10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hidden.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Alan, he’s—’

  Archibald turned on Rebus. ‘Shut up!’ he hissed.

  ‘I’m seeing three hillocks,’ Oakes called back. ‘If there’s a line of hillocks anywhere nearby, I’d be interested to see them.’

  ‘Hillocks . . .?’ Archibald broke into a trot, trying to reach Oakes. He had the map in front of his face, seeking the corresponding contours. ‘Maybe just to the west.’

  Rebus hadn’t seen him mark anything on the map with his pen, not for a while.

  ‘How’s our position, Alan?’

  But Archibald wasn’t listening, not to Rebus.

  ‘Maybe three-quarters of the way up the slope,’ Oakes was saying. ‘A line of three . . . maybe four . . . but three distinct outcrops, similar heights.’

  ‘Hang on a second,’ Archibald said. His finger scratched over the map. He folded it smaller, brought it closer to his face, blinked so as to focus better. ‘Yes, just to the west. That way, about a hundred yards.’

  He started to climb. Oakes was already on his way, Rebus bringing up the rear. He looked behind him: couldn’t see a damned thing. It was a landscape out of time. Kilted warriors might have emerged from that mist and he wouldn’t have been surprised. He rounded some bracken and kept moving, his joints aching, a slight burning in his chest. Archibald was moving faster, moving with the zeal of the possessed.

  Rebus wanted to tell him: you’ve got a map, what’s to say Oakes didn’t buy one too? What’s to say he didn’t study it, looking for certain features? He might even have been here already on a recce – he’d given his minders the slip plenty of times.

  ‘Hang on!’ he called, quickening his pace.

  ‘John!’ Archibald called back, his form ghostlike up ahead. ‘You try that way, we’ll take the other two!’ Meaning Rebus was to explore the easternmost outcrop.

  ‘Will I need to dig?’ he called out. Receiving laughter in reply: Oakes’s laughter. The more unsettling for the fact he could barely be seen.

  ‘Will we?’ he heard Archibald asking Oakes.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Oakes answered. ‘We’ll just leave the bodies where they fall.’

  Rebus was still wondering if he’d misheard when he heard the dull sound of an impact, and a distant groan.

  ‘Oakes!’ he roared, upping his pace. He could make out the shadowy silhouette: Oakes standing over the fallen Archibald, a rock in his hand, raised to strike again.

  ‘Oakes!’ he repeated.

  ‘I hear you!’ Oakes yelled back, bringing the rock down on to Archibald’s head.

  By now Rebus was almost upon him. Oakes tossed the rock on to the ground and was licking his lips as Rebus reached him. ‘You’ll never know the satisfaction,’ he said. ‘A flea’s been biting me for years, and now I’ve squashed it.’ He slipped a hand into his waistband and brought out a folding knife.

  ‘Amazing what the human body can hide,’ Oakes said, grinning now. ‘A rock was good enough for the old man, but I thought maybe you deserved something with a bit more bite.’ He lunged. Rebus jumped back, lost his footing and was skidding back down the slope. Above him, he saw Oakes in pursuit, bounding like a mountain goat.

  ‘I’m going to enjoy this!’ Oakes called. ‘You’ll never know how much!’

  Rebus kept himself rolling until bracken stopped him. He clambered to his feet, picking up a stone and hurling it. His aim was wild. Oakes dodged it easily, only ten yards away now and slowing his descent.

  ‘Ever skinned a rabbit?’ Oakes said, breathing heavily, sweat glistening on his skull.

  ‘You’re just where I want you,’ Rebus hissed.

  Oakes gave a look of mock surprise. ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘Committing an offence. Now I get to arrest you, and it’s clean.’

  ‘You get to arrest me?’ Spluttering laughter. He was so close, his saliva hit Rebus’s face. ‘Man, you’ve got balls.’ Moving the knife. ‘Enjoy them while you can.’

  ‘All these games,’ Rebus was saying. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? Something you don’t want us to know. Keeping us all busy so we don’t go looking.’

  ‘No shit?’

  ‘What is it?’

