by Ian Rankin
Bastard. No wonder he hadn’t invited Rebus to call him Chick.
‘I can almost hear the cogs turning.’
A thin smile. ‘Pieces falling into place.’ He reached for the bottle – had left it within grabbing distance. Kayleigh Burgess rested against the back of the sofa, sliding her legs under her, looking around.
‘Nice room. Big.’
‘It needs redecorating.’
She nodded. ‘Cornices for definite, maybe around the window. I’d turf that out though.’ She was referring to a painting above the fireplace: a fishing-boat in a harbour. ‘Where’s it supposed to be?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Somewhere that’s never existed.’ He didn’t like the painting either, but couldn’t conceive of throwing it out.
‘You could strip the door,’ she went on, ‘it’d come up well from the look of it.’ She saw his look. ‘I’ve just bought my own place in Glasgow.’
‘Nice for you.’
‘The ceilings are too high for my liking, but –’ His tone of voice caught her. She stopped.
‘Sorry,’ Rebus said, ‘I’m a bit rusty on chit-chat.’
‘But not on irony.’
‘I get plenty of practice. How’s the programme going?’
‘I thought you didn’t want to discuss it.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Got to be more interesting than DIY.’ He got up to refill her glass.
‘It’s going OK.’ She looked up at him; he kept his eyes on her glass. ‘Be better if you agreed to be interviewed.’
‘No.’ He went back to his chair.
‘No,’ she echoed. ‘Well, with you or without you, the programme will go out. It’s already scheduled. Have you read Mr Spaven’s book?’
‘I’m not a great one for fiction.’
She turned to stare at the piles of books near the hi-fi. They called him a liar.
‘I’ve seldom met a prisoner who didn’t profess his or her innocence,’ Rebus went on. ‘It’s a survival mechanism.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across a miscarriage of justice either?’
‘I’ve seen plenty. But the thing is, usually the “miscarriage” was that the criminal was getting away with it. The whole legal system is a miscarriage of justice.’
‘Can I quote you on that?’
‘This conversation is strictly off the record.’
‘You’re supposed to make that clear before you say anything.’
He wagged a finger at her. ‘Off the record.’
She nodded, raised her glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to off the record remarks.’
Rebus put his glass to his lips, but didn’t drink. The whisky was loosening him up, mixing with the exhaustion and a brain that seemed full to bursting. A dangerous cocktail. He knew he’d have to be more careful, starting straight away.
‘Want some music?’ he asked.
‘Is that a subtle change of subject?’
‘Questions, questions.’ He went over to the hi-fi, slotted in a tape of Meddle.
‘Who is it?’ she asked.
‘Pink Floyd.’
‘Oh, I like them. Is it a new album?’
‘Not exactly.’
He got her talking about her job, how she got into it, her life all the way back to childhood. Now and again she asked a question about his past, but he’d shake his head and lead her back into her own story.
She needs a break, he thought, as in a rest. But she was obsessed with her job, maybe this was as close as she could allow herself to come to a respite: she was with him, so it counted as work. It came down to guilt again, guilt and the work ethic. He thought of a story: World War One, Christmastime, the opposing sides emerging from their trenches to shake hands, play a game of football, then back into the trenches, picking up their guns again . . .
After an hour and four whiskies, she was lying on the sofa with one hand behind her head, the other resting on her stomach. She’d taken her jacket off, and was wearing a white sweatshirt beneath. She’d rolled the sleeves up. The lamplight made golden filaments of the hairs on her arms.
‘Better get a taxi . . .’ she said quietly, Tubular Bells in the background. ‘Who’s this again?’
Rebus didn’t say anything. There was no need to: she was asleep. He could wake her, help her into a taxi. He could drive her home, Glasgow under an hour away at this time of night. But instead he covered her with his duvet, left the music on so low he could barely hear Viv Stanshall’s intros. He sat in his chair by the window, a coat covering him. The gas fire was on, warming the room. He’d wait till she woke up in her own time. Then he’d offer a taxi or his services as driver. Let her choose.
