by Ian Rankin
They ate only half the food, still felt bloated. Coffee and mints came: Gill put both mints into her bag for later. Rebus had a third whisky. He was looking ahead, seeing them standing outside the restaurant. He could offer to walk her home. He could ask her back to his flat. Only she couldn’t stay the night: there might be reporters outside in the morning.
John Rebus: presumptuous bastard.
‘Why are you smiling?’ she asked.
‘Use it or lose it, they say.’
They split the bill, the drinks coming to as much as the food. And then they were outside. The night had grown cool.
‘What are my chances of finding a taxi?’ Gill was looking up and down the street.
‘Pubs aren’t out yet, you should be OK. My car’s back at the flat . . .’
‘Thanks, John, I’ll be all right. Look, here’s one.’ She waved to it. The driver signalled and pulled over with a squeak of brakes. ‘Tell me how you get on,’ she said.
‘I’ll phone you straight after.’
‘Thanks.’ She pecked his cheek, a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Then she got into the taxi and closed the door, giving her address to the driver. Rebus watched the cab execute a slow U-turn into the traffic heading for Tollcross.
Rebus stood there for a moment, looking at his shoes. She’d wanted a favour, that was all. Good to know he was still useful for some things. ‘Feardie Fergie’, Fergus McLure. A name from the past; one-time friend of a certain Lenny Spaven. Worth a morning trip to Ratho for definite.
He heard another taxi coming – unmistakable engine sound. Its yellow light was on. He waved it down, got in.
‘The Oxford Bar,’ he said.
The more Bible John thought about the Upstart . . . the more he learned about him . . . the surer he felt that Aberdeen was the key.
He sat in his study, door locked against the outside world, and stared at the UPSTART file on his laptop. The gap between victims one and two was six weeks, between victims two and three only four. Johnny Bible was a hungry little devil, but so far he hadn’t killed again. Or if he had, he was still playing with the body. But that wasn’t the Upstart’s way. He killed them quick, then presented the bodies to the world. Bible John had worked back, and had found two newspaper stories – both in the Aberdeen Press and Journal. A woman attacked on her way home from a nightclub, a man attempting to drag her into an alley. She’d screamed, he’d panicked and fled. Bible John had driven out to the scene one night. He stood in the alley and thought of the Upstart standing there, biding his time till the nightclub emptied. There was a housing scheme nearby, and the route home passed the mouth of the alley. Superficially, it was the perfect spot, but the Upstart had been nervous, ill-prepared. He’d probably been waiting there for an hour or two, standing back in the shadows, afraid someone would stumble upon him. His nerve had come and gone. When he’d finally picked a victim, he hadn’t disabled it quickly enough. A scream was all it had taken to send him running.
Yes, it could well be the Upstart. He’d studied his failure, come up with a better plan: go into the nightclub, get talking to the victim . . . put the victim at its ease, then strike.
Second newspaper item: a woman complaining of a peeper in her back garden. When police were called, they found marks on her kitchen door, clumsy attempts at entering. Maybe connected to the first story, maybe not. Story one: eight weeks before the first murder. Story two: a further four weeks back. A pattern of months establishing itself. And another pattern on top of the first: peeper becoming attacker. Of course, there could be other stories he’d missed, ones from other cities, making for different theories, but Bible John was happy to go with Aberdeen. First victim: often the first victim was local. Once the killer’s confidence was up, he would range further afield. But that first success was so very important.
A timid knock at the study door. ‘I’ve made coffee.’
‘I’ll be out soon.’
Back to his computer. He knew the police would be busy compiling their own composites, their psychological profiles, remembered the one a psychiatrist had compiled of him. You knew he was ‘an authority’ because of all the letters after his name: BSc, BL, MA, MB, ChB, LLB, DPA, FRCPath. Meaningless in the wider scheme, as was his report. Bible John had read it in a book years back. The few things about him it got right, he attempted to remedy. The serial murderer was supposedly withdrawn, with few close friends, so he had forced himself to become gregarious. The type was known for a lack of drive and fear of adult contacts, so he took a job where drive and contacts were crucial. As for the rest of the thesis . . . rubbish, mostly.
