10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’ Davidson asked. He’d come over to the sofa to look at the diary.

  ‘The Lord Provost,’ Mrs Gillespie explained. ‘They kept meeting for lunch. I remember because Tom had to have his suits dry cleaned; he had to look his smartest for the Lord Provost.’

  ‘He didn’t tell you why they were meeting so often?’ Rebus had taken the diary from her and was flipping through it. There were no meetings with ‘CK’ until October, after which they took place once a week at least.

  ‘Tom hinted there might be a good job in it come reorganisation. He’s in the same political party as the Lord Provost.’

  ‘This is interesting,’ Rebus said, sitting back, the better to peruse the diary.

  Davidson had some questions to ask – the usual ones – so Rebus excused himself. He found Helena Profitt seated at the kitchen table, tugging at a lace handkerchief.

  ‘Terrible thing,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rebus, sitting down opposite her. He thought of Charters’ ‘subtlety’, and the way Davidson had confronted the widow, and still he couldn’t find an easy way to ask what he wanted to ask. ‘Miss Profitt, this may not be the time . . .’ She looked at him. ‘But I was wondering if you knew . . . that is, if you had any suspicion that Mrs Gillespie and her husband . . .?’

  ‘You mean,’ she said softly, ‘what was their marriage like?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her face turned stony. ‘That’s despicable.’

  ‘This is a murder inquiry, Miss Profitt. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed your sensibilities, but questions must be asked. The sooner I ask them, the sooner we may catch the killer.’

  She thought that over. ‘You’re right. I suppose. But it’s still despicable.’

  ‘Was Mrs Gillespie having an affair?’

  Helena Profitt didn’t say anything. She rose from the table and buttoned her coat.

  ‘All right,’ Rebus said, ‘what about the Lord Provost? Did Councillor Gillespie tell you why they kept meeting?’

  ‘Tom told me he had to brief him.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘He didn’t say. Something to do with the Industry Committee, I expect. Is that all, Inspector?’

  Rebus nodded, and Helena Profitt walked out of the kitchen. He heard the front door open and close. I handled that beautifully, he thought.

  He got back to the living room just as Davidson was closing his notebook and thanking Audrey Gillespie for her time.

  ‘Not at all,’ the widow replied, polite to the last.

  Rebus and Davidson sat in the car outside, talking things over. They were pulling away when Rebus saw another car cruising the street, seeking a parking space. It was a sporty Toyota the colour of ashes.

  ‘Stop for a second,’ Rebus said. He adjusted the rearview mirror so he could watch the Toyota manoeuvre into a space. Its door opened and Rory McAllister got out, looking anxious. He locked the car, tidied his hair, and side-stepped puddles on his way to Audrey Gillespie’s front door.

  Rebus took Davidson to Arden Street and up the two flights to his flat.

  ‘Got something for you,’ he said, pointing to the binbags in the hall.

  Davidson stared in amazement. ‘The shredded documents?’ Rebus nodded. ‘I won’t ask how you came by them.’

  ‘Mrs Gillespie isn’t going to kick up a fuss, especially if they help us find the killer.’

  ‘I’m thinking what a defence lawyer could do with them.’

  ‘I can think up a story between now and then.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do with them?’

  ‘You’re heading a murder investigation, Davidson. The identities of whoever planned Gillespie’s murder are in there. So take them back to Torphichen Place and get a team working on reassembling the pages.’

  ‘I can’t see my boss going for it; we’re short-handed as it is. Can’t you take them to St Leonard’s?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Know why? I don’t know who I can trust, and the last thing I want is for these bags to be conveniently mislaid. So: you tell no one what all this paper is, and you tell no one where you got it. When you’ve put together the jigsaw, I’ll bet you’ll have names and motives. Come on, I’ll help you load your car.’

  ‘Generous to a fault,’ said Davidson, picking up one of the bags.

  They drove to the mortuary to talk with Professor Gates, but he was eating lunch in the university Staff Club, so they climbed up from the Cowgate to Chambers Street.

  Rebus had been in the Staff Club before, and knew that if you looked like you belonged, you could breeze in. But the porter came out to stop them, so maybe they didn’t look the academic type. Rebus showed his ID, and that made everything all right again.

