10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘I’ve got the list here. Not too long, thank the Lord. I suppose I’m going to be Shoeleather on this one?’

  Rebus looked flabbergasted. ‘Not at all. You’ve got better things to be doing with your time. No, I think this time the shoeleather ought to be mine.’

  ‘But . . . with respect, shouldn’t you be keeping out of things?’

  ‘With respect, Brian, that’s none of your bloody business.’

  From home, Rebus tried phoning Gill, but she couldn’t be reached. Keeping out of things, no doubt. She had been quiet during the drive home last night, and hadn’t invited him in. Fair enough, he supposed. He wasn’t about to take advantage. . . . So why was he trying to telephone her? Of course he was trying to take advantage! He wanted her back.

  He tidied the living room, did some washing up, and took a binbag’s-worth of dirty washing to the local laundrette for a service wash. The attendant, Mrs Mackay, was full of outrage about Calum McCallum.

  ‘Yon’s a celebrity and a’. They should ken better.’

  Rebus smiled and nodded agreement.

  Back in the flat, he sat down and picked up a book, knowing he wouldn’t be able to keep his mind on it. He didn’t want Hyde to win, and, kept away from the case, that’s exactly what would happen. He took the slip of paper from his pocket. There were no people with the surname Jekyll in the Lothians, and a scant dozen with the surname Hyde. At least, those were the ones he could be sure about. What if Hyde possessed an unlisted number? He’d get Brian Holmes to check the possibility.

  He reached for the telephone and was halfway through the number before he realised he was calling Gill’s office. He punched in the rest of the number. What the hell, she wouldn’t be there anyway.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was Gill Templer’s voice, sounding as unflappable as ever. Yes, but that sort of trick was easy by phone. All the oldest tricks were.

  ‘It’s John.’

  ‘Hello there. Thanks for the lift home.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly. I just feel a bit . . . I don’t know, confused doesn’t seem to cover it. I feel as though I’ve been conned. That’s as near as I can get to an explanation.’

  ‘Are you going to see him?’

  ‘What? In Fife? No, I don’t think so. It’s not that I couldn’t face him. I want to see him. It’s the thought of walking into the station with everyone knowing who I was, why I was there.’

  ‘I’d go with you, Gill, if you wanted.’

  ‘Thanks, John. Maybe in a day or two. But not yet.’

  ‘Understood.’ He became aware that he was gripping the receiver too hard, that his fingers were hurting. God, this was hurting him all over. Did she have any inkling of his feelings right this minute? He was sure he couldn’t put them into words. The words hadn’t been coined. He felt so close to her, and yet so far away, like a schoolkid who’d lost his first girlfriend.

  ‘Thanks for phoning, John. I appreciate it. But I’d better be getting –’

  ‘Oh, right, right you are. Well, you’ve got my number, Gill. Take care.’

  ‘Bye, J –’

  He broke the connection. Don’t crowd her, John, he was thinking. That’s how you lost her the first time. Don’t go making any assumptions. She doesn’t like that. Give her space. Maybe he had made a mistake phoning in the first place. Hell and damn.

  With respect.

  That little weasel called James. That little toerag. He’d rip his head from his shoulders when he got him. He wondered how much Hyde had paid the kid. Considerably more than two ten-pound notes, that was for sure.

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Rebus here.’

  ‘John? It’s Gill again. I’ve just heard the news. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Tell you what?’ He affected indifference, knowing she’d see through it immediately.

  ‘About this complaint against you.’

  ‘Oh, that. Come on, Gill, you know this sort of thing happens from time to time.’

  ‘Yes, but why didn’t you say? Why did you let me prattle on like that?’

  ‘You weren’t prattling.’

  ‘Dammit!’ She was almost in tears now. ‘Why do you always have to try and hide things from me like that? What’s the matter with you?’

  He was about to explain, when the line went dead. He stared at the receiver dumbly, wondering just why he hadn’t told her in the first place. Because she had worries of her own? Because he was embarrassed? Because he hadn’t wanted the pity of a vulnerable woman? There were reasons enough.

  Weren’t there?

