10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘They’re on their way,’ he told the minder.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘That’s one you owe me,’ Rebus said, waiting till the minder had nodded. ‘To square things, I want you to tell me what Archie Frost has to do with Billy Preston.’

  ‘He just works for him, same as I do.’

  ‘But he runs Gaitano’s for Charmer Mackenzie.’

  The minder was nodding. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘No conflict of interests?’

  ‘Should there be?’

  Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘Mackenzie owns this boat?’

  The minder licked his lips. ‘Part-owns. Mr Preston has the other half.’

  Charmer Mackenzie had a half-share in the Clipper. And he owned Gaitano’s. Damon had been at Gaitano’s, and was last seen near the Clipper. Rebus was beginning to wonder . . .

  ‘That’s us quits,’ the minder said, as the party-goers did a conga towards the gangway.

  He went back to his flat but couldn’t sleep. The blanket Darren Rough had slept under was still folded on the sofa. He couldn’t bring himself to move it. Instead, he sat in his chair, waiting for the ghosts to come. Maybe Darren would be with them, or maybe he’d have other souls to haunt.

  But no ghosts came. Rebus dozed, came awake with a start. Decided he’d be better off out of doors. He cut through The Meadows, past the Infirmary. It was due to move out of town, south to Little France. There was talk the old Infirmary site would be turned into upmarket flats, or maybe a hotel. Prime city-centre site, but who’d want a flat where a hospital ward had been?

  He paused at the statue of Greyfriars Bobby. When you thought of it, Bobby was just a dog with nowhere better to go, nothing better to be doing. Rebus reached out and patted the statue’s head.

  ‘Stay,’ he said, heading down George IV Bridge. A couple of taxis slowed beside him, touting for custom, but he waved them on, took the Playfair Steps down to the National Gallery and Royal Academy. He passed a couple of people sleeping rough, watched the Castle beginning to assume shape again against the sky as night segued into morning. He thought of his grandfathers, whose names were buried somewhere in the Castle’s Books of Remembrance. He couldn’t even recall what regiments they’d served in. Both had died in the 1914–18 campaign, long before Rebus’s parents had even met.

  Princes Street had the usual haphazard look to it. The pavements seemed plenty wide when there was no one else about. He nipped up the side of Burger King and into the Penny Black, which opened for business at five. There were a couple of drinkers already in. Rebus ordered a whisky, added plenty of water.

  ‘Man, you’re drowning it,’ one drinker commented.

  Rebus just smiled; didn’t tell the man that water was his lifeline. An early edition of the Scotsman sat on the bar. Rebus flicked through it. A report of the previous day’s doings in the Shiellion trial, plus the ‘suspicious death’ of Darren Rough and the disappearance of Billy Horman. There was an anonymous quote from a member of GAP, to the effect that they blamed Rough for the boy’s disappearance.

  ‘And we’re just glad and relieved that one piece of vermin has departed this earth. May all the others do the same.’

  Van Brady in preaching mode. There was talk of a residents’ committee, of new arrivals in Greenfield being vetted by their neighbours. There was going to be discussion of neighbourhood patrols, spot checks, and even some kind of barrier to stop ‘undesirables’ from entering Greenfield and ‘defacing’ it.

  Rebus knew Scotland was gearing up for self-rule, but this was taking it to extremes.

  ‘We’ve got a computer in the community centre,’ the spokesperson said, ‘and now we want to get hooked up to the Internet so we can ask the Guardian Angels for advice. We’re hoping a lottery grant will get us the software. This community deserves no less.’

  If there was going to be a private police force in Greenfield, Rebus wondered who’d be best placed to operate it. The name Cal Brady came readily to mind . . .

  He finished his drink and decided to have breakfast down in Leith, where there was a café open at six with huge portions and little fuss. He walked the length of Leith Walk, found the café and settled down. With the paper already read, he’d nothing to do but chew on a half-slice of fried bread and stare out of the window. When a taxi stopped at the lights outside the café, Rebus caught a glimpse of the passenger. He tried for a better look, but the taxi was already on the move, taking Cary Oakes back to his hotel. He got the licence number, jotted it on the back of his hand. A mouthful of scalding tea helped him wash down the bread, then he asked to use the owner’s phone. Called a cab company and asked about the reg.