Serial killers not infrequently had a history of homosexual activity – not guilty.
They were usually unmarried – tell that to the Yorkshire Ripper.
They often heard two voices inside their heads, one good and the other evil. They collected weapons, and gave them pet names. Many dressed up in women’s clothes. Some showed an interest in black magic or in monsters, and collected sadistic pornography. Many had a ‘private place’ where objects such as hoods, dolls and rubber diving-suits would be kept.
He looked around his study and shook his head.
There were only a few points where the psychiatrist got it right. Yes, he would say he was egocentric – like half the population. Yes, he was neat and tidy. Yes, he had an interest in the Second World War (but not solely Nazism or concentration camps). Yes, he was a plausible liar – or rather, people were gullible listeners. And yes, he planned his culls well in advance, as it appeared the Upstart was now doing.
The librarian had not yet finished compiling his newspaper list. A check of requests for Bible John literature had drawn a blank. That was the bad news. But there was good news too. Thanks to the recent upsurge of interest in the original Bible John case, he had newspaper details of other unsolved murders, seven of them. Five took place in 1977, one in ’78, and one much more recently. These gave him a second thesis. The first had the Upstart just beginning his career; the second had him recommencing it after a long gap. He might have been out of the country, or in some institution, or even in a relationship where he did not feel it necessary to kill. If the police were being meticulous – which he doubted – they’d be looking at recent divorces of men who had married in ’78 or ’79. Bible John did not have the means at his disposal to do this, which was frustrating. He got up and stared at his shelves of books, not really seeing them. There was an opinion that the Upstart was Bible John, that the eyewitness descriptions were flawed. As a result, the police and the media had dusted off their photofits and artists’ impressions.
Dangerous. He knew the only way to quash such speculation was to locate the Upstart. Imitation was not the sincerest form of flattery. It was potentially lethal. He had to find the Upstart. Either that or lead the police to him. One way or another, it would be done.
8
He was in a six a.m. opener, drinking off a good sleep.
He’d woken up way too early, got dressed, and decided to go for a walk. He crossed the Meadows, headed down George IV Bridge and the High Street, left on to Cockburn Street. Cockburn Street: shopping mecca to teenagers and hippies; Rebus remembered Cockburn Street market when it was a damned sight more disreputable than these days. Angie Riddell had bought her necklace in a shop on Cockburn Street. Maybe she’d worn it the day he’d taken her to the café, but he didn’t think so. He switched off the thought, turned down a passageway, a steep flight of steps, and took another left on Market Street. He was opposite Waverley Station, and there was a pub open. It catered to night-shift workers, a drink or two before home and bed. But you saw businessmen in it too, bracing themselves for the day ahead.
With newspaper offices nearby, the regulars were print-workers and subs, and there were always first editions available, the ink just dry. Rebus was known here, and no one ever bothered him. Even if a reporter was having a drink, they didn’t hassle him for stories or quotes – it was an unwritten rule, never breached.
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This morning, three teenagers sat slumped at a table, barely touching their drinks. Their dishevelled and sleepy state told Rebus they’d just completed a ‘twenty-four’: round-the-clock drinking. The daytime was easy: you started at six in the morning – somewhere like this – and the pubs were licensed till midnight or one o’clock. After that, it had to be clubs, casinos, and you finished the marathon at a pizza parlour on Lothian Road, open till six a.m., at which point you returned here for the last drink of the session.
The bar was quiet, no TV or radio, the fruit machine not yet plugged in: another unwritten rule. At this time of day, what you did in this place was drink. And read the papers. Rebus poured a helping of water into his whisky, took it and a paper to a table. The sun outside the windows was skin-tone pink against a milky sky. It had been a good walk; he liked the city quiet: taxis and early risers, first dogs being exercised, clear, clean air. But the night before still clung to the place: a litter-bin upturned, a bench on the Meadows with a broken back, traffic cones hoisted on to bus shelter roofs. It was true of the bar too: last night’s fug had not had time to dissipate. Rebus lit a cigarette and read his paper.
