“You don’t think she was alone out there,” Clarke suggested.
“I don’t even think she was driving,” Rebus replied.
2
In his cramped office—previously a storeroom off the main CID suite—Detective Chief Inspector James Page listened to their report. Gayfield Square police station was part of the city’s B Division, but that designation would soon vanish, and Page feared that the station itself would be closed, knocked down and redeveloped. The “Square” outside was an area of grass which didn’t get mowed enough. Traffic rumbled up and down Leith Walk, sometimes causing the windows at the front of the building to vibrate. Not that this affected Page, his office having no windows.
“So the boot ended up there how?” he asked. Rebus and Clarke were both standing, since there was no space for any chair other than the one their boss sat on.
“Whoever was driving fled the scene,” Rebus explained. “That leaves two possibilities. One, she regained consciousness for a bit, realized she was alone, and dragged herself across to the driver’s seat.”
“Why?”
“To protect the other person. We would assume she’d been behind the wheel.”
Page considered this. “And the second option?” he asked.
“Is that the driver either didn’t black out or else came to before her. He or she panicked—for whatever reason—and hoofed it. But not before undoing her seat belt and hauling her across to the driver’s side.”
“Not bothering to do up her seat belt after,” Clarke added.
“And you get all of this from the fact that a brown suede boot was in the wrong foot well?” Page looked from Clarke to Rebus and back again.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Well, say you’re right—what exactly does it change?”
“Driver could have been drunk or stoned,” Rebus offered.
“Or taking part in an illegal race,” Clarke said. “Or being chased—we really won’t know unless we keep looking. Jessica has a flat in Great King Street, shares with someone called Alice or Alison. There was also mention of a boyfriend.”
Page scratched at his nose while he thought.
“Don’t want anyone thinking we were sloppy,” Rebus prompted. “One quick visit to the flat should do it.”
“We’d go this evening,” Clarke confirmed. “This Alice or Alison is a student—might have classes during the day.”
“All right then.” Page had made up his mind. “But answer me this: why is it that nothing with you two is ever straightforward?”
“Blame her,” Rebus said, pointing a finger.
“Blame him,” Clarke said, at almost exactly the same time.
Out in the CID suite, they both took a series of deep breaths. It was always so airless in Page’s little cupboard, yet somehow he thrived there, as if discomfort were as vital to his well-being as oxygen. Two detective constables, Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie, were busy with paperwork. Clarke checked her phone for messages while Rebus made himself a coffee.
“Out of milk,” Esson warned him.
“The amount we get through, we should chip in and buy a cow,” Ogilvie added.
“It would keep the grass down,” Rebus agreed, staring down onto Gayfield Square, the windowpane thrumming as a lorry rattled past the end of the road. He offered to boil the kettle for Clarke but she shook her head.
“Not if we’ve got no milk.”
“I might have a sachet of powdered stuff in a drawer somewhere,” Esson offered.
“Powdered?” Rebus said. “What is this, World War Two? I thought we were at the dawn of a shiny new country?”
“Only if you can be bothered to vote for it,” Clarke chided him.
“I’ll tell you the box I’m ready to mark my cross in—a couple of drinks after Great King Street.”
But Clarke was shaking her head. “Dinner plans,” she explained.
“I thought it was all over with…” Rebus gestured towards Page’s office.
“It is.”
Christine Esson decided that Rebus needed enlightening. “A single girl doesn’t go hungry for long in this town.”
“Is that you speaking from experience?” Ogilvie chipped in.
“Who is it then?” Rebus was asking Clarke from above the rim of his mug.
“Am I not allowed a private life?”
“Absolutely—just as soon as you convince me his intentions are honorable.”
Clarke rolled her eyes and decided to busy herself making a coffee after all. Rebus stood his ground, mouth puckered, deep in thought. Then he ambled forward and leaned in towards her ear.
“A lawyer,” he whispered.
She froze for a second before spooning granules into a clean mug.
“My, my,” Rebus said. Her eyes were on him now, seeking an explanation. “It was when Macari and her team walked into the canteen,” he obliged. “You straightened your back a little and checked your fringe. I thought maybe it was for her benefit. I don’t remember any of the men looking particularly bright or beautiful.”
“Then you’re not much of a detective.”
“It has been said. So is he taking you somewhere nice?”
“Why do you need to know?”
“Takes a bit of time to get gussied up—I was just thinking I could do Great King Street on my own…”
But Clarke was shaking her head. “You’re still on ‘probation,’ remember? One screwup and you’re back where you started.”
“Yes, boss.” He paused. “So he’s not taking you anywhere posh? Means he’s not very senior—don’t tell me you’ve got yourself a toy boy?”
Clarke jabbed a finger into his chest. “Everybody has a breaking point, John.” But she was smiling, and Rebus was smiling too. He turned towards Esson and Ogilvie.
“Either of you two up for a bit of surveillance tonight?”
“I’m warning you,” Clarke said, jabbing him harder this time.
