by Ian Rankin
‘I’ll see if I can do better,’ Rebus said, rolling the programme into his pocket.
He made for the area behind the stage, which had been cordoned off by means of arranging lorries and vans into a semi-circle, inside which the bands and their entourages moved like zoo exhibits. His warrant card got him where he wanted to be, as well as a few dirty looks.
‘You in charge?’ he asked the overweight man in front of him. The man was in his fifties, Jerry Garcia with red hair and a kilt, sweat showing through a stained white vest. Beads of perspiration dripped from his overhanging brow.
‘Nobody’s in charge,’ he told Rebus.
‘But you helped organise —’
‘Look, what’s your problem, man? The concert’s licensed, the last thing we need is grief.’
‘I’m not giving any. I just have a question about the organisation.’
‘What about it?’
‘Allan Mitchison – Mitch.’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you know him?’
‘No.’
‘I hear he was responsible for getting the Dancing Pigs to play.’
The man thought about it, nodded. ‘Mitch, right. I don’t know him, I mean, I’ve seen him around.’
‘Anyone I could ask about him?’
‘Why, man, what’s he done?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Bad number.’ He shrugged. ‘Wish I could help.’
Rebus made his way back to front-of-stage. The sound system was the usual travesty, and the band didn’t sound nearly as good as on their studio album. Notch one up for the producer. The music stopped suddenly, the momentary silence sweeter than any tune. The singer stepped up to the mike.
‘We’ve got some friends we’d like to bring on. A few hours back they were fighting the good fight, trying to save our seas. Put your hands together for them.’
Applause, cheering. Rebus watched two figures walk onstage, still dressed in orange oilskins: he recognised their faces from Bannock. He waited, but there was no sign of braid-hair. When they started their speeches, he turned to go. There was one last collecting tin to be avoided, but he thought better of it, folded a fiver in through the slot. And decided to treat himself to dinner in his hotel: putting it on the room, of course.
Insistent noise.
Rebus folded it into his dream, then gave up. One eye open: chinks of light through the heavy curtains. What fucking time was it? Bedside lamp: on. He clawed at his watch, blinked. Six a.m. What? Did Lumsden want rid of him that badly?
He swung out of bed, walked stiff-legged to the door, working his muscles. He’d washed a great dinner down with a bottle of wine. In itself the wine would have posed no problem, but as a digestif he’d put away four malts, in flagrant disregard of the drinker’s rule: never mix the grape and the grain.
Thump, thump, thump.
Rebus pulled open the door. Two woolly suits stood there, looking like they’d been up for hours.
‘Inspector Rebus?’
‘Last time I looked.’
‘Will you get dressed, please, sir?’
‘You don’t like the outfit?’ Y-fronts and a T-shirt.
‘Just get dressed.’
Rebus looked at them, decided to comply. When he walked back into the room, they followed, looked around the way cops always do.
‘What have I done?’
‘Tell them at the station.’
Rebus looked at him. ‘Tell me you’re fucking joking.’
‘Language, sir,’ the other uniform said.
Rebus sat on the bed, pulled on clean socks. ‘I’d still like to know what this is all about. You know, on the q.t., officer to officer.’
‘Just a few questions, sir. Quick as you can.’
The second uniform tugged open the curtains, light stabbing Rebus’s eyeballs. He seemed impressed by the view.
‘We had a brawl in the gardens a few nights ago. Remember, Bill?’
His colleague joined him at the window. ‘And someone jumped off the bridge a fortnight back. Whee, smack on to Denburn Road.’
‘Woman in the car got an awful fright.’
They smiled at the memory.
Rebus stood up, looked around him, wondering what to take.
‘Shouldn’t be too long, sir.’
They were smiling at him now. Rebus’s stomach did a back-flip. He tried not to think about timbale of haggis … cranachan with a fruit coulis … wine and whisky …
‘Feeling a bit rough, sir?’
The uniform looked about as solicitous as a razor blade.
20
‘My name’s Chief Inspector Edward Grogan. We’ve a few questions for you, Inspector Rebus.’
