10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  It was messy all right. There wasn’t much left of the head except for the lower jaw and chin. Stick a shotgun in your gub and heave-ho with both barrels and you couldn’t expect to win Mr Glamorous Suicide. You wouldn’t even make the last sixteen.

  Rebus stood beside the teacher’s desk. There was a pad of lined paper on it. Scribbled on the top sheet was the message, ‘Mr Hamilton – allotment allocation’, alongside an address and telephone number. Blood had soaked through the paper. Rebus peeled off this first sheet. The sheet below was obviously the start of a letter. Gillespie had got as far as the word ‘Dear’.

  ‘Well,’ Curt got to his feet, ‘he’s dead, and if you were to ask for my considered opinion, I’d say he used that.’ He nodded towards the shotgun, which lay a couple of feet from the body. ‘And now he’s gone to the other place.’

  ‘It’s just a shot away,’ said Rebus.

  Curt looked at him. ‘Is the photographer on his way?’

  ‘Trouble getting his car to start.’

  ‘Well, tell him I want plenty of head shots – pun unavoidable. I gather we’ve a witness?’

  ‘Councillor Gillespie.’

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘He’s councillor for my ward.’

  Dr Curt was pulling on thin latex gloves. It was time to search the body. Initially, they were looking for ID. ‘Cosy as this room is,’ Dr Curt said, ‘I’d prefer my own hearth.’

  In the back pocket of the deceased’s trousers, Rebus found an official-looking envelope, folded in two.

  ‘Mr H McAnally,’ he read. ‘An address in Tollcross.’

  ‘Not five minutes away.’

  Rebus eased the letter out of the envelope and read it. ‘It’s from the Prison Service,’ he told Dr Curt. ‘Details of assistance open to Mr H McAnally on his release from Saughton Jail.’

  Tom Gillespie had a wash in the school toilets. His hair was damp and lay in clumps against his skull. He kept rubbing a hand over his face and then checking the palm for blood. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying.

  Rebus sat across from him in the headteacher’s office. The office had been locked, but Rebus had commandeered it when the head arrived at the school. The cleaning ladies were being given mugs of tea in the staffroom. Siobhan Clarke was there with them, doing her best to calm down Miss Profitt.

  ‘Did you know the man at all, Mr Gillespie?’

  ‘Never seen him in my life.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Positive.’

  Rebus reached into his pocket, then stopped. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ From the odour of stale tobacco in the room, he already knew the head wouldn’t mind.

  Gillespie shook his head. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘give me one while you’re at it.’ Gillespie lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Gave up three years ago.’

  Rebus didn’t say anything. He was studying the man. He’d seen his photo before, in election rubbish pushed through the letterbox. Gillespie was in his mid-forties. He wore red-rimmed glasses normally, but had left them on the desk. His hair was very thin and wispy on top, but curled thickly either side of his pate. His eyes had thick dark lashes, not just from the crying, and his chin was weak. Rebus couldn’t have called him handsome. There was a simple gold band on his wedding finger.

  ‘How long have you been a councillor, Mr Gillespie?’

  ‘Six years, coming up for seven.’

  ‘I live in your ward.’

  Gillespie studied him. ‘Have we met before?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘So this man walks into the classroom . . .?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Looking for you in particular?’

  ‘He asked if I was the councillor. Then he asked who Helena was.’

  ‘Helena being Miss Profitt?’

  Gillespie nodded. ‘He told her to get out . . . Then he turned the shotgun around and stuck the end of it in his mouth.’ He shivered, ash falling from his cigarette. ‘I’ll never forget that, never.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’ Gillespie shook his head. ‘He didn’t say anything?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why he did it?’

  Gillespie looked at Rebus. ‘That’s your department, not mine.’

  Rebus held the stare until Gillespie broke it by looking for somewhere to stub out the cigarette.

  There’s something in you, Rebus thought, something below the surface that’s a lot cooler, a lot more deliberate.

  ‘Just a few more questions, Mr Gillespie. How are your surgeries publicised?’

