10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Back at the station, Rebus sought out Bill Pryde. Pryde was shrugging his shoulders even before Rebus had reached his desk.

  ‘Sorry, John, no news.’

  ‘Nothing at all? What about the stolen tapes?’ Pryde shook his head. ‘That’s funny, I’ve just been talking to someone who claims to know who sold them on, and who he got them from.’

  Pryde sat back in his chair. ‘I wondered why you hadn’t been chasing me up. What’ve you done, hired a private eye?’ Blood was rising to his face. ‘I’ve been working my arse off on this, John, you know I have. Now you don’t trust me to do the job?’

  ‘It’s not like that, Bill.’ Rebus suddenly found himself on the defensive.

  ‘Who’ve you got working for you, John?’

  ‘Just people on the street.’

  ‘Well-connected people by the sound of it.’ He paused. ‘Are we talking villains?’

  ‘My daughter’s in a coma, Bill.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that. Now answer my question!’

  People around them were staring. Rebus lowered his voice. ‘Just a few of my grasses.’

  ‘Then give me their names.’

  ‘Come on, Bill . . .’

  Pryde’s hands gripped the table. ‘These past days, I’ve been thinking you’d lost interest. Thinking maybe you didn’t want an answer.’ He was thoughtful. ‘You wouldn’t go to Telford . . . Cafferty?’ His eyes widened. ‘Is that it, John?’

  Rebus turned his head away.

  ‘Christ, John . . . what’s the deal here? He hands over the driver, what do you hand him?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’d trust Cafferty. You put him away, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘It’s not a question of trust.’

  But Pryde was shaking his head. ‘There’s a line we don’t cross.’

  ‘Get a grip, Bill. There’s no line.’ Rebus spread his arms. ‘If there is, show me it.’

  Pryde tapped his forehead. ‘It’s up here.’

  ‘Then it’s a fiction.’

  ‘You really believe that?’

  Rebus sought an answer, slumped against the desk, ran his hands over his head. He remembered something Lintz had once said: when we stop believing in God, we don’t suddenly believe in ‘nothing’ . . . we believe anything.

  ‘John?’ someone called. ‘Phone call.’

  Rebus stared at Pryde. ‘Later,’ he said. He walked across to another desk, took the call.

  ‘Rebus here.’

  ‘It’s Bobby.’ Bobby Hogan.

  ‘What can I do for you, Bobby?’

  ‘For a start, you can help get that Special Branch arsehole off my back.’

  ‘Abernethy?’

  ‘He won’t leave me alone.’

  ‘Keeps phoning you?’

  ‘Christ, John, aren’t you listening? He’s here.’

  ‘When did he get in?’

  ‘He never went away.’

  ‘Whoah, hold on.’

  ‘And he’s driving me round the twist. He says he knows you from way back, so how about having a word?’

  ‘Are you at Leith?’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

  ‘I got so pissed off, I went to my boss – and that’s something I seldom have to resort to.’ Bobby Hogan was drinking coffee like it was something best taken intravenously. The top button of his shirt was undone, tie hanging loose.

  ‘Only,’ he went on, ‘his boss had a word with my boss’s boss, and I ended up with a warning: co-operate or else.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I wasn’t to tell anyone he was still around.’

  ‘Thanks, pal. So what’s he actually doing?’

  ‘What isn’t he doing? He wants to be in on any interviews. He wants copies of tapes and transcripts. He wants to see all the paperwork, wants to know what I’m planning to do next, what I had for breakfast . . .’

  ‘I don’t suppose he’s managing to be helpful in any shape or form?’

  Hogan’s look gave Rebus his answer.

  ‘I don’t mind him taking an interest, but this verges on the obstructive. He’s slowing the case to a dead stop.’

  ‘Maybe that’s his plan.’

  Hogan looked up from his cup. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Neither do I. Look, if he’s being obstructive, let’s put on a show, see how he reacts.’

  ‘What sort of show?’

  ‘What time will he be in?’

  Hogan checked his watch. ‘Half an hour or so. That’s when my work stops for the day, while I fill him in.’

  ‘Half an hour’s enough. Mind if I use your phone?’

