by Ian Rankin
‘Who told the Yanks where I was staying?’
He already knew the answer – Ludovic Lumsden – but wanted it on tape if possible. But Eve shrugged, and Toal shook his head.
‘Tell me what you were doing in Aberdeen.’
Eve busied herself with her cigarette, so Toal cleared his throat.
‘Working for my dad.’
‘Doing what specifically?’
‘Selling an’ that.’
‘Selling?’
‘Dope – speed, skag, anything and everything.’
‘You sound very relaxed, Mr Toal.’
‘Mibbe resigned would be nearer the mark.’ Toal sat up in his chair. ‘Eve says we can trust you. I wouldn’t know about that, but I know what my dad’ll do when he finds out we’ve been skimming.’
‘So I’m the lesser of two evils?’
‘You said it, not me.’
‘All right, let’s get back to Aberdeen. You were supplying drugs?’
‘Aye.’
‘Who to?’
‘Burke’s Club.’
‘The individuals’ names?’
‘Erik Stemmons and Judd Fuller. Specifically Judd, though Erik knows the score, too.’ He smiled at Eve. ‘Score,’ he repeated. She nodded, letting him know she got the joke.
‘Why specifically Judd Fuller?’
‘Erik runs the club, does the business side of things. Doesnae’ like getting his hands dirty, you know, pretends everything’s above board.’
Rebus remembered Stemmons’ office – paperwork everywhere. Mr Businessman.
‘Can you give me a description of Fuller?’
‘You’ve met him: he gave you that beating.’ Toal grinned. The man with the pistol: had he sounded American? Had Rebus been listening that hard?
‘I didn’t see him though.’
‘Well, he’s six feet, black hair, it always looks wet. Brylcreem or something. Back-combs it, long, like that Saturday Night Fever guy.’
‘Travolta?’
‘Aye, in that other film. You know.’ Toal made like he was spraying the room with bullets.
‘Pulp Fiction?’
Toal clicked his fingers.
‘Except Judd’s face is thinner,’ Eve added. ‘In fact, he’s thinner all round. He does like wearing dark suits though. And there’s a scar on the back of one of his hands, looks like it was sewn together too tight.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Does Fuller deal only drugs?’
Toal shook his head. ‘Naw, he’s got fingers in every pie: prozzies, porn, casinos, a bit of reset, fake designer stuff – watches and shirts an’ that.’
‘All-round entrepreneur,’ Eve added, flicking ash into the waste-bin. She was being careful to say nothing that would incriminate her.
‘And Judd and Erik aren’t the only ones. There are some Yanks in Aberdeen worse than they are: Eddie Segal, Moose Maloney …’ Toal saw the look on Eve’s face and ground to a halt.
‘Malcolm,’ she said sweetly, ‘we do want to get out of this alive, don’t we?’
Toal’s face reddened. ‘Forget I said that,’ he told Rebus. Rebus nodded, but the machine wouldn’t forget.
‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘why did you kill Tony El?’
‘Me?’ Toal said, going into his act. Rebus sighed and looked at the tips of his shoes.
‘I think,’ Eve prodded, ‘that means the Inspector wants everything. We don’t talk to him, he has a word with your dad.’
Toal stared at her, but she held it; he broke off first. His hands went back to his crotch. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘well, I was under orders.’
‘Who from?’
‘Dad, of course. See, Tony was still working for us. He was day-to-day running of the Aberdeen end. All that stuff about him leaving, that was just a story. But after you came and spoke to Dad … he went through the fucking roof, because Tony had been doing outside hits, endangering the operation. And now you were on to him, so …’
‘So Tony had to go?’ Rebus was remembering that Tony El had bragged to Hank Shankley about his ‘Glasgow connections’ – he hadn’t been lying.
‘That’s right.’
‘And I don’t suppose you were too upset to see the back of him?’
Eve smiled. ‘Not particularly upset, no.’
‘Because to save his own neck, Tony might have grassed the two of you?’