  ‘There’s a district council leaflet, most homes had one delivered. Plus I put up notices in doctors’ surgeries, that sort of place.’

  ‘They’re no secret then?’

  ‘What good would a councillor be if he kept his surgeries secret?’

  ‘Mr McAnally lived at an address in Tollcross.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man who killed himself.’

  ‘Tollcross? That’s not in my ward.’

  ‘No,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet. ‘I didn’t think it was.’

  DC Siobhan Clarke sat in on the interview with Helena Profitt. Miss Profitt was still bawling, her few utterances barely decipherable. She was older than the councillor, maybe by as much as ten years. She clutched a large shopping-bag on her lap as if it was a lifebuoy keeping her afloat. Maybe it was. She was short, with fair hair which had been permed a while back, most of it lost now. A pair of knitting needles protruded from her bag.

  ‘And then,’ she wailed, ‘he told me to get out.’

  ‘His exact words?’ Rebus asked.

  She sniffed, calming a little. ‘He swore. He told me to get the f-u-c-k out.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘And you left the room?’

  ‘I wasn’t about to stay!’

  ‘Of course not. What did you think he was going to do?’

  She had not yet asked herself this. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I don’t know what I thought. Maybe he was going to hold Tom hostage, or shoot him, something like that.’

  ‘But why?’

  Her voice rose. ‘I don’t know. Who knows why these days?’ She collapsed into hysterical sobs again.

  ‘Just a couple more questions, Miss Profitt.’ She wasn’t listening. Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke, who shrugged. She was suggesting they leave it till morning. But Rebus knew better than that; he knew the tricks the memory could play if you left things too long.

  ‘Just a couple more questions,’ he persisted quietly.

  She sniffed, blew her nose, wiped her eyes. Then she took a deep breath and nodded.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Profitt. How long was there between you running out of the classroom and hearing the shots?’

  ‘The classroom’s at the end of the corridor,’ she said. ‘I pushed open the doors and bumped into the cleaning ladies. I fell to my knees and that’s when I heard . . . that’s when . . .’

  ‘So we’re talking about a matter of seconds?’

  ‘Just a few seconds, yes.’

  ‘And you didn’t hear any conversation as you left the room?’

  ‘Just the bang, that’s all.’

  Rebus rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Thank you, Miss Profit, we’ll get a car to take you home.’

  Dr Curt was finished in the classroom. The Scene of Crime Unit had taken over, and the photographer, who had finally arrived, was changing film.

  ‘We need to secure the locus,’ Rebus told the head-teacher. ‘Can this room be locked?’

  ‘Yes, there are keys in my desk. What about opening the school?’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. We’ll be in and out tomorrow . . . the door might be left open . . .’

  ‘Say no more.’

  ‘And you’ll want to get the decorators in.’

  ‘Right.’

  Rebus turned to Dr Curt. ‘Can we move him to the mortuary?’<
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  Dr Curt nodded. ‘I’ll take a look at him in the morning. Has someone gone to that address?’

  ‘I’ll go myself. Like you say, it’s only five minutes away.’ Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke. ‘See that the Procurator-fiscal gets that Preliminary Notification.’

  Curt looked back into the room. ‘He’d only just been released from prison, maybe he was depressed.’

  ‘That might explain a suicide, but not one like this: the amount of forethought, the setting . . .’

  ‘Our American cousins have a phrase for it,’ Curt said.

  ‘What’s that?’ Rebus asked, feeling he was walking into another of the doctor’s punchlines.

  ‘In your face,’ Dr Curt obliged.

  8

  Rebus walked to Tollcross.

  He had a taste in his lungs and a scent in his nostrils, and he hoped the cold might deaden them. He could walk into a pub and deaden them that way, but he didn’t. He remembered a winter years back, much colder than this. Minus twenty, Siberian weather. The pipes on the outside of the tenement had frozen solid, so that nobody’s waste water could run away. The smell had been bad, but you could always open a window. Death wasn’t like that; it didn’t go away just because you opened a window, or took a walk.

