10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  He leaned forward, as if to impart a secret. ‘Let me give you Caroline Rattray’s phone number.’

  ‘Bugger off,’ said Rebus.

  That evening, a marked patrol car picked him up from Patience’s Oxford Terrace flat. The driver was a Detective Constable called Robert Burns, and Burns was doing Rebus a favour.

  ‘I appreciate it,’ said Rebus.

  Though Burns was attached to C Division in the west end, he’d been born and raised in Pilmuir, and still had friends and enemies there. He was a known quantity in the Gar-B, which was what mattered to Rebus.

  ‘I was born in one of the pre-fabs,’ Burns explained. ‘Before they levelled them to make way for the high-rises. The high-rises were supposed to more “civilised”, if you can believe that. Bloody architects and town planners. You never find one admitting he made a mistake, do you?’ He smiled. ‘They’re a bit like us that way.’

  ‘By “us” do you mean the police or the Wee Frees?’ Burns was more than just a member of the Free Church of Scotland. On Sunday afternoons he took his religion to the foot of The Mound, where he spouted hellfire and brimstone to anyone who’d listen. Rebus had listened a few times. But Burns took a break during the Festival. As he’d pointed out, even his voice would be fighting a losing battle against steel bands and untuned guitars.

  They were turning into the Gar-B, passing the gable end again with its sinister greeting.

  ‘Drop me as close as you can, eh?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Burns. And when they came to the dead end near the garages, he slowed only fractionally as he bumped the car up first onto the pavement and then onto the grass. ‘It’s not my car,’ he explained.

  They drove beside the path past the garages and a high-rise, until there was nowhere else to go. When Burns stopped, the car was resting about twelve feet from the community centre.

  ‘I can walk from here,’ said Rebus.

  Kids who’d been lying on the centre’s roof were standing now, watching them, cigarettes hanging from open mouths. People watched from the path and from open windows, too. Burns turned to Rebus.

  ‘Don’t tell me you wanted to sneak up on them?’

  ‘This is just fine.’ He opened his door. ‘Stay with the car. I don’t want us losing any tyres.’

  Rebus walked towards the community centre’s wide open doors. The teenagers on the roof watched him with practised hostility. There were paper planes lying all around, some of them made airborne again temporarily by a gust of wind. As Rebus walked into the building, he heard grunting noises above him. His rooftop audience were pretending to be pigs.

  There was no preliminary chamber, just the hall itself. At one end stood a high basketball hoop. Some teenagers were in a ruck around the grounded ball, feet scraping at ankles, hands pulling at arms and hair. So much for non-contact sports. On a makeshift stage sat a ghetto blaster, blaring out the fashion in heavy metal. Rebus didn’t reckon he’d score many points by announcing that he’d been in at the birth. Most of these kids had been born after Anarchy in the UK, never mind Communication Breakdown.

  There was a mix of ages, and it was impossible to pick out Peter Cave. He could be nodding his head to the distorted electric guitar. He could be smoking by the wall. Or in with the basketball brigade. But no, he was coming towards Rebus from the other direction, from a tight group which included black t-shirt from Rebus’s first visit.

  ‘Can I help?’

  Father Leary had said he was in his mid-twenties, but he could pass for late-teens. The clothes helped, and he wore them well. Rebus had seen church people before when they wore denim. They usually looked as if they’d be more comfortable in something less comfortable. But Cave, in faded denim jeans and denim shirt, with half a dozen thin leather and metal bracelets around his wrists, he looked all right.

  ‘Not many girls,’ Rebus stated, playing for a little more time.

  Peter Cave looked around. ‘Not just now. Usually there are more than this, but on a nice night . . .’

  It was a nice night. He’d left Patience drinking cold rose wine in the garden. He had left her reluctantly. He got no initial bad feelings from Cave. The young man was fresh-faced and clear-eyed and looked level headed too. His hair was long but by no means untidy, and his face was square and honest with a deep cleft in the chin.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Cave said, ‘I’m Peter Cave. I run the youth club.’ His hand shot out, bracelets sliding down his wrist. Rebus took the hand and smiled. Cave wanted to know who he was, a not unreasonable request.

