by Ian Rankin
‘John, thank Christ.’ Michael was trembling, and seemed to have no colour in him at all. The doctor was holding a hot cup of something, from which he was coaxing Michael to drink.
‘Drink up, Mickey,’ said Rebus. Michael looked pathetic, like the victim of some terrible tragedy. Rebus felt a tremendous sadness overwhelm him. Michael had spent years in jail, where God knows what had happened to him. Then, released, he’d had no luck at all until he’d come to Edinburgh. The bravado, the nights out with the students – Rebus suddenly saw it for what it really was, a front, an attempt to put behind him all that Michael had feared these past few years. And now this had happened, reducing him to the crouched shivering animal in the hut.
‘I’ll be back in a second, Mickey.’ Rebus pulled Hart around the side of the hut. ‘What has he told you?’ He was trying to control the fury inside him.
‘He said he was in your flat, sir, on his own.’
‘When?’
‘This afternoon, about four. There was a ring at the doorbell, so he answered, and three men pushed their way in. The first thing they did was put a cloth bag over his head. Then they held him down and tied him up, took the bag off and taped shut his mouth, then put the bag back.’
‘He didn’t see them?’
‘They kept his face against the hall carpet. He just got the quick glimpse of them when he opened the door.’
‘Go on.’ Rebus was trying not to look up at the rail bridge. Instead, he focused on the flashing red lights on top of the more distant road bridge.
‘They seem to have wrapped something like a carpet around him and taken him downstairs and into a van. It was pretty cramped in there, according to your brother. Narrow, like. He reckoned there were boxes either side of him.’ Hart paused. He didn’t like the look of concentration on the Inspector’s face.
‘Well?’ Rebus snapped.
‘He says they drove around for hours, not saying anything. Then he was lifted out of the van and taken into something like a cellar or a storeroom. They never took the bag off his head, so he can’t be sure.’ Hart paused. ‘I didn’t want to question him too closely, sir, in his present condition.’
Rebus nodded.
‘Anyway, finally they brought him up here. Tied him to the side of the bridge, and lowered him over it. They still hadn’t said anything. But when they started to lower away, they finally took the bag off his head.’
‘Christ.’ Rebus screwed shut his eyes. It brought back the grimmest memories of his own SAS training, the way they’d tried to get him to hand over information. Taking him up in a helicopter with a bag over his head, then threatening to drop him out, and carrying out their threat . . . But only eight feet off the ground, not the hundreds of feet he’d visualised. Horrible, all of it. He pushed past Hart, pulled the doctor out of the way, and bent down to hug Michael, keeping him close against his chest as he heard Michael start to bawl. The crying lasted for many minutes, but Rebus wasn’t about to let go.
And then at last, it was over. Racking dry coughs, the breathing slowing, and a sort of calm. Michael’s face was a mess of tear tracks and mucus. Rebus handed him a handkerchief.
‘The ambulance is waiting,’ the doctor said quietly. Rebus nodded. Michael was obviously in shock; they’d keep him in the Infirmary overnight.
Two patients to visit, thought Rebus. What was more, he suspected similar motives behind the attacks. Very similar motives, if it came down to it. The rage began in him all over again, and his scalp prickled like hell. But he calmed a little as he helped Michael over to the ambulance.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely not,’ said Michael. ‘Just go home, eh?’
Part of the way to the ambulance, Michael’s legs gave way, his knees refusing to lock. They carried him instead, like taking an injured player off the field, closed the door on him, and took him away. Rebus thanked the doctor, the skipper, and Hart.
‘Hellish thing to happen,’ Hart said. ‘Any idea why it did?’
‘A few,’ said Rebus.
He went home to brood in his darkened living room. His whole life seemed shot to hell. Someone had been sending him a message tonight. They’d either decided to send it via Michael, or else they’d simply mistaken Michael for him. After all, people said they looked alike. Since the men had come to Arden Street, they were either working on very old information, or else they knew all about his separation from Patience, which meant they were very well-informed indeed. But Rebus suspected the former. The name on the doorbell still said Rebus, though it also listed on a scrap of paper four other names. That must have confused them for a minute. Yet they’d decided to attack anyway. Why? Did it mean they were desperate? Or was it just that any hostage would do to get the message across?
