10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Sit down, Inspector. Sugar?’

  ‘Just milk, please. You were saying about your husband and Gregor Jack . . .?’

  ‘Oh yes. Well, I suppose because they’re both in the media, on television I mean, people tend to think they must know one another.’

  ‘And don’t they?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh yes, yes, they know one another. But only through me. People get their stories mixed up, I suppose, so it started to appear in the papers and magazines that Rab and Gregor went to school together, which is nonsense. Rab went to school in Dundee. It was me that went to school with Gregor. And we went to university together, too.’

  So not even the cream of young Scottish reporters always got it right. Rebus accepted the china cup and saucer with a nod of thanks.

  ‘I was plain Catherine Gow then, of course. I met Rab later, when he was already working in television. He was doing a play in Edinburgh. I bumped into him in the bar after a performance.’

  She was stirring her tea absent-mindedly. ‘I’m Cath Kinnoul now, Rab Kinnoul’s wife. Hardly anyone calls me Gowk any more.’

  ‘Gowk?’ Rebus thought he’d misheard. She looked up at him.

  ‘That was my nickname. We all had nicknames. Gregor was Beggar . . .’

  ‘And Ronald Steele was Suey.’

  She stopped stirring, and looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. ‘That’s right. But how . . .?’

  ‘It’s what his shop’s called,’ Rebus explained, this being the truth.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Well, anyway, about these books . . .’

  Three things struck Rebus. One was that there seemed precious few books around, for someone who was supposedly a collector. The second was that he’d rather talk some more about Gregor Jack. The third was that Cath Kinnoul was on drugs, tranquillizers of some kind. It was taking a second too long for her lips to form each word, and her eyelids had a droop to them. Valium? Moggies even?

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the books.’ Then he looked around him. Any actor would have known it for a cheap effect. ‘Mr Kinnoul’s not at home just now?’

  She smiled. ‘Most people just call him Rab. They think if they’ve seen him on television, they know him, and knowing him gives them the right to call him Rab. Mr Kinnoul . . . I can see you’re a policeman.’ She almost wagged a finger at him, but thought better of it and drank her tea instead. She held the delicate cup by its body rather than by the awkward handle, drained it absolutely dry, and exhaled.

  ‘Thirsty this morning,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, what were you saying?’

  ‘You were telling me about Gregor Jack.’

  She looked surprised. ‘Was I?’

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, I read about it in the papers. Horrible things they were saying. About him and Liz.’

  ‘Mrs Jack?’

  ‘Liz, yes.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  Cath Kinnoul seemed to shiver. She got up slowly and placed her empty cup on the tray. ‘More tea?’ Rebus shook his head. She poured milk, lots of sugar, and then a trickle of tea into her cup. ‘Thirsty,’ she said, ‘this morning.’ She went to the window, holding the cup in both hands. ‘Liz is her own woman. You’ve got to admire her for that. It can’t be easy, living with a man who’s in the public eye. He hardly sees her.’

  ‘He’s away a lot, you mean?’

  ‘Well, yes. But she’s away a lot, too. She has her own life, her own friends.’

  ‘Do you know her well?’

  ‘No, no, I wouldn’t say that. You wouldn’t believe what we got up to at school. Who’d have thought . . .’ She touched the window. ‘Do you like the house, Inspector?’

  This was an unexpected turn in the conversation. ‘It’s . . . er, big, isn’t it?’ Rebus answered. ‘Plenty of room.’

  ‘Seven bedrooms,’ she said. ‘Rab bought it from some rock star. I don’t think he’d have bothered if it hadn’t been a star’s home. What do we need seven bedrooms for? There’s only the two of us . . . Oh, here’s Rab now.’

  Rebus came to the window. A Land-Rover was bumping up the driveway. There was a heavy figure in the front, hands clenching the wheel. The Land-Rover gave a squeal as it stopped.

  ‘About these books,’ said Rebus, suddenly an efficient official. ‘You collect books, I believe?’

  ‘Rare books, yes. First editions, mostly.’ Cath Kinnoul, too, was starting to play another part, this time the woman who’s helping police with their . . .