So everyone keeps telling me, Rebus thought. But he didn’t say anything, just sat there with arms folded and a wronged man’s smouldering look. Ted Grogan: Rebus had heard of him. Hard bastard. He looked it, too: bull-necked and bald, his physique more Frazier than Ali. Thin eyes and thick lips; a street-taught fighter. Jutting forehead; simian.
‘You already know DS Lumsden.’ Sitting over by the door, head bowed, legs apart. He looked exhausted, embarrassed. Grogan sat down opposite Rebus at the table. They were in a biscuit-tin, though they probably had another name for it in Furry Boot Town.
‘No point beating around the bush,’ Grogan said. He looked about as comfortable on the chair as a prize Aberdeen Angus. ‘How did you get the bruises?’
‘I told Lumsden.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I was mugged by a couple of message-boys. Their message was a pistol whipping.’
‘Any other scars?’
‘They pushed me over a wall, I hit a thorn-bush on the way down. My side’s scratched.’
‘Is that it?’
‘That’s it. Look, I appreciate your concern, but —’
‘But that’s not our concern, Inspector. DS Lumsden says he dropped you off down by the docks, night before last.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I believe he offered you a lift to your hotel.’
‘Probably.’
‘But you didn’t want that.’
Rebus looked over at Lumsden. What the fuck is going on? But Lumsden’s gaze was still concentrated floorwards. ‘I felt like a walk.’
‘Back to your hotel?’
‘Right.’
‘And on the way, you were beaten up?’
‘With a pistol.’
A smile, mixing sympathy with disbelief. ‘In Aberdeen, Inspector?’
‘There’s more than one Aberdeen. I don’t see what this has to do with anything.’
‘Bear with me. So you walked home?’
‘To the very expensive hotel Grampian Police provided for me.’
‘Ah, the hotel. We’d pre-booked for a visiting Chief Constable, only he cancelled at the last minute. We’d have ended up paying anyway. I believe DS Lumsden used his initiative and decided you might as well stay there. Highland courtesy, Inspector.’
Highland fabrication more like.
‘If that’s your story.’
‘It’s not my story that’s important here. On this walk home of yours, did you see anyone, speak to anyone?’
‘No.’ Rebus paused. ‘I saw a crew of your finest in discussion with a couple of teenagers.’
‘You spoke to them?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Didn’t want to interfere. This isn’t my patch.’
‘From what DS Lumsden tells me, you’ve been acting like it was.’
Rebus caught Lumsden’s eyes. They stared right through him.
‘Did a doctor look at your injuries?’
‘I fixed myself up. Hotel reception had a first aid kit.’
‘They asked you if you wanted a doctor.’ A statement.
‘I said it wasn’t necessary. Lowland self-reliance.’
A cool smile from Grogan. ‘You spent yesterday on an oil rig, I believe.’
‘With DS Lumsden at my heels.’
‘And la
st night?’
‘I had a drink, went for a walk, ate dinner at the hotel. I put it on the tab, by the way.’
‘Where did you drink?’
‘Burke’s Club, a dope-dealer’s paradise on College Street. My bet is, my attackers started life there. What’s the going rate up here for hiring hard men? Fifty for a duffing? Seventy-five per broken limb?’
Grogan sniffed, rose to his feet. ‘Those prices might be a wee bit on the high side.’
‘Look, with respect, I’m about two hours from out of here. If this is some kind of warning, it’s too much too late.’
Grogan spoke very quietly. ‘It’s not a warning, Inspector.’
‘What is it then?’
‘You say when you left Burke’s you went for a walk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Duthie Park.’
‘A fair hike.’
‘I’m a big Dancing Pigs fan.’
‘Dancing Pigs?’
‘A band, sir,’ Lumsden said, ‘they were playing a concert last night.’
‘It talks.’
‘No need for that, Inspector.’ Grogan was standing behind Rebus. The invisible interrogator: did you turn to face him, or did you stare at the wall? Rebus had played the trick himself many a time. Objective: unnerve the prisoner.
