10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Thanks, Doctor Enfield.’

  He rested the telephone on the arm of the chair. Tracy had been right in one respect at least. They had murdered Ronnie. Whoever ‘they’ were. And Ronnie had known, known as soon as he’d used the stuff. . . . No, wait. . . . Known before he’d used the stuff? Could that be possible? Rebus had to find the dealer. Had to find out why Ronnie had been chosen to die. Been, indeed, sacrificed. . . .

  It was Tony McCall’s backyard. All right, so he had moved out of Pilmuir, had eventually bought a crippling mortgage which some people called a house. It was a nice house, too. He knew this because his wife told him it was. Told him continually. She couldn’t understand why he spent so little time there. After all, as she told him, it was his home too.

  Home. To McCall’s wife, it was a palace. ‘Home’ didn’t quite cover it. And the two children, son and daughter, had been brought up to tiptoe through the interior, not leaving crumbs or fingerprints, no mess, no breakages. McCall, who had lived a bruising childhood with his brother Tommy, thought it unnatural. His children had grown up in fear and in a swaddling of love – a bad combination. Now Craig was fourteen, Isabel eleven. Both were shy, introspective, maybe even a bit strange. Bang had gone McCall’s dream of a professional footballer for a son, an actress for a daughter. Craig played chess a lot, but no physical sports. (He had won a small plaque at school after one tournament. McCall had tried to learn to play after that, but had failed.) Isabel liked knitting. They sat in the too-perfect living room created by their mother, and were almost silent. The clack-clack of needles; the soft movement of chess pieces.

  Christ, was it any wonder he kept away?

  So here he was in Pilmuir, not checking on anything exactly, just walking. Taking some air. From his own ultra-modern estate, all detached shoeboxes and Volvos, he had to cross some waste ground, avoid the traffic on a busy arterial road, pass a school playing-field and manoeuvre between some factory units to find himself in Pilmuir. But it was worth the effort. He knew this place; knew the minds that festered here.

  He was one of them, after all.

  ‘Hello, Tony.’

  He swirled, not recognising the voice, expecting hassle. John Rebus stood there, smiling at him, hands in pockets.

  ‘John! Christ, you made me jump.’

  ‘Sorry. Stroke of luck bumping into you though.’ Rebus checked around them, as though looking for someone. ‘I tried phoning, but they said it was your day off.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘Just walking. We live over that way.’ He jerked his head towards the south-west. ‘It’s not far. Besides, this is my patch, don’t forget. Got to keep an eye on the boys and girls.’

  ‘That’s why I wanted to speak to you actually.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Rebus had begun to walk along the pavement, and McCall, still rattled by his sudden appearance, followed.

  ‘Yes,’ Rebus was saying. ‘I wanted to ask if you know someone, a friend of the deceased’s. The name is Charlie.’

  ‘That’s all? Charlie?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘What does he look like?’

  Rebus shrugged again. ‘I’ve no idea, Tony. It was Ronnie’s girlfriend Tracy who told me about him.’

  ‘Ronnie? Tracy?’ McCall’s eyebrows met. ‘Who the hell are they?’

  ‘Ronnie is the deceased. That junkie we found on the estate.’

  Everything was suddenly clear in McCall’s mind. He nodded slowly. ‘You work quickly,’ he said.

  ‘The quicker the better. Ronnie’s girlfriend told me an interesting story.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She said Ronnie was murdered.’ Rebus kept on walking, but McCall had stopped.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ He caught Rebus up. ‘Murdered? Come on, John, you saw the guy.’

  ‘True. With a needle’s worth of rat poison scuppering his veins.’

  McCall whistled softly. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Rebus. ‘And now I need to talk to Charlie. He’s young, could be a bit scared, and interested in the occult.’

  McCall sorted through a few mental files. ‘I suppose there are one or two places we could try looking,’ he said at last. ‘But it’d be a slog. The concept of neighbourhood policing hasn’t quite stretched this far yet.’

  ‘You’re saying we won’t be made very welcome?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well, just give me the addresses and point me in the right direction. It’s your day off after all.’

