10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Bang goes my big collar,’ she said, an edge to her voice. Rebus turned up the collar of her coat, and she caught the joke, smiled.

  ‘There’ll be others,’ he told her. ‘Meantime, a man’s dead – don’t forget that.’ She nodded. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘the ACC had me on the carpet this afternoon.’

  ‘The Spaven case?’

  He nodded. ‘Plus he wanted to know what I was doing out here this morning.’

  She glanced towards him. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I didn’t say anything. But the thing is . . . McLure ties in to Spaven.’

  ‘What?’ He had her full attention now.

  ‘They palled around years back.’

  ‘Jesus, why didn’t you tell me?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘It didn’t seem an issue.’

  Gill was thinking hard. ‘But if Carswell links McLure to Spaven . . .?’

  ‘Then my being out here on the very morning Feardie Fergie met the big cheerio is going to look just a tad suspicious.’

  ‘You have to tell him.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  She turned to him, her hands gripping his lapels. ‘You’re protecting me from the fallout.’

  The rain was growing heavier, drops sparkling in her hair. ‘Let’s just say I’m radiation-proof,’ he said, leading her by the hand into the bar.

  They ate a snack, neither of them bringing an appetite with them. Rebus’s came with a whisky; Gill’s with Highland spring water. They sat facing one another at an alcove table. The place was a third full, nobody near enough to overhear.

  ‘Who else knew?’ Rebus said.

  ‘You’re the first person I’ve told.’

  ‘Well, they could find out anyway. Maybe Fergie’s nerve went, maybe he owned up. Maybe they just guessed.’

  ‘Plenty of maybes.’

  ‘What else have we got?’ He paused, chewing. ‘What about the other snitches you inherited?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Snitches hear things, maybe Fergie wasn’t the only one who knew about this drugs thing.’

  Gill was shaking her head. ‘I asked him at the time. He seemed confident it was being kept very quiet. You’re assuming he was killed. Remember, he has a history of bad nerves, mental problems. Maybe the fear just got too much for him.’

  ‘Do us both a favour, Gill, stick close to the investigation. See what the neighbours say: did he have any visitors this morning? Anyone out of the ordinary or suspicious? See if you can check his phone calls. My bet is it’ll go down as an accident, which means no one’s going to be working too hard on it. Push them, ask favours if you have to. Did he normally go for morning walks?’

  She was nodding. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes . . . who’s got the keys to his house?’

  Gill made the calls, and they drank coffee until a DC turned up with the keys, fresh from the mortuary. Gill had asked about the Spaven case, Rebus giving only vague answers. Then they’d talked about Johnny Bible, Allan Mitchison . . . all shop-talk, steering a wide berth around anything personal. But at one point they’d locked eyes, shared a smile, knowing the questions were there, whether they asked them or not.

  ‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘what do you do now?’

  ‘About the gen McLure gave me?’ she sighed. ‘There’s nowhere to go with it, it was all so vague – no names or details, no date for the meeting . . . it’s gone.’

  ‘Well, maybe.’ Rebus lifted the keys, shook them. ‘Depends whether you want to come snooping or not.’

  The pavements in Ratho were narrow. To keep his distance from Gill, Rebus walked on the road. They didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. This was their second evening together; Rebus felt comfortable sharing everything but close proximity.

  ‘That’s his car.’

  Gill walked around the Volvo, peered in through the windows. On the dashboard a small red light was blinking: the automatic alarm. ‘Leather upholstery. Looks straight out of the showroom.’

  ‘Typical Feardie Fergie car though: nice and safe.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gill mused. ‘It’s the turbo version.’

  Rebus hadn’t noticed. He thought of his own aged Saab. ‘Wonder what’ll happen to it . . .’

  ‘Is this his house?’

  They walked up to the door, used a mortise and a yale to open it. Rebus turned on the hall lights.

  ‘Do you know if any of our lot has been in here?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘As far as I know, we’re the first. Why?’

