10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Do you live here?’

  ‘Of course I live here! What’s all this about, eh? I need to get to my bed.’

  ‘Had a heavy night, sir?’

  The bleary-eyed man shook three brown paper-bags at the policeman. The bags each contained six rolls.

  ‘I’m a baker. Shift-work. Now if you’ll . . .’

  ‘And your name, sir?’

  Making to pass the man, Stevens had just had time enough to make out a few of the names on the door-buzzer.

  ‘Laidlaw,’ he said. ‘Jim Laidlaw.’

  The policeman checked this against a list of names in his hand.

  ‘All right, sir. Sorry to have bothered you.’

  ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough, sir. Good night now.’

  There was one more obstacle, and Stevens knew that for all his cunning, if the door was locked then the door was locked, and his game was up. He made a plausible push at the heavy door and felt it give. They had not locked it. His patron saint was smiling on him today.

  In the tenement hallway, he ditched the rolls and thought of another ploy. He climbed the two flights of stairs to Rebus’s door. The tenement seemed to smell exclusively of cats’-piss. At Rebus’s door he paused, catching his breath. Partly, he was out of condition, but partly, also, he was excited. He had not felt anything like this on a story for years. It felt good. He decided that he could get away with anything on a day like this. He pushed the doorbell relentlessly.

  The door was opened at last by a yawning, puffy-faced Michael Rebus. So at last they were face to face. Stevens flashed a card at Michael. The card identified James Stevens as a member of an Edinburgh snooker club.

  ‘Detective Inspector Stevens, sir. Sorry to get you out of bed.’ He put the card away. ‘Your brother told us that you’d probably still be asleep, but I thought I’d come up anyway. May I come in? Just a few questions, sir. Won’t keep you too long.’

  The two policemen, their feet numb despite thermal socks and the fact that it was the beginning of summer, shuffled one foot and then the other, hoping for a reprieve. The talk was all of the abduction and the fact that a Chief Inspector’s son had been murdered. The main door opened behind them.

  ‘You lot still here? The wife told me there was bobbies at the door, but I didnae believe her. Yon wis last night though. What’s the matter?’

  This was an old man, still in his slippers but with a thick, winter overcoat on. He was half-shaven only, and his bottom false-teeth had been lost or forgotten about. He was attaching a cap to his bald head as he sidled out of the door.

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about, sir. You’ll be told soon enough, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh aye, well then. I’m just away to fetch the paper and the milk. We usually have toast for breakfast, but some bugger’s gone and left about twa dozen new rolls in the lobby. Well, if they’re no’ wanted, they’re aye welcome in my house.’

  He chuckled, showing the raw red of his bottom gum.

  ‘Can I get you twa anything at the shop?’

  But the two policemen were staring at one another, alarmed, speechless.

  ‘Get up there,’ one said, finally, to the other. Then: ‘And your name, sir?’

  The old man preened himself; an old trooper.

  ‘Jock Laidlaw,’ he said, ‘at your service.’

  Stevens was drinking, thankfully, the black coffee. The first hot thing he’d had in ages. He was seated in the living-room, his eyes everywhere.

  ‘I’m glad you woke me,’ Michael Rebus was saying. ‘I’ve got to get back home.’

  I’ll bet you have, thought Stevens. I’ll bet you have. Rebus looked altogether more relaxed than he had foreseen. Relaxed, rested, easy with his conscience. Curiouser and curiouser.

  ‘Just a few questions, Mister Rebus, as I said.’

  Michael Rebus sat down, crossing his legs, sipping his own coffee.

  ‘Yes?’

  Stevens produced his notebook.

  ‘Your brother has had a very great shock.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he’ll be all right you think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Stevens pretended to write in his book.

  ‘Did he have a good night, by the way? Did he sleep all right?’

  ‘Well, none of us got much sleep. I’m not sure John slept at all.’ Michael’s eyebrows were gathering. ‘Look, what is all this?’

  ‘Just routine, Mister Rebus. You understand. We need all the details from everyone involved if we’re going to crack this case.’

  ‘But it’s cracked, isn’t it?’

