10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because no matter how much we’re told, we know we’re not getting everything.’

  Oakes held his hands out. ‘I’ve given you blood, Jim. I feel like you’ve taken a transfusion from me.’ That unnerving grin again; so lacking in humour. Stevens wrote date and time on a sticker, peeled it off and placed it down one edge of the cassette case. He made this tape number eleven. Eleven hours of Cary Oakes. It wasn’t enough for a book, but it might get him the contract, and the rest of the book could be padded: trial reports, interviews, photographs.

  Only thing was, he didn’t think he was going to find a publisher. He wasn’t even going to try.

  ‘What are you thinking, big man?’ Oakes asked. He’d taken to calling Stevens ‘big man’. Stevens wasn’t naive enough to take it as a compliment; at best it was weighted with irony.

  ‘I’m . . . not really thinking at all.’ Stevens shrugged. ‘Just that it’s over, that’s all.’

  ‘So now it’s pay-off time for old Cary.’

  ‘You’ll get your cheque.’

  ‘What good’s a cheque? I said cash.’

  Stevens shook his head. ‘A cheque, has to be or our accounts department would have a breakdown. You can use it to open a bank account.’

  ‘And sit around how long waiting for it to clear?’ Oakes had been pacing the room. Now he came to Stevens’ chair and leaned down over him, staring him out. Stevens blinked first, which seemed victory enough for Oakes. He propelled himself back upright and angled his head to the ceiling, letting out a whoop of laughter. Then he leaned down again long enough to pat one of Stevens’ resilient cheeks.

  ‘It’s OK, Jim, really it is. I never really needed the money anyway. What I needed was for you to think you had me by the balls.’

  ‘I never ever thought that, Oakes.’

  ‘No more first names, huh? Did I upset you or something?’

  Stevens shook the tape box. ‘How much of this is crap?’

  Oakes grinned again. ‘How much do you think, partner?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.’ He saw Oakes glance towards the clock by the bed. ‘Going somewhere?’

  ‘My work here’s finished. Nothing to keep me.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Stevens didn’t know why, but while Oakes had been laughing, he’d switched the recorder back on. Situated as it was in his shirt pocket, he didn’t know how much it would pick up. He could hear its small motor working, feel it grinding against his chest.

  ‘Why should you care?’

  ‘I’m a reporter. You’re still a story.’

  ‘You haven’t seen the best of it, Jimmy baby.’

  Stevens ran a dry tongue over his lips.

  ‘Do I scare you, Jim?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Stevens admitted.

  ‘You’re bigger than me, heavier anyway. You could take me, couldn’t you?’

  ‘It’s not always down to size.’

  ‘True, true. Sometimes it’s down to just how rip-roaring crazy and ferocious your opponent is. Is there a touch of madness in me, Jimbo?’

  Stevens nodded slowly. ‘And ferocity too,’ he added.

  ‘You better believe it.’ Oakes was examining himself in the wall-mirror, running a hand over his cropped head. ‘And it’s a hungry madness, Jim. It wants me to eat people up.’ A sly sideways look. ‘Not you, though, don’t worry on that score.’

  ‘What score should I worry on?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ He studied himself in the mirror again. ‘I have a date with my past, Jim. A date with destiny, as you and your fellow hacks might put it. With someone who never listened to me.’ He was nodding to himself. ‘Just one last thing, Jim.’ Turning towards the journalist. ‘I knew when I came out I’d be telling my story. I’ve had a long time to get it straight.’

  ‘“Straight” rather than true?’

  ‘You’re smarter than you look, Jimbo.’ Oakes laughed.

  Stevens’ heart beat a little faster. It was what he’d suspected for some days, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

  ‘Some of it must have been accurate,’ he managed to utter.

  ‘Scots are a nation of storytellers, Jim, isn’t that right?’ He patted Stevens’ cheek again, then headed for the door. ‘It was all shit, Jim. Remember that till the day you die.’

  After the door had closed on Oakes, Stevens put his head in his hands and sat there for a few moments, relieved it was all over, whatever the outcome. When his phone rang, he remembered the recorder in his pocket. Removed it and switched it off, rewound and hit Play.

  Oakes’s voice had grown small and tinny, but no less devilish. It was all shit, Jim. He turned off the tape and went to answer the phone. Cleared his throat first, sat down on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Hello?’ he said into the receiver.

