10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ he said.

  She came forward, held his hands, looking at the swelling.

  ‘Explain,’ she said. So Rebus did just that.

  He lay in the bath, a cold compress on the back of his skull. Patience had rigged it up from a sandwich bag, some ice cubes, and a bandage. She was treating his hands with antiseptic cream, having cleaned them and established nothing was broken.

  ‘This man Oakes,’ she said, ‘I’m still not sure why he’d do it.’

  Rebus adjusted the ice-pack. ‘To humiliate me. He made sure I’d be found by uniforms, out cold in a rubbish skip.’

  ‘Yes?’ She dabbed on more ointment.

  ‘Knuckles bruised like I’d been fighting. And whoever I’d fought had whipped me. Found like that at the back of the hotel, there’s only one real candidate. By morning, it’ll be round every station in the city.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘To show me he can. Why else?’ He tried not to flinch as she rubbed cream into a cut.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe to distract you.’

  He looked at her. ‘From what?’

  She shrugged. ‘You’re the detective here.’ She examined her handiwork. ‘I need to wrap your hands.’

  ‘So long as I can still drive.’

  ‘John . . .’ Knowing he’d pay no attention.

  ‘Patience, if I go round with hands looking like a mummy’s, he’s won this round.’

  ‘Not if you refuse to play.’

  He saw the depth of concern in her eyes, brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. Saw Janice doing the self-same thing to him, and withdrew his hand guiltily.

  ‘Hurts, does it?’ Patience asked, misreading the gesture. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  Later, he sat on the sofa with a mug of weak tea. He’d washed down two more painkillers, prescription-strength. His soiled clothes had been bundled into a black bin-liner, ready for a trip to the cleaner’s. Such a shame, he thought, that his soiled thoughts couldn’t be steam-pressed so easily.

  When his mobile phone sounded, he stared at it hard. It lay on the coffee table in front of him, alongside his keys and small change. Patience was standing in the doorway as he finally picked the phone up. There was a little smile on her lips, but no humour in her eyes. She’d known all along he would answer it.

  Cal Brady came home from Guiser’s feeling pretty good. The buzz lasted all of ten seconds. As he flopped on to his bed, he remembered about the pervert. His mum was in her bedroom with some bloke; walls were so thin they’d have been as well having it off in front of him. All the flats were like that, so that things you wanted done in secrecy you had to do quietly. He put his ear to one wall, then another: his mum and her bloke; a couple of television stations – Jamie was still awake, watching the box in the living room, and the portable was on in Van’s room, a weak attempt to mask other sounds. He put his ear to the floor. He could still hear all of it, plus the people below’s movements, coughs and conversations. He’d gone to the doctor a while back, asked if maybe he had ears that were more sensitive than the norm.

  ‘I keep hearing things I don’t want to.’

  When he’d explained that he lived in one of the high-rises in Greenfield, the doctor had suggested a personal stereo.

  But it was the same on the street: he overheard snippets of conversation, stuff the talkers didn’t think he could hear. Sometimes he thought it was getting worse, thought he could hear people’s hearts beating, the quick flow of blood around their bodies. He thought he could hear their thoughts. Like at Guiser’s, when girls looked at him and he smiled back. They were thinking: he might not look much, but he’s with Archie Frost, so he must be important in some way. They’d think: if I dance with him, let him buy me a drink, I’ll be closer to the power.

  Which was why he seldom did anything, just stayed by the bar, affecting a cool poise and saying nothing. But listening, always listening.

  Always hearing things . . . Things about Charmer, things about the clients – Ama Petrie, her brother and the rest. His own version of the power.

  It had been quiet in the club tonight. If it hadn’t been for a busload from Tranent, the place would have been dead. They hadn’t looked too impressed: nobody to dance with but themselves. Archie doubted they’d be back. Archie was already looking for other work: plenty more clubs in the city. Cal hadn’t started looking though. Cal believed in loyalty.

  ‘I know Charmer’s trying to collect on some debts,’ Archie had said, ‘but the problem is, he’s got debts of his own. Only a matter of time before people come calling . . .’

  Cal had straightened his back, as if to say: fine by me.

