10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘I won’t be a minute,’ said Gowrie. When he’d left the room, Rebus turned to her.

  ‘Don’t piss him off!’ he hissed. ‘Just keep your gob shut and your ears open.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Have you noticed?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s nothing green in this room, nothing at all.’

  He nodded again. ‘The inventor of red, white and blue grass will make a fortune.’

  Gowrie came back into the room. He took a look at the two of them on the sofa, then smiled to himself and handed Rebus a crystal tumbler.

  ‘I won’t offend you by offering water or lemonade with that.’

  Rebus sniffed the amber liquid. It was a West Highland malt, darker, more aromatic than the Speysides. Gowrie held his own glass up.

  ‘Slainte.’ He took a sip, then sat in a dark blue armchair. ‘Well now,’ he said, ‘how exactly can I help you?’

  ‘Well, sir –’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with us, you know. We’ve told the Chief Constable that. They’re an offshoot of the Grand Lodge, less than that even, now that we’ve disbarred them.’

  Rebus suddenly knew what Gowrie was talking about. There was to be a march along Princes Street on Saturday, organised by the Orange Loyal Brigade. He’d heard about it weeks ago, when the very idea had provoked attacks from republican sympathisers and anti-right wing associations. There were expected to be confrontations during the march.

  ‘When did you disbar the group exactly, sir?’

  ‘April 14th. That was the day we had the disciplinary hearing. They belonged to one of our district lodges, and at a dinner-dance they’d sent collecting tins round for the LPWA.’ He turned to Siobhan Clarke. ‘That’s the Loyalist Prisoners’ Welfare Association.’ Then back to Rebus. ‘We can’t have that sort of thing, Inspector. We’ve denounced it in the past. We’ll have no truck with the paramilitaries.’

  ‘And the disbarred members set up the Orange Loyal Brigade?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Rebus was feeling his way. ‘How many do you think will be on the march?’

  ‘Ach, a couple of hundred at most, and that’s including the bands. I think they’ve got bands coming from Glasgow and Liverpool.’

  ‘You think there’ll be trouble?’

  ‘Don’t you? Isn’t that why you’re here?’

  ‘Who’s the Brigade’s leader?’

  ‘Gavin MacMurray. But don’t you know all this already? Your Chief Constable asked if I could intervene. But I told him, they’re nothing to do with the Orange Lodge, nothing at all.’

  ‘Do they have connections with the other right-wing groups?’

  ‘You mean with fascists?’ Gowrie shrugged. ‘They deny it, of course, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see a few skinheads on the march, even ones with Sassenach accents.’

  Rebus left a pause before asking, ‘Do you know if there’s any link-up between the Orange Brigade and The Shield?’

  Gowrie frowned. ‘What shield?’

  ‘Sword and Shield. It’s another splinter group, isn’t it?’

  Gowrie shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Never.’

  Rebus placed his whisky glass on a table next to the sofa. ‘I just assumed you’d know something about it.’ He got to his feet, followed by Clarke. ‘Sorry to have bothered you, sir.’ Rebus held out his hand.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘That’s all, sir, thanks for your help.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Gowrie was clearly troubled. ‘Shield . . . no, means nothing to me.’

  ‘Then don’t worry about it, sir. Have a good evening now.’

  At the front door, Clarke turned and smiled at Gowrie. ‘We’ll let you get back to your wee numbers. Goodbye, sir.’

  They heard the door close behind them with a solid click as they walked back down the short gravel path to the driveway.

  ‘I’ve only got one question, sir: what was all that about?’

  ‘We’re dealing with lunatics, Clarke, and Gowrie isn’t a lunatic. A zealot maybe, but not a madman. Tell me, what do you call a haircut in an asylum?’

  By now Clarke knew the way her boss’s mind worked. ‘A lunatic fringe?’ she guessed.

  ‘That’s who I want to talk to.’

  ‘You mean the Orange Loyal Brigade?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘And every one of them will be taking a stroll along Princes Street on Saturday.’ He smiled without humour. ‘I’ve always enjoyed a parade.’