‘He didn’t know we were skimming, but he found out about the hotel arrangements.’
‘Biggest mistake he ever made,’ Toal said, grinning again. He was getting cockier by the minute, enjoying telling the story, basking in the knowledge that everything was going to be fine. As he grew cockier, so Eve seemed to regard him with less and less good grace. She’d be relieved to be free of him, Rebus could see that. The poor little bastard.
‘You had CID fooled, they thought it was suicide.’
‘Well, when you’ve a cop or two in your pocket …’
Rebus looked at Toal. ‘Say that again.’
‘A cop or two on the payroll.’
‘Names?’
‘Lumsden,’ Toal said. ‘Jenkins.’
‘Jenkins?’
‘He’s something to do with the oil industry,’ Eve explained.
‘Oil Liaison Officer?’
She nodded.
Who’d been on holiday when Rebus had arrived, Lumsden standing in for him. With those two on your side, you’d have no trouble supplying the production platforms with whatever they needed – a real captive market. And when the workers came ashore, you had further delights for them: clubs, prozzies, booze and gambling. The legit and the illicit working side by side, each feeding the other. No wonder Lumsden had tagged along on the trip out to Bannock; he was protecting his investment.
‘What do you know about Fergus McLure?’
Toal looked to Eve, ready to talk but seeking permission. She nodded, keeping her own mouth shut.
‘He had a little accident, got too close to Judd.’
‘Fuller killed him?’
‘Hands on, that’s what Judd said.’ There was a hint of hero worship in Toal’s voice. ‘Told McLure they had to talk somewhere private, said walls had ears. Moseyed down to the canal with him, a dunt to the head with his gun, and into the water.’ Toal shrugged. ‘He was back in Aberdeen in time for a late breakfast.’ He smiled at Eve. ‘Late.’ Presumably another joke, but she was beyond smiling back. She just wanted out of there.
Rebus had other questions, but he was beginning to tire. He decided to leave it at that. He got up and nodded for Jack to switch off the machine, then told Eve she could go.
‘What about me?’ Toal asked.
‘You don’t leave together,’ Rebus reminded him. Toal seemed to accept this. Rebus saw Eve along the corridor and down the stairs. Neither of them said a word, not even goodbye. But he watched her leave before asking the desk officer for a couple of uniforms, a.s.a.p. at the interview room.
When he got back, Jack had just finished rewinding the tapes, and Toal was on his feet, doing some stretching exercises. There was a knock, and the two uniforms came in. Toal stood up straight, sensing something was wrong.
‘Malcolm Toal,’ Rebus said, ‘I am charging you with the murder of Anthony Ellis Kane on the night of —’
With a roar, Mad Malky flew at Rebus, hands scrabbling at his neck.
The woolly suits eventually got him into a cell, and Rebus sat on a chair in the interview room, watching his hands shaking.
‘You OK?’ Jack asked.
‘Know what, Jack? You’re like a broken record.’
‘Know what, John? You’re always needing it asked.’
Rebus smiled and rubbed his neck. ‘I’m fine.’
As Toal had run at him, Rebus had kneed the young man in the groin with enough force to lift him off his feet. After that, the uniforms had found him just about manageable, especially with a Vulcan death grip to his carotid.
‘What do you want to do?’ Jack asked.
‘One copy of the ta
pe goes to CID here. It’ll give them enough to go on until we get back.’
‘From Aberdeen?’ Jack guessed.
‘And points north.’ Rebus pointed to the machine. ‘Stick the copy back in and turn it on.’ Jack did so. ‘Gill, here’s a little present for you. I hope you’ll know what to do with it.’ He nodded, and Jack stopped recording and ejected the tape.
‘We’ll drop it off at St Leonard’s.’
‘So we are going back to Edinburgh?’ Jack was thinking of tomorrow’s meeting with Ancram.
‘Only long enough for a change of clothes and a doctor’s line.’
Outside in the car park, a solitary figure was waiting: Eve.
‘Going my way?’ she asked.