  ‘Jim, is that you? Peter Barclay here.’

  Barclay worked for a rival tabloid. ‘What do you want, Peter?’

  ‘Caught you at a bad time?’ Barclay chuckled. He always spoke with a cigarette in his mouth. It made him sound like a bad ventriloquist.

  ‘You might say that.’

  ‘I do say that. Your boy’s been telling tales out of school.’

  ‘What?’ Stevens stopped rubbing the back of his neck.

  ‘He’s sent a letter to all your lovely competitors, saying his “autobiography” is complete bollocks. Any comment to make, Jim? On the record, naturally.’

  Stevens slammed the receiver back into its cradle, then swiped the apparatus off the bedside table and on to the floor.

  ‘Number disconnected,’ he said, giving it a kick for good measure.

  39

  There was mist on the Pentland Hills, leaching colour from the landscape and threatening to cut Hillend and Swanston off from the city just north of them.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Rebus said as they parked.

  ‘Afraid we’ll get lost?’ Cary Oakes smiled. ‘Wouldn’t that be a blow to humanity?’

  He was sitting in the passenger seat, Alan Archibald in the back. Rebus hadn’t wanted Oakes in the back; had wanted him where he could see him. Before setting off, he’d insisted on patting Oakes down. Oakes had asked if Rebus would reciprocate.

  ‘I’m not the killer here,’ Rebus had said.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no.’ Oakes had turned to Archibald. ‘I thought it would just be the two of us. More intimate that way.’ Nodding towards Rebus. ‘No need for outsiders, Mr Archibald.’

  ‘You’re going nowhere without me,’ Rebus had said.

  And here they were. Archibald seemed nervous. Getting out of the car, he dropped his Ordnance Survey map. Oakes picked it up for him.

  ‘Maybe we should leave a little trail of breadcrumbs,’ he suggested.

  ‘Let’s just get on with it,’ Archibald answered, nerves lending his voice an edge of irritation.

  Rebus was looking around. No other cars in the vicinity; no hill-walkers; no sounds of dogs being exercised.

  ‘Creepy, isn’t it?’ Oakes said. He was donning a cheap green kagoul.

  Rebus’s jacket had an integral hood. He rolled it out but didn’t put it over his head. He knew it would work like a pair of blinkers, and didn’t want to be deprived of his peripheral vision. Archibald had a flat tweed cap with him, and was wearing hiking boots. Cap and boots looked brand new: they’d been waiting on this day for a while.

  ‘Drinkie anyone?’ Oakes said, taking out a hip flask. Rebus stared at him. ‘You going to be scowling like that all day?’ Oakes laughed. ‘Got something you want to get off your mind, maybe?’

  ‘Plenty.’ Rebus’s fists were clenched.

  ‘Not here, John,’ Archibald pleaded. ‘Not now.’

  Eyes on Rebus, Oakes held out the flask to Archibald, who shook his head. Oakes tipped the flask to his own mouth, showing them the liquid trickling in. He swallowed noisily.

  ‘See,’ he said, ‘it’s not poisoned.’ He made th
e offer again, and this time Archibald took a sip. ‘I had them fill it at the hotel bar.’ He took the flask back from Archibald. ‘And yourself, Inspector?’

  Rebus took the flask, sniffed its contents. Christ, it did smell good, but he handed it back untouched.

  ‘Balvenie,’ he said. ‘If I’m not mistaken.’

  Oakes laughed again; Archibald forced a smile.

  ‘I thought you didn’t drink,’ Rebus said.

  ‘I don’t, but this is in the nature of a special occasion, wouldn’t you say?’

  Then Archibald started unfolding the map, and it became business, Oakes studying the area intently, aware of Rebus immediately behind him, and finally saying: ‘I’m not sure this is going to be much use.’ He looked around. ‘I think I’m going to have to follow my nose.’ He glanced at Archibald. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Just take me to where she was killed,’ the older man said.

  ‘Maybe you should lead the way,’ Oakes said. ‘After all, I’ve never been here before.’ And he gave a wink.

  They started walking.

  Eventually Rebus said: ‘Another game, Oakes?’

