10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  He didn’t have his brother’s moustache and was probably a year or two younger. But he wasn’t smiling, and when he spoke his voice was high-pitched, almost cracking from effort.

  ‘You must be Rebus.’

  They shook hands. Kilpatrick was doing the talking.

  ‘We impounded this lorry two months back, or rather Scotland Yard did. They’ve kindly loaned it to us.’

  Rebus hoisted himself onto the running-plate and peered in the driver’s window. Behind the driving seat had been fixed a nude calendar and a dog-eared centrefold. There was space for a bunk, on which a sleeping bag was rolled up ready for use. The cab was bigger than some of the caravans Rebus had stayed in for holidays. He climbed back down.

  ‘Why?’

  There was a noise from the back of the lorry. Calumn Smylie was opening its container doors. By the time Rebus and Kilpatrick got there, the two Smylies had swung both doors wide and were standing inside the back, just in front of a series of wooden crates.

  ‘We’ve taken a few liberties,’ said Kilpatrick, hoisting himself into the back beside them, Rebus following. ‘The stuff was originally hidden beneath the floor.’

  ‘False fuel tanks,’ explained Ken Smylie. ‘Good ones too, welded and bolted shut.’

  ‘The Yard cut into them from up here.’ Kilpatrick stamped his foot. ‘And inside they found what the tip-off had told them they’d find.’

  Calumn Smylie lifted the lid off a crate so Rebus could look in. Inside, wrapped in oiled cloths, were eighteen or so AK 47 assault rifles. Rebus lifted one of them out by its folded metal butt. He knew how to handle a gun like this, even if he didn’t like doing it. Rifles had gotten lighter since his Army days, but they hadn’t gotten any more comfortable. They’d also gotten a deal more lethal. The wooden hand-grip was as cold as a coffin handle.

  ‘We don’t know exactly where they came from,’ Kilpatrick explained. ‘And we don’t even know where they were headed. The driver wouldn’t say anything, no matter how scary the Anti-Terrorist Branch got with him. He denied all knowledge of the load, and wasn’t about to point a finger anywhere else.’

  Rebus put the gun back in its crate. Calumn Smylie leaned past him to wipe off any fingerprints with a piece of rag.

  ‘So what’s the deal?’ Rebus asked. Calumn Smylie gave the answer.

  ‘When the driver was pulled in, there were some phone numbers in his pocket, two in Glasgow, one in Edinburgh. All three of them were bars.’

  ‘Could mean nothing,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Or everything,’ commented Ken Smylie.

  ‘See,’ Calumn added, ‘could be those bars are his contacts, maybe his employers, or the people his employers are selling to.’

  ‘So,’ said Kilpatrick, leaning against one of the crates, ‘we’ve got men watching all three pubs.’

  ‘In the hope of what?’

  It was Calumn’s turn again. ‘When Special Branch stopped the lorry, they managed to keep it quiet. It’s never been reported, and the driver’s tucked away somewhere under the Prevention of Terrorism Act and a few minor offences.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘So his employers or whoever won’t know what’s happened?’ Calumn was nodding too. ‘And they might get antsy?’ Now Rebus shook his head. ‘You should be a sniper.’

  Calumn frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s the longest shot I’ve ever heard.’

  Neither Smylie seemed thrilled to hear this. ‘I’ve already overheard a conversation mentioning The Shield,’ Calumn said.

  ‘But you’ve no idea what The Shield is,’ Rebus countered. ‘Which pub are we talking about anyway?’

  ‘The Dell.’

  It was Rebus’s turn to frown. ‘Just off the Garibaldi Estate?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘We’ve had some aggro there.’

  ‘Yes, so I hear.’

  Rebus turned to Kilpatrick. ‘Why do you need the lorry?’

  ‘In case we can operate a sting.’

  ‘How long are you going to give it?’

  Calumn shrugged. His eyes were dark and heavy from tension and a lack of sleep. He rubbed a hand through his uncombed hair, then over his unshaven face.

  ‘I can see it’s been like a holiday for you,’ Rebus said. He knew the plan must have been cooked up by the Smylie brothers. They seemed its real defenders. Kilpatrick’s part in it was more uncertain.

