10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘This was fifteen years ago?’ Rebus said.

  Archibald shook his head. He’d slipped his hands into his pockets, was staring at the windscreen. ‘Seventeen years,’ he told Rebus. ‘Seventeen years this month. Her name was Deirdre Campbell.’

  ‘Were you on the case?’

  Archibald shook his head again. ‘Wasn’t possible at the time.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Never found the killer.’

  ‘She was strangled?’

  ‘Beaten about the head, then strangled.’

  Rebus remembered Oakes’s modus operandi. Again, it was as if Archibald could read his mind.

  ‘Similar,’ he said.

  ‘Was Oakes here at the time?’

  ‘It was just before he left for the States.’

  Rebus gave a low whistle. ‘He’s owned up?’

  Archibald shifted in his seat. ‘Not exactly. When he was arrested in the States, I followed his trial, noticed similarities. I went out there to interview him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he played his little games. Hints, smiles and half-truths and stories. He led me a merry little dance.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t on the case?’

  ‘I wasn’t. Not officially.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  Archibald examined his fingertips. ‘All these years he’s been inside, we’ve played his games. Because I know I can wear him down. He doesn’t know how persistent I can be.’

  ‘And now he phones you in the middle of the night?’

  ‘And feeds me more stories.’ A half-smile. ‘But he doesn’t seem to realise, the gameboard has changed. He’s in Scotland now. My rules.’ A pause. ‘I’ve asked him to come out to Hillend with me.’

  Rebus stared at Archibald. ‘The man’s a killer. Psych reports say he’ll do it again.’

  ‘He kills the weak. I’m not weak.’

  Rebus wondered about that. ‘Maybe he’s switched games,’ he said.

  Archibald shook his head. He looked like a man obsessed. Jesus, Rebus could write the book on that one: cases which grabbed you and wouldn’t let go; unsolveds which stayed with you all the long sleepless nights. You sifted through them time and again, examining the grains of sand, seeking anomalies . . .

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ Rebus said. ‘You weren’t on the original case . . . how come you’re . . .’

  Then he remembered. It should have come to him sooner. The story had gone around at the time, had been passed between the searchers on the hillside.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Rebus said. ‘She was your niece . . .’

  17

  It had been easy, finding an unoccupied room in the hotel. Simplicity itself to pick the door lock. So it was that Cary Oakes sat in darkness at the window, a window unwatched by Detective Inspector John Rebus. He had to smile: the watcher had become the watched, without realising it.

  There was an A-Z on his lap. He’d told Stevens he needed it so he could reacquaint himself with his city. Earlier, Stevens had let slip that Rebus used to live in Arden Street, and maybe still did. Arden Street in Marchmont. Page 15, square 6G. Alan Archibald lived in Corstorphine, or had done when he’d written to Oakes in prison. All those letters, he’d never once let the prisoner know his phone number. It had taken Oakes less than a day to discover it. Strength in knowledge; always surprise your opponent – that’s how games were played.

  Oakes watched the two men talking in the car. He felt a certain pride, almost like running a dating agency. He’d brought the two of them together; he felt sure they’d get along. They sat there for an hour, even sharing a hot drink from a flask. Then a patrol car turned up – Rebus must have radioed for it. Wasn’t that thoughtful: a free ride home for the retired detective. Archibald had aged well, maybe out of spite. Oakes knew he didn’t look as fresh as the day he’d been incarcerated. Flesh sagged from his face, and there was a dead look to his eyes, despite the regular vitamins and exercise regime.

  He slipped a hand into his pocket, felt a fold of banknotes there. He’d been drinking at the bar, spinning a line to some business types, Stevens his quiet partner. Stevens had given up eventually, left them to it. Oakes had learned many trades during his time inside. Lock-picking was one; pocket-picking another. He’d left the credit cards alone: that was the sort of thing that could be traced, get him in trouble. He let cash alone be his guide. He knew Stevens wanted him to be dependent on the paper, knew that was why Stevens was holding back payment. Well, for now he needed Stevens, but that would change. And meantime, he had work to do.

  And the money would be his means.

