by Ian Rankin
‘I’m gutting,’ he complained.
‘So stop and we’ll eat something.’
They stopped at a bakery in Liberton: sausage rolls, beakers of coffee, a couple of macaroon cakes. Sat eating them in the car, parked double yellow by a bus stop. Buses rattled them as they passed, hinting they should shift. There were messages on the backs of some of them: Please Give Way to This Bus.
‘I don’t mind the buses,’ Jack said. ‘It’s their drivers I object to. Half of them couldn’t pass the time of day, never mind a PSV test.’
Rebus’s comment: ‘It’s not buses that have the choke-hold on this place.’
‘You’re cheery this morning.’
‘Jack, just shut your gub and drive.’
They were ready for him at Howdenhall. The team last night at his flat had taken away all his shoes, so the forensic bods could check for footprints and fail to match them against any left at the scene of Johnny Bible’s murders. First thing Rebus had to do this morning was remove the shoes he was wearing. They gave him plastic overshoes to wear, and said his own would be returned to him before he left. The overshoes were too big, uncomfortable – his feet slid around inside them, and he had to curl his toes to keep them from slipping off.
They decided against a saliva test – it was the least reliable – but plucked hairs from his head.
‘Could you graft them on to my temples when you’re finished?’
The woman with the tweezers smiled, went about her business. She explained that she had to get the roots – PCR analysis wouldn’t work on shed hair. There was a test available in some places, but . . .
‘But?’
She didn’t answer, but Rebus knew what she’d meant: but they were just going through the motions with him. Neither Ancram nor anyone else was expecting the expensive tests to yield any positive result. The only result would be a nettled, unsettled Rebus. That’s what the whole thing was about. Forensics knew it; Rebus knew it.
Blood sample – the need for a warrant had been waived – and fingerprints next, plus they wanted some strands and threads from his clothes. I’m going on the computer, Rebus thought. For all that I’m not guilty, I’ll still be a suspect in the eyes of history. Anyone digging the files out in twenty years’ time will see that a policeman was interviewed, and gave samples . . . It was a grim feeling. And once they had his DNA on record . . . well, that was him on the register. The Scottish DNA database was just beginning to be compiled. Rebus started to wish he’d insisted on a warrant.
Throughout each process Jack Morton stood by, averting his face. And afterwards, Rebus got his shoes back. It felt like the forensic science staff were staring at him; maybe they were, maybe they weren’t. Pete Hewitt wandered past – he hadn’t been present at the fingerprinting – and made a crack about the biter bit. Jack grabbed Rebus’s arm, stopped him from swinging. Hewitt shuffled off double quick.
‘We’re due at Fettes,’ Jack reminded Rebus.
‘I’m ready.’
Jack looked at him. ‘Maybe we’ll stop off somewhere first, get another coffee.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Afraid I’ll take a swing at Ancram?’
‘If you do, bear in mind he’s a southpaw.’
‘Inspector, do you have any objections to this interview being recorded?’
‘What happens to the recording?’
‘It’ll be dated and timed, copies made: one for you. Transcripts ditto.’
‘No objections.’
Ancram nodded to Jack Morton, who set the machine running. They were in an office on the third floor of Fettes. It was cramped, and looked like it had hastily been vacated by a disgruntled tenant. There was a wastepaper-bin by the desk, waiting to be emptied. Paper-clips littered the floor. The walls still bore marks where Sellotaped pictures had been yanked down. Ancram sat behind the scratched desk, the Spaven casenotes piled to one side. He was wearing a formal dark-blue pinstripe with pale blue shirt and tie, and looked like he’d been for a haircut first thing. There were two pens in front of him on the desk – a blue fine-nib Bic with yellow casing, and an expensive-looking lacquered rollerball. His buffed and filed nails tapped against a clean pad of A4 paper. A typed list of notes, queries and points to be raised sat to the right of the pad.
‘So, doctor,’ Rebus said, ‘what are my chances?’
Ancram merely smiled. When he spoke, it was for the benefit of the tape machine.