  ‘Detective Inspector Rebus.’

  Cave nodded. ‘Davey said a policeman had been round earlier. I thought probably he meant uniformed. What’s the trouble, Inspector?’

  ‘No trouble, Mr Cave.’

  A circle of frowning onlookers had formed itself around the two of them. Rebus wasn’t worried, not yet.

  ‘Call me Peter.’

  ‘Mr Cave,’ Rebus licked his lips, ‘how are things going here?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A simple question, sir. Only, crime in Pilmuir hasn’t exactly dropped since you started this place up.’

  Cave bristled at that. ‘There haven’t been any gang fights.’

  Rebus accepted this. ‘But housebreaking, assaults . . . there are still syringes in the playpark and aerosols lying –’

  ‘Aerosols to you too.’

  Rebus turned to see who had entered. It was the boy with the naked chest and denim jacket.

  ‘Hello, Davey,’ said Rebus. The ring had broken long enough to let denim jacket through.

  The youth pointed a finger. ‘I thought I said you didn’t want to know my name?’

  ‘I can’t help it if people tell me things, Davey.’

  ‘Davey Soutar,’ Burns added. He was standing in the doorway, arms folded, looking like he was enjoying himself. He wasn’t of course, it was just a necessary pose.

  ‘Davey Soutar,’ Rebus echoed.

  Soutar had clenched his fists. Peter Cave attempted to intercede. ‘Now, please. Is there a problem here, Inspector?’

  ‘You tell me, Mr Cave.’ He looked around him. ‘Frankly, we’re a little bit concerned about this gang hut.’

  Colour flooded Cave’s cheeks. ‘It’s a youth centre.’

  Rebus was now studying the ceiling. Nobody was playing basketball any more. The music had been turned right down. ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘Look, you come barging in here –’

  ‘I don’t recall barging, Mr Cave. More of a saunter. I didn’t ask for trouble. If Davey here can be persuaded to unclench his fists, maybe you and me can have a quiet chat outside.’ He looked at the circle around them. ‘I’m not one for playing to the cheap seats.’

  Cave stared at Rebus, then at Soutar. He nodded slowly, his face drained of anger, and eventually Soutar let his hands relax. You could tell it was an effort. Burns hadn’t put in an appearance for nothing.

  ‘There now,’ said Rebus. ‘Come on, Mr Cave, let’s you and me go for a walk.’

  They walked across the playing fields. Burns had returned to the patrol car and moved it to a spot where he could watch them. Some teenagers watched from the back of the community centre and from its roof, but they didn’t venture any closer than that.

  ‘I really don’t see, Inspector –’

  ‘You think you’re doing a good job here, sir?’

  Cave thought about it before answering. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘You think the experiment is a success?’

  ‘A limited success so far, but yes, once again.’ He had his hands behind his back, head bowed a little. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  ‘No regrets?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Funny then . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your church doesn’t seem so sure.’

  Cave stopped in his tracks. ‘Is that what this is about? You’re in Conor’s congregation, is that it? He’s sent you here to . . . what’s
the phrase? Come down heavy on me?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘He’s paranoid. He was the one who wanted me here. Now suddenly he’s decided I should leave, ipso facto I must leave. He’s used to getting his way after all. Well, I don’t choose to leave. I like it fine here. Is that what he’s afraid of? Well there’s not much he can do about it, is there? And as far as I can see, Inspector, there’s nothing you can do about it either, unless someone from the club is found breaking the law.’ Cave’s face had reddened, his hands coming from behind his back so he could gesture with them.

  ‘That lot break the law every day.’

  ‘Now just a –’

  ‘No, listen for a minute. Okay, you got the Jaffas and the Tims together, but ask yourself why they were amenable. If they’re not divided, they’re united, and they’re united for a reason. They’re the same as before, only stronger. You must see that.’

  ‘I see nothing of the sort. People can change, Inspector.’

  Rebus had been hearing the line all his professional life. He sighed and toed the ground.

  ‘You don’t believe that?’

