Knots And Crosses

by Ian Rankin

  John, you must know who it is

  But he had shaken his head, shaken his tears onto the folds of his trousers. He did not, he did not. It was Knot. It was Cross. Names meant nothing to him any more. Knots and crosses. He had been sent knots and crosses, string and matches and a load of gobbledygook, as Jack Morton had called it. That was all. Dear God.

  He went out into the corridor, and confronted Anderson, who stood before him like a piece of wreckage waiting to be loaded up and shunted away. And the two men came together in a hug, squeezing life into one another; two old enemies realising in a moment that they were on the same side after all. They hugged and they wept, draining themselves of all they had been bottling up, all those years of pounding the beat, having to appear emotionless and unflappable. It was out in the open now: they were human beings, the same as everybody else.

  And finally, assured that Rhona had suffered a fractured skull only, allowed into her room for a moment to watch her breathing oxygen, Rebus had let them take him home. Rhona would live. That was something. Andy Anderson, though, was cold on a slab somewhere while doctors examined his leftovers. Poor bloody Anderson. Poor man, poor father, poor copper. It was becoming very personal now, wasn’t it? All of a sudden it had become bigger than they had imagined it ever could. It had become a grudge.

  They had a description at last, though not a good one. A neighbour had seen the man carry the still form of the girl out to the car. A pale coloured car, she had told them. A normal looking car. A normal looking man. Not too tall, his face hard. He was hurrying. She didn’t get a good look at him.

  Anderson would be off the case now, and so would Rebus. Oh, it was big now. The Strangler had entered a home, had murdered there. He had gone way too far over the edge. The newspapermen and the cameras outside the hospital wanted to know all about it. Superintendent Wallace would have organised a press conference. The newspaper-readers, the voyeurs, needed to know all about it. It was big news. Edinburgh was the crime capital of Europe. The son of a Chief Inspector murdered and the daughter of a Detective Sergeant abducted, possibly murdered already.

  What could he do but sit and wait for another letter? He was better off in his flat, no matter how dark and barren it seemed, no matter how like a cell. Gill promised to visit him later, after the press conference. An unmarked car would be outside his tenement as a matter of course, for who knew how personal the Strangler wanted this to become?

  Meantime, unknown to Rebus, his file was being checked back at HQ, his past dusted off and examined. There had to be the Strangler in there somewhere. There had to be.

  Of course there had to be. Rebus knew that he alone held the key. But it seemed locked in a drawer to which it itself was the key. He could only rattle that locked away history.

  Gill Templer had telephoned Rebus’s brother, and though John would hate her for doing so, she had told Michael to come across to Edinburgh at once to be with his brother. He was Rebus’s only family after all. He sounded nervous on the phone, nervous but concerned. And now she puzzled over the matter of the acrostic. The Professor had been correct. They were trying to locate him this evening in order to interview him. Again, as a matter of course. But if the Strangler had planned this, then surely he must have been able to get his hands on a list of people whose names would fit the bill, and how would he have done that? A civil servant perhaps? A teacher? Someone working away quietly at a computer-terminal somewhere? There were many possibilities, and they would go through them one by one. First, however, Gill was going to suggest that everyone in Edinburgh called Knott or Cross be interviewed. It was a wild card, but then everything about this case so far had been wild.

  And then there was the press conference. Held, since it was convenient, in the hospital’s administration building. There was standing room only at the back of the hall. Gill Templer’s face, human but unsmiling, was becoming well known to the British public, as well known, certainly, as that of any newscaster or reporter. Tonight, however, the Superintendent would be doing the talking. She hoped he would not take long. She wanted to see Rebus. And more urgently, perhaps, she wanted to talk with his brother. Someone had to know about John’s past. He had never, apparently, spoken to any of his friends on the force about his Army years. Did the key lie there? Or in his marriage? Gill listened to the Super saying his piece. Cameras clicked and the large hall grew smoky. And there was Jim Stevens, smiling from the corner of his mouth, as if he knew something. Gill grew nervous. His eyes were on her, though his pen worked away at its notepad. She recalled that disastrous evening they had spent together, and her much less disastrous evening with John Rebus. Why had none of the men in her life ever been uncomplicated? Perhaps because complications interested her. The case was not becoming more complex. It was becoming simpler.

  Jim Stevens, half-listening to the police statement, thought of how complex this story was becoming. Rebus and Rebus, drugs and murder, anonymous messages followed by abduction of daughter. He needed to get behind the police’s public face on this one, and knew that the best way forward lay with Gill Templer, with a little trading of knowledge. If the drugs and the abduction were linked, as they probably were, then perhaps one or other of the Rebus brothers had not been playing the game according to the set rules. Maybe Gill Templer would know.

  He came up behind her as she left the building. She knew it was him, but for once she wanted to speak with him.

  ‘Hello, Jim. Can I give you a lift somewhere?’ He decided that she could. She could drop him off at a bar, unless, of course, he could see Rebus for a moment? He could not. They drove.

  ‘This story is becoming more and more bizarre by the second, don’t you think?’