  16

  Saturday was hot and clear, with a slight cooling breeze, just enough to make the day bearable. Shoppers were out on Princes Street in numbers, and the lawns of Princes Street Gardens were as packed as a seaside beach, every bench in full use, a carousel attracting the children. The atmosphere was festive if frayed, with the kids squealing and tiring as their ice-cream cones melted and dropped to the ground, turning instantly into food for the squirrels, pigeons, and panting dogs.

  The parade was due to set off from Regent Road at three o’clock, and by two-fifteen the pubs behind Princes Street were emptying their cargo of brolly-toting white-gloved elders, bowler hats fixed onto their sweating heads, faces splotched from alcohol. There was a show of regalia, and a few large banners were being unfurled. Rebus couldn’t remember what you called the guy at the front of the march, the one who threw up and caught the heavy ornamental staff. He’d probably known in his youth. The flute players were practising, and the snare drummers adjusted their straps and drank from cans of beer.

  People outside the Post Office on Waterloo Place could hear the flutes and drums, and peered along towards Regent Road. That the march was to set off from outside the old Royal High School, mothballed site for a devolved Scottish parliament, added a certain something to the affair.

  Rebus had been in a couple of the bars, taking a look at the Brigade members and supporters. They were a varied crew, taking in a few Doc Marten-wearing skinheads (just as Gowrie had predicted) as well as the bowler hats. There were also the dark suit/white shirt/dark tie types, their shoes as polished as their faces. Most of them were drinking like fury, though they didn’t seem completely mortal yet. Empty cans were being kicked along Regent Road, or trodden on and left by the edges of the pavement. Rebus wasn’t sure why these occasions always carried with them the air of threat, of barely suppressed violence, even before they started. Extra police had been drafted in, and were readying to stop traffic from coming down onto Princes Street. Metal-grilled barriers waited by the side of the road, as did the small groups of protesters, and the smaller group of protesters who were protesting against the protesters. Rebus wondered, not for the first time, which maniac on the Council had pushed through the okay for the parade.

  The marching season of course had finished, the main parades being on and around the 12th of July, date of the Battle of the Boyne. Even then the biggest marches were in Glasgow. What was the point of this present parade? To stir things up, of course, to make a noise. To be noticed. The big drum, the lambeg, was being hammered now. There was competition from a few bagpipe buskers near Waverley Station, but they’d be silenced by the time the parade reached them.

  Rebus wandered freely among the marchers as they drank and joked with each other and adjusted their uniforms. A Union Jack was unfurled, then ordered to be rolled up again, bearing as it did the initials of the British National Party. There didn’t seem to be any collecting tins or buckets, the police having pressed for a quick march with as little interaction with the public as possible. Rebus knew this because he’d asked Farmer Watson, and the Farmer had confirmed that it would be so.

  ‘Here’s tae King Billy!’ A can was raised. ‘God bless the Queen and King William of Orange!’

  ‘Well said, son.’

  The bowler hats said little, standing with the tips of their umbrellas touching the ground, hands resting lightly on the curved wooden handles. It was easy to dismiss these unsmiling men too lightly. But God
help you if you started an argument with one of them.

  ‘Why dae yis hate Catholics?’ a pedestrian yelled.

  ‘We don’t!’ somebody yelled back, but she was already bustling away with her shopping bags. There were smiles, but she’d made her point. Rebus watched her go.

  ‘Hey, Gavin, how long now?’

  ‘Five minutes, just relax.’

  Rebus looked towards the man who had just spoken, the man who was probably called Gavin MacMurray and therefore in charge. He seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Rebus had read the file on Gavin MacMurray: two arrests for breach of the peace and actual bodily harm, but a lot more information to his name than that. Rebus knew his age (38), that he was married and lived in Currie, and that he ran his own garage. He knew Inland Revenue had no complaints against him, that he drove a red Mercedes Benz (though he made his money from more prosaic Fords, Renaults and the like), and that his teenage son had been in trouble for fighting, with two arrests after pitched battles outside Rangers matches and one arrest after an incident on the train home from Glasgow.