Prisoner – Jesus.
‘You’ll remember, sir,’ Lumsden said, voice almost atonal, ‘that’s the route Michelle Strachan took.’
‘That’s true, isn’t it, Inspector? I expect you knew that.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, you’ve been taking a great interest in the Johnny Bible case, haven’t you?’
‘I’ve been involved tangentially, sir.’
‘Oh, tangentially?’ Grogan came back into view, showing yellow teeth that looked like they’d been filed short. ‘Well, that’s one way of putting it. DS Lumsden says you seemed very interested in the Aberdeen side of the case, kept asking him questions.’
‘With respect, that’s DS Lumsden’s interpretation.’
‘And what’s yours?’ Leaning over the desk, fists resting on it. Getting in close. Objective: cow the suspect, show him who’s boss.
‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘Answer the question!’
‘Stop treating me like a fucking suspect!’
Rebus regretted the outburst immediately – sign of weakness, sign he was rattled. In army training, he’d survived days on end of interrogation techniques. Yes, but back then his head had been emptier; there’d been less to feel guilty about.
‘But, Inspector,’ Grogan sounding hurt by the flare-up, ‘that’s precisely what you are.’
Rebus grabbed at the edge of the table, feeling its rough metal edge. He tried to stand, but his legs failed him. He probably looked like he was crapping himself, forced his hands to release the table.
‘Yesterday evening,’ Grogan said coolly, ‘a woman’s body was found in a crate on the dockside. Pathologist reckons she was killed some time the previous night. Strangled. Raped. One of her shoes is missing.’
Rebus was shaking his head. Sweet Jesus, he was thinking, not another one.
‘There’s no sign that she fought back, no skin beneath the fingernails, but she could have lashed out with her fists. She had the look of a strong woman, tenacious.’
Involuntarily, Rebus touched the bruise on his temple.
‘You were down near the docks, Inspector, and in a foul mood according to DS Lumsden.’
Rebus was on his feet. ‘He’s trying to stitch me up!’ Attack, they said, was the best form of defence. Not necessarily true, but if Lumsden wanted to play dirty, Rebus would give as good as he got.
‘Sit down, Inspector.’
‘He’s trying to protect his fucking clients! How much do you take a week, Lumsden? How much do they slip you?’
‘I said sit down!’
‘Sod you,’ said Rebus. It was like a boil had burst; he couldn’t halt the outpour. ‘You’re trying to tell me I’m Johnny Bible! I’m nearer Bible John’s age, for Christ’s sake.’
‘You were at the docks around the time she was murdered. You arrived back at your hotel cut and bruised, your clothes a mess.’
‘This is bullshit! I don’t have to listen to this!’
‘Yes you do.’
‘Charge me then.’
‘We’ve a few more questions, Inspector. This can be as painless as you like, or it can be absolute bastarding agony. You choose, but before you do that – sit down!’
Rebus stood there. His mouth was open, and he wiped saliva from his chin. He looked over at Lumsden, who was still seated, albeit tensed, ready to jump if words became deeds. Rebus wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He sat down.
Grogan took a deep breath. The air in the room – what was left of it – was beginning to smell bad. It wasn’t even half past seven.
‘Bovril and oranges at half time?’ Rebus asked.
‘That might be a long way off.’ Grogan walked to the door, opened it and stuck his head out. Then he held the door wide open so someone outside could come in.
Chief Inspector Chick Ancram.
‘Saw you on the news, John. Not exactly telegenic, are you?’ Ancram slipped off his jacket and placed it carefully over the back of a chair. He looked like he was about to enjoy himself. ‘You weren’t wearing your hard hat, mightn’t have recognised you otherwise.’ Grogan walked over to where Lumsden was sitting, like a tag-team wrestler leaving the ring. Ancram started rolling up his sleeves.
‘Going to be a hot one, John, eh?’
