10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Not allowed,’ one guard snapped.

  ‘Don’t worry, Strawman,’ Cafferty said. ‘I’ve plenty of hooch, this place is practically swimming in the stuff. It’s the thought that counts, eh?’

  Rebus dropped the bottle back into his pocket.

  ‘I take it you’ve a favour to ask?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cafferty crossed his legs, utterly at ease. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You know Joseph Toal?’

  ‘Everyone and their dog knows Uncle Joe.’

  ‘Yes, but you know him.’

  ‘So?’ There was an edge to Cafferty’s smile.

  ‘I want you to phone him, get him to speak to me.’

  Cafferty considered the request. ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to ask him about Anthony Kane.’

  ‘Tony E1? I thought he was dead.’

  ‘He left his prints at a murder scene in Niddrie.’ Never mind what the boss said, Rebus was treating this as murder. And he knew the word would make more of an impression on Cafferty. It did. His lips rounded into an O, and he whistled.

  ‘That was stupid of him. Tony E1 didn’t used to be so stupid. And if he was still working for Uncle Joe . . . There could be fallout.’ Rebus knew that connections were being made in Cafferty’s mind, and they all led to Joseph Toal becoming his Barlinnie neighbour. There would be reasons for Cafferty to want Toal inside: old scores, debts unpaid, territory encroached. There were always old scores to be settled. Cafferty came to his decision.

  ‘You’ll need to get me a phone.’

  Rebus got up, walked over to the guard who’d barked ‘Not allowed’, slipped the whisky into the man’s pocket.

  ‘We need to get him a phone,’ he said.

  They marched Cafferty left and right through corridors until they reached a payphone. They’d had to pass through three sets of gates.

  ‘This is as near to the outside as I’ve been in a while,’ Cafferty joked.

  The guards weren’t laughing. Rebus provided the money for the call.

  ‘Now,’ said Cafferty, ‘let’s see if I remember . . .’ He winked at Rebus, pressed seven digits, waited.

  ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Who’s that?’ He listened to the name. ‘Never heard of you. Listen, tell Uncle Joe that Big Ger wants a word. Just tell him that.’ He waited, glanced at Rebus, licked his lips. ‘He says what? Tell him I’m phoning from the Bar-L and money’s short.’

  Rebus pushed another coin home.

  ‘Well,’ Cafferty growing angry, ‘tell him he’s got a tattoo on his back.’ He covered the mouthpiece. ‘Not something Uncle Joe goes blabbing about.’

  Rebus got as close as he could to the earpiece, heard a dull rasp of a voice.

  ‘Morris Gerald Cafferty, is that you? I thought someone was winding me up.’

  ‘Hello, Uncle Joe. How’s business?’

  ‘Loupin’. Who’s listening in?’

  ‘At the last count, three monkeys and a dick.’

  ‘You always liked an audience, that was your problem.’

  ‘Sound advice, Uncle Joe, but years too late.’

  ‘So what do they want?’ They: Rebus the dick and the three monkey guards.

  ‘The dick’s from Edinburgh CID, he wants to come talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Tony El.’

  ‘What’s to tell? Tony hasn’t worked for me in a twelvemonth.’

  ‘Then tell the nice policeman that. Seems Tony’s been up to his old tricks. There’s a cold one in Edinburgh, and Tony’s prints on the scene.’

  A low growl: human.

  ‘You got a dog there, Uncle Joe?’

  ‘Tell the cop I don’t have anything to do with Tony.’

  ‘I think he wants to hear it for himself.’

  ‘Then put him on.’

  Cafferty looked to Rebus, who shook his head.

  ‘And he wants to look you in the eye while you’re telling him.’

  ‘Is he a poof or what?’

  ‘He’s old school, Uncle Joe. You’ll like him.’

  ‘Why did he come to you?’

  ‘I’m his Last Chance Saloon.’

  ‘And why the fuck did you agree?’

  Cafferty didn’t miss a beat. ‘A half-bottle of usquebaugh.’

  ‘Jesus, the Bar-L must be drier than I thought.’ The voice not so rough.

  ‘Send a whole bottle over and I’ll tell him to go fuck himself.’

  A croaky laugh. ‘Christ, Cafferty, I miss you. How long to go?’

  ‘Ask my lawyers.’