  Oakes stopped walking, caught his breath. ‘You know how the song goes, Inspector: we can’t go on together, if you’re going to have a suspicious mind. Far as I’m concerned, we’re just out for a breath of country air. Besides, I’m curious to see where the body was found.’

  ‘You know damned well where the body was found!’ Alan Archibald snapped.

  Oakes turned his lips into a pout. Rebus wanted to see blood there, wanted teeth dislodged and a gushing nose. Instead, his fingernails bit more deeply into his palms.

  ‘Did you kill her?’ he asked.

  ‘Kill her when?’

  Rebus felt his voice rising. ‘Did you kill her?’

  Oakes wagged a finger. ‘I might not have been back that long, but don’t think I don’t know how it’s played. There are two of you. Anything I admit, you’ve got corroboration.’

  ‘This is between ourselves,’ Alan Archibald said. ‘It’s gone beyond anything I’d take to the police.’

  Oakes smiled. ‘How long have you been chasing ghosts? If I say I killed her, will you rest easy in your bed?’ Archibald didn’t answer. ‘How about you, Inspector: any ghosts keeping you awake at night?’

  As if he knew. Rebus tried not to show anything, but Oakes was nodding, smiling to himself. ‘A career littered with bodies, man,’ Oakes went on, ‘and I’m the one they lock up.’ He paused. ‘Tell me something,’ folding his arms, eyes on Archibald now, ‘how did the killer get her up here? Long way to bring a victim.’

  ‘She was terrified.’

  ‘What if she wasn’t? What if she was willing? She’d been out drinking, right? Feeling a bit horny . . .’

  ‘Shut up, Oakes.’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to talk?’ He opened his arms wide. ‘I might just be speculating here, but say he picked her up, drove her up here. Say it’s exactly what she wanted. I mean, this is a complete stranger she’s in the car with, but tonight she’s in the mood for danger. She feels reckless. Who knows, maybe she even wants it to happen.’

  Archibald turned on him, waving his fist. ‘Don’t talk about her like that.’

  ‘I’m just—’

  ‘You abducted her. Knocked her cold and dragged her up here.’

  ‘Any signs of a struggle, Al? Huh? Did the post-mortem show she’d been dragged anywhere?’

  Archibald looked at him. ‘You know it didn’t.’

  More laughter. ‘No, Al, I don’t know jack-shit. I’m just guessing, that’s all. Same as you are.’

  Oakes started walking again. The wind was rising, a fine rain blowing into their faces, threatening to drench them. Rebus looked back. Already the car was lost to view.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Archibald assured him. ‘I’m marking our route as we go.’ He had the map folded, tapped a pen against one of the contour lines.

  Rebus took the map from him, wanting to be sure. He’d done map-reading in the army. It looked like Archibald knew what he was doing. Rebus nodded and handed the map back. But the look in Archibald’s eyes, that mix of fear and expectation . . . Rebus patted his shoulder.

  ‘Come on, slowcoaches,’ Oakes said, waiting till they caught up.

  ‘You took it too far,’ Rebus told him.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Your little joke with the skip, I didn’t mind that so much. But the cemetery, the patio . . . no way you’re getting away with those.’

  ‘You’re forgetting your old flame.’ Oakes turned towards him. There wasn’t more than a foot or two between them. ‘I talked to her, remember? How come she’s not on your little hit-list? She told me the two of you might be hooking up again.’ He tutted. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to let her down? Does she know?’

  Rebus caught Oakes a glancing blow. Fist barely connected with cheek, Oakes arching back on the balls of his feet. Fast, he was hellish fast. Didn’t change his stance, so confident, so sure of his opponent. Archibald’s arms wrapped themselves around Rebus, but Rebus shrugged them off.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, voice lacking emotion.

  ‘Want some more?’ Oakes threw open his arms. ‘I’m right here, man.’ There was a graze on his cheek, but he paid it no notice.

  Rebus knew he couldn’t afford to lose it; had to stay calm. But Oakes had crawled all the way under his skin. Laughing at him now, putting a theatrical hand to his face.

  ‘Ouch! That stings.’ Laughing all the time. Then walking away, and now it was Archibald’s turn to pat Rebus’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m OK,’ Rebus told him, making after Oakes.