  Gates was dining alone, a newspaper folded on the table beside his plate. A half-bottle of wine and a bottle of water stood in front of him.

  ‘What brings you here?’ he said as they sat down. ‘You’re not eating?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Davidson said.

  ‘A drink maybe,’ Rebus prompted.

  ‘I can recommend the water,’ Gates said, protecting his wine.

  They decided on beer, which the waitress would bring from the bar.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ the pathologist asked, dissecting a last floury potato.

  ‘Just wondered if you’d anything for us.’

  ‘On last night’s stabbing? Give me a chance, will you? Have you located the murder weapon?’

  ‘No,’ Davidson admitted. ‘We didn’t find any footprints either. The ground in the cemetery was frozen.’

  ‘Well, it was a long-bladed knife, serrated by the look of the skin around the wound. And that’s about as much as I can say for now. The victim had tried to protect himself, there were defence nicks on the hands. Plus he’d been eating something greasy. There was grease on his fingers.’

  Rebus looked at Davidson. ‘Did you find any wrappings near the body?’

  ‘Nothing fresh. What’s your point?’

  ‘Gillespie ate a big meal at eight – chicken casserole, two helpings. Do you think he ate it with his fingers?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘So how come less than three hours later he decides to visit a chip shop?’ Rebus turned to the pathologist. ‘When you look at stomach contents, I’m willing to bet you won’t find anything but chicken casserole.’

  ‘I did think,’ the pathologist said, ‘that it was odd. I mean, most people would wipe their fingers afterwards. But this grease or lard, it was quite solid.’

  Which told Rebus everything he needed to know.

  35

  It was still lunchtime when Rebus walked into the chip shop on Easter Road, and two men in jackets and ties queued behind a teenager in a thin parka with the stuffing bursting from its seams: Rebus waited at the back of the queue, and smiled and waved towards the server, who didn’t return the greeting.

  Finally it was Rebus’s turn. ‘Hello, Gerry.’ Gerry Dip wiped the work surface where some sauce had spilt. ‘Remember me?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Rebus leaned over the counter. ‘I want to know where you were last night between the hours of nine p.m. and eleven, and it better be the alibi to end them all.’

  ‘What for?’ Gerry Dip said.

  Rebus just smiled. ‘Come on, let’s go for a ride.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m here on my own.’

  ‘Then switch everything off and we’ll lock the door after us, maybe put up a sign saying “Other fish to fry”.’

  Gerry Dip bent down as if reaching for a switch, and then flicked something across the counter at Rebus. It was a battered fish, straight out of the fat. Rebus ducked and it flew over his head, fat spattering him. Gerry Dip was on the move, shouldering open the door to the kitchen. Rebus ran around the counter and followed. In the kitchen, Dip had hauled a sack of potatoes on to its side and was already halfway out the back door. Rebus stumbled over the potatoes, dived and just misse
d Dip’s ankles. He clambered to his feet and ran outside, finding himself in an alley. To his left was a dead end. To his right, Gerry Dip, running for it, the white apron flapping around his knees.

  ‘Stop him!’ Rebus yelled.

  Davidson didn’t need telling twice. He was waiting at the mouth of the alley, hands in pockets like a casual onlooker. But as Dip ran past, he flung out an arm and caught him in the throat. Dip flew back like he was attached by elastic to the ground. His hands went to his throat and he started gagging.

  ‘You could have crushed his windpipe,’ Rebus said, but not in a nasty sort of way.

  At four p.m., with Gerry Dip still maintaining his vow of silence in the interview room, Rebus went for a drive.

  Gerry was an old hand: he knew how to play the game called Helping Police With Their Inquiries. He’d keep quiet, with or without a solicitor. All he’d said so far was that this was harassment, and that he wanted to talk to someone from SWEEP. It would take more than Rebus’s gut feeling to convict him of murder. There must needs be evidence. Rebus had explained to Davidson the complex series of connections which had brought Gerry Dip to mind. Now it was up to Davidson to convince his superiors that there was due cause for the granting of a search warrant for Gerry Dip’s digs and the chip shop itself. The chip shop’s owner had already explained that Gerry hadn’t had a shift the previous night. Rebus saw it all clearly. A meeting arranged, Gillespie turning up, Gerry Dip surprising him, Gillespie trying to defend himself from the attack, grabbing at Dip’s greasy shirt or jacket . . .