  McCall looked slighted. ‘You’re forgetting, John. This is my patch. By rights, this should be my case, if there is a case.’

  ‘It would’ve been your case if you hadn’t had that hangover.’ They smiled at this, but Rebus was wondering whether, in Tony McCall’s hands, there would have been anything to investigate. Wouldn’t Tony just have let it slip? Should he, Rebus, let it slip, too?

  ‘Anyway,’ McCall was saying on cue, ‘surely you must have better things to do?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Nothing. All my work’s been farmed out, with the emphasis on “farmed”.’

  ‘You mean Superintendent Watson?’

  ‘He wants me working on his anti-drugs campaign. Me, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘That could be a bit embarrassing.’

  ‘I know. But the idiot thinks I’ve got “personal experience”.’

  ‘He’s got a point, I suppose.’ Rebus was about to argue, but McCall got in first. ‘So you’ve nothing to do?’

  ‘Not until summoned by Farmer Watson, no.’

  ‘You jammy bugger. Well, that does change things a bit, but not enough, I’m sorry to say. You’re my guest here, and you’re going to have to put up with me. Until I get bored, that is.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘I appreciate it, Tony.’ He looked around them. ‘So, where to first?’

  McCall inclined his head back the way they had just come. They turned around and walked.

  ‘So tell me,’ said Rebus, ‘what’s so awful at home that you’d think of coming here on your day off?’

  McCall laughed. ‘Is it so obvious then?’

  ‘Only to someone who’s been there himself.’

  ‘Ach, I don’t know, John. I seem to have everything I’ve never wanted.’

  ‘And it’s still not enough.’ It was a simple statement of belief.

  ‘I mean, Sheila’s a wonderful mother and all that, and the kids never get into trouble, but. . . .’

  ‘The grass is always greener,’ said Rebus, thinking of his own failed marriage, of the way his flat was cold when he came home, the way the door would close with a hollow sound behind him.

  ‘Now Tommy, my brother, I used to think he had it made. Plenty of money, house with a jacuzzi, automatic-opening garage. . . .’ McCall saw that Rebus was smiling, and smiled himself.

  ‘Electric blinds,’ Rebus continued, ‘personalised number plate, car phone. . .’

  ‘Time share in Malaga,’ said McCall, close to laughter, ‘marble-topped kitchen units.’

  It was too ridiculous. They laughed out loud as they walked, adding to the catalogue. But then Rebus saw where they were, and stopped laughing, stopped walking. This was where he’d been heading all along. He touched the torch in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Come on, Tony,’ he said soberly. ‘There’s something I want to show you.’

  ‘He was found here,’ Rebus said, shining the torch over the bare floorboards. ‘Legs together, lying on his back, arms outstretched. I don’t think he got into that position by accident, do you?’

  McCall studied the scene. They were both professionals now, and acting almost like strangers. ‘And the girlfriend says she found him upstairs?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You believe her?’

  ‘Why would she lie?’

  ‘There could be a hundred reasons, John. Would I know the girl?’

  ‘She hasn’t been in Pilmuir long. Bit older than you’
d imagine, midtwenties, maybe more.’

  ‘So this Ronnie’s already dead, and he’s brought downstairs and laid out with the candles and everything.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m beginning to see why you need to find the friend who’s into the occult.’

  ‘Right. Now come and look at this.’ Rebus led McCall to the far wall and shone the torch onto the pentagram, then further up the wall.

  ‘“Hello Ronnie”,’ McCall read aloud.

  ‘And this wasn’t here yesterday.’

  ‘Really?’ McCall sounded surprised. ‘Kids, John, that’s all.’

  ‘Kids didn’t draw that pentagram.’

  ‘No, agreed.’

  ‘Charlie drew that pentagram.’

  ‘Right.’ McCall slipped his hands into his pockets and drew himself upright. ‘Point taken, Inspector. Let’s go squat hunting.’

  But the few people they found seemed to know nothing, and to care even less. As McCall pointed out, it was the wrong time of day. Everyone from the squats was in the city centre, stealing purses from handbags, begging, shoplifting, doing deals. Reluctantly, Rebus agreed that they were wasting their time.