  So Rebus assumed the teenager standing close beside Gavin MacMurray must be the son, Jamesie. Jamesie had pretensions of all obvious kinds. He wore sunglasses and a tough look, seeing himself as his father’s lieutenant. His legs were apart, shoulders back. Rebus had never seen anyone itching so badly for action of some kind. He had his father’s low square jaw, the same black hair cut short at the front. But while Gavin MacMurray was dressed in chainstore anonymity, Jamesie wanted people to look at him. Biker boots, tight black jeans, white t-shirt and black leather jacket. He wore a red bandana around his right wrist, a studded leather strap around the left. His hair, long and curling at the back, had been shaved above both ears.

  Turning from son to father was like turning from overt to covert strength. Rebus knew which he’d rather tackle. Gavin MacMurray was chewing gum with his front teeth, his head and eyes constantly in movement, checking things, keeping things in check. He kept his hands in his windcheater pockets, and wore silver-framed spectacles which magnified his eyes. There seemed little charisma about him, little of the rouser or orator. He looked chillingly ordinary.

  Because he was ordinary, they all were, all these semi-inebriated working men and retired men, quiet family types who might belong to the British Legion or their local Ex-Servicemen’s Club, who might inhabit the bowling green on summer evenings and go with their families on holiday to Spain or Florida or Largs. It was only when you saw them in groups like this that you caught a whiff of something else. Alone, they had nothing but a nagging complaint; together, they had a voice: the sound of the lambeg, dense as a heartbeat; the insistent flutes; the march. They always fascinated Rebus. He couldn’t help it. It was in his blood. He’d marched in his youth. He’d done a lot of things back then.

  There was a final gathering of lines, MacMurray readying his troops. A word with the policeman in charge, a conversation by two-way radio, then a nod from MacMurray. The opening fat-fry of snare drums, the lambeg pumping away, and then the flutes. They marched on the spot for a few moments, then moved off towards Princes Street, where traffic had been stopped for them, where the Castle glared down on them, where a lot of people but by no means everyone paused to watch.

  A few months back, a pro-republican march had been banned from this route. That was why the protesters were particularly loud in their jeers, thumbs held down. Some of them were chanting Na-Zis, Na-Zis, and then being told to shut up by uniformed police. There would be a few arrests, there always were. You hadn’t had a good day out at a march unless there’d been at least the threat of arrest.

  Rebus followed the march from the pavement, sticking to the Gardens side, which was quieter. A few more marchers had joined in, but it was still small beer, hardly worth the bother. He was beginning to wonder what he’d thought would happen. His eyes moved back through the procession from the tosser at the front, busy with his muckle stick, through the flutes and drums, past bowler hats and suits, to the younger marchers and stragglers. A few pre-teenage kids had joined in on the edges, loving every minute. Jamesie, right near the back, told them in no uncertain terms that they should leave, but they didn’t listen to him.

  ‘Tough’ always was a relative term.

  But now one of the stragglers clutched Jamesie’s arm and they shared a few words, both of them grinning. The straggler was wearing sunglasses with mirrored lenses, and a denim jacket with no shirt beneath.

  ‘Hello,’ said Rebus quietly. He watched Jamesie and Davey Soutar have their conversation, saw Jamesie pat Davey on the shoulder before Davey moved away again, falling back until he left the procession altogether, squeezing between two of the temporary barriers and vanishing into the crowd.

  Jamesie seemed to relax a bit after this. His walk became looser, less of an act, and he swung his arms in time to the music. He seemed to be realising that it was a bright summer’s day, and at last peeled off his leather jacket, slinging it over one shoulder, showing off his arm muscles and several tattoos. Rebus walked a bit faster, keeping close to the edge of the pavement. One of the tattoos was professional, and showed the ornately overlaid letters RFC: Rangers Football Club. But there was also the maroon emblem of Heart of Midlothian FC, so obviously Jamesie liked to play safe. Then there was a kilted, busby-wearing piper, and further down his arm towards the leather wrist-band a much more amateur job, the usual shaky greeny-blue ink.

  The letters SaS.

  Rebus blinked. It was almost too far away for him to be sure. Almost. But he was sure. And suddenly he didn’t want to talk to Gavin MacMurray any more. He wanted a word with his son.