  Stevens’ heart jumped.

  ‘Is it?’ he heard himself say.

  ‘Well, don’t you know?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but we have to get all the details –’

  ‘From everyone concerned. Yes, so you said. Look, can I see your identification again? Just to be on the safe side.’

  There was the sound of a key prodding at the front door.

  Christ, thought Stevens, they’re back already.

  ‘Listen,’ he said through his teeth, ‘we know all about your little drugs-racket. Now tell us who’s behind it or else we’ll put you behind bars for a hundred years, sonny!’

  Michael’s face went light-blue, then grey. His mouth seemed ready to drop open with a word, the one word Stevens needed.

  But then one of the gorillas was in the room, propelling Stevens out of his chair.

  ‘I’ve not finished my coffee yet!’ he protested.

  ‘You’re lucky I don’t break your flaming neck, pal,’ replied the policeman.

  Michael Rebus stood up, too, but he was saying nothing.

  ‘A name!’ cried Stevens. ‘Just give me the name! This’ll be spread right across the front pages, my friend, if you don’t co-operate! Give me the name!’

  He kept up his cries all the way down the stairwell. Right down to the last step.

  ‘All right, I’m going,’ he said eventually, breaking free of the heavy grip on his arm. ‘I’m going. You were a bit slack there, boys, weren’t you? I’ll keep it quiet this time, but next time you better be ready. Okay?’

  ‘Get to fuck out of here,’ said one gorilla.

  Stevens got to fuck. He slid into his car, feeling more frustrated and more curious than ever. God, he’d been close. But what did the hypnotist mean by that? The case was cracked. Was it? If so, he wanted to be there with the first details. He was not used to being so far behind in the game. Usually, games were played by his rules. No, he was not used to this, and he did not like it at all.

  He loved it.

  But, if the case was cracked, then time was tight. And if you could not get what you wanted from one brother, then go to the other. He thought he knew where John Rebus would be. His intuition ran high today. He felt inspired.

  25

  ‘Well, John, this all seems quite fantastical, but I’m sure it’s a possibility. Certainly, it’s the best lead we’ve got, though I find it hard to conceive of a man with so much hate that he would murder four innocent girls just to give you the clues as to his ultimate victim.’

  Chief Superintendent Wallace looked from Rebus to Gill Templer and back again. To Rebus’s left sat Anderson. Wallace’s hands lay like dead fish on his desk, a pen in front of him. The room was large and uncluttered, a self-assured oasis. Here, problems were always solved, decisions were made – always correctly.

  ‘The problem now is finding him. If we make this thing public, then that might scare him off, endangering your daughter’s life in the process. On the other hand, a public appeal would be by far the quickest way of finding him.’

  ‘You can’t possibly . . .!’ It was Gill Templer who, in that quiet room, was on the verge of exploding, but Wallace silenced her with a wave of his hand.

  ‘I am merely thinking aloud at this stage, Inspector Templer, merely casting stones into a pond.’

  Anderson sat like a co
rpse, his eyes to the floor. He was on leave now officially and in mourning, but he had insisted on keeping in touch with the case and Superintendent Wallace had acquiesced.

  ‘Of course, John,’ Wallace was saying, ‘it’s impossible for you to remain on the case.’

  Rebus rose to his feet.

  ‘Sit down, John, please.’ The Super’s eyes were hard and honest, the eyes of a real copper, one of the old school. Rebus sat down again. ‘Now I know how you must feel, believe it or believe it not. But there’s too much at stake here. Too much for all of us. You’re far too involved to be of any objective use, and the public would cry out about vigilante tactics. You must see that.’

  ‘All I see is that without me Reeve will stop at nothing. It’s me he wants.’

  ‘Exactly. And wouldn’t we be stupid to hand you over to him on a plate? We’ll do everything we can, as much as you could do. Leave it to us.’

  ‘The Army won’t tell you anything, you know.’

  ‘They’ll have to.’ Wallace began to toy with his pen, as though it were there for that very purpose. ‘Ultimately, they’ve got the same boss we have. They’ll be made to tell.’