  ‘Better than that,’ Calumn was saying.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The holiday I’m having, you don’t need to send postcards.’

  Not many people know of Parliament House, home of the High Court of Justiciary, Scotland’s highest court for criminal cases. There are few signposts or identifying markers outside, and the building itself is hidden behind St Giles, separated from it by a small anonymous car park containing a smattering of Jaguars and BMWs. Of the many doors facing the prospective visitor, only one normally stands open. This is the public entrance, and leads into Parliament Hall, from off which stretch the Signet Library and Advocates Library.

  There were fourteen courts in all, and Rebus guessed he’d been in all of them over the years. He sat on one of the long wooden benches. The lawyers around him were wearing dark pinstripe suits, white shirts with raised collars and white bow ties, grey wigs, and long black cloaks like those his teachers had worn. Mostly the lawyers were talking, either with clients or with each other. If with each other, they might raise their voices, maybe even share a joke. But with clients they were more circumspect. One well-dressed woman was nodding as her advocate talked in an undertone, all the while trying to stop the many files under his arm from wriggling free.

  Rebus knew that beneath the large stained glass window there were two corridors lined with old wooden boxes. Indeed, the first corridor was known as the Box Corridor. Each box was marked with a lawyer’s name, and each had a slat in the top, though the vast majority of boxes were kept open more or less permanently. Here documents awaited collection and perusal. Rebus had wondered at the openness of the system, the opportunities for theft and espionage. But there had never been any reports of theft, and security men were in any case never far away. He got up now and walked over to the stained glass. He knew the King portrayed was supposed to be James V, but wasn’t sure about the rest of it, all the figures or the coats of arms. To his right, through a wooden swing door with glass windows, he could see lawyers poring over books. Etched in gold on the glass were the words PRIVATE ROOM.

  He knew another private room close to here. Indeed, just on the other side of St Giles and down some flights of stairs. Billy Cunningham had been murdered not fifty yards from the High Court.

  He turned at the sound of heels clicking towards him. Caroline Rattray was dressed for work, from black shoes and stockings to powder-grey wig.

  ‘I wouldn’t have recognised you,’ he said.

  ‘Should I take that as a compliment?’ She gave him a big smile, and held it as she held his gaze. Then she touched his arm. ‘I see you’ve noticed.’ She looked up at the stained glass. ‘The royal arms of Scotland.’ Rebus looked up too. Beneath the large picture there were five smaller square windows, each showing a coat of arms. Caroline Rattray’s eyes were on the central panel. Two unicorns held the shield of the red Lion Rampant. Above on a scroll were the words IN DEFENCE, and at the bottom a Latin inscription. Rebus read it.

  ‘Nemo me impune lacessit.’ He turned to her. ‘Never my best subject.’

  ‘You might know it better as “Wha daur meddle wi’ me?”. It’s the motto of Scotland, or rather, the motto of Scotland’s kings.’

  ‘A while since we’ve had any of them.’

  ‘And of the Order of the Thistle. Sort of makes you the monarch’s private soldier, except they only give it to crusty old sods. Sit down.’ She led them back to the bench Rebus had been sitting on. She had files with her, which she placed on the floor rather than the bench, though there was space. Then she gave him her full attention. Rebus didn’t
say anything, so she smiled again, tipping her head slightly to one side. ‘Don’t you see?’

  ‘Nemo,’ he guessed.

  ‘Yes! Latin for nobody.’

  ‘We already know that, Miss Rattray. Also a character in Jules Verne and in Dickens, plus the letters make the word “omen” backwards.’ He paused. ‘We’ve been working, you see. But does it get us any further forward? I mean, was the victim trying to tell us that no one killed him?’

  She seemed to puncture, her shoulders sagging. It was like watching an old balloon die after Christmas.

  ‘It could be something,’ he offered. ‘But it’s hard to know what.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You could have told me about it on the phone.’

  ‘Yes, I could.’ She straightened her back. ‘But I wanted you to see for yourself.’

