#Rankin. Saints of the shadow Bible/Prologue.

'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 of his adult life in various Scottish and English prisons and had the pallor (an unhealthy pale appearance) and bearing (the manner in which one conducts or carries oneself, including posture,  attitude or behaviour towards other people and gestures) common to ex-cons (a convict, prisoner).His face needed a shave and his sunken (seeming to have fallen further into the face, especially because of tiredness, illness, or old age) eyes were black, wary (careful or nervous about someone or something) pinholes. Rebus had picked him up from outside a betting shop (a place where people go to risk money on horse races or other sport events) on Clerk Street.

A few sets of lights and they were heading past the Commonwealth Pool (a Royal Commonwealth Pool. Edinburgh houses one of Scotland's main swimming pools) and into Holyrood Park. 

     'It's been a while,' Rebus said. 'What are you up to (to be the responsibility of someone) these days?'

'Nothing you lot need worry about.'

'Do I look worried?'

'You look the same way you did when you laid me out (to knock someone down with a punch) 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 (the tendency to become angry very quickly) on you.'

     'You are 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 (are the series of 46-metre cliffs at the top of a subsidiary spur of Arthurs Seat, which rise in the middle of Holyrood Park) on the approach to St. Margaret's Loch.

A few tourists were trying to feed bread to the ducks and swans, though a troop (a group of animals) of swooping (to make a sudden attack), gulls seemed to be winning more that its fair share (all that one deserves, expects, or is entitled to). Rebus was signaling right, beginning the climb that would snake around Arthur's Seat. 

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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 (if a vehicle pulls over, it moves to the side of the road and stops) and stopping. He nodded in the direction of a wall with an open gate. ‘That is the shortcut (a route that leads from one place to another and is quicker and more direct than the usual route), is not 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 (to make a sudden small movement with a part of the body, usually without intending to). He watched Rebus break open a new pack of cigarettes and light one with a match. Rebus exhaled a plume (a cloud of smoke, a tall, thin mass of smoke) of smoke before offering the pack to Meikle.

     'I stopped last year.'

     'News to me, Peter.'

     'Aye, I will bet it is (used to say showing that you agree with it or that you expected it to be true).'

     'Well, if I can't tempt (make you want to do something) 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 (if something will not budge or you can not budge it, it will not move).

     Rebus leaned back into the car. 'Something to show you.'

     'What if I'm not interested?'

     But Rebus just winked (to close one eye for a short time) and closed the door, heading around the car and across the grass towards the gateway (an entrance through a wall, fence, etc. where there is a gate). 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 (almost certain) to be a mate's car you could borrow. All you had to tell them was you had something needed shifting.'

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     '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 (to be unable to stop yourself from doing something you should not do) 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 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 (an act of putting the foot down on the ground hard, or the noise made in doing so) 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 (to make a particular facial expression, to show pain suddenly and for a short time in the face, often moving the head back at the same time). 'This is just the two of us, Peter. I'm not wearing a wire (recording the conversation or transmitting the contents of a conversation to a police listening post) 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 (close permanently), transferred.' 

     'True enough. But not everyone would be as informed as you seem to be.'

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     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 (cold case is a crime, or suspected crime, that has not yet been fully resolved and is not the subject of a recent criminal investigation, but for which new information could emerge from new witness testimony, re-examined archives, new or retained material evidence, as well as fresh activities of the suspect) was, a bunch (a number of things of the same type fastened together or in a close group) of old hands still itching (to want to do something very much and as soon as possible) for answers. And you're right that our caseload (the amount of work that someone, especially a doctor or lawyer,  has to do in a period of time) has gone elsewhere. 'Rebus 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 (to move against a hard surface with force and usually a loud noise) me into a wall, knock me out (to hit someone so that they become unconscious) cold again?' That's the way you and your lot (a large number of people or things) 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 (pull or take something away quickly) at it and saw that its recording function was on. With a grim smile, he tossed it into a thicket (an area of trees and bushes growing closely together) of gorse (a bush with sharp thorns and small yellow flowers).

 Meikle gave a little yelp (a sudden, short, high sound caused by emotion) of complaint.

     'This the way you want it to go, Peter?' Rebus asked, stubbing the remains of his cigarette against 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 Saab and start the engine. The car sped off with a burst of smoke from its exhaust. Swearing (to use words that are rude or offensive) under his breath, Meikle began trampling (to step heavily on something or someone, causing damage) down the gorse in search of his phone.

The Chief Constable's leaving party took place at the canteen of Lothian and Borders (is an area in south-east Scotland consisting of the East Lothian, City of Edinburgh, Midlothian, West Lothian along with the Scottish Borders) Police HQ on Fettes Avenue.

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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 (to join or unite to form a larger organization or group) into something called Police Scotland. The Chief Constable of Strathclyde (the Strathclyde region has 19 districts and in Gaelic means 'valley of the river Clyde') had been given the top job, leaving seven of his colleagues scratching around (to try to find something by looking everywhere, even in places that you would prefer not to look in) for fresh opportunities.

