10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Or did she? Was there something the police had missed, something he might find? He picked up his telephone, called Directory Enquiries.

  ‘It’s a Glasgow number,’ he told the voice on the other end.

  14

  In the middle of the night, Stonehaven was only twenty minutes south of Aberdeen, especially with a maniac at the wheel.

  ‘He’ll still be dead when we get there, pal,’ Rebus told the driver.

  And so he was, dead in a bed & breakfast bathroom, one arm over the side of the bath Marat-style. He’d slashed his wrists by the book – up and down rather than across. The water in the bath looked cold. Rebus didn’t get too close – the arm over the side had leaked blood all across the floor.

  ‘The landlady didn’t know who was in the bathroom,’ Lumsden explained. ‘She just knew whoever it was had been in there long enough. She got no answer, so went to fetch one of her “boys” – this place caters to oil-workers. She tells me she thought Mr Kane was an oil-worker. Anyway, one of her lodgers got the door open and they found this.’

  ‘Nobody saw or heard anything?’

  ‘Suicide tends to be a quiet affair. Follow me.’

  They went along narrow passages and up two short flights of stairs to Tony El’s bedroom. It was fairly tidy. ‘The landlady vacuums and dusts twice a week, sheets and towels are changed twice a week too.’ There was a bottle of cheap whisky with the top unscrewed, about a fifth of the bottle left. An empty glass stood beside it. ‘Look over here.’

  Rebus looked. On the dressing table sat a full set of works: syringe, spoon, cotton wool, lighter, and a tiny polythene bag of brown powder.

  ‘I hear heroin’s back in a big way,’ Lumsden said.

  ‘I didn’t see marks on his arms,’ Rebus said. Lumsden nodded that they were there, but Rebus went back to the bathroom to make sure. Yes, a couple of pinpricks on the inside left forearm. He went back to the bedroom. Lumsden was seated on the bed, flicking through a magazine.

  ‘He hadn’t been using long,’ Rebus said. ‘His arms are pretty clean. I didn’t see the knife.’

  ‘Look at this stuff,’ Lumsden said. He wanted to show Rebus the magazine. A woman with a plastic bag over her head was being entered from behind. ‘Some people have sick minds.’

  Rebus took the magazine from him. It was called Snuff Babes. On the front inside page it stated that it was printed ‘with pride’ in the USA. It wasn’t just illegal; it was the hardest core Rebus had ever seen. Pages and pages of mock-up deaths with sex attached.

  Lumsden had reached into his pocket, drew out an evidence bag. Inside was a blood-stained knife. But no ordinary knife: a Stanley.

  ‘I’m not so sure this was suicide,’ Rebus said quietly.

  So then he had to explain his reasons: the visit to Uncle Joe, how Uncle Joe’s son came by his nickname, and the fact that Tony El used to be one of Uncle Joe’s henchmen.

  ‘The door was locked from the inside,’ Lumsden said.

  ‘And it hadn’t been forced when I got here.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So how did the landlady’s “boy” get in?’ He took Lumsden back to the bathroom and they examined the door: with the turn of a screwdriver, it could be locked and unlocked from the outside.

  ‘You want us to treat this as murder?’ Lumsden said. ‘You think this guy Stanley walked in here, spiked Mr Kane, dragged him along to the bathroom, and sliced his wrists open? We just passed half a dozen bedroom doors and came up two flights of stairs – don’t you think somebody might have noticed?’

  ‘Have you asked them?’

  ‘I’m telling you, John, no one saw anything.’

  ‘And I’m telling you this has Joseph Toal written all over it.’

  Lumsden was shaking his head. He’d rolled up the magazine. It was sticking out of his jacket pocket. ‘All I see here is a suicide. And from what you’ve told me, I’m glad to see the back of the fucker, end of story.’

  The same patrol car took Rebus back into the city, still keeping the wrong side of the speed limit.

  Rebus felt wide awake. He paced his room, smoked three cigarettes. The city outside his cathedral windows was finally asleep. The adult pay-movie channel was still available. The only other thing on offer was beach volleyball from California. For want of any other distraction he got out the flyers from the demo. They made depressing reading. Mackerel and other species of fish were now ‘commercially extinct’ in the North Sea, while others, including haddock – staple of the fish supper – wouldn’t survive the millennium. Meantime, there were 400 oil installations out there which would one day become redundant, and if they were simply dumped along with their heavy metals and chemicals . . . bye-bye fishies.