  There was ice underfoot, and he skited a couple of times. Another good reason for not having a drink: he needed his wits about him. He’d copied McAnally’s address into his notebook. He knew the block anyway; it was a couple of streets up from the burnt-out shell of the Crazy Hose Saloon. There was an intercom at the main door. He flipped on his lighter and saw that MCANALLY was the third name up. His toes were going numb as he pressed the button. He’d been rehearsing what to say. No policeman liked to give bad news, certainly not news as bad as this. ‘Your husband’s lost the heid’ just didn’t fit the bill.

  The intercom clattered to life. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve lost the keys, Shug? If you’ve been drinking and lost them, you can freeze your arse off, see if I care!’

  ‘Mrs McAnally?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Rebus. Can I come up?’

  ‘Name of God, what’s he done?’

  ‘Can I come up, Mrs McAnally?’

  ‘You better had.’ The intercom buzzed, and Rebus pushed open the door.

  The McAnallys lived one floor up: for once Rebus had been hoping for the top storey. He climbed slowly, trying to prepare his speech. She was waiting at the door for him. It was a nice new-looking door, dark-stained wood with a fan-shaped glass motif. New brass knocker and letterbox too.

  ‘Mrs McAnally?’

  ‘Come in.’ She led him down a short hall into the living room. It was a tiny flat, but nicely furnished and carpeted. There was a kitchenette off the living room, both rooms adding up to about twenty feet by twelve. Estate agents would call it ‘cosy’ and ‘compact’. All three bars of the electric fire were on, and the room was stifling. Mrs McAnally had been watching television, a can of Sweetheart stout balanced on one wide arm of her chair, ashtray and cigarettes on the other.

  She looked feisty; no other words would do. Cons’ wives often got that look. The prison visits hardened their jawlines and turned their eyes into distrustful slits. Her hair was dyed blonde, and though she was spending the night in, she’d still polished her nails and stuck on some eyeliner and mascara.

  ‘What’s he done?’ she said again. ‘Sit down if you like.’

  ‘I’ll stand, thanks. The thing is, Mrs McAnally . . .’ Rebus paused. That’s what you did: you lowered your voice respectfully, said a few introductory words, and then you paused, hoping the widow or widower or mother or father or son or daughter would twig.

  ‘The thing is what?’ she snapped.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you . . .’

  Her eyes were on the television. It was a film, some noisy Hollywood adventure.

  ‘Could we maybe have the sound down?’ he suggested.

  She shrugged and pressed the remote. The ‘mute’ sign came up on the screen. Rebus suddenly noticed how big the TV was; it filled a whole corner of the room. Don’t make me say the words, he thought. Then he saw that her eyes were glinting. Tears, he thought. She’s holding them back.

  ‘You know, don’t you?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Know what?’ she snapped.

  ‘Mrs McAnally, we think your husband may be dead.’ She threw the remote across the room and got to her feet. ‘A man committed suicide,’ Rebus continued. ‘He had a letter in his pocket addressed to your husband.’

  She glared at him. ‘What does that mean? It means nothing. Might have dropped it, somebody might’ve picked it up.’

  ‘The deceased . . . the man, he was wearing a black nylon bomber jacket and some light-coloured trousers, a green jersey . . .’

  She turned away from him. ‘Where? Where was this?’

  ‘Warrender Park.’

  ‘Well then,’ she said defiantly, ‘Wee Shug went down Lothian Road, his usual haunts.’

  ‘What time were you expecting him home?’

  ‘Pubs are still open, if that answers your question.’

  ‘Look, Mrs McAnally, I know this isn’t easy, but I’d like you to come down to the mortuary and look at some clothing. Would that be all right?’

  She had her arms folded and was rocking on the balls of her feet. ‘No, it wouldn’t be all right. What’s the point? It’s not Wee Shug. He’s only been out a week, one miserable week. He can’t be dead.’ She paused. ‘Was it a car run him over?’

  ‘We think he took his own life.’

  ‘Are you mad? Took his own . . .? Get out of my house! Go on, out with you!’

  ‘Mrs McAnally, we need to –’

  But now she was swiping at him, catching him with her solid fists, propelling him before her, out of the room and down the hall.

