10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Inspector, for the record, I feel I must let you know how angry I felt when I heard the news. Justice may have been done or not done – 1 can’t argue those points just now – but what is absolutely certain is that history has been cheated here!’

  ‘Of the trial?’

  ‘Of course! And the Rat Line, too. With each suspect who dies, we’re that much less likely to prove its existence. Lintz isn’t the first, you know. One man, the brakes failed on his car. Another fell from an upstairs window. There’ve been two apparent suicides, six more cases of what look like natural causes.’

  ‘Am I going to get the full conspiracy theory?’

  ‘This isn’t a joke, Inspector.’

  ‘Did you hear me laughing? What about you, Mr Levy? When did you leave Edinburgh?’

  ‘Before Lintz died.’

  ‘Did you see him?’ Rebus knowing he had, but seeking a lie.

  Levy paused. ‘Confronted would be a more apposite term.’

  ‘Just the once?’

  ‘Three times. He wasn’t keen to talk about himself, but I stated my case nonetheless.’

  ‘And the phone call?’

  Levy paused. ‘What phone call?’

  ‘When he called you at the Roxburghe.’

  ‘I wish I’d recorded it for posterity. Rage, Inspector. Foul-mouthed rage. I’m positive he was mad.’

  ‘Mad?’

  ‘You didn’t hear him. He’s very good at seeming perfectly normal – he must be, or he wouldn’t have gone undetected for so long. But the man is ... was ... mad. Truly mad.’

  Rebus was remembering the crooked little man in the cemetery, and how he’d suddenly let fly at a passing dog. Poise, to rage, to poise again.

  ‘The story he told ...’ Levy sighed.

  ‘Was this in the restaurant?’

  ‘What restaurant?’

  ‘Sorry, I thought the two of you went out to lunch.’

  ‘I can assure you we didn’t.’

  ‘So what story is this then?’

  ‘These men, Inspector, they come to justify their actions by blanking them out, or by transference. Transference is the more common.’

  ‘They tell themselves someone else did it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that was Lintz’s story?’

  ‘Less believable than most. He said it was all a case of mistaken identity.’

  ‘And who did he think you were mistaking him for?’

  ‘A colleague at the university ... a Dr Colquhoun.’

  Rebus called Hogan, gave him the story.

  ‘I told Levy you’d want to speak to him.’

  ‘I’ll phone him right now.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Colquhoun a war criminal?’ Hogan snorted.

  ‘Me, too,’ Rebus said. ‘I asked Levy why he didn’t think any of this worth telling us.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said as he gave it no credence, it was worthless.’

  ‘All the same, we’d better talk to Colquhoun again. Tonight.’

  ‘I’ve other plans for tonight, Bobby.’

  ‘Fair enough, John. Look, I really appreciate all your help.’

  ‘You’re going to talk to him alone?’

  ‘I’ll have someone with me.’

  Rebus hated being left out. If he cancelled that late supper ...

  ‘Let me know how you get on.’ Rebus put the telephone down. On the hi-fi: Eddie Harris, upbeat and melodic. He went and soaked in a bath, facecloth across his eyes. Everyone, it seemed to him, lived their lives out of little boxes, opening different ones for different occasions. Nobody ever gave their whole self away. Cops were like that, each box a safety mechanism. Most people you met in the course of your life, you never even learned their names. Everybody was boxed off from everybody else. It was called society.

  He was wondering about Joseph Lintz, always questioning, turning every conversation into a philosophy lesson. Stuck in his own little box, identity blocked off elsewhere, his past a necessary mystery ... Joseph Lintz, furious when cornered, possibly clinically mad, driven there by ... what? Memories? Or the lack of them? Driven there by other people?

  The Eddie Harris CD was on its last track by the time he emerged from the bathroom. He put on the clothes he’d be wearing to Patience’s. Only he had a couple of stops to make first: check on Sammy at the hospital, and then a meeting at Torphichen.

  ‘The gang’s all here,’ he said, walking into the CID room.

  Shug Davidson, Claverhouse, Ormiston, and Siobhan Clarke, all seated around the one big desk, drinking coffee from identical Rangers mugs. Rebus pulled a chair over.

  ‘Have you filled them in, Shug?’

  Davidson nodded.

