. Universe.”
“No,” Clarke said, “but you’ve sucked your stomach in anyway.”
“Busted,” Paterson said with another laugh, slapping Rebus’s shoulder. “So will you make it to Dod’s or not? Stefan’ll likely be there.”
“Seems a bit ghoulish,” Rebus said. He explained to Clarke that Dod Blantyre had suffered a recent stroke.
“He wants one last gathering of the old guard,” Paterson added. He wagged a finger in Rebus’s direction. “You don’t want to disappoint him—or Maggie…”
“I’ll see how I’m fixed.”
Paterson tried staring Rebus out, then nodded slowly and patted his shoulder again. “Fine then,” he said, moving off to greet another old face.
Five minutes later, as Rebus was readying his excuse that he needed to step out for a cigarette, a fresh group entered the canteen. They looked like lawyers because that was what they were—invitees from the Procurator Fiscal’s office. Well dressed, with shiny, confident faces, and led by the Solicitor General for Scotland, Elinor Macari.
“Do we need to bow or anything?” Rebus murmured to Clarke, who was fixing her fringe. Macari was pecking the Chief Constable on both cheeks.
“Just don’t say something you might regret.”
“You’re the boss.”
Macari looked as though she’d made several stops on her way to the party: hairdresser, cosmetics counter and boutique. Her large black-framed glasses accentuated the sharpness of her gaze. Having swept the room in an instant, she knew who needed greeting and who could be dismissed. The councilor who headed the policing committee merited the same kiss as the Chief Constable. Other guests nearby had to make do with handshakes or a nod of the head. A glass of white wine had been fetched, but Rebus doubted it was anything other than a prop. He noticed too that his own bottle of lager was empty, though he’d vowed to save his thirst for something more deserving.
“Got a few words stored up in case she drifts this way?” he asked Clarke.
“I’d say we’re well out of her orbit.”
“Fair point. But now she’s arrived, the presentations can’t be far behind.” Rebus held up the packet of cigarettes and gestured in the direction of the outside world.
“Are you coming back?” She saw his look and gave a twitch of the mouth, acknowledging the stupidity of the question. But as he made to leave the canteen, Macari spotted someone and made a beeline for them, so that Rebus had to swerve past her. She frowned, as if trying to place him, going so far as to glance at his retreating figure. But by then she had reached her prey. Siobhan Clarke watched as the most senior lawyer in Scotland took Malcolm Fox by the arm and led him away from his Professional Standards cohort. Whatever was about to be discussed, a modicum of privacy was required. One of the canteen staff had arrived in the doorway, holding the cake, but a gesture from the Chief Constable told her the ceremony would have to wait until the Solicitor General was ready…
1
A flatbed lorry had arrived, the name of a local scrap yard stenciled on its doors. The previous night, a flimsy cordon had been erected, consisting of three-inch-wide tape with the word POLICE on it. The tape ran from an undamaged tree to a fence post and from there to another tree. The driver of the flatbed had sliced through it and was preparing to winch the crashed VW Golf up the slope towards the waiting ramp.
“Not a bad afternoon,” Rebus said, lighting a cigarette and examining his surroundings. A stretch of narrow country road on the outskirts of Kirkliston. Edinburgh Airport wasn’t far away, and the roar of approaching and departing passenger flights punctuated the rural scene. They had come in Clarke’s Vauxhall Astra. It was parked on the opposite verge, flashers blinking in a warning to approaching drivers. Not that there seemed to be any.
“It’s a straight road,” Clarke was saying. “Surface wasn’t icy or greasy. Must have been going at a fair clip, judging by the damage…”
True enough: the front of the Golf had become concertinaed on impact with the venerable oak tree. They made their way past the torn fencing and down the slope. The driver from the flatbed jutted out his chin in greeting but otherwise wasn’t about to ask who they were or why they were there. Clarke carried a folder, which was good enough for him—meant they were official, and therefore probably best avoided.
“Is he okay?” Rebus asked.
“He’s a she,” Clarke corrected him. “Car’s registered to Jessica Traynor. Address in southwest London. She’s in the Infirmary.”
Rebus was walking around the car. It was less than a year old, pearl-colored. From what he could see of the tires, there was plenty of tread on them. The windscreen was gone, driver’s-side door and boot gaping, both airbags deployed.
“And we’re here because…?”
Clarke opened the folder. “Mainly because her father seems to have friends. Word came down from on high: make sure we’ve not missed anything.”
“What’s to miss?”
“Hopefully nothing. But this area’s notorious for boy racers.”
“She’s not a boy, though.”
“She drives the kind of car they like.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I think the Golf still qualifies as a ‘hot hatch.’”
Rebus wandered over towards the flatbed. The man from the scrap yard was reeling out a cable with a large hook on the end. Rebus asked him how many Golfs ended up in the compactor.
“A few,” he conceded. He sported oily blue overalls under a scuffed leather jacket, and dirt was ingrained on his palms and under his nails. The baseball cap he wore was so grubby the lettering on it was indecipherable, and a thick graying beard covered his chin and throat. Rebus offered him a cigarette, but the man shook his head.