‘DCI Charles Ancram, Strathclyde CID. It’s –’ he consulted a thin wristwatch – ‘ten forty-five on Monday the twenty-fourth of June. Preliminary interview with Detective Inspector John Rebus, Lothian and Borders Police. This interview is taking place in office C25, Lothian Police Headquarters, Fettes Avenue, Edinburgh. Also present is —’
‘You forgot the postcode,’ Rebus said, folding his arms.
‘That was the voice of DI Rebus. Also present is DI Jack Morton, Falkirk CID, currently on secondment to Strathclyde Police, Glasgow.’
Ancram glanced at his notes, picked up the Bic and ran through the first couple of lines. Then he picked up a plastic beaker of water and sipped from it, watching Rebus over the rim.
‘Any time you’re ready,’ Rebus told him.
Ancram was ready. Jack sat by the table on which the tape machine sat. Two mikes ran from it to the desk, one pointing towards Ancram, one towards Rebus. From where he was sitting, Rebus couldn’t quite see Jack. It was just him and Ancram, the chessboard set for play.
‘Inspector,’ Ancram said, ‘you know why you’re here?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m here because I’ve refused to give up an investigation into possible links between Glaswegian gangster Joseph Toal, the Aberdeen drug market, and the murder of an oil-worker in Edinburgh.’
Ancram flicked through the casenotes, looking bored.
‘Inspector, you know that interest in the Leonard Spaven case has been revived?’
‘I know the TV sharks have been circling. They think they can smell blood.’
‘And can they?’
‘Just a leaky old ketchup bottle, sir.’
Ancram smiled; it wouldn’t come over on the recording.
‘CI Ancram smiles,’ Rebus said, for the record.
‘Inspector,’ referring to his notes, ‘what started this media interest?’
‘Leonard Spaven’s suicide, added to his public notoriety.’
‘Notoriety?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘The media get a vicarious thrill from reformed thugs and murderers, especially when they show some artistic leaning. The media often aspire to art themselves.’
Ancram seemed to expect more. They sat in silence for a moment. Cassette whirr; motor noise. Someone along the corridor sneezed. No sunshine today: iron-clad skies forecasting rain; a bitter wind off the North Sea.
Ancram sat back in his chair. His message to Rebus: I don’t need the notes, I know this case. ‘How did you feel when you heard Lawson Geddes had killed himself?’
‘Gutted. He was a good officer, and a good friend to me.’
‘You had your differences though?’
Rebus tried to hold the stare; ended up blinking first. Thought: of such accumulated setbacks were battles lost.
‘Did we?’ Old trick, answer a question with a question. Ancram’s look said it was a tired move.
‘I’ve had my men talk to some serving officers from the time.’ A glance towards Jack, not even lasting a second. Drawing Jack in. Good tactics, sowing doubt.
‘We had minor disagreements, same as everybody else.’
‘You still respected him?’
‘Present tense.’
Ancram bowed his head, acknowledging this. Fingered his notes, like stroking a woman’s arm. Possessive. But doing it for comfort too, for reassurance.
‘So, you worked well together?’
‘Pretty well. Mind if I smoke?’
‘We’ll have a break at . . .’ checking his watch, ‘eleven forty-five. Fair enough?’
‘I’ll try to survive.
’
‘You’re a survivor, Inspector. Your record speaks for itself.’
‘So talk to my record.’
A quick smile. ‘When did you find out that Lawson Geddes had it in for Leonard Spaven?’
‘I don’t understand the question.’
‘I think you do.’
‘Think again.’
‘Do you know why Geddes was kicked off the Bible John inquiry?’
‘No.’ It was the one question that had power, real power: it could get to Rebus.
Because he wanted to know the answer.
‘You don’t? He never told you?’
‘Never.’
‘But he talked about Bible John?’
‘Yes.’
‘See, it’s all a bit vague . . .’ Ancram went into a drawer, hefted two more bulging files on to the desk. ‘I’ve got Geddes’s personnel file and reports here. Plus some stuff from the Bible John inquiry, bits and pieces he was involved in. Seems he grew obsessed.’ Ancram opened one file, turned pages idly, then looked at Rebus. ‘Does that sound familiar?’