  ‘Are you still keeping your hand in?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s what I hear.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with your hearing.’

  ‘Send the bastard over, tell him he gets five minutes. Maybe I’ll come see you one of these days.’

  ‘Better not, Uncle Joe, when visiting time ends they might have misplaced the key.’

  More laughter. The line went dead. Cafferty put down the receiver.

  ‘You owe me, Strawman,’ he growled, ‘so here’s my favour: put that old bastard away.’

  But Rebus was already walking towards freedom.

  The car was waiting for him, Morton keeping his word. Rebus gave the address he’d memorised from the Toal files. He was sitting in the back, two woolly suits in the front. The passenger turned in his seat.

  ‘Isn’t that where Uncle Joe lives?’

  Rebus nodded. The woolly suits exchanged a look.

  ‘Just get me there,’ Rebus ordered.

  The traffic was heavy, people heading home. Elastic Glasgow, stretching in four directions. The housing scheme, when they reached it, was much like any scheme its size in Edinburgh: grey pebbledash, barren play areas, tarmac and a smattering of fortified shops. Kids on bikes stopping to watch the car, eyes as keen as sentries’; brisk baby buggies, shapeless mothers with dyed blonde hair. Further into the estate, driving slowly: people watching from behind their windows, men at pavement corners, muttered confabs. A city within a city, uniform and enervating, energy sapped, nothing left but obstinacy: the words NO SURRENDER on a gable-end, a message from Ulster just as relevant here.

  ‘Are you expected?’ the driver asked.

  ‘I’m expected.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that at least.’

  ‘Any other patrol cars around?’

  The passenger laughed nervously. ‘This is the frontier, sir. The frontier has a way of keeping its own law and order.’

  ‘If you had his money,’ the driver said, ‘would you live here?’

  ‘He was born here,’ Rebus said. ‘And I believe his house is a bit special.’

  ‘Special?’ The driver snorted. ‘Well, judge for yourself.’

  He brought the car to a stop at the entrance to a cul-de-sac. Rebus saw at the end of the cul-de-sac two houses which stood out from their neighbours for a single reason: they boasted stone cladding.

  ‘One of those?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Pick either door.’

  Rebus got out of the car, leaned back in. ‘Don’t you dare drive away.’ He slammed his door shut and walked up the cul-de-sac. He chose the left-hand of the two identical semi-detacheds. The door was opened from within, and an oversized man in a bulging T-shirt ushered him in.

  ‘You the rozzer?’ They were standing in a cramped hallway. Rebus nodded. ‘Through there.’

  Rebus opened the door to the living room, and did a double-take. The connecting wall between the two semis had been knocked through, providing a double-sized living space, open plan. The room also went further back than should have been feasible. Rebus was reminded of Dr Who’s Tardis, and, alone in the room, walked towards the back of the house. A large extension had been added, including a sizeable conservatory. This should have minimised the space left for a garden, but the lawn outside was plentiful. There were playing-fields backing on to the house, and Rebus saw that Uncle Joe had taken a chunk out of these fields for his garden.r />
  Planning permission, of course, was out of the question.

  But then who needed planning permission?

  ‘I hope your ears don’t need cleaning,’ a voice said. Rebus turned and saw that a small, stooped man had entered the room. He held a cigarette in one hand, while his other was busy with a walking-stick. He shuffled in carpet slippers towards a well-used armchair and fell into it, hands gripping the greasy anti-macassars, walking-stick lying across his lap.

  Rebus had seen photographs of the man, but they hadn’t prepared him for the reality. Joseph Toal really did look like someone’s uncle. He was in his seventies, stocky, with the hands and face of a one-time coalminer. His forehead was all rippled flesh, and his thin grey hair was swept back and Brylcreemed. His jaw was square, eyes watery, and his glasses hung from a string around his neck. When he raised the cigarette to his lips, Rebus saw nicotine fingers, bruised ingrown nails. He was wearing a shapeless cardigan over an equally shapeless sports shirt. The cardigan was patched, loose threads hanging from it. His trousers were brown and baggy, stained at the knees.

  ‘Nothing wrong with my ears,’ Rebus said, coming forward.

  ‘Good, because I’ll say it only once.’ He sniffed, controlling his breathing. ‘Anthony Kane worked for me twelve, thirteen years, not all the time – short-term contracts. But then a year ago, maybe a little over, he told me he was walking, wanted to be his own boss. We parted on amicable terms, I haven’t seen him since.’

