by Ian Rankin
Rebus understood that it wasn’t an invitation to afternoon tea.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, ‘good night.’
He put the phone down. Aberdeen beckoned, and he was damned if he’d give anyone prior notice. But Aberdeen could wait another day. Vanessa Holden connected to the oil industry …
‘What is it, John?’
Rebus looked up at his friend. ‘It’s Johnny Bible, Jack. I just got a strange feeling about him.’
‘What?’
‘That he’s an oilman …’
They tidied everything away and washed up, then made mugs of coffee and decided to go back to the decorating. Jack wanted to know more about Johnny Bible, and about Eve and Stanley, but Rebus didn’t know where to start. His head felt clogged. He kept filling it with new information, and nothing drained away. Johnny Bible’s first victim had been a geology student at a university with close ties to the oil industry. Now his fourth victim made stands for conventions, and working in Aberdeen, he could guess who her best clients had been. If there was a connection between victims one and four, was there something he was missing, something linking two and three? A prostitute and a barmaid, one in Edinburgh, the other Glasgow …
When the telephone rang, he put down his sandpaper – the door was looking good – and picked it up. Jack was using a ladder to reach the cornices.
‘Hello?’
‘John? It’s Mairie.’
‘I’ve been trying to reach you.’
‘Sorry, another assignment – a paying one.’
‘Did you find out anything about Major Weir?’
‘A fair bit. How was Aberdeen?’
‘Bracing.’
‘It’ll do that to you. These notes … probably too much to read over the phone.’
‘So let’s meet.’
‘Which pub?’
‘Not a pub.’
‘There must be something wrong with the line. Did you just say “not a pub”?’
‘How about Duddingston Village? That’s about halfway. I’ll park by the loch.’
‘When?’
‘Half an hour?’
‘Half an hour it is.’
‘We’ll never get this room finished,’ Jack said, stepping down off the ladder. He had traces of white paint in his hair.
‘Grey suits you,’ Rebus told him.
Jack rubbed at his head. ‘Is it another woman?’ Rebus nodded. ‘How do you manage to keep them apart?’
‘The flat has a lot of doors.’
Mairie was waiting when they got there. Jack hadn’t been around Arthur’s Seat in years, so they took the scenic route; not that there was much to see at night. The huge hump of a hill, looking like nothing so much as – even kids could see it – a crouched elephant, was a great place to blow off the cobwebs – and anything else you might have on you. At night, though, it was poorly lit and a long way from anywhere. Edinburgh had lots of these glorious empty spaces. They were fine and private places right up until the moment you met your first junkie, mugger, rapist or gay-basher.
Duddingston Village was just that – a village in the midst of a city, sheltering beneath Arthur’s Seat. Duddingston Loch – more outsize pond than true loch – looked down on to a bird sanctuary and a path known as the Innocent Railway: Rebus wished he knew where it got the name.
Jack stopped the car and flashed his lights. Mairie switched hers off, unlocked her door, and came loping towards them. Rebus leaned into the back to open the door, and she got in. He introduced her to Jack Morton.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you worked the Knots and Crosses case with John.’
Rebus blinked. ‘How do you know that? It was before your time.’
She winked at him. ‘I’ve done my research.’
He wondered what else she might know, but hadn’t time to speculate. She handed him a brown A4 envelope.
‘Thank God for e-mail. I’ve a contact on the Washington Post and he got me most of what’s there.’
Rebus switched on the interior light. There was a spot-lamp specially for reading by.
‘Usually he wants to meet me in pubs,’ Mairie told Jack, ‘right seedy ones at that.’
Jack smiled at her, turned in his seat with his arm hanging down over the headrest. Rebus knew Jack liked her. Everyone liked Mairie from the off. He wished he knew her secret.
‘Seedy pubs suit his personality,’ Jack said.
‘Look,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘will you two bugger off and go look at the ducks or something?’
Jack shrugged, checked it was OK with Mairie, and opened his door. Alone, Rebus settled deeper into his seat and started to read.