Message received.
And almost understood. Almost. This was serious, deadly serious. First Brian, now Michael. He had so few doubts that the two were connected. It felt like it was time to do something, not just wait for their next move. He knew what he wanted to do, too. That one phrase had brought it to mind: shot to hell. A part of him wanted to be holding a gun. A gun would even the odds very nicely indeed. He even knew where he could get one, didn’t he? Anything from a shag to a shooter. He found that he’d been pacing the floor in front of the window. He felt caged, unwilling to sleep and unable to act against his invisible foe. But he had to do something . . . so he went for a drive.
He drove to Perth. It didn’t take long on the motorway in the middle of the night. In the city itself, he got lost once or twice (with no one about to ask directions of, not even a policeman) before finding the street he wanted. It was sited on a ridge of land, with houses on the one side only. This was where Patience’s sister lived. Rebus spotted Patience’s car and found a parking space two cars away from it. He turned off his lights and engine and reached into the back seat for the blanket he’d brought, pulling the blanket over as much of him as it would cover. He sat for a while, feeling more relaxed than in ages. He’d thought of bringing some whisky with him, but knew the kind of head it would give him in the morning. And tomorrow he wanted to be clear-headed if nothing else. He thought of Patience asleep in the spare room, just through the wall from Susan. She slept soundly, the moon lighting her forehead and her cheeks. It seemed a long way from Edinburgh, a long way from the shadow of the Forth Rail Bridge. John Rebus drifted into sleep, and slept well for once.
When he awoke, it was six-thirty on Sunday morning. He threw aside the blanket and started the car, turning the heating all the way up. He felt chilled but rested. The street was quiet, except for a man walking his ugly white poodle. The man seemed to find Rebus’s presence there curious. Rebus smiled steadily at him as he shifted the gearstick into first and drove away.
10
He went straight to the Infirmary where, despite the early hour, pre-breakfast tea was being served. Michael was sitting up in bed with the cup on the tray in front of him. He seemed like a statue, staring at the surface of the dark brown liquid, his face blank. He didn’t move as Rebus approached, pulled a chair noisily from a pile beside one wall, and sat down.
‘Hiya, Mickey.’
‘Hello, John.’ Michael continued to stare. Rebus hadn’t seen him blink yet.
‘Going through it again and again, eh?’ Michael didn’t answer. ‘I’ve been there myself, Mickey. Something terrible happens, you play it over in your mind. Eventually it fades. You might not believe that just now.’
‘I’m trying to understand who did it, why they did it.’
‘They wanted you scared, Mickey. I think it was a message for me.’
‘Couldn’t they have written instead? They got me scared all right. I could have shit through a Polo mint.’
Rebus laughed loudly at this. If Michael was getting back a sense of humour, the rest couldn’t be far behind. ‘I brought you this,’ he said.
It was the photograph from Aberdeen. Rebus placed it on the tray beside the untouched
tea.
‘Who are they?’
‘Dad and Uncle Jimmy.’
‘Uncle Jimmy? I don’t remember an Uncle Jimmy.’
‘They fell out a long time ago, never spoke again.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Uncle Jimmy died a few weeks ago. His widow – Auntie Ena – wanted us to have this photo.’
‘Why?’
‘Maybe because we’re blood,’ Rebus said.
Michael smiled. ‘You wouldn’t always know it.’ He looked up at Rebus with wet shining eyes.
‘We’ll know it from now on,’ said Rebus. He nodded towards the cup. ‘Can I have that tea if you’re not drinking it? My tongue feels like a happy hour’s welcome-mat.’
‘Help yourself.’
Rebus drank the tea in two swallows. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘I was doing you a favour, believe me.’
‘I know all about the tea they serve in institutions.’
