10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘So some nights you don’t open?’

  ‘It comes in waves, if you’ll pardon the pun. We’ve had good times. Now we’re in . . .’

  ‘The doldrums?’ Rebus offered.

  Preston snorted, reached into a drawer for a ledger book. ‘So what date is it you’re interested in?’

  Janice told him. She had both hands cupped around a mug of coffee. It had been tepid and stewed on delivery. Rebus wondered at the qualifications of the tall blonde secretary in the outer office. Paperwork all over the floor, unopened mail . . . If Preston wasn’t helpful, Rebus could foresee a phone call to the VAT inspectors.

  But in fact he flicked quickly through the ledger. ‘Found this here when we moved in,’ he explained. ‘Thought I’d try to find a use for it.’ He looked up. ‘You know, a continuity kind of thing.’

  His finger found the date, ran along the line.

  ‘Booking that night, private party. Fancy dress.’ He looked up at Janice. ‘Sure your son was headed for the Clipper?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Whose party was it?’ Rebus asked. He was already out of his chair. Preston, eyes on the ledger, didn’t seem to notice Rebus coming around the side of the desk. Rebus’s first impulse: look at the screen. A game of patience, sitting waiting for the player to start.

  ‘Amanda Petrie,’ Preston said. ‘I was there that night. I remember it. There was a theme . . . pirates or something.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘No, it was Treasure Island. Some arsehole turned up dressed as a parrot. By the end of the night, he was as sick as one.’ He looked at Janice. ‘Can I see those photos again?’

  She handed them over: Damon and the blonde from the security cameras; then Damon in a holiday snap.

  ‘They weren’t in fancy dress?’ Preston asked.

  Janice shook her head.

  Preston’s hands were busy with the ledger and the photos. Rebus, leaning over to examine the ledger, found that his elbow had nudged the mouse up the screen, to where it could close the game. Slight pressure on the mouse, and the screen changed. From a game of patience to the image of a woman on all fours. The photo had been taken from behind, the model turning her head to pout at the photographer. She was wearing white stockings and suspenders, nothing else. The pout was exaggerated. On the floor nearby, an empty champagne bottle. Rebus looked up to the windowsill, where an empty champagne bottle sat.

  ‘But is she any good at shorthand?’ Rebus said. Preston saw what he was looking at, switched the screen off. Rebus took the opportunity to lift the heavy ledger from the desk, walk back around to his chair with it.

  ‘So you were there that night?’ he asked.

  Preston looked flustered. ‘Keeping an eye on things.’

  ‘And you didn’t see either Damon or the blonde?’

  ‘I don’t remember seeing them.’

  Rebus glanced up. ‘Not quite the same thing, is it?’

  ‘Look, Inspector, I’m trying to help . . .’

  ‘Amanda Petrie,’ Rebus said. Then he saw her address, recognised it. He looked up at Preston again.

  ‘The judge’s daughter?’

  Preston was nodding. ‘Ama Petrie.’

  ‘Ama Petrie,’ Rebus echoed. He turned to Janice, saw the question in her eyes. ‘Edinburgh’s original wild child.’ Back to Preston: ‘I see you didn’t charge her for the boat.’

  ‘Ama always brings a good crowd.’

  ‘She uses the Clipper a lot?’

  ‘Maybe once a month, usually fancy dress of some kind.’

  ‘Does everyone play along?’

  Preston saw what he was getting at. ‘Not all the time.’

  ‘So this night, there’d have been guests in normal clothes?’

  ‘Some, yes.’

  ‘And they wouldn’t have been quite as eye-catching as pirates and parrots?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So it’s possible . . .?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Preston said with a sigh. ‘Look, what do you want me to say? Want me to lie and say I saw them there?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Best person to talk to is Ama herself.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rebus said thoughtfully. Thinking of Amanda Petrie, her reputation. Thinking too of her father, Lord Justice Petrie.

  ‘She runs with a pretty fast bunch,’ Preston said.

  Rebus nodded. ‘Pretty rich too.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘The kind of customers you could do with more of.’

