10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus’s next call was to St Leonard’s. He asked for Siobhan Clarke. ‘How’s life?’

  ‘Ms Templer had me in her office first thing, wanting to know if you’d been in touch. She was asking a lot of questions.’

  ‘Let her ask. As far as you know, I’m in Lanzarote.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Listen, Haldayne’s parking tickets, what were the exact locations?’

  ‘I think I jotted them down.’ He could hear her searching her notebook.

  ‘How goes the blaze inquiry?’

  ‘A non-starter. It’s down to an Act of God. They didn’t find a cigarette or a match in the bin.’

  ‘Of course not, Flower tidied up before he reported the fire.’

  ‘Here we are: Princes Street, James Craig Walk, and Royal Circus. Those are all I’ve got, and no dates. The last two were multiples.’

  Rebus thanked her and hung up. He found his A-Z and looked up James Craig Walk. It was hard by New St Andrew’s House. So Haldayne did have dealings with the Scottish Office. Princes Street could just mean he was shopping. Rebus wasn’t sure what or who Royal Circus represented. He remembered the councillor’s files: SDA/SE; A C Haldayne; Gyle Park West; Mensung.

  He still didn’t know anything about Mensung. He was hoping Haldayne could help.

  Rebus sat in the lounge of the Balmoral Forte Grand – formerly the North British – and told staff he was waiting for a guest but he’d order anyway: coffee for two – decaffeinated – and cakes or biscuits or something.

  ‘Fruit scones, sir?’

  ‘Fine, whatever.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Rebus was glad he was wearing one of his better suits. They’d made a good job of the hotel. Last time he’d had morning coffee here, it had been with Gill Templer, way back when they’d been ‘an item’. The walls had had cracks in them, and the whole place had seemed faded and slightly seedy.

  Rebus knew the American as soon as he walked in. He was tall and exceptionally well groomed and wearing a cream-coloured Burberry raincoat. Haldayne had fair hair, so fine and thin you could see pink scalp beneath it. He was around forty, and wore glasses with tortoiseshell circular frames. His face was thin, his forehead bulbous and shiny.

  ‘Inspector Rebus?’ He shook Rebus’s hand, and Rebus motioned for him to sit.

  ‘Cold enough for you over here?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘I was brought up in Illinois.’ Haldayne slipped his coat off. ‘We got winters you wouldn’t believe.’ He shivered at the memory and chuckled again; it was becoming an annoying habit.

  Rebus had an annoying habit too: he kept poking the tip of his tongue into the hole in his tooth and trying to suck the poison out. He was getting to like that little bore-hole.

  ‘Do you know a Dr Keene?’ he asked the American.

  Haldayne made a sceptical mouth. ‘Care to give me a clue?’

  ‘He’s a dentist, and another of Derry Charters’ victims.’

  Haldayne sat back in his comfortable chair. ‘Took me for five biggies. That still hurts; I’m a diplomat, not a millionaire.’

  ‘What do you do at the consulate?’

  ‘I have an industry remit. In some countries that would be a two-way process, but there aren’t too many Scottish companies thinking of setting up plants in the US, so I tend to look after American companies who’re thinking of setting up here. It’s not as busy as it was.’ He looked left and right. ‘Waiting staff are slow.’

  ‘I’ve already ordered. I hope you don’t mind.’ Haldayne shrugged. ‘How did you come to know Derry Charters?’

  ‘I was introduced to him at a party. Can’t recall now who did the introducing . . .’

  ‘Can you remember whose party?’

  ‘Oh, it was some Scottish Office thing, that’s why I was there.’

  ‘And Mr Charters?’

  ‘Well, he was a businessman. How much do you know about him before his bust?’

  ‘Practically nothing,’ Rebus lied, wondering what tack Haldayne might take.

  ‘He ran a few companies, and ran them profitably. But he was always looking to expand. I think he just got bored, simple as that. He liked to set things up, get projects running, but after that he lost interest and started looking for something new. He was good at what he did, though; that’s why I wasn’t overcautious when he asked me to be a backer.’

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘Not really. When he was talking deals he was fine, but he wasn’t a social animal. I got the feeling normal polite conversation bored the hell out of him. He was a genuine product of the eighties, one of Lady Thatcher’s bulls.’