“Roads around here used as racetracks?” Rebus continued.
“Sometimes.”
“You on a diet or something?” The man looked at him. “Cutting back on your vocabulary,” Rebus explained.
“I’m just here to do a job.”
“But this isn’t the first crash like this you’ve seen?”
“No.”
“How regular?”
The man considered this. “Every couple of months. Though there was one last week, the other side of Broxburn.”
“And it’s cars racing each other? Any idea how it gets arranged?”
“No,” the man stated.
“Well, thanks for sharing.” Rebus walked back towards the Golf. Clarke was peering through the open door, examining the interior.
“Take a look,” she said, handing Rebus a photograph. It showed a brown suede boot in what seemed a woman’s size, framed against the floor of the car.
“I don’t see any pedals.”
“That’s because it was in the passenger-side foot well.”
“Okay.” Rebus handed the photograph back. “So you’re saying there was a passenger?”
Clarke shook her head. “It’s one of a pair of Ugg boots belonging to Jessica Traynor. The other was on her left foot.”
“Ugg?”
“That’s what they’re called.”
“So it flew off on impact? Or came off when the medics pulled her out?”
“First patrol car on the scene, the officer took a few shots on his phone—including the boot. Jessica was still in the car at the time. Ambulance arrived a few minutes later.”
Rebus pondered this. “Who found her?”
“A woman on her way home from Livingston. She works shifts at a supermarket there.” Clarke was studying a typed sheet of paper from the folder. “Driver’s-side door was open. Impact could have done that.”
“Or the driver tried to get out.”
“Unconscious. Head resting against the airbag. No seat belt.”
Rebus took the photographs from Clarke and studied them while Clarke spoke. “The supermarket worker called 999 just after eight in the evening, no light left in the sky. No streetlamps either, just the distant glow from Edinburgh itself.”
“Boot’s closed,” Rebus said, handing the photos back.
“Yes, it is,” Clarke agreed.
“Not anymore, though.” Rebus walked around to the back of the car. “Did you open this?” he asked the man from the scrap yard, receiving a shake of the head in answer. The boot was empty, except for a rudimentary tool kit.
“Scavengers, maybe?” Clarke suggested. “Car was here all night.”
“Why not take the tool kit?”
“Don’t suppose it’s worth much. Anyone could have opened it, John—ambulance driver, our guy…”
“I suppose so.” He tried closing the boot. It was undamaged, and stayed locked once shut. The key was in the ignition, and he pressed the button to unlock the boot again. A clunk told him he had been successful.
“Electrics still seem to work,” he said.
“Sign of a well-made car.” Clarke was sifting through the paperwork. “So what do we think?”
“We think a car was traveling too fast and came off the road. No sign of a prior collision. Was she maybe on her phone at the time? It’s been known to happen.”
“Worth checking,” Clarke agreed. “And the Ugg?”
“Sometimes,” Rebus said, “footwear is just footwear.”
Clarke was checking a message on her phone. “Seems its owner is back in the land of the living.”
“Do we want to speak to her?” Rebus asked.
The look Clarke gave him was all the answer he needed.
Jessica Traynor had a room to herself at the Royal Infirmary. The nurse explained that she had been lucky—a suspected fracture of one ankle, some bruised ribs, and other minor injuries consistent with whiplash.
“Her head and neck are in a brace.”
“But she’s able to talk?” Clarke asked.
“A little.”
“Any sign of alcohol or drugs in her bloodstream?”
“Looks the clean-living type to me. She’s on painkillers now, though, so she’ll be woozy.” The nurse paused. “Do you want to speak to her father first?”
“He’s here?”
The nurse nodded again. “Arrived in the middle of the night. She was still in A and E at the time…” She had stopped by a window. It gave a view into Jessica Traynor’s room. Her father was seated bedside, holding her hand in his and stroking her wrist. Her eyes were closed. The brace seemed to be constructed of thick squares of polystyrene foam, fixed in place with an array of metal clamps. Looking up, her father saw the faces at the window. He checked his daughter was asleep, then placed her hand gently on the bed and rose to his feet.
Exiting the room quietly, he ran his fingers through his mop of silver and black hair. He wore the trousers from a pinstripe suit—the jacket was draped over the back of the chair next to his daughter’s bed. His white shirt was creased, and the cuff links had been removed so the sleeves could be rolled up. Rebus doubted the expensive-looking watch on his left wrist was a fake. He had taken off his tie at some point, and undone the top two buttons of his shirt, showing tufts of graying chest hair.
“Mr. Traynor,” Clarke said, “we’re police officers. How is Jessica doing?”
His large eyes were dark-ringed from lack of sleep and there was vending-machine coffee on his breath when he exhaled.
“She’s all right,” he eventually said. “Thank you.”
Rebus wondered if Traynor’s tan had come from a sun bed or a winter holiday. Probably the latter.
“Are we any clearer on what happened?” Clarke was being asked.