  Preston glared at him. ‘I wouldn’t lie for her. Besides, I’m not sure the old ticker could cope with more than one Ama. Takes an age to clean up after her – more expense for me. And I always seem to get the bulk of complaints after Ama’s parties. God knows, they’re loud enough when they arrive . . .’

  ‘Anything out of the ordinary that night?’

  Preston stared at Rebus. ‘Inspector, this was Ama Petrie. With her, there is no “ordinary”.’

  Rebus was copying her phone number from the ledger into his notebook. His eyes ran down other bookings, saw nothing to interest him.

  ‘Well, thanks for your time, Mr Preston.’ A final glance towards the computer. ‘We’ll let you get back to your game.’

  Outside, Janice turned to him. ‘I get the feeling I missed something back there.’

  Rebus shrugged, shook his head. The car was parked on a sideroad. Drizzle was being blown into their faces as they walked.

  ‘Ama Petrie,’ Rebus said, keeping his head bowed. ‘She doesn’t fit my picture of Damon.’

  ‘The mystery blonde,’ Janice stated.

  ‘Friend of hers, you reckon?’

  ‘Let’s ask Ms Petrie.’

  Rebus tried the number from his cellphone: got an answering machine, and didn’t leave a message. Janice looked at him.

  ‘Sometimes it helps not to give too much advance warning,’ he explained.

  ‘Gives people time to concoct a story?’

  He nodded. ‘Something like that.’

  She was still looking at him. ‘You’re good at this, aren’t you?’

  ‘I used to be.’ He thought of Alan Archibald: all those years on the force, all that persistence, pursuing Deirdre Campbell’s killer . . . It might be a kind of madness, but you had to admire it. It was what Rebus liked about cops. Only thing was, most of them weren’t like that at all . . .

  ‘Back to Arden Street,’ he told Janice. There were calls she still had to make; his flat was still her base.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked.

  ‘Things to do, people to see.’

  She took his hand, squeezed it. ‘Thanks, John.’ Then reached up to touch his face. ‘You look tired.’ Rebus removed her fingers from his cheek, held them to his mouth, kissed them. Reached down with his free hand to turn the ignition.

  The first instalment of Cary Oakes’s ‘Lifer Story’ was perfunctory: a couple of paragraphs about his return to Scotland, a couple more about his incarceration, and then early biography. Rebus noted that place-names were kept to a minimum. Oakes’s explanation: ‘I don’t want anywhere getting a bad rep just because Cary Oakes once spent a wet winter there.’

  Thoughtful of him.

  Several times, revelations were hinted at – teasers to keep the audience coming back for more – but on the whole it looked like whatever the paper had paid Oakes, they’d got themselves a pig in a poke. Rebus doubted Stevens’ editor would be chuffed. There were photos: Oakes at the airport; Oakes on his release from the penitentiary; Oakes as a baby. A small photo too of ‘reporter James Stevens’, alongside his byline. Rebus noted that the photographs took up more space than the actual story. Looked like the reporter would be struggling to get a book’s worth.

  He folded the paper and looked out of his car window. He was parked at the gateway to a Do-It-Yourself superstore, one of those thinly disguised warehouses which, cheaply and quickly built, seemed to surround the city. There were only four cars in the capacious car park. He didn’t kn
ow this part of the city well: Brunstane. Just to the west was The Jewel, with its mandatory shopping centre; to the east stood Jewel and Esk College. The message Jane Barbour had left for him at the office had been perfunctory: time and place, telling him to meet her. Rebus lit another cigarette, wondering if she was ever coming. Then a car pulled up alongside him, sounded its horn, and proceeded into the car park. Rebus started his engine and followed.

  DI Jane Barbour drove a cream-coloured Ford Mondeo. She was getting out as Rebus parked alongside her. She reached back into the car for an A4 envelope.

  ‘Nice car,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Thanks for coming.’

  Rebus closed the car door for her. ‘What’s up? Run out of rawl-plugs?’

  ‘Have you been here before?’

  ‘Can’t say that I have.’

  The wind blew her hair across her face. ‘Come on,’ she said, all businesslike, verging on the hostile.

