10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Traffic was at a crawl as they detoured into the centre of town. Rush-hour Edinburgh was a nightmare these days. Red lights and chugging exhausts, frayed nerves and drumming fingers. By the time they reached the shop it had closed for the night. Rebus checked the opening hours: nine tomorrow. He could pick up the photos on his way to Fettes and only be a little late for Ancram. Ancram: the very thought of the man was like voltage passing through him.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ he told Jack. Then he remembered the traffic. ‘No, second thoughts: we’ll stop off at the Ox.’ Jack smiled. ‘Did you think you’d cured me?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘I sometimes come off for a couple of days at a stretch, it’s no big thing.’

  ‘It could be though.’

  ‘Another sermon, Jack?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘What about the ciggies?’

  ‘I’ll buy a packet from the machine.’

  He stood at the bar, resting one shoe on the foot-rail, one elbow on the polished wood. In front of him sat four objects: a packet of cigarettes with seal unbroken; a box of Scottish Bluebell matches; a thirty-five millilitre measure of Teacher’s whisky; and a pint of Belhaven Best. He was staring at them with the concentration of a psychic willing them to move.

  ‘Three minutes dead,’ a regular commented from along the bar, like he’d been timing Rebus’s resistance. A profound question was running through Rebus’s mind: did he want them, or did they want him? He wondered how David Hume would have got on with that. He picked the beer up. No wonder you called it ‘heavy’: that’s just what it was. He sniffed it. It didn’t smell too enticing; he knew it would taste OK, but other things tasted better. The aroma of the whisky was fine though – smoky, filling nostrils and lungs. It would sear his mouth, burn going down, and melt through him, the effect lasting not long.

  And the nicotine? He knew himself that when he took a few days off the ciggies, he could sense how bad they made you smell – your skin, clothes, hair. Disgusting habit really: if you didn’t give yourself cancer, chances were you were giving it to some poor bastard whose only misfortune was in getting too close to you. Harry the barman was waiting for Rebus to act. The whole bar was. They knew something was happening; it was written on Rebus’s face – there was almost pain there. Jack stood beside him, holding his breath.

  ‘Harry,’ Rebus said, ‘take those away.’ Harry lifted the two drinks, shaking his head.

  ‘I wish we could get a picture of this,’ he said.

  Rebus slid the cigarettes along the bar towards the smoker. ‘Here, take them. And don’t leave them lying too close to me, I might change my mind.’

  The smoker lifted the packet, amazed. ‘Payback for the singles you’ve nicked off me in the past.’

  ‘With interest,’ Rebus said, watching Harry pour the beer down the sink.

  ‘Does it go straight back into the barrel, Harry?’

  ‘So, do you want anything else, or did you just come in for a seat?’

  ‘Coke and crisps.’ He turned to Jack. ‘I’m allowed crisps, right?’

  Jack was resting a hand on his back, patting him softly. And he was smiling.

  They stopped in at a shop on the way to the flat, came out again with the makings of a meal.

  ‘Can you remember the last time you cooked?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I’m not that cack-handed.’ The answer to the question was ‘no’.

  Jack, it turned out, enjoyed cooking, but he found Rebus’s kitchen lacking the finer tools of his craft. No lemon zester, no garlic crusher.

  ‘Give the garlic here,’ Rebus offered, ‘I’ll stamp on it.’

  ‘I used to be lazy,’ Jack said. ‘When Audrey left, I tried cooking bacon in the toaster. But cooking’s a doddle once you get your head round it.’

  ‘What’s it going to be anyway?’

  ‘Low-fat spagbog, with salad if you’ll get your arse in gear.’

  Rebus got his arse in gear, but found he had to nip out to the deli for the makings of the dressing. He didn’t bother with a jacket: it was mild out.

  ‘Sure you can trust me?’ he said.

  Jack tasted the sauce, nodded. So Rebus went out on his own, and thought about not going back. There was a pub on the next corner, its doors open. But of course he was going back: he hadn’t eaten yet. The way Jack slept, if Rebus ever wanted to high-tail it that would be the time.