  29

  When Abernethy arrived, he didn’t manage not to look surprised. The space put aside for the investigation – Hogan’s space – now contained three bodies, and they were working at the devil’s own pace.

  Hogan was on the telephone to a librarian. He was asking for a run-down of books and articles about the ‘Rat Line’. Rebus was sorting through paperwork, putting it in order, cross-referencing, laying aside anything he didn’t think useful. And Siobhan Clarke was there, too. She appeared to be on the phone to some Jewish organisation, and was asking them about lists of war criminals. Rebus nodded towards Abernethy, but kept on working.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Abernethy asked, taking off his raincoat.

  ‘Helping out. Bobby’s got so many leads to work on . . .’ He nodded towards Siobhan. ‘And Crime Squad are interested, too.’

  ‘Since when?’

  Rebus waved a piece of paper. ‘This might be bigger than we think.’

  Abernethy looked around. He wanted to speak to Hogan, but Hogan was still on the phone. Rebus was the only one with time to talk.

  Which was just the way Rebus had planned it.

  He’d only had five minutes in which to brief Siobhan, but she was a born actress, even holding a conversation with the dialling tone. Hogan’s fantasy librarian, meantime, was asking him all the right questions. And Abernethy was looking glazed.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘In fact,’ Rebus said, putting down a file, ‘you might be able to help.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’re Special Branch, and Special Branch has access to the secret services.’ Rebus paused. ‘Right?’

  Abernethy licked his lips and shrugged.

  ‘See,’ Rebus went on, ‘we’re beginning to wonder something. There could be a dozen reasons why someone would want to kill Joseph Lintz, but the one we’ve been practically ignoring’ (ignoring at Abernethy’s suggestion, according to Hogan) ‘is the one that just might provide the answer. I’m talking about the Rat Line. What if Lintz’s murder had something to do with that?’

  ‘How could it?’

  It was Rebus’s turn to shrug. ‘That’s why we need your help. We need any and all information we can get on the Rat Line.’

  ‘But it never existed.’

  ‘Funny, a lot of books seem to say it did.’

  ‘They’re wrong.’

  ‘Then there are all these survivors . . . except they haven’t survived. Suicides, car crashes, a fall from a window. Lintz is just one of a long line of dead men.’

  Siobhan Clarke and Bobby Hogan had finished their calls and were listening.

  ‘You’re climbing the wrong tree,’ Abernethy said.

  ‘Well, you know, if you’re in a forest, climbing any tree will give you a better view.’

  ‘There is no Rat Line.’

  ‘You’re an expert?’

  ‘I’ve been collating . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, all the investigations. And how far have you got? Is any one of them going to make it to trial?’

  ‘It’s too early to tell.’

  ‘And soon it may be too late. These men aren’t getting any younger. I’ve seen the same thing all around Europe: delay the trial until the defendants are so old they snuff it or go doolally. Result’
s the same: no trial.’

  ‘Look, this has nothing to do with . . .’

  ‘Why are you here, Abernethy? Why did you come up that time to speak to Lintz?’

  ‘Look, Rebus, it’s not . . .’

  ‘If you can’t tell us, talk to your boss. Get him to do it. Otherwise, the way we’re digging, we’re bound to throw up an old bone sooner or later.’

  Abernethy stood back a pace. ‘I think I get it,’ he said. And he began to smile. ‘You’re trying to stiff me.’ He was looking at Hogan. ‘That’s what this is.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Rebus answered. ‘What I’m saying is: we’ll redouble our efforts. We’ll sniff into every little corner. The Rat Line, the Vatican, turning Nazis into cold war spies for the allies . . . it could all count as evidence. The other men on your list, the other suspects . . . we’ll need to talk to all of them, see if they knew Joseph Lintz. Maybe they met him on the trip over.’

  Abernethy was shaking his head. ‘I’m not going to let you do that.’

  ‘You’re going to obstruct the investigation?’

  ‘That’s not what I said.’

  ‘No, but it’s what you’ll do.’ Rebus paused. ‘If you think we’re climbing the wrong tree – and, incidentally, that should be barking up – go ahead and prove it. Give us everything you’ve got on Lintz’s past.’