  ‘Keep away from him, do you hear? Keep away from both of us. This is nothing but harassment.’

  ‘I know you’re upset, Mrs McAnally, but an identification would clear things up, put your mind at rest.’

  Her blows lost some of their power, then stopped altogether. Rebus’s burnt palm stung where she’d caught it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, breathing hard.

  ‘It’s only natural, you’re upset. Do you have a neighbour, a friend, someone who could be with you?’

  ‘There’s Maisie next door.’

  ‘Fine. What if I get a car to pick you up? Maybe Maisie can go with you?’

  ‘I’ll ask her.’ She opened the door and stepped out on to the landing, shuffling along to a door marked FINCH.

  ‘I’ll use your phone if that’s all right,’ Rebus called, retreating back into the flat.

  He took a quick look around. Just the one bedroom and bathroom, plus a box room. He’d seen the rest of the place already. Again, the bedroom was very nicely furnished, pink ruched curtains and matching bedspread, a small dressing-table covered in bottles of perfume. He went into the hall and made a couple of calls: one to order a car, the other to make sure someone from CID would be at the mortuary to help with the ID.

  The door opened and two women came in. He’d been expecting Mrs Finch to be around Mrs McAnally’s age, but she was in her early twenties, leggy with a short, tight skirt. She looked at him as if he might be some warped practical joker. He offered a smile in return which mixed compassion with interest. She didn’t smile back, so he had to content himself with the sight of her long legs as she helped Mrs McAnally down the hall and into the living room.

  ‘A wee Bacardi, Tresa,’ Maisie Finch was saying, ‘it’ll calm your nerves. Before we do anything else, we’ll have a wee Bacardi and Coke. Have you any valium about the place? If you haven’t, I think I’ve some in my bathroom cabinet.’

  ‘He can’t be dead, Maisie,’ Tresa McAnally wailed.

  ‘Let’s not talk about him,’ Maisie Finch replied.

  Strange advice, Rebus thought, making ready to leave.

 
9

  It wasn’t much of a walk from Tollcross down to C Division HQ on Torphichen Place, but Rebus knew he was getting further and further away from his own flat. He didn’t intend walking back, and hoped Torphichen would have a spare car he could use as a taxi.

  There was a tall bald man in a thick shabby coat in reception. The man had his arms folded and was staring at his feet. There was no one behind the desk, so Rebus pressed the buzzer. He knew it would keep buzzing till someone arrived.

  ‘Been here long?’ he asked.

  The man looked up and smiled. ‘Evening, Mr Rebus.’

  ‘Hello, Anthony.’ Rebus knew the man. He was one of Edinburgh’s homeless, one of the army who sold copies of The Big Issue every twenty yards or so along Princes Street. Rebus usually bought a copy from Anthony, whose sacred pitch was outside the St James Centre. ‘Here to help us with our enquiries?’

  Anthony gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Just keeping warm. I told the desk officer I was waiting for DC Reynolds, only I saw Mr Reynolds go into the Hopscotch Bar on Dalry Road.’

  ‘Which means he’s on for a sesh.’

  ‘And I can sit here till somebody tumbles.’

  A uniform was emerging into the reception booth. Rebus showed ID and the uniform came and unlocked the door for him.

  ‘You know the way, sir?’

  ‘I know the way. Who’s on duty?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a graveyard up there.’

  Rebus climbed the stairs anyway. Torphichen was an old station, and small, with plain stone walls and a slightly depressing air. Rebus liked it. Certainly he preferred it to the much newer and supposedly ergonomic St Leonard’s, his home base. He looked into the CID room. The very man he wanted was sitting at a long, scarred wooden table, reading the evening paper.

  ‘Mr Davidson,’ Rebus said.

  Davidson looked up, then groaned.

  ‘I want a favour,’ Rebus said, walking into the room.

  ‘Now there’s a surprise.’

  ‘Have you heard about Warrender?’

  ‘Shotgun suicide?’ News got around. Davidson closed his paper.

  ‘The man with the plan was called Hugh McAnally, lived in Tollcross.’