Great King Street was a wide thoroughfare in the New Town, stretching from Howe Street to Drummond Place. Three and four stories high, the terrace had probably all been houses when built in the early nineteenth century, but now many of these had been subdivided into flats. Rebus had never been a huge fan of the New Town. For one thing, you had to climb a steep incline to get back to the city center. There were also no front gardens, and parking was difficult. The door they were looking for had four buzzers beside it, with TRAYNOR/BELL at the top.
“Presumably meaning top floor,” Rebus muttered.
“Maybe no one’s home,” Clarke offered by way of consolation. But when she pressed the button, a voice crackled through the intercom.
“Miss Bell?” Clarke guessed.
“Yes.”
“It’s the police. We need to talk to you about Jessica.”
“I knew it! Door’s unlocked—we’re on the top floor.”
“I knew it,” Rebus echoed, turning the handle.
By the time they had climbed the first flight, he was breathing heavily, and Clarke was asking him to remind her how he’d passed the physical. He coughed a reply and watched as a head appeared over the banister.
“Up here,” Alice or Alison Bell said. As she ushered the two detectives inside, Clarke decided to check.
“It’s Alice,” the student confirmed.
Rebus had expected high ceilings and airy rooms, but they seemed to be in the eaves. The hall was narrow, not helped by the presence of two bicycles. Alice Bell hadn’t bothered to ask for ID. She was leading them past the galley-style kitchen into the living room. Music was playing from an MP3 player hooked up to a speaker. It was classical—unaccompanied cello. An actual cello sat on a stand in one corner.
“Yours or Jessica’s?” Rebus asked, but Bell was concentrating on Siobhan Clarke.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” she blurted out.
“She’s going to be fine,” Clarke assured her. The young woman’s knees seemed to buckle in relief and she sat down heavily on an
armchair. Clarke and Rebus decided to settle themselves on the sofa. It was white and modern and just about up to the task.
“What happened?” Bell was asking.
“A car smash. You’ve been worried about her?”
“Texted her a few times—she missed a class this morning, and that’s not like her.”
“Do you study art history too, Alice?”
The young woman nodded. She was dressed in a T-shirt with an unbuttoned cardigan over it, and black denims. No piercings that Rebus could see, and no tattoos. Her face was round and her cheeks slightly puffy, reminding him of a cherub in a painting, an effect heightened by curly chestnut hair.
“How long have you known Jessica?” Rebus asked.
“Almost a year. She put adverts up around the department—room to rent—and I jumped at the chance.” She paused. “She’s really going to be okay?”
“Whiplash, sprains and bruises,” Clarke explained. “Her father seems to think she’s a careful driver.”
“That’s true.”
“Not last night, though.”
“What happened?”
“The crash was the other side of the airport, on a country road. Any idea why she’d be out that way?”
Bell shook her head. “Is her father here?”
“He’s with her at the Infirmary,” Rebus said.
“I should go see her.”
“Any other friends who should be told?” Clarke asked.
“Her boyfriend, for example,” Rebus added.
“Forbes?” Bell’s voice lifted a little. “Has no one…?” She broke off, hands clasped between her knees, staring at the varnished wooden floor.
“We don’t have his contact details,” Clarke confided.
“I can phone him.”
“That’s fine, but we’d like a word with him too.” Rebus cleared his throat. “When did you last see Jessica, Alice?”
“Yesterday. Around four or five.”
“Here at the flat?”
“She was headed off out.”
“Headed where?”
“Not sure.”
“In her car, though?”
“I suppose so.”
“And as far as you know, she hasn’t got friends in Kirkliston or Broxburn?”
“I’m not even sure where those places are.”
“Where are you from?”
“Stirling.”
Rebus digested this and glanced towards Clarke, unsure where else to go.
“A number for Forbes,” Clarke prompted the student. “And his surname.”
“He’s Forbes McCuskey.”
“McCuskey,” Clarke echoed, adding the name to her phone.
“As in Patrick McCuskey.”
Clarke looked up at Alice Bell. “The politician?” Bell nodded, and Clarke turned her eyes towards Rebus, who gave a twitch of the mouth in response. Bell was digging her own phone out of a trouser pocket, finding Forbes McCuskey’s number. She recited it for Clarke’s benefit, then asked: “Should I ring him now?”
“If you like.”
But Bell seemed to reconsider. She turned the phone over in her hand and said she would wait till she’d seen them out.
“You’re still going to want to talk to him?” she checked. “And it’s okay for me to warn him?”
Clarke was nodding her agreement.
“All right then.” The student had risen to her feet. Clarke and Rebus followed suit and Bell led them back along the passageway. Rebus was half minded to ask to see Jessica’s room, but knew he didn’t have a good reason. At the door, Bell shook hands with both detectives. She was readying to close the door when Clarke remembered that she didn’t have a contact number for Bell herself. The student reeled it off, then retreated into the flat.
“‘Warn him’?” Rebus repeated.
“Yes, I noticed that.”
“So what do we do?”
She looked at her watch. “I need to go home and get changed for this cut-price dinner.”
“Having given me a lift first, obviously.”
