10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Nevertheless, Rebus drove back into town like he was attempting the land-speed record.

  His car seemed to sense the absolute urgency, the necessity, and for once didn’t black out or choke up. It whined its own argument, but kept moving.

  Princes Street and the three main streets leading down to it from George Street had been cordoned off as a matter of course, stopping traffic from coming anywhere near the thousands of spectators. On a night like this, there’d be quarter of a million souls watching the display, the majority of them in and around Princes Street. Rebus took his car as far as he could, then simply stopped in the middle of the road, got out, and ran. Police were setting up new barriers. Lauderdale and Flower were there. He made straight for them.

  ‘Any news?’ he spat.

  Lauderdale nodded. ‘There was a convoy of cars on West Coates, running red lights, travelling at speed.’

  ‘That’s them.’

  ‘We’ve put up a diversion to bring them here.’

  Rebus looked around, wiping sweat from his eyes. The street was lined with shops at street level, offices above. Uniformed officers were moving civilians out of the area. An Army vehicle sat roadside.

  ‘Bomb disposal,’ Lauderdale explained. ‘Remember, we’ve been ready for this.’

  More barriers were being erected, and Rebus saw van doors open and half a dozen police marksmen appear, their chests covered by black body armour.

  ‘Is Kilpatrick okay?’ Lauderdale asked.

  ‘Should be, depends on the ambulance.’

  ‘How much stuff does Soutar have?’

  Rebus tried to remember. ‘It’s not just explosives, he’s probably toting AK 47s, pistols and ammo, maybe grenades . . .’

  ‘Christ almighty.’ Lauderdale spoke into his radio. ‘Where are they?’

  The radio crackled to life. ‘Can’t you see them yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’re right in front of you.’

  Rebus looked up. Yes, here they came. Maybe they were expecting a trap, maybe not. Whichever, it was still a suicide mission. They might get in, but they weren’t going to get out.

  ‘Ready!’ Lauderdale called. The marksmen checked their guns and pointed them ahead. There were police cars behind the barriers. The uniforms had stopped moving people away. They wanted to watch. More onlookers were arriving all the time, keen for this preliminary event.

  In the lead car, Davey Soutar was alone. He seemed to think about ramming the barricade, then braked hard instead, bringing his car to a stop. Behind him, four other cars slowed and halted. Davey sat frozen in his seat. Lauderdale lifted a megaphone.

  ‘Bring your hands where we can see them.’

  The car doors behind Davey were opening. Metal clattered to the ground as guns were thrown down. Some of the Gar-B started to run for it, others, seeing the armed police, got out slowly with hands held high. Others were awaiting instructions. One of them, a young kid, no older than fourteen, lost his nerve and ran straight for the police lines.

  Overhead, the first fireworks burst into brief life with a noise like old-fashioned gunfire and mortar. The sky sizzled, the glow lighting the scene.

  At the first noise, most people flinched instinctively. The armed police dropped to a crouch, others spread themselves on the ground. The kid who’d been running towards the barriers started screaming in fright, then fell to his hands and knees.

  Behind him, Davey Soutar’s car was empty.

  He’d shuffled into the passenger seat, opened the door, and made a dash to the pavement. Running low, it took him only seconds to disappear into the mass of pedestrians.

  ‘Did anyone see? Did he have a gun?’

  The Army personnel moved in warily on the lead car, while police started rounding up the Gar-B. More weapons were jettisoned. Lauderdale moved in to supervise his men.

  And John Rebus was after Soutar.

  The one place there wasn’t much of a crowd was George Street: you couldn’t see the fireworks from there. So Rebus had little trouble following Soutar. The sky turned from red to green to blue, with small pops and the occasional huge explosion. Each explosion had Rebus squirming, thinking of the bomb disposal unit busy back at Soutar’s car. When the wind changed, it carried with it wafts of musical accompaniment from the orchestra in the Gardens. Chase music it wasn’t.

  Soutar ran with loose energy, almost bouncing. He covered a lot of ground, but it wasn’t a straight line. He did a lot of weaving from side to side, covering most of the width of the pavement. Rebus concentrated on closing the gap, moving forwards like he was on rails. His eyes were on Soutar’s hands. As long as he could see those hands, see they weren’t carrying anything, he was content.