He had a lot of thinking to do, a lot of planning. He had an idea about tomorrow and Ancram and the inquiry. He was turning it, shaping it, adding layers. A lot of thinking to do . . .
He awoke to streetlamp sodium and the feeling that he hadn’t been asleep long, looked at the sofa and saw Kayleigh had gone. He was about to close his eyes again when he noticed her denim jacket still lying on the floor where she’d thrown it.
He got up from the chair, still groggy and suddenly not wanting to be. The hall light was on. The kitchen door was open. The light was on in there too . . .
She was standing by the table, paracetamol in one hand, a glass of water in the other. The newspaper clippings were spread in front of her. She started when she saw him, then looked at the table.
‘I was looking for coffee, thought it might sober me up. I found these instead.’
‘Casework,’ Rebus said simply.
‘I didn’t know you were attached to the Johnny Bible inquiry.’
‘I’m not.’ He gathered up the sheets and put them back in the cupboard. ‘There isn’t any coffee, I’ve run out.’
‘Water’s fine.’ She swallowed the tablets.
‘Hangover?’
She gulped water, shook her head. ‘I think maybe I can head it off.’ She looked at him. ‘I wasn’t snooping, it’s important to me that you believe that.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘If it finds its way into the programme, we’ll both know.’
‘Why the interest in Johnny Bible?’
‘No reason.’ He saw she couldn’t accept that. ‘It’s hard to explain.’
‘Try me.’
‘I don’t know . . . call it the end of innocence.’
He drank a couple of glasses of water, let her wander back into the living room by herself. She came out again with her jacket on, pulling her hair out from behind the collar.
‘I’d better go.’
‘Do you want me to run you somewhere?’ She shook her head. ‘What about the bottle?’
‘Maybe we can finish it another time.’
‘I can’t guarantee it’ll still be here.’
‘I can live with that.’ She walked to the front door, opened it, turned back towards him.
‘Did you hear about the drowning in Ratho?’
‘Yes,’ he said, face expressionless.
‘Fergus McLure, I interviewed him recently.’
‘Really?’
‘He was a friend of Spaven.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘No? Funny, he told me you pulled him in for questioning during the original case. Anything to say to that, Inspector?’ She smiled coldly. ‘Thought not.’
He locked the door and heard her walking downstairs, then went back into the living room and stood beside the window, looking down. She turned right, heading for The Meadows and a taxi. There was one light on across the road; no sign of Stevens’ car. Rebus fixed his eyes on his own reflection. She knew about the Spaven-McLure connection, knew Rebus had interviewed McLure. It was just the kind of ammo Chick Ancram needed. Rebus’s reflection stared back at him, mockingly calm. It took all his willpower to stop him punching out the glass.
11
Rebus was on the run – moving target and all that – morning hangover failing to slow him down. He’d packed first thing, a suitcase only half f
ull, left his pager lying on the mantelpiece. The garage where he usually had his MOT done managed to give the Saab a once-over: tyre pressure, oil level. Fifteen minutes for fifteen quid. Only problem they found, the steering was slack.
‘So’s my driving,’ Rebus told them.
He had calls to make, but avoiding his flat, Fort Apache, or any other cop-shop. He thought of the early-opening pubs, but they were like offices – he was known to work out of them. Too big a chance that Ancram would find him. So he used his local launderette, shaking his head at the offer of a service wash – ten per cent discount this week. A ‘promotional offer’. Since when did launderettes need promotional offers?
He used the change machine to turn a five-pound note into coins, got coffee and a chocolate biscuit from another machine, and dragged a chair over to the wall-phone. First call: Brian Holmes at his house, a final red card on the ‘investigation’. No answer. He didn’t leave a message. Second call: Holmes at work. He disguised his voice and listened to a young DC tell him Brian was a no-show so far.
‘Is there any message?’
Rebus put down the receiver without saying anything. Maybe Brian was working from home on the ‘investigation’, not answering the phone. It was possible. Third call: Gill Templer at her office.
‘DCI Templer speaking.’