‘You’re not as daft as you look then.’ Rebus paused. ‘You didn’t see much of them, eh?’
‘Who?’
‘The men who grabbed you.’
‘I saw bodies coming through the door. The first one was about my height, but a lot broader. The others, who knows. I never saw any faces. Sorry.’
‘No problem. Can you tell me anything?’
‘No more than I told the constable last night. What was his name again?’
‘Hart.’
‘That’s it. He thought I’d been bungee-jumping.’ Michael gave a low laugh. ‘I told him, no, I was just hanging around.’
Rebus smiled. ‘But thankfully not at a loose end, eh?’
But Michael had stopped laughing. ‘I had a nightmare about it. They had to give me something to make me sleep. I don’t know what it was, but I still feel doped.’
‘Get them to give you a prescription, you can sell tabs to the students.’
‘They’re good kids, John.’
‘I know.’
‘It’d be a shame if they moved out.’
‘I know that, too.’
‘You remember Gail?’
‘The girl you’ve been seeing?’
‘I’ve seen every inch of her. Strictly past tense now. But she has a boyfriend in Auchterarder. You don’t suppose he’s the jealous type?’
‘I don’t think he’s behind last night.’
‘No? Only, I’ve not been around Edinburgh long enough to make any enemies.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Rebus. ‘I’ve got enemies enough for both of us.’
‘That’s very reassuring. Meanwhile . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘What about getting a spyhole for your door? Just think if one of the lassies had answered.’
Oh, Rebus had thought about it. ‘And a chain,’ he said. ‘I’m getting them this afternoon.’ He paused. ‘Hart said something about the van.’
‘When they pushed me in, it was like I was fitting into a narrow space. Yet I got the feeling the van itself was a decent size.’
‘So it had stuff in the back then?’
‘Maybe. Bloody solid, whatever it was. I bruised both knees.’ Michael shrugged. ‘That’s about it.’ Then he thought of something. ‘Oh yes, and it had a bad smell. Either that or something had died in the carpet they wrapped me in . . .’
They sat talking for another quarter of an hour or so, until Michael closed his eyes and went to sleep. He wouldn’t be asleep for long: they were starting to serve breakfast. Rebus got up and moved the chair back, then placed the photograph on Michael’s bedside cabinet. He had another call to pay, while he was here.
But there were doctors with Brian Holmes, and the nurse didn’t know how long they’d be. She only knew that Brian had woken again in the night for almost a minute. Rebus wished he’d been there: a minute would be long enough for the question he wanted to ask. Brian had also been talking in his sleep, but his words had been mumbled at best, and no one had any record of what he’d said. So Rebus gave up and went off to do some shopping. If he phoned around noon they’d let him know when Michael was likely to be getting home.
He went back to the flat by way of the corner shop, where he bought a week’s worth of groceries. He was finishing breakfast when the first student wandered into the kitchen and drank three glassfuls of water.
‘You’re supposed to do that before you go to bed,’ Rebus advised.
‘Thank you, Sherlock.’ The young man groaned. ‘Got any paracetamol?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Definitely a bad keg of beer last night. I thought the first pint tasted ropey.’
‘Aye, but I’ll bet the second tasted better and the sixth tasted great.’
The student laughed. ‘What’re you eating?’
‘Toast and jam.’
‘No bacon or sausages?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I’ve decided to lay off meat for a while.’
The student seemed unnaturally pleased.
‘There’s orange juice in the fridge,’ Rebus continued. The student opened the fridge door and gave a gasp.
‘There’s enough stuff in here to feed a lecture hall!’
‘Which is why,’ said Rebus, ‘I reckon it’ll do us for at least a day or two.’
The student lifted a letter from the top of the fridge. ‘This came for you yesterday.’
It was from the Inland Revenue. They were thinking of coming to check on the flat.
‘Remember,’ Rebus told the student, ‘anyone asks, you’re my nephews and nieces.’
