10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  He nodded towards the leaflet in her hand. ‘Got one of those for me?’

  ‘If you did your job right,’ she sneered, ‘we wouldn’t need GAP.’

  ‘What makes you think we need it anyway?’ Rebus asked her, turning to walk away.

  Rebus got on the computer, and decided to cover his bets by talking to the area’s Merc dealerships. He already knew one person who drove a white Merc: the widow Margolies. Rebus tapped his pen against his desk, started calling. He got lucky with the first number he tried.

  ‘Oh, yes, Dr Margolies is a regular customer. He’s been buying nothing but Mercedes for donkey’s years.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m talking about a Mrs Margolies.’

  ‘Yes, his daughter-in-law. Dr Margolies bought that car, too.’

  Dr Joseph Margolies . . . ‘He bought one for his son and daughter-in-law?’

  ‘That’s right. Last year, was it?’

  ‘And for himself?’

  ‘He likes to part-ex: keeps the model a year or two, then trades for something brand new. That way you don’t get the same scale of depreciation.’

  ‘So what’s he driving just now?’

  The sales manager turned cautious. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll do that,’ Rebus said. ‘And I’ll be sure to tell him you could have saved me the trouble.’

  Rebus listened to the receiver making a sighing sound. Then: ‘Hang on a sec.’ He heard fingers on a keyboard. A pause, then: ‘An E200, purchased six months ago. Happy?’

  ‘As a kid on Christmas morning.’ Rebus scribbled the details down. ‘And the colour?’

  Another sigh. ‘White, Inspector. Dr Margolies always buys white.’

  As Rebus put down the phone, Siobhan Clarke came over. She rested against the corner of his desk.

  ‘Looks like someone got lazy,’ she said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Eddie Mearn. As far as the inquiry was concerned, he was still in Northern Ireland. Someone made a phone call to Lisburn, and took it as gospel when he was told Mearn was still around.’

  ‘Who made the call?’

  ‘Roy Frazer, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘It’s the only way he’ll learn.’

  ‘Sure, like you’ve learned from past mistakes.’

  He smiled. ‘That’s why I never make the same one twice.’

  She folded her arms. ‘You think Mearn had this planned all along?’

  Rebus nodded slowly. ‘I’d say it’s likely. Moved back from Lisburn, maybe it’s true he didn’t tell anyone there he was leaving. Sets up a new identity for himself in Grangemouth – striking distance of Edinburgh. Why lie about who he was? Only reason I can think of is, he was going to snatch Billy. New life for both of them.’

  ‘Would that have been so bad?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘No worse than where Billy is now,’ Rebus admitted. He looked at her. ‘Careful there, Siobhan. You’re in danger of thinking the law’s an ass. That’s only one step away from making up your own rules.’

  ‘The way you’ve done.’ It was statement rather than question.

  ‘The way I’ve done,’ Rebus was forced to agree. ‘And look where it’s got me.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  He tapped his sheet of notes. ‘Seeing white cars everywhere.’

  44

  A white car had been spotted the night Jim Margolies had flown from Salisbury Crags. Fair enough, Jim himself owned a white car, but according to his wife the car had stayed in the garage. He’d walked all the way to the Crags. How likely was that? Rebus didn’t know.

  Another white car had been spotted in Holyrood Park around the time Darren Rough was bludgeoned to death.

  And prior to this, someone in a white car had been looking for Darren.

  Rebus told the story to Siobhan, and she pulled over a chair so they could work through some theories.

  ‘You’re thinking they’re all the same car?’ she asked.

  ‘All I know is, they’re in the park when two apparently unconnected deaths occur.’

  She scratched her head. ‘I’m not seeing anything. Any other owners of white Mercs?’

  ‘You mean, have any serial killers bought or hired one lately?’ She smiled at this. ‘I’m checking,’ Rebus went on. ‘So far, the only name I have is Margolies.’ He was thinking: Jane Barbour drove a cream-coloured car, a Ford Mondeo . . .

  ‘But there are more white Mercs than that out there?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘But Jamie’s description of the man sounds awfully like Jim’s father.’

  ‘You saw him at the funeral?’