  Abernethy’s eyes were fierce.

  ‘Or we go on digging and sniffing.’ Rebus opened another file, lifted out the first sheet. Hogan picked up his telephone, made another call. Siobhan Clarke looked at a list of numbers and chose one.

  ‘Hello, is that the City Synagogue?’ Hogan was saying. ‘Yes, it’s Detective Inspector Hogan here, Leith CID. Do you by any chance have information on a Joseph Lintz?’

  Abernethy grabbed his coat, turned on his heels and left. They waited thirty seconds, then Hogan put the receiver down.

  ‘He looked nettled.’

  ‘That’s one Christmas wish I can chalk off,’ Siobhan Clarke said.

  ‘Thanks for your time, Siobhan,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Happy to oblige. But why did it have to be me?’

  ‘Because he knows you’re Crime Squad. I wanted him to think interest was escalating. And because the two of you didn’t exactly hit it off last time you met. Antagonism always helps.’

  ‘And what did we accomplish?’ Bobby Hogan asked, beginning to gather together the files, half of which belonged to other cases.

  ‘We rattled his cage,’ Rebus said. ‘He’s not up here for the good of his health – or yours, come to that. He’s here because Special Branch in London want to know all about the investigation. And to me, that means they’re scared of something.’

  ‘The Rat Line?’

  ‘That would be my guess. Abernethy’s been keeping an eye on all the new cases nationwide. Someone in London is getting a bit sweaty.’

  ‘They’re worried this Rat Line will connect to whoever killed Lintz?’

  ‘I’m not sure it goes that far,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  He looked at Clarke. ‘Meaning I’m not sure it goes that far.’

  ‘Well,’ Hogan said, ‘looks like he’s off my back for a little while at least, for which I’m grateful.’ He got to his feet. ‘Get anyone a coffee?’

  Clarke checked her watch. ‘Go on then.’

  Rebus waited till Hogan was gone, then thanked Siobhan again. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be able to spare the time.’

  ‘We’re giving Jack Morton a wide berth,’ she explained. ‘Nothing to do but bite our fingernails and wait. What about you, what are you up to?’

  ‘Keeping my nose clean.’

  She smiled. ‘I’ll bet.’

  Hogan came back with three coffees. ‘Powdered milk, sorry.’

  Clarke wrinkled her nose. ‘Actually, I’ve got to be getting back.’ She stood up and put on her coat.

  ‘That’s one I owe you,’ Hogan said, shaking her hand.

  ‘I won’t let you forget.’ She turned to Rebus. ‘See you later.’

  ‘Cheers, Siobhan.’

  Hogan put her cup beside his own. ‘So we got Abernethy off my back, but did we get anything else?’

  ‘Wait and see, Bobby. I didn’t exactly have much time to devise a strategy.’

  The phone rang, just as Hogan took a mouthful of scalding coffee. Rebus picked up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that you, John?’ Country and western twanging in the background: Claverhouse.

  ‘You’ve just missed her,’ Rebus told him.

  ‘It’s not Clarke I wanted, it’s you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Something I thought you might be interested in. It’s just filtered down from NCIS.’ Rebus heard Claverhouse pick up a sheet of paper. ‘Sakiji Shoda . . . I think I’ve pronounced that right. Flew into Heathrow from Kansai Airport yesterday. South-East Regional Crime Squad were apprised.’

  ‘Terrific.’

  ‘He didn’t hang around, caught a connection to Inverness. Stayed the night in a local hotel, and now I hear he’s in Edinburgh.’

  Rebus looked out of the window. ‘Not exactly golfing weather.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s up here for the golf. According to the original report, Mr Shoda is a high-ranking member of the . . . can’t make it out on the fax. Socky-something.’

  ‘Sokaiya?’ Rebus sat up.

  ‘That looks about right.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I tried a couple of hotels. He’s staying at the Caly. What’s the Sokaiya?’

  ‘It’s the upper echelons of the Yakuza.’

  ‘How does it read to you?’

  ‘I was going to suggest he’s Matsumoto’s replacement, but it sounds to me like he’s a few grades higher.’

  ‘Matsumoto’s boss?’

