10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Halfway to Earl Street, Rebus said he’d changed his mind and directed his driver to the ‘Marine’ instead. The old Partick station – which had been the heart of the Bible John inquiry – was empty and near-derelict. It was still possible to gain access to the building if you unlocked the padlocks, and no doubt kids had found they could get in without undoing any locks at all. But all Rebus did was sit outside and stare. A lot of men were taken to the Marine, questioned, and put in a line-up. There were five hundred formal identity parades, and many more informal ones. Joe Beattie and the third victim’s sister would stand there and concentrate on faces, physiques, speech. Then there’d be a shake of the head, and Joe would be back to square one.

  ‘You’ll want to see the Barrowland next, eh?’ his driver said. Rebus shook his head. He’d had enough. The Barrowland wouldn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.

  ‘Do you know a bar called The Lobby?’ he said instead. The driver nodded. ‘Let’s go there then.’

  He paid off the cabbie, adding a fiver as a tip, and asked for a receipt.

  ‘No receipts, sorry, pal.’

  ‘You don’t happen to work for Joe Toal, do you?’

  The man glared at him. ‘Never heard of him.’ Then he shifted into first and sped off.

  Inside The Lobby, Ancram was standing at the bar, looking relaxed, the focus of a lot of attention: two men and two women in a huddle around him. The bar was full of after-work suits, careerists plotting furtively, women on the scent.

  ‘Inspector, what’ll it be?’

  ‘My shout.’ He pointed to Ancram’s glass, then to the others, but Ancram laughed.

  ‘You don’t buy them drinks, they’re journos.’

  ‘It’s my round anyway,’ one of the women said. ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘My mother told me never to accept drinks from strangers.’

  She smiled: lip gloss, eye-shadow, tired face trying for enthusiasm. ‘Jennifer Drysdale.’ Rebus knew why she was tired: it was hard work acting like ‘one of the boys’. Mairie Henderson had told him about it – the pattern was changing only slowly; a lot of surface gloss about equality sloshed over the same old wallpaper.

  Jeff Beck on the sound system: ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’. Stupid lyric, and a hook that had lasted two decades and more. It comforted him that a place with The Lobby’s pretensions should still cling to old hooks.

  ‘Actually,’ Ancram was saying, ‘we should be making tracks. Right, John?’

  ‘Right.’ The use of his first name a hint: Ancram wanted out.

  The reporters didn’t look so happy any more. They flung questions at Ancram: Johnny Bible. They wanted a story, any story.

  ‘I would if I could, but there’s nothing to give.’ Ancram had his hands up, trying to placate the foursome. Rebus saw that someone had placed a recording Walkman on top of the bar.

  ‘Anything,’ one of the men said. He even glanced towards Rebus, but Rebus was staying out of it.

  ‘If you want a story,’ Ancram said, pushing through the bodies, ‘get yourselves a psychic detective. Thanks for the drinks.’

  Outside, the smile fell from Ancram’s face. An act, it had been no more than that. ‘Bastards are worse than leeches.’

  ‘And like leeches, they have their uses.’

  ‘True, but who would you rather have a drink with? I’ve no car, do you mind walking?’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘The next bar we find.’

  But in fact they had to walk past three pubs – not places a policeman could drink in safely – until they hit one Ancram liked the look of. It was still raining, but mild. Rebus could feel sweat glueing his shirt to his back. Despite the rain, Big Issue sellers were out in force, not that anyone was buying: good-cause fatigue.

  They shook themselves dry and settled on stools at the bar. Rebus ordered – malt, gin and tonic – and lit a cigarette, offering one to Ancram, who shook his head.

  ‘So where have you been?’

  ‘Uncle Joe’s.’ Among other places.

  ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘I spoke to the man.’ And paid my respects . . .

  ‘Face to face?’ Rebus nodded; Ancram appraised him. ‘Where?’

  ‘At his house.’

  ‘The Ponderosa? He let you in without a search warrant?’

  ‘The place was immaculate.’

  ‘He’d probably spent half an hour before you got there sticking all the booty upstairs.’

  ‘His son was upstairs when I got there.’

