10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Or so he hoped.

  Holmes meantime was wiping his moist eyes with the back of his hand. Through the open door he could see the progress being made, eerie shadows cast across the wall and ceiling by the lamp, as one silhouette shovelled shit into a bin, filling it noisily. It was like a scene from some latter-day Inferno, lacking only the devils to goad the damned workers on. But these men looked, if not happy in their work, then at least . . . well, professional sprang to mind. Dear God, all he wanted was a flat to call his own, and the occasional holiday, and a decent car. And Nell, of course. This would make a funny story for her one day.

  But the last thing he felt like doing was smiling.

  Then he heard the cackle of laughter, and, looking around him, it took several moments to realise that it was coming from the bathroom, that it was John Rebus’s laugh, and that Rebus was dipping his hand into the mess, drawing it out again with something clinging to it. Holmes didn’t even notice the thick rubberised gloves which protected Rebus up to his elbows. He simply turned and walked downstairs on brittle legs.

  ‘Got you!’ Rebus cried.

  ‘There’s a hose outside,’ the foreman said.

  ‘Lead on,’ said Rebus, shaking the packet free of some of its clots. ‘Lead on, Macduff.’

  ‘The name’s MacBeth,’ the foreman called back, heading for the stairway.

  In the cool, fresh air, they hosed down the package, standing it up against the front wall of the house as they did so. Rebus peered at it closely. A red plastic bag, like the carrier from a record shop, had been wrapped around some cloth, a shirt or the like. The whole had been stuck down with a roll’s worth of sellotape, then tied with string, knotted resolutely in the middle.

  ‘Clever little tyke, weren’t you, Ronnie?’ Rebus said to himself as he picked up the package. ‘Cleverer than they could ever have thought.’

  At the van, he threw down the rubber gloves, shook the foreman’s hand, and exchanged the names of local watering holes with him, making promises of a drink, a nippy sweetie some night in the future. Then he headed for the car, Holmes following sheepishly. All the way back to Rebus’s flat, Holmes didn’t once dare to suggest that they open a window and let in some fresh air.

  Rebus was like a child on a birthday morning who has just found his surprise. He clutched the parcel to him, staining his shirt even more, yet seemed loath to open it. Now that he possessed it, he could forestall the revelation. It would happen; that was all that mattered.

  When they arrived at the flat, however, Rebus’s mood changed again, and he dashed to the kitchen for some scissors. Holmes meantime made his excuses and went to the bathroom, scrubbing his hands, bared arms, and face thoroughly. His scalp itched, and he wished he could throw himself into the shower and stand beneath it for an hour or two.

  As he was coming out of the bathroom, he heard the sound from the kitchen. It was the antithesis of the laughter he had heard earlier, a kind of exasperated wail. He walked quickly to the kitchen, and saw Rebus standing there, head bowed, hands held out against the worktop as though supporting himself. The packet was open in front of him.

  ‘John? What’s wrong?’

  Rebus’s voice was soft, suddenly tired. ‘They’re just pictures of a bloody boxing match. That’s all they are. Just bloody sports photos.’

  Holmes came forward slowly, fearing noise and movement might crack Rebus completely.

  ‘Maybe,’ he suggested, peering over Rebus’s slumped shoulder, ‘maybe there’s somebody in the crowd. In the audience. This Hyde could be one of the spectators.’

  ‘The spectators are just a blur. Take a look.’

  Holmes did. There were twelve or so photographs. Two featherweights, no love lost, were slugging it out. There was nothing subtle about the contest, but nothing unusual about it either.

  ‘Maybe it’s Hyde’s boxing club.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Rebus, not really caring any more. He had been so sure that he would find the pictures, and so sure that they would prove the final, clinching piece of the puzzle. Why were they hidden away so carefully, so cunningly? And so well protected. There had to be a reason.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Holmes, who was becoming irritating again, ‘maybe there’s something we’re missing. The cloth they’re wrapped in, the envelope . . .?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody thick, Holmes!’ Rebus slammed a hand against the worktop, and immediately calmed. ‘Sorry. Jesus, sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Holmes said coldly. ‘I’ll make some coffee or something. Then why don’t we take a good look at those snaps? Eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rebus said, pushing himself upright. ‘Good idea.’ He headed towards the door. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’ He turned and smiled at Holmes. ‘I must stink to high heaven.’