  ‘You kidding? Know how many cabs we’ve got?’

  ‘Do your best, eh?’ He gave them his mobile number, then tried the other companies in the city. They all seemed to think he was asking a lot, but by the time he got to St Leonard’s, he had a result. The cabbie was actually back at base, his shift over. Rebus spoke to him.

  ‘You took a fare down to Leith, I’m guessing The Shore. About an hour ago.’

  ‘Yeah, last pick-up I had.’

  ‘Where exactly did you pick him up?’

  ‘Out Corstorphine way, just before the Maybury roundabout. What’s he done?’

  Corstorphine: where Alan Archibald lived. Rebus thanked the driver and terminated the call. He went to the toilets for a wash and shave, swallowed two paracetamol with some coffee. The murder room was empty, no one yet at work. He examined the photos on the wall. Archibald’s niece had been murdered on a hillside; Darren Rough had been murdered on a hillside. Was it a connection? He thought of Cary Oakes, roaming freely through the city. Picked up one of the phones and called Patience.

  ‘Morning,’ she said sleepily.

  ‘This is your alarm call.’

  He could hear her stretch her back, sitting up in bed. ‘What time is it?’

  He told her. ‘I couldn’t get back for breakfast, thought I’d phone instead.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘St Leonard’s.’

  ‘Did you sleep at Arden Street?’

  ‘I managed a nap.’

  ‘I don’t know how you do it.’ She was probably pushing hair out of her eyes. ‘I need eight hours minimum.’

  ‘They say it’s the sign of a clear conscience.’

  ‘What does that say about you?’ She knew he wasn’t going to answer that, asked instead if she’d see him for dinner.

  ‘Sure,’ he told her. ‘Unless you don’t, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. Then: ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You liar. Try one day off the booze, John, just for me. One day, and tell me you don’t feel better in the morning.’

  ‘I know I’ll feel better in the morning. Problem is, as soon as I have a drink, I forget.’

  ‘Bye, John.’

  ‘Bye, Patience.’

  Patience: more than living up to her name . . .

  30

  Rebus and Gill Templer, in Interview Room B with Cal Brady.

  Interview Room B: same room Rebus had taken Darren Rough. Same room he’d first met Harold Ince during the Shiellion inquiry. They were talking to Cal Brady again because Templer had a few things to clear up.

  ‘You started that fire,’ she said.

  ‘Did I?’ Brady looked around, wide-eyed. ‘Maybe we better get a solicitor in here then.’

  ‘Don’t try to be funny, Mr Brady.’

  ‘Only jokers I see around here are you lot.’

  ‘Billy Horman is reported missing, next thing you’re out torching Darren Rough’s flat. If I was of a mind, I might think you had something to gain from that.’ She paused, shifting the paperwork in front of her. ‘Or something to hide.’

  ‘Such as?’ Brady sat back in his chair, arms folded.

  ‘That’s what I’m wondering.’

  Brady snorted, looked to where Rebus was standing. ‘Lost your voice or what?’


  Rebus didn’t rise to it. Gill Templer was quite capable of dealing with the likes of Cal Brady.

  ‘Everyone else went out looking for Billy,’ she continued, ‘but you held back. Why’s that, Mr Brady?’

  Brady shifted in his seat. ‘Kept an eye on Billy Boy’s mum.’

  Templer made a show of checking her notes. ‘Joanna Horman?’ She waited for Brady to nod agreement. ‘That’s women’s work, isn’t it, Calumn? Holding the mother’s hand, offering sympathy and a rum and Coke. Thought you were more of an Action Man.’

  ‘Someone had to do it.’

  ‘But why you, that’s what I’m getting at? Maybe you fancied her. Maybe the two of you know one another . . .?’ She paused. ‘Or could it be that you already knew there was no point looking for Billy Horman . . .?’

  Brady thumped the desk. ‘Don’t you start on this!’ Quick to ignite. ‘Everybody knows what happened to Billy Boy. He got snatched by Rough or one of his cronies.’

