10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  The time-counter said 13.40.

  ‘Oh, dear Lord, there he is,’ Janice said. She’d placed her cup on the floor, clapped her hands to her face.

  Rebus looked. The face was angled down, looking at the machine’s keypad. Then it turned away, as if staring down the street. Fingers were tapped impatiently against the screen of the cash machine. The card was retrieved, a hand went to the slot to extract the notes. Didn’t linger; didn’t wait for a receipt. The next customer was already moving forward.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  A tear was falling from Janice’s cheek. ‘Positive,’ she said, nodding.

  Rebus found it hard to tell. All he had were photos of Damon and the footage from Gaitano’s; he’d never met him. The hair looked similar . . . maybe the nose too, the shape of the chin. But it wasn’t as though they were unusual. The person on view now, they looked much like the customer who’d just left. But Janice was blowing her nose. She was satisfied.

  ‘It’s him, I’d swear to it.’ She saw uncertainty on his face. ‘I wouldn’t say it was if it wasn’t.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘It’s not just the face or hair or clothes . . . it’s the way he stood, the way he held himself. And those little twitches of impatience.’ She used a corner of the hankie to wipe her eyes. ‘It was him, John. It was him.’

  ‘OK,’ Rebus said. He rewound the tape, played the minutes leading up to 13.40. He was studying the background to see if he could spot Damon making for the machine. He wanted to know if he’d been alone. But he entered the picture suddenly, and from the side. That look again, towards where he’d just come from. Was there a slight nod of the head . . . some signal to another person just out of shot . . .? Rebus rewound and watched again.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Janice asked.

  ‘Anyone who might have been with him.’

  But there was nothing. So he let the tape play on, and was rewarded a minute or two later by legs moving across the top of the picture, just behind the person at the machine. Two pairs, one male, one female. Rebus pressed freeze-frame, but couldn’t get the picture to stay absolutely still and focused. So instead, he rewound and played it again, following the feet with his finger.

  ‘Recognise the trousers, the shoes?’

  But Janice shook her head. ‘They’re just a blur.’

  And so they were.

  ‘Could be anybody,’ she added.

  And so it could.

  She got to her feet. ‘I’m going to George Street.’ He made to say something but she cut him off. ‘I know he won’t be there, but there are shops, pubs – I can show them his picture at least.’

  Rebus nodded. She gripped his forearm.

  ‘He’s still here, John. That’s something.’

  As she left, she held the door open to someone just coming in: Siobhan Clarke.

  ‘Any sign of him?’ Rebus asked.

  Siobhan slumped into a chair. ‘Billy Horman?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Cary Oakes.’

  She stretched her neck. He heard the snap. ‘Another day down,’ he told her.

  She nodded. ‘I’m not working Oakes. I’m on Billy Boy.’

  ‘No progress?’

  She shook her head. ‘We need another dozen officers. Maybe a couple of dozen.’

  ‘I can see the budget stretching to that.’

  ‘Maybe if we got rid of a few of the bean-counters.’

  ‘Careful, Siobhan. That’s anarchist talk.’

  She smiled. ‘How are you? I hear Oakes was ready to kill the pair of you.’

  ‘The tremors have stopped,’ he told her. ‘Buy you a drink?’

  ‘Not tonight. I’ve a date with a hot bath and a takeaway. What about you?’

  ‘Straight home, same as yourself.’

  ‘Well . . .’ She stood up as though the effort was costing her. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Night, Siobhan.’

  She waved fingers over her shoulder as she left.

  Rebus was almost as good as his word – just the one stop-off to make beforehand. He climbed the stairwell of Cragside Court. Darkness was falling, but there were still children out playing, albeit supervised by a member of GAP. They’d had T-shirts printed up with a logo on the front, getting more organised by the day. The woman in the T-shirt had studied Rebus, knowing she’d seen him somewhere before, but not recognising him as a resident.