  Of course, it might be that the fish were for the crow road anyway: nitrates and phosphates from sewage, plus agricultural fertilisers . . . all drained into the seas. Rebus felt worse than ever, tossed the flyers into the bin. One of them didn’t make it, and he picked it up. It told him there was going to be a march and rally on Saturday, with a benefit concert headlined by the Dancing Pigs. Rebus binned it and decided to check his answering machine at home. There were two calls from Ancram, agitated verging on furious, and one from Gill, telling him to call her whatever the hour. So he did.

  ‘Hello?’ She sounded like someone had gummed up her mouth.

  ‘Sorry it’s so late.’

  ‘John.’ She paused to check the time. ‘It’s so late it’s practically early.’

  ‘Your message said . . .’

  ‘I know.’ She sounded like she was struggling to sit up in bed, yawned mightily. ‘Howdenhall worked on that message pad, used ESDA on it, electrostatics.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Came up with a phone number.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Aberdeen code.’

  Rebus felt his spine tingle. ‘Where in Aberdeen?’

  ‘It’s the payphone in some discotheque. Hang on, I’ve got the name here . . . Burke’s Club.’

  Clickety-click.

  ‘Does it mean anything to you?’ she said.

  Yes, he thought, it means I’m up here working at least two cases, maybe three.

  ‘You said a payphone?’

  ‘A public phone. I know because I called it. Not far from the bar by the sound of it.’

  ‘Give me the number.’ She did. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The only fingerprints found belonged to Fergie himself. Nothing interesting on his home computer, except that he was trying a few tax dodges.’

  ‘Hold the front page. And his business premises?’

  ‘Nothing so far. John, are you OK?’

  ‘Fine, why?’

  ‘You sound . . . I don’t know, sort of distant.’

  Rebus allowed himself a smile. ‘I’m right here. Get some sleep, Gill.’

  ‘Night, John.’

  ‘Night-night.’

  He decided to try phoning Lumsden at the cop-shop. Conscientious: nearly three a.m. and he was there.

  ‘You should be in the land of Nod,’ Lumsden told him.

  ‘Something I meant to ask earlier.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That club we were in, the one where Michelle Strachan met Johnny Bible.’

  ‘Burke’s?’

  ‘I just wondered,’ Rebus said. ‘Is it above board?’

  ‘Moderately.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘It skates on thin ice sometimes. There’s been a bit of drug dealing on the premises. The owners tried to clean it up, I think they’ve done a pretty good job.’

  ‘Who owns it?’

  ‘A couple of Yanks. John, what’s this about?’

  Rebus took less than a second constructing his lie. ‘The Edinburgh jumper, he had a book of matches in his pocket. They were from Burke’s.’

  ‘It’s a popular spot.’

  Rebus made a sound of agreement. ‘These owners, what were their names again?’

  ‘I didn’t say.’ Ca
gey now.

  ‘Is it a secret?’

  A humourless laugh. ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t want me bothering them?’

  ‘Jesus, John . . .’ A theatrical sigh. ‘Erik-with-a-k Stemmons, Judd Fuller. I don’t see the point in talking to them.’

  ‘Me neither, Ludo. I just wanted their names.’ Rebus attempted an American accent. ‘Ciao, baby.’ He was smiling when he put down the receiver. He looked at his watch. Ten past three. It was a five-minute walk to College Street. But would the place still be open? He got out the phone book, looked up Burke’s – the number listed was the same one Gill had given him. He tried it: no answer. He decided to leave it at that . . . for the moment.

  Spinning in a narrowing gyre: Allan Mitchison . . . Johnny Bible . . . Uncle Joe . . . Fergus McLure’s drug deal.

  Beach Boys: ‘God Only Knows’. Segue to Zappa and the Mothers: ‘More Trouble Every Day’. Rebus picked his pillow off the floor, listened to it for a full minute, threw it back on to the bed, then lay him down to sleep.