     A perfunctory (done quickly and without taking care or interest) attempt had been made to turn the canteen into a festive location - meaning a couple of banners, some streamers (a long narrow strip of brightly coloured paper that is used as a decoration) 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 (containing a lot of gas), not cold enough.

     'So, DS (Detective Sergeant) Rebus,' she said, 'what did you get up to (to do something, often something that other people would disapproved of) this afternoon?' He stared at her. 'How long are we going to keep this up (to make something continue at its present level and not allow it to fall)?' Meaning of 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 (an amount that is too large, or is more than is needed) 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 (to make an activity last longer than necessary) a little longer,' Clarke was saying now, her smile widening. 'And you haven't answered my question.'

     'I was looking up (to try to find) 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 (to think carefully about something) this. 'Aye, maybe,' he conceded. And he was lying anyway. A dozen of friends? Not even close. Siobhan was a friend,

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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 hit someone or something with the foot) 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 (expressing fear or worry) - as with a Cold Case Unit, so too with their particular jobs: packed off (to send someone to another place) elsewhere come reorganization.

But then a face from the past was squeezing through (manage to pass) the throng (a crowd or large group of people) 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 (the gradual deterioration of an individual, usually with loss of strength and muscle mass).'  Rebus turned towards Clarke. 'Siobhan, this is Eamonn Paterson. He was a DS (Detective Sergeant) when I was DC (Detective Constable).'

While the two shook hands, Rebus continued the introduction.

     'Siobhan's a detective inspector, which has her under the cruel delusion (a belief that is not true) she's my boss.' 

     'Good luck with that, ' Paterson said. 'When he was wet behind the ears (to be young and without experience) I could not get him to take a telling (truth about situation), no matter how hard I kicked his backside.

     'Some things never change,' Clarke conceded.

     'Eamonn here used to go be 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,' Patterson said, raising his glass in a toast.

     'How long have you been out of the game?' Clarke asked. Patterson 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.'

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     'That could be part of it,' he agreed with a laugh. 'So this is the last rites (a usually religious ceremony with a set of fixed words and actions) 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 be livery (a special pattern or design that is put on the things that a company owns and sells) 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.' Patterson turned towards Clarke. 'We all worked together at Summerhall.'

     'Summerhall?'

     'A cop shop next door to the vet (veterinary) school on Summerhall Place,' Rebus explained. 'They knocked it down (to destroy the building) and replaced it with St. Leonard's.'

     'Before my time,' she admitted.

     'Practically Stone Age,' Patterson 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 (to tell something secret or personal to someone who you trust not to tell anyone else).

     'I'm shocked.' Patterson made show of studying Rebus's physique (the shape and size of human body).

     'Didn't realize I was auditioning (when actors or singers compete for part) for Mr. Universe.'

     'No,' Clarke said, ' but you've sucked your stomach in anyway.'

     'Busted (to cause to come to the end),’ Paterson said with another lough, slapping (a quick hit with the flat part of the hand) Rebus's shoulder. 'So will you make it to Dod's or not?' Stefan will likely be there.'

     'Seems a bit ghoulish (connected with death and unpleasant things),' Rebus said. He explained to Clarke that Dod Blantyre had suffered a recent stroke (a sudden change in the blood supply to a part of the brain, an illness).

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     '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 (to look at a person fixedly until his gaze is turned away), then nodded slowly and patted his shoulder again. 'Fine then,' he said, moving off to greet (to meet) another old face.

     Five minutes later, as Rebus was readying his excuse that he needed to step out for the cigarette, a fresh group entered the canteen. They looked like lawyers because that was what they were - invitees (a person who is invited to something) from the Procurator Fiscal's (a legal officer who performs the functions of public prosecutor and coroner, sometimes shortened to fiscal) office. Well dressed, with shiny, confident faces, and led by the Solicitor General (the law officer of the Crown ranking next to Attorney General, in Scotland next to Lord Advocate, and acting as his assistant) for Scotland, Elinor Macari.

     'Do we need to bow or anything?' Rebus murmured to Clarke, who was fixing her fringe (an area of hair hanging over the forehead). 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 (a long, flat, narrow surface or table in shop, bank, restaurant at which people are served) 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 (not take seriously and is not important). The councilor (an elected member of a local government) who headed the policing committee merited the same kiss as 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 (an object used by the actors performing in a play or film). He noticed too that his own bottle of lager was empty, though he'd vowed (to make a serious promise or decision) to save his thirst (a need for something to drink) 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.

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     'Are you coming back?' She saw his look and gave a twitch (to make a sudden small movement with a part of body, usually without intending to) 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 (to change direction, especially suddenly) past her. She frowned (to bring your eyebrows together so that there are lines on your face above your eyes to show that you are annoyed or worried), as if trying to place him, going so far as to glance (to give a quick or short look) 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 (a small amount of something good such as truth or honesty) 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 Solicitor General was ready...