  Rebus shook his head.

  ‘They’re a law unto themselves. The SAS is hardly even a part of the Army. If they don’t want to tell you, then believe me, they won’t tell you a bloody thing.’ Rebus’s hand came down onto the desk. ‘Not a bloody thing.’

  ‘John.’ Gill’s hand squeezed his shoulder, asking him to be calm. She herself looked like a fury, but she knew when to keep quiet and let looks alone transmit her anger and her displeasure. For Rebus, however, it was actions that counted. He’d been sitting outside reality for way too long.

  He rose from his small chair like a pure force, no longer human, and left the room in silence. The Superintendent looked at Gill.

  ‘He’s off the case, Gill. He must be made to realise that. I believe that you,’ he paused while opening and shutting a drawer, ‘that you and he have an understanding. That, at least, is how we used to phrase it in my day. Perhaps you should make him aware of his position. We’ll get this man, but not with Rebus hanging around intent on revenge.’ Wallace looked towards Anderson, who stared drily at him. ‘We don’t want vigilante tactics,’ he went on. ‘Not in Edinburgh. What would the tourists say?’ Then his face broke into a cold smile. He looked from Anderson to Gill, then rose from his chair. ‘This is all becoming extremely . . .’

  ‘Internecine?’ suggested Gill.

  ‘I was going to say incestuous. What with Chief Inspector Anderson here, his son and Rebus’s wife, yourself and Rebus, Rebus and this man Reeve, Reeve and Rebus’s daughter. I hope the press don’t get wind of this. You’ll be responsible for seeing that they don’t, and for punishing any that do. Am I making myself clear?’

  Gill Templer nodded, stifling a sudden yawn.

  ‘Good.’ The Super nodded across to Anderson. ‘Now see that Chief Inspector Anderson gets home safely will you?’

  William Anderson, seated in the back of the car, went through his mental list of informants and friends. He knew a couple of people who might know about the Special Air Service. Certainly, something like the Rebus-Reeve case could not have been hushed up totally, though it might well have been struck from the records. The soldiers would have known about it though. Grapevines existed everywhere, and especially where you would least expect them. He might need to twist a few arms and lay out a few tenners, but he would find the bastard if it was his last action on God’s earth.

  Or he would be there when Rebus did.

  Rebus had left the HQ by a back entrance, as Stevens had hoped. He followed Rebus as the policeman, looking the worse for wear, stalked away. What was it all about? No matter. As long as he stuck to Rebus, he could be sure of getting his story, and what a story it promised to be. Stevens kept checking behind him, but there seemed to be no tail on Rebus. No police tail, that was. It seemed strange to him that they would allow Rebus to go off on his own when there was no telling what a man would do whose daughter had been abducted. Stevens was hoping for the ultimate plot: he was hoping that Rebus would lead him straight to the big boys behind this new drugs ring. If not one brother, then the other.

  Like a brother to me, and I to him. What happened? He knew what was to blame at heart. The method, that was the cause of all of this. The caging and the breaking and then the patching up. The patching up had not been a success, had it? They were both broken men in their own ways. That knowledge wouldn’t stop him from shearing Reeve’s head from its shoulders though. Nothing would stop that. But he had to find the bastard yet, and he had no idea where to start. He could feel the city closing in on him, bringing to bear all of its historical weight, smothering him. Dissent, rationalism, enlightenment: Edinburgh had specialized in all three, and now he too would need these charms. He needed to work on his own, quickly, yet methodically, using ingenuity and every tool at his disposal. Most of all he needed instinct.

  After five minutes, he knew he was being followed, and the hair stood up at the back of his neck. It was not the usual police tail. That would not have been so easy to spot. But was it . . . Could he be so close . . . At a bus-stop, he stopped and turned suddenly, as though checking to see if a bus was coming. He saw the man dodge into a doorway. It wasn’t Gordon Reeve. It was that bloody reporter.

  Rebus listened to his heart slow again, but the adrenaline was already pumping through him, filling him with a desire to run, to take off along this long straight road and run into the strongest head-wind imaginable. But then a bus came trundling round the corner, and he boarded that instead.