  ‘You think the Order of the Thistle ganged up and murdered Billy Cunningham?’ Her eyes were holding his again, no smile on her lips. He broke free, staring past her at the stained glass. ‘How’s the prosecution game?’

  ‘It’s a slow day,’ she said. ‘I hear the victim’s father is a convicted murderer. Is there a connection?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘No concrete motive yet?’

  ‘No motive.’ The longer Rebus looked at the royal arms, the more his focus was drawn to its central figure. It was definitely a shield. ‘The Shield,’ he said to himself.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s just . . .’ He turned back to her. She was looking eager about something, and hopeful too. ‘Miss Rattray,’ he said, ‘did you bring me here to chat me up?’

  She looked horrified, her face reddening; not just her cheeks, but forehead and chin too, even her neck coloured. ‘Inspector Rebus,’ she said at last.

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’ He bowed his head and raised his hands. ‘Sorry I said that.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know . . .’ She looked around. ‘It’s not every day I’m accused of being . . . well, whatever. I think I need a drink.’ Then, reverting to her normal voice: ‘I think you’d better buy me one, don’t you?’

  They crossed the High Street, dodging the leafleters and mime artists and clowns on stilts, and threaded their way through a dark close and down some worn stone steps into Caro Rattray’s preferred bar.

  ‘I hate this time of year,’ she said. ‘It’s such a hassle getting to and from work. And as for parking in town . . .’

  ‘It’s a hard life, all right.’

  She went to a table while Rebus stood at the bar. She had taken a couple of minutes to change out of her gown and wig, had brushed her hair out, though the sombre clothes that remained – the accent on black with touches of white – still marked her out as a lawyer in this lawyer’s howff.

  The place had one of the lowest ceilings of any pub Rebus had ever been in. When he considered, he thought they must be almost directly above some of the shops which led off Mary King’s Close. The thought made him change his order.

  ‘Make that whisky a double.’ But he added plenty of water.

  Caroline Rattray had ordered lemonade with lots of ice and lemon. As Rebus placed her drink on the table, he laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  He shook his head. ‘Advocate and lemonade, that makes a snowball.’ He didn’t have to explain to her. She managed a weary smile. ‘Heard it before, eh?’ he said, sitting beside her.

  ‘And every person who says it thinks they’ve just invented it. Cheers.’

  ‘Aye, slainte.’

  ‘Slainte. Do you speak Gaelic?’

  ‘Just a couple of words.’

  ‘I learnt it a few years ago, I’ve already forgotten most of it.’

  ‘Ach, it’s not much use anyway, is it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t mind if it died out?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I thought you just did.’

  Rebus gulped at his drink. ‘Never argue with a lawyer.’

  Another smile. She lit a cigarette, Rebus declining.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, ‘you still see Mary King’s Close in your head at night?’

  She nodded slowly. ‘And during the day. I can’t seem to erase it.’

  ‘So don’t try. Just file it away, that’s all you can do. Admit it to yourself, it happened, you were there, then file it away. You won’t forget, but you won’t harp on it either.’

  ‘Police psychology?’

  ‘Common sense, hard learnt. That’s why you were so excited about the Latin inscription?’

  ‘Yes, I thought I was . . . involved.’

  ‘You’ll be involved if we ever catch the buggers. It’ll be your job to put them away.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Until then, leave it to us.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  ‘I’m sorry though, sorry you had to see it. Typical of Curt, dragging you down there. There was no need to. Are you and him . . .?’

  Her whoop filled the bar. ‘You don’t think . . .? We’re just acquaintances. He had a spare ticket, I was on hand. Christ almighty, you think I could . . . with a pathologist?’

  ‘They’re human, despite rumours to the contrary.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s twenty years older than me.’

  ‘That’s not always a consideration.’

  ‘The thought of those hands on me . . .’ She shivered, sipped her drink. ‘What did you say back there about a shield?’

  He shook his head. He saw a shield in his mind, and you never got a shield without a sword. With sword and shield, that was a line from an Orange song. He slapped the table with his fist, so hard that Caroline Rattray looked frightened.

  ‘Was it something I said?’