  ‘Then where is he?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘And who killed Darren Rough?’

  ‘If it had been me, he’d’ve been missing some bits.’

  ‘What if I tell you he was?’ Templer playing a little game.

  Brady looked surprised. ‘Was he? Nobody said . . .’

  Templer looked at her notes. Then: ‘DI Rebus, I believe you have a few more questions for Mr Brady.’

  Rebus having cleared things with her first, explaining his interest. He moved towards the desk, rested his knuckles on it.

  ‘How do you come to know Archie Frost?’

  ‘Archie?’ Brady looked at Templer. ‘What’s this got to do with anything?’

  ‘Another inquiry, Mr Brady. Unconnected to the other two, except, perhaps, by you.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘You want that solicitor now?’

  He thought about it, shrugged his shoulders. ‘I do some work for him.’

  ‘For Mr Frost?’

  ‘That’s right. I work on the door some nights.’

  ‘You’re a bouncer?’

  ‘I keep an eye out for trouble.’

  Rebus produced the photographs again. They had curled and creased at the edges, and were smeared with fingerprints.

  ‘Do you remember me asking about these people?’

  Brady looked at the photos, nodded. ‘I wasn’t on the door that night.’

  ‘And which night is that?’ Brady looked up from the photos. Rebus was smiling. ‘I don’t recall giving Mr Frost any particular night.’

  ‘If I’d been working that night I’d have spotted him. I had a run-in with him once before. No way he would have got past the door with me there.’

  Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘What sort of run-in?’

  Brady shrugged. ‘Nothing much. He was just a bit pissed, making too much noise. I told him to calm down and he didn’t, so a couple of us escorted him off the premises.’

  Brady liked this last phrase; smiled at it. A nice official ring to it: ‘escorted’, ‘premises’.

  ‘You ever do any door work at the Clipper?’

  Brady shook his head.

  ‘But you work for its owner.’

  ‘Mr Mackenzie has a share of the boat, that’s all.’

  ‘But he provides the bouncers too.’

  ‘I tried it once, didn’t like it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘All these stuck-up tarts and Hooray Henries, thinking they could walk all over you because they had a bit of cash.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ Brady looked at him. ‘No, really. I’ve seen them for myself.’ Rebus was still thinking about Brady’s run-in with Damon Mee. He’d thought it was Damon’s first visit to Gaitano’s; no one had told him any different. ‘Thing is, Cal, Damon’s a missing person, and I’m a bit like Gulliver in one of Lilliput’s toilets.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I’ve not got much to go on.’ Gill Templer groaned at the joke, while Rebus counted off on his fingers. ‘I’ve got Damon going missing, last seen with a blonde being dropped by taxi outside the Clipper. The boat’s part-owned by Charmer Mackenzie, who also owns Guiser’s, which is where Damon and the blonde seemed to meet. See, there’s a connection there. Right now, it’s the only thing I’ve got, which is why I’m going to keep working away at it until I’ve got some answers.’ He paused. ‘Only you don’t have any of the answers, do you?’

  Brady stared at him. Rebus turned to Templer.

  ‘No further questions, m’lud.’

  ‘All right, Mr Brady,’ she said. ‘You can go now.’

  Brady walked to the door, opened it, turned his head back towards Rebus.

  ‘Gulliver,’ he said. ‘Is he the one in the cartoon with the little people?’

  ‘That’s him,’ Rebus acknowledged.

  Brady nodded thoughtfully. ‘I still don’t get it,’ he said, closing the door after him.

  At lunchtime, Rebus sat in his car and slept for half an hour, before heading back to the office with a beaker of tomato soup and a cheese and Branston sandwich.

  ‘We’ve got something,’ Roy Frazer informed him. ‘Sighting of a white saloon car, exiting Holyrood Park at the Dalkeith Road end. Someone from maintenance at the Commonwealth Pool noticed it. Early morning, no traffic about. This car was doing a fair lick, went through a red light. He’s a cyclist, pays attention to that sort of thing.’

  ‘And a model citizen too, I’ll bet. Never sneaks through a red on his bike when nobody’s watching.’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Any surveillance cameras that might have caught it?’