  The tray arrived, with cafetière and a plate of fruit scones with butter, jam and clotted cream.

  ‘Hey, this looks great, thank you,’ Haldayne said to the waiter. He immediately took over, putting the cups out, serving the coffee. While he was pouring, Rebus asked a question.

  ‘Ever heard of something or someone called Mensung?’

  ‘Run it by me again.’

  ‘Mensung.’

  Haldayne shook his head, and handed Rebus a cup and saucer. He hadn’t spilled a drop, hadn’t even paused while pouring.

  ‘If you help American companies, Mr Haldayne, does that mean you have dealings with Scottish Enterprise?’

  ‘All the time.’

  ‘And Locate in Scotland?’

  ‘I’ve had dealings with them all, Inspector. Thing is, you’re just beginning to establish a working relationship, then the government changes everything: changes the name, the rules, the players. SDA becomes Scottish Enterprise, HIDB becomes HIE, and I’ve got to start again from scratch, building up contacts, letting people know who I am.’

  ‘It’s a tough life.’

  ‘But somebody’s got to do it, right?’ Haldayne spread cream on to half a scone. ‘I love these pastries,’ he confided, before taking a huge bite.

  ‘You’ve been here a while?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Nine years, on and off. They did send me back to the States for a couple of years in the middle, but I wangled my way back over again. I love Scotland – my ancestors came from here.’

  ‘I heard a rumour once,’ Rebus said, ‘about a kind of Scottish mafia at the top of some US businesses, persuading people to locate in Scotland.’

  Haldayne wiped cream from his mouth with a napkin. ‘It happens,’ he said. ‘What can I say? It’s not illegal.’

  ‘What would be illegal, Mr Haldayne?’

  ‘Bribes, money changing hands.’

  ‘Companies can set up here very cheaply, can’t they?’

  ‘Some areas, some types of plant, sure. A lot of grant money swilling around, some from the European Community, some from British Government coffers.’

  ‘There was the DeLorean scandal,’ Rebus said.

  ‘But the guy did have a sensational car.’

  ‘And he took the British taxpayer for millions.’

  ‘You’d still have paid those taxes, Inspector. If DeLorean hadn’t taken them, some other guy would.’ Haldayne shrugged again. His expressions, whether vocal or physical, were always slightly exaggerated, slightly more than you’d get from a Scot.

  ‘So the Scottish mafia story is true?’

  ‘I’d guess so. I’m being as open with you as I can.’

  ‘I appreciate it, sir.’

  ‘Hey, you’re the one holding those parking tickets at my head.’ Another chuckle. ‘What kind of coffee is this?’

  ‘Decaf.’

  ‘It’s not bad actually, but I do miss that caffeine rush. Waiter!’ A teenager trotted over. ‘Can I have a double espresso? Thank you.’ Haldayne turned back to Rebus. ‘So what’s the story here, Inspector? We don’t seem to be talking about Derry Charters any more.’

  ‘Just part of an ongoing inquiry, sir. I’m not at liberty to –’

  ‘Well, that’s hardly fair, is it? Hardly British?’

  ‘You’re not in Britain now, Mr Haldayne.’

&nb
sp; ‘But I’ve told you mine, now you should tell me yours.’

  Rebus saw that Haldayne was having a good deal of fun at his expense. Suddenly he didn’t know how much of Haldayne’s story to believe. Lies usually came gift-wrapped in a thin tissue of truth. Rebus knew he would have to examine the wrappings later.

  ‘Come on, Inspector,’ Haldayne persisted. ‘You’re checking up on Derry, this much I know. But he’s still serving time, right? So what has he done – set up some paper company from his cell?’

  ‘Paper company?’

  ‘You know, one that exists only on paper.’ Haldayne came to an abrupt stop and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

  He’s stalling, thought Rebus. Why is he stalling? The espresso arrived, and Haldayne took a couple of appreciative mouthfuls, regaining his composure.

  ‘I came here in good faith, Inspector,’ he said at last. ‘I didn’t need to speak to a man who’s not here in his official capacity.’ Haldayne saw the look on Rebus’s face, and smiled. ‘I wanted to check that you were who you said you were. We US diplomats can’t be too careful these days. Your chief inspector told me you’re on official leave.’