  They set the table in the living room – the first time it had been used for a meal since Rebus’s wife had left. Could that be true? Rebus paused, a fork and spoon in his hand. Yes, it was true. His flat, his refuge, suddenly seemed emptier than ever.

  Maudlin again: another reason he drank.

  They shared a bottle of Highland spring water, chinked glasses.

  ‘Shame it’s not fresh pasta,’ Jack said.

  ‘It’s fresh food,’ Rebus replied, filling his mouth. ‘Rare enough in this flat.’

  They ate the salad afterwards – French-style, Jack said. Rebus was reaching for seconds when the phone rang. He picked it up.

  ‘John Rebus.’

  ‘Rebus, it’s CI Grogan here.’

  ‘CI Grogan,’ Rebus looked to Jack, ‘what can I do for you, sir?’ Jack came to the phone to listen.

  ‘We’ve run preliminary tests on your shoes and clothing. Thought you’d like to know you’re in the clear.’

  ‘Was there ever any doubt?’

  ‘You’re a copper, Rebus, you know there are procedures.’

  ‘Of course, sir. I appreciate you phoning.’

  ‘Something else. I had a word with Mr Fletcher.’ Hayden Fletcher: PR at T-Bird. ‘He admitted knowing the latest victim. Gave us a detailed breakdown of his movements the night she was killed. He even offered blood for DNA analysis if we thought it would help.’

  ‘He sounds cocky.’

  ‘That just about sums him up. I took an instant dislike to the man, something I don’t often do.’

  ‘Not even with me?’ Rebus smiled at Jack. Jack mouthed the words ‘Go easy’.

  ‘Not even with you,’ Grogan said.

  ‘So that’s two suspects eliminated. Doesn’t get you much further, does it?’

  ‘No.’ Grogan sighed. Rebus could imagine him wiping tired eyes.

  ‘What about Eve and Stanley, sir? Did you heed my advice?’

  ‘I did. Mindful of your mistrust of DS Lumsden – an excellent officer, by the way – 1 set two men on it off my own bat, reporting directly to me.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Grogan coughed. ‘They were staying in a hotel near the airport. Five-star, usually an oil company hang-out. Driving a BMW.’ The one from Uncle Joe’s cul-de-sac no doubt. ‘I’ve a description of the car and licence details.’

  ‘Not needed, sir.’

  ‘Well, my men followed them to a couple of nightclubs.’

  ‘During business hours?’

  ‘Daylight hours, Inspector. They went in carrying nothing, and came out the same way. However, they also paid visits to several banks in the city centre. One of my men got close enough in one bank to see that they were making a cash deposit.’

  ‘In a bank?’ Rebus frowned. Was Uncle Joe the type to trust to banks? Would he let strangers get within a mile of his ill-gained assets?

  ‘That’s about it, Inspector. They ate a few meals together, went for a drive down to the docks, then left town.’

  ‘They’ve gone?’

  ‘Left tonight. My men followed them as far as Banchory. I’d say they were headed for Perth.’ And after that, Glasgow. ‘The hotel confirms they’ve checked out.’

  ‘Did you ask the hotel if they’re regulars?’

  ‘We did and they are. They started using it about six months ago.’

  ‘How many rooms?’

  ‘They always book two.’ There was a smile in Grogan’s voice. ‘But the story is, the maids only ever had to clean one of them. Seems they were sharing one room, and leaving the other untouched.’

  Bingo, Rebus thought. Housey-housey an
d fucking click-ety-click.

  ‘Thanks, sir.’

  ‘Does this help you in something?’

  ‘It might help a lot, I’ll be in touch. Oh, something I meant to ask . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hayden Fletcher: did he say how he came to know the victim?’

  ‘A business acquaintance. She organised the stand for T-Bird Oil at the North Sea Convention.’

  ‘Is that what “corporate presentations” means?’

  ‘Apparently. Ms Holden designed a lot of the stands, then her company did the actual construction and setting-up. Fletcher met her as part of that process.’

  ‘Sir, I appreciate all of this.’

  ‘Inspector . . . if you’re coming north again any time, call to let me know, understood?’