  ‘What about the shop?’

  ‘I was just getting to that.’ Davidson picked up a pen, played with it. ‘The last owner went out of business, not enough passing trade. The shop was shut the best part of a year, then suddenly reopened – under new management and with prices that stopped the locals looking elsewhere.’

  ‘And got the workers at Maclean’s interested, too,’ Rebus added. ‘So how long’s it been going?’

  ‘Five weeks, selling cut-price everything.’

  ‘No profit motive, you see.’ Rebus looked around the table. This was mostly for the benefit of Ormiston and Clarke; he’d given Claverhouse the story already.

  ‘And the owners?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Well, the shop’s run by a couple of lads called Declan Delaney and Ken Wilkinson. Guess where they come from?’

  ‘Paisley,’ Claverhouse said, keen to hurry things on.

  ‘So they’re part of Telford’s gang?’ Ormiston asked.

  ‘Not in so many words, but they’re connected to him, no doubt about that.’ Davidson blew his nose loudly. ‘Of course, Dec and Ken are running the shop, but they don’t own it.’

  ‘Telford does,’ Rebus stated.

  ‘Okay,’ Claverhouse said. ‘So we’ve got Telford owning a loss-making business, in the hope of gathering intelligence.’

  ‘I think it goes further than that,’ Rebus said. ‘I mean, listening in on gossip is one thing, but I don’t suppose any of the workers are standing around talking about the various security systems and how to beat them. Dec and Ken are garrulous, perfect for the job Telford’s given them. But it’s going to look suspicious if they start asking too many questions.’

  ‘So what’s Telford looking for?’ Ormiston asked. Siobhan Clarke turned to him.

  ‘A mole,’ she said.

  ‘Makes sense,’ Davidson went on. ‘That place is well-protected, but not impregnable. We all know any break-in’s going to be a lot easier with someone on the inside.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘We fight Telford’s sting with our own,’ Rebus explained. ‘He wants a man on the inside, we give him one.’

  ‘I’m seeing the head of Maclean’s later on tonight,’ Davidson said.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Claverhouse said, keen not to be left out.

  ‘So we put someone of our own inside the factory.’ Clarke was working it out for herself. ‘And they shoot their mouth off in the shop, making them an attractive proposition. And we sit and pray that Telford approaches them rather than anyone else?’

  ‘The less luck we have to rely on the better,’ Claverhouse said. ‘Got to do this right.’

  ‘Which is why we work it like this.’ Rebus said. ‘There’s a bookie called Marty Jones. He owes me one big favour. Say our man’s just been into Telford’s shop. As he’s coming out, a car pulls up. Marty and a couple of his men. Marty wants some bets paid off. Big argy-bargy, and a punch in the guts as warning.’

  Clarke could see it. ‘He stumbles back into the shop, sits down to catch his breath. Dec and Ken ask him what’s going on.’

  ‘And he gives them the whole sorry story: gambling debts, broken marriage, whatever.’

  ‘To make him more attractive still,’ Davi
dson said, ‘we make him a security guard.’

  Ormiston looked at him. ‘You think Maclean’s will go for it?’

  ‘We’ll persuade them,’ Claverhouse said quietly.

  ‘More importantly,’ Clarke asked, ‘will Telford go for it?’

  ‘Depends how desperate he is,’ Rebus answered.

  ‘A man on the inside ...’ Ormiston’s eyes were alight. ‘Working for Telford – it’s what we’ve always wanted.’

  Claverhouse nodded. ‘Just one thing.’ He looked at Rebus and Davidson. ‘Who’s it going to be? Telford knows us.’

  ‘We get someone from outside,’ Rebus said. ‘Someone I’ve worked with before. Telford won’t have heard of him. He’s a good man.’

  ‘Is he willing?’

  There was silence around the table.

  ‘Depends who’s asking,’ a voice called from the doorway. A stocky man with thick, well-groomed hair and narrow eyes. Rebus got up, shook Jack Morton’s hand, made the introductions.

  ‘I’ll need a history,’ Morton said, all business. ‘John’s explained the deal, and I like it. But I’ll need a flat, something scruffy and local.’

  ‘First thing tomorrow,’ Claverhouse said. ‘Look, we need to talk to our bosses about this, make sure it’s cleared.’ He looked at Morton. ‘What did you tell your own boss, Jack?’