  One thing nagged: Gerry Dip alone couldn’t have lured Gillespie into the trap. There must have been someone else, someone he trusted, someone he wanted to meet . . .

  The Right Honourable Cameron McLeod Kennedy, JP, had a detached bungalow in what would have tried calling itself Corstorphine had South Gyle not taken off. The houses were descendants of the boxy bungalows on Queensferry Road. There weren’t many cars parked roadside; most of the bungalows boasted a garage, or at the very least a car-port. Rebus parked outside the Lord Provost’s home. The door was open before he had reached the garden gate. The Lord Provost stood in the doorway, his wife a little behind him.

  ‘You were so mysterious on the phone,’ Kennedy said, shaking Rebus’s hand. ‘Is there any news?’

  ‘The Lord will do as He sees fit,’ his wife burst out, the voice booming from her heavy frame. The Lord Provost ushered her back indoors and led Rebus to the front sitting room.

  ‘I’ve seen her,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Where is she?’ Mrs Kennedy snapped. Rebus studied her. She had wide unblinking eyes and small pudgy hands which she’d rolled into fists. Her hair had been coaxed into an untidy bun, and her cheeks blazed. Rebus guessed at West Highland stock; it wasn’t a wild stab in the dark to say she’d had a religious upbringing. For zeal, some of the Wee Frees could beat any Muslim Fundamentalists.

  ‘She’s safe, Mrs Kennedy.’

  ‘I know that! I’ve prayed for her, of course she’s safe. I’ve been praying for her soul.’

  ‘Beth, please . . .’

  ‘I’ve prayed harder than I’ve ever prayed in my life.’

  Rebus looked around the room. The furniture had been positioned with exact precision on the carpet, and the ornaments looked like the distances between them had been calibrated by a professional. Net curtains covered the two small windows. There were photos of young children, but none of anyone aged twelve or over. Hard to imagine a teenager passing her evenings here.

  ‘Inspector,’ Cameron Kennedy said, ‘I haven’t asked you if you’d like something to drink.’

  Rebus guessed that alcohol would not be on the list. ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘We’ve ginger cordial left from New Year,’ Mrs Kennedy barked.

  ‘Thanks, but no. The thing is, sir, I’m not here primarily about your daughter. I’d like to talk to you about Tom Gillespie.’

  ‘Terrible business,’ the Lord Provost said.

  ‘May the good Lord take his soul unto Him in heaven,’ his wife added.

  ‘I wonder,’ Rebus said pointedly, ‘if we might have a word in private.’

  Kennedy looked to his wife, who didn’t look like moving. Finally, with a sniff, she turned and left. Rebus heard a radio come on through the wall.

  ‘A terrible business,’ the Lord Provost repeated, sitting down and gesturing for Rebus to do the same.

  ‘But it didn’t come altogether as a surprise, did it?’

  The Lord Provost looked up. ‘Of course it did!’

  ‘You knew the councillor was playing with fire.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘There’d already been that one attempt to scare him off,’ Rebus smiled. ‘I know what Gillespie was on to, and I know he approached you with the information, and made frequent progress reports thereafter.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Your little lunchtime meetings, we’ve records of them. He knew you’d be interested. For one thing, you’re the Lord Provost. For another, his findings related directly to Gyle Park West, which is in your ward. I don’t know what Gillespie’s idea was. If I were being charitable, I’d say he was working in the public interest and would eventually have gone public with his findings. But really, I think he was trying to pressure you into helping further his career. It could be that his findings would never have come to light, but somebody couldn’t be sure of that. Somebody tried scaring him, then decided to murder him instead.’

  The Lord Provost sprang to his feet. ‘You surely don’t think I killed him?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I could convince my colleagues that you’re a prime suspect. You’d have to explain the secret meetings and everything else.’

  The Lord Provost’s eyes narrowed, his eyebrows meeting in the middle. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘I want you to tell me all about it.’