Number one: Major Weir was not a Major. It was a nickname, earned in adolescence. Two, his parents had handed on to him their love of all things Scottish – up to and including a craving for national independence. There were a lot of facts about his early years in industry, latterly the oil industry, and reports of Thom Bird’s demise – nothing suspicious about it. A journalist in the States had started writing an unauthorised biography of Weir, but had given up – rumour had it he was paid not to finish the book. A couple of stories, unsubstantiated: Weir left his wife amid much acrimony – and later, much alimony. Then something about Weir’s son, either deceased or disinherited. Maybe off in some ashram or feeding the African hungry, maybe working in a burger parlour or Wall Street futures. Rebus turned to the next sheet, only to find there wasn’t one. The story had finished mid-sentence. He got out of the car, walked to where Mairie and Jack were in huddled conversation.
‘It’s not all here,’ he said, waving what sheets he had.
‘Oh, yes.’ Mairie reached into her jacket, brought out a single folded sheet and handed it over. Rebus stared at her, demanding an explanation. She shrugged. ‘Call me a tease.’
Jack started laughing.
Rebus stood in the glare of the headlights and read. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He read it again, then for a third time, and had to run a hand through his hair to make sure the top of his head hadn’t just blown off.
‘Everything all right?’ Mairie asked him.
He stared at her for a moment, not really seeing anything, then pulled her to him and planted a kiss on her cheek.
‘Mairie, you’re perfect.’
She turned to Jack Morton.
‘I second that,’ he said.
Sitting in his car, Bible John had watched Rebus and friend drive out of Arden Street. His business had kept him an extra day in Edinburgh. Frustrating, but at least he’d been able to take another look at the policeman. It was hard to tell from a distance, but Rebus seemed to sport bruises on his face, and his clothes were dishevelled. Bible John couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed: he’d been hoping for a more worthy adversary. The man looked dead done in.
Not that he thought them adversaries, not really. Rebus’s flat had not thrown up much, but it had revealed that Rebus’s interest in Bible John was connected to the Upstart. Which went some way towards explaining it. He hadn’t stayed as long in the flat as he would have liked. Being unable to pick the lock, he’d been forced to break the door. He couldn’t know how long it would take for neighbours to spot something. So he had been swift, but then there’d been so little in the flat worth his attention. It told him something about the policeman. He felt now that he knew Rebus, at least to a degree – he felt the loneliness of his life, the gaps where sentiment and warmth and love should have been. There was music, and there were books, but neither in great quantity nor of great quality. The clothes were utilitarian, one jacket much like another. No shoes. He found that bizarre in the extreme. Did the man possess only one pair?
And the kitchen: lacking in utensils and produce. And the bathroom: needing redecorating.
But back in the kitchen, a small surprise. Newspapers and cuttings hastily hidden, easily found. Bible John, Johnny Bible. And evidence that Rebus had gone to some trouble: the original papers must have been bought from a dealer. An investigation
within the official investigation, that was what it looked like. Which made Rebus more interesting in Bible John’s eyes.
Paperwork in the bedroom: boxes of old correspondence, bank statements, very few photographs – but enough to show that Rebus had once been married, and had a daughter. Nothing recent though: no photos of the daughter grown-up, no recent photos at all.
But the one thing he’d come here for … his business card … no sign of it at all. Which meant either that Rebus had thrown it away, or that he carried it with him still, in a jacket pocket or wallet.
In the living room, he noted Rebus’s telephone number, then closed his eyes, making sure he had committed the flat’s layout to memory. Yes, easy. He could come back here at dead of night and walk through the place without disturbing anything or anyone. He could take John Rebus any time he wanted to. Any time at all.
He wondered about Rebus’s friend though. The policeman didn’t seem the gregarious type. They’d been painting the living room together. He couldn’t know if it was connected to the break-in; probably not. A man Rebus’s age, maybe a little younger, quite a tough-looking individual. Another police man? Perhaps. The man’s face had lacked Rebus’s intensity. There was something in Rebus – he had noticed it during their first meeting, and it had been reinforced this evening – a singleness of purpose, a sense of determination. Physically, Rebus’s friend seemed the superior, but that wouldn’t make Rebus a pushover. Physical strength could take a person only so far.