  He left the room and made his way down the stairs to the first-floor landing. At the end was a window which opened on to a line of lock-up garages. Eight-foot drop to the roof of the nearest garage. He crouched on the windowledge, waited for the taxi to come. Heard its engine as it rolled towards the hotel. He’d given the name and room number of one of his drinking companions. He listened for the moment when the taxi would pass Rebus’s car, the moment when the detective would be least likely to hear anything, then dropped through the darkness on to the roof, sliding down and on to solid tarmac. Not even pausing for breath or to dust himself off, immediately jogging towards the wall which would take him into the lane, the lane which would take him away from the hotel.

  With any luck, he’d pick up a taxi. There’d be one coming along in a minute, its driver disgruntled and seeking a fare . . .

  Four in the morning, Darren Rough reckoned it would be safe. Everyone would be asleep. He counted himself lucky: out late the night before this, picking up an early edition of his paper on the way home, seeing his story twisted there. He’d been in the flat, Radio Two playing quietly so as not to disturb the neighbours: they had kids, kids needed sleep, everyone knew that. Radio barely audible, tea and toast, sitting by the gas fire.

  Then coming upon those pages. Reading just the first couple of paragraphs, enough to make him screw the paper up, pace the floor, start hyperventilating. He breathed into a paper bag until the attack passed. Felt weak, crawling into the bathroom on hands and knees. Splashed water from the toilet on to his face and neck. Hauled himself up on to the pan, sat there for a while, head bowed under its massive weight. When he got back the use of his legs, he uncrumpled the paper, spread it out on the floor. Read the story through.

  So it starts again, he thought to himself.

  Knew he had to get out before morning. Spent the rest of the night walking the streets, bones cold and aching with tiredness. A café first thing for breakfast. His social worker didn’t get into the office till nine, said he’d talk to a solicitor, see what grounds they had for a complaint. Said everything would be fine.

  ‘We just have to ride it out.’

  Easy words from a warm office; warm family probably waiting at home too. The car his social worker drove was an estate; kids’ football boots in the back. Family man, doing his nine-to-five.

  The rest of that day, Darren kept his distance from Greenfield. Walked as far as the Botanics, pretended to be interested in the plants. Kept warm in the hothouses: did about a dozen circuits. Back into town, Princes Street Gardens: he managed an hour’s kip on a bench, until a policeman told him to move on. His plight was remarked on by a group of travellers. They offered him cigarettes and strong lager. He stayed with them for an hour, but didn’t like them: too scruffy; not his kind of people at all.

  Art galleries; churches: there was a lot that was free in Edinburgh. By evening, he reckoned he could write his own guidebook. Ate in a fast-food restaurant, taking as long as he could over the meal. Then a pub on Broughton Street. Waiting for a day to pass . . . it made you realise why people needed goals, needed work. He liked a structure to his day. Liked not to feel hunted.

  After closing time, he’d met some more travellers, listened to more of their stories. Then had made his way carefully back towards Greenfield, turning away three times before finally confronting his own fear and overcoming it. Goal achieved.

>   He crept up the stairwell, expecting at every turn to find a waiting face, a knife-blade. Nothing. Just shadows. Along the landing, past closed doors, sleeping windows. His key sounded like a wood-saw as he slipped it into the lock. Then he noticed his hands were sticky. Stood back, noticed for the first time that his door was smeared with mud . . . No, not mud: excrement. He could smell it on the back of his hand, his knuckles, fingers. And beneath the shit, something in black paint, some writing. He crouched, wiped his hands on the concrete flooring, looked up at the message.

  MONSTER YOU DIE.

  The word DIE was underlined twice, just so he wouldn’t miss it.

  This was the park.

  It hadn’t changed. They’d installed some swings and a roundabout, but the roundabout was gone, leaving only a metal stump. The swings were thick rubber tyres. Tarmac underfoot, playing field off to the left. Trees had been planted, but looked stunted. His aunt’s house . . . you could see a thin vertical slice of the park from the upstairs bathroom window, peering between two blocks of terraced housing. The house was still there, in darkness, curtains closed. He’d shared a bedroom with his mother at the back of the house, with a view down on to a small neglected garden, the hut which had become his refuge.

