Bible” – you have to admit, it sounds more than a little portentous.’ Fox paused. ‘Or pretentious even.’
‘Were you never in a gang at school? Maybe you were shunned, kept on the outside, looking in?’
‘I was asking how long you were part of the group before the Saints came up in conversation.’
‘Just a week or two.’
‘And there was an initiation?’
‘What have you heard?’
‘Everything from downing six pints to the slaughter of the innocent.’
‘Old wives’ tales,’ Rebus stated.
‘But the Saints did have a rep – not too many wanted to spend a night in the cells or be taken in for questioning.’ Fox paused, turning the sheets of his lined pad. ‘Is it true about Interview Room B?’
‘What about it?’
‘Brown and red smears on the walls and floor? The smell of stale urine? Words like “help” scratched into the table?’
Rebus couldn’t help but smile at the memory. ‘The smears were courtesy of the local chip shop – brown sauce and ketchup. We scored those words into the tabletop ourselves.’
‘So suspects would have something to read while they waited?’
‘Got them twitchy.’
‘And the urine?’
‘I forget now who was behind that. Made sure IRB was less than welcoming – same went for the chair. Someone sawed half an inch off one leg. No way you could start to relax in it . . .’ Rebus looked at Fox. ‘Not that I would condone anything like that these days.’
‘All the same,’ Fox said, scribbling a note to himself, ‘I can see the attraction.’ He paused. ‘What was the Internal Affairs set-up like in those days?’
‘The Complaints? Less than rigorous. As long as you got results, blind eyes could be turned. Mind you, we still thought of your lot as scum.’
‘I appreciate your candour.’
‘My pleasure.’ Rebus’s phone was buzzing. He looked at the screen. It was Siobhan Clarke. ‘Mind if I take this?’ he asked Fox. Fox didn’t look happy, but Rebus wasn’t about to wait for his answer anyway.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked into the mouthpiece.
‘McCuskey’s at death’s door,’ Clarke announced.
Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘What?’
‘Looks like a housebreaking gone badly wrong.’
‘Christ.’
‘He’s being taken to the Infirmary.’
‘There’s an irony.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Same place as his girlfriend.’
‘I’m not talking about the son – this is the father. Pat McCuskey. As in our beloved Justice Minister.’
‘Just a coincidence, then?’
‘That’s what I’m wondering. He was attacked at his home sometime this morning.’
‘And?’
‘The home’s just the other side of the airport from the city.’
‘Not far from the scene of the crash?’
‘Not far at all,’ Clarke conceded.
‘Are you on your way there now?’ Rebus gestured for the loan of Fox’s pen. As Clarke recited the address, he jotted it on to the side of his cardboard cup. Ending the call, he handed back the pen.
‘Justice Minister’s been attacked in his home,’ he explained.
‘Oh?’
‘I have to go.’
Fox stared at him. ‘Why?’
‘A case I’ve been working on with DI Clarke.’ Rebus broke off. ‘This isn’t a ruse or anything – phone her back if you don’t believe me.’
‘I’m not sure even you would stoop that low.’
‘A vote of confidence if ever I heard one.’ Rebus got to his feet and grabbed the cup with the address on.
Outside, he poured the cold tea down the first grating he saw.
The house was an extended two-storey Edwardian property at the end of a gravel driveway and with no immediate neighbours. There seemed to be extensive grounds, including a paddock and stables. The road outside, narrow enough to start with, was already lined with vehicles belonging to journalists and the curious. Cameras were being hoisted, scripts checked, feeds established. A uniform stood guard at the wrought-iron gates and scrutinised Rebus’s warrant card before letting him through. A low rumble
‘Were you never in a gang at school? Maybe you were shunned, kept on the outside, looking in?’
‘I was asking how long you were part of the group before the Saints came up in conversation.’
‘Just a week or two.’
‘And there was an initiation?’
‘What have you heard?’
‘Everything from downing six pints to the slaughter of the innocent.’
‘Old wives’ tales,’ Rebus stated.
‘But the Saints did have a rep – not too many wanted to spend a night in the cells or be taken in for questioning.’ Fox paused, turning the sheets of his lined pad. ‘Is it true about Interview Room B?’
‘What about it?’
‘Brown and red smears on the walls and floor? The smell of stale urine? Words like “help” scratched into the table?’
Rebus couldn’t help but smile at the memory. ‘The smears were courtesy of the local chip shop – brown sauce and ketchup. We scored those words into the tabletop ourselves.’
‘So suspects would have something to read while they waited?’
‘Got them twitchy.’
‘And the urine?’
‘I forget now who was behind that. Made sure IRB was less than welcoming – same went for the chair. Someone sawed half an inch off one leg. No way you could start to relax in it . . .’ Rebus looked at Fox. ‘Not that I would condone anything like that these days.’
‘All the same,’ Fox said, scribbling a note to himself, ‘I can see the attraction.’ He paused. ‘What was the Internal Affairs set-up like in those days?’
‘The Complaints? Less than rigorous. As long as you got results, blind eyes could be turned. Mind you, we still thought of your lot as scum.’
‘I appreciate your candour.’
‘My pleasure.’ Rebus’s phone was buzzing. He looked at the screen. It was Siobhan Clarke. ‘Mind if I take this?’ he asked Fox. Fox didn’t look happy, but Rebus wasn’t about to wait for his answer anyway.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked into the mouthpiece.
‘McCuskey’s at death’s door,’ Clarke announced.
Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘What?’
‘Looks like a housebreaking gone badly wrong.’
‘Christ.’
‘He’s being taken to the Infirmary.’
‘There’s an irony.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Same place as his girlfriend.’
‘I’m not talking about the son – this is the father. Pat McCuskey. As in our beloved Justice Minister.’
‘Just a coincidence, then?’
‘That’s what I’m wondering. He was attacked at his home sometime this morning.’
‘And?’
‘The home’s just the other side of the airport from the city.’
‘Not far from the scene of the crash?’
‘Not far at all,’ Clarke conceded.
‘Are you on your way there now?’ Rebus gestured for the loan of Fox’s pen. As Clarke recited the address, he jotted it on to the side of his cardboard cup. Ending the call, he handed back the pen.
‘Justice Minister’s been attacked in his home,’ he explained.
‘Oh?’
‘I have to go.’
Fox stared at him. ‘Why?’
‘A case I’ve been working on with DI Clarke.’ Rebus broke off. ‘This isn’t a ruse or anything – phone her back if you don’t believe me.’
‘I’m not sure even you would stoop that low.’
‘A vote of confidence if ever I heard one.’ Rebus got to his feet and grabbed the cup with the address on.
Outside, he poured the cold tea down the first grating he saw.
The house was an extended two-storey Edwardian property at the end of a gravel driveway and with no immediate neighbours. There seemed to be extensive grounds, including a paddock and stables. The road outside, narrow enough to start with, was already lined with vehicles belonging to journalists and the curious. Cameras were being hoisted, scripts checked, feeds established. A uniform stood guard at the wrought-iron gates and scrutinised Rebus’s warrant card before letting him through. A low rumble
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