  Rebus understood that it wasn’t an invitation to afternoon tea.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, ‘good night.’

  He put the phone down. Aberdeen beckoned, and he was damned if he’d give anyone prior notice. But Aberdeen could wait another day. Vanessa Holden connected to the oil industry . . .

  ‘What is it, John?’

  Rebus looked up at his friend. ‘It’s Johnny Bible, Jack. I just got a strange feeling about him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That he’s an oilman . . .’

  They tidied everything away and washed up, then made mugs of coffee and decided to go back to the decorating. Jack wanted to know more about Johnny Bible, and about Eve and Stanley, but Rebus didn’t know where to start. His head felt clogged. He kept filling it with new information, and nothing drained away. Johnny Bible’s first victim had been a geology student at a university with close ties to the oil industry. Now his fourth victim made stands for conventions, and working in Aberdeen, he could guess who her best clients had been. If there was a connection between victims one and four, was there something he was missing, something linking two and three? A prostitute and a barmaid, one in Edinburgh, the other Glasgow . . .

  When the telephone rang, he put down his sandpaper – the door was looking good – and picked it up. Jack was using a ladder to reach the cornices.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘John? It’s Mairie.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to reach you.’

  ‘Sorry, another assignment – a paying one.’

  ‘Did you find out anything about Major Weir?’

  ‘A fair bit. How was Aberdeen?’

  ‘Bracing.’

  ‘It’ll do that to you. These notes . . . probably too much to read over the phone.’

  ‘So let’s meet.’

  ‘Which pub?’

  ‘Not a pub.’

  ‘There must be something wrong with the line. Did you just say “not a pub”?’

  ‘How about Duddingston Village? That’s about halfway. I’ll park by the loch.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Half an hour?’

  ‘Half an hour it is.’

  ‘We’ll never get this room finished,’ Jack said, stepping down off the ladder. He had traces of white paint in his hair.

  ‘Grey suits you,’ Rebus told him.

  Jack rubbed at his head. ‘Is it another woman?’ Rebus nodded. ‘How do you manage to keep them apart?’

  ‘The flat has a lot of doors.’

  Mairie was waiting when they got there. Jack hadn’t been around Arthur’s Seat in years, so they took the scenic route; not that there was much to see at night. The huge hump of a hill, looking like nothing so much as – even kids could see it – a crouched elephant, was a great place to blow off the cobwebs – and anything else you might have on you. At night, though, it was poorly lit and a long way from anywhere. Edinburgh had lots of these glorious empty spaces. They were fine and private places right up until the moment you met your first junkie, mugger, rapist or gay-basher.

  Duddingston Village was just that – a village in the midst of a city, sheltering beneath Arthur’s Seat. Duddingston Loch – more outsize pond than true loch – looked down on to a bird sanctuary and a path known as the Innocent Railway: Rebus wished he knew where it got the name.

  Jack stopped the car and flashed his lights. Mairie switched hers off, unlocked her door, and came loping towards them. Rebus leaned into the back to open the door, and she got in. He introduced her to Jack Morton.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you worked the Knots and Crosses case with John.’

  Rebus blinked. ‘How do you know that? It was before your time.’

  She winked at him. ‘I’ve done my research.’

  He wondered what else she might know, but hadn’t time to speculate. She handed him a brown A4 envelope.

  ‘Thank God for e-mail. I’ve a contact on the Washington Post and he got me most of what’s there.’

  Rebus switched on the interior light. There was a spot-lamp specially for reading by.

  ‘Usually he wants to meet me in pubs,’ Mairie told Jack, ‘right seedy ones at that.’

  Jack smiled at her, turned in his seat with his arm hanging down over the headrest. Rebus knew Jack liked her. Everyone liked Mairie from the off. He wished he knew her secret.

  ‘Seedy pubs suit his personality,’ Jack said.

  ‘Look,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘will you two bugger off and go look at the ducks or something?’

  Jack shrugged, checked it was OK with Mairie, and opened his door. Alone, Rebus settled deeper into his seat and started to read.