“Up the hill to the Oxford Bar?”
“We’ll make a detective of you yet…”
Bia Bistrot was a small French-style restaurant on Colinton Road. Locals called the area Holy Corner due to a preponderance of churches at the intersection—Clarke counted four, though she couldn’t be certain how many were still active. David Galvin was already at the table. He beamed a smile as he rose to greet her. Tall and slim, he was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt, open at the neck. As she leaned in for a peck on the cheek, she asked if this was as casual as he cared to dress.
“I was going for Reservoir Dogs,” he explained. “Dapper but dangerous.”
“Good try.”
Galvin was only a couple of years younger than her and had been at the Procurator Fiscal’s office since arriving in the city half a decade back. They’d worked together on a case the previous autumn and that was when he had asked her out for a drink, on the pretext of going over some notes. It was now their agreed code, and every week or so he would text to ask if she could spare an evening for “a consultation.”
“I’ve not been here before,” Clarke said, taking in her surroundings.
“I like it—and it’s only five minutes from home.”
“Not for me.”
His smile faded. “I should have thought…”
“It’s fine, David—plenty of cabs around.” She accepted a menu and ordered a gin, lime and soda.
“I might try one of those,” Galvin told the waiter. Then, to Clarke: “Busy day?”
“Not particularly. How about you?”
He offered a shrug. “Same old same old.”
“What did you make of the Chief Constable’s leaving do?”
“It was nice to be invited.”
“Was that the Solicitor General’s doing?”
“She does like to travel with a few bodies.”
“To make her feel important?” Clarke guessed.
Another shrug. Galvin was concentrating on the menu. “Everything here’s good,” he said.
“Salmon rillettes, and then the lamb shoulder,” Clarke decided.
“That didn’t take long.”
“I’m not one for dithering.” Their drinks were arriving. They clinked glasses and sipped.
“How are things working out with your old sparring partner?” Galvin asked.
“John? He’s doing okay so far.”
“Toeing the line? Obeying orders?”
Clarke looked at him. “Something on your mind, David?”
Galvin shook his head. The waiter was hovering, so they ordered. There was bread on the table and Clarke tore at a chunk, realizing it had been some time since her last meal.
“Are we ordering wine?” her companion asked.
“A glass of white will do me.”
“House?” the waiter asked.
“House,” Clarke agreed.
“Small or large?”
“Large.”
“Same for me,” Galvin told him. Then he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a second.
“Nice to switch off?” Clarke guessed.
“I’m not convinced the likes of you and me ever switch off, Siobhan. The motor is always idling.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you saw me slouched on the sofa with a tub of ice cream. But since we do seem to be talking shop…”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever met Patrick McCuskey?”
“The Justice Minister?” Galvin raised an eyebrow. “Well above my pay grade. I mean, I’ve been in rooms when he’s been speaking.”
“I looked him up on Google—Scottish National Party stalwart…face of the Yes campaign…married to a lawyer called Bethany…”
“She’s American, I think. Practices commercial law in Glasgow.”
“He’s not got a legal background, though?”
“Studied it at university but ended up in politics instead—I dare say he did
some cramming before taking on the Justice portfolio. What’s this all about?”
“There’s a son called Forbes. He goes out with a student called Jessica Traynor.”
“No relation to Owen Traynor?” Galvin interrupted.
Clarke realized she didn’t know Traynor’s first name. “Who’s Owen Traynor?”
“A businessman down south. There was a case a while back. It was in the papers.”
“What happened?”
“One of his companies crashed and burned. A lot of angry investors.”
“And?”
“The loudest and angriest investor got beaten up on his doorstep.”
“This was where—in London?” Galvin nodded. “So what drew your attention?”
“It reminded me of a case we studied at university, that’s all.”
Clarke was picturing Jessica’s father. “This Traynor has friends high up in the Met.”
“Might not be him then. Anyway, you were telling me about Forbes McCuskey.”
“Jessica Traynor was in a car smash. Found in the driver’s seat, but we’re not convinced she was driving at the time.”
“Is she all right?”
“She will be.”
Galvin was thoughtful. “Forbes did a runner?”
“We don’t know that—we’ve not spoken to him yet.”
“Wouldn’t look good for his father.”
“An embarrassment, certainly.”
“Not to mention a possible criminal offense.” Galvin sounded intrigued.
“We won’t be bringing it to your lot for a while yet,” Clarke cautioned. “Like I say, we’ve no real evidence—plus our boss doesn’t like things messy.”
“I know—I’ve met him. Is he still fretting about the future of Gayfield Square?”
“We all are.”
“You’ll be fine, Siobhan. It’s mostly civilian posts you’ll be losing.”
“I’ll have to do my own typing? And fingerprinting? Maybe train myself up to carry out autopsies…?”
They broke off as their starters arrived, and ate without saying much more. In the pause before the mains, Clarke took out her phone, thinking she might do a Google search for Owen Traynor, but she was getting no signal.
“Reception comes and goes,” Galvin explained. “Hard to believe sometimes we’re in the middle of a city.”