‘It’s John.’ Rebus looked around the launderette. Two customers with their faces in magazines. Soft motor sound of washers and tumble driers. The smell of fabric conditioner. The manageress was loading powder into a machine. Radio on in the background: ‘Double Barrel’, Dave & Ansel Collins. Idiot lyric.
‘You want an update?’
‘Why else would I be phoning?’
‘You’re a smooth operator, DI Rebus.’
‘Tell that to Sade. What have you done about Fergie?’
‘The notepad’s at Howdenhall, no result yet. A forensic team is going into the house today, checking for prints and anything else. They wondered why they were needed.’
‘You didn’t tell them?’
‘I pulled rank. After all, that’s what it’s for.’
Rebus smiled. ‘What about the computer?’
‘I’m going back there this afternoon, look through the disks myself. I’ll also question the neighbours about visitors, strange cars, all that.’
‘And Fergie’s business premises?’
‘I’m off to his salesroom in half an hour. How am I doing?’
‘So far, I can’t complain.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ll phone you later, see how it’s going.’
‘You sound funny.’
‘Funny how?’
‘Like you’re up to something.’
‘I’m not the type. Bye, Gill.’
Next call: Fort Apache, direct line to the Shed. Maclay picked up.
‘Hello, Heavy,’ Rebus said. ‘Any messages for me?’
‘Are you kidding? I need asbestos mitts for this phone.’
‘DCI Ancram?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘ESP. I’ve been trying to reach him.’
‘Where are you anyway?’
‘Laid low, flu or something.’
‘You don’t sound too bad.’
‘I’m putting on a brave face.’
‘Are you at home?’
‘At a friend’s. She’s nursing me.’
‘Oh aye? Tell me more.’
‘Not just now, Heavy. Look, if Ancram phones again . . .’
‘Which he will.’
‘Tell him I’m trying to reach him.’
‘Does your Florence Nightingale have a number?’
But Rebus had hung up. He called his own flat, checking the answerphone was still working after the abuse he’d given it. There were two messages, both from Ancram.
‘Give me a break,’ Rebus said under his breath. Then he finished his coffee and ate the chocolate biscuit, and sat there staring at the windows of the tumble driers. His head felt like he was inside one, looking out.
He made two more calls – T-Bird Oil and Grampian CID – then decided to take a quick run out to Brian Holmes’s, chancing that Nell wouldn’t be there. It was a narrow terraced house, a nice size for two people. There was a tiny patch of garden out front, in desperate need of work. Hanging baskets were sited either side of the door, gasping for water. He’d thought Nell a keen gardener.
No one answered the door. He went to the window and looked in. They didn’t have net curtains; some younger couples didn’t bother these days. The living room was a bomb-site, the floor littered with newspapers and magazines, food wrappings, plates and mugs and empty pint glasses. The wastepaper-bin was spilling beer cans. The TV played to an empty room: daytime soap, a tanned couple face to face. They looked more convincing when you couldn’t hear them.
Rebus decided to ask next door. A toddler opened the door to him.
‘Hiya, cowboy, is your mum in?’
A young woman was coming from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ Rebus said. ‘I was looking for Mr Holmes, he lives next door.’
She looked out of the door. ‘His car’s gone, he always has the same spot.’ She pointed to where Rebus’s Saab was parked.
‘You haven’t seen his wife this morning, have you?’
‘Not for ages,’ the woman said. ‘She used to drop by with sweets for Damon.’ She rubbed the kid’s hair. He shrugged her off and galloped back into the house.
‘Well, thanks anyway,’ Rebus said.
‘He should be back this evening, he doesn’t go out much.’
Rebus nodded. He was still nodding when he got to his car. He sat in the driver’s seat, hands rubbing the wheel. She’d walked out on him. How long ago? Why hadn’t the stubborn sod said anything? Oh sure, cops were famous for releasing their emotions, talking out their personal crises, Rebus himself a case in point.
He drove to the warehouse: no sign of Holmes, but the clerical clerk said he’d been working right up until closing time last night.