  ‘A very agricultural smell, sir,’ Holmes said, smiling also. They laughed at the shared reference to Farmer Watson. Then Rebus went to have his shower, and Holmes made the coffee, jealous of the sounds from the bathroom. He took another look at the photographs, a close look, hoping for something, something he could use to impress Rebus with, to cheer Rebus up just a little.

  The boxers were young, photographed from ringside or near as dammit. But the photographer – Ronnie McGrath presumably – hadn’t used a flash, depending instead upon the smoky lights above the ring. Consequently, neither boxers nor audience were recognisable as distinct individuals. Their faces were grainy, the outlines of the combatants themselves blurred with sluggish movement. Why hadn’t the photographer used a flash?

  In one photo, the right-hand side of the frame was dark, cut off at an angle by something getting in the way of the lens. What? A passing spectator? Somebody’s jacket?

  It struck Holmes with sudden clarity: the photographer’s jacket had got in the way, and it had done so because the photos were being taken surreptitiously, from beneath a jacket. This would explain the poor quality of the photos, and the uneven angles of most of them. So there had to be a reason for them, and they had to be the clue Rebus was seeking. All they had to do now was discover just what kind of clue.

  The shower became a drip, then died altogether. A few moments later, Rebus appeared clad only in a towel, holding it around his gut as he went to the bedroom to change. He was balancing with one foot poised above a trouser leg when Holmes burst in, waving the photographs.

  ‘I think I’ve got it!’ he exclaimed. Rebus looked up, surprised, then slipped on the trousers.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve worked it out, too. It came to me just now in the shower.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So fetch us a coffee,’ said Rebus, ‘and let’s go into the living room and see if we’ve worked out the same thing. Okay?’

  ‘Right,’ said Holmes, wondering again why it was that he’d joined the police when there were so many more rewarding careers out there to be had.

  When he arrived in the living room, carrying the two mugs of coffee, Rebus was pacing up and down, his telephone handset wedged against his ear.

  ‘Right,’ he was saying. ‘I’ll wait. No, no, I won’t call back. I said I’ll wait. Thank you.’

  Taking the coffee from Holmes, he rolled his eyes, exhibiting disbelief at the stupidity of the person on the other end of the telephone.

  ‘Who is it?’ Holmes mouthed silently.

  ‘The council,’ said Rebus aloud. ‘I got a name and an extension number from Andrew.’

  ‘Who’s Andrew?’

  ‘Andrew MacBeth, the foreman. I want to find out who authorised the cleaning out of the house. A bit of a coincidence that, don’t you think? Cleaning it out just as we were about to do a bit of poking around.’ He turned his attention to the handset. ‘Yes? That’s right. Oh, I see.’ He looked at Holmes, his eyes betraying nothing. ‘How might that have happened?’ He listened again. ‘Yes, I see. Oh yes, I agree, it does seem a bit curious. Still, these things happen, eh? Roll on computerisation. Thanks for your help anyway.’

  He pressed a butt
on, kiling the connection. ‘You probably caught the gist of that.’

  ‘They’ve no record of who authorised the clear-out?’

  ‘Quite so, Brian. The documentation is all in order, but for the little matter of a signature. They can’t understand it.’

  ‘Any handwriting to go on?’

  ‘The chitty Andrew showed me was typed.’

  ‘So, what are you saying?’

  ‘That Mr Hyde seems to have friends everywhere. In the council, for starters, but probably in the police, too. Not to mention several less savoury institutions.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Those pictures. What else is there to go on?’