‘You’re saying he was obsessed with Lenny Spaven?’
‘I know he was.’ Ancram let that sink in, nodding his head. ‘I know it from interviews with officers from the time, but more importantly I know it because of Bible John.’
The bastard had hooked Rebus. They were only twenty minutes into the interview. Rebus crossed his legs, tried to look unconcerned. His face was so taut, he knew the muscles were probably visible beneath the skin.
‘See,’ Ancram went on, ‘Geddes tried to tie Spaven to the Bible John case. Now, the notes aren’t complete. Either they were destroyed or lost, or else Geddes and his superior didn’t write down everything. But Geddes was going after Spaven, no doubt about that. Tucked away in one of the files I found some old photographs. Spaven’s in them.’ Ancram held the photos up. ‘They’re from the Borneo campaign. Geddes and Spaven were in the Scots Guards together. My feeling is that something happened out there, and from then on Geddes was out for Spaven’s blood. How am I doing so far?’
‘Filling the time nicely till the ciggie break. Can I see those photos?’
Ancram shrugged, handed them over. Rebus looked. Old black and whites with crimped edges, a couple of them no bigger than two inches by an inch and a half, the rest four by sixes. Rebus picked Spaven out straight away, the raptor grin hauling him into history. There was a minister in the photos, army uniform and dog collar. Other men posing, dressed in baggy shorts and long socks, faces sweat-shiny, eyes almost scared. Some of the faces were blurred; Rebus couldn’t make out Lawson Geddes in any of them. The photos were exteriors, bamboo huts in the background, an old jeep nosing into one shot. He turned them over, read an inscription – Borneo, 1965 – and some names.
‘Did these come from Lawson Geddes?’ Rebus asked, handing them back.
‘I’ve no idea. They were just in with all the other Bible John junk.’ Ancram slipped them back into the file, counting them as he did so.
‘They’re all there,’ Rebus said. Jack Morton’s chair scraped the floor: he was checking how long till the tape had to be switched.
‘So,’ Ancram said, ‘we’ve got Geddes and Spaven serving together in the Scots Guards; we’ve got Geddes chasing Spaven during the Bible John inquiry – and getting booted off the case; then we wind forwards a few years and what do we have? Geddes still chasing Spaven, but this time for the murder of Elizabeth Rhind. And getting booted off the case again.’
‘Spaven definitely knew the victim.’
‘No argument there, Inspector.’ Pause: four beats. ‘You knew one of the Johnny Bible victims – does it mean you killed her?’
‘Come up with her necklace in my flat and ask me again.’
‘Ah, well this is where it gets interesting, isn’t it?’
‘Oh good.’
‘You know the word serendipity?’
‘I pepper my speech with it.’
‘Dictionary definition: the ability to make happy chance finds. Useful word.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And Lawson Geddes had the gift, didn’t he? I mean, you get an anonymous tip-off about a consignment of stolen clock-radios. So you hoof it over to a garage, no search warrant, no nothing, and what do you find? Leonard Spaven, the clock-radios, and a hat and shoulder-bag – both belonging to the murder victim. I’d call that a very happy chance find. Except it wasn’t chance, was it?’
‘We had a warrant.’
‘Signed retrospectively by a tame JP.’ Ancram smiled again. ‘You think you’re doing all right, don’t you? You think I’m doing all the talking, which means you’re saying nothing incriminating. Well listen, I’m talking because I want you to know where we stand. Afterwards, you’ll have every opportunity for rebuttal.’
‘I’ll look forward to that.’
Ancram referred to his notes. Rebus’s mind was still half on Borneo and those photographs: what the hell could they have to do with Bible John? He wished he’d looked at them a bit harder.
‘I’ve been reading your own version of events, Inspector,’ Ancram went on, ‘and I begin to see why you had your pal Holmes take a good look at them.’ He looked up. ‘That was the idea, wasn’t it?’
Rebus said nothing.
‘See, you weren’t quite a seasoned officer back then, for all Geddes had taught you. You wrote a good report, but you were too conscious of the lies you were telling and the gaps you were having to create. I’m good at reading between the lines, practical criticism if you like.’