  She concentrated her eyes on the road, seeming to mull over his question. Really, she was hoping he would open up a little more and that her silence would lead him to believe that she was holding back on him, that there was something there between them to swop.

  ‘Rebus seems to be the main actor though. Interesting that.’

  Gill sensed that he was about to play a card.

  ‘I mean,’ he went on, lighting a cigarette, ‘don’t mind if I smoke, do you?’

  ‘No,’ she said slowly, though inside she was jarring with electricity.

  ‘Thanks. I mean, it’s interesting because I’ve got Rebus pencilled into another story I’m working on.’

  She pulled the car up at a red light, but her eyes still gazed through the windscreen.

  ‘Would you be interested in hearing about this other story, Gill?’

  Would she? Of course she would. But what in return ...

  ‘Yes, a very interesting man, Mister Rebus. And his brother.’

  ‘His brother?’

  ‘Yes, you know, Michael Rebus, the hypnotist. An interesting pair of brothers.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Listen, Gill, let’s cut the crap.’

  ‘I was hoping you would.’ She put the car into gear and started off again.

  ‘Are you lot investigating Rebus for anything? That’s what I want to know. I mean, do you really know who’s behind all this but aren’t saying?’

  She turned to him now.

  ‘That’s not the way it works, Jim.’

  He snorted.

  ‘It may not be the way you work, Gill, but don’t pretend it doesn’t happen. I just wondered if you’d heard anything, any rumbles from higher up. Maybe to the effect that someone had made a botch-up in allowing things to come to this.’

  Jim Stevens was watching her face very closely indeed, throwing out ideas and vague theories in the hope that one of them would catch her. But she didn’t seem to be taking the bait. Very well. Maybe she didn’t know anything. That didn’t mean his theories were wrong necessarily. It could just mean that things started at a higher plane than that on which Gill Templer and he operated.

  ‘Jim, what is it you think you know about John Rebus? It could be important, you know. We could bring you in if we thought you were withholding ...�
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  Stevens began to make tutting sounds, shaking his head.

  ‘We know that’s not on, don’t we though? I mean, that is just not on.’

  She looked at him again.

  ‘I could make a precedent,’ she said.

  He stared at her. Yes, maybe she could at that.

  ‘This’ll do just here,’ he said, pointing out of the window. Some ash fell from his cigarette onto his tie. Gill stopped the car and watched him climb out. He leaned back in before shutting the door.

  ‘A swop can be arranged if you’d like one. You know my phone number.’

  Yes, she knew his phone number. He had written it down for her a very long time ago, so long ago that they were on different sides of a wall now, so that she could hardly understand him at all. What did he know about John? About Michael? As she drove off towards Rebus’s flat, she hoped that she would find out there.

  21

  John Rebus read a few pages from his Good News Bible, but put it down when he realised that he was taking none of it in. He prayed instead, screwing up his eyes into tiny fists. Then he walked around the flat, touching things. This he had done before that first breakdown. He was not afraid now though. Let it come if it would, let everything come. He had no resilience left. He was passive to the will of his malevolent creator.

  There was a ring at the door. He did not answer. They would go away, and he would be alone again with his grief, his impotent anger, and his undusted possessions. The bell rang again, more persistently this time. Cursing, he went to the door and pulled it open. Michael was standing there. ‘John,’ he said, ‘I came as soon as I could.’

  ‘Mickey, what are you doing here?’ He ushered his brother into the flat.

  ‘Somebody phoned me. She told me all about it. Terrible news, John. Just terrible.’ He placed a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. Rebus, tingling, realised how long it had been since he had felt the touch of a human being, a sympathetic, brotherly touch. ‘I was confronted by two gorillas outside. They seem to have you under close watch here.’

  ‘Procedure,’ said Rebus.

  Procedure maybe, but Michael knew how guilty he must have looked when they had pounced on him. He had wondered at the phone-call, wondered about the possibility of a trap. So he had listened to the local radio news. There had been an abduction, a killing. It was true. So he had driven over, into this lion’s den, knowing that he should stay well away from his brother, knowing that they would kill him if they found out, and wondering whether the abduction could have anything to do with his own situation. Was this a warning to both brothers? He could not say. But when those two gorillas had approached him in the shadows of the tenement stairs, he had thought the game all over. Firstly, they had been gangsters, out to get him. Then, they had been police officers, about to arrest him. But no, they were ‘procedure’.

  ‘You say it was a woman who called you? Did you catch her name? No, never mind, I know who it was anyway.’

  They sat in the living-room. Michael, removing his sheepskin jacket, brought a bottle of whisky out of one of the pockets.

  ‘Would this help?’ he said.

  ‘It won’t do any harm.’

  Rebus went to fetch glasses from the kitchen, while Michael inspected the living-room.

  ‘This is a nice place,’ he called.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit big for my needs,’ said Rebus. A choking sound came from the kitchen. Michael walked through to discover his big brother leaning into the sink, weeping grimly but quietly.

  ‘John,’ said Michael, hugging Rebus, ‘it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.’ He felt guilt well up inside him.

  Rebus was fumbling for a handkerchief and, having found it, gave his nose a good blow and wiped his eyes.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ he sniffed, trying out a smile, ‘you’re a heathen.’