  Since McCall wanted to listen to the tape Rebus had made of his interview with Tracy, they headed back to Great London Road. McCall had the idea that there might be some clue on the tape that would lead them to Charlie, something that would help him place the guy, something Rebus had missed.

  Rebus was a weary step or two ahead of McCall as they climbed the front steps to the station’s heavy wooden door. A fresh duty officer was beginning his shift at the desk, still fussing with his shirt collar and his clip-on tie. Simple but clever, Rebus thought to himself. Simple but clever. All uniformed officers wore clip-on ties, so that in a clinch, if the attacker tried to yank the officer’s head forwards, the tie would simply come away in his hands. Likewise, the desk sergeant’s glasses had special lenses which, if hit, would slip out of their frame without shattering. Simple but clever. Rebus hoped that the case of the crucified junkie would be simple.

  He didn’t feel very clever.

  ‘Hello, Arthur,’ he said, passing the desk, making towards the staircase. ‘Any messages for me?’

  ‘Give me a break, John. I’ve only been on two minutes.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Rebus pushed his hands deep into his pockets, where the fingers of his right hand touched something alien, metal. He brought the brooch-clip out and studied it. Then froze.

  McCall looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘Go on up,’ Rebus told him. ‘I’ll just be a second.’

  ‘Right you are, John.’

  Back at the desk, Rebus held his left hand out to the sergeant. ‘Do me a favour, Arthur. Give me your tie.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  Knowing that he would have a story to tell tonight in the canteen, the desk sergeant pulled at his tie. As it came away from his shirt, the clip made a single snapping sound. Simple but clever, thought Rebus, holding the tie between finger and thumb.

  ‘Thanks, Arthur,’ he said.

  ‘Anytime, John,’ the sergeant called, watching carefully as Rebus walked back towards the stairs. ‘Anytime.’

  ‘Know what this is, Tony?’

  McCall had seated himself in Rebus’s chair, behind Rebus’s desk. He had one fist in a drawer, and looked up, startled. Rebus was holding the necktie out in front of him. McCall nodded, then brought his hand out of the drawer. It was curved around a bottle of whisky.

  ‘It’s a tie,’ he said. ‘Got any cups?’

  Rebus placed the tie on the desk. He went to a filing cabinet and searched amongst the many cups which sat unloved and uncleaned on top of it. Finally, one seemed to satisfy him, and he brought it to the desk. McCall was studying the cover of a file lying on the desk.

  ‘“Ronnie,”’ he read out, ‘“Tracy – caller”. I see your casenotes are as precise as ever.’

  Rebus handed the cup to McCall.

  ‘Where’s yours?’ asked McCall, pointing to the cup.

  ‘I don’t feel like drinking. To tell you the truth, I hardly touch the stuff now.’ Rebus nodded at the bottle. ‘That’s for visitors.’ McCall pursed his lips, his eyes opening wide. ‘Besides,’ Rebus went on, ‘I’ve got the mother and father of a headache. In-laws, too. Kids, neighbours, town and country.’ He noticed a large envelope on the desk: PHOTOGRAPHS – DO NOT BEND.

  ‘You know, Tony, when I was a sergeant, this sort of thing would take days to arrive. It’s like royalty being an inspector.’ He opened the envelope and took out the set of prints, ten by eights, black and white. He handed one to McCall.

  ‘Look,’ Rebus said, ‘no writing on the wall. And the pentagram’s unfinished. Today it was complete.’ McCall nodded, and Rebus took back the picture, handing over another in its place. ‘The deceased.’

  ‘Poor little sod,’ said McCall. ‘It could be one of our kids, eh, John?’

  ‘No,’ said Rebus firmly. He rolled the envelope into the shape of a tube, and put it in his jacket pocket.

  McCall had picked up the tie. He waved it towards Rebus, demanding an explanation.

  ‘Have you ever worn one of those?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Sure, at my wedding, maybe a funeral or a christening. . . .’

  ‘I mean like this. A clip-on. When I was a kid, I remember my dad decided I’d look good in a kilt. He bought me the whole get-up, including a little tartan bow tie. It was a clip-on.’