Rebus had a picture in his mind: Lawson Geddes shivering and wild-eyed on his doorstep.
‘So here’s how I think it went. Geddes was following Spaven – out on a limb by this time; he’d been ordered off the case. He tracked him to the lock-up one day, waited until Spaven was gone and then broke in. Liked the look of what he saw, and decided to plant some evidence.’
‘No.’
‘So he breaks in again, only this time he has some of the victim’s stuff with him. Now, he didn’t get it from an evidence locker, because according to the records nobody removed a hat or a bag from the victim’s abode. So how did he get it? Two possibilities. One, he waltzed back into her home and took it. Two, he already had it on him, because right from the start he had the idea of fitting up Spaven.’
‘No.’
‘To the first or to the second?’
‘To both.’
‘You’ll stand by that?’
‘Yes.’
Ancram had been leaning further over the desk as he’d made each point. Slowly he sat back again, glanced at his watch.
‘Cigarette break?’ Rebus asked.
Ancram shook his head. ‘No, I think that’s enough for today. You made so many cock-ups in the course of that false report, it’s going to take me time to list them all. We’ll go through them next meeting.’
‘I’m excited already.’ Rebus got up and reached into a pocket for his cigarettes. Jack had switched off the recorder and ejected the tape. He handed it to Ancram.
‘I’ll have a copy made immediately and sent to you for verification,’ Ancram told Rebus.
‘Thanks.’ Rebus inhaled, wished he could hold his breath for ever. Some people, when they exhaled no smoke came out. He wasn’t that selfish. ‘One question.’
‘Yes?’
‘What am I supposed to tell my colleagues when I drag Jack here into the office with me?’
‘You’ll think of something. You’re a more practised liar these days.’
‘I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, but thanks anyway.’ He made to leave.
‘A little birdie tells me you put the nut on a TV reporter.’
‘I tripped, fell into him.’
Ancram almost smiled. ‘Tripped?’ Waited till Rebus had nodded. ‘Well, it’s going to look good, isn’t it? They got the whole thing on video.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘This little birdie of yours . . . anyone in particular?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, you have your sources, don’t you? In the press, I mean. Jim Stevens for one. Nice little friendship the two of you have got.’
‘No comment, Inspector.’ Rebus laughed, turned away. ‘One more thing,’ Ancram said.
‘What?’
‘When Geddes was trying to pin the murder on Spaven, you interviewed some of Spaven’s friends and associates, including . . .’ Ancram made show of looking for the name in his notes. ‘Fergus McLure.’
‘What of it?’
‘Mr McLure’s recently deceased. I believe you went to see him the morning he died?’
Who’d been talking?
‘So?’
Ancram shrugged, looked satisfied. ‘Just another . . . coincidence. By the way, DCI Grogan called me this morning.’
‘It must be love.’
‘Do you know a pub in Aberdeen called the Yardarm?’
‘It’s down by the docks.’
‘Yes, it is. Ever been inside?’
‘Maybe.’
‘A drinker in there says definitely. You bought him a drink, talked about the rigs.’
The wee man with the heavy cranium. ‘So?’
‘So it shows you were at the docks the night before Vanessa Holden was murdered. Two nights in a row, Inspector. Grogan’s beginning to sound very edgy. I think he wants you back in his custody.’
‘Are you going to hand me over?’ Ancram shook his head. ‘No, you wouldn’t want that, would you?’
Rebus almost blew some smoke in Ancram’s face. Almost. Maybe he was more selfish than he thought . . .
‘That went as well as could be expected,’ Jack Morton said. He was in the driver’s seat, Rebus electing to sit in the front with him.
‘Only because you thought there’d be a bloodbath.’
‘I was trying to remember my first aid training.’
Rebus laughed, releasing tension. He had a headache.
‘Aspirin in the glove compartment,’ Jack told him. Rebus opened it. There was a little plastic bottle of Vittel there, too. He washed down three tablets.
‘Were you ever in the Scouts, Jack?’
‘I was a sixer in the Cubs, never made the transfer to Scouts. I had other hobbies by then. Are the Scouts still going?’