10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘I understand, sir. I’m due out on a call . . . how about if I phone again in an hour?’

  ‘Perhaps if I call you when I’m ready?’

  ‘I’ll phone again in an hour, Mr Westerman. I do appreciate this.’

  He put the phone down, bit a fingernail. Would Westerman try phoning Queen Street CID, asking for a DS Collier? He’d give him forty minutes.

  But in the end, he gave him thirty-five.

  ‘Mr Westerman? That call didn’t take as long as I thought. I wonder if you’ve come up with anything for me?’

  ‘Yes, I think I’ve got what you need.’

  Bible John concentrated on the tone of voice, listening for any doubt or suspicion, any inkling Westerman might have that he was not talking to a policeman. He found none.

  ‘As I said,’ Westerman continued, ‘we pitched for a Yetland contract but didn’t get it. That was in March this year. Lancer . . . we did a panel display for them in February. They had a stand at the Safety at Sea conference.’

  Bible John consulted his list. ‘Do you happen to know who your contact was?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Vanessa handled it. She was very good with clients.’

  ‘The name Martin Davidson doesn’t ring any bells?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Not to worry, sir. And the other two companies . . .?’

  ‘Well, we’ve worked for Eskflo in the past, but not for a couple of years. And Gribbin’s . . . well, to be honest, I’ve never heard of them.’

  Bible John ringed Martin Davidson’s name. Put a question mark beside James Mackinley: a lag-time of a couple of years? Doubtful, but possible. Decided that Yetland was a distant third, but just to be sure . . .

  ‘Would Yetland have dealt with yourself or Ms Holden?’

  ‘Vanessa was on holiday around then. It was just after Safety at Sea, she was exhausted.’

  Bible John scored both Yetland and Gribbin’s off his list.

  ‘Mr Westerman, you’ve been a big help. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Glad to help. Just one thing, Detective Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘If you ever find the bastard who killed Vanessa, give him one from me.’

  Two M. Davidsons in the phone book, one James Mackinley and two J. Mackinleys. Addresses noted.

  Then another phone call, this time to Lancer Technical Support.

  ‘Hello, it’s the Chamber of Commerce here, just a general question. We’re compiling a database on local companies connected to the oil business. That would include LancerTech, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the receptionist said. ‘Definitely.’ She sounded a bit frazzled. Background noise: staff talking, a photocopier, another phone ringing.

  ‘Can you give me a thumbnail sketch?’

  ‘Well . . . we, erm, we design safety aspects into oil platforms, support vessels . . .’ She sounded like she was reading from a crib-sheet. ‘That sort of thing.’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘I’m just writing that down,’ Bible John told her. ‘If you work in safety design, can I take it you have links to RGIT?’

  ‘Oh yes, close links. We cooperate on half a dozen projects. A couple of our staff are partly based there.’

  Bible John underlined the name Martin Davidson. Twice.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Goodbye.’

  Two M. Davidsons in the phone book. One might be a woman. He could telephone, but that would be to give the Upstart advance warning . . . What would he do with him? What did he want to do with him? He had begun his task in anger, but was now composed . . . and more than a little curious. He could call the police, an anonymous tip-off, that’s what they were waiting for. But he knew now that he wasn’t going to do that. At one point, he’d assumed he could simply dispatch the wretch and resume his life as before, but that just wasn’t possible. The Upstart had changed everything. His fingers went to his tie, checked the knot. He ripped the sheet from his notepad and tore it into tiny pieces, letting them flutter into the waste-bin.

  He wondered if he should have stayed in the States. No, there would always have been the craving for home. He remembered one of the early theories about him – that he had been a member of the ‘Exclusive Brethren’. And in a sense, he had been and still was. And intended to remain a member.

  Good understanding giveth favour, but the way of transgressors is hard.

  Hard it was, hard would always be. He wondered if he had ‘good understanding’ of the Upstart? He doubted it, and wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.

  The truth was, now he was here, he didn’t know what he wanted.

  But he knew what he needed.