  He stood looking out over Greenfield. On one side, Holyrood Park; on the other, the Old Town, and the site of the new Parliament. He wondered if the estate would be allowed to survive. He knew that if the council wanted it run down, they would work by stealth. Repairs would not be carried out, or would be botched. Flats would be found to be uninhabitable, tenants rehoused, windows and doors blocked and padlocked. Things would slowly deteriorate, causing residents to rethink their options. More of them would move out. The state of the high-rises would become a ‘cause for concern’. There’d be a media outcry about conditions. The council would move in with offers of help – meaning relocation: cheaper than shoring up the estate. And eventually it would be deserted, a demolition site from which new buildings could rise. Expensive pieds-à-terre for parliamentarians, perhaps. Or offices and select shops. It was a prime site, no doubt about it.

  As for Salisbury Crags . . . he didn’t doubt there’d be people who would build on it too, given the chance. But that chance would be a long time coming. All the centuries of change, and the park was much as it ever had been. It made no judgements on the work around it, but merely sat there, above it all. And the people who tramped over it were minor irritations, dead by the age of seventy if not before. They made no impression on it, not when measured in millennia.

  Rebus was outside Darren Rough’s flat now. Darren had come home to give evidence against two evil men. As recompense, he’d been harried, cursed and eventually killed. Rebus didn’t feel proud that he’d been the first player. He hoped Darren might one day forgive him. He almost said as much to the ghostly shape at the end of the walkway, but when it came towards him, he saw it was flesh and blood, very much alive.

  It was Cal Brady, his face an angry scowl.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just taking a look.’

  ‘I thought you were another pervert.’

  Rebus nodded towards the mobile phone in Brady’s hand. ‘Did the playground guard tell you?’ He nodded to himself. ‘Nice little operation you’ve got here, Cal. Anything in it for you?’

  ‘It’s my public duty,’ Brady said, puffing out his chest.

  Rebus took a step closer, hands in coat pockets. ‘Cal, the day people like you are deciding what’s right and what’s wrong, we’re all in Queer Street.’

  ‘You calling me a poof?’ Cal Brady yelled, but Rebus was already past him and heading for the stairs.

  41

  ‘Tell me about Janice,’ Patience said.

  They were seated in the living room, a bottle of red wine open on the carpet between them. Patience was lying along the sofa. There was a paperback novel folded open on her chest. She had placed it there some time ago; had been staring into space, listening to the music on the hi-fi. Nick Drake, ‘Pink Moon’. Rebus was in the armchair, legs hanging over its side. He had kicked off his shoes and socks, was catching up with the football news in that day’s paper.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Janice, I’d like to know about her.’

  ‘We were at school together.’ Rebus stopped reading. ‘She’s married with just the one son. She used to work as a teacher. I was at school with her husband, too. His name’s Brian.’

  ‘You went out with her?’

  ‘At school, yes.’

  ‘Sleep together?’

  Rebus looked at her. ‘Didn’t quite get that far.’

  She nodded to herself. ‘Are you curious about what it would have been like?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I think I would be,’ she went on. Her glass was empty, and
she leaned over to refill it. The book slid on to the floor, but she paid it no heed. Rebus was still on his first helping of the Rioja. The bottle was nearly empty.

  ‘Anyone would think you were the one with the drink problem,’ he said, making sure he was smiling as he spoke.

  She was getting comfortable again. A splash of wine fell on to the back of her hand, and she put her mouth to it.

  ‘No, I just like a little bit too much now and again. So, have you thought about sleeping with her?’

  ‘Christ, Patience . . .’

  ‘I’m interested, that’s all. Sammy says Janice had a look about her.’

  ‘What sort of look?’

  Patience frowned, as if trying to recall the exact words. ‘Hungry. Hungry and a little desperate, I think. How’s the marriage?’

  ‘Rocky,’ Rebus admitted.

  ‘And you going to Fife . . . did that help?’

  ‘I didn’t sleep with her.’

  Patience wagged a finger. ‘Don’t go defending yourself before an accusation’s made. You’re a detective, you know how it looks.’

  He glared at her. ‘Am I a suspect?’