  The front door opened and closed. ‘Cath? Whose car’s that in the drive?’

  Rab Kinnoul came massively into the room. He was six feet two tall, and probably weighed fifteen stone. His chest was huge, a predominantly red tartan shirt stretched across it. He wore baggy brown corduroys tied at the waist with a thin, straining belt. He’d started growing a reddish beard, and his brown hair was longer than Rebus remembered, curling over his ears. He looked expectantly at Rebus, who came towards him.

  ‘Inspector Rebus, sir.’

  Kinnoul looked surprised, then relieved, then, Rebus thought, worried. The problem was those eyes; they didn’t seem to change, did they? So that Rebus began to wonder whether the surprise, relief and worry were in Kinnoul’s mind or in his own.

  ‘Inspector, what’s . . . I mean, is there something wrong?’

  ‘No, no, sir. It’s just that some books have been stolen, rare books, and we’re going around talking to private collectors.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now Kinnoul broke into a grin. Rebus didn’t think he’d seen him grin in any of his TV or film roles. He could see why. The grin changed Kinnoul from ominous heavy into overgrown teenager, lighting his face, making it innocent and benign. ‘So it’s Cath you want then?’ He looked over Rebus’s shoulder at his wife. ‘All right, Cath?’

  ‘Fine, Rab.’

  Kinnoul looked at Rebus again. The grin had disappeared. ‘Maybe you’d like to see the library, Inspector? Cath and you can have a chat in there.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Rebus took the back roads on his way into Edinburgh. They were nicer, certainly quieter. He’d learned very little in the Kinnoul’s library, except that Kinnoul felt protective towards his wife, so protective that he’d felt unable to leave Rebus alone with her. What was he afraid of? He had stalked the library, had pretended to browse, and sat down with a book, all the time listening as Rebus asked his simple questions and left the simple list and asked Cath Kinnoul to be on the lookout. And she’d nodded, fingering the xeroxed sheet of paper.

  The ‘library’ in fact was an upper room of the house, probably intended at one time as a bedroom. Two walls had been fitted with shelves, most of them sheeted with sliding glass doors. And behind these sheets of glass sat a dull collection of books – dull to Rebus’s eyes, but they seemed enough to bring Cath Kinnoul out of her daydreams. She pointed out some of the exhibits to Rebus.

  ‘Fine first edition . . . rebound in calfskin . . . some pages still uncut. Just think, that book was printed in 1789, but if I cut open those pages I’d be the first person ever to read them. Oh, and that’s a Creech edition of Burns . . . first time Burns was published in Edinburgh. And I’ve some modern books, too. There’s Muriel Spark . . . Midnight’s Children . . . George Orwell . . .’

  ‘Have you read them all?’

  She looked at Rebus as though he’d asked her about her sexual preferences. Kinnoul interrupted.

  ‘Cath’s a collector, Inspector.’ He came over and put his arm around her. ‘It could have been stamps or porcelain or old china dolls, couldn’t it, love? But it’s books. She collects books.’ He gave her a squeeze. ‘She doesn’t read them. She collects them.’

  Rebus shook his head now, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He’d shoved a Rolling Stones tape into the car’s cassette player. An aid to constructive thought. On the one hand, you had Professor Costello, with his marvellous library, the books read and reread, worth a fortune but still ther
e for the borrowing . . . for the reading. And on the other hand there was Cath Kinnoul. He didn’t quite know why he felt so sorry for her. It couldn’t be easy being married to . . . well, she’d said it herself, hadn’t she? Except that she’d been talking about Elizabeth Jack. Rebus was intrigued by Mrs Jack. More, he was becoming fascinated by her. He hoped he would meet her soon . . .

  The call from Dufftown came just as he got into the office. On the stairs, he’d been told of another rumour. By the middle of next week, there would be official notification that Great London Road was to close. Then back I go to Marchmont, Rebus thought.

  The telephone was ringing. It was always ringing either just as he was coming in, or else just as he was about to go out. He could sit in his chair for hours and never once . . .

  ‘Hello, Rebus here.’