  But Oakes was shaking his head, working the knife. Rebus turned and ran. Oakes was after him, whooping, bounding through bracken. Rebus looking around, seeing nothing but hillside and a killer with a knife. He stumbled, came to a stop and turned to face Oakes.

  ‘Gotcha,’ Oakes called out.

  Rebus, almost out of breath, just nodded.

  ‘Know what you are, man?’ Oakes asked. ‘You’re my spot of R&R, that’s all.’

  Rebus, walking backwards, started tugging his shirt out of his waistband. Oakes looked puzzled, until Rebus pulled the shirt up, revealing a tiny mike taped to his chest. Oakes looked at him, Rebus holding the stare. Then looked around, seeking shapes.

  Voices approaching at speed.

  ‘Thanks for all that shouting,’ Rebus said. ‘Better than a trail of breadcrumbs any day.’

  With a roar, Oakes took a final lunge at him. Rebus sidestepped it, and Oakes was past him and running. Downhill to start with, then changing his mind and making an arc, climbing now, further into the hills. The first uniforms appeared out of the mist. Rebus pointed after Oakes.

  ‘Get him!’ he called. Then he started climbing too, making his way back to where Alan Archibald lay, still conscious but with blood pouring from his wounds. Rebus crouched beside him as more uniforms ran past.

  ‘Radio down for help!’ Rebus called out to them. One of the uniforms turned back to him.

  ‘Don’t need to, sir. You’ve already done it.’

  Rebus looked at the mike on his chest and realised this was true.

  ‘Where did the cavalry come from?’ Archibald asked, his voice faint.

  ‘I got them from the ACC,’ Rebus told him. ‘He promised me a chopper too, but it would have needed X-ray eyes.’

  Archibald managed a smile. ‘Do you think . . .?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Alan,’ Rebus said. ‘It was all crap, that’s what I think. He just wanted a couple more scalps.’

  Archibald touched shaking fingers to his head. ‘He nearly got one,’ he said, closing his eyes to rest.

  Alan Archibald went to hospital, and Rebus went in search of Jim Stevens. He’d already checked out of the hotel, and wasn’t at the newspaper office. Eventually, Rebus tracked him down to The Hebrides, a furtive little bar behind Waverley station. Stevens was sitting alone in a corner with only a full ashtray and glass of whisky for company.

  Rebus got himself a whisky and water, gulped it down, ordered another and went to join him.

  ‘Come to gloat?’ Stevens asked.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That wee shite set me up.’ He told Rebus what had happened.

  ‘Then I’m an angel straight from heaven,’ Rebus said.

  Stevens blinked. ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘I bring glad tidings. Or more accurately, a news story, and I’d say you’re ahead of the pack.’

  Rebus had never seen a man sober up so quickly. Stevens pulled a notebook from his pocket and folded it open. His pen ready, he looked up at Rebus.

  ‘It’ll have to be a trade,’ Rebus told him.

  ‘I need this,’ Stevens said.

  Rebus nodded, told him the story. ‘And I’d have been next if he got his way.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Stevens exhaled, took a gulp of whisky. ‘There are probably dozens of questions I should be asking you, but right now I can’t think of any.’ He took out a mobile phone. ‘Mind if I call this in?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Then we talk,’ he said.

  While Stevens read from his notes, turning them into sentences and paragraphs, Rebus listened, nodding confirmation when it was demanded of him. Stevens listened while the story was read back to him. He made a few changes, then fini
shed the call.

  ‘I owe you,’ he said, putting the phone on the table. ‘What’ll it be?’

  ‘Another whisky,’ Rebus said, ‘and the answers to some questions.’

  Half an hour later he had a pair of headphones on and was listening to the tape of Oakes’s last interview.

  ‘“A date with my past”,’ he recited, slipping the headphones off his ears. ‘“A date with destiny”.’

  ‘That’s Archibald, isn’t it? Archibald’s been hassling him for years.’

  Rebus thought back to Alan Archibald . . . the way he’d looked as they’d lifted him into the ambulance. He’d looked spent and stunned, as if his dearest possession had been torn from him. Easy to steal away a dream, a hope . . . Cary Oakes had done that.