  ‘I’ve got a few days off, didn’t think it was worth mentioning.’

  Claverhouse nodded. ‘I’ll talk to him as soon as we get the go-ahead.’

  ‘We need that go-ahead tonight,’ Rebus said. ‘Telford’s men may already have lined someone up. If we hang around, we might lose it.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Claverhouse said, checking his watch. ‘I’ll make a few phone calls, interrupt a few post-prandial whiskies.’

  ‘I’ll back you up if need be,’ Davidson said.

  Rebus looked at Jack Morton – his friend – and mouthed the word ‘thanks’. Morton shrugged it off. Then Rebus got to his feet.

  ‘I’m going to have to leave you to it,’ he told the assembly. ‘You’ve got my pager number and mobile if you need me.’

  He was halfway down the hall when Siobhan Clarke caught him.

  ‘I just wanted to say thanks.’

  Rebus blinked. ‘What for?’

  ‘Ever since you got Claverhouse excited, the tape machine’s stayed off.’

  24

  Supper was fine. He talked to Patience about Sammy, Rhona, his obsession with sixties music, his ignorance of fashion. She talked about work, an experimental cookery class she’d been taking, a trip to Orkney she was thinking of. They ate fresh pasta with a homemade mussel and prawn sauce, and shared a bottle of Highland Spring. Rebus tried his damnedest to forget about the sting operation, Tarawicz, Candice, Lintz ... She could see at least half his mind was elsewhere; tried not to feel betrayed. She asked him if he was going home.

  ‘Is that an invitation?’

  ‘I’m not sure ... I suppose so.’

  ‘Let’s pretend it wasn’t, then I won’t feel like complete scum when I turn it down.’

  ‘That sounds reasonable. Things on your mind?’

  ‘I’m surprised you can’t see them leaking out of my ears.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about any of it? I mean, you may not have noticed, but we’ve talked about practically everything tonight except us.’

  ‘I don’t think talking would help.’

  ‘But bottling it up does?’ She threw out an arm. ‘Behold the Scottish male, at his happiest when in denial.’

  ‘What am I denying?’

  ‘For a start, you’re denying me access to your life.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Christ, John, get the word put on a t-shirt.’

  ‘Thanks, maybe I will.’ He got up from the sofa.

  ‘Oh, hell, I’m sorry.’ She smiled. ‘Look, you’ve got me at it now.’

  ‘Yes, it’s catching, all right.’

  She stood up, touched his arm. ‘You’re worried about taking the test?’

  ‘Right now, believe it or not, that’s the least of my worries.’

  ‘It should be. Everything’s going to be fine.’

  ‘Hunky dory.’

  ‘Hunky dory,’ she repeated, smiling again. She pecked him on the cheek. ‘You know, I’ve never quite understood what that meant.’

  ‘Hunky Dory?’

  She nodded.

  ‘It’s a David Bowie album.’ He kissed her brow.

  He would never know what instinct made him decide on the detour, but he was glad he’d made it. For there, parked outside the Morvena casino, stood the white stretch limo. The driver leaned against it, smoking a cigarette, looking bored. From time to time he took out a mobile phone and had a short conversation. Rebus stared at the Morvena, thinking: Tommy Telford has a slice of the place; the hostesses come from Eastern Europe, provided by Mr Pink Eyes. Rebus wondered how closely entwined the two empires – Telford’s and Tarawicz’s – really were. And add a third strand: the Yakuza. Something refused to add up.

  What was Tarawicz getting out of it?

  Miriam Kenworthy had suggested muscle: Scottish hardmen trained in Telford’s organisation then shipped south. But it wasn’t enough of a trade. There had to be more. Was Mr Pink Eyes due a share of the Maclean’s payout? Was Telford tempting him with some Yakuza action? What about the theory that Telford was Tarawicz’s supplier?