‘How did you know?’
She smiled her most feline smile. ‘Because you’re like me – you’ve got unfinished business in Aberdeen. I’m only going to be there as long as it takes to visit a few banks and close a few accounts, but there are those two hotel rooms …’
A good point: they’d need a base, preferably one Lumsden didn’t know about.
‘He’s in a cell?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘How many men did you need?’
‘Just the two.’
‘I’m surprised.’
‘We all surprise ourselves some time,’ Rebus said, opening the back door of Jack’s car for her.
Rebus wasn’t surprised to find Gill Templer’s office locked up for the night. He looked around the night shift and saw Siobhan Clarke trying to make herself inconspicuous, dreading their first meeting since she’d been part of the search team at his flat. He walked up to her, the yellow padded envelope in his hand.
‘It’s OK,’ he said, ‘I know why you were there. I think I should thank you.’
‘I just thought …’
He nodded. The relief on her face made him wonder what she’d been going through.
‘Working on anything?’ he asked, figuring she was owed a minute’s conversation. Jack and Eve were downstairs in the car, getting to know one another.
‘I’ve been on Johnny Bible background: deadly dull.’ She perked up. ‘One thing though. I was going through the old newspapers in the National.’
‘Yes?’ Rebus had been there, too: he wondered if that were her story.
‘One of the librarians told me someone was looking at recent newspapers and asking about people calling up ones from 1968 to ’70. I thought the combination was a bit odd. The recent papers were all from just before the first Johnny Bible murder.’
‘And the others were the years Bible John was operating?’
‘Yes.’
‘A journalist?’
‘That’s what the librarian says. Only, the card he handed over was a fake. He contacted the librarian by telephone.’
‘Did the librarian have anything?’
‘A few names. I took them down, on the off chance. A couple of them are journalists. One is you. The others, God knows.’
Yes, Rebus had spent a long day poring over the old stories, arranging for photocopies to be made of the relevant pages … building his collection.
‘And the mysterious journalist?’
‘No idea. I got a physical description, but it doesn’t help much. Early fifties, tall, fair-haired …’
‘Doesn’t rule too many people out, does it? Why the interest in recent papers? No, wait … Looking for cock-ups.’
Siobhan nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. And at the same time asking about people who’d shown an interest in the original Bible John case. It might sound crazy, but maybe Bible John’s out there looking for his offspring. Thing is, whoever he was … he’s got your name now, and your address.’
‘Nice to have a fan.’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Those other names … can I see?’
She found the relevant page in her notebook. One name leapt out: Peter Manuel.
‘Something?’ she asked.
Rebus pointed. ‘Not his real name. Manuel was a killer back in the fifties.’
‘Then who …?’
Reading up on Bible John, using a killer’s name as an alias. ‘Johnny Bible,’ Rebus said quietly.
‘I’d better have another word with that librarian.’
‘First thing in the morning,’ Rebus advised. ‘Speaking of which …’ He handed her the envelope. ‘Can you see to it that Gill Templer gets this?’
‘Sure.’ She shook it. The cassette rattled. ‘Anything I should know about?’
‘Definitely not.’
She smiled. ‘Now you’ve whetted my curiosity.’
‘Then unwhet it.’ He turned to leave. He didn’t want her to see how shaken he was. Someone else was hunting Johnny Bible, someone who now had Rebus’s name and address. Siobhan’s words: Bible John … looking for his offspring. Description: tall, fair-haired, early fifties. The age was right for Bible John. Whoever it was knew Rebus’s address … and his flat had been broken into, nothing stolen, but his newspapers and cuttings disturbed.
Bible John … looking for his offspring.
‘How’s the inquiry?’ Siobhan called.
‘Which one?’
‘Spaven.’
‘A doddle.’ He stopped, turned back to her. ‘By the way, if you’re really bored …?’
‘Yes?’
‘Johnny Bible: there could just be an oil connection. The last victim worked for oil companies and drank with oilmen. First victim studied at RGIT, geology, I think. Find out if there’s any connection to oil, see if there’s something we can link to victims two and three.’