  For all Soutar’s crazy progress, Rebus was losing ground on the younger man, except when Soutar turned to look back at his pursuer. That’s what he was doing when he ran out into the road and bounced off a taxi cab. The cab was on St Andrew’s Square. The driver stuck his head out the window, then pulled it in again fast when Soutar drew his gun.

  It looked like a service revolver to Rebus. Soutar fired a shot through the cab window, then started running again. He was slower now, with a slouch announcing a damaged right leg.

  Rebus glanced in at the cab driver. He’d thrown up all over his knees, but was unhurt.

  Give it up, Rebus thought, his lungs on fire. Give it up.

  But Soutar kept moving. He ran through the bus station, dodging the single-deckers as they moved in and out of their ranks. The few waiting passengers could see he was armed, and stared in horror as he flew past them, jacket flapping, for all the world like a scarecrow come to life.

  Rebus followed him up James Craig Walk, across the top of Leith Street, and into Waterloo Place. Soutar stopped for a moment, as though trying to come to a decision. His right hand still gripped the revolver. He saw Rebus moving steadily in his direction, and dropped to one knee, taking two-handed aim with the revolver. Rebus stepped into a doorway and waited for a shot that didn’t come. When he peered out again, Soutar had vanished.

  Rebus walked slowly towards where Soutar had been. He was nowhere on the street, but a couple of yards further on was a gateway, and beyond it some steps. The steps led to the top of Calton Hill. Rebus took a final deep breath and accepted the challenge.

  The rough steps up to the summit were busy with people climbing and descending. Most of them were young and had been drinking. Rebus couldn’t even summon the breath to yell something, ‘Stop him’ or ‘Get out of his way’. He knew if he tried to spit, the stuff would be like paste. All he could do was follow.

  At the top, Calton Hill was crowded with people sitting on the grass, all eyes turned towards the Castle. The view would have been breathtaking, had Rebus had any breath to spare. The music was being piped up here too. Smoke drifted south across the city, followed by more tinsel colour and rockets. It was like being the onlooker at a medieval siege. A lot of people were drunk. Some were stoned. It wasn’t gunpowder you could smell up here.

  Rebus had a good look around. He’d lost Davey Soutar.

  There was no street lighting here, and crowds of people, mostly young and dressed in denim. Easy to lose someone.

  Too damned easy.

  Soutar could be heading down the other side of the hill, or snaking back down the roadway to Waterloo Place. Or he could be hiding amongst people who looked just like him. Except that the night air was chill. Rebus could feel it turning his sweat cold. And Soutar was only wearing a denim jacket.

  As a huge firework burst over the Castle, and everyone stared up at the sky and gasped and cheered, Rebus looked for the one person who wasn’t watching. The one person with his head down. The one person shivering like he’d never get warm again. He was sitting on the grass verge, next to a couple of girls who were drinking from cans and waving what looked like luminous rubber tubes. The girls had moved away from him a little, so that he looked the way he was: all alone in the world. Behind him on the grass was a gang
of bikers, all muscle and gut. They were shouting and swearing, proclaiming hate of the English and all things foreign.

  Rebus walked up to Davey Soutar, and Davey Soutar looked up.

  And it wasn’t him.

  This kid was a couple of years younger, strung out on something, his eyes unable to focus.

  ‘Hey,’ one of the bikers yelled, ‘you trying to pick up my pal?’

  Rebus held up his hands. ‘My mistake,’ he said.

  He turned around fast. Davey Soutar was behind him. He’d slipped off his jacket and had wound it around his right arm, all the way down to the wrist and the hand. Rebus knew what was in the hand, disguised now by the grubby denim.

  ‘Okay, pigmeat, let’s walk.’

  Rebus knew he had to get Soutar away from the crowd. There were probably five bullets still in the revolver. Rebus didn’t want any more bodies, not if he could help it.

  They walked to the car park. There was a hot-food van doing good business, and a few cars, their drivers and passengers biting into burgers. It was darker here, and quieter. There wasn’t much action here.