A story on the inside page caught his attention: Aberdeen was hosting an international convention on offshore pollution and the role of the oil industry. Delegates from sixteen countries were expected to attend. There was a smaller story tacked on to the article: the Bannock oil and gas field, 100 miles north-east of Shetland, was coming to the end of its ‘useful economic life’, and was about to undergo decommissioning. Environmentalists were making an issue of Bannock’s main production platform, a steel and concrete structure weighing 200,000 tonnes. They wanted to know what the owners, T-Bird Oil, planned to do with it. As required by law, the company had submitted an Abandonment Programme to the Oil and Gas Division of the Department of Trade and Industry, but its contents had not been made public.
The environmentalists were saying that there were over 200 oil and gas installations on the UK Continental Shelf, and they all had a finite production life. The government seemed to be backing an option which would leave the majority of the deep-water platforms in place, with only minimal maintenance. There was even talk of selling them off for alternative use – plans included prisons and casino/hotel complexes. The government and the oil companies were talking cost-effectiveness, and about striking a balance between cost, safety and the environment. The protesters’ line was: the environment at any cost. Stoked up from their victory over Shell with the Brent Spar, the pressure groups were planning to make Bannock an issue too, and would be holding marches, rallies, and an open-air concert close to the site of the Aberdeen convention.
Aberdeen: fast becoming the centre of Rebus’s universe.
He finished his whisky, decided against a second, then changed his mind. Flicked through the rest of the paper: nothing new on Johnny Bible. There was a property section; he checked the Marchmont/Sciennes prices, then laughed at some of the New Town specs: ‘luxurious townhouse, elegant living on five floors . . .’; ‘garage for sale separately, £20,000’. There were still a few places in Scotland where £20,000 would buy you a house, maybe with the garage thrown in. He looked down the ‘Country Property’ list, saw more wild prices, flattering photos attached. There was a place on the coast south-east of the city, picture windows and sea views, for the price of a Marchmont flat. Dream on, sailor . . .
He walked home, got in his car, and drove out to Craigmillar, one area of the city not yet represented in the property section, and not likely to be for some time to come.
The night shift was just about to come off. Rebus saw officers he hadn’t seen before. He asked around: it had been a quiet night; the cells were empty, ditto the biscuit-tins. In the Shed, he sat at his desk and saw new paperwork staring up at him. He fetched himself a coffee and picked up the first sheet.
More dead ends on Allan Mitchison; the head of his children’s home interviewed by local CID. A check of his bank account, nothing amiss. Nothing from Aberdeen CID on Tony El. A woolly suit came in with a package addressed to Rebus. Postmarked Aberdeen, a printed label: T-Bird Oil. Rebus opened it. Publicity material, a compliment slip from Stuart Minchell, Personnel Dept. Half a dozen A4 pamphlets, quality layout and paper, colour throughout, facts kept to a minimum. Rebus, author of five thousand reports, knew waffle when he saw it. Minchell had enclosed a copy of ‘T-BIRD OIL – STRIKING THE BALANCE’, identical to the one in the side pocket of Mitchison’s rucksack. Rebus opened it, saw a map of the Bannock field, laid out across a grid showing which blocks it occupied. A note explained that the North Sea had been divided into blocks of 100 square miles apiece, and oil companies initially made bids for exploration rights to these blocks. Bannock was slap-bang up against the international boundary – a few miles east and you came to more oil fields, but this time Norwegian rather than British.
‘Bannock will be the first T-Bird field to undergo rigorous decommissioning,’ Rebus read. There seemed to be seven options available, from Leave In Place to Total Removal. The company’s ‘modest proposal’ was for mothballing: leaving the structure to be dealt with at a later date.
‘Surprise, surprise,’ Rebus muttered, noting that mothballing ‘would leave funds available for future exploration and development’.