  ‘Frankly, sir, not in this particular case, and the crime stats back me up. What you’ve got just now is a truce of sorts, and it suits them because while there’s a truce they can get busy carving up territory between them. Anyone threatens them, they can retaliate in spades . . . or even with spades. But it won’t last, and when they split back into their separate gangs, there’s going to be blood spilled, no way round it. Because now there’ll be more at stake. Tell me, in your club tonight, how many Catholics were there?’

  Cave didn’t answer, he was too busy shaking his head. ‘I feel sorry for you, really I do. I can smell cynicism off you like sulphur. I don’t happen to believe anything you’ve just said.’

  ‘Then you’re every bit as naive as I am cynical, and that means they’re just using you. Which is good, because the only way of looking at this is that you’ve been sucked into it and you accept it, knowing the truth.’

  Cave’s cheeks were red again. ‘How dare you say that!’ And he punched Rebus in the stomach, hard. Rebus had been punched by professionals, but he was unprepared and felt himself double over for a moment, getting his wind back. There was a burning feeling in his gut, and it wasn’t whisky. He could hear cheering in the distance. Tiny figures were dancing up and down on the community centre roof. Rebus hoped they’d fall through it. He straightened up again.

  ‘Is that what you call setting a good example, Mr Cave?’

  Then he punched Cave solidly on the jaw. The young man stumbled backwards and almost fell.

  He heard a double roar from the community centre. The youth of the Gar-B were clambering down from the roof, starting to run in his direction. Burns had started the car and was bumping it across the football pitch towards him. The car was outpacing the crowd, but only just. An empty can bounced off its rear windscreen. Burns barely braked as he caught up with Rebus. Rebus yanked the door open and got in, grazing a knee and an elbow. Then they were off again, making for the roadway.

  ‘Well,’ Burns commented, checking the rearview, ‘that seemed to go off okay.’ Rebus was catching his breath and examining his elbow.

  ‘How did you know Davey Soutar’s name?’

  ‘He’s a maniac,’ Burns said simply. ‘I try to keep abreast of these things.’

  Rebus exhaled loudly, rolling his sleeve back down. ‘Never do a favour for a priest,’ he said to himself.

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind, sir,’ said Burns.

  7

  Rebus walked into the Murder Room next morning with a cup of delicatessen decaf and a tuna sandwich on wholemeal. He sat at his desk and peeled off the top from the styrofoam cup. From the corner of his eye he could see the fresh mound of paperwork which had appeared on his desk since yesterday. But he could ignore it for another five minutes.

  The victim’s fingerprints had been matched with those taken from items in Billy Cunningham’s room. So now they had a name for the body, but precious little else. Murdock and Millie had been interviewed, and the Post Office were looking up their personnel flies. Today, Billy’s room would be searched again. They still didn’t know who he was really. They still didn’t know anything about where he came from or who his parents were. There was so much they didn’t know.

  In a murder investigation, Rebus had found, you didn’t always need to know everything.

  Chief Inspector Lauderdale was standing behind him. Rebus knew this because Lauderdale brought a smell with him. Not everyone could distinguish it, but Rebus could. It was as if talcum powder had been used in a bathroom to cover some less acceptable aroma. Then there was a click and the buzz of Lauderdale’s battery-shaver. Rebus straightened at the sound.

  ‘Chief wants to see you,’ Lauderdale said. ‘Breakfast can wait.’

  Rebus stared at his sandwich.

  ‘I said it can wait.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘I’ll bring you back a mug of coffee, shall I, sir?’

  He took his own coffee with him, sipping it as he listened for a moment at Farmer Watson’s door. There were voices inside, one of them more nasal than the other. Rebus knocked and entered. DCI Kilpatrick was sitting across the desk from the Farmer.

  ‘Morning, John,’ said the Chief Super. ‘Coffee?’

  Rebus raised his cup. ‘Got some, sir.’

  ‘Well, sit down.’

  He sat next to Kilpatrick. ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning, John.’ Kilpatrick was nursing a mug, but he wasn’t drinking. The Farmer meantime was pouring himself a refill from his personal machine.