  He stopped on the pavement, letting the march pull away from him. He knew where they were heading. A left turn into Lothian Road, passing the windows of the Caledonian Hotel. Something for the rich tourists to get a picture of. Then another left into King’s Stables Road, stopping short of the Grassmarket. Afterwards, they’d probably head down into the Grassmarket itself for the post-march analysis and a few more beers. The Grassmarket being trendy these days, there’d be a lot of Fringe drinkers there too. A fine cocktail of cultures for a Saturday afternoon.

  He followed the trail to one of the rougher pubs on the Cowgate, just the other side of Candlemaker Row from the Grassmarket. At one time, they’d hung miscreants from the gallows in the Grassmarket. It was a cheerier prospect these days, though you wouldn’t necessarily know it from a visit to the Merchant’s Bar where, at ten p.m. each night, the pint glasses were switched for flimsy plastic imposters, relieving the bar of ready weapons. It was that kind of place.

  Inside, the bar was airless, a drinkers’ fug of smoke and television heat. You didn’t come here for a good time, you came out of necessity. The regulars were like dragons, each mouthful cooling the fire inside them. As he entered the bar, he saw no one he recognised, not even the barman. The barman was a new face, just out of his teens. He poured pints with an affected disdain, and took the money like it was a bribe. From the sounds of atonal song, Rebus knew the marchers were upstairs, probably emptying the place.

  Rebus took his pint – still in a glass glass – and headed up to the dance hall. Sure enough, the marchers were about all there was. They’d shed jackets, ties, and inhibitions, and were milling around, singing to off-key flutes and downing pints and shorts. Getting the drink in had become a logistical nightmare, and more marchers were coming in all the time.

  Rebus took a deep breath, carved a smile into his face, and waded in.

  ‘Magic, lads.’

  ‘Aye, ta, pal.’

  ‘Nae bother, eh?’

  ‘Aye, nae bother right enough.’

  ‘All right there, lads?’

  ‘Fine, aye. Magic.’

  Gavin MacMurray hadn’t arrived yet. Maybe he was off elsewhere with his generals. But his son was on the stage pretending he held a microphone stand and a crowd’s attention. Another lad clambered onto the stage and played an invisible guitar, still managing to hold
his pint glass. Lager splashed over his jeans, but he didn’t notice. That was professionalism for you.

  Rebus watched with the smile still on his face. Eventually they gave up, as he’d known they would, there being no audience, and leapt down from the stage. Jamesie landed just in front of Rebus. Rebus held his arms wide.

  ‘Whoah there! That was brilliant.’

  Jamesie grinned. ‘Aye, ta.’ Rebus slapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Get you another?’

  ‘I think I’m all right, ta.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Rebus looked around, then leant close to Jamesie’s ear. ‘I see you’re one of us.’ He winked.

  ‘Eh?’

  The tattoo had been covered by the leather jacket, but Rebus nodded towards it. ‘The Shield,’ he said slyly. Then he nodded again, catching Jamesie’s eye, and moved away. He went back downstairs and ordered two pints. The bar was busy and noisy, both TV and jukebox blaring, a couple of arguments rising above even these. Half a minute later, Jamesie was standing beside him. The boy wasn’t very bright, and Rebus weighed up how much he could get away with.

  ‘How do you know?’ Jamesie asked.

  ‘There’s not much I don’t know, son.’

  ‘But I don’t know you.’

  Rebus smiled into his drink. ‘Best keep it that way.’

  ‘Then how come you know me?’

  Rebus turned towards him. ‘I just do.’ Jamesie looked around him, licking his lips. Rebus handed him one of the pints. ‘Here, get this down you.’

  ‘Ta.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You’re in The Shield?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Now Jamesie smiled. ‘How’s Davey, by the way?’

  ‘Davey?’

  ‘Davey Soutar,’ said Rebus. ‘You two know each other, don’t you?’

  ‘I know Davey.’ He blinked. ‘Christ, you are in The Shield. Hang on, did I see you at the parade?’

  ‘I bloody hope so.’

  Now Jamesie nodded slowly. ‘I thought I saw you.’

  ‘You’re a sharp lad, Jamesie. There’s a bit of your dad in you.’