  ‘Just trying out a scenario or two. Say someone came to see him here, and they frightened him. Say they told him to take a walk . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, he still had the presence of mind to double-lock the door. So either he wasn’t that scared . . .’

  ‘Or whoever was with him double-locked the door, assuming that’s what McLure would normally do.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘One more thing. Alarm system.’ He pointed to a box on the wall, its light a steady green. ‘It hasn’t been switched on. If he was in a flap, he might forget. If he thought he wasn’t coming back alive, he wouldn’t bother.’

  ‘He might not bother for a short stroll either though.’

  Rebus conceded the point. ‘Final scenario: whoever double-locked the door forgot or plain didn’t know the alarm was there. See, door double-locked but alarm system off – it’s not consistent. And someone like Fergie, Volvo driver, my guess is he’d always be consistent.’

  ‘Well, let’s see if he had anything worth nicking.’

  They walked into the living room. It was crammed to bursting with furniture and nick-nacks, some modern, a lot looking like they’d been handed down the generations. But though overfilled, the room was neat, dust-free, with expensive-looking rugs on the floor – far from fire-damaged stock.

  ‘Supposing someone did come to see him,’ Gill said. ‘Maybe we should dust for prints.’

  ‘Definitely maybe. Get forensics on to it first thing.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

  They kept their hands in their pockets as they walked through the room: the reflex to touch things was always strong.

  ‘No signs of a struggle, and nothing looks like it’s been put back in the wrong place.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Past the living room there was another, shorter hallway, leading to a guest bedroom and what had probably once been the lounge: only used when visitors called. Fergus McLure had turned it into an office. There was paperwork everywhere, and on a fold-out dining table sat a new-looking computer.

  ‘I suppose someone’s going to have to go through this lot,’ Gill said, not relishing the task.

  ‘I hate computers,’ Rebus said. He had noticed a fat notepad beside the keyboard. He slipped a hand from his pocket and picked it up by its edges, angling it into the light. There were indents in the paper from the last written sheet. Gill came over to see.

  ‘Don’t tell me.’

  ‘Can’t make it out, and I don’t think the pencil trick would help.’

  They looked at one another, spoke their thoughts together.

  ‘Howdenhall.’

  ‘Check the bins next?’ Gill said.

  ‘You do it, I’ll look upstairs.’

  Rebus went back into the front hall, saw more doors, tried them: a small old-fashioned kitchen, family pictures on the walls; a toilet; a box room. He climbed the stairs, his feet sinking into deep-pile carpeting which muffled all sound. It was a quiet house; Rebus got the feeling it had been quiet even when McLure had been there. Another guest bedroom, large bathroom – unmodernised like the kitchen – and main bedroom. Rebus gave his attention to the usual places: beneath the bed, mattress and pillows; bedside cabinets, chest of drawers, wardrobe. Everything was obsessively arranged: cardigans folded just so and layered by colour; slippers and shoes in a row – all the browns together, then the blacks. There was a small bookcase boasting an uni
nspired collection: histories of carpets and Eastern art; a photographic tour of the vineyards of France.

  A life without complications.

  Either that or the dirt on Feardie Fergie was elsewhere.

  ‘Found anything?’ Gill called up the stairs. Rebus walked back along the corridor.

  ‘No, but you might want to have someone check his business premises.’

  ‘First thing tomorrow.’

  Rebus came back down. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Nothing. Just what you’d expect to find in bins. Nothing saying, “Dope deal, two-thirty Friday at the carpet auction”.’

  ‘Pity,’ Rebus said with a smile. He checked his watch. ‘Fancy another drink?’

  Gill shook her head, stretched. ‘I’d better get home. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘Another long day.’

  ‘Another long day.’ She angled her head and looked at him. ‘What about you? Are you heading off for another drink?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning you drink more than you used to.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Her look was intent. ‘Meaning I wish you wouldn’t.’

  ‘So how much should I drink, doctor?’

  ‘Don’t take it like that.’