  He was awake early and didn’t feel like breakfast, so went for a walk instead. It was a glorious morning. The seagulls were busy hoovering up the night before’s leftovers, but the streets were otherwise uncrowded. He walked up to the Mercat Cross, then left along King Street. He knew he was heading in the vague direction of his aunt’s house, but doubted he could find it on foot. Instead, he came to something looking like an old school building but calling itself RGIT Offshore. He knew RGIT was Robert Gordon’s Institute of Technology, and that Allan Mitchison had studied for a time at RGIT-OSC. He knew Johnny Bible’s first victim had studied at Robert Gordon’s University, but not what she had studied. Had she taken classes here? He stared at the grey granite walls. The first murder was in Aberdeen. Only later did Johnny Bible move to Glasgow and Edinburgh. Meaning what? Did Aberdeen hold some particular significance for the killer? He’d walked the victim from a nightclub to Duthie Park, but that didn’t mean he was local: Michelle herself could have shown him the way. Rebus got out his map again, found College Street, then traced a finger from Burke’s Club to Duthie Park. A long walk, residential, nobody had seen them the whole length of the route. Had they taken especially quiet back roads? Rebus folded the map and put it away.

  He headed past the City Hospital and ended up on the Esplanade: a long expanse of grass links with bowling green, tennis and putting. There were amusements, all closed this early. People were on the Esplanade – jogging, walking their dogs, morning constitutionals. Rebus joined them. Groynes divided the mostly sandy beach into neat compartments. It was as clean a part of the city as he’d seen, excepting the graffiti – an artist called Zero had been hard at work, making this his or her personal gallery.

  Zero the Hero: a character from somewhere . . . Gong. Jesus, he hadn’t thought of them for years. Pot-head pixies with stoned synths. Floating anarchy.

  At the end of the Esplanade, next to the harbour, stood a couple of squares of housing, a village within the city. The squares themselves comprised drying greens and garden sheds. Dogs barked a warning as he passed. It reminded him of the east neuk of Fife, fishermen’s cottages, brightly painted but unpretentious. A taxi was cruising the harbour. Rebus waved it down. The R&R was over.

  There was a demo outside the headquarters of T-Bird Oil. The young woman with the braided hair who’d been so persuasive the previous day was sitting cross-legged on the grass, smoking a roll-up, looking like she was on her break. The young man currently on the megaphone didn’t have half her anger or eloquence, but his friends cheered him on. Maybe he was new to the demonstrating game.

  Two young woolly suits, no older than the activists, were in consultation with three or four environmentalists in red boiler-suits and gas masks. The policemen were saying that if they took the gas masks off, conversation might be less of a chore. They were also asking that the demonstration move off land owned by T-Bird Oil. Namely, the patch of grass in front of the main entrance. The demonstrators were saying something about the laws of trespass. Legal knowledge came with the territory these days. It was like rules of unarmed combat to a squaddie.

  Rebus was offered the same literature as the day before.

  ‘I already took,’ he said with a smile. Braid-hair looked up at him and squinted, like she was taking a photograph.

  In the reception area, someone was videoing the demo through the windows. Maybe for police intelligence; maybe for T-Bird’s own files. Stuart Minchell was waiting for Rebus.

  ‘Isn’t it unbelievable?’ he said. ‘I hear there are groups like that one outside each of the Six Sisters, plus smaller operations like ours.’

  ‘The Six Sisters?’

  ‘The big North Sea players. Exxon, Shell, BP, Mobil . . . I forget the other two. So, ready for the trip?’

  ‘I’m not sure. What are my chances of getting a kip?’

  ‘It might be pretty bumpy. Good news is, we’ve a plane heading up, so you’ll be spared a budgie – at least for today. You’ll fly in to Scatsta. It used to be an RAF base. Saves the hassle of changing at Sumburgh.’

  ‘And it’s near Sullom Voe?’

  ‘Right next door. Someone’ll be there to meet you.’

  ‘I appreciate this, Mr Minchell.’

  Minchell shrugged. ‘Ever been to Shetland?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Well, you’re probably not going to see much of it, except from the air. Just remember, when that plane takes off, you’re not in Scotland any more. You’re a “Sooth-Moother” heading for miles and miles of bugger all.’