After that, it was down to attitude.
26
They were waiting outside the photo shop when it opened next morning. Jack looked at his watch for only the fifteenth time.
‘He’ll kill us,’ he said for the ninth or tenth. ‘No, I mean it, really he will.’
‘Relax.’
Jack looked about as relaxed as a headless chicken. When the manager started unlocking the shop, they sprinted from the car. Rebus had the stub ready in his hand.
‘Give me a minute,’ the manager said.
‘We’re late for something.’
Coat still on, the manager browsed through a box of photograph packets. Rebus imagined family days out, holidays abroad, red-eyed birthdays and blurred wedding receptions. There was something faintly desperate and yet touching about collections of photographs. He’d looked through a lot of photo albums in his time – usually seeking clues to a murder, a victim’s acquaintances.
‘You’ll have to wait anyway while I unlock the till.’ The manager handed over the packet. Jack glanced at the price, slapped down more than enough to cover it, and dragged Rebus out of the shop.
He drove to Fettes like there was a murder scene waiting there. Traffic honked and squealed as he did his stunt-driver routine. They were still twenty minutes late for the meeting. But Rebus didn’t mind. He had his reprints, the missing photos from Allan Mitchison’s cabin. They were similar to the other pictures: group shots, but with fewer figures. And in all of them, braid-hair, standing right next to Mitchison. In one, she had an arm around him; in another, they were kissing, grinning as their lips met.
Rebus wasn’t surprised, not now.
‘I hope they were bloody well worth it,’ Jack said.
‘Every penny, Jack.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
Chick Ancram sat with hands clasped, his face the colour of rhubarb crumble. The files were in front of him, as though they hadn’t been moved since the previous meeting. His voice had a slight vibrato. He was in control, but only just.
‘I had a phone call,’ he said, ‘from someone called Kayleigh Burgess.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘She wanted to ask me a few questions.’ He paused. ‘About you. About the role DI Morton is currently playing in your life.’
‘It’s gossip, sir. Jack and myself are just good friends.’
Ancram slapped both hands down on the desk. ‘I thought we had a deal.’
‘Can’t say I remember.’
‘Well, let’s hope your long-term memory’s better.’ He opened a file. ‘Because now the fun really begins.’ He nodded for a sheepish Jack to switch on the tape recorder, then started off by giving date and time, officers present … Rebus felt as if he’d explode. He really thought if he sat there a second longer, his eyeballs would fly from their sockets like those jokeshop glasses with spring-loaded eyes. He’d felt like this before, just before a panic attack. But he wasn’t panicking now; he was just charged. He stood up. Ancram broke off what he’d been saying.
‘Something the matter, Inspector?’
‘Look,’ Rebus rubbed at his forehead, ‘I can’t think straight … not about Spaven. Not today.’
‘That’s for me to decide, not you. If you’re feeling ill, we can call for a doctor, but otherwise …’
‘I’m not ill. I just …’
‘Then sit down.’ Rebus sat down, and Ancram went back to his notes. ‘Now, Inspector, on the night referred to, your report states that you were at Inspector Geddes’ house, and there was a telephone call?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t actually hear the conversation?’
‘No.’ Braid-hair and Mitchison … Mitch the organiser, protester. Mitch the oil-worker. Killed by Tony El, henchman to Uncle Joe. Eve and Stanley, working Aberdeen, sharing a room …
‘But DI Geddes told you it was to do with Mr Spaven? A tip-off?’
‘Yes.’ Burke’s Club, police hang-out, maybe an oil-workers’ hang-out too. Hayden Fletcher drinking there. Ludovic Lumsden drinking there. Michelle Strachan meets Johnny Bible there …
‘And Geddes didn’t say who the call was from?’
‘Yes.’ Ancram looked up, and Rebus knew he’d given the wrong answer. ‘I mean, no.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
Ancram stared at him, sniffed, concentrated on his notes again. There were pages and pages of them, specially prepared for this session: questions to be asked, ‘facts’ double-checked, the whole case stripped down and rebuilt.