  Rebus nodded. And at a children’s beauty show, he might have added. ‘He’s a retired doctor.’

  ‘Racked with grief at his son’s suicide, he decides to become a vigilante?’

  ‘Ridding the world of corruption to protest at the iniquity of life.’

  Her smile broadened. ‘You don’t see it, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ He tossed his pen on to the desk. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not seeing anything at all. Which must make it time for a break.’

  ‘Coffee?’ she suggested.

  ‘I was thinking of something stronger.’ He saw the look on her face. ‘But coffee will do in the meantime.’

  He went out to the car park for a cigarette, but ended up jumping into the Saab and heading down The Pleasance, across the High Street and past Waverley station. He drove west along George Street, then made an illegal turn to head back east along it. Janice was sitting on the kerb, head in her hands. People were looking at her, but no one stopped to ask if they could help. Rebus pulled up alongside and got her into the car.

  ‘I know he’s here,’ she kept repeating. ‘I know it.’

  ‘Janice, this isn’t doing either of you any good.’

  Her eyes were bloodshot, looking sore from all the crying. ‘What would you know about it? Have you ever lost a child?’

  ‘I nearly lost Sammy.’

  ‘But you didn’t!’ She turned away from him. ‘You’ve never been any good, John. Christ, you couldn’t even help Mitch, and he was supposed to be your best friend. They nearly blinded him!’

  She had plenty left to say, plenty of poison. He let her talk, resting his hands lightly on the steering-wheel. At one point, she tried to get out, but he pulled her back into the car.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Give me more. I’m listening to you.’

  ‘No!’ she spat. ‘Know why? Because so help me, I think you’re enjoying it!’ This time when she opened the door, he didn’t try to stop her. She took a left at the corner, heading down into the New Town. Rebus turned the car again, took a right into Castle Street and a left into Young Street. Stopped outside the Oxford Bar and walked in. Doc Klasser was standing in his usual spot. The afternoon drinkers were in: most of them would clear out by five or six, when the place filled with office workers. Harry the barman saw Rebus and lifted a pint glass. Rebus shook his head.

  ‘A nip, Harry,’ he said. ‘Better make it a large one.’

  He sat in the back room. Nobody there but the writer, the one with the big bag of books. He seemed to use the place as an office. A couple of times Rebus had asked him what books he should be reading. He’d bought the suggestions, but hadn’t read them. Today, neither man seemed in need of company. Rebus sat with his drink and his thoughts. He was thinking back over thirty years, back to the last school party. His own version of the story . . .

  Mitch and Johnny had a plan. They’d join the army, see some action. Mitch had sent away for the literature, then had dropped into the Army Careers Office in Kirkcaldy. The following week, he’d taken Johnny with him. The recruiting sergeant told them jokes and stories from his time ‘in the field’. He told them they’d breeze through basic training. He had a moustache and a paunch and told them there’d be ‘shagging and boozing galore’: ‘two good-looking lads like you, it’ll be dripping out of your ears’.

  Johnny Rebus ha
dn’t been sure what that meant exactly, but Mitch had rubbed his hands together and chuckled with the Sarge.

  So that was that. All Johnny had to do was tell his dad and Janice.

  His dad, it turned out, wasn’t keen. He’d done some time in the Far East in World War II. He had some photographs and a black silk scarf with the Taj Mahal sewn into it. He had a scar on his knee that wasn’t really a bullet wound, even though he said it was.

  ‘You don’t want that,’ Johnny’s dad said. ‘You want a proper job.’ They kicked it back and forth between them. His dad’s final shot at goal: ‘What will Janice say?’

  Janice didn’t say anything; Rebus kept putting off telling her. And then one day she learned from her mum, who’d been talking to Johnny’s dad, learned Johnny was thinking of leaving.

  ‘It’s not like I’m going for good,’ he argued. ‘I’ll have plenty of home visits.’

  She folded her arms, the way her mother did when she had right on her side. ‘And am I supposed to just wait for you?’

  ‘Please yourself,’ Johnny said, kicking a stone.

  ‘That’s the plan,’ she said, walking off.