  Number one: Major Weir was not a Major. It was a nickname, earned in adolescence. Two, his parents had handed on to him their love of all things Scottish – up to and including a craving for national independence. There were a lot of facts about his early years in industry, latterly the oil industry, and reports of Thom Bird’s demise – nothing suspicious about it. A journalist in the States had started writing an unauthorised biography of Weir, but had given up – rumour had it he was paid not to finish the book. A couple of stories, unsubstantiated: Weir left his wife amid much acrimony – and later, much alimony. Then something about Weir’s son, either deceased or disinherited. Maybe off in some ashram or feeding the African hungry, maybe working in a burger parlour or Wall Street futures. Rebus turned to the next sheet, only to find there wasn’t one. The story had finished mid-sentence. He got out of the car, walked to where Mairie and Jack were in huddled conversation.

  ‘It’s not all here,’ he said, waving what sheets he had.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Mairie reached into her jacket, brought out a single folded sheet and handed it over. Rebus stared at her, demanding an explanation. She shrugged. ‘Call me a tease.’

  Jack started laughing.

  Rebus stood in the glare of the headlights and read. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He read it again, then for a third time, and had to run a hand through his hair to make sure the top of his head hadn’t just blown off.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Mairie asked him.

  He stared at her for a moment, not really seeing anything, then pulled her to him and planted a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Mairie, you’re perfect.’

  She turned to Jack Morton.

  ‘I second that,’ he said.

  Sitting in his car, Bible John had watched Rebus and friend drive out of Arden Street. His business had kept him an extra day in Edinburgh. Frustrating, but at least he’d been able to take another look at the policeman. It was hard to tell from a distance, but Rebus seemed to sport bruises on his face, and his clothes were dishevelled. Bible John couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed: he’d been hoping for a more worthy adversary. The man looked dead done in.

  Not that he thought them adversaries, not really. Rebus’s flat had not thrown up much, but it had revealed that Rebus’s interest in Bible John was connected to the Upstart. Which went some way towards explaining it. He hadn’t stayed as long in the flat as he would have liked. Being unable to pick the lock, he’d been forced to break the door. He couldn’t know how long it would take for neighbours to spot something. So he
had been swift, but then there’d been so little in the flat worth his attention. It told him something about the policeman. He felt now that he knew Rebus, at least to a degree – he felt the loneliness of his life, the gaps where sentiment and warmth and love should have been. There was music, and there were books, but neither in great quantity nor of great quality. The clothes were utilitarian, one jacket much like another. No shoes. He found that bizarre in the extreme. Did the man possess only one pair?

  And the kitchen: lacking in utensils and produce. And the bathroom: needing redecorating.

  But back in the kitchen, a small surprise. Newspapers and cuttings hastily hidden, easily found. Bible John, Johnny Bible. And evidence that Rebus had gone to some trouble: the original papers must have been bought from a dealer. An investigation within the official investigation, that was what it looked like. Which made Rebus more interesting in Bible John’s eyes.

  Paperwork in the bedroom: boxes of old correspondence, bank statements, very few photographs – but enough to show that Rebus had once been married, and had a daughter. Nothing recent though: no photos of the daughter grown-up, no recent photos at all.

  But the one thing he’d come here for . . . his business card . . . no sign of it at all. Which meant either that Rebus had thrown it away, or that he carried it with him still, in a jacket pocket or wallet.

  In the living room, he noted Rebus’s telephone number, then closed his eyes, making sure he had committed the flat’s layout to memory. Yes, easy. He could come back here at dead of night and walk through the place without disturbing anything or anyone. He could take John Rebus any time he wanted to. Any time at all.

  He wondered about Rebus’s friend though. The policeman didn’t seem the gregarious type. They’d been painting the living room together. He couldn’t know if it was connected to the break-in; probably not. A man Rebus’s age, maybe a little younger, quite a tough-looking individual. Another police man? Perhaps. The man’s face had lacked Rebus’s intensity. There was something in Rebus – he had noticed it during their first meeting, and it had been reinforced this evening – a singleness of purpose, a sense of determination. Physically, Rebus’s friend seemed the superior, but that wouldn’t make Rebus a pushover. Physical strength could take a person only so far.