‘Anonymous tip-offs are pretty rare in my experience,’ Ancram said.
‘Yes.’
‘And they’re almost always made to a police station’s general desk. Would you agree?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Was Aberdeen the key then, or did the answers lie further north? What did Jake Harley have to do with it? And Mike Sutcliffe – Mr Sheepskin – hadn’t Major Weir warned him off? What was it Sutcliffe had said? He’d said something on the plane, then stopped suddenly … Something about a boat …
And did any of it connect to Johnny Bible? Was Johnny Bible an oilman?
‘So it would be rational to deduce that DI Geddes knew the caller, wouldn’t it?’
‘Or they knew him.’
Ancram shrugged this aside. ‘And this tip-off just happened to concern Mr Spaven. Didn’t that strike you at the time as a bit of a coincidence, Inspector? Seeing as Geddes had been warned off Spaven already? I mean, it must have been clear to you that your boss was obsessed with Spaven?’
Rebus got up again and started pacing the small room as best he could.
‘Sit down!’
‘With respect, sir, I can’t. If I sit there any longer, I’m going to stick my fist in your face.’
Jack Morton covered his eyes with one hand.
‘What did you say?’
‘Wind the tape back and take a listen. And that’s why I’m up and walking: crisis management if you like.’
‘Inspector, I’d caution you —’
Rebus laughed. ‘Would you? That’s big of you, sir.’ Ancram was rising to his feet. Rebus turned away and walked to the far wall, turned round again and stopped.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘a simple question: do you want to see Uncle Joe fucked?’
‘We’re not here to —’
‘We’re here to put on a show – you know that as well as I do. The brass are sweaty about the media; they want the force to look good if that programme ever gets made. This way, everyone s
its back and says there was an inquiry. TV seems to be about the only thing brass are afraid of. Villains don’t scare them, but ten minutes of negative coverage, dearie me, no. Can’t have that. All for a programme which will be stared at by a few million, half of them with the sound down, the other half not taking it in, then forgotten about the very next day. So,’ he took a deep breath, ‘simple yes or no.’ Ancram didn’t say anything, so Rebus repeated the question.
Ancram signalled for Jack to turn off the machine. Then he sat back down.
‘Yes,’ he said quietly.
‘I can see that it happens.’ Rebus kept his voice level. ‘But I don’t want you getting sole credit. If it’s anyone’s, the collar belongs to CI Templer.’ Rebus went back to his chair, propped himself on the edge of it. ‘Now I have a couple of questions.’
‘Was there a phone call?’ Ancram asked, surprising Rebus. They stared at one another. ‘Tape’s off, this is between the three of us. Was there ever a phone call?’
‘I answer yours and you answer mine?’ Ancram nodded. ‘Of course there was a phone call.’
Ancram almost smiled. ‘You liar. He came to your house, didn’t he? What did he tell you? Did he say you wouldn’t need a search warrant? You must’ve known he was lying.’
‘He was a good cop.’
‘Every time you come out with that line, it sounds thinner. What’s the matter: stopped finding it convincing?’
‘He was.’
‘But he had a problem, a little personal demon called Lenny Spaven. You were his friend, Rebus, you should have stopped him.’
‘Stopped him?’
Ancram nodded, eyes gleaming like moons. ‘You should have helped him.’
‘I tried,’ Rebus said, his voice a whisper. It was another lie: Lawson by that time had been a junkie with a craving, and only one thing would help – the taste itself.
Ancram sat back, trying not to look satisfied. He thought Rebus was cracking. The inner doubts had been sown – not for the first time. Ancram could now water them with sympathy.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘I’m not blaming you. I think I know what you were going through. But there was a cover-up. There was that one central lie: the tip-off.’ He lifted his notes an inch off the desk. ‘It’s written all over these, and it throws everything else into the pot, because if Geddes had been following Spaven, what was to stop him planting a little evidence along the way?’