  Of course there were. It was just that none of them seemed to make him feel any better. Why do you always have to try and hide things from me? There was that word again: hide. A verb, an action, and a noun, a place. And a person. Faceless, but Rebus was beginning to know him so well. The adversary was cunning, there was no doubting that. But he couldn’t hope to tie up all the loose threads the way he’d tied up Ronnie and Carew, the way he was trying to tie up John Rebus.

  The telephone rang again.

  ‘Rebus here.’

  ‘It’s Superintendent Watson. I’m glad I caught you at home.’

  Because, Rebus added silently, it means I’m not out on the street causing trouble for you.

  ‘Yes, sir. Any problem?’

  ‘Quite the reverse. They’re still questioning this male prostitute. Shouldn’t be too long now. But meantime, the reason I called is because I’ve been on to the casino.’

  ‘Casino, sir?’

  ‘You know, Finlay’s.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘And they say that you’ll be welcome there anytime, should you wish to pop in. You’ve just to mention Finlay Andrews’ name, and that’s your ticket.’

  ‘Right, sir. Well, thanks for that.’

  ‘My pleasure, John. Shame you’re having to take it easy, what with this suicide business and all. The press are all over it, sniffing around for any little piece of dirt they can find. What a job, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘McCall’s fielding their questions. I just hope he doesn’t appear on the box. Not exactly photogenic, is he?’

  Watson made this sound like Rebus’s fault, and Rebus was on the point of apologising when the Superintendent placed a hand over the mouthpiece at his end, while he had a few words with someone. And when he came on again it was to say a hasty goodbye.

  ‘Press conference apparently,’ he said. And that was that.

  Rebus stared at the receiver for a full minute. If there were to be any more calls, let them come now. They didn’t. He threw the instrument onto the floor, where it landed heavily. Secretly, he was hoping to break it one of these days, so he could go back to an old-style handset. But the blasted thing seemed tougher than it looked.

  He was opening the book when the door-knocker sounded. Tappity tap tap. A business call then, and not Mrs Cochrane wondering why he hadn’t washed the communal stairwell yet.

  It was Brian Holmes.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Rebus felt no real enthusiasm, but left the door open for the young detective to follow him through to the living room if he so desired. He so desired, following Rebus with mock heartiness.

  ‘I was just looking at a flat near Tollcross, and thought I’d –’

  ‘Skip the excuses, Brian. You’re checking up on me. Sit down and tell me what’s been happening in my absence.’ Rebus checked his watch while Holmes seated himself. ‘An absence, for the record, of just under two hours.’

  ‘Ach, I was concerned, that’s all.’

  Rebus stared at him. Simple, direct, and to the point. Maybe Rebus could learn something from Holmes after all.

  ‘It’s not Farmer’s orders then?’

  ‘Not at all. And as it happens, I did have a flat to look at.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘Ghastly beyond speech. Cooker in the living room, shower in a wee
cupboard. No bath, no kitchen.’

  ‘How much did they want for it? No, on second thoughts don’t tell me. It would just depress me.’

  ‘It certainly depressed me.’

  ‘You can always make an offer on this place when they throw me inside for corrupting a minor.’

  Holmes looked up, saw that Rebus was smiling, and gave a relieved grin.

  ‘The guy’s story’s already coming apart at the seams.’

  ‘Did you ever doubt it?’

  ‘Of course not. Anyway, I thought these might cheer you up.’ Holmes brandished a large manilla envelope, which had been discreetly tucked inside his cord jacket. Rebus hadn’t seen this cord jacket before, and supposed it to be the Detective Constable’s flat-buying uniform.

  ‘What are they?’ said Rebus, accepting the packet.

  ‘Pics. Last night’s raid. Thought you might be interested.’

  Rebus opened the envelope and withdrew a set of ten-by-eight black and whites. They showed the more or less blurred shapes of men scrambling across waste ground. What light there was had about it a halogen starkness, sending up huge black shadows and capturing some faces in chalky states of shock and surprise.

  ‘Where did you get these?’

  ‘That DS Hendry sent them across with a note sympathising over Nell. He thought these might cheer me up.’

  ‘I told you he was a good bloke. Any idea which one of these goons is the DJ?’

  Holmes leapt from his seat and crouched beside Rebus, who was holding a photograph at the ready.