  ‘Davey,’ Rebus said, coming to a stop.

  ‘This as far as you want to go?’ Soutar said. He’d turned to face Rebus.

  ‘No point me answering that, Davey, you’re in charge now.’

  ‘I’ve been in charge all along!’

  Rebus nodded. ‘That’s right, skimming without your bosses knowing about it. Planning all this.’ He nodded towards the fireworks. ‘Could have been quite something.’

  Soutar soured his face. ‘You couldn’t let it go, could you? Kilpatrick knew you were trouble.’

  ‘You didn’t have to stab him.’ A car was making its way slowly up to the car park from Regent Road. Soutar had his back to it, but Rebus could see it. It was a marked police car, its headlights off.

  ‘He tried to stop me,’ Soutar sneered. ‘No guts.’

  If the music was anything to go by, the fireworks were coming to their climax. Rebus fixed his eyes on Soutar, watching the face turn from gold to green to blue.

  ‘Put the gun away, Davey. It’s finished.’

  ‘Not till I say so.’

  ‘Look, enough! Just put it down.’

  The police car was at the top of the rise now. Davey Soutar unwound the jacket from his arm and threw it to the ground. A girl at the hot-food van started to scream. Behind Soutar, the police driver switched his headlamps on full-beam, lighting Soutar and Rebus like they were on stage. The passenger door was open, someone leaning out of it. Rebus recognised Abernethy. Soutar pivoted, aiming the gun. It was all the incentive Abernethy needed. The report from his gun was as loud as anything from the Castle. Meantime, the crowd was applauding again, unaware of the drama behind them.

  Soutar was knocked backwards, taking Rebus with him. They fell in a heap, Rebus feeling the young man’s damp hair brushing his face, his lips. He swore impressively as he pulled himself out from under the suddenly prone, suddenly still figure. Abernethy was pulling the revolver from Soutar’s hand, his foot heavy on the youth’s wrist.

  ‘No need for that,’ Rebus hissed. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Looks like,’ said Abernethy, putting away his own gun. ‘So here’s my story: I saw a flash, heard a bang, and assumed he’d fired. Sound reasonable?’

  ‘Are you authorised to carry that cannon?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re . . .’

  ‘As bad as him?’ Abernethy raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think so. And hey, don’t mention it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Saving your fucking life! After that stunt you pulled, leaving me in the Gar-B.’ He paused. ‘You’ve got blood on you.’

  Rebus looked. There was plenty of blood. ‘There goes another shirt.’

  ‘Trust a Jock to make a comment like that.’

  The police driver had got out of the car to look, and a useful crowd was growing, now that the fireworks had finished. Abernethy began to check Soutar’s pockets. Best get it over with while the body was warm. It was more pleasant that way. When he got to his feet again, Rebus was gone, and so was the car. He looked in disbelief at his driver.

  ‘Not again.’

  Yes, again.

  30

  Rebus had the police radio on as he drove. The bomb disposal team were halfway through lifting five small packages from the boot of Soutar’s car. The packages had been fitted with detonators, and the Semtex was of advanced age, possibly unstable. There were pistols, automatic and bolt-action rifles too. God knew what he’d been planning to use them for.

  The fireworks over, the buildings no longer glowed. They’d returned to their normal sooty hue. Crowds were moving through the streets, making their way home or towards last drinks, late suppers. People were smiling, wrapping arms around themselves to keep warm. They’d all enjoyed a good night out. Rebus didn’t like to think about how close the whole night had come to disaster.

  He switched on his siren and emergency lights to clear people from the roadway, then pulled past the line of cars in front of him. It was a few minutes before he realised he was shivering. He pulled the damp shirt away from his back and turned up the heating in the car. Not that heat would stop him shivering. He wasn’t shivering from cold. He was headed for Tollcross, the Crazy Hose. He was headed for final business.

  But when he arrived, siren and lights off, he saw smoke seeping out through the front doors. He pulled his car hard onto the pavement and ran to the doors, kicking them open. It wasn’t rule one in the firefighter’s manual, but he didn’t have much choice. The fire was in the dancehall. Only the smoke had so far reached the foyer and beyond. There was no one about. A sign on the front door gave abrupt notice that the club was closed ‘due to unforeseen circumstances’.