  He let himself be led round the side of the building. This was where staff parked their cars and bikes. There were two fire-exit doors, painted a green as drab as the grey of the corrugated walls. The back of the warehouse was a waste and delivery area. Skips spilled out flattened cardboard boxes. A dozen terracotta pots waited to be taken inside and displayed for sale. A low brick wall surrounded the area.

  ‘Is this where you mug me?’ Rebus asked, sticking his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Why have you got it in for Darren Rough?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  He tried for eye contact, but she wasn’t playing. ‘Because of what he is, what he was doing at the zoo. Because he slandered a fellow officer. Because of . . .’

  ‘Shiellion?’ she guessed, her eyes meeting his at last. ‘You couldn’t touch Ince and Marshall, but suddenly there was someone you could replace them with.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  Barbour reached into the envelope, lifted out a black and white photograph. It looked old, showed a three-storey Georgian house. A family posed in front of it, proud of their new motor car. The car was a 1920s model.

  ‘They knocked it down six years ago,’ Barbour explained. ‘It was either that or wait for it to disintegrate of its own accord.’

  ‘Nice-looking house.’

  ‘The patriarch there,’ Barbour said, tapping the man with one foot on the car’s running-board, ‘he went bankrupt. Mr Callstone, he was called. Worked in jute or something. The family home had to be sold. Church of Scotland snapped it up. But part of the deal was, they had to retain the family’s name. So it stayed Callstone House.’

  She waited for him to get the name. ‘Children’s home,’ he said at last, watching her nod.

  ‘Ramsay Marshall worked there, prior to his transfer to Shiellion. He already knew Harold Ince before the move.’ She handed him more photos.

  Rebus looked through them. Callstone House as a children’s home, run by the Church of Scotland. Kids grouped outside the same front door, kids photographed inside, seated at long tables, looking hungry. Dormitory beds. Some photos of stern-looking staff. Rebus’s mind was working now. ‘Darren Rough spent some time at Callstone . . .’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘During Ramsay Marshall’s reign?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘You . . .’ he said, suddenly getting it. ‘It was you that wanted Darren Rough back here.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘For the trial?’

  She nodded. ‘Arranged a flat for him, wanted him amenable. Worked on him for weeks.’

  ‘He was abused?’ Rebus frowned. ‘He’s not on the list.’

  ‘The Procurator Fiscal didn’t think he’d make a good witness.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Criminal record. Couldn’t risk cross-examination.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Rebus handed back the photographs. He knew where this was leading now. ‘So what happened to him?’

  She busied herself putting the photos back in their envelope. ‘One night, Marshall went into the dorm. Darren wasn’t asleep. Marshall said they were going on a drive. He took Darren to Shiellion.’

  ‘Proving that Marshall and Ince were already in cahoots?’

  ‘That’s how it looks. The two of them and a third man took turns.’

  ‘Christ.’ Rebus stared at the warehouse, imagining it as a children’s home, a supposed refuge. He wondered what Mr Callstone’s ghost would be making of it. ‘Who was the third man?’

  Barbour shrugged. ‘They had Darren in a blindfold.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘The thing is, John, I made certain promises to him.’

  ‘To a convicted paedophile,’ Rebus felt bound to add.

  ‘Ever heard of environment working on character?’

  ‘The abused becoming the abuser? You think that’s a reasonable excuse?’

  ‘I think it’s a reason.’ She was calmer now. ‘Professor Calder in Glasgow, he has this test. It shows how likely it is someone will reoffend. Darren came out low-risk. All his time inside, he went to the meetings, kept the therapy going.’

  Rebus wrinkled his nose. ‘How come he’s not registered?’ He’d checked: forty-nine sex offenders registered with police in Edinburgh; Rough wasn’t among them.

  ‘That was part of the deal. He’s terrified they’ll get him.’

  ‘“They”?’

  ‘Ince and Marshall. I know they’re locked up, but he still has nightmares about them.’ She waited for him to say something, but Rebus was thoughtful. ‘What’s happening down at Greenfield,’ she pressed on, ‘it’s not right. Is that your answer: hound them, chase them out? They’ll end up somewhere, John. We need to deal with them, not hand them to the mob.’