  ‘No, John, you’re a man. That’s all.’ She took another sip of wine.

  ‘I wouldn’t hurt you, Patience.’

  She smiled, stretched out a hand as if to squeeze his, but he was too far away. ‘I know that, sweetheart. But the thing is, you wouldn’t even be thinking of me at the time, so the idea of hurting me or not hurting me wouldn’t enter into it.’

  ‘You’re so sure.’

  ‘John, I get it every single day. Wives coming into the surgery, wanting anti-depressants. Wanting anything that’ll help them get through the bloody awful marriages they’ve found themselves in. They tell me things. It all spills out. Some of them turn to drink or drugs, some slash their wrists. It’s bizarre how seldom they just walk out. And the ones who do walk out are usually the ones married to the violent cases.’ She looked at him. ‘Do you know what they do?’

  ‘End up going back?’ he guessed.

  She focused on him. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I get them too, Patience. The domestics, the neighbours who complain of screams and punches. The same wives you get, only further down the road. They won’t press charges. They get put into a hostel. And later, they walk back to the only life they really know.’

  She blinked away a tear. ‘Why does it have to be like that, John?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘What’s in it for us?’

  He smiled. ‘A paycheque.’

  She had stopped looking at him. Picked her book off the floor, put down her wine glass. ‘The man who painted that message . . . What was he trying to do?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe he wanted me to know he’d been here.’

  She had found her page, stared at the words without moving her eyes. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Lost on the hills and freezing to death.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Someone like Oakes . . . that would be too easy.’

  ‘Will he come after you?’

  ‘I’m not at the top of his list.’ No, because Alan Archibald was still alive. X-rays had shown a skull fracture; Archibald would be in hospital a little longer. There was a police guard on his bed.

  ‘Will he come here?’ Patience asked.

  The CD had finished; there was silence in the room. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If he tries painting my flagstones again, I’ll give him a bloody good kicking.’

  Rebus looked at her, then began laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ she said.

  Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Nothing really. I’m just glad you’re on my side, that’s all.’

  She raised the wine glass to her lips again. ‘What makes you so sure of that, Inspector?’

  Rebus raised his own glass to her, pleased that until Patience had mentioned her, he hadn’t thought once that evening of Janice Mee. He hit ‘Replay’ on the CD remote. ‘This guy sounds like he needs help,’ Patience said.

  ‘He did,’ Rebus told her. ‘He OD’d.’ She looked at him and he shrugged. ‘Just another casualty,’ he said.

  Later, he headed outside for a cigarette. The message was still there on the patio: YOUR COP LOVER KILLED DARREN. The workmen would start cleaning it off tomorrow. Oakes said he’d followed Darren but lost him. Well, someone had found him. Rebus wasn’t going to take the blame for that. Cigarette lit, he climbed the steps. There was a marked patrol car parked directly outside, a message to Cary Oakes should he think about paying a visit. Rebus had a word with the two officers inside, finished his cigarette and headed back indoors.

  42

  ‘Fancy a run?’ Siobhan Clarke offered.

  ‘I trust you mean “run” as in “drive”?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I don’t have you down as the jogging type.’

  ‘Perceptive as ever. Where are you going?’

  It was morning in St Leonard’s. The weather up on the Pentlands had cleared, and Rebus had made sure the helicopter would be out scanning the area for signs of Cary Oakes. Villages and farms in the foothills had been warned to be on the look out.

  ‘Don’t try to corner him,’ the message had gone. ‘Just let us know if you see him.’

  So far, no one had called in.

  Rebus felt like dead weight. He’d made breakfast for Patience – orange juice and two sachets of Resolve – and had been complimented on both his diagnosis and his bedside manner. She’d said she’d make the surgery OK.

  ‘I just hope no one expects me to do my Agony Aunt bit today.’

  And now Rebus was in the CID suite with his coffee and a Mars Bar.

  ‘Breakfast of coronaries,’ he said, noting Siobhan’s distaste.