  ‘How do you know how much I drink? Who’s been squealing?’

  ‘We went out last night, remember?’

  ‘I only had two or three whiskies.’

  ‘And after I left?’

  Rebus swallowed. ‘Straight home to bed.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘You liar. And you were back at it first thing: a patrol car saw you leaving that pub behind Waverley.’

  ‘I’m under surveillance!’

  ‘There are people out there who’re worried about you, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’ Rebus threw open the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I need a fucking drink. You can come if you like.’

  10

  As he drove into Arden Street, he saw a group of people outside the main door to his tenement. They were shuffling their feet and cracking jokes, trying to keep morale up. One or two were eating chips from newspaper – a nice irony, since they had the look of reporters.

  ‘Shit.’

  Rebus drove past and kept going, watching in his rearview. There was nowhere to park anyway. He turned right at the junction, then next left, and ended up in a parking space outside Thirlestane Baths. He turned off the ignition and punched the steering-wheel a few times. He could always drive away, maybe head for the M90, race up to Dundee and back, but he didn’t feel like it. He took a few deep breaths, feeling the blood pound through him, a rushing noise in his ears.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ he said, getting out of the car. He walked down Marchmont Crescent to his chippie, then headed home, feeling the fried fat burning his palm through the layers of paper. He took his time walking up Arden Street itself. They weren’t expecting him to be on foot, and he was almost on them before someone recognised him.

  There was a camera crew, too: Redgauntlet – cameraman, Kayleigh Burgess, and Eamonn Breen. Caught on the hop, Breen flicked a cigarette on to the road and grabbed his microphone. The videocam had a spot attached. Spotlights always made you squint, which in turn made you look guilty, so Rebus kept his eyes nice and wide.

  A journalist got in the first question.

  ‘Inspector, any comment on the Spaven inquiry?’

  ‘Is it true the case is being reopened?’

  ‘How did you feel when you heard Lawson Geddes had killed himself?’

  At that question, Rebus glanced towards Kayleigh Burgess, who had the grace to look down at the pavement. He was halfway up the path now, only feet from the tenement’s main door, but surrounded by reporters. It was like wading through broth. He stopped and turned to face them.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I have a short statement I’d like to make.’

  They looked at each other, eyes registering surprise, then held out their tape recorders. A couple of older hacks near the back, who’d been here too often to raise any enthusiasm, were using pen and notepad.

  The noise died down. Rebus held his wrapped package aloft.

  ‘On behalf of the chip-eaters of Scotland, I’d like to thank you for providing our nightly wrappings.’

  He was inside the door before they could think of anything to say.

  In the flat, he left the lights off and walked over to the living-room window, peering down on to the scene outside. A few of the reporters were shaking their heads, calling in on mobile phones to see if they’d be allowed home. One or two were already making for their cars. Eamonn Breen was talking to camera, looking full of himself as usual. One of the younger journalists raised two fingers above Breen’s head, turning them into rabbit’s ears.

  Looking across the road, Rebus saw a man standing against a parked car, arms folded. He was gazing up at Rebus’s window, a smile on his face. He unfolded his arms long enough to give Rebus a silent round of applause, then got into his car and started the engine.

  Jim Stevens.

  Rebus turned back into the room, switched on an Anglepoise lamp, sat down in his chair to eat the chips. But he still didn’t have much of an appetite. He was wondering who had leaked the story to the vultures. The CC Rider had only told him this afternoon, and he’d told no one except Brian Holmes and Gill Templer. The answering machine was blinking furiously: four messages. He managed to work the machine without recourse to the manual, and was feeling pleased until he heard the Glaswegian accent.

  ‘Inspector Rebus, it’s CI Ancram here.’ Brisk and businesslike. ‘Just to let you know I’ll probably arrive in Edinburgh tomorrow to get the inquiry underway, sooner we start, sooner it’ll be over with. Best for all concerned, eh? I did leave a message at Craigmillar for you to phone me, but you don’t seem to have been around to act on it.’