  They drank half of the whisky, sitting back in their chairs, silently contemplating the shadowy ceiling above. Rebus’s eyes were red-rimmed, and his eye-lashes stung. He sniffed occasionally, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. To Michael, it was like being boys again, but with the roles reversed for a moment. Not that they had been that close, but sentiment would always win over reality. Certainly he remembered John fighting one or two of his playground battles for him. Guilt welled up again. He shivered slightly. He had to get out of this game, but perhaps already he was in too deep, and if he had brought John unknowingly into the game too ... That did not bear thinking about. He had to see the Man, had to explain things to him. But how? He had no telephone number or address. It was always the Man who called him, never the other way round. It was farcical now that he thought about it. Like a nightmare.

  ‘Did you enjoy the show the other night?’ Rebus forced himself to think back to it, to the perfumed and lonely woman, to his fingers around her throat, the scene which had signalled the beginning of his end.

  ‘Yes, it was interesting.’ He had fallen asleep had he not? Never mind.

  Silence again, the broken sounds of traffic outside, a few shouts from distant drunks.

  ‘They say it’s someone with a grudge against me,’ he said finally.

  ‘Oh? And is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. It looks like it.’

  ‘But surely you would know?’

  Rebus shook his head.

  ‘That’s the trouble, Mickey. I can’t remember.’

  Michael sat up in his chair.

  ‘You can’t remember what exactly?’

  ‘Something. I don’t know. Just something. If I knew what, I would remember, wouldn’t I? But there’s a gap. I know there is. I know that there’s something I should remember.’

  ‘Something from your past?’ Michael was keening now. Perhaps this had nothing at all to do with himself. Perhaps it was all to do with something else, someone else. He grew hopeful.

  ‘From the past, yes. But I can’t remember.’ Rebus rubbed his forehead as though it were a crystal ball. Michael was fumbling in his pocket.

  ‘I can help you to remember, John.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Like this.’ Michael was holding, between thumb and forefinger, a silver coin. ‘You remember what I told you, John. I take my patients back into past lives every day. It should be easy enough to take you back into your real past.’

  It was John Rebus’s turn to sit up. He shook away the whisky fumes.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘What do I do?’ But inside part of him was saying: you don’t want this, you don’t want to know.

  He wanted to know.

  Michael came over to his chair.

  ‘Lie back in the chair. Get comfortable. Don’t touch any more of that whisky. But remember, not everyone is susceptible to hypnotism. Don’t force yourself. Don’t try too hard. If it’s going to come, it’ll come whether you will it or not. Just relax, John, relax.’

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Ignore it,’ said Rebus, but Michael had already left the room. There were voices in the hall, and when Michael reappeared he was followed into the room by Gill.

  ‘The telephone caller, it seems,’ said Michael.

  ‘How are you, John?’ Her face was angled into a portrait of concern.

  ‘Fine, Gill. Listen, this is my brother Michael. The hypnotist. He’s going to put me under - that’s what you called it, wasn’t it, Mickey? - to remove whatever block there might be in my memory. Maybe you should be ready to take some notes or something.’

  Gill looked from one brother to the other, feeling a little out of things. An interesting pair of brothers. That’s what Jim Stevens had said. She had been working for sixteen hours, and now this. But she smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Can a girl get a drink first?’

  It was John Rebus’s turn to smile. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘There’s whisky or whisky and water or water. Come on, Mickey. Let’s get on with this. Sammy’s out there somewhere. There might still be time.’

  Michael spread his legs a little,
leaning down over Rebus. He seemed to be about to consume his brother, his eyes close to Rebus’s eyes, his mouth working in a mirror-image. That’s what it looked like to Gill, pouring whisky into a tumbler. Michael held up the coin, trying to find the angle of the room’s single low-wattage bulb. Finally, the glint was reflected in John’s retina, the pupils expanding and contracting. Michael felt sure that his brother would be amenable. He certainly hoped so.

  ‘Listen carefully, John. Listen to my voice. Watch the coin, John. Watch it shine and spin. See it spinning. Can you see it spinning, John? Now relax, just listen to me. And watch the spin, watch it glow.’

  For a moment it seemed that Rebus would not go under. Perhaps it was the familial tie that was making him immune to the voice, to its suggestive power. But then Michael saw the eyes change a little, imperceptibly to the uninitiated. But he was initiated. His father had taught him well. His brother was in the limbo world now, caught in the coin’s light, transported to wherever Michael wanted him to go. Under his power. As ever, Michael felt a little shiver run through him: this was power, power total and irreducible. He could do anything with his patients, anything.

  ‘Michael,’ whispered Gill, ‘ask him why he left the Army.’

  Michael swallowed, lining his throat with saliva. Yes, that was a good question. One he had wanted to ask John himself.

  ‘John?’ he said. ‘John? Why did you leave the Army, John? What happened, John? Why did you leave the Army? Tell us.’

  And slowly, as though learning to use words strange or unknown to him, Rebus began to tell his story. Gill rushed to her bag for a pen and a notepad. Michael sipped his whisky.

  They listened.