  Later, they made it up. He went to her house, went up to her bedroom with her: it was the only place they could talk. Her mum brought up juice and biscuits; gave them ten minutes then came up again to check they didn’t need anything. Johnny said he was sorry.

  ‘Does that mean you’ve changed your mind?’ Janice asked.

  He shrugged. He wasn’t sure. Who did he want to let down: Janice or Mitch?

  By the night of the dance, he’d made his mind up. Mitch could go alone. Johnny would stay behind, get a job of some kind and marry Janice. It wouldn’t be a bad life. Plenty before him had done the same thing. He would tell Janice, tell her at the dance. And Mitch too, of course.

  But first they had a drink. Mitch had got some bottles and an opener. They sneaked into the churchyard next to the school, drank a couple each, lay there in the grass, the headstones rising all around them. And it felt good, felt comfortable. Johnny swallowed back his confession. It could wait; he couldn’t spoil this moment. It was like their whole lives had been sorted out, and everything was going to be fine. Mitch talked about the countries they’d visit, the things they’d see and do.

  ‘And they’ll all be gutted, just you wait.’ Meaning everyone who stayed in Bowhill, all their friends who were going off to college or down the pit or into the dockyard. ‘We’ll see the whole fucking world, Johnny. And all they’ll ever see is this place.’ And Mitch stretched his arms out until his fingertips brushed the rough surfaces of two headstones. ‘All they’ll ever have to look forward to is this . . .’

  They were untouchable as they marched into the playground. A teacher and the deputy head were on the door, collecting tickets.

  ‘I smell beer,’ the deputy head said, catching them off guard. Then he winked. ‘You might have saved one for me.’

  Johnny and Mitch were laughing, all grown-up now, as they walked into the assembly hall. There was music playing, people up dancing. Soft drinks and sandwiches on trellis tables in the dining hall. Chairs around the perimeter of the assembly hall; huddles of conversation, eyes darting everywhere. It felt – just for a moment – as if everyone was looking at the new arrivals . . . looking at them, envying them. Mitch slapped Johnny’s arm, headed towards his girlfriend Myra. Johnny knew he’d tell him at the end of the dance.

  He looked for Janice, couldn’t see her. He had to tell her . . . had to find the words. Then someone told him there was whisky in the toilets, and he decided to stop there first. Two cubicles, side by side. Three boys in each, passing the bottle back and forth over the partition. Keeping silent so they wouldn’t be caught. The stuff tasted like fire. Its fumes came rolling down Johnny’s nostrils. He felt drunk; elated; unstoppable.

  Back in the hall, it was ladies’ choice. A girl called Mary McCutcheon asked him up. They danced well together. But the reel made Johnny light-headed. He had to sit down. He hadn’t noticed some recent arrivals – three boys from his year; boys who had over time become Mitch’s implacable enemies. The leader of the three, Alan Protheroe, had gone one-on-one with Mitch. Mitch had pulverised him, eventually. Johnny didn’t see them eyeing up Mitch. Didn’t think that the last dance of schooldays might be a time for settling scores, for ending things as well as beginning them.

  Because now Janice was in the hall. Seated next to him. And they were kissing, even when Miss Dysart stood in front of them clearing her throat in warning. When Janice drew away eventually, Johnny stood up, pulling her to her feet.

  ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he said. ‘But not here. Come on.’

  And had led her outside, round the back of the old building to where the bike-sheds – now largely unused – still stood. Smokers’ Corner, they called it. But it was a place for lovers too, for quick snogs at lunchtime. Johnny sat Janice down on a bench.

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell me how lovely I look?’

  He drank her in. She did look lovely. Light from the school windows made her skin seem to glow. Her eyes were dark invitations, her dress rustled with layers waiting to be unpeeled. He kissed her again. She tried to break away, asked him what it was he wanted to tell her. But now he knew that could wait. He was light-headed and full of dreams and desire. He touched her neck where it was bare at the shoulders. He ran his hand down her back, slipping it beneath the material. Her mum had made the dress; he knew it had taken hours. When he pressed harder, he felt the stitching in the zip give way. Janice gave a gasp and pushed him away.