  There hadn’t been much refuge in the park. The local gang hung out there, and Cary was never allowed to join. He was an ‘incomer’, an ‘outsider’, the two terms sounding like opposites. He stayed on the periphery, clinging to the park railings, until one of them, fed up of cursing him, would come over to administer a kicking.

  And he’d take it. Because it was better than nothing.

  The one time he’d stalked a cat, squirting lighter fluid on it, watching the tail catch fire . . . there’d been no one there to see him. Police had questioned the gang, but no one had bothered with Cary Oakes. No one had bothered to ask ‘the runt’.

  He stood by the fence now. Half of it was missing. Middle of the night, no one was about. No cars passed. No one to see him as his hands worked at the rusted railings, turning them in their sockets.

  Then a sound: drunken laughter. Three of them, young, wandering, not bothered who heard them, whose sleep they might be disturbing. The teenage Cary had lain awake late into the night, hearing above his mother’s breathing the sounds of revellers as they headed home, some singing songs about King Billy and the Sash.

  Three of them, not worried about waking anyone because they ruled this place. They ran in the local gang. They were all that mattered.

  They were on the other side of the road, but saw Oakes, saw him looking at them.

  ‘What you staring at?’

  No answer. They started a conversation among themselves, didn’t seem to be stopping.

  ‘One of them paedophiles.’

  ‘Always hang out in parks.’

  ‘Or maybe a poof like.’

  ‘This time of night, just standing there . . .’

  Now they’d stopped. Turning back, crossing the road. Three of them.

  Excellent odds.

  ‘Hiy, pal, what you up to, eh?’

  ‘Thinking about things,’ Oakes said quietly, one hand still working at the railing. The three youths looked at each other. They’d spent the night in town, pubbing and clubbing. Booze and some drugs maybe. A mix to up the aggression and confidence. While they were still considering what to do with this stranger, and which one of them should take the lead, Oakes hauled the steel rail up out of the fence and swung it. Caught the first one across the nose, which burst open like a flower in one of those speeded-up film jobs. Hands went to face as the young man screeched and dropped to his knees. As the rail finished one arc, Oakes swung it back again, pendulum-style, caught number two on the ear. Number three swung a kick, but the rail whacked against his shin, then swung upwards to smash into his mouth, breaking teeth. Oakes dropped the weapon. Broken Nose he felled with a kick to the throat. Eardrum he smashed with his fist. Shin and Teeth was limping away, but Oakes walked after him, tripped him, then sent a flurry of kicks to his head.

  He stood up straight afterwards, got his breathing under control. Looked around at the houses he remembered so well. No one had moved from bed. No one had seen him in his moment of victory. He wiped the toes of his shoes against the prone figure’s shirt, examined them to make sure they hadn’t been scuffed in the fight. Walked over to Eardrum and pulled him up by the hair. Another squeal. Oakes put his lips close to the ear that wasn’t bleeding.

  ‘This is my place now, understood? Anyone fucks with me gets tenfold back.’

  ‘We didn’t—’

  Oakes pressed his thumb hard against the bleeding ear.

  ‘None of you would ever listen.’ He was looking towards the gap in the terrace, where his aunt’s house stood. He threw the youth’s head hard against the ground. Patted it once, then turned to walk away.

  At twenty past six, Rebus crept into Patience’s flat on Oxford Terrace, armed with bread still warm from the oven, fresh milk and newspaper. He made himself a mug of tea and sat in the kitchen, reading the sports pages. At six forty-five he put the radio on, just as the central heating was kicking in. Made a fresh pot of tea, poured out a glass of orange juice for Patience. Sliced the bread and got a tray ready. Took it into the bedroom. Patience peered at him with one eye.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Breakfast in bed.’

  She sat up, arranged the pillows behind her. He laid the tray on her lap.

  ‘Have I forgotten some anniversary?’

  He pushed a strand of hair back from her eyes. ‘I just didn’t want you oversleeping.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because as soon as you get up, I’m into that bed and asleep.’