  32

  They crash-landed in Arden Street at breakfast time, neither of them feeling much like breakfast. Rebus had taken over the driving at Dundee, so Jack could crawl into the back seat for an hour. It was like driving back after one of his all-nighters, the roads quiet, rabbits and pheasant in the fields. The cleanest time of day, before everyone got busy messing it up again.

  There was mail behind the door of the flat, and so many messages on his machine the red indicator was almost solid.

  ‘Don’t you dare leave,’ Jack said, before shuffling into the guest room, leaving the door open. Rebus made a mug of coffee, then slumped into his chair by the window. The blisters on his wrists looked like nettle-rash. His nostrils were crusted with blood.

  ‘Well,’ he said to the waking world, ‘that went as well as could be expected.’ He closed his eyes for five minutes. The coffee was cold when he opened them again.

  His phone was ringing. He got to it before the machine.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘CID awakes. It’s like a Ray Harryhausen film.’ Pete Hewitt from Howdenhall. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be doing this, but strictly off the record . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All those forensic checks we ran on you – nothing. I expect they’ll get round to telling you officially, but I thought I’d put your mind at rest.’

  ‘If only you could, Pete.’

  ‘Hard night?’

  ‘Another one for the record books. Thanks, Pete.’

  ‘Bye, Inspector.’

  Rebus didn’t put down the receiver; called Siobhan instead. Got her answering machine. Told her he was at home. Another home number, this time answered.

  ‘What?’ The voice groggy.

  ‘Morning, Gill.’

  ‘John?’

  ‘Alive and kicking. How did it go?’

  ‘I talked with Malcolm Toal, I think he’s good as gold – that is, when he’s not hitting his head against the cell wall – but . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I’ve passed everything on to the Squaddies. They’re the experts, after all.’ Silence. ‘John? Look, I’m sorry if you think I bottled out . . .’

  ‘You can’t see me smiling. You played it just right, Gill. You’ll get your share of the glory, but let them do the dirty work. You’ve learned.’

  ‘Maybe I had a good teacher.’

  He laughed quietly. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘John . . . thanks . . . for everything.’

  ‘Want to know a secret?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m on the wagon.’

  ‘Good for you. I’m really impressed. What happened?’

  Jack slouched into the room, yawning and scratching his head.

  ‘I had a good teacher,’ Rebus said, replacing the receiver.

  ‘I heard the phone,’ Jack said. ‘Any coffee on the go?’

  ‘In the kettle.’

  ‘Want one?’

  ‘Go on then.’ Rebus went into the hall and picked up his mail. One envelope was fatter than the others. London postmark. He tore it open as he walked through to the kitchen. There was another envelope inside, fat, with his name and address printed on it. There was also a single sheet of notepaper. Rebus sat down at the table to read it.

  It was from Lawson Geddes’ daughter.
/>   My father left the enclosed envelope with instructions that it should be sent on to you. I’m just back from Lanzarote, having had to arrange not only the funeral but the sale of my parents’ house and the sorting out and removal of all their things. As you may remember, Dad was a bit of a magpie. Apologies for the slight delay in sending this on, which I trust you will understand. Hoping all is well with you and your family.

  She’d signed it Aileen Jarrold (née Geddes).

  ‘What is it?’ Jack asked as Rebus tore open the second envelope. He read the first couple of lines, then looked up at Jack.

  ‘It’s a very long suicide note,’ he said. ‘From Lawson Geddes.’

  Jack sat down and they read it together.

  John, I’m sitting here writing this in the full and certain knowledge that I’m about to top myself: we always called it the coward’s way out, remember? I’m not so sure about that now, but I get the feeling I’m maybe being more selfish than cowardly exactly, selfish because I know the telly are looking at Spaven again – they’ve even sent a team to the island. This isn’t about Spaven, it’s about Etta. I miss her, and I want to be with her, even if all the afterlife consists of is my bones lying next to hers somewhere.

  As Rebus read, the years melted away again. He could hear Lawson’s voice, and see him swaggering into the station, or marching into a pub like he was the landlord, a word for everybody whether he knew them or not . . . Jack got up for a minute and returned with two mugs of coffee. They read on.