  He wanted to think things through, get them straight in his head, which was why he’d come into his bedroom rather than sitting up with Jamie. But even before he’d reached that sanctuary, his thoughts had turned to Darren Rough. The hall was half-full of placards. They sat against the wall, still smelling of fresh paint. Cardboard boxes had been cut up flat, messages written on their blank sides. DESTROY ALL MONSTERS; KEEP AWAY FROM OUR KIDS; LET’S PLAY HANG THE PERV.

  Destroy all monsters, Cal was thinking, lying on his bed, smoking a cigarette. He got up abruptly, thumped on the far wall.

  ‘Will you fucking well shut up, the pair of you!’

  Silence, then muffled laughter. For a moment, Cal was ready to burst in on them, but he knew what his mum would do to him. And besides, last thing he wanted was to see her like that.

  Destroy all monsters.

  The doorbell. Who the fuck at this time of night . . .? Cal went to see. Recognised the woman. She looked agitated, rubbing her hands like she was doing the washing-up.

  ‘You haven’t seen our Billy, have you?’ She was Joanna Horman, Billy’s mum. Billy was one of Jamie’s pals. Cal called for him and Jamie came out of the living room.

  ‘Have you seen Billy Boy?’ Cal asked. Jamie shook his head. He had a packet of crisps in his hand. Cal turned back to Joanna Horman. Some of his friends reckoned she looked all right. Right now, though, she looked a mess.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘He went out to play about seven, I haven’t seen him since. I thought maybe he’d gone to his gran’s, but when I checked she hadn’t clapped eyes on him.’

  ‘I’m just in. Hold on a minute.’ He went and banged on Van’s door: as good an excuse as any to break things up in there. ‘Hiy, Maw, has Billy Horman been round here the night?’

  Noises from within. Joanna Horman was leaning against the door, looking ready to fall down. Not a bad body, Cal decided. Bit squishy, but he didn’t like them all skin and bones. His mother’s bedroom door opened. Van was wearing her dress, arranging it over her. Nothing on underneath, he’d bet. She closed the door quickly behind her; no way to tell who else was in the room.

  ‘Something the matter, Joanna?’ Pushing past Cal, ignoring him altogether.

  ‘It’s wee Billy, Van. He’s disappeared.’

  ‘Aw, Christ. Come into the living room.’

  ‘I just don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Where have you looked?’

  Cal followed the two women into the living room.

  ‘Everywhere. I think maybe it’s time I called the police.’

  Van snorted. ‘Oh aye, they’d be round here like a shot. Only thing those buggers are interested in is protecting perverts . . .’ Her voice died away; for the first time, she looked at her son. They knew one another so well, no words were needed.

  ‘Joanna, pet,’ Van said quietly, ‘you stay there. I’m going to round up the troops. If your Billy’s anywhere on the estate, we’ll find him, don’t you worry.’

  Within half an hour, Van Brady had the search parties organised. People were going from door to door, asking questions, getting new volunteers. Jamie had been sent to bed, but wasn’t asleep, and Joanna Horman was in the living room with a tumbler of rum and Coke. Cal had offered to keep an eye on
her. She was on the sofa, and he was in the chair. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Wasn’t normally this tongue-tied. He found himself aroused by her grief, the way it softened her. But he felt ashamed to be so affected by her, and his brain was spinning the way it did when he’d drunk too much or taken some speed.

  He got up, opened the door to Jamie’s room.

  ‘Get up, you, and keep an eye on Billy’s mum. I’ve got to go out.’

  Then he opened the main door and stalked down the hallway. Down the stairwell and out into the night. There were some lock-ups across the way. He had the key to one of them. He was keeping some stuff there. Jerry Langham’s lock-up it was, but Jerry was serving three-to-five in Saughton, another six months before he’d have even a whiff of roly-paroley. He kept his car in the lock-up. It was a 1970s Merc with rusty sills and a custard-yellow paint job, but Jerry loved it.

  ‘I don’t keep my missus under lock and key, but no way am I letting any bastard near my Merc.’

  This was by way of a warning: use the lock-up, keep an eye on the motor, but never think of touching it. Not that Cal had heeded the advice. He unlocked the car sometimes and sat in it, pretending to be driving. And he’d opened the boot once, too, so he knew what was inside.