‘Did he look like he was finished?’
The clerk shook his head. ‘Said he’d see me today.’
Rebus thought about leaving a message, decided he couldn’t risk it. He got back into the car and drove.
He drove through Pilton and Muirhouse, didn’t want to cut too early on to the busy Queensferry Road. Traffic wasn’t bad heading out of town – at least it was moving. He got change ready for the toll at the Forth Bridge.
He was going north. Not just to Dundee this trip. He was going to Aberdeen. He didn’t know if he was running away, or heading for a confrontation.
No reason it couldn’t be both. Cowards made good heroes sometimes. He stuck a tape into the cassette player. Robert Wyatt, Rock Bottom.
‘Been there, Bob,’ he said. And later: ‘Cheer up, it might never happen.’
Saying which he switched tapes. Deep Purple playing ‘Into the Fire’. The car accelerated just enough.
Furry Boot Town
12
It was a couple of years since Rebus had been in Aberdeen, and then only for an afternoon. He’d been visiting an aunt. She was dead now; he’d found out only after the funeral. She’d lived near Pittodrie Stadium, her old house surrounded by new developments. The house was probably gone now, flattened. For all the associations with granite, Aberdeen had a feeling of impermanence. These days it owed almost everything it had to oil, and the oil wouldn’t be there for ever. Growing up in Fife, Rebus had seen the same thing with coal: no one planned for the day it would run out. When it did, hope ran out with it.
Linwood, Bathgate, the Clyde: nobody ever seemed to learn.
Rebus recalled the early oil years, the sound of Lowlanders scurrying north looking for hard work at high wages: unemployed shipbuilders and steelworkers, school-leavers and students. It was Scotland’s Eldorado. You sat in Saturday afternoon pubs in Edinburgh and Glasgow, the racing pages folded open, dream horses circled, and spo
ke of the great escape you could make. There were jobs going spare, a mini-Dallas was being constructed from the husk of a fishing port. It was unbelievable, incredible. It was magic.
People watching J.R. scheme his way through another episode found it easy to fantasise that the same scenario was being played out on the north-east coast. There was an American invasion, and the Americans – roughnecks, bears, roustabouts – didn’t want a quiet, self-contained coastal town; they wanted to raise hell, and started building from the ground up. So the initial stories of Eldorado turned into tales from the darkside: brothels, blood-baths, drunken brawls. Corruption was everywhere, the players spoke millions of dollars, and the locals resented the invasion at the same time as they took the cash and available work. For working-class males based south of Aberdeen, it seemed like the word made flesh, not just a man’s world but a hardman’s world, where respect was demanded and bought with money. It took only weeks for the switch: fit men came back shaking their heads, muttering about slavery, twelve-hour shifts, and the nightmare North Sea.
And somewhere in the middle, between Hell and Eldorado, sat something approximating the truth, nothing like as interesting as the myths. Economically the north-east had profited from oil, and relatively painlessly at that. Like Edinburgh, commercial development had not been allowed to scar the city centre too deeply. But on the outskirts you saw the usual industrial estates, the low-rise factory units, a lot of them with names connecting them to the offshore industry: On-Off; Grampian Oil; PlatTech . . .
However, before this there was the glory of the drive itself. Rebus stuck as far as possible to the coastal route, and wondered at the mind-set of a nation who would design a golf course along a clifftop. When he stopped at a petrol station for a break, he bought a map of Aberdeen and checked the location of Grampian Police HQ. It was on Queen Street, in the city centre. He hoped the one-way system wasn’t going to be a problem. He’d been to Aberdeen maybe half a dozen times in his life, three of those for childhood holidays. Even though it was a modern city, he still joked about it the way a lot of Lowlanders did: it was full of teuchters, fish-gutters with funny accents. When they asked you where you were from, it sounded like they were saying ‘Furry boot ye frae?’ Thus, Furry Boot Town, while Aberdonians stuck to ‘Granite City’. Rebus knew he was going to have to keep the jokes and jibes in check, at least until he had a feel for the place.