  ‘Standing guard on the bedroom door, no doubt. Did you see Eve?’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘Uncle Joe’s clippie. Don’t be fooled by the wheezing old pensioner routine. Eve’s around fifty, still in good nick.’

  ‘I didn’t see her.’

  ‘You’d’ve remembered. So, did anything rattle loose from the shaky old bugger?’

  ‘Not much. He swore Tony El’s been off the payroll for a year, and he hasn’t seen him.’

  A man came into the bar, saw Ancram, and was about to do a U-turn. But Ancram had already spotted him in the bar mirror, so the man walked up to him, brushing rain off his hair.

  ‘Hiya, Chick.’

  ‘Dusty, how’s things?’

  ‘No’ bad.’

  ‘You’re doing away then?’

  ‘You know me, Chick.’ The man kept his head low, spoke in an undertone, shuffled off to the far end of the bar.

  ‘Just someone I know,’ Ancram explained: meaning, a snitch. The man was ordering a half and a ‘hauf’: whisky with a half-pint of beer to chase it down. He opened a packet of Embassy, made too much of a point of not looking along the bar.

  ‘So was that all Uncle Joe gave you?’ Ancram asked. ‘I’m intrigued, how did you get to him?’

  ‘A patrol car dropped me, I walked the rest of the way.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Uncle Joe and I have a mutual friend.’ Rebus finished his malt.

  ‘Same again?’ Ancram asked. Rebus nodded. ‘Well, I know you visited the Bar-L.’ Jack Morton talking? ‘And I can’t think of too many people there who have Uncle Joe’s ear . . . Big Ger Cafferty?’ Rebus gave silent applause. Ancram laughed for real this time, not a show for reporters. ‘And the old sod didn’t tell you anything?’

  ‘Just that he thought Tony El had moved south, maybe to London.’

  Ancram picked the lemon out of his drink, discarded it. ‘Really? That’s interesting.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve had my friends reporting in.’ Ancram made the slightest movement with his head, and the snitch from the far end of the bar slid off his stool and came towards them. ‘Tell Inspector Rebus what you told me, Dusty.’

  Dusty licked non-existent lips. He looked the kind who snitched to feel important, not just for money or revenge.

  ‘Word is,’ he said, face still bowed so Rebus was looking at the top of his head, ‘Tony El’s been working up north.’

  ‘North?’

  ‘Dundee . . . north-east.’

  ‘Aberdeen?’

  ‘Up that way, aye.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  A fast shrug of the shoulders. ‘Independent operator, who knows. He’s just been seen around.’

  ‘Thanks, Dusty,’ Ancram said. Dusty sloped back to his end of the bar. Ancram signalled for the barmaid. ‘Two more,’ he said, ‘and whatever Dusty’s drinking.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘So who do you believe, Uncle Joe or Dusty?’

  ‘You think he lied just to wind me up?’

  ‘Or wind you down.’

  Yes, down as far as London, a false trail that could have eaten into the investigation: wasted time, manpower, effort.

  ‘The victim worked out of Aberdeen,’ Rebus said.

  ‘All roads leading to.’ The drinks had arrived. Ancram handed over a twenty. ‘Don’t bother with change, keep it to pay for whatever else Dusty drinks, and give him what’s left at the end. Plus one for
yourself.’

  She nodded, knew the routine. Rebus was thinking hard, routes leading north. Did he want to go to Aberdeen? It would keep him away from The Justice Programme, maybe keep him from thinking about Lawson Geddes. Today had been like a holiday in that respect. Edinburgh was too full of ghosts; but then so was Glasgow – Jim Stevens, Jack Morton, Bible John and his victims . . .

  ‘Did Jack tell you I’d been to the Bar-L?’

  ‘I pulled rank on him, don’t blame Jack.’

  ‘He’s changed a lot.’

  ‘Has he been nagging you? I wondered why he chased after you at lunchtime. The zeal of the converted.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’ Rebus lifted the glass to his lips, poured it in smoothly.

  ‘Didn’t he say? He’s joined AA, and I don’t mean breakdown insurance.’ Ancram paused. ‘Come to think of it though, maybe I do.’ He winked, smiled. There was something annoying about his smile; it was like he was party to secrets and motives – a patronising smile.