  ‘You say you already know.’

  ‘But I’ve yet to hear anyone say the words.’

  The Lord Provost considered, then shook his head.

  ‘Does that mean,’ Rebus said, ‘that your ward is more important than your own reputation?’

  ‘I can’t say anything.’

  ‘Because PanoTech’s involved?’

  Kennedy’s face contracted as if he’d been punched. ‘It’s got nothing to do with PanoTech. That company is one of the largest employers in Lothian. We need it, Inspector.’

  ‘If it has nothing to do with PanoTech, does it still have to do with Robbie Mathieson?’

  ‘I can’t say anything.’

  ‘Who’s Dalgety? Why does he scare you so much? Kirstie told me she heard you talking about him with someone. And when you saw she’d written his name on the LABarum plan, you suddenly didn’t want her found.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m saying nothing!’

  ‘In that case,’ Rebus said, ‘I won’t trouble you any further.’ He stood up. ‘I’m sure you’ve got plenty to keep you busy, such as writing your speech of resignation.’ He walked to the door.

  ‘Inspector . . .’ Rebus turned. ‘About Kirstie . . . is she all right?’

  Rebus walked back into the room. ‘Would you like to see her?’ The Lord Provost seemed in two minds. Weakness was there to be exploited. ‘I could bring her here, but it would have to be a trade.’

  ‘You don’t “trade” with an innocent life!’

  ‘Not so innocent, sir. I could think up half a dozen charges against your daughter, and between you and me I’d be failing in my duty if I didn’t apprehend her and put her in a cell.’

  The Lord Provost turned away and walked to the window. ‘You know, Inspector, I’m no virgin, believe me. You want dirty tricks, underhand tactics, there’s a lot you can learn from politics, even at district level . . . especially at district level.’ Kennedy paused. ‘You say you can bring her here?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then do it.’

  ‘And we’ll have a little chat, you and me? You’ll tell me what
I want to know?’

  The Lord Provost turned to face him. ‘I’ll tell you,’ he said, his face ashen.

  They shook hands on it, and the Lord Provost saw him to the door. Somewhere behind them in the bungalow, Mrs Kennedy was singing a hymn.

  So all Rebus had to do now was persuade Kirstie Kennedy that east or west, home was still the best.

  Rebus went to her flat first, but there was no one home. He tried a couple of the drop-in centres, including the one behind Waverley – no joy – then started on the burger bars on Princes Street before driving back to Leith and visiting three pubs where pushers and users were known to meet. Nothing. He took a breather in a bar where he was less likely to get himself stabbed, then went to have a word with the few chilled prostitutes plying their trade near the Inner Harbour. One of them thought she recognised the description, but she could have been lying: it was warmer in his car than outside.

  Then Rebus remembered something Kirstie had said, about how Paul’s mum liked her. So he drove to Paul’s parents’ address. Duggan was embarrassed to see him, but his mother, a tiny, kindly woman, invited Rebus in.

  ‘No night to be yacking on the doorstep.’

  It was a tidy little flat just off Abbeyhill. Duggan gave Rebus a warning look as he led him, at his mother’s insistence, into the living room. Duggan’s dad was there, smoking a pipe and reading the paper. He stood up to shake Rebus’s hand. He was small, like his wife. So here was the arch criminal, Paul Duggan, in his lair.

  ‘Paul’s not in any trouble, I hope,’ the father asked, teeth grinning around the stem of his pipe.

  ‘Not at all, Mr Duggan, I’m just looking for a friend of Paul’s.’

  ‘Well, Paul will help if he can, won’t you, Paul?’

  ‘Aye, sure,’ Paul Duggan mumbled.

  ‘It’s Kirstie,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Kirstie?’ Mr Duggan said. ‘That name’s familiar.’

  ‘Maybe Paul’s brought her back here once or twice, Mr Duggan.’

  ‘Well, Inspector, he does sometimes bring a girlfriend back – but not for hanky-panky, mind you.’ He winked. ‘We keep an eye on him.’

  The two men shared a laugh. Paul Duggan was shrinking almost visibly, bowed over on the sofa, hands between his legs. The years were peeling off him like paper from a damp wall.