“We don’t think another vehicle was involved, if that’s what you mean. Maybe just a case of too much acceleration…”
“Jessica never drives fast. She’s always been supercautious.”
“It’s a powerful car, sir,” Rebus qualified.
But Traynor was shaking his head. “She wouldn’t have been speeding, so let’s rule that out right now.”
Rebus glanced down at the man’s shoes. Black brogues. Every inch the successful businessman. The accent was English, but not cut-glass. Rebus remembered Jessica’s age from the notes in Clarke’s folder: twenty-one.
“Your daughter’s a student?” he surmised. Traynor nodded. “At the University of Edinburgh?” Another nod.
“What’s her course?” Clarke added.
“Art history.”
“Which year is she?”
“Second.” Traynor seemed to be growing impatient. He was watching his daughter through the glass. Her chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly. “I have to go back in…”
“There are a couple of things we need to ask Jessica,” Clarke told him.
He looked at her. “Such as?”
“Just to make sure we have all the facts.”
“She’s sleeping.”
“Maybe you could try waking her up.”
“She’s sore all over.”
“What did she tell you about the accident?”
“She said she was sorry about the Golf.” Traynor’s attention had shifted to the window again. “It was a birthday present. Insurance cost almost as much as the car…”
“Did she say anything about the accident itself, sir?”
Traynor shook his head. “I really do need to go back in.”
“Mind if I ask where you’re from, Mr. Traynor?” The question came from Rebus.
“Wimbledon.”
“Southwest London?”
“Yes.”
“And by the time you heard about Jessica, flights to Scotland would have finished for the day—did you take the train?”
“I have access to a private plane.”
“So you’ve been awake all night and half of today? Might be you could use some shut-eye yourself.”
“I managed an hour or two on the chair.”
“Even so… Your wife wasn’t able to join you?”
“We’re divorced. She lives in Florida with someone half her age who calls himself a ‘personal trainer.’”
“But you’ve told her about Jessica?” Clarke checked.
“Not yet.”
“Don’t you think she should know?”
“She walked out on us eight years ago—Jessica doesn’t get so much as a phone call at Christmas.” The words were tinged with bile. Traynor was exhausted, yes, but in no mood to forgive. He turned towards the two detectives. “Is this because I called in a favor?”
“Sir?” Clarke’s eyes had narrowed at the question.
“I happen to know a couple of people in the Met—phoned from the plane to make sure everything up here was kosher. Thing is, as you said yourself, it was the kind of accident that could happen to anyone.” His tone hardened. “So I don’t see what’s to be gained from you talking to her.”
“We didn’t quite say it could happen to anyone,” Rebus broke in. “Straight stretch of deserted road—has to be a reason why the car decided not to stick to it. The locals out that way like to do a bit of racing once the sun’s gone down…”
“I’ve already told you, Jessica was the safest driver imaginable.”
“Then you’ve got to wonder what was causing her to do the speed she was doing. Was it maybe road rage? Was she trying to get away from someone tailgating her? Questions only she can answer, Mr. Traynor.” Rebus paused. “Questions I’d have thought you’d want to have answered too.”
He waited for this to sink in. Traynor ran his hand through his hair again, then gave a long sigh.
“Give me your number,” he conceded. “I’ll call you when she’s awake.”
“We were just going to grab something from the café,” Rebus told him. “So if it’s in the next twenty minutes or so, we’ll still be here.”
“We can bring you a sandwich, if you like,” Clarke added, her face softening a little.
Traynor shook his head, but took her card when she offered it.
“Mobile’s on the back,” she said. “Oh, and one more thing—could we take a look at Jessica’s phone?”
“What?”
“I’m assuming it’ll be by her bedside somewhere…”
Traynor was starting to look annoyed again, but turned and went into the room, emerging moments later with the device.
“Thank you, sir,” Clarke said, taking it from him and turning to lead Rebus back down the corridor.
Rebus headed outside for a cigarette while Clarke bought the drinks. When he returned, he brought a hacking cough with him.
“Should I see if they’ve a spare bed in the emphysema ward?” she asked.
“I wasn’t lonely out there—hard to know if staff outnumbered patients or vice versa.” He took a sip from the cardboard cup. “I’m going to guess tea.”
She nodded, and they drank in silence for a moment. The café opened onto the hospital’s central concourse. There was a shop across the way, people queuing for sweets and crisps. Further along, another concession specializing in health foods was doing no trade at all.
“What do you make of him?” Clarke asked.
“Who? The David Dickinson lookalike?”
Clarke smiled. “Bit more George Clooney than that.”
Rebus shrugged. “He wears expensive suits and travels by private jet—I want to marry him, naturally.”
“Join the queue.” Her smile widened. “You have to say. . .
“We’re just driving.”
“Driving where, though?”
Rebus turned to look at his passenger. The man’s name was Peter Meikle. He had served almost half his adult life in various Scottish and English prisons and had the pallor and bearing common to excons. His face needed a shave and his sunken eyes were black, wary pinholes. Rebus had picked him up from outside a betting shop on Clerk Street. A few sets of lights and they were heading past the Commonwealth Pool and into Holyrood Park.