  With Spaven dead and me out of the way, there’ll only be you left for the telly people to hassle. I don’t like to think of that – I know you’d nothing to do with any of it. So here’s this letter, after all these years, and maybe it’ll explain things. Shorn it to whoever you need to. They say dying men tell no lies, and maybe they’ll accept that the following is the truth as I know it.

  I knew Lenny Spaven back in the Scots Guards. He was always getting into trouble, finding himself consigned to jankers or even on occasion the glass-house. He was a skiver, too, and that’s how he came to be involved with the minister. Spaven used to attend the Sunday church service (I say ‘church’ – in Borneo it was a tent, back home it was a Nissen hut). But I suppose a lot of places can be churches in the sight of God. Maybe I’ll ask him when I see him. It’s ninety-odd degrees outside, and I’m drinking firewater – the old usquebaugh. It tastes better than ever.

  Rebus caught the sudden tang of whisky at the back of his mouth: memory playing tricks. Lawson used to drink Cutty Sark.

  Spaven helped the minister out, laying hymnaries on the chairs, then counting them back in at the end. You know yourself there are some buggers in the army would steal a hymnary as soon as anything else. There weren’t many regular attenders. If things got hairy, a few more souls would turn up, praying it wouldn’t be them being nailed into a box at the end of play. Well, like I say, Spaven had it cushy. I didn’t have much to do with him, or with any of the church types.

  The thing is, John, there was a murder – a prostitute near our camp. A native girl from the kampong. The villagers blamed it on us, and even the Gurkhas knew it was probably a British soldier. There was an investigation – civil and military. Funny really, I mean, there we were going hell for leather killing people – it was what we got paid for – and there they were looking into a single murder. Anyway, they never found anyone for it. Thing is though, that prozzy was strangled, and one of her sandals was never recovered.

  Rebus turned a page.

  Well, all that was behind me. I was a bobby, back in Scotland and happy with my lot. Then I got roped into the Bible John case. You’ve got to remember, we didn’t know him as ‘Bible John’ until very late on. It was after the third victim that we got the description of him quoting from the Bible. That’s when the papers came up with the name. Well, when I thought about someone quoting from the Bible, a strangler and rapist, I remembered Borneo. I went to my boss and told him all about it. He said it was a long shot of Olympic standards, but that I could chase it up in my own time if I liked. You know me, John, never one to resist a challenge. Besides, I had a shortcut planned – Lenny Spaven. I knew he was back in Scotland, and he’d have info on all the church-goers. So I got in touch with him, but he’d gone from bad to rotten, didn’t want anything to do with it. I’m the persistent type, and he complained about me to my boss. That got me a warning to ease off, but I wasn’t about to ease off. I knew what I wanted: I reckoned Lenny might have photos from his days in Borneo, maybe with him and the rest of the flock. I wanted to show them to the woman who’d shared the taxi with Bible John. I wanted to see if she recognised anyone. But bloody Spaven kept standing in my way. Eventually, I did manage to get some photos – going the long way round, talking to the army first, then tracking down the minister from the time. It took weeks.

  Rebus looked at Jack. ‘The photos Ancram showed us.’ Jack nodded.

  We showed the photos to the eye-witness. Mind, they were eight or nine years out of date, and not very good to start with, water damaged some of them. She said she couldn’t be sure, she thought one of them ‘was like him’ – her words. But as my boss said, there were hundreds of men out there in the big wide world who bore a physical resemblance to the killer: we’d interviewed most of them. That wasn’t good enough for me. I got the man’s name, he was called Ray Sloane – an unusual enough name, and it wasn’t hard to track him down. Only he’d cleared out. He’d been living in a bedsit in Ayr, working as a toolmaker. But he’d recently given notice and moved on, nobody knew where. I was convinced in my mind that he could be the man we were looking for, but I couldn’t convince my boss to go all-out on finding him.