  ‘I’ll check.’

  ‘Clear it with DCI Templer first. She’s in charge.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Frazer bounded off in search of her. He reminded Rebus of a pet spaniel, always ready for attention and praise. White saloon car . . . Something was niggling Rebus. He put in a call to Bobby Hogan at Leith police station.

  ‘If I say the words “white saloon car” to you, what would you say to me?’

  ‘I’d say my brother’s got one, a Ford Orion.’

  ‘I’m thinking of Jim Margolies.’

  ‘Something in the notes?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure there was a white saloon.’

  ‘Can I call you back?’

  ‘Soon as poss.’ He put down the receiver, scribbled circles within circles on his pad, then sent lines radiating out from the centre. He couldn’t decide if it looked more like a spider’s web or a dartboard, came to the answer: neither. The telescopic sight from a warplane maybe? Or a section through a tree-trunk? All possibilities, but really all it was in the end was a meaningless squiggle. And when he ran over it a few times with the pen, it became clotted past interpretation.

  His phone rang and he picked up.

  ‘Is it important?’ Bobby Hogan asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Might connect to something else.’

  ‘Want to tell me what?’

  ‘You go first.’

  He seemed to be considering the offer, then began to recite from the case-notes. ‘Light-coloured saloon car, possibly white or cream. Seen parked on Queen’s Drive.’

  ‘Where on Queen’s Drive?’ Queen’s Drive being the roadway that wound around Holyrood Park.

  ‘You know The Hawse?’

  ‘Not by name.’

  ‘It’s at the foot of the Crags, near where the path starts. This car was parked there, lights on, apparently nobody in it. Someone came forward when they heard about the suicide. But the timing was wrong. They spotted it at around ten thirty that night. It was gone by the time a patrol went past at midnight. Margolies didn’t head up there until later.’

  ‘According to his widow.’

  ‘Well, she should know, shouldn’t she? So are you going to tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘Another sighting of a white saloon, the morning Darren Rough was killed. Seen haring out of Holyrood Park.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with Jim’s suicide?�
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  ‘Probably nothing,’ Rebus said, thinking of the doodle again. ‘Maybe I’m just seeing things,’ He saw the Farmer standing in the doorway, beckoning. ‘Thanks anyway,’ he said.

  ‘Any other fantasies you get, they’ve got special phone numbers these days.’

  Rebus put down the receiver, started towards the door.

  ‘My office,’ the Farmer said, moving away before Rebus could reach him. There was a mug of coffee already sitting on the Farmer’s desk. He poured Rebus one, handed it over.

  ‘What have I done this time?’ Rebus asked.

  The Farmer motioned for him to sit. ‘It’s Darren Rough’s social worker. He’s made an official complaint.’

  ‘About me?’

  ‘He reckons you “outed” his client, and brought this whole thing on. He’s asking questions about how closely you tie in to Rough’s death.’

  Rebus rubbed his eyes, managed a tired smile. ‘He’s welcome to his opinions.’

  ‘No danger he can back them up with hard proof?’

  ‘Not a chance in hell, sir.’

  ‘It’s still not going to look good. You were the last person Rough had any contact with.’

  ‘Only if you discount the killer. Have forensics turned up anything?’

  ‘Only that the killer probably got some of Rough’s blood on him.’

  ‘What if I put forward a proposal?’

  The Farmer picked up a pen, studied it. ‘What sort of proposal?’

  ‘That we bring in Cary Oakes again. I’m positive he nicked my car, which puts him in Arden Street around the time Darren Rough was leaving. What was he doing there in the first place? Staking the place out? In which case, he’d been there a while, maybe saw us going in, took Rough for a friend of mine . . .’

  The Farmer was shaking his head. ‘We can’t bring in Oakes, not without something solid.’

  ‘How about a mallet?’

  It was the Farmer’s turn to smile. ‘Stevens’ paper has lawyers, John. And you’ve said yourself, Oakes is a pro. He’ll sit there keeping schtum till they spring him. At which point, the daily rags have got themselves another story about police harassment.’