“It’s been a while,” Rebus said. “What are you up to these days?”
“Nothing you lot need worry about.”
“Do I look worried?”
“You look the same way you did when you laid me out in 1989.”
“That far back?” Rebus made show of shaking his head in surprise. “But be fair, Peter, you were resisting arrest—and you had a temper on you.”
“You’re saying you didn’t?” When Rebus made no answer, Meikle resumed staring through the windscreen. The Saab was on Queen’s Drive now, skirting the cliff-like Salisbury Crags on the approach to St. Margaret’s Loch. A few tourists were trying to feed bread to the ducks and swans, though a troop of swooping gulls seemed to be winning more than its fair share. Rebus was signaling right, beginning the climb that would snake around Arthur’s Seat. They passed joggers and walkers, the city vanishing from view.
“Could be in the middle of the Highlands,” Rebus commented. “Hard to believe Edinburgh’s somewhere down below.” He turned again towards his passenger. “Didn’t you live around here at one time?”
“You know I did.”
“Northfield, I seem to think.” The car was slowing, Rebus pulling over and stopping. He nodded in the direction of a wall with an open gate. “That’s the shortcut, isn’t it? If you were coming into the park on foot? From Northfield?”
Meikle just shrugged. He was wearing a padded nylon jacket. It made noises when he twitched. He watched Rebus break open a new pack of cigarettes and light one with a match. Rebus exhaled a plume of smoke before offering the pack to Meikle.
“I stopped last year.”
“News to me, Peter.”
“Aye, I’ll bet it is.”
“Well, if I can’t tempt you, let’s just get out for a minute.” Rebus turned off the ignition, undid his seat belt and pushed open his door.
“Why?” Meikle wasn’t budging.
Rebus leaned back into the car. “Something to show you.”
“What if I’m not interested?”
But Rebus just winked and closed the door, heading around the car and across the grass towards the gateway. The keys were still in the ignition, and Meikle studied them for a good twenty or thirty seconds before cursing under his breath, composing himself and opening the passenger-side door.
Rebus was the other side of the park’s perimeter wall, the eastern suburbs of the city laid out below him.
“It’s a steep climb,” he was saying, shading his eyes with his free hand. “But you were younger then. Or maybe you weren’t on foot—bound to be a mate’s car you could borrow. All you had to tell them was you had something needed shifting.”
“This is about Dorothy,” Meikle stated.
“What else?” Rebus gave a thin smile. “Almost two weeks before she was reported missing.”
“It was eleven years ago…”
“Two weeks,” Rebus repeated. “Your story was you thought she’d gone to stay with her sister. Bit of a falling-out between the two of you. Well, there was no way you could deny that—neighbors couldn’t help hearing the shouting matches. So you might as well turn it to your advantage.” Only now did Rebus turn towards the man. “Two weeks, and even then it was her sister who had to contact us. Never a trace of Dorothy leaving the city—we asked at the train and bus stations. It was like you were a magician and you’d put her in one of those boxes. Open it up and she’s not there.” He paused and took half a step towards Meikle. “But she is there, Peter. She’s somewhere in this city.” He stamped his left foot against the ground. “Dead and buried.”
“I was questioned at the time, remember?”
“Chief suspect,” Rebus added with a slow nod.
“She could have gone out drinking, met the wrong man…”
“Hundreds of pubs we visited, Peter, showing her picture, asking the regulars.”
“Tried thumbing a lift then—you can lose yourself in London.”
“Where she had no friends? Never touching her bank account?” Rebus was shaking his head now.
“I didn’t kill her.”
Rebus made show of wincing. “This is just the two of us, Peter. I’m not wearing a wire or anything; it’s for my own peace of mind, that’s all. Once you’ve told me you brought her up here and buried her, that’ll be the end of it.”
“I thought you weren’t working cold cases anymore.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Edinburgh’s being shut down, transferred.”
“True enough. But not everyone would be as informed as you seem to be.”
Meikle gave a shrug. “I read the papers.”
“Paying particular attention to police stories?”
“I know there’s a reorganization.”
“Why so interested, though?”
“You forgetting that I’ve a history with you lot? Come to that, why aren’t you retired—you must be on full pension by now?”
“I was retired—that’s what the Cold Case Unit was, a bunch of old hands still itching for answers. And you’re right that our caseload has gone elsewhere.” Rebus’s face was by now only a couple of inches from Meikle’s. “But I’ve not gone, Peter. I’m right here, and I was just getting started on reopening your case when it was taken away from me. Well, you know me, I like to finish what I start.”
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Sure about that?”
“You going to slam me into a wall, knock me out cold again? That’s the way you and your lot always liked to operate…”
But Rebus wasn’t listening. His attention had shifted to the mobile phone gripped in Meikle’s right hand. He snatched at it and saw that its recording function was on. With a grim smile, he tossed it into a thicket of gorse. Meikle gave a little yelp of complaint.