  ‘Right, John,’ he said at last, sitting down. ‘Bottom line, you’re being seconded to DCI Kilpatrick’s section.’ Watson took a gulp of coffee, swilling it around his mouth. Rebus looked to Kilpatrick, who obliged with a confirmation.

  ‘You’ll be based with us at Fettes, but you’re going to be our eyes and ears on this murder inquiry, liaison if you like, so you’ll still spend most of your time here at St Leonard’s.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Well, Inspector, this case might concern the Crime Squad.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but why me in particular?’

  ‘You’ve been in the Army. I notice you served in Ulster in the late ’60s.’

  ‘That was quarter of a century ago,’ Rebus protested. An age spent forgetting all about it.

  ‘Nevertheless, you’ll agree there seem to be paramilitary aspects to this case. As you commented, the gun is not your everyday hold-up weapon. It’s a type of revolver used by terrorists. A lot of guns have been coming into the UK recently. Maybe this murder will connect us to them.’

  ‘Wait a second, you’re saying you’re not interested in the shooting, you’re interested in the gun?’

  ‘I think it will become clearer when I show you our operation at Fettes. I’ll be through here in –’ he looked at his watch ‘– say twenty minutes. That should give you time to say goodbye to your loved ones.’ He smiled.

  Rebus nodded. He hadn’t touched his coffee. A cooling scum had formed on its surface. ‘All right, sir,’ he said, getting to his feet.

  He was still a little dazed when he got back to the Murder Room. Two detectives were being told a joke by a third. The joke was about a squid with no money, a restaurant bill, and the guy from the kitchen who washed up. The guy from the kitchen was called Hans.

  Rebus was joining the SCS, the Bastard Brigade as some called it. He sat at his desk. It took him a minute to work out that something was missing.

  ‘Which bollocks of you’s eaten my sandwich?’

  As he looked around the room, he saw that the joke had come to an untimely end. But no one was paying attention to him. A message was being passed through the place, changing the mood. Lauderdale came over to Rebus’s desk. He was holding a sheet of fax paper.

  ‘What is it?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Glasgow have tracked down Billy Cunningham’s mother.’
>
  ‘Good. Is she coming here?’

  Lauderdale nodded distractedly. ‘She’ll be here for the formal ID.’

  ‘No father?’

  ‘The father and mother split up a long time ago. Billy was still an infant. She told us his name though.’ He handed over the fax sheet. ‘It’s Morris Cafferty.’

  ‘What?’ Rebus’s hunger left him.

  ‘Morris Gerald Cafferty.’

  Rebus read the fax sheet. ‘Say it ain’t so. It’s just Glasgow having a joke.’ But Lauderdale was shaking his head.

  ‘No joke,’ he said.

  Big Ger Cafferty was in prison, had been for several months, would be for many years to come. He was a dangerous man, runner of protection rackets, extortioner, murderer. They’d pinned only two counts of murder on him, but there had been others, Rebus knew there had been others.

  ‘You think someone was sending him a message?’ he asked.

  Lauderdale shrugged. ‘This changes the case slightly, certainly. According to Mrs Cunningham, Cafferty kept tabs on Billy all the time he was growing up, made sure he didn’t want for anything. She still gets money from time to time.’

  ‘But did Billy know who his father was?’

  ‘Not according to Mrs Cunningham.’

  ‘Then would anyone else have known?’

  Lauderdale shrugged again. ‘I wonder who’ll tell Cafferty.’

  ‘They better do it by phone. I wouldn’t want to be in the same room with him.’

  ‘Lucky my good suit’s in my locker,’ said Lauderdale. ‘There’ll have to be another press conference.’

  ‘Best tell the Chief Super first though, eh?’

  Lauderdale’s eyes cleared. ‘Of course.’ He lifted Rebus’s receiver to make the call. ‘What did he want with you, by the way?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ said Rebus. He meant it too, now.

  ‘But maybe this changes things,’ he persisted to Kilpatrick in the car. They were seated in the back, a driver taking them the slow route to Fettes. He was sticking to the main roads, instead of the alleys and shortcuts and fast stretches unpoliced by traffic lights that Rebus would have used.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Kilpatrick. ‘We’ll see.’