  He unlocked it now, lifted out the jerrycan and gave it a shake. He was sure there’d been more than that; it was barely half-full now. Evaporation or something. He supposed petrol could do that. On a stack of shelves he found some oily rags. Stuffed them into his pockets and he was ready.

  Back to the block of flats, taking the steps two at a time. He had a purpose now, jerrycan making quiet sloshing sounds. Close your eyes, you could almost be at the seaside. Crept along to Darren Rough’s flat. Fresh lengths of board across his window. The kids had already been busy with their aerosols. GAP had made the flat their first stop tonight: no answer, nobody home. Cal opened the mouth of the can, held it high so the petrol trickled out of it, running it the length of the boarded window, then across the door. Took a ball of rag from his pocket and doused it in petrol. Stuffed it into the narrow gap between board and wall. Then another and another. Chucked the empty can over the balcony, then cursed to himself: there’d be prints on it. And besides, Jerry might want it. He’d go retrieve it in a minute.

  Took out his cigarette lighter, the one Jamie had given him for Christmas. Jamie . . . he was doing this for Jamie and his pals, for all the kids. Jamie was bright. Didn’t like school, but then who did? Didn’t make him thick. He could go places, do things with his life: a couple of times when drunk, Cal had tried to tell him as much. He got the feeling it hadn’t come out right, had come out like he was envious. Maybe he was, just a little. A kid like Jamie, the world was his oyster. Cal looked at the lighter. Another thing about his wee brother: he had shoplifting down to an art.

  23

  When Rebus got to Greenfield, half the estate was out watching the fire, or what was left of it.

  Rebus knew one of the firemen, guy called Eddie Dickson. Dickson nodded a greeting. He was in full uniform, standing guard by his engine.

  ‘If I move, they’ll be in about it.’ Meaning the local kids; meaning they’d strip it of anything they could find. ‘We got bottled coming in.’

  ‘Who by?’

  Dickson shrugged. ‘Came flying out of the dark. I get the feeling we weren’t wanted.’

  Uniforms from St Leonard’s were trying to get the spectators to go back to bed.

  ‘Any casualties?’

  Dickson shrugged again. ‘You mean from the bottles?’

  Rebus stared at him. ‘I mean in there.’ Pointing towards Darren Rough’s flat.

  ‘Place was empty when we got here.’

  ‘Door open?’

  Dickson shook his head. ‘Had to kick in what was left of it. Grudge thing, is it?’

  ‘Don’t you read the papers?’

  ‘When do I get the time, John?’

  ‘Paedophile.’

  Dickson nodded. ‘Remember it now. Frying’s too good for them, eh?’

  Rebus left him to his guard duty, headed for Cragside Court. The uniform in the lobby told him not to bother with the lifts.

  ‘One’s buggered, the other’s a toilet.’

  Rebus would have taken the stairs anyway. Nothing left of the boards across Rough’s window but a few charred scraps clinging to their screws. The door had been torched, too. DC Grant Hood was standing in the hallway of the flat. Rebus toed open the toilet door: nobody home.

  ‘Your pal,’ Hood said. He was young, bright. Followed Glasgow Rangers with a passion, but nobody was perfect.

  ‘Wasn’t me,’ Rebus commented. ‘But thanks for the call.’

  Hood shrugged. ‘Thought you might be interested.’ He nodded towards Rebus’s bandaged hands. ‘Had an accident yourself?’

  Rebus ignored the question. ‘No chance this was an accident, I suppose?’

  ‘Bits of rag hanging from the windowframe. Petrol spilt on the walkway . . .’

  ‘No sign of the occupier?’

  Hood shook his head. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Look around, Grant. It’s the Wild West out here. Any one of them’s capable.’ Rebus had walked back through what remained of the door, was leaning over the balcony. ‘But if it was me, I’d be asking Van Brady and her eldest son.’

  Hood jotted the names down. ‘I don’t suppose Mr Rough will be coming back.’

  ‘No,’ Rebus said. Which had been the point all along. But now that they’d come to that point, Rebus wondered why he felt so lousy inside . . . Jane Barbour’s words came back to him: low chance of reoffending . . . abused as a child himself . . . need to give him a chance.