“This the way you want it to go, Peter?” Rebus asked, stubbing the remains of his cigarette against the wall. “Always watching over your shoulder for someone like me? Waiting for the day a dog goes sniffing where it shouldn’t and starts to dig?”
“You’ve got nothing and you are nothing,” Meikle spat.
“You couldn’t be more wrong. See, I’ve got you.” A finger was stabbed into Meikle’s chest. “And as long as you’re unfinished business, that makes me something you need to worry about.”
He turned and headed back through the gateway. Meikle watched him climb into the Saab and start the engine. The car sped off with a burst of smoke from its exhaust. Swearing under his breath, Meikle began trampling down the gorse in search of his phone.
The Chief Constable’s leaving party took place at the canteen of Lothian and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue. He was heading to a new post south of the border and no one seemed to know whether anyone would take over his role. The eight regional Scottish forces were soon to be amalgamated into something called Police Scotland. The Chief Constable of Strathclyde had been given the top job, leaving seven of his colleagues scratching around for fresh opportunities.
A perfunctory attempt had been made to turn the canteen into a festive location—meaning a couple of banners, some streamers and even a dozen or so party balloons. Tables had been covered with paper tablecloths. There were bowls of crisps and nuts, and bottles of wine and beer.
“Cake’s arriving in half an hour,” Siobhan Clarke told Rebus.
“Then I’m out of here in twenty.”
“You don’t like cake?”
“It’s the speeches that’ll no doubt accompany it.”
Clarke smiled and sipped her orange juice. Rebus held an open bottle of lager, but had no intention of finishing it—too gassy, not cold enough.
“So, DS Rebus,” she said, “what did you get up to this afternoon?”
He stared at her. “How long are we going to keep this up?” Meaning her use of his rank—detective sergeant to her inspector. A decade back, the roles had been reversed. But when Rebus had applied to rejoin, he’d been warned of a surfeit of DIs, meaning he would have to drop to DS.
“Take it or leave it,” he’d been told.
So he’d taken it.
“I think I can string it out a little longer,” Clarke was saying now, her smile widening. “And you haven’t answered my question.”
“I was looking up an old friend.”
“You don’t have any.”
“I could point to a dozen in this very room.”
Clarke scanned the faces. “And probably as many enemies.”
Rebus seemed to ponder this. “Aye, maybe,” he conceded. And he was lying anyway. A dozen friends? Not even close. Siobhan was a friend, perhaps the closest he’d ever had—despite the age gap and the fact she didn’t like most of the music he played. He saw people he’d worked alongside, but almost no one he would have invited back to his flat for whisky and conversation. Then there were the few he would gladly give a kicking to—like the three officers from Professional Standards. They stood apart from the rest of the room, pariah status confirmed. Yet they had a haunted look—as with the Cold Case Unit, so too with their particular jobs: packed off elsewhere come reorganization. But then a face from the past was squeezing through the throng and heading in Rebus’s direction. He stuck out a hand, which Rebus took.
“Bloody hell, I almost didn’t recognize you there,” Rebus admitted.
Eamonn Paterson patted what was left of his stomach. “Diet and exercise,” he explained.
“Thank God for that—I thought you were going to tell me you had some sort of wasting disease.” Rebus turned towards Clarke. “Siobhan, this is Eamonn Paterson. He was a DS when I was a DC.” While the two shook hands, Rebus continued the introduction.
“Siobhan’s a detective inspector, which has her under the cruel delusion she’s my boss.”
“Good luck with that,” Paterson said. “When he was wet behind the ears I couldn’t get him to take a telling, no matter how hard I kicked his backside.”
“Some things never change,” Clarke conceded.
“Eamonn here used to go by the name of Porkbelly,” Rebus said. “Came back from a holiday in the States with the story he’d eaten so much of the stuff a restaurant had given him a T-shirt.”
“I’ve still got it,” Paterson said, raising his glass in a toast.
“How long have you been out of the game?” Clarke asked. Paterson was tall and slim, with a good head of hair; she wouldn’t have said he was a day older than Rebus.
“Nearly fifteen years. Nice of them still to send me the invites.” He waved his wineglass in the direction of the party.
“Maybe you’re the poster boy for retirement.”
“That could be part of it,” he agreed with a laugh. “So this is the last rites for Lothian and Borders, eh?”
“As far as anyone knows.” Rebus turned towards Clarke. “What’s the new name again?”
“There’ll be two divisions—Edinburgh, plus Lothians and Scottish Borders.”
“Piece of nonsense,” Paterson muttered. “Warrant cards will need changing, and so will the livery on the patrol cars—how the hell’s that supposed to save money?” Then, to Rebus: “You going to manage along to Dod’s?”
Rebus shrugged. “How about you?”
“Could be another case of last rites.” Paterson turned towards Clarke. “We all worked together at Summerhall.”
“Summerhall?”
“A cop shop next door to the vet school on Summerhall Place,” Rebus explained. “They knocked it down and replaced it with St. Leonard’s.”
“Before my time,” she admitted.
“Practically Stone Age,” Paterson agreed. “Not many of us cavemen left, eh, John?”