  ‘Johnny . . .’ Craning her neck to try to assess the damage. ‘You silly bugger, see what you’ve done.’

  His hands on her legs, sliding the dress up past the knee. ‘Janice.’

  She was standing now. He stood, too, pressing in on her for another kiss. She turned her face away. He seemed all limbs, sliding up her legs, slithering around her neck and down her back . . . She knew he tasted of beer and whisky. Knew she didn’t like it. When she felt his hand trying to prise her legs apart, she pushed him away again, and he stumbled. Regaining balance, he wasn’t so much smiling as leering as he moved in on her again.

  And she swung back her hand, made a fist of it, and hit him a solid blow, almost dislocating her wrist in the process. She rubbed her knuckles, mouthing silent words of pain. He was flat out on the ground; knocked cold. She sat down again on the bench and waited for him to get up. Then heard what sounded like a commotion, and felt she’d much rather investigate than stay out here . . .

  It was a fight. Slaughter might have been nearer the mark. The gang of three had somehow got Mitch on his own. They were at the edge of the playing-field, The Craigs silhouetted behind them. The sky was dark blue, bruise-coloured. Maybe Mitch had felt that tonight of all nights, he could take all three. Maybe they’d offered him a rematch, promising one-on-one. But it was three against one, and Mitch was on his hands and knees as the kicks rained in on his face and ribs. Janice was running forward, but a small, wiry figure beat her to it, legs and arms working like a windmill, head smashing into an unprotected nose, teeth bared with determination. She was amazed to identify the figure as Barney Mee, everyone’s joker. What he lacked in elegance and precision, he more than made up for in sheer bloody-mindedness. He was like a machine. It only lasted a minute, maybe less, and at the end he was exhausted, but three figures were slouching off into the encroaching darkness as Barney slumped to the ground and lay on his back, staring up at the moon and the stars.

  Mitch had pulled himself into a sitting position, one hand on his chest, the other covering an eye. Both hands were smeared with his own blood. His lip was split, and his nose was dripping red. When he spat, half a tooth was attached to the string of thick saliva. Janice stood above Barney Mee. He didn’t seem so small, lying stretched out like that. He seemed . . . compact, but heroic. He opened his eyes and saw her, gave her one of his toothy grins.

  ‘Lie down here,’ he told her
. ‘There’s something you should see.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You won’t see it standing up. You’ve got to lie down.’

  She didn’t believe him, but she lay down anyway. What did it matter if her dress got mucky: it was already split at the back. Her face was inches from his.

  ‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’ she asked.

  ‘Up there,’ he said, pointing.

  And she looked. The sky wasn’t black, that was the first strange thing. It was dark, certainly, but streaked with seams of white stars and clouds. And the moon seemed huge and orange rather than yellow.

  ‘Isn’t it amazing?’ Barney Mee said. ‘Every time I look at it, I can’t help saying that.’

  She turned to him. ‘You’re amazing,’ she said.

  He smiled at the compliment. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘You mean when I leave?’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Look for a job, I suppose.’

  ‘You should go to college.’

  She looked at him more closely. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’d make a good teacher.’

  She laughed out loud, but only for a second. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I watch you in class. You’d be good, I know you would. Kids would listen to you.’ He was looking at her now. ‘I know I would,’ he said.

  Mitch cleared some blood from the back of his throat. ‘Where’s Johnny?’ he asked.

  Janice shrugged. Mitch eased his hand away from his eye. ‘I’m fucking blind,’ he said. ‘And it hurts.’ He bent over and began to cry. ‘It hurts inside my head.’

  Janice and Barney got up, helped him to his feet. They got one of the teachers to drive him to hospital. By the time Johnny Rebus came round, the show was over. He didn’t even notice Janice dancing with Barney Mee. He just wanted a lift to the hospital.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell him.’

  Eventually Mitch’s parents came, and gave Johnny a lift to Kirkcaldy.

  ‘What in God’s name happened?’ Mitch’s mum asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there.’

  She turned to look at him. ‘Weren’t there?’ He shook his head, ashamed. ‘Then how did you get that bruise . . .?’