‘You think he lives in Aberdeen?’
‘Right now, I think I’d lay money on it.’
Then he was gone. One more stop to make before the long haul north.
Bible John was driving through the streets of Aberdeen.
The town was quiet. He liked it that way. The trip to Glasgow had been useful, but the fourth victim had proved more useful still.
From the hotel computer, he had his list of twenty companies. Twenty guests of the Fairmount Hotel who had paid by corporate credit card in the weeks before Judith Cairns’s murder. Twenty companies based in the north-east. Twenty individuals he needed to check, any one of whom could be the Upstart.
He’d played with the connection between the victims, and numbers one and four had given him his answer: oil. Oil was at the heart of it. Victim one had studied geology at Robert Gordon’s, and in the north-east the study of geology was in so many ways connected to the subject of oil exploration. Victim four’s company numbered oil companies and their ancillaries among its best clients. He was looking for someone connected to the oil industry, someone so very like himself. The realisation had shaken him. On the one hand, it made it even more imperative he track down the Upstart; on the other, it made the game that much more dangerous. It wasn’t physical danger – he had long since conquered that particular fear. It was the danger of losing his hard-fought-for identity as Ryan Slocum. He almost felt he was Ryan Slocum. But Ryan Slocum was just a dead man, a newspaper obituary he’d come across. So he’d applied for a duplicate birth certificate, pleading the original’s loss in a house fire. This had been in pre-computer days, easy to get away with.
So his own past ceased to exist … for a time, at least. The trunk in the attic told a different story, of course. It gave the lie to his change of identity: you couldn’t change the man you were. His trunk full of souvenirs, most of them American … He had made arrangements for the trunk to be moved soon, when his wife was out of the house. A moving company would send a Transit. The trunk would be taken to a self-storage warehouse. It made sense as a precaution, but he still regretted it; it was like saying the Upstart had won.
No matter what the outcome.
Twenty companies to check. So far he had dismissed four possible suspects as being too old. A further seven companies were not involved in the oil industry in any way that he could see – they went to the bottom of the list. Leaving nine names. It was a
slow business. He’d used guile during telephone calls to the companies’ offices, but guile would only go so far. He’d also had recourse to the telephone book, finding addresses for the names, watching their homes, waiting for a glimpse of a face. Would he know the Upstart when he saw him? He felt he would; at least, he’d recognise the type. But then Joe Beattie had said the same about Bible John – that he’d recognise him in a crowded room. As if a man’s heart showed in the creases and contours of his face, a sort of phrenology of sin.
He parked the car outside another house, called his office to check for messages. In his line of work, they expected him to be out of the office for long periods of the day, if not for days and weeks at a time. It was the perfect career, really. No messages, nothing for him to think about but the Upstart … and himself.
In the early days, he had lacked patience. This was no longer the case. This slow stalking of the Upstart would only make the final confrontation sweeter. But this thought was tempered with another: that the police could be closing in, too. After all, the information was there for them to find: it was just a matter of making the connections. So far only the Edinburgh prostitute failed to fit the pattern, but if he could connect three out of four, he’d be satisfied. He could bet, too, that once he knew the Upstart’s identity he could place him in Edinburgh at the time she was killed: hotel records maybe; or a receipt for petrol from an Edinburgh filling station … Four victims. One more already than the Bible John of the sixties. It was galling, he had to say it. It rankled.
And someone would pay for it. Very soon.
North of Hell
‘Scotland will be reborn the day the last minister is strangled with the last copy of the Sunday Post.’
Tom Nairn
28
It was after midnight when they reached the hotel. It was situated near the airport, one of the shiny new constructions Rebus had passed on his way to T-Bird Oil. There was too much glare in the lobby, too many mirrors reflecting full-length portraits of three weary figures with meagre luggage. Maybe they would have provoked suspicion, but Eve was a regular and had a business account, so that was that.