  ‘I’ve worn one,’ said McCall. ‘Everybody has. We all came through the ranks, didn’t we?’

  ‘No,’ said Rebus. ‘Now get out of my bloody chair.’

  McCall found another chair, dragging it over from the wall to the desk. Rebus meantime sat down, picking up the tie.

  ‘Police issue.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Clip-on ties,’ said Rebus. ‘Who else wears them?’

  ‘Christ, I don’t know, John.’

  Rebus threw the clip across to McCall, who was slow to react. It fell to the floor, from where he retrieved it.

  ‘It’s a clip-on,’ he said.

  ‘I found it in Ronnie’s house,’ said Rebus. ‘At the top of the stairs.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So someone’s tie broke. Maybe when they were dragging Ronnie downstairs. Maybe a police constable someone.’

  ‘You think one of our lot . . .?’

  ‘Just an idea,’ said Rebus. ‘Of course, it could belong to one of the lads who found the body.’ He held out his hand, and McCall gave him back the clip. ‘Maybe I’ll talk to them.’

  ‘John, what the hell. . . .’ McCall ended with a sort of choking sound, unable to find words for the question he wanted to ask.

  ‘Drink your whisky,’ said Rebus solicitously. ‘Then you can listen to that tape, see if you think Tracy’s telling the truth.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He put the desk sergeant’s tie in his pocket. ‘Maybe I’ll tie up a few loose ends.’ McCall was pouring out a measure of whisky as Rebus left, but the parting shot, called from the staircase, was loud enough for him to hear.

  ‘Maybe I’ll just go to the devil!’

  ‘Yes, a simple pentangle.’

  The psychologist, Dr Poole, who wasn’t really a psychologist, but rather, he had explained, a lecturer in psychology, quite a different thing, studied the photographs carefully, bottom lip curling up to cover his top lip in a sign of confident recognition. Rebus played with the empty envelope and stared out of the office window. The day was bright, and some students were lying in George Square Gardens, sharing bottles of wine, their text books forgotten.

  Rebus felt uncomfortable. Institutes of higher education, from the simplest college up to the present confines of the University of Edinburgh, made him feel stupid. He felt that his every movement, every utterance, was being judged and interpreted, marking him down as a clever man who could have been cleverer, giv
en the breaks.

  ‘When I returned to the house,’ he said, ‘someone had drawn some symbols between the two circles. Signs of the zodiac, that sort of thing.’

  Rebus watched as the psychologist went over to the bookshelves and began to browse. It had been easy to find this man. Making use of him might be more difficult.

  ‘Probably the usual arcana,’ Dr Poole was saying, finding the page he wanted and bringing it back to the desk to show Rebus. ‘This sort of thing?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’ Rebus studied the illustration. The pentagram was not identical to the one he had seen, but the differences were slight. ‘Tell me, are many people interested in the occult?’

  ‘You mean in Edinburgh?’ Poole sat down again, pushing his glasses back up his nose. ‘Oh yes. Plenty. Look at how well films about the devil do at the box office.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘Yes, I used to like horror films myself. But I mean an active interest.’

  The lecturer smiled. ‘I know you do. I was being facetious. So many people think that’s what the occult is about – bringing Old Nick back to life. There’s much more to it, believe me, Inspector. Or much less to it, depending on your point of view.’

  Rebus tried to work out what this meant. ‘You know occultists?’ he said meantime.

  ‘I know of occultists, practising covens of white and black witches.’

  ‘Here? In Edinburgh?’

  Poole smiled again. ‘Oh yes. Right here. There are six working covens in and around Edinburgh.’ He paused, and Rebus could almost see him doing a recount. ‘Seven, perhaps. Fortunately, most of these practise white magic.’

  ‘That’s using the occult as a supposed force for good, right?’

  ‘Quite correct.’

  ‘And black magic . . .?’

  The lecturer sighed. He suddenly became interested in the scene from his window. A summer’s day. Rebus was remembering something. A long time ago, he’d bought a book of paintings by H.R. Giger, paintings of Satan flanked by vestal whores. . . . He couldn’t say why he’d done it, but it must still be somewhere in the flat. He remembered hiding it from Rhona. . . .