  ‘No,’ Holmes said, ‘there’s a better shot of him.’ He thumbed through the set until he found the picture he was looking for. ‘Here we are. That one there. That’s McCallum.’

  Rebus studied the fuzzy semblance before him. The look of fear, so distinct against the blurred face, could have been drawn by a child. Wide eyes and a mouth puckered into an ‘O’, arms suspended as though between rapid flight and final surrender.

  Rebus smiled a smile that reached all the way up to his eyes.

  ‘You’re sure this is him?’

  ‘One of the PCs at the station recognised him. He said he once got McCallum to sign an autograph for him.’

  ‘I’m impressed. Shouldn’t think he’ll be signing too many more though. Where are they holding him?’

  ‘Everybody they arrested has gone to Dunfermline nick’.

  ‘That’s nice for them. By the by, did they nab the ringleaders?’

  ‘Each and every one. Including Brightman. He was the boss.’

  ‘Davy Brightman? The scrappie?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘I played against that bugger at football a couple of times when I was at school. He played left back for his team when I was on the wing for ours. He gave me a good studding one match.’

  ‘Revenge is sweet,’ said Holmes.

  ‘It is that, Brian.’ Rebus was studying the photograph again. ‘It is that.’

  ‘Actually, a couple of the punters did scarper apparently, but they’re all on film. The camera never lies, eh, sir?’

  Rebus began to sift through the other pictures. ‘A powerful tool, the camera,’ he said. His face suddenly changed.

  ‘Sir? Are you all right?’

  Rebus’s voice was reduced to a whisper. ‘I’ve just had a revelation, Brian. A whatsit . . .? epiphany, is it?’

  ‘No idea, sir.’ Holmes was sure now that something inside his superior had snapped.

  ‘Epiphany, yes. I know where this has all been leading, Brian. I’m sure of it. That bastard on Calton Hill said something about pictures, some pictures everybody was interested in. They’re Ronnie’s pictures.’

  ‘What? The ones in his bedroom?’

  ‘No, not those.’

  ‘The ones at Hutton’s studio then?’

  ‘Not quite. No, I don’t know exactly where these particular pictures are, but I’ve got a bloody good idea. “Hide” can be a noun, Brian. Come on.’

  ‘Where?’ Holmes watched as Rebus sprang from his chair, heading for the door. He started to collect the photographs, which Rebus had let fall from his hands.

  ‘Never mind those,’ Rebus ordered, slipping on a jacket.

  ‘But where the hell are we going?’

  ‘You just answered your own question,’ Rebus said, turning back to grin at Holmes. ‘That’s exactly where we’re going.’

  ‘But where?’

  ‘To hell, of course. Come on.’

  It was turning cold. The sun had just about tired itself out, and was retiring from the contest. The clouds were sticking-plaster pink. Two great final sunbeams shone down like torchlight upon Pilmuir, and picked out just the one building, leaving the other houses in the street untouched. Rebus sucked in breath. He had to admit, it was quite a sight.

  ‘Like the stable at Bethlehem,’ said Holmes.

  ‘A damned queer stable,’ Rebus retorted. ‘God’s got a funny sense of humour if this is His idea of a joke.’

  ‘You did say we were going to hell.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting Cecil B. DeMille to be in on it though. What’s going on there?’

  Almost hidden by the day’s last gasp of sunlight, a van and a hire skip were parked directly in front of Ronnie’s house.

  ‘The council?’ Holmes suggested. ‘Probably cleaning the place up.’

  ‘Why, in God’s name?’

  ‘There’s plenty that need housing,’ Holmes replied. Rebus wasn’t listening. As the car pulled to a stop, he was out and walking briskly towards the skip. It was filling up with the detritus of the squat’s interior. There were sounds of hammering from within. In the back of the van, a workman supped from a plastic cup, his thermos clutched in his other hand.

  ‘Who’s in charge here?’ Rebus demanded.

  The workman blew on the contents of his cup, then took another swig before replying. ‘Me, I suppose.’ His eyes were wary. He could smell authority a mile off. ‘This is a legitimate tea-break.’

  ‘Never mind that. What’s going on?’

  ‘Who wants to know.’

  ‘CID wants to know.’