  15

  Minchell drove Rebus to Dyce Airport. The plane was a twin-propeller model with seats for fourteen, but today carrying only half a dozen passengers, all men. Four of them wore suits, and were quick to open their briefcases, disgorging sheafs of paper, ring-bound reports, calculators, pens and laptops. One wore a sheepskin jacket and lacked what the others would probably call ‘proper grooming’. He kept his hands in his pockets and stared out of the window. Rebus, who didn’t mind an aisle seat, decided to sit beside him.

  The man tried to stare him elsewhere. His eyes were bloodshot, grey stubble covering cheeks and chin. In reply, Rebus fastened his seat-belt. The man growled, but shifted upright, allowing Rebus half an arm-rest. Then he went back to window-watching. A car was drawing up outside.

  The engine started up, propellers turning. There was a stewardess at the back of the cramped compartment. She hadn’t closed the door yet. The man in the window-seat turned to the assembly of suits.

  ‘Prepare to shite yourselves.’ Then he started laughing. Whisky fumes from the night before wafted over Rebus, making him glad he’d skipped breakfast. Someone else was boarding the plane. Rebus peered down the aisle. It was Major Weir, dressed in a kilt, sporran attached. The suits froze. Sheepskin was still chuckling. The door slammed shut. Seconds later, the plane began to taxi.

  Rebus, who hated flying, tried to think himself into a nice Intercity 125, speeding along terra firma, no intention of suddenly pushing skywards.

  ‘Grab that arm-rest any harder,’ his neighbour said, ‘and you’ll uproot the fucking thing.’

  The ascent was like an unpaved road. Rebus thought he could feel fillings popping loose and hear the plane’s various bolts and soldered joins snapping. But then they were levelling out, and things settled down. Rebus started breathing again, noticed sweat on his palms and brow. He adjusted the air-intake above him.

  ‘Better?’ the man said.

  ‘Better,’ Rebus agreed. The wheels retracted, covers closing. The sheepskin explained what the sounds were. Rebus nodded his thanks. He could hear the stewardess behind them.

  ‘I’m sorry, Major, if we’d known you were coming we’d have arranged for coffee to be served.’

  She got a grunt for her trouble. The suits were staring at their work, but couldn’t concentrate. The plane hit some turbulence, and Rebus’s hands went to the arm-rests again.

  ‘Fear of flying,’ sheepskin said with a wink. />
  Rebus knew he had to get his mind off the flight. ‘Do you work at Sullom Voe?’

  ‘Practically run the place.’ He nodded towards the suits. ‘I don’t work for this lot you know. I’m just cadging a lift. I work for the consortium.’

  ‘The Six Sisters?’

  ‘And the rest. Thirty-odd at the last count.’

  ‘You know, I don’t know a damned thing about Sullom Voe.’

  Sheepskin gave him a sidelong look. ‘You a reporter?’

  ‘I’m a CID detective.’

  ‘Just so long as you’re not a reporter. I’m the relief Maintenance Manager. We’re always getting grief in the press about cracked pipes and spills. I’ll tell you, the only leaks around my terminal are the ones to the fucking papers!’ He stared out of the window again, as if their conversation had reached a natural end. But a full minute later he turned to Rebus.

  ‘There are two pipelines into the terminal – Brent and Ninian – plus we offload from tankers. Four jetties in near-constant use. I was here from the start, 1973. That’s only four years after the first exploration ships chugged into Lerwick. By Christ, I’d have loved to’ve seen the looks on the fishermen’s faces. They probably thought it was the start of bugger all. But oil came and oil stayed, we got to fuck with the islands, and they screwed every penny they could out of the consortium. Every last penny.’

  As sheepskin talked, his mouth began to relax. Rebus thought he might still be drunk. He spoke quietly, mostly with his face to the window.

  ‘You should have seen the place in the seventies, kiddo. It was like the Klondike – trailer parks, shanty towns, the roads churned to mud. We had power cuts, not enough fresh water, and the locals fucking hated us. I loved it. There was about one pub we could all drink in. The consortium were choppering in supplies like we were at war. Fuck, maybe we were.’

  He turned to Rebus.

  ‘And the weather . . . the wind’ll strip the skin off your face.’