  Rebus took a bite from his scone, saying nothing.

  ‘For a man on leave, Inspector, you sure as hell look busy to me.’ Haldayne finished his cup of sludge. ‘I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, but in fact it has been deeply frustrating.’ He started to push his arms back into the sleeves of his coat. ‘I don’t expect to be troubled by you again, Inspector. I sent a cheque off today to cover those parking fines. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no other reason for you to contact me.’

  ‘Who do you know who lives in Royal Circus?’

  Haldayne was disconcerted by the question. ‘In the New Town?’

  ‘That’s the only Royal Circus I know.’

  Haldayne made show of thinking about it. ‘Not a soul,’ he said brightly. ‘My superior might move in those kinds of circles, but not me.’

  ‘What kinds of circles?’

  But Haldayne wasn’t about to answer that. He got to his feet and made a little formal bow from the waist. ‘I hope you don’t mind picking up the tab, Inspector.’ Then he turned and walked away.

  Rebus let him go. He had plenty to think about, and plenty of coffee still to drink.

  27

  Rebus had two options: he could go home and wait for the Farmer or Gill to catch him; or he could go to St Leonard’s and get it done with. He chose the latter route.

  He’d been in the building less than three minutes before the Farmer spotted him.

  ‘My office – now.’

  Rebus noticed that the Farmer’s computer was up and running. It had taken over his desk. The photo of his family had been moved to the top of the filing-cabinet.

  ‘Getting to grips with it all right, sir?’ Rebus asked. But the Farmer was not to be deflected.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at? I ordered you to take a holiday!’

  ‘And I’m enjoying every minute, sir.’

  ‘Making a nuisance of yourself at a foreign consulate, that’s your idea of fun?’

  ‘I couldn’t afford to go abroad.’

  ‘The way you’re going, maybe you can’t afford not to.’

  ‘It was just a bit of unfinished business, sir.’

  ‘What sort of unfinished business?’

  ‘It’s not really a police matter, sir.’

  The Farmer glowered at him. ‘I hope to God that’s the truth, Inspector.’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die, sir.’

  ‘You’re one step from an official reprimand, two steps from suspension.’

  And three steps from heaven, Rebus thought. He told the Farmer he understood.

  In the main office, he checked for messages. There were half a dozen, stuck on to the screen of his new PanoTech computer. Around him he could hear the soft clack-clack of muffled keyboards. He stared at his own console as if it was an unfriendly visitor. His reflection stared back at him.

  Three of the messages were from Rory McAllister at the Scottish Office. Rebus picked up the telephone.

  ‘McAllister speaking.’

  ‘Mr McAllister, it’s John Rebus.’

  ‘Inspector, thanks for getting back to me.’ McAllister sounded relieved, but also edgy, not like himself.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Can we meet?’

  ‘Sure, but give me some idea –’

  ‘Calton Cemetery at one o’clock.’ The phone went dead.

  During the day, Calton Cemetery was more or less deserted. In summer, you’d get visitors looking for David Hume’s grave. The more knowledgeable or curious might seek out the resting places of the publisher Constable and David Allan the painter. There was a statue of Abraham Lincoln, too, if it hadn’t been sledgehammered by vandals.

  At one o’clock on a crisp winter’s day, nobody was interested in headstones. Such, at least, was Rebus’s first impression as he walked through the cemetery gate. But then he saw that a gentleman was perusing the monuments, using a black rolled umbrella as a walking-cane. What hair he had mixed black with silver, and was slicked back from the forehead. His face and ears were red, maybe just from the cold, and he wore a black woollen overcoat, belted at the waist.

  He saw Rebus, and gestured for him to join him. Rebus climbed the stone steps towards him.

  ‘Haven’t been here in years,’ the man said. His voice had been Scots once, before the inflexions and elisions had been milked out of it. ‘I take it you’re Rebus?’

  Rebus studied the man. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘McAllister’s not coming. I’m a colleague of his.’

  Close up, the man’s face was pockmarked and he had one slightly lazy eye. With his free hand, he played with the cashmere scarf tucked inside the collar of his coat.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Rebus asked. The man seemed both surprised and amused by the question’s bluntness.