  Rebus gestured to a chair. Toal nodded to let him know he could sit. Rebus took his time getting comfortable.

  ‘Mr Toal –’

  ‘Everybody calls me Uncle Joe.’

  ‘As in Stalin?’

  ‘You think that’s a new joke, son? Ask your question.’

  Go: ‘What was Tony planning to do when he left your employ?’

  ‘He didn’t go into specifics. Our parting conversation was . . . curt.’

  Rebus nodded. He was thinking: I had an uncle who looked very much like you; I can’t even remember his name.

  ‘Well, if that’s everything . . .’ Toal made a show of starting to rise.

  ‘Do you remember Bible John, Uncle Joe?’

  Toal frowned, understanding the question but not its intent. He reached down to the floor for an ashtray, stubbed his cigarette into it. ‘I remember fine. Hundreds of coppers on the street, it was bad for business. We cooperated a hundred per cent, I had men out hunting the bugger for months. Months! And now this new bastard turns up.’

  ‘Johnny Bible?’

  Pointing to himself: ‘I’m a businessman. The slaughter of innocents sickens me. I’ve had all my taxi drivers –’ he paused – ‘I have interests in a local taxi firm – and I’ve instructed every single driver: keep your eyes peeled and your ears open.’ He was breathing heavily. ‘If anything comes to me, it’ll go straight to the cops.’

  ‘Very public spirited.’

  Toal shrugged. ‘The public is my business.’ Another pause, a frown. ‘What’s all this to do with Tony El?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Toal looked unconvinced. ‘Call it tangential. Is it OK to smoke?’

  ‘You’re not staying long enough to enjoy it.’

  Rebus lit up anyway, staying put. ‘Where did Tony El go?’

  ‘He didn’t send a postcard.’

  ‘You must have some idea.’

  Toal thought about it, when he shouldn’t have needed to. ‘Somewhere south, I think. Maybe London. He had friends down there.’

  ‘London?’

  Toal wouldn’t look at Rebus. He shook his head. ‘I heard he headed south.’

  Rebus stood up.

  ‘Is it that time already?’ Toal showed effort getting to his feet, steadying himself with the walking-stick. ‘And here we were just getting to know one another. How’s Edinburgh these days? Know what we used to say about it? Fur coat and nae knickers, that’s Edinburgh.’ A hacking laugh turned into a hacking cough. Toal gripped the walking-stick with both hands, knees almost buckling.

  Rebus waited until he’d finished. The old man’s face was puce, sweat breaking out. ‘That may be true,’ he said, ‘but I don’t see too many fur coats around here, never mind the knickers.’

  Toal’s face broke into a grin, showing yellow dentures. ‘Cafferty said I’d like you, and you know what?’

  ‘What?’

  The grin turned to a scowl. ‘He was wrong. And now I’ve seen you, I’m wondering more than ever why he sent you here. Not just for the price of a half-bottle, not even Cafferty’s that cheap. You better get yourself back to Edinburgh, laddie. And take care of yourself, I hear it’s not as safe as it used to be.’

  Rebus walked to the far end of the living room, deciding to leave by the other front door. There was a staircase next to it, and someone came bounding down, nearly colliding with him. A big man in bad clothes, a face that said he wasn’t too bright, arms tattooed with thistles and pipers. He’d be about twenty-five, and Rebus recognised him from the photos in the file: Mad Malky Toal, a.k.a. ‘Stanley’. Joseph Toal’s wife had died in childbirth, too old really to be having kids. But their first two had died, one in infancy, one in a car smash. So now there was only Stanley, heir apparent, and towards the back of the queue when the IQs were being divvied.

  He gave Rebus a long look, full of grudge and threat, then loped towards his father. He was wearing the trousers from a pinstripe suit with T-shirt, white socks, trainers – Rebus had yet to meet a gangster with dress sense: they spent money, but with no style – and his face sported half a dozen good-sized warts.

  ‘Hey, Da, I’ve lost my keys to the beamer, where’s the spare set?’

  Rebus let himself out, relieved to see that the patrol car was still there. Boys were circling it on bikes, a cherokee party with scalps on their minds. Leaving the cul-de-sac, Rebus checked the cars: a nice new Rover; BMW 3 Series; an older Merc, one of the big ones, and a couple of less serious contenders. Had it been a used car lot, he’d have kept his money and looked elsewhere.