  ‘We’ve had a sighting of Billy Boy. It’ll probably turn out to be a waste of time . . .’

  ‘And you’d rather waste it with me?’ Rebus smiled. ‘Isn’t that thoughtful?’

  ‘Never mind,’ she said, turning away.

  ‘Whoa, hold on. What side of the bed did you fall out of?’

  ‘I didn’t quite reach bed last night,’ she snapped. Then she melted a little. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Just right for a car-ride then,’ he said. ‘Come on, you’ve got me hooked.’

  The story was, her upstairs neighbours’ washing-machine had sprung a leak. They’d been out, and hadn’t noticed. And she’d only found out when she’d gone into her bedroom.

  ‘Their washing-machine’s above your bedroom?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘That’s another bone of contention. Anyway, I noticed this stain on the ceiling, and when I touched the bed it was soaked through. So I ended up on the couch in a smelly old sleeping-bag.’

  ‘Poor you.’ Rebus was thinking of all the times he’d slept in his chair – but that had been voluntary. He looked in the wing mirror as they crawled westwards out of town. ‘Tell me something: why are we going to Grangemouth? Couldn’t the locals handle it?’

  ‘I’m reluctant to delegate.’

  Rebus smiled: she’d stolen one of his lines. ‘What you mean is, you don’t trust anyone to do the job thoroughly.’

  ‘Something like that,’ she said, glancing at him. ‘I had a good teacher.’

  ‘Siobhan, it’s been quite some time since I could teach you anything.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But that’s because you’ve stopped listening.’

  ‘We are not amused.’ She craned her neck. ‘What is with this traffic?’

  The vehicles ahead were barely moving.

  ‘It’s part of the new council initiative. Make things bloody awful for drivers, and they’ll stop coming into town and making everything look untidy.’

  ‘They want a conservation village.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘And just the half a million villagers.’

  Eventually they got moving. Grangemouth lay out to the west along the Forth estuary. Rebus ha
dn’t been to the town in years. As they approached, Rebus’s first impression was that they’d wandered on to the set of Blade Runner. A vast petrochemical complex dominated the skyline, throwing up jagged chimneys and weird configurations of pipes. The complex looked like some encroaching alien life-form, about to throw its many mechanical arms around the town and squeeze the life out of it.

  In fact, the contrary was true: the complex and all that went with it had brought employment to Grangemouth. The streets they eventually drove through were dark and narrow, with architecture from much earlier in the century.

  ‘Two worlds collide,’ Rebus muttered, taking it all in.

  ‘I feel they’ve spoiled their chances in the conservation village stakes.’

  ‘I’m sure the townsfolk are grieving.’ He was peering at the street names. ‘Here we go.’ They parked outside a row of cottage-type houses, all of which had added bedrooms and windows to their roof-space.

  ‘Number eleven,’ Siobhan said. ‘Woman’s name is Wilkie.’

  Mrs Wilkie had been waiting for them. She seemed the type of neighbour every street has: interested to the point of nosiness. Her kind could be a distinct asset, but Rebus would bet some of her neighbours didn’t see it that way.

  Her living room was a tiny box, overheated and with pride of place given to a large and ornate doll’s-house. When Siobhan, out of politeness, showed interest in it, Mrs Wilkie delivered a ten-minute speech concerning its history. Rebus could swear she didn’t once draw breath, giving neither of her prisoners the chance to jump in and take the conversation elsewhere.

  ‘Well, isn’t that lovely?’ Siobhan said, glancing towards Rebus. The look on his face had her sucking in her cheeks to stop from laughing. ‘Now, about this boy you saw, Mrs Wilkie . . .?’

  They all sat down, and Mrs Wilkie told her story. She’d seen the laddie’s picture in the paper, and as she was coming back from the shops around two, caught him playing football in the street.

  ‘Kicking the ball against the wall of Montefiore’s Garage. There’s this low stone wall around the . . .’ She made motions with her hands. ‘What do you call it?’

  ‘Forecourt?’ Siobhan suggested.