  They studied each frame closely, taking their time, pointing out this or that blur or detail, trying ideas out on one another. It was a painstaking business. And throughout Rebus was muttering to himself about Ronnie McGrath’s final words to Tracy, about how they had been the key throughout. The triple meaning: make yourself scarce, beware a man called Hyde, and I’ve hidden something away. So clever. So compact. Almost too clever for Ronnie. Maybe the meanings had been there without his realising it himself. . .

  At the end of ninety minutes, Rebus threw the final photograph down onto the floor. Holmes was half lying along the settee, rubbing his forehead with one hand as he held up one of the pictures in the other, his eyes refusing to focus any longer.

  ‘It’s no use, Brian. No use at all. I can’t make sense out of any of them, can you?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Holmes admitted. ‘But I take it Hyde wanted – wants – these pictures badly.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning he knows they exist, but he doesn’t know how crude they are. He thinks they show something they don’t.’

  ‘Yes, but what? I’ll tell you something, Ronnie McGrath had bruises on his body the night he died.’

  ‘Not surprising when you remember that someone dragged his body down the stairs.’

  ‘No, he was already dead then. This was before. His brother noticed, Tracy noticed, but nobody ever asked. Somebody said something to me about rough trade.’ He pointed towards the scattering of snapshots. ‘Maybe this is what they meant.’

  ‘A boxing match?’

  ‘An illegal bout. Two unmatched kids knocking blue hell out of one another.’

  ‘For what?’

  Rebus stared at the wall, looking for the word he lacked. Then he turned to Holmes.

  ‘The same reason men set up dog fights. For kicks.’

  ‘It all sounds incredible.’

  ‘Maybe it is incredible. The way my mind is just now, I could believe bombers have been found on the moon.’ He stretched. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly eight. Aren’t you supposed to be going to Malcolm Lanyon’s party?’

  ‘Jesus!’ Rebus sprang to his feet. ‘I’m late. I forgot all about it.’

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to get ready. There’s not much we can do about this.’ Holmes gestured towards the photographs. ‘I should visit Nell anyway.’

  ‘Yes, yes, off you go, Brian.’ Rebus paused. ‘And thanks.’

  Holmes smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘One thing,’ Rebus began.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t have a clean jacket. Can I borrow yours?’

  It wasn’t a great fit, the sleeves being slightly too long, the chest too small, but it wasn’t bad either. Rebus tried to seem casual about it all as he stood on Malcolm Lanyon’s doorstep. The door was opened by the same stunning Oriental who had been by Lanyon’s side at The Eyrie. She was dressed in a low-cut black dress which barely reached down to her upper thighs. She smiled at Rebus, recognising him, or at least pretending to do so.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘I hope I’m not late.’

  ‘Not at all. Malcolm’s parties aren’t run by the clock. People come and go as they please.’ Her voice had a cool but not unpleasant edge to it. Looking past her, Rebus was relieved to see several male guests wearing lounge suits, and some wearing sports jackets. Lanyon’s personal (Rebus wondered just how personal) assistant led him into the dining room, where a barman stood behind a table laden with bottles and glasses.

  The doorbell rang again. Fingers touched Rebus’s shoulder. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Rebus. He turned towards the barman. ‘Gin and tonic,’ he said. Then he turned again to watch her pass through the large hallway towards the main door.

  ‘Hello, John.’ A much firmer hand slapped Rebus’s shoulder. It belonged to Tommy McCall.

  ‘Hello, Tommy.’ Rebus accepted a drink from the barman, and McCall handed over his own empty glass for a refill.

  ‘Glad you could make it. Of course, it’s not quite as lively as usual tonight. Everyone’s a bit subdued.’

  ‘Subdued?’ It was true, the conversations around them were muted. Then Rebus noticed a few black ties.

  ‘I only came along because I thought James would have wanted it that way.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rebus said, nodding. He’d forgotten all about James Carew’s suicide. Christ, it had only happened this morning! It seemed like a lifetime ago. And all these people had been Carew’s friends or acquaintances. Rebus’s nostrils twitched.

  ‘Had he seemed depressed lately?’ he asked.