‘Yes, uncle.’ The student recommenced rummaging in the refrigerator. ‘Where did Mickey and you get to last night?’ he asked. ‘I crept in at two and there was no sign of life.’
‘Oh, we were just . . .’ But Rebus couldn’t find any words. So the student supplied them for him.
‘Shooting the breeze?’
‘Shooting the breeze,’ agreed Rebus.
He drove to a DIY superstore on the edge of the city and bought a chain for the door, a spy-hole, and the tools a helpful assistant suggested would be needed for both jobs. (A lot more tools than Rebus used, as it turned out.) Since there was a supermarket nearby, Rebus did a bit more grocery shopping, by which time the pubs were open for business. He looked in a few places, but couldn’t find who he was looking for. But he was able to put word out with a couple of useful barmen, who said they would pass the message along.
Back at the flat, he called the Infirmary, who told him Michael could come home this afternoon. Rebus arranged to pick him up at four. He then got to work. He drilled the necessary hole in the door, only to find he’d drilled it too high for the girl student, who had to stand on tiptoe even to get close. So he drilled another hole, filled in the first with wood putty, and then fitted the spy-hole. It was a bit askew, but it would work. Fitting the sliding chain was easier, and left him with two tools and a drill-bit unused. He wondered if the DIY store would take them back.
Next he tidied the box room and put Michael’s stuff into the washing machine, after which he shared the macaroni cheese which the students had prepared for lunch. He didn’t quite apologise to them for the past week, but he insisted they use the living room whenever they liked, and he told them also that he was reducing their rent – news they took unsurprisingly well. He didn’t say anything about Michael; he didn’t reckon Michael would want them to know. And he’d already explained away the extra security on the door by citing several recent burglaries in the locality.
He brought Michael and a large bottle of sleeping tablets back from the hospital, having first bribed the students to be out of the flat for the rest of the afternoon and evening. If Michael needed to cry again, he wouldn’t want an audience.
‘Look, our new peephole,’ said Rebus at the door of the flat.
‘That was quick.’
‘Protestant work ethic. Or is it Calvinist guilt? I can never remember.’ Rebus opened the door. ‘Please also note the security chain on the inside.’
‘You can tell it’s a rush job, look where th
e paint’s all scored.’
‘Don’t push your luck, brother.’
Michael sat in the living room while Rebus made two mugs of tea. The stairwell had seemed full of menace for both brothers, each sensing the other’s disquiet. And even now Rebus didn’t feel completely safe. This was not, however, something he wished to share with Michael.
‘Just the way you like it,’ he said, bringing the tea in. He could see Michael was weepy again, though trying to hide it.
‘Thanks, John.’
The phone rang before Rebus could say anything. It was Siobhan Clarke, checking details of the following morning’s surveillance operation.
Rebus assured her that everything was in hand; all she had to do was turn up and freeze her bum off for a few hours.
‘You’re a great one for motivation, sir,’ was her final comment.
‘So,’ Rebus asked Michael, ‘what do you want to do?’
Michael was shaking a large round pill out of the brown bottle. He put it on his tongue with a wavering hand, and washed it down with tea.
‘A quiet night in would suit me fine,’ he said.
‘A quiet night in it is,’ agreed Rebus.
11
Operation Moneybags began quietly enough at eight-thirty on Monday morning, thirty minutes before Davey Dougary’s BMW bumped its way into the pot-holed parking lot of the taxi-cab firm. Alister Flower and his team, of course, wouldn’t be starting work till eleven or a little after, but it was best not to think about that, especially if, like Siobhan Clarke, you were already cold and stiff by opening time, and dreading your next visit to the chemical toilet which had been installed, for want of any other facilities, in a broom closet.
She was bored, too. DC Peter Petrie (from St Leonard’s) and Elsa-Beth Jardine from Trading Standards appeared to be nursing post-weekend hangovers and resultant blues. She got the feeling that Jardine and her might actually have a lot to talk about – both were women fighting for recognition in what was perceived as a male profession – but the presence of Petrie ruled out discussion.