He put the pamphlets back in their envelope and shoved it in a drawer, returning to his paperwork. A sheet of fax paper was hidden near the bottom. He pulled it out. It was from Stuart Minchell, sent the previous day at seven in the evening: further details on Allan Mitchison’s two workmates. The one who worked at the Sullom Voe terminal was called Jake Harley. He was on a walking/birdwatching holiday somewhere on Shetland, and probably hadn’t yet heard of his friend’s demise. The one who worked offshore was called Willie Ford. He was halfway through a sixteen-day stint, and ‘of course’ had learned about Allan Mitchison.
Rebus picked up his telephone, reached into the drawer for Minchell’s compliment slip. He got the number from it and pushed the buttons. It was early; all the same . . .
‘Personnel.’
‘Stuart Minchell, please.’
‘Speaking.’ Bingo: Minchell a company man, early starter.
‘Mr Minchell, it’s Inspector Rebus again.’
‘Inspector, you’re lucky I picked up the phone. Usually I just let it ring, only way I can get some work done before the rush.’
‘Your fax, Mr Minchell – why did you say “of course” Willie Ford had learned of Allan Mitchison’s death?’
‘Because they worked together, didn’t I tell you?’
‘Offshore?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which platform, Mr Minchell?’
‘Didn’t I tell you that either? Bannock.’
‘The one that’s being mothballed?’
‘Yes. Our Public Relations team’s got its work cut out there.’ A pause. ‘Is it important, Inspector?’
‘Probably not, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘Thanks anyway.’ Rebus put down the receiver, drummed his fingers against it.
He went out to the shops, bought a filled roll for breakfast – corned beef and onion. The roll was too floury, and stuck to the roof of his mouth. He bought himself a coffee to wash it down. When he got back to the Shed, Bain and Maclay were at their desks, feet up, tabloid reading. Bain was eating a dough-ring; Maclay burping sausage-meat.
‘Snitch reports?’ Rebus asked.
‘Nothing so far,’ Bain said, not taking his eyes from the paper.
‘Tony El?’
Maclay’s turn: ‘Description’s gone out to every Scottish force, nothing’s come back.’
‘I phoned Grampian CID myself,’ Bain added, ‘told them to check out Mitchison’s Indian restaurant. Looks like he was a regular, they might know something.’
‘Nice one, Dod,’ Rebus said.
‘Not just a pretty face, is he?’ Maclay said.
The weather forecast was for sunshine and showers. It seemed to Rebus, as he drove out to Ratho, that th
ey were coming at ten-minute intervals. Brisk black clouds, shafts of sunlight, blue skies, then clouds gathering again. At one point, it started raining when there didn’t seem to be a cloud in the sky.
Ratho was surrounded by farmland, with the Union Canal bordering it to the north. It was popular in the summer: you could take a boat trip on the canal, or feed the ducks, or eat at a waterfront restaurant. Yet it was less than a mile from the M8, two miles from Turnhouse Airport. Rebus drove out along Calder Road, trusting to his sense of direction. Fergus McLure’s house was on Hallcroft Park. He knew he could find it: there were only a dozen streets in the whole village. McLure was known to work from home. Rebus had decided against phoning ahead: he didn’t want Fergie forewarned.
When he reached Ratho, it took him five minutes to locate Hallcroft Park. He found Fergie’s address, stopped the car, and walked up to the door. There was no sign of life. He rang the bell a second time. Net curtains stopped him peering through the window.
‘Should have phoned,’ Rebus muttered.
A woman was walking past, terrier straining on its leash. The small dog made terrible choking sounds as it sniffed the pavement.
‘Is he not in?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Funny, his car’s here.’ She had time to nod in the direction of a parked Volvo before the dog hauled her away. It was a blue 940 estate. Rebus looked in through the windows, but all he saw was how clean the interior looked. He checked the mileage: low. A new car. The tyre-walls hadn’t even had time to lose their shine.
Rebus got back into his own car – mileage to date fifty times the Volvo’s – and decided to head back into town by the Glasgow Road. But as he made to drive over the canal bridge, he saw a police car at the far end of the restaurant car park, sitting on the slip-road down to the canal. There was an ambulance parked next to it. Rebus braked, reversed, and turned into the car park, crawling towards the scene. A woolly suit came to warn him off, but Rebus had his warrant card ready. He parked and got out.