  Then he saw Cal Brady, down amongst the thinning crowd. He was fully clothed, looked like he hadn’t yet been to bed. Rebus went back downstairs. Cal was handing out GAP stickers to anyone who didn’t have one. Women with coats thrown over their nighties were getting them. Cal placed each one on its recipient with exaggerated gentleness, causing some of the women – not exactly coy maidens – to blush.

  ‘All right, Cal?’ Rebus said. Cal looked round at him, peeled off a sticker and slapped it on Rebus’s jacket.

  ‘I hope you’re with us, Inspector.’

  Rebus started removing the sticker. Cal put out a hand to stop him, and Rebus caught it, lifted it to his nose. Cal pulled away quickly, but not quickly enough.

  ‘Soap and water’s usually a good idea,’ Rebus told him.

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘You stink of petrol.’

  ‘Not guilty, Your Honour.’

  ‘I’m not one to prejudge, Cal—’

  ‘Not what I hear.’

  ‘But in your case I’ll definitely make an exception.’ Thinking: who had Cal been talking to? Who’d been telling him about Rebus? ‘DC Hood’s going to want to ask you some questions. Be nice to him.’

  ‘Fuck the lot of you.’

  ‘Think your dick’s long enough?’ Said with a smile.

  Cal stared him out; then broke off and laughed. ‘You’re a clown. Go home to your circus.’

  ‘What do you think you are, Cal? The ringmaster?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘No, son, you’ll do tricks for whoever’s cracking the whip.’ Rebus turned away. ‘Whether it’s your mum or Charmer Mackenzie.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You work for him, don’t you?’

  ‘What’s it to do with you?’

  Rebus just shrugged and went back to his car. He’d parked it right next to the fire engine: didn’t want to find it up on bricks.

  ‘Hey, John,’ Eddie Dickson said, ‘won’t it be perfect?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When they build the Parliament.’ He swept an arm before him. ‘Right next door to all this.’

  Rebus looked up, saw the dark form of Salisbury Crags. Once more he felt like he was in a canyon of some kind, sheer walls affording no escape. Your fingers would be raw and bleeding from trying.

  Eit
her that or stained with four-star.

  Hood came running up as Rebus was flexing his hands. ‘I think we’ve got a problem.’

  ‘Be a miracle if we didn’t.’

  ‘There’s a kid missing. They weren’t even going to tell us.’

  Rebus was thoughtful. ‘It’s UDI,’ he said. Hood looked puzzled. ‘A Unilateral Declaration of Independence, son. So who spilt the beans?’

  ‘I went to Van Brady’s flat. Door was open, young woman in the lounge.’ He checked his notebook. ‘Name’s Joanna Horman. Kid’s name is Billy.’

  Rebus remembered his first visit to Greenfield, Van Brady leaning out of her window: I saw you, Billy Horman! He couldn’t remember much about the kid, only that he’d been playing with Jamie Brady.

  ‘Now we know why they torched the flat,’ Hood went on.

  ‘A brilliant deduction, Grant. Maybe we better go talk to the lady in question.’

  ‘The kid’s mum?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Van Brady.’

  Having opened negotiations with Van Brady, her kitchen providing an unpromising table for such a high-powered summit, Rebus called for reinforcements. They’d organise more search parties, police and residents working together.

  ‘This is your patch,’ Rebus had conceded, washing down more pills with a mug of cheap chicory coffee. ‘You know the place better than any of us: any hidey-holes, gang huts, anywhere he might stop the night. If his mum gives us a list of his school pals, we can contact their parents, see if he’s maybe staying with one of them. There are things we can do best, and things you can do.’ He’d kept his voice level, and maintained eye-contact throughout. There were eight bodies in the kitchen, and more in the hallway and living room.

  ‘What about the pervert?’ Van Brady had asked.

  ‘We’ll find him, don’t worry. But right now, I think we should concentrate on Billy, don’t you?’

  ‘What if he’s the one who’s got Billy?’

  ‘Let’s wait and see, eh? First thing is to get the search going again. We’re not going to find anyone sitting here.’