  At quarter to midnight, another phone call had the driver springing into action. He flicked his cigarette on to the road, started opening doors. Tarawicz and his entourage breezed out of the casino looking like they owned the world. Candice was wearing a black full-length coat over a shimmering pink dress which didn’t quite reach her knees. She was carrying a bottle of champagne. Rebus counted three of Tarawicz’s men, remembering them from the scrapyard. Two no-shows: the lawyer, and the Crab. Telford was there, too, with a couple of minders, one of them Pretty-Boy. Pretty-Boy was making sure his jacket hung right, trying to decide whether it would look better buttoned. But his eyes raked the darkened street. Rebus had parked away from the street-lights, confident he was invisible. They were piling into the limo. Rebus watched it move off, waited until it had signalled and turned a corner before switching on his own headlamps and starting the engine.

  They drove to the same hotel Matsumoto had stayed at. Telford’s Range Rover was parked outside. Pedestrians – late-night couples hurrying home from the pub – turned to stare at the limo. Saw the entourage spill out, probably mistook them for pop stars or film people. Rebus as casting director: Candice’s starlet being mauled by sleazy producer Tarawicz. Telford a sleek young operator on his way up, looking to learn from the producer before toppling him. The others were bit players, except maybe Pretty-Boy, who was hanging on to his boss’s coattails, maybe readying himself for his own big break ...

  If Tarawicz had a suite, there might be room for them all. If not, they’d be in the bar. Rebus parked, followed them inside.

  The lights hurt his eyes. The reception area was all mirrors and pine, brass and pot-plants. He tried to look like he’d been left behind by the party. They were settling down in the bar, through a double set of swing-doors with glass panels. Rebus hung back. Sitting target in the empty reception; bigger target in the bar. Retreat to the car? Someone was standing up, shrugging off a long black coat. Candice. Smiling now, saying something to Tarawicz, who was nodding. Took her hand and planted a kiss in the palm. Went further: a slow lick across the palm and up her wrist. Everyone laughing, whistling. Candice looking numb. Tarawicz got to the inside of her elbow and took a bite. She squealed, pulled back, rubbed her arm. Tarawicz had his tongue out, playing to the gallery. Give Tommy Telford credit: he wasn’t grinning along with everyone else.

  Candice stood there, a stooge to her owner’s little act. Then he waved her off with a flick of his hand. Permission granted, she started for the doors. Rebus moved back into a recess where the public telephones sat. She turned right out of the doors, disap
peared into the ladies’. At the table, they were busy ordering more champagne – and an orange juice for Pretty-Boy.

  Rebus looked around, took a deep breath. Walked into the ladies’ toilets like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  She was splashing her face with water. A little brown bottle sat next to the sink. Three yellow tablets lying ready. Rebus swept them on to the floor.

  ‘Hey!’ She turned, saw him, put a hand to her mouth. She tried backing away, but there was nowhere to go.

  ‘Is this what you want, Karina?’ Using her real name as a weapon: friendly fire.

  She frowned, shook her head: incomprehension on her face. He grabbed her shoulders, squeezed.

  ‘Sammy,’ he hissed. ‘Sammy’s in hospital. Very ill.’ He pointed towards the hotel bar. ‘They tried to kill her.’

  The gist got through. Candice shook her head. Tears were smudging her mascara.

  ‘Did you tell Sammy anything?’

  She frowned again.

  ‘Anything about Telford or Tarawicz? Did you talk to Sammy about them?’

  A slow, determined shake of the head. ‘Sammy ... hospital?’

  He nodded. Turned his hands into a steering-wheel, made engine noises, then slammed a fist into his open palm. Candice turned away, grabbed the sink. She was crying, shoulders jerking. She scrabbled for more tablets. Rebus tore them from her hand.

  ‘You want to blank it all out? Forget it.’ He threw them on to the floor, crushed them under his heel. She crouched down, licked a finger and dabbed at the powder. Rebus hauled her to her feet. Her knees wouldn’t lock; he had to keep holding her upright. She wouldn’t look him in the eyes.

  ‘It’s funny, we first met in a toilet, remember? You were scared. You hated your life so much you’d slashed your arms.’ He touched her scarred wrists. ‘That’s how much you hated your life. And now you’re straight back in it.’

  Her face was against his jacket, tears dropping on to his shirt.

  ‘Remember the Japanese?’ he cooed. ‘Remember Juniper Green, the golf club?’

  She drew back, wiped her nose on her bare wrist. ‘Juniper Green,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right. And a big factory ... the car stopped, and everyone looked at the factory.’