  He dodged the butter-knife as she swiped it at him. They were both laughing as he started to unbutton his shirt.

  Jim Stevens went down to breakfast, expecting to find Cary Oakes halfway through another fry-up. But there was no sign of him. He asked at reception, but nobody had seen him. He called up to Oakes’s room: no answer. He went up and banged on the door: ditto.

  He was back in reception, ready to demand a duplicate key, when Cary Oakes came walking in through the hotel door.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Stevens asked, feeling almost dizzy with relief.

  ‘No caffeine for you this morning, Jim,’ Oakes said. ‘Look at you, you’ve got the shakes already.’

  ‘I asked where you’d been.’

  ‘Got up early. Guess I’m still on US time. Walked down by the docks.’

  ‘Nobody here saw you leave.’

  Oakes looked over towards the reception desk, then back to Stevens. ‘Is there a problem? I’m here now, aren’t I?’ He opened his arms wide. ‘Isn’t that what counts?’ He placed a hand on Stevens’ shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s eat.’ Started leading them towards the dining room. ‘Have I got some great stuff for you this morning. Your editor’s going to offer to blow you when he reads it . . .’

  ‘Just another day at the office then,’ Stevens said, wiping sweat from his brow.

  18

  The businessman who owned the Clipper Night-Ship asked Rebus if he wanted to make him an offer.

  ‘I’m serious. I’d be happy to make a loss, only no one wants to buy her.’

  He explained that the Clipper had brought him little but headaches. Licensing hassles, complaints from local residents, a council investigation, police visits . . .

  ‘All that so punters can have a piss-up on a boat. I could run a pub with less grief and bigger takings.’

  ‘So why don’t you?’

  ‘I used to: the Apple Tree in Morningside. But at that time it seemed like every pub had to have a gimmick. God knows what it’s all about with Irish pubs: whoever came up with the notion they’re any better than Scottish ones? Then there’s the other theme pubs – Sherlock Holmes or Jekyll and Hyde, or pubs for Australians and South Africans.’ He shook his head. ‘I took one look at the Clipper and thought I was on a winner. Maybe I
am, only sometimes it seems like a lot of hard work and sweet FA to show for it.’

  They were seated in the offices of PJP: Preston-James Promotions. Rebus and Janice Mee were one side of the desk, Billy Preston the other side. Rebus didn’t think Preston would appreciate being informed that his namesake used to play keyboards for the Beatles and the Stones.

  Billy Preston was in his mid-thirties, immaculately turned out in a grey collarless suit with a metallic shine to it. You got the feeling nothing would stick to him, a regular Teflon Man. His head was shaved, but his long square chin sported a Frank Zappa beard. The offices of PJP took up two rooms on the first floor of a building halfway down Canongate. Below was a shop specialising in antiquarian maps.

  ‘We’d move,’ Preston had told them, ‘find somewhere bigger, somewhere with parking, only my partner says to hold fire.’

  ‘Why?’ Rebus had asked.

  ‘The Parliament.’ Preston had pointed out of the window. ‘Two hundred yards that way. Property around here is rocketing. We’d be mugs to sell.’ He kept playing with his computer mouse, running it over its mat, clicking and double-clicking. It annoyed Rebus, who couldn’t see the screen. ‘Now if they’d chosen Leith instead of Holyrood . . .’ Preston rolled his eyes.

  ‘The Clipper wouldn’t be causing you this grief?’ Rebus guessed.

  ‘Bingo. We’d have bided our time, waited for the MPs and their staff, all on healthy salaries and looking to spend.’

  ‘The Clipper’s like a private club?’ Janice asked.

  ‘Not exactly. She’s for hire. If you guarantee me a minimum of forty punters on a week day, sixty at weekends, she’s yours gratis, so long as they’re drinking at the ship’s bar. You pay for the disco, that’s it.’

  ‘You say a minimum of forty. What’s the maximum?’

  ‘Public Safety regulations stipulate seventy-five.’

  ‘But forty guarantees you a profit?’

  ‘Just barely,’ Preston said. ‘I’ve got staff, overheads, power . . .’