“I’ve learned how to make fire,” Rebus countered, taking the box of matches from his pocket and shaking it.
“You’re not still smoking?”
“Someone has to.”
“He likes the occasional drink, too,” Clarke confided.
“I’m shocked.” Paterson made show of studying Rebus’s physique.
“Didn’t realize I was auditioning for Mr. Universe.”
“No,” Clarke said, “but you’ve sucked your stomach in anyway.”
“Busted,” Paterson said with another laugh, slapping Rebus’s shoulder. “So will you make it to Dod’s or not? Stefan’ll likely be there.”
“Seems a bit ghoulish,” Rebus said. He explained to Clarke that Dod Blantyre had suffered a recent stroke.
“He wants one last gathering of the old guard,” Paterson added. He wagged a finger in Rebus’s direction. “You don’t want to disappoint him—or Maggie…”
“I’ll see how I’m fixed.”
Paterson tried staring Rebus out, then nodded slowly and patted his shoulder again. “Fine then,” he said, moving off to greet another old face.
Five minutes later, as Rebus was readying his excuse that he needed to step out for a cigarette, a fresh group entered the canteen. They looked like lawyers because that was what they were—invitees from the Procurator Fiscal’s office. Well dressed, with shiny, confident faces, and led by the Solicitor General for Scotland, Elinor Macari.
“Do we need to bow or anything?” Rebus murmured to Clarke, who was fixing her fringe. Macari was pecking the Chief Constable on both cheeks.
“Just don’t say something you might regret.”
“You’re the boss.”
Macari looked as though she’d made several stops on her way to the party: hairdresser, cosmetics counter and boutique. Her large black-framed glasses accentuated the sharpness of her gaze. Having swept the room in an instant, she knew who needed greeting and who could be dismissed. The councilor who headed the policing committee merited the same kiss as the Chief Constable. Other guests nearby had to make do with handshakes or a nod of the head. A glass of white wine had been fetched, but Rebus doubted it was anything other than a prop. He noticed too that his own bottle of lager was empty, though he’d vowed to save his thirst for something more deserving.
“Got a few words stored up in case she drifts this way?” he asked Clarke.
“I’d say we’re well out of her orbit.”
“Fair point. But now she’s arrived, the presentations can’t be far behind.” Rebus held up the packet of cigarettes and gestured in the direction of the outside world.
“Are you coming back?” She saw his look and gave a twitch of the mouth, acknowledging the stupidity of the question. But as he made to leave the canteen, Macari spotted someone and made a beeline for them, so that Rebus had to swerve past her. She frowned, as if trying to place him, going so far as to glance at his retreating figure. But by then she had reached her prey. Siobhan Clarke watched as the most senior lawyer in Scotland took Malcolm Fox by the arm and led him away from his Professional Standards cohort. Whatever was about to be discussed, a modicum of privacy was required. One of the canteen staff had arrived in the doorway, holding the cake, but a gesture from the Chief Constable told her the ceremony would have to wait until the Solicitor General was ready…
1
A flatbed lorry had arrived, the name of a local scrap yard stenciled on its doors. The previous night, a flimsy cordon had been erected, consisting of three-inch-wide tape with the word POLICE on it. The tape ran from an undamaged tree to a fence post and from there to another tree. The driver of the flatbed had sliced through it and was preparing to winch the crashed VW Golf up the slope towards the waiting ramp.
“Not a bad afternoon,” Rebus said, lighting a cigarette and examining his surroundings. A stretch of narrow country road on the outskirts of Kirkliston. Edinburgh Airport wasn’t far away, and the roar of approaching and departing passenger flights punctuated the rural scene. They had come in Clarke’s Vauxhall Astra. It was parked on the opposite verge, flashers blinking in a warning to approaching drivers. Not that there seemed to be any.
“It’s a straight road,” Clarke was saying. “Surface wasn’t icy or greasy. Must have been going at a fair clip, judging by the damage…”
True enough: the front of the Golf had become concertinaed on impact with the venerable oak tree. They made their way past the torn fencing and down the slope. The driver from the flatbed jutted out his chin in greeting but otherwise wasn’t about to ask who they were or why they were there. Clarke carried a folder, which was good enough for him—meant they were official, and therefore probably best avoided.
“Is he okay?” Rebus asked.
“He’s a she,” Clarke corrected him. “Car’s registered to Jessica Traynor. Address in southwest London. She’s in the Infirmary.”
Rebus was walking around the car. It was less than a year old, pearl-colored. From what he could see of the tires, there was plenty of tread on them. The windscreen was gone, driver’s-side door and boot gaping, both airbags deployed.
“And we’re here because…?”
Clarke opened the folder. “Mainly because her father seems to have friends. Word came down from on high: make sure we’ve not missed anything.”
“What’s to miss?”
“Hopefully nothing. But this area’s notorious for boy racers.”
“She’s not a boy, though.”
“She drives the kind of car they like.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I think the Golf still qualifies as a ‘hot hatch.’”