  There was a pause, and enough snap-crackle over the line for the call to be trans-Siberian.

  ‘Is that Inspector Rebus?’

  Rebus sighed and fell into his chair. ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Hello, sir. This is a terrible line. It’s Constable Moffat. You wanted someone to go to Deer Lodge.’

  Rebus perked up. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, sir, I’ve just been over there and –’ And there was a noise like an excited geiger counter. Rebus held the receiver away from his ear. When the noise had stopped, the constable was still speaking. ‘I don’t know what more I can tell you, sir.’

  ‘You can tell me the whole bloody lot again for a start,’ Rebus said. ‘The line went supernova for a minute there.’

  Constable Moffat began again, articulating his words as though in conversation with a retard. ‘I was saying, sir, that I went over to Deer Lodge, but there’s no one at home. No car outside. I had a look through the windows. I’d say someone had been there at some time. Looked like there’d been a bit of a party. Wine bottles and glasses and stuff. But there’s no one there at the minute.’

  ‘Did you ask any of the neighbours . . .?’ As he said it, Rebus knew this to be a stupid question. The constable was already laughing.

  ‘There aren’t any neighbours, sir. The nearest would be Mr and Mrs Kennoway, but they’re a mile hike the other side of the hills.’

  ‘I see. And there’s nothing else you can tell me?’

  ‘Not that I can think of. If there was anything in particular . . .? I mean, I know the lodge is owned by that MP, and I saw in the papers . . .’

  ‘No,’ Rebus was quick to say, ‘nothing to do with that.’ He didn’t want more rumours being tossed around like so many cabers at a Highland games. ‘Just wanted a word with Mrs Jack. We thought she might be up there.’

  ‘Aye, she’s up this way occasionally, so I hear.’

  ‘Well, if you hear anything else, let me know, won’t you?’

  ‘Goes without saying, sir.’ Which, Rebus supposed, it did. The constable sounded a bit hurt.

  ‘And thanks for your help,’ Rebus added, but received only a curt ‘Aye’ before the phone went dead.

  ‘Fuck you too, pal,’ he said to himself, before going off in search of Gregor Jack’s home telephone number.

  Of course, there was an almighty chance that the phone would still be unplugged. Still, it was worth a try. The number itself would be on computer, but Rebus reckoned he’d be quicker looking for it in the filing cabinet. And sure enough, he found a sheet of paper headed ‘Parliamentary Constituencies in Edinburgh and Lothians’ on which were given the home addresses and telephone numbers of the area’s eleven MPs. He punched in the ten numbers, waited, and was rewarded with the ringing tone. Not that that meant –

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Mr Urquhart?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Urquhart’s not here right at the moment –’

  But of course by now Rebus recognized the voice. ‘Is that you, Mr Jack? It’s Inspector Rebus here. We met yester –’

  ‘Why yes, hello, Inspector. You’re in luck. We plugged the phone back in this morning, and Ian’s spent all day taking calls. He’s just taken a break. He thought we should unplug the thing again, but I plugged it back in myself when he’d gone. I hate to think I’m completely cut off. My constituents, after all, might need to get –’

  ‘What about Miss Greig?’

  ‘She’s working. Work must go on, Inspector. There’s an office to the back of the house where she does the typing and so on. Helen’s really been a –’

  ‘And Mrs Jack? Any news?’

  Now the flow seemed to have dried up. There was a parched cough. Rebus could visualize a readjustment of facial features, maybe even a scratching of finger, a running of fingers through hair . . .

  ‘Why . . . yes, funny you should mention it. She phoned this morning.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, poor love. Said she’d been trying for hours, but of course the phone was disconnected all day Sunday and busy most of today –’

  ‘She’s at your cottage then?’

  ‘That’s right, yes. Spending a week there. I told her to stay put. No point in her getting dragged into all this rubbish, is there? It’ll soon blow over. My solicitor –’

  ‘We’ve checked Deer Lodge, Mr Jack.’

  Another pause. Then: ‘Oh?’

  ‘She doesn’t seem to be there. No sign of life.’