  ‘Which means he’s probably here to find out what happened to his boy.’ Rebus tapped a pen against his teeth. Hogan was listening, but not getting any of it. ‘Why Inverness? Why not direct to Edinburgh?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering that.’ Claverhouse sneezed. ‘How pissed off will he be?’

  ‘Somewhere between “mildly” and “very”. More importantly, how are Telford and Mr Pink Eyes going to react?’

  ‘You think Telford will drop Maclean’s?’

  ‘On the contrary, I think he’ll want to show Mr Shoda that he can do some things right.’ Rebus thought back to something Claverhouse had said. ‘South-East Crime Squad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Rather than Scotland Yard?’

  ‘Maybe the two are the same?’

  ‘Maybe. Do you have a contact number?’

  Claverhouse gave it to him.

  ‘You’ll speak to Jack Morton tonight?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Better tell him about this.’

  ‘Talk to you again.’

  Rebus put down the receiver, picked it up again, got an outside line and made the call. Explained his reason for calling and asked if there was anyone who could help him.

  He was told to hold.

  ‘Is this to do with Telford?’ Hogan asked. Rebus nodded.

  ‘Hey, Bobby, did you ever talk to Telford again?’

  ‘I tried a couple of times. He just kept saying: “It must’ve been a wrong number”.’

  ‘And this was echoed by his staff?’

  Hogan nodded, smiled. ‘Tell you a funny thing. I walked into Telford’s office, and someone was at his desk, back to me. I apologised, said I’d come back when he’d finished with the lady. Well, the “lady” turns, face like fury . . .’

  ‘Pretty-Boy?’

  Hogan nodded. ‘And pretty fucking angry the last I saw him.’ Hogan laughed.

  ‘Putting you through,’ the switchboard told Rebus.

  ‘How can I help you?’ The voice sounded Welsh.

  ‘My name’s DI Rebus, Scottish Crime Squad.’ Rebus winked at Hogan: the lie would give him more clout.

  ‘Yes, Inspector?�
��

  ‘And you are . . .?’

  ‘DI Morgan.’

  ‘We had this message this morning . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Concerning Sakiji Shoda.’

  ‘That would be my boss has sent you that.’

  ‘What I’m wondering is, what’s your interest?’

  ‘Well, Inspector, I’m more of an expert on vory v zakone.’

  ‘That clears things up then.’

  Morgan chuckled. ‘“Thieves within the code”. Meaning mafiya.’

  ‘Russian mafia?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘You’ll have to help me here. What’s that got to do with . . .?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  Rebus took a sip of coffee. ‘We’ve had a spot of bother with the Yakuza up here. One victim so far. My guess is that Shoda is the victim’s boss.’

  ‘And he’s up there for a sort of unofficial committal?’

  ‘We don’t have the committal stage in Scotland, DI Morgan.’

  ‘Well, pardon me for breathing.’

  ‘Thing is, we’ve also got a Russian gangster up here. I say he’s Russian, word is he’s Chechen.’

  ‘Is it Jake Tarawicz?’

  ‘You’ve heard of him?’

  ‘That’s my job, sonny boy.’

  ‘Well, anyway, with the Yakuza and the Chechens in town . . .’

  ‘You’ve got a nightmare scenario. Understood. Well, look . . . What about if you give me your number there, and I’ll call back in five minutes? Need to put some facts together first.’

  Rebus gave him the number, then waited ten minutes for the call back.

  ‘You were checking me out,’ he told the Welshman.

  ‘Got to be careful. Bit naughty of you to say you were Crime Squad.’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m the next best thing. So is there anything you can tell me?’

  Morgan took a deep breath. ‘We’ve been chasing a lot of dirty money around the world.’

  Rebus couldn’t find a clean sheet of paper to write on. Hogan gave him a pad.

  ‘See,’ Morgan was saying, ‘the old Soviet Asia is now the biggest supplier of raw opium in the world. And wherever there’s drugs, there’s money needs laundering.’

  ‘And this money makes its way to Britain?’

  ‘On its way elsewhere. Companies in London, private banks in Guernsey . . . the money gets filtered down, getting cleaner all the time. Everyone wants to do business with the Russians.’