Rebus wandered over towards the flatbed. The man from the scrap yard was reeling out a cable with a large hook on the end. Rebus asked him how many Golfs ended up in the compactor.
“A few,” he conceded. He sported oily blue overalls under a scuffed leather jacket, and dirt was ingrained on his palms and under his nails. The baseball cap he wore was so grubby the lettering on it was indecipherable, and a thick graying beard covered his chin and throat. Rebus offered him a cigarette, but the man shook his head.
“Roads around here used as racetracks?” Rebus continued.
“Sometimes.”
“You on a diet or something?” The man looked at him. “Cutting back on your vocabulary,” Rebus explained.
“I’m just here to do a job.”
“But this isn’t the first crash like this you’ve seen?”
“No.”
“How regular?”
The man considered this. “Every couple of months. Though there was one last week, the other side of Broxburn.”
“And it’s cars racing each other? Any idea how it gets arranged?”
“No,” the man stated.
“Well, thanks for sharing.” Rebus walked back towards the Golf. Clarke was peering through the open door, examining the interior.
“Take a look,” she said, handing Rebus a photograph. It showed a brown suede boot in what seemed a woman’s size, framed against the floor of the car.
“I don’t see any pedals.”
“That’s because it was in the passenger-side foot well.”
“Okay.” Rebus handed the photograph back. “So you’re saying there was a passenger?”
Clarke shook her head. “It’s one of a pair of Ugg boots belonging to Jessica Traynor. The other was on her left foot.”
“Ugg?”
“That’s what they’re called.”
“So it flew off on impact? Or came off when the medics pulled her out?”
“First patrol car on the scene, the officer took a few shots on his phone—including the boot. Jessica was still in the car at the time. Ambulance arrived a few minutes later.”
Rebus pondered this. “Who found her?”
“A woman on her way home from Livingston. She works shifts at a supermarket there.” Clarke was studying a typed sheet of paper from the folder. “Driver’s-side door was open. Impact could have done that.”
“Or the driver tried to get out.”
“Unconscious. Head resting against the airbag. No seat belt.”
Rebus took the photographs from Clarke and studied them while Clarke spoke. “The supermarket worker called 999 just after eight in the evening, no light left in the sky. No streetlamps either, just the distant glow from Edinburgh itself.”
“Boot’s closed,” Rebus said, handing the photos back.
“Yes, it is,” Clarke agreed.
“Not anymore, though.” Rebus walked around to the back of the car. “Did you open this?” he asked the man from the scrap yard, receiving a shake of the head in answer. The boot was empty, except for a rudimentary tool kit.
“Scavengers, maybe?” Clarke suggested. “Car was here all night.”
“Why not take the tool kit?”
“Don’t suppose it’s worth much. Anyone could have opened it, John—ambulance driver, our guy…”
“I suppose so.” He tried closing the boot. It was undamaged, and stayed locked once shut. The key was in the ignition, and he pressed the button to unlock the boot again. A clunk told him he had been successful.
“Electrics still seem to work,” he said.
“Sign of a well-made car.” Clarke was sifting through the paperwork. “So what do we think?”
“We think a car was traveling too fast and came off the road. No sign of a prior collision. Was she maybe on her phone at the time? It’s been known to happen.”
“Worth checking,” Clarke agreed. “And the Ugg?”
“Sometimes,” Rebus said, “footwear is just footwear.”
Clarke was checking a message on her phone. “Seems its owner is back in the land of the living.”
“Do we want to speak to her?” Rebus asked.
The look Clarke gave him was all the answer he needed.
Jessica Traynor had a room to herself at the Royal Infirmary. The nurse explained that she had been lucky—a suspected fracture of one ankle, some bruised ribs, and other minor injuries consistent with whiplash.
“Her head and neck are in a brace.”
“But she’s able to talk?” Clarke asked.
“A little.”
“Any sign of alcohol or drugs in her bloodstream?”
“Looks the clean-living type to me. She’s on painkillers now, though, so she’ll be woozy.” The nurse paused. “Do you want to speak to her father first?”
“He’s here?”
The nurse nodded again. “Arrived in the middle of the night. She was still in A and E at the time…” She had stopped by a window. It gave a view into Jessica Traynor’s room. Her father was seated bedside, holding her hand in his and stroking her wrist. Her eyes were closed. The brace seemed to be constructed of thick squares of polystyrene foam, fixed in place with an array of metal clamps. Looking up, her father saw the faces at the window. He checked his daughter was asleep, then placed her hand gently on the bed and rose to his feet.
Exiting the room quietly, he ran his fingers through his mop of silver and black hair. He wore the trousers from a pinstripe suit—the jacket was draped over the back of the chair next to his daughter’s bed. His white shirt was creased, and the cuff links had been removed so the sleeves could be rolled up. Rebus doubted the expensive-looking watch on his left wrist was a fake. He had taken off his tie at some point, and undone the top two buttons of his shirt, showing tufts of graying chest hair.
“Mr. Traynor,” Clarke said, “we’re police officers. How is Jessica doing?”
His large eyes were dark-ringed from lack of sleep and there was vending-machine coffee on his breath when he exhaled.