  He looked hard at Rebus’s harder face, and made up his mind instantly. ‘Well, we got word to come and clean this place up. Make it habitable.’

  ‘On whose orders?’

  ‘I don’t know. Somebody’s. We just take the chitty and go do the job.’

  ‘Right.’ Rebus had turned from the man and was walking up the path to the front door. Holmes, having smiled apologetically at the foreman, followed. In the living room, two workmen in overalls and thick red rubber gloves were whitewashing the walls. Charlie’s pentagram had already been covered, its outline barely visible through the drying layer of paint. The men looked towards Rebus, then to the wall.

  ‘We’ll cover it up next coat,’ said one. ‘Don’t worry yourself about that.’

  Rebus stared at the man, then marched past Holmes out of the room. He started to climb the stairs, and turned into Ronnie’s bedroom. Another workman, much younger than the two downstairs, was gathering Ronnie’s few belongings together into a large black plastic bag. As Rebus entered the room, the boy was caught, frozen, stuffing one of the paperbacks into the pocket of his overalls.

  Rebus pointed to the book.

  ‘There’s a next of kin, son. Put it in the bag with the rest.’

  Something about his tone persuaded the teenager to obey.

  ‘Come across anything else interesting?’ Rebus asked now, hands in pockets, approaching the teenager.

  ‘Nothing,’ the boy said, guiltily.

  ‘In particular,’ Rebus went on, as though the teenager had not spoken, ‘photographs. Maybe just a few, maybe a whole packet. Hmm?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Right. Get down to the van and bring up a crowbar or something. I want these floorboards up.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You heard me, son. Do it
.’

  Holmes just stood and watched in silent appreciation. Rebus seemed to have grown in physical stature, becoming broader, taller. Holmes couldn’t quite fathom the trick: maybe it had something to do with the hands in the pockets, the way the elbows jarred outwards, lending apparent substance to the frame. Whatever it was, it worked. The young workman stumbled out of the door and down the stairs.

  ‘You’re sure they’ll be here?’ said Holmes quietly. He tried to keep his tone level, not wishing to sound too sceptical. But Rebus was way past that stage. In Rebus’s mind, the photographs were already in his hand.

  ‘I’m certain, Brian. I can smell them.’

  ‘You’re sure that’s not just the bathroom?’

  Rebus turned and looked at him, as though seeing him for the very first time. ‘You might have a point, Brian. You just might.’

  Holmes followed Rebus to the bathroom. As Rebus kicked open the door, the stench embraced both men, arching them forward in a convulsive fit of gagging. Rebus brought a handkerchief from his pocket, pushed it to his face, and leaned towards the door handle, pulling the door shut again.

  ‘I’d forgotten about that place,’ he said. Then: ‘Wait here.’

  He returned with the foreman, a plastic dustbin, a shovel, and three small white face-masks, one of which he handed to Holmes. An elasticated band held the cardboard snout in place, and Holmes breathed deeply, testing the apparatus. He was just about to say something about the smell still being noticeable, when Rebus toed open the door again, and, as the foreman angled an industrial lamp into the bathroom, walked over the threshold.

  Rebus pulled the dustbin to the rim of the bath and left it there, gesturing for the lamp to be shone into the bath itself. Holmes nearly fell backwards out of the room. A fat rat, caught in the act of feasting upon the rotten contents of the bath, squealed, red eyes burning directly into the light. Rebus swung the shovel down and cut the animal in two neat halves. Holmes spun from the room and, lifting the mask, retched against the damp wall. He tried taking gulps of air, but the smell was overpowering, the nausea returning in quickening floods.

  Back inside the room, the foreman and Rebus exchanged a smile which wrinkled their eyes above the face-masks. They had seen worse than this – much worse – in their time. Then, neither man naive enough to want to linger, they set to work, the foreman holding the lamp while Rebus shovelled the contents of the bath slowly into the dustbin. The mess of raw sewage ran slickly from the shovel, spattering Rebus’s shirt and trousers. He ignored it, ignored everything but the task at hand. He had done dirtier jobs in the Army, dirtier jobs by far during his failed training in the SAS. This was routine. And at least here there was some purpose to the task, some end in view.