  And had gotten away.

  ‘They didn’t catch him then?’ Stevens asked, not for the first time.

  ‘He ran into the hills, could be anywhere.’

  ‘It’s a hell of an area to search,’ Stevens conceded. ‘What made you take reinforcements?’

  Rebus shrugged.

  ‘You know, John, once upon a time you wouldn’t have thought you needed them.’

  ‘I know, Jim. Things change.’

  Stevens nodded. ‘I suppose they do.’

  Rebus rewound the tape, listened to the last half again. ‘A date with destiny, as you and your fellow hacks might put it. With someone who never listened to me . . .’ This time, he was frowning when he finished.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure he means Archibald and me. He called us his spot of R&R.’

  Stevens had drained his glass. ‘What else could it be?’

  Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘There was some reason for him coming back here.’

  ‘Yes, me and my chequebook.’

  ‘Something more than that. More than the chance to play games with Alan Archibald . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He looked at Stevens. ‘You could find out.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You know the city inside out. It has to be something from his past, something from before he went to America.’

  ‘I’m not an archaeologist.’

  ‘No? Think of all the years you’ve spent digging dirt. And Alan Archibald has a lot of stuff on Oakes, better than anything the bastard gave you.’

  Stevens snorted, then smiled. ‘Maybe . . .’ he said to himself. ‘It would be a way of getting back at him.’

  Rebus was nodding. ‘He’s given you a tissue of lies, you bounce back with a whole boxful of truth.’

  ‘The truth about Cary Oakes,’ Stevens said, measuring it up for a headline. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said at last.

  ‘And anything you find, you share with me.’ Rebus reached for Stevens’ notepad. ‘I’ll give you my mobile number.’

  ‘Jim Stevens and John Rebus, working together.’ Stevens grinned.

  ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’

  40

  There were messages for Rebus. Janice had called three times; Damon’s bank manager once. Rebus spoke to the bank manager first.

  ‘We have a transaction,’ the man said.

  ‘What, when and where?’ Rebus reached for paper and pen.

  ‘Edinburgh. A cash machine on George Street. Withdrawal of one hundred pounds.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon at one forty precisely. It’s good news, isn’t it?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I mean, it proves he’s still alive.’

  ‘It proves someone’s used his card. Not quite the same thing.’

  ‘I see.’ The manager sounded a little dispirited. ‘I suppose you have to be cautious.’

  Rebus had a thought. ‘This cash machine, it wouldn’t be under surveillance, would it?’

  ‘I can check for you.’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’ Rebus wound up the call and phoned Janice.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ She paused. ‘It’s just you ran off so early that morning. I wondered if it was something we’d . . .’

  ‘Nothing to do with you, Janice.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I just needed to get back here.’

  ‘Oh.’ Another pause. ‘Well, I was just worried.’

  ‘About me?’

  ‘That you were disappearing from my life again.’

  ‘Would I do that?’

  ‘I don’t know, John: would you?’

  ‘Janice, I know things are a bit rocky between you and Brian . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  He smiled, eyes closed. ‘That’s it really. I’m not exactly an expert on marriage guidance.’

  ‘I’m not in the market for one.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, rubbing his eyes, ‘there’s a bit of news about Damon.’

  A longer pause. ‘Were you planning on telling me?’

  ‘I just did tell you.’

  ‘Only so you could change the subject.’

  Rebus felt like he was in the boxing-ring, cornered on the ropes. ‘It’s just that his bank account’s been used.’

  ‘He’s taken out?’

  ‘Someone’s used his card.’

  Her voice was rising, filling with hope. ‘But nobody else knows his number. It has to be him.’

  ‘There are ways of using cards . . .’

  ‘John, don’t you dare take this away from me!’

  ‘I just don’t want you getting hurt.’ He saw Alan Archibald again, saw that look of final inescapable defeat.

  ‘When was this?’ Janice said; she was barely listening to him now.