  ‘Thank you and good night,’ Rebus growled.

  Beep. Message two.

  ‘Inspector, it’s me again. It would be very useful to know your planned movements for the next week or so, just to maximise my time effectively. If you could type out as full a breakdown as possible, I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘I feel like I’m having a fucking breakdown.’

  He went back to the window. They were clearing off. The Redgauntlet camera was being loaded into the estate car. Message three. At the sound of the voice, Rebus turned slack-jawed to watch the machine.

  ‘Inspector, the inquiry will be based at Fettes. I’ll probably bring one of my own men with me, but otherwise will utilise officers and civilian staff from Fettes. So as from tomorrow morning you can contact me there.’

  Rebus walked over to the machine and stared down at it, daring it . . . daring it . . .

  Beep. Message four.

  ‘Two tomorrow afternoon for our first meeting, Inspector. Let me know if this —’

  Rebus snatched up the machine and flung it at the wall. The lid flew open, ejecting the tape.

  His doorbell rang.

  He checked through the spyhole. Could not believe it. Opened the door wide.

  Kayleigh Burgess took a step back. ‘Christ, you look fierce.’

  ‘I feel fierce. What the hell do you want?’

  She brought a hand from behind her back, showing a bottle of Macallan. ‘Peace offering,’ she said.

  Rebus looked at the bottle, then at her. ‘Is this your idea of entrapment?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Any microphones or cameras about your person?’

  She shook her head. Strands of curling brown hair came to rest against her cheeks and the sides of her eyes. Rebus stepped back into the hall.

  ‘Lucky for you I’ve a drouth on me,’ he said.

  She walked ahead of him into the living room, giving him the chance to study her body. It was every bit as tidy as Feardie Fergie’s house.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry about your tape machine. Send me t
he bill, I mean it.’

  She shrugged, then saw the answering machine. ‘What is it with you and technology?’

  ‘Ten seconds, and already the questions have started. Wait here, I’ll get the glasses.’ He went into the kitchen and closed the door behind him, then gathered up the press cuttings and newspapers from the table, flinging them into a cupboard. He rinsed two glasses, and took his time drying them, staring at the wall above the sink. What was she after? Information, naturally. Gill’s face came into his mind. She’d asked him for a favour, and a man had died. As for Kayleigh Burgess . . . maybe she’d been responsible for Geddes’ suicide. He took the glasses through. She was crouched in front of the hi-fi, studying album spines.

  ‘I’ve never owned a record player,’ she said.

  ‘I hear they’re the next big thing.’ He opened the Macallan and poured. ‘I’ve no ice, though I could probably chip a block off the inside of the freezer.’

  She stood up, took her glass from him. ‘Neat’s fine.’

  She was wearing tight black denims, faded at bum and knees, and a denim jacket with fleece lining. Her eyes, he noticed, were slightly bulbous, her eyebrows arched – natural, he thought, not plucked. Sculpted cheekbones, too.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said.

  She sat on the sofa, legs slightly apart, elbows on knees, holding the drink up to her face.

  ‘It’s not your first today, is it?’ she asked him.

  He sipped, put the glass on the arm of his chair. ‘I can stop any time I want.’ He held his arms wide. ‘See?’

  She smiled, drank, watching him above the rim of the glass. He tried to read the signals: coquette, minx, relaxed, sharp-eyed, calculating, amused . . .

  ‘Who tipped you off about the inquiry?’ he asked.

  ‘You mean who tipped the media in general, or me personally?’

  ‘Whichever.’

  ‘I don’t know who started the story, but one journalist told another and it spread from there. A friend of mine on Scotland on Sunday phoned me; she knew we were covering the Spaven case already.’

  Rebus was thinking: Jim Stevens, standing on the sideline like the team manager. Stevens, Glasgow-based. Chick Ancram, Glasgow-based. Ancram knowing Rebus and Stevens went way back, spilling the story . . .