  ‘My name’s Hunter.’ Something about the way he said this, and his whole bearing, told Rebus he wasn’t so much McAllister’s colleague as his superior.

  ‘Well, Mr Hunter, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m interested in your line of inquiry, Inspector.’

  ‘And what line is that, sir?’

  ‘You were asking certain questions of McAllister.’ A bus roared past, and Hunter raised his voice. ‘The line of those questions intrigues me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Because the Scottish Office likes to take an interest.’

  ‘In what exactly?’

  The bus gone, Hunter lowered his voice again. ‘I’ll be succinct. I’d prefer it, Inspector, if you would discontinue your present line of inquiry. I don’t believe it germane.’

  ‘You’d prefer it?’

  ‘There may be a conflict of interests.’ Hunter lifted the walnut handle of his umbrella until it rested under his chin. ‘Of course, I’m a civil servant and you are a policeman: it’s not for me to interfere with your business.’

  ‘Good of you, I’m sure.’

  ‘But we are both, are we not, servants of the State?’ Hunter swung the umbrella at some leaves on the ground. ‘All I can say to you at this point, Inspector, is that your inquiries may well interfere with longstanding investigations we are pursuing.’

  ‘I didn’t know investigation was part of the Scottish Office’s remit, Mr Hunter. Unless you’re talking about an internal inquiry?’

  ‘You are a clever man, Inspector, and I appeal to your intellect.’

  ‘To be honest, sir, you don’t appeal to me at all.’

  Hunter’s face darkened slightly. ‘Let’s not cross swords on this.’ He swung at more leaves.

  ‘Cooperation?’

  Hunter considered this. ‘Not yet. I’m afraid. The affair is confidential. But later, definitely. Full cooperation. What do you say?’ He held out his hand. ‘A gentleman’s agreement.’

  Rebus, knowing himself no gentleman, t
ook the hand, just to put Hunter’s mind at rest. The older man didn’t look relieved, just quietly pleased that negotiations had been bloodless and – in his eyes – successful. He turned to leave.

  ‘I’ll call you when I’ve something I can say,’ he told Rebus.

  ‘Mr Hunter? Why did you get McAllister to phone me? Why not just call yourself?’

  Hunter smiled with half his mouth. ‘What’s life without a little intrigue, Inspector?’ He negotiated the steps carefully, with a slight limp. Too proud to carry a cane, he used a brolly instead. Rebus waited half a minute, then walked quickly to the gate and peered along the street to the right. Hunter was walking along Waterloo Place as if he owned it. Rebus kept well behind him as he followed.

  It was a short walk, only as far as the Reichstag: St Andrew’s House. Which, Rebus recalled, was where the most senior Scottish Office bureaucrats did their business. He recalled, too, that it was built on the site of the old Calton Gaol. Rebus walked past the sooty building and crossed the road. He stood outside the old Royal High School, putative HQ for any Scottish Assembly that might come along. It was mothballed, and a lone protestor had taken up residence outside, his banners arguing for devolution and a Scottish Parliament.

  Rebus stared at St Andrew’s House for a couple of minutes, then walked back along Waterloo Place to where he’d illegally parked his car. It had received a ticket, but he could square that later. Over the years, he’d collected more tickets than Haldayne, a wheen more. Do as I say, he thought, not as I do. There had been other ‘fringe benefits’ along the way, too: cafés and restaurants where he ate for free, bars where his money was no good, a baker who’d slip him a dozen rolls. He wouldn’t call himself corrupt, but there were some out there who’d say he’d been bribed, or greased for a future bribe. There were those who’d say he’d been bought.

  Do as I say, not as I do. And with that he tore up the parking ticket.

  Back at his flat, Rebus got out all the information he had on the Scottish Office. He didn’t find the name Hunter anywhere. The documents were shy about naming names where civil servants were involved, though happy to trumpet the names of the incumbent Secretary of State, Minister of State, and Parliamentary Under-Secretaries, all of whom were either MPs or held seats in the House of Lords. As McAllister had explained, these were the temporary boys, the figureheads. When it came to the permanent force – the senior civil servants – Rebus found only silence and anonymity: modesty, he wondered, or discretion? Or maybe something else entirely.