‘A scorcher,’ Rebus muttered. Now he knew why CID liked dawn raids: he felt exhausted already. Exhaustion played tricks with your mind; it made you make mistakes. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’
Ancram looked to Grogan. ‘I don’t see why not. How about you, Ted?’
‘I could do with a cup myself.’ He turned to Lumsden. ‘On you go, son.’
‘Fucking message-boy,’ Rebus couldn’t help saying.
Lumsden sprang to his feet, but Grogan had a restraining hand out.
‘Easy, son, just go get those coffees, eh?’
‘And DS Lumsden?’ Ancram called. ‘Make sure Inspector Rebus gets decaf, we don’t want him getting all jumpy.’
‘Any jumpier and I’d be a kangaroo. Lumsden? I like hundred per cent decaf, no pissing or howking into it, OK?’
Lumsden left the room in silence.
‘Now then.’ Ancram sat down across from Rebus. ‘You’re a hard man to catch.’
‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.’
‘I think you’re worth it, don’t you? Tell me something about Johnny Bible.’
‘Like what?’
‘Anything. His methods, background, profile.’
‘That could take all day.’
‘We’ve got all day.’
‘Maybe you have, but my room’s got to be vacated by eleven, or else it’s another day’s rate.’
‘Your room’s already empty,’ Grogan said. ‘Your stuff’s in my office.’
‘Inadmissible as evidence: you should have had a search warrant.’
Ancram shared a laugh with Grogan. Rebus knew why they were laughing, he’d’ve been doing it too if he’d been where they were. But he wasn’t. He was where a lot of men and women, some of them barely adult, had been before him. Same chair, same sweaty room, same set-up. Hundreds and thousands of them, suspects. In the eyes of the law, innocent until proven guilty. In the eyes of the interrogator, the other way round. Sometimes to prove to yourself that a suspect was innocent you had to break them. Sometimes you had to go that far before you were sure in your mind. Rebus didn’t know how many sessions like this he’d sat in on … hundreds, certainly. He’d broken maybe a dozen suspects only to find they were innocent. He knew where he was, knew why he was there, but that didn’t make it any easier.
‘I’ll tell you something about Johnny Bible,’ Ancram said. ‘His profile can fit sever
al professions, and one of those is serving or retired police officer, someone who knows our methods and is careful not to leave trace evidence.’
‘We’ve a physical description of him. I’m too old.’
Ancram screwed up his face. ‘IDs, John, we all know their failings.’
‘I’m not Johnny Bible.’
‘Doesn’t mean you’re not a copycat. Mind, we’re not saying you are. All we’re saying is, there are questions that have to be asked.’
‘So ask them.’
‘You came to Partick.’
‘Correct.’
‘Ostensibly to talk to me about Uncle Joe Toal.’
‘Uncannily astute.’
‘Yet if memory serves, you ended up asking me a lot of questions about Johnny Bible. And you seemed to know a lot about the Bible John case.’ Ancram waited to see if Rebus had a smart comeback. None came. ‘While in Partick, you spent a lot of time in the room where the original Bible John files were being checked.’ Ancram paused again. ‘And now a TV reporter tells me you have cuttings and notes about Bible John and Johnny Bible stashed in your kitchen cupboards.’
Bitch!
‘Now wait a minute,’ Rebus said.
Ancram sat back. ‘I’m waiting.’
‘Everything you’ve said is true. I am interested in the two cases. Bible John … that takes a bit of explaining. And Johnny Bible … well, for one thing, I knew one of the victims.’
Ancram sat forward. ‘Which one?’
‘Angie Riddell.’
‘In Edinburgh?’ Ancram and Grogan exchanged a look. Rebus knew what they were thinking: another connection.
‘I was part of the team that picked her up once. I saw her again after that.’
‘Saw her?’
‘Drove down to Leith, passed the time of day.’
Grogan snorted. ‘There’s a euphemism I’ve not heard before.’
‘We talked, that’s all. I bought her a cup of tea and a bridie.’
‘And you didn’t tell anyone? Do you know how that looks?’
‘Another black mark against me. I’ve got so many, I could play Al Jolson on stage.’