  See, John, that delay while I was dealing with the army, it was all down to Spaven. If he’d helped, I’d have been on to Sloane before he’d had a chance to pack up and ship out. I know it, I can feel it. I might have had him. Instead of which, I had nothing but my anger and frustration, both of which I vented too publicly. The boss kicked me off the inquiry, and that was that.

  ‘Your coffee’s getting cold,’ Jack said. Rebus took a gulp, turned another page.

  Or at least it was until Spaven came back into my life, moving to Edinburgh much the same time I did. It was like he was haunting me, and I couldn’t forgive him for what he’d done. If anything, as time passed I grew to despise him even more. That’s why I wanted him for the Elsie Rhind killing. I admit it, to you and to anyone else reading this, I wanted him so badly it was like a hard ball in my stomach, something only surgery would remove. When I was told to ease off on him, I didn’t. When I was told to steer clear, I steered closer. I followed him – on my own time – I tracked him every day and every night. I went without sleep for the best part of three days. But it was worth it when I saw him make for that lock-up, somewhere we didn’t know about. I was elated, ecstatic. I didn’t know what we’d find inside, but I had the feeling we’d find something. That’s why I came rushing over to your house, why I dragged you back there with me. You asked me about a search warrant, and I told you not to be so stupid. I put a lot of pressure on you, using our long friendship as blackmail – I was feverish, I’d have done anything, and that surely included breaking rules I now saw as being there to punish the police and protect the villains. So in we went, and found the heaps of boxes, all that knock-off from the factory job in Queensferry. Plus the bag. Elsie Rhind’s, as it turned out. I nearly dropped to my knees to thank God for finding it.

  I know what a lot of people thought – yourself included. They thought I’d planted it there. Well, I swear on my deathbed (except I’m writing this at the table) that I did not. I found it fair and square, even though I made us break the rules to accomplish it. But you see, that one crucial piece of evidence would have been ruled inadmissible because of the way we’d come to find it, which is why I persuaded you – against your better judgement – to stick to the story I invented. Am I sorry I did it? Yes and no. It can’t be very comfortable for you just now, John, and
it can’t have been a nice thing to have lived with all these years. But we got the murderer, and in my mind – and I’ve spent God knows how long thinking about it, reliving it, running through the way I played it – that’s what really counts.

  John, I hope all this fuss dies down. Spaven’s not worth it. Nobody’s giving much thought to Elsie Rhind, are they? The victim can never win. Chalk this one up to Elsie Rhind. Just because a villain can write doesn’t make him less of a villain. I read that the commandants at the concentration camps used to put their feet up at night and read the classics while listening to a bit of Beethoven. Monsters can do that. I know this now. I know because of Lenny Spaven.

  Your friend, Lawson.

  Jack patted Rebus’s back. ‘He’s just cleared you, John. Wave this in Ancram’s face and that’s the end of that.’

  Rebus nodded, wishing he could feel relief, or any other sensible emotion.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Jack asked.

  Rebus tapped the paper. ‘This is,’ he said. ‘I mean, most of it is probably right, but it’s still a lie.’

  ‘What?’

  Rebus looked at him. ‘The stuff we found in the lock-up . . . I saw it in Elsie Rhind’s house the first time we went round there. Lawson must have lifted it later.’

  Jack looked uncomprehending. ‘Are you sure?’

  Rebus flew to his feet. ‘No, I’m not sure, and that’s the real bastard of it! I’ll never be sure.’

  ‘I mean, it was twenty years ago, your mind plays tricks.’

  ‘I know. Even at the time, I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure I’d seen them before – maybe I saw a different bag, different hat. I went round to her place, took another look. This was when we had Spaven in custody. I looked for the hat and the bag I’d seen there . . . and they were gone. Ah, shit, maybe I didn’t see them at all, only thought I did. It doesn’t change the fact that I think I saw them. I think Lenny Spaven was set up, and I’ve always thought it . . . and I’ve never done a thing about it.’ He sat down again. ‘Never even told anyone till now.’ He tried to pick up his mug but his hand was shaking. ‘DTs,’ he said, forcing a smile.