  ‘Caroline, you’re brilliant. I’ve got to go.’ He got up and walked past the bar, then stopped and came back, taking her hand in his, holding it. ‘I’ll phone you,’ he promised. Then: ‘If you like.’

  He waited till she’d nodded, then turned again and left. She finished her lemonade, smoked another cigarette, and stubbed it into the ashtray. His hand had been hot, not like a pathologist’s at all. The barman came to empty her ashtray into a pail and wipe the table.

  ‘Out hunting again I see,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You know too much about me, Dougie.’

  ‘I know too much about everyone, hen,’ said Dougie, picking up both glasses and taking them to the bar.

  Several months back, Rebus had been talking to an acquaintance of his called Matthew Vanderhyde. Their conversation had concerned another case, one involving, as it turned out, Big Ger Cafferty, and apropos of very little Vanderhyde, blind for many years and with a reputation as a white witch, had mentioned a splinter group of the Scottish National Party. The splinter group had been called Sword and Shield, and they’d existed in the late 1950s and early 1960s.

  But as a phone call to Vanderhyde revealed, Sword and Shield had ceased to exist around the same time the Rolling Stones were putting out their first album. And at no time, anyway, had they been known as SaS.

  ‘I do believe,’ Vanderhyde said, and Rebus could see him in his darkened living room, its curtains shut, slumped in an armchair with his portable phone, ‘there exists in the United States an organisation called Sword and Shield, or even Scottish Sword and Shield, but I don’t know anything about them. I don’t think they’re connected to the Scottish Rites Temple, which is a sort of North American Freemasons, but I’m a bit vague.’

  Rebus was busy writing it all down. ‘No you’re not,’ he said, ‘you’re a bloody encyclopaedia.’ That was the problem with Vanderhyde: he seldom gave you just the one answer, leaving you more confused than before you’d asked your question.

  ‘Is there anything I can read about Sword and Shield?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘You mean histories? I wouldn’t know, I shouldn’t think they’d bother to issue any as braille editions or talking books.’

  ‘I suppose not, but there must have been something left when the organis
ation was wound up, papers, documents . . .?’

  ‘Perhaps a local historian might know. Would you like me to do some sleuthing, Inspector?’

  ‘I’d appreciate it,’ said Rebus. ‘Would Big Ger Cafferty have had anything to do with the group?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Nothing, forget I said it.’ He terminated the call with promises of a visit, then scratched his nose, wondering who to take all this to: Kilpatrick or Lauderdale? He’d been seconded to SCS, but Lauderdale was in charge of the murder inquiry. He asked himself a question: would Lauderdale protect me from Kilpatrick? The answer was no. Then he changed the names around. The answer this time was yes. So he took what he had to Kilpatrick.

  And then had to admit that it wasn’t much.

  Kilpatrick had brought Smylie into the office to join them. Sometimes Rebus wasn’t sure who was in charge. Calumn Smylie would be back undercover, maybe drinking in The Dell.

  ‘So,’ said Kilpatrick, ‘summing up, John, we’ve got the word Nemo, we’ve got a Latin phrase –’

  ‘Much quoted by nationalists,’ Smylie added, ‘at least in its Scots form.’

  ‘And we’ve got a shield on this coat of arms, all of which reminds you of a group called Sword and Shield who were wound up in the early ’60s. You think they’ve sprung up again?’

  Rebus visualised a spring suddenly appearing through the worn covering of an old mattress. He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘And then this source of yours mentions an organisation in the USA called Sword and Shield.’

  ‘Sir, all I know is, SaS must stand for something. Calumn Smylie’s been hearing about an outfit called The Shield who might be in the market for arms. There’s also a shield on the Scottish royal arms, as well as a phrase with the word Nemo. I know these are all pretty weak links, but all the same . . .’

  Kilpatrick looked to Smylie, who gave a look indicating he was on Rebus’s side.

  ‘Maybe,’ Smylie said in proof, ‘we could ask our friends in the States to check for us. They’d be doing the work, there’s nothing to lose, and with the back-up they’ve got they could probably give us an answer in a few days. As I say, we haven’t lost anything.’