  He squeezed between two bikes, opened the back door, got in. The driver started the engine. Rebus looked back to where Stanley was making for the BMW, bouncing on his heels.

  ‘Now,’ the passenger said, ‘before we leave, have you counted that you still have all your fingers and toes?’

  ‘West end,’ Rebus said, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes. He needed another drink.

  The Horseshoe Bar first, a jolt of malt, and then outside for a taxi. He told the driver he wanted Langside Place in Battlefield. From the moment he’d walked into the Bible John room, he’d known he would make this trip. He could have had the patrol car take him, but didn’t want to have to explain his interest.

  Langside Place was where Bible John’s first victim had lived. She’d worked as a nurse, lived with her parents. Her father looked after her small son while she went out dancing. Rebus knew her original destination had been the Majestic Ballroom in Hope Street, but somewhere along the way she’d decided on the Barrowland instead. If only she’d stuck to her first choice. What force had nudged her towards the Barrowland? Could you just call it fate and be done with it?

  He told the driver to wait, got out of the cab and walked up and down the street. Her body had been found nearby, outside a garage in Carmichael Lane, clothing and handbag missing. Police had spent a lot of time and effort searching for them. They’d also done their best to interview people who’d been at the Barrowland that night, only there was a problem: Thursday night there was notorious. It was Over Twenty-fives night, and a lot of married men and women went, leaving spouses and wedding rings behind. A lot of people shouldn’t have been there, and made unwilling material as witnesses.

  The taxi’s engine was still running – and so was its meter. Rebus didn’t know what he’d expected to find here, but he was still glad he’d come. It was hard to look at the street and see the year 1968, hard to get any feel for that era. Everything and everyone had changed.

  He
knew the second address: Mackeith Street, where the second victim had lived and died. Here was one thing about Bible John: he’d taken the victims so close to their homes, a sign either of confidence or indecision. By August 1969 police had all but given up the initial investigation, and the Barrowland was thriving again. It was a Saturday night, and the victim left her three children with her sister, who lived across the landing. In those days, Mackeith Street was tenements, but as the taxi reached its destination Rebus saw terraced housing, satellite dishes. The tenements had long gone; in 1969 they’d been awaiting demolition, many of them empty. She’d been found in one of the derelict buildings, strangled with her tights. Some of her things were missing, including her handbag. Rebus didn’t get out of the taxi, didn’t see the point. His driver turned to him.

  ‘Bible John, is it?’

  Surprised, Rebus nodded. The driver lit a cigarette. He’d be about fifty, thick curling grey hair, his face ruddy, a boyish gleam to the blue eyes.

  ‘See,’ he said, ‘I was a cabbie back then as well. Never really seem to have got out the rut.’

  Rebus remembered the box-file with ‘Taxi Firms’ on its spine. ‘Did the police question you?’

  ‘Oh aye, but it was more that they wanted us to be on the lookout, you know, in case we ever got him in the back. But he looked like any other punter, there were dozens fit the description. We almost had a few lynchings. They had to give out cards to some of them: “This man is not Bible John”, signed by the Chief Constable.’

  ‘What do you think happened to him?’

  ‘Ach, who knows? At least he stopped, that’s the main thing, eh?’

  ‘If he stopped,’ Rebus said quietly. The third address was Earl Street in Scotstoun, the victim’s body found on Hallowe’en. The sister, who had accompanied the victim all evening, had painted a very full picture of that night: the bus to Glasgow Cross, the walk up the Gallowgate . . . shops they stopped at . . . drinks in the Traders’ Tavern . . . then the Barrowland. They both met men called John. The two men didn’t seem to hit it off. One went to catch a bus, the other stayed, sharing their taxi. Talking. It gnawed at Rebus, as it had at so many before him: why would Bible John leave such a good witness behind? Why had he gone on to kill his third victim, knowing her sister would be able to draw such a vivid portrait of him: his clothes, what he’d talked about, his overlapping front teeth? Why had he been so reckless? Had he been taunting the police, or was there some other reason? Maybe he was heading away from Glasgow, so could afford this casual exit. But heading where? Somewhere his description would mean nothing – Australia, Canada, the USA?