  ‘Not especially. He’d just bought himself that car, remember. Hardly the act of a depressed man!’

  ‘I suppose not. Did you know him well?’

  ‘I don’t think any of us knew him well. He kept himself pretty much to himself. And of course he spent a lot of time away from town, sometimes on business, sometimes staying on his estate.’

  ‘He wasn’t married, was he?’

  Tommy McCall stared at him, then took a large mouthful of whisky. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe he ever was. It’s a blessing in a way.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ said Rebus, feeling the gin easing itself into his system. ‘But I still don’t understand why he would do it.’

  ‘It’s always the quiet ones though, isn’t it? Malcolm was just saying that a few minutes ago.’

  Rebus looked around them. ‘I haven’t seen our host yet.’

  ‘I think he’s in the lounge. Shall I give you the tour?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’

  ‘It’s quite a place.’ McCall turned to Rebus. ‘Shall we start upstairs in the billiards room, or downstairs at the swimming pool?’

  Rebus laughed and shook his empty glass. ‘I think the first place to visit is the bar, don’t you?’

  The house was stunning, there was no other word for it. Rebus thought briefly of poor Brian Holmes, and smiled. You and me both, kid. The guests were nice, too. He recognised some of them by face, some by name, a few by reputation, and many by the titles of the companies they headed. But of the host there was no sign, though everyone claimed to have spoken with him ‘earlier in the evening’.

  Later, as Tommy McCall was becoming noisy and inebriated, Rebus, by no means on his steadiest legs himself, decided on another tour of the house. But alone this time. There was a library on the first floor, which had received cursory attention on the first circuit. But there was a working desk in there, and Rebus was keen to take a closer look. On the landing, he glanced around him, but everyone seemed to be downstairs. A few guests had even donned swimsuits, and were lounging by (or in) the twenty-foot-long heated pool in the basement.

  He turned the heavy brass handle and slipped into the dimly lit library. In here there was a smell of old leather, a smell which took Rebus back to past decades – the ’twenties, say, or perhaps the ’thirties. There was a lamp on the desktop, illuminating some papers there. Rebus was at the desk before he realised something: the lamp had not been lit on his first visit here. He turned and saw Lanyon, standing against the far wall with his arms folded, grinning.

  ‘Inspector,’ he said, his voice as rich as his tailoring. ‘What an interesting jacket that is. Saiko told me you’d arriv
ed.’

  Lanyon walked forward slowly and extended a hand, which Rebus took. He returned the firm grip.

  ‘I hope I’m not . . .’ he began. ‘I mean, it was kind of you. . . .’

  ‘Good lord, not at all. Is the Superintendent coming?’

  Rebus shrugged his shoulders, feeling the jacket tight across his back.

  ‘No, well, never mind. I see that like me you are a studious man.’ Lanyon surveyed the shelves of books. ‘This is my favourite room in the whole house. I don’t know why I bother holding parties. It is expected, I suppose, and that’s why I do it. Also of course it is interesting to note the various permutations, who’s talking with whom, whose hand just happened to squeeze whose arm a touch too tenderly. That sort of thing.’

  ‘You won’t see much from here,’ Rebus said.

  ‘But Saiko tells me. She’s marvellous at catching that sort of thing, no matter how subtle people think they are being. For example, she told me about your jacket. Beige, she said, cord, neither matching the rest of your wardrobe nor quite fitting your figure. Therefore borrowed, am I right?’

  Rebus applauded silently. ‘Bravo,’ he said. ‘I suppose that’s what makes you such a good lawyer.’

  ‘No, years and years of study are what have made me a good lawyer. But to be a known lawyer, well, that demands a few simple party tricks, such as the one I’ve just shown you.’

  Lanyon walked past Rebus and stopped at the writing desk. He sifted through the papers.

  ‘Was there anything special you were interested in?’

  ‘No,’ said Rebus. ‘Just this room.’

  Lanyon glanced towards him, smiling, not quite believing. ‘There are more interesting rooms in the house, but I keep those locked.’

  ‘Oh?’