“She’s all right,” he eventually said. “Thank you.”
Rebus wondered if Traynor’s tan had come from a sun bed or a winter holiday. Probably the latter.
“Are we any clearer on what happened?” Clarke was being asked.
“We don’t think another vehicle was involved, if that’s what you mean. Maybe just a case of too much acceleration…”
“Jessica never drives fast. She’s always been supercautious.”
“It’s a powerful car, sir,” Rebus qualified.
But Traynor was shaking his head. “She wouldn’t have been speeding, so let’s rule that out right now.”
Rebus glanced down at the man’s shoes. Black brogues. Every inch the successful businessman. The accent was English, but not cut-glass. Rebus remembered Jessica’s age from the notes in Clarke’s folder: twenty-one.
“Your daughter’s a student?” he surmised. Traynor nodded. “At the University of Edinburgh?” Another nod.
“What’s her course?” Clarke added.
“Art history.”
“Which year is she?”
“Second.” Traynor seemed to be growing impatient. He was watching his daughter through the glass. Her chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly. “I have to go back in…”
“There are a couple of things we need to ask Jessica,” Clarke told him.
He looked at her. “Such as?”
“Just to make sure we have all the facts.”
“She’s sleeping.”
“Maybe you could try waking her up.”
“She’s sore all over.”
“What did she tell you about the accident?”
“She said she was sorry about the Golf.” Traynor’s attention had shifted to the window again. “It was a birthday present. Insurance cost almost as much as the car…”
“Did she say anything about the accident itself, sir?”
Traynor shook his head. “I really do need to go back in.”
“Mind if I ask where you’re from, Mr. Traynor?” The question came from Rebus.
“Wimbledon.”
“Southwest London?”
“Yes.”
“And by the time you heard about Jessica, flights to Scotland would have finished for the day—did you take the train?”
“I have access to a private plane.”
“So you’ve been awake all night and half of today? Might be you could use some shut-eye yourself.”
“I managed an hour or two on the chair.”
“Even so… Your wife wasn’t able to join you?”
“We’re divorced. She lives in Florida with someone half her age who calls himself a ‘personal trainer.’”
“But you’ve told her about Jessica?” Clarke checked.
“Not yet.”
“Don’t you think she should know?”
“She walked out on us eight years ago—Jessica doesn’t get so much as a phone call at Christmas.” The words were tinged with bile. Traynor was exhausted, yes, but in no mood to forgive. He turned towards the two detectives. “Is this because I called in a favor?”
“Sir?” Clarke’s eyes had narrowed at the question.
“I happen to know a couple of people in the Met—phoned from the plane to make sure everything up here was kosher. Thing is, as you said yourself, it was the kind of accident that could happen to anyone.” His tone hardened. “So I don’t see what’s to be gained from you talking to her.”
“We didn’t quite say it could happen to anyone,” Rebus broke in. “Straight stretch of deserted road—has to be a reason why the car decided not to stick to it. The locals out that way like to do a bit of racing once the sun’s gone down…”
“I’ve already told you, Jessica was the safest driver imaginable.”
“Then you’ve got to wonder what was causing her to do the speed she was doing. Was it maybe road rage? Was she trying to get away from someone tailgating her? Questions only she can answer, Mr. Traynor.” Rebus paused. “Questions I’d have thought you’d want to have answered too.”
He waited for this to sink in. Traynor ran his hand through his hair again, then gave a long sigh.
“Give me your number,” he conceded. “I’ll call you when she’s awake.”
“We were just going to grab something from the café,” Rebus told him. “So if it’s in the next twenty minutes or so, we’ll still be here.”
“We can bring you a sandwich, if you like,” Clarke added, her face softening a little.
Traynor shook his head, but took her card when she offered it.
“Mobile’s on the back,” she said. “Oh, and one more thing—could we take a look at Jessica’s phone?”
“What?”
“I’m assuming it’ll be by her bedside somewhere…”
Traynor was starting to look annoyed again, but turned and went into the room, emerging moments later with the device.
“Thank you, sir,” Clarke said, taking it from him and turning to lead Rebus back down the corridor.
Rebus headed outside for a cigarette while Clarke bought the drinks. When he returned, he brought a hacking cough with him.
“Should I see if they’ve a spare bed in the emphysema ward?” she asked.
“I wasn’t lonely out there—hard to know if staff outnumbered patients or vice versa.” He took a sip from the cardboard cup. “I’m going to guess tea.”
She nodded, and they drank in silence for a moment. The café opened onto the hospital’s central concourse. There was a shop across the way, people queuing for sweets and crisps. Further along, another concession specializing in health foods was doing no trade at all.
“What do you make of him?” Clarke asked.
“Who? The David Dickinson lookalike?”
Clarke smiled. “Bit more George Clooney than that.”
Rebus shrugged. “He wears expensive suits and travels by private jet—I want to marry him, naturally.”
“Join the queue.” Her smile widened. “You have to say. . .
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Saints of the Shadow Bible
Ian Rankin
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