  ‘Yesterday afternoon. I got word about ten minutes ago. It was a bank on George Street.’

  ‘He’s still in Edinburgh.’ A statement of belief.

  ‘Janice . . .’

  ‘I can feel it, John. He’s there, I know he’s there. What time’s the next train?’

  ‘I doubt he’s still hanging around George Street. The withdrawal was a hundred pounds. Might have been travelling money.’

  ‘I’m coming anyway.’

  ‘I can’t stop you.’

  ‘That’s right, you can’t.’ She put down the telephone. Seconds later, it rang again. Damon’s bank manager.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there’s a camera.’

  ‘Trained on the machine?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve already asked: the tape’s waiting for you. Talk to a Miss Georgeson.’

  As Rebus finished the call, George Silvers brought him a cup of coffee. ‘Thought you’d have gone home,’ he said: Hi-Ho’s way of showing he cared.

  ‘Thanks, George. No sign of him yet?’

  Silvers shook his head. Rebus stared at the paperwork on his desk. There were cases to write up, he could barely recall them. Names swimming in front of him. All of them demanding an ending.

  ‘We’ll catch him,’ Silvers said. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

  ‘You’ve always been a comfort to me, George,’ Rebus said. He handed back the cup. ‘And one of these days you’ll remember that I don’t take sugar.’

  He went to talk to Miss Georgeson. She was plump and fiftyish and reminded Rebus of a school dinner-lady he’d once dated. She had the videotape ready for him.

  ‘Would you like to view it here?’ she asked.

  Rebus shook his head. ‘I’ll take it back to the station, if you’ve no objection.’

  ‘Well, really I should make you a copy . . .’

  ‘I don’t intend losing it, Miss Georgeson. And I will bring it back.’

  He left the bank with the tape held tightly in one hand. Checked his watch, then headed down to Waverley. He sat on one of the benches on the concourse, drinking a milky coffee – or caffe latte as the vendor had called it – and keeping an eye open. He had the tape in his raincoat pocket; no way he was leaving it in the car. He flicked through the evening paper. Nothing about Cary Oakes – it would be an exclusive in Stevens’ paper first thing in the morning, and Stevens
would have answered his detractors with one mighty two-fingered salute.

  A date with destiny . . .

  What the hell did that mean? Was Oakes laying yet another false trail? Rebus would put nothing past him. He’d sold Stevens, Archibald, and himself dummies like he was vintage George Best and they were Sunday league.

  Finally he saw her. Late-afternoon trains into Edinburgh weren’t busy; the traffic was all the other way. She was walking against the crowds as she came off the platform. He got into step beside her before she’d noticed him.

  ‘Needing a taxi?’ he said.

  She looked surprised, then bemused. ‘John,’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’

  For answer, he took the video out and held it in front of her.

  ‘A peace offering,’ he said, leading her back to his car.

  They sat in the CID suite. It too was quiet. Most people had gone home for the day. Those who were left were trying to finish reports or catch up with themselves. No one was in the mood to dawdle. The video monitor sat in one corner. Rebus pulled two chairs over. He’d fetched them coffee. Janice was looking excited and fearful at the same time. Again, he was reminded of Alan Archibald on the hillside.

  ‘Look, Janice,’ he warned her, ‘if it’s not him . . .’

  She shrugged. ‘If it’s not him, it’s not him. I won’t blame you.’ She flashed him a momentary smile. He started the tape. Miss Georgeson had explained that the camera was motion-sensitive, and would only begin recording when someone approached the machine. Back at the bank, Rebus had taken a look at the cash machine. The camera was above it, shooting from behind one of the bank’s glass windows. When the first face came on the tape, Rebus and Janice were looking at it from above. The time-counter said 08.10. Rebus used the remote to fast forward.

  ‘We’re looking for one forty,’ he explained. Janice was sitting on the edge of her chair, the coffee cup held in both hands.

  This, Rebus thought, was the way it had started: with security footage, grainy pictures. Towards the middle of the day, more people were using the machine. There was a lot of tape to get through. Lunchtime queues built up, but by one thirty it was a little quieter.