  Rebus looked down at his shoes. As ever, they needed a clean. ‘Did Rough tell you?’

  She shook her head. ‘When I saw the paper, I tried to find him. Then I spoke to his social worker. Andy Davies is pretty sure it was you.’

  ‘You believe him?’

  She shrugged. They were walking back towards their cars. ‘So what do you want?’ Rebus asked. ‘An apology?’

  ‘I just want you to understand.’

  ‘Well, thanks for the therapy. I think I’m ready to be released back into the community.’

  ‘I’m glad you can make a joke of it,’ she said coldly.

  He turned to her. ‘Rough comes back to Edinburgh, and Jim Margolies, the cop he accused of beating him up, decides to take a walk from Salisbury Crags. I think there might be a connection. That’s why I’m interested in . . .’ He saw her face change at Jim Margolies’ name. ‘What?’ he asked. She shook her head. Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘You spoke to Jim, didn’t you? Had the same conversation we’ve just had?’

  She hesitated, then nodded. ‘I was bringing Darren back to Edinburgh. He was reluctant, wanted to know if DI Margolies was still around.’

  ‘So you met with Jim, explained it all?’

  ‘I wanted to know there’d be no . . . conflict, I suppose.’

  ‘So Margolies knew Rough was coming back?’ Rebus was thoughtful. A mobile phone sounded: hers. She lifted it from her pocket, listened for a moment.

  ‘I’ll head straight there,’ she said, terminating the call. Then to Rebus: ‘You’d better come too.’

  He looked at her. ‘What is it?’

  She opened her car door. ‘Ugly scenes in Greenfield. Looks like Darren’s finally gone home.’

  19

  There was a mob on the landing outside Darren Rough’s flat, and the only thing standing between them and it was PC Tom Jackson. Van Brady was at the front of the queue, brandishing a crowbar. Other women crowded behind her. A local TV crew jockeyed for position. A news photographer was snapping a cluster of kids holding up a banner. The banner was homemade: half a bedsheet and black spray-paint. The message read: SAVE US FROM THE BEAST.

  ‘Lovely,’ Jane Barbour said.

  People in the other blocks were watching f
rom their windows, or had opened them to shout encouragement. Rebus saw that paint had been daubed on the door of the flat. Eggs and grease had been smeared on the window. The crowd was baying for blood, and more people seemed to be joining in all the time.

  Rebus thought: What in God’s name have I done?

  Tom Jackson glanced in Rebus’s direction. His face was red, lines of sweat trickling from both temples. Jane Barbour was pushing her way to the front.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ she shouted.

  ‘Just bring the bastard out here,’ Van Brady yelled back. ‘We’ll bloody well lynch him!’

  There were cries of agreement – ‘String him up!’; ‘Hanging’s too good!’ Barbour held up both hands, appealing for quiet. She saw that most of the protestors were wearing white sticky labels on their jackets and jumpers. Plain labels on which had been written three letters – GAP.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘Greenfield Against Perverts,’ Van Brady told her.

  Rebus saw a kid handing the labels out. Recognised him as Jamie Brady, Van’s youngest.

  ‘Since when was it your job to stick up for sick bastards like him?’ one woman asked.

  ‘Everybody’s got certain rights,’ Barbour replied.

  ‘Even sickos?’

  ‘Darren Rough served his sentence,’ Barbour went on. ‘He’s now on a rehab programme.’ She saw the film crew getting close, whispered something to Tom Jackson. He pushed his way to the camera, held a hand in front of it.

  ‘We want answers,’ Van Brady was shouting. ‘Why was he put here? Who knew about it? Why weren’t we told?’

  ‘And we want him out!’ a male voice called. A newcomer, the sea of bodies parting to let him through. A young man, chiselled face, bare-armed. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Van Brady, ignoring Barbour and directing his comments towards the film crew.

  ‘This is our community here, not the police’s.’ Applause and cheers. ‘If they can’t deal with scum,’ jerking his thumb back towards Rough’s front door, ‘no problem – we’ll deal with it ourselves. We’ve always been tidy that way in Greenfield.’

  More cheers; nods of agreement.

  One protestor: ‘You said it, Cal.’