  A very Glaswegian sort of smile.

  ‘He was an alcoholic,’ Ancram went on. ‘I mean, he still is. Once an alky, always an alky, that’s what they say. Something happened to him in Falkirk, he ended up in hospital, nearly in a coma. Sweats, spewing, slime dripping off the ceiling. Gave him a hell of a fright. First thing he did when he got out was look up the phone number for Samaritans, and they put him on to the Juice Church.’ He looked at Rebus’s glass. ‘Christ, that was quick. Here, have another.’ The barmaid already had a glass in her hand.

  ‘Thanks, I will,’ said Rebus, wishing he didn’t feel so calm. ‘Since you seem to be so loaded. Nice suit, too.’

  The humour left Ancram’s eyes. ‘There’s a tailor on Argyle Street, ten per cent discount for serving officers.’ The eyes narrowed. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘No, it’s nothing really, just that when I was going through the files on Toal, I couldn’t help noticing that he always seemed to have inside info.’

  ‘Careful, laddie.’

  The ‘laddie’ rankled; it was meant to.

  ‘Well,’ Rebus went on, ‘everyone knows the west coast is open to bungs. Not always cash, you understand. Could be watches, ID bracelets, rings, maybe even a few suits . . .’

  Ancram looked around the bar, as though begging for witnesses to Rebus’s remarks.

  ‘Would you care to name any names, Inspector, or is hearsay good enough for Edinburgh CID? The way I hear it, there’s no cupboard-space left in Fettes, they’re so jam-packed with skeletons.’ He picked up his drink. ‘And half those skeletons seem to have your fingerprints all over them.’

  The smile again, sparkling eyes, laughter lines. How did he know? Rebus turned to go. Ancram’s voice followed him out of the pub.

  ‘We can’t all go running to friends in Barlinnie! I’ll see you around, Inspector . . .’

  7

  Aberdeen.

  Aberdeen meant away from Edinburgh; no Justice Programme, no Fort Apache, no shite for him to skite in. Aberdeen looked good.

  But Rebus had things to do in Edinburgh. He wanted to see the locus in daylight, so drove out there, not risking his own Saab; leaving it at Fort Apache and taking the spare Escort. Jim MacAskill wanted him on the case because he hadn’t been around long enough to make enemies; Rebus was wondering how you ever made friends in Niddrie. The place was if anything bleaker by day: blocked-in windows, glass like shrapnel on the tarmac, kids playing in the sunshine with no real enthusiasm, eyes and mouths narrowing as his car cruised past.

  They’d knocked a lot of the estate down; behind it was better housing, semi-detached. Satellite dishes a status symbol: the owners’ status – unemployed. The estate boasted a derelict pub – insurance job blaze – and one all-purpose corner shop, its window full of video posters. The kids made this last their base. BMX bandits blowing bubble-gum. Rebus drove past slowly, his eyes on them. The death flat wasn’t quite on the edge of the estate, not quite visible from Niddrie Mains Road. Rebus was thinking: Tony El didn’t come from round here, and if he’d picked the spot by chance, there were other derelict flats nearer the main road.

  Two men plus the victim. Tony El and an accomplice.

  The accomplice had local knowledge.

  Rebus climbed the stairs to the flat. The place had been sealed, but he had keys to both padlocks. The living room as before, upside-down table, blanket. He wondered who’d slept there, maybe they’d seen something. He reckoned his chances of finding them were one per cent; of getting them to talk, slightly less. Kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms, hallway. He kept close to the walls, so as not to fall through the floor. There was no one living in the block, but the next block along had glass in a couple of its windows: one on the first storey, one on the second. Rebus knocked on the first door. A dishevelled woman answered, an infant clinging round her neck. He didn’t need to introduce himself.

  ‘I don’t know anything, and I didn’t see or hear anything.’ She made to close the door.

  ‘You married?’

  She opened the door again. ‘What’s it to you?’

  Rebus shrugged; good question.

  ‘He’s down the boozer, most likely,’ she said.

  ‘How many kids have you got?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Must be pushed for space.’