  A little later, Oakes stopped. Visibility was down to a hundred yards, maybe less. ‘Where’s Swanston Village from here?’ he asked. He seemed to have forgotten all about Rebus. Archibald checked the map, pointed with his finger. He was pointing into swirling smoke, pointing into nothingness.

  ‘It’s like bloody Brigadoon,’ Rebus said, lighting a cigarette. Oakes took a bar of chocolate from his pocket, offered it around.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I’m amazed you’re trusting me. Not you, Mr Archibald, you’ve got no choice. But the Inspector here.’ Oakes fixed Rebus with his dark, peering eyes. ‘You’re a hard man to figure.’

  ‘And you’re full of shite.’

  ‘Please, John . . .’ Archibald had a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. Despite his clothing, he looked cold and tired and suddenly so very old. Rebus realised what this meant to him: an answer, one way or another. Either Oakes had killed his niece – in which case there could be proper grieving – or someone else had, in which case he’d wasted these years with his pet theory, and her killer was still out there somewhere . . .

  ‘OK, Alan,’ Rebus said. The three of them out here: an old man, a nutter with shorn head and piercing eyes, and John bloody Rebus. Oakes enjoying every moment, Archibald looking as brittle as the chocolate bar.

  And Rebus? Trying hard not to add another body to the hill’s death toll.

  Oakes offered Archibald his flask, and Archibald took a grateful drink. Rebus declined, and Oakes screwed the top back on.

  ‘Not having one yourself?’ Rebus asked.

  Oakes ignored him, offered him chocolate instead. Rebus again refused.

  ‘So where exactly are we going?’ Oakes asked.

  ‘It’s not far now,’ Archibald told him.

  Oakes saw Rebus studying him. ‘Got any questions for me yourself, John? Any unsolveds you want to pin on me?’

  ‘Anything in particular you want me to ask?’

  ‘Nicely put, sir. I see someone killed Darren Rough.’

  ‘You were outside my flat that night.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘You took the car.’ Rebus paused. ‘You saw Rough leave.’

  ‘Man, I was busy that night, wasn’t I?’ Rebus stared him out. Oakes came close, leaned in towards him as if to speak confidentially. Rebus moved away. ‘I’m not going to bite
,’ Oakes said.

  ‘Say what you were going to say.’

  Oakes put on a wounded look. ‘I don’t know if I want to now.’ Then he grinned. ‘But I will anyway. I saw him leave your place, even followed him for a while. I wondered who he was, only found out later when I saw his picture in the paper.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You tell me. I lost him.’ Oakes shrugged. ‘He cut across The Meadows. No way to follow in a car.’ He gave another wink.

  ‘This is all just another part of your little—’

  ‘Don’t say it!’ Alan Archibald screeched. ‘Don’t say it’s a game! It’s not a game, not to me!’ He was shaking.

  Rebus pointed to Oakes, but spoke to Archibald. ‘This is what he wants. You thought by bringing him up here you’d have the upper hand. Don’t you think he knew that, played on it? Look at him, Alan, he’s laughing at you. He’s laughing at all of us!’

  ‘I’m not laughing.’ And it was true: Oakes was stony-faced, his eyes on Archibald. He walked up to him, touched his arm. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Come on, you’re right – we’ve got work to do.’

  He started walking again. Archibald made to apologise to Rebus, but Rebus waved it aside. Oakes was moving off at a brisk pace, as if determined to finish things. That look on his face . . . Rebus couldn’t read it. There had been something there, a gloss of sympathy. But beneath it he thought he detected something more feral, itself mixed with something like the curiosity of the scientist when faced with some unexpected result.

  Visibility was decreasing as they climbed.

  ‘You’ve been playing a little game with me, haven’t you, Al?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, Al, the route you’ve brought us, we’ve already been past the spot where she was killed. I bet you’ve got it all planned so we’ll end up circling it. You want me rattled, don’t you, Al? It’s not going to happen.’

  ‘How do you know where she was killed?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘I got all the newspapers. Plus Al kept sending me stuff, didn’t you, Al?’

  ‘You said you never read any of it,’ Archibald said, trying to catch his breath.

  ‘So I lied. Thing is, I’m getting a picture in my head . . . They had sex further up the slope. Then she panicked, ran back down. That’s when he hit her. But where they had sex . . . he left something behind.’