  There was sweat beneath the collar of Rebus’s shirt. He could blame it on the heating of course. But he knew the heating wasn’t all to blame. Where was this leading? What was he wandering into?

  ‘Oh.’ A statement this time, a deflated sound. ‘I see.’

  ‘Mr Jack, is there anything you’d like to tell me?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, there is, I suppose.’

  Carefully: ‘Would you like me to come over?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just sit tight, all right?’

  No answer.

  ‘All right, Mr Jack?’

  ‘Yes.’

  But Gregor Jack didn’t sound it.

  Of course, Rebus’s car wouldn’t start. The sound it made was more and more like an emphysema patient’s last hacking laugh. Herka-herka-her-ka-ka. Herka-herka-her.

  ‘Having trouble?’ This was yelled from across the car park by Brian Holmes, waving and about to get into his own car. Rebus slammed his car door shut and walked briskly over to where Holmes was just – with a first-time turn of the ignition – starting his Metro.

  ‘Off home?’

  ‘Yes.’ A nod towards Rebus’s doomed car. ‘Doesn’t sound as if you are. Want a lift?’

  ‘As it happens, Brian, yes. And you can come along for the ride if you like.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  Rebus was trying to open the passenger-side door, without success. Holmes hesitated a moment before unlocking it.

  ‘It’s my turn to cook tonight,’ he said. ‘Nell’ll be up to high doh if I’m late . . .’

  Rebus settled into the passenger seat and pulled the seatbelt down across his chest.

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it on the way.’

  ‘The way where?’

  ‘Not far from where you live. You won’t be late, honest. I’ll get a car to bring me back into town. But I’d quite like your attendance.’

  Holmes wasn’t slow; careful – yes, but never slow. ‘You mean the male member,’ he said. ‘What’s he done this time?’

  ‘I shudder to think, Brian. Believe me, I shudder to think.’

  There were no pressmen patrolling the gates, and the gates themselves were unlocked. The car had been put away in the garage, leaving the driveway clear. They left Holmes’ car sitting on the main road outside.

  ‘Quite a place,’ Holmes commented.

  ‘Wait till you see inside. It’s like a film set, Ingmar Bergman or something.’

  Holmes shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘You, coming out here yesterday, barging your way in –’

  ‘Hardly barging, Brian. Now listen, I’m going t
o have a word with Jack. You sniff around, see if anything smells rotten.’

  ‘You mean literally rotten?’

  ‘I’m not expecting to find decomposing bodies in the flower beds, if that’s what you’re thinking. No, just keep your eyes open and your ears keen.’

  ‘And my nose wet?’

  ‘If you haven’t got a handkerchief on you, yes.’

  They separated, Rebus to the front door, Holmes around to the side of the house, towards the garage. Rebus rang the doorbell. It was nearly six. No doubt Helen Greig would be on her way home . . .

  But it was Helen Greig who answered the door.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Come in. Gregor’s in the living room. You know the way.’

  ‘Indeed I do. Keeping you busy, is he?’ He laid a finger on the face of his wristwatch.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said smiling, ‘he’s a real slavemaster.’

  An unkind image came to Rebus then, of Jack in leather gear and Helen Greig on a leash . . . He blinked it away. ‘Does he seem all right?’

  ‘Who? Gregor?’ She gave a quiet laugh. ‘He seems fine, under the circumstances. Why?’

  ‘Just wondering, that’s all.’

  She thought for a moment, seemed about to say something, then remembered her place. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Right, see you later then.’ And off she went, back past the curving staircase, back to her office to the rear of the house. Damn, he hadn’t told Holmes about her. If Holmes peered in through the office window . . . Oh well. If he heard a scream, he’d know what had happened. He opened the living room door.

  Gregor Jack was alone. Alone and listening to his hi-fi. The volume was low, but Rebus recognized the Rolling Stones. It was the album he’d been listening to earlier, Let It Bleed.

  Jack rose from his leather sofa, a glass of whisky in one hand. ‘Inspector, you didn’t take long. You’ve caught me indulging in my secret vice. Well, we all have one secret vice, don’t we?’