  From the back window, he saw the reporter jump out of the doorway and desperately flag down a taxi-cab. Rebus had no time to be bothered with the man. He had some thinking to do, thinking about how in the world he could find Reeve. The possibility haunted him: he’ll find me. I don’t need to chase. But somehow that scared him most of all.

  Gill Templer could not find Rebus. He had disappeared as though he had been a shadow merely and not a man at all. She telephoned and hunted and asked and did all the things a good copper should do, but she was confronted by the fact of a man who was not only a good copper himself, but had been one of the best in the SAS to boot. He might have been hiding under her feet, under her desk, in her clothes, and she would never have found him. So he stayed hidden.

  He stayed hidden, she surmised, because he was on the move, swiftly and methodically moving through the streets and bars of Edinburgh in search of his prey, knowing that when found, the prey would turn hunter once more.

  But Gill went on trying, shivering now and then when she thought of her lover’s grim and horrific past, and of the mentality of those who decided that such things were necessary. Poor John. What would she have done? She would have walked right out of that cell and kept on walking, just as he had done. And yet she would have felt guilty, too, just as he had felt guilt, and she would have put it all behind her, scarred invisibly.

  Why did the men in her life have to be such complicated, fraught, screwed-up bastards? Did she attract the soiled goods only? It might have been humorous, but then there was Samantha to think about, and that wasn’t funny at all. Where did you start looking if you wanted to find a needle? She remembered Superintendent Wallace’s words: they’ve got the same boss we have. That was a truth well worth contemplating in all its complexity. For if they had the same boss, then perhaps a cover-up could be arranged at this end, now that the ancient and terrible truth had surfaced again. If this got into the papers, all hell would be let loose at every level of the service. Perhaps they would want to co-operate in hushing it up. Perhaps they would want Rebus silenced. My God, what if they should want John Rebus silenced? That would mean silencing Anderson, too, and herself. It would mean bribes or a total wipe-out. She would have to be very careful indeed. One false move now might mean her dismissal from the force, and that would not do at all. Justice had to be seen to be done. There could be no cover-ups. T
he Boss, whoever or whatever that anonymous term was meant to imply, would not have his or its day. There had to be truth, or the whole thing was a sham, and so were its actors.

  And what of her feelings towards John Rebus himself, spotlit on the reddened stage? She hardly knew what to think. The notion still niggled at her that, no matter how absurd it might appear, John was somehow behind this whole thing: no Reeve, the notes sent to himself, jealousy leading him to kill his wife’s lover, his daughter now hidden somewhere – somewhere like that locked room.

  It was hardly to be contemplated, which, considering the way the whole thing had gone thus far, was why Gill contemplated it very hard indeed. And rejected it, rejected it for no other reason than that John Rebus had once made love to her, once bared his soul to her, once clasped her hand beneath a hospital blanket. Would a man with something to hide have become involved with a policewoman? No, it seemed wholly unlikely.

  So, again, it became a possibility, joining the others. Gill’s head began to pulse. Where the hell was John? And what if Reeve found him before they found Reeve? If John Rebus was a walking beacon to his enemy, then wasn’t it crazy for him to be out there on his own, wherever he was? Of course it was stupid. It had been stupid to let him walk out of the room, out of the building, vanishing like a whisper. Shit. She picked up the telephone again and dialled his flat.

  26

  John Rebus was moving through the jungle of the city, that jungle the tourists never saw, being too busy snapping away at the ancient golden temples, temples long since gone but still evident as shadows. This jungle closed in on the tourists relentlessly but unseen, a natural force, the force of dissipation and destruction.

  Edinburgh’s an easy beat, his colleagues from the west coast would say. Try Partick for a night and tell me that it’s not. But Rebus knew different. He knew that Edinburgh was all appearances, which made the crime less easy to spot, but no less evident. Edinburgh was a schizophrenic city, the place of Jekyll & Hyde sure enough, the city of Deacon Brodie, of fur coats and no knickers (as they said in the west). But it was a small city, too, and that would be to Rebus’s advantage.