  ‘That’s what we keep telling them. All they’ll say is our name’s on the list.’

  ‘What age is your oldest?’

  Eyes narrowing. ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Any chance he saw something?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’d’ve told me.’

  ‘What about your man?’

  She smiled. ‘He’d have seen everything twice.’

  Rebus smiled too. ‘Well, if you hear anything . . . from the kids or your man . . .’

  ‘Aye, right.’ Slowly, so as not to cause offence, she shut the door on him.

  Rebus climbed the next flight. Dog shit on the landing, a used condom: he tried not to connect the two. Felt-marker graffiti on the door – Wanker, HMFC, cartoon coitus. The occupier had given up trying to wipe it off. Rebus pushed the doorbell. No answer; he tried again.

  A voice from within: ‘Bugger off!’

  ‘Could I have a word?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘CID.’

  A chain rattled, and the door opened two inches. Rebus saw half a face: an old woman, or maybe an old man. He showed his warrant card.

  ‘You’re not moving me out. I’ll be here when they pull the place down.’

  ‘I don’t want to move you out.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Rebus raised his voice. ‘Nobody wants to move you out.’

  ‘Aye they do, but I’m not moving, you can tell them that.’ Rebus caught foul breath, a meaty smell.

  ‘Look, have you heard what happened next door?’

  ‘Eh?’

  Rebus peered through the gap. The hallway was littered with sheets of newspaper, empty cat-food tins. One more try.

  ‘Someone was killed next door.’

  ‘Don’t try your tricks with me, boyo!’ Anger in the voice.

  ‘I’m not trying any . . . ach, to hell with it.’ Rebus turned, started back downstairs. Suddenly the outside world looked good to him in the warm sunshine. It was all relative. He walked over to the corner shop, asked the kids a few questions, handed out mints to anyone who wanted one. He didn’t learn anything, but ended up with an excuse to go inside. He bought a packet of extra-strong, put it in his pocket for later, asked the Asian behind the counter a couple of questions. She was fifteen, maybe sixteen, extraordinarily pretty. A video was playing on the TV, high up on one wall. Hong Kong gangsters shooting chunks out of each other. She didn’t have anything to tell him.

  ‘Do you like Niddrie?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Her voice was pure Edinburgh, eyes on the TV.

  Rebus drove back to Fort Apache. The Shed was empty. He drank a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette. Niddrie, Craigmillar, Wester H
ailes, Muirhouse, Pilton, Granton . . . They all seemed to him like some horrible experiment in social engineering: scientists in white coats sticking families down in this maze or that, seeing what would happen, how strong they’d have to become to cope, whether or not they’d find the exit . . . He lived in an area of Edinburgh where six figures bought you a three-bedroom flat. It amused him that he could sell up and be suddenly rich . . . except, of course, that he’d have nowhere to live, and couldn’t afford to move anywhere nicer in the city. He realised he was just about as trapped as anyone in Niddrie or Craigmillar, nicer model of trap, that was all.

  His phone rang. He picked it up and wished he hadn’t.

  ‘Inspector Rebus?’ A woman’s voice: administrative. ‘Could you attend a meeting tomorrow at Fettes?’

  Rebus felt a chill run the length of his spine. ‘What sort of meeting?’

  A cool smiling voice. ‘I don’t have that information. The request comes from the ACC’s office.’

  The Assistant Chief Constable, Colin Carswell. Rebus called him the ‘CC Rider’. A Yorkshireman – as close to a Scot as the English got. He’d been with Lothian and Borders two and a half years, and so far nobody had a bad word to say about him, which should have put him in the Guinness Book of Records. There had been a hairy few months after the last Deputy Chief Constable resigned and before they appointed a new one, but Carswell had coped. Some were of the opinion that he was just too good, and therefore would never make it to Chief Constable. Lothian and Borders used to boast one DCC and two ACCs, but one of the ACC posts had now become ‘Director of Corporate Services’, about which no one on the force seemed to know anything at all.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Two o’clock, it shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Will there be tea and biccies? I’m not coming otherwise.’

  A shocked pause, then a release of breath as she realised he was joking. ‘We’ll see what we can manage, Inspector.’