  That’s me, thought Rebus, I’m unforeseen circumstances.

  He headed for Frankie Bothwell’s office. Where else was he going to go?

  Bothwell was sitting in his chair, prevented from movement by a sudden case of death. His neck flopped over to one side in a way necks shouldn’t. Rebus had seen broken necks before. There was bruising on the throat. Strangulation. He hadn’t been dead long, his forehead was still warm. But then it was getting warm in the office. It was getting warm everywhere.

  The new fire station was at the top of the road. Rebus wondered where the fire crew was.

  As he came back into the foyer, he saw that more smoke was belching from the dance hall. The door had been opened. Clyde Moncur was dragging himself into the foyer. He was still alive and wanted to stay that way. Rebus checked Moncur wasn’t carrying a gun, then got hold of him by the neck of his jacket and hauled him across the floor. Moncur was trying hard to breathe. He was having a little trouble. He felt light as Rebus dragged him. He kicked open the doors and deposited Moncur at the top of the steps.

  Then he went in again.

  Yes, the blaze had started here, here in the dance hall. Flames had taken control of the walls and ceiling. All Bothwell’s gewgaws and furnishings were melting or turning to ash. The carpet in the seating area had caught. The bottles of alcohol hadn’t exploded yet, but they would. Rebus looked around, but couldn’t see much. The smoke was too thick, there was too much of it. He wrapped his handkerchief around his face, but even so he couldn’t stop coughing. He could hear a rhythmic thumping sound coming from somewhere. Somewhere up ahead.

  It was the little self-contained box where the DJ sat, over beyond the stage. There was someone in there now. He tried the door. It was locked, so sign of a key. He took a few steps back so he could run at it.

  Then the door flew open. Rebus recognised the Ulsterman, Alan Fowler. He’s used his head to butt the door open, his arms being tied firmly to the back of a chair. They were still tied to the chair as, head low, he came barrelling from the box. He caught Rebus a blow to the stomach and Rebus went down. Rebus rolled and came to his knees, but Fowler was up too, and he was blind mad. For all he knew, it was Rebus wh
o was trying to roast him. He butted Rebus again, this time in the face. It was a sore one, but Rebus had ridden a Glasgow Kiss before. The blow caught him on his cheek.

  The power of it snapped Rebus’s head back, sending him staggering. Fowler was like a bull, the chair legs sticking up like swords from his back. Now that he was more or less upright, he went for Rebus with his feet. One caught Rebus on his damaged ear, tearing it, sending a white jab of pain bouncing through his brain. That gave Fowler time for another kick, and this one was going to shatter Rebus’s knee . . . Until a blow in the face with an empty bottle knocked him sideways. Rebus looked up to see his saviour, his knight in shining armour. Big Ger Cafferty was still wearing his funeral suit and open shirt. He was busy making sure Fowler was down and out. Then he took one look at Rebus, and produced the hint of a smile, looking every bit as amused as a butcher who finds the carcass he’s working on is still alive.

  He spent a precious few seconds, life and death seconds, weighing up his options. Then he slung Rebus’s arm over his shoulder and walked with him out of the dance hall, through the foyer, and into the night air, the clean, breathable air. Rebus took in huge gulps of it, falling onto the pavement, sitting there, head bowed, his feet on the road. Cafferty sat down beside him. He seemed to be studying his own hands. Rebus knew why, too.

  And now the fire engines were arriving, men leaping out of cabs, doing things with hoses. One of them complained about the police car. The keys were in the ignition, so the fireman backed it up.

  At last Rebus could speak. ‘You did that?’ he asked. It was a stupid question. Hadn’t he given Cafferty nearly all the information he’d needed?

  ‘I saw you going in,’ Cafferty said, his voice raw. ‘You were gone a long time.’

  ‘You could have let me die.’

  Cafferty looked at him. ‘I didn’t come in for you. I came in to stop you bringing out that bastard Fowler. As it is, Moncur’s done a runner.’