10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  His cheekbone, all the way down to his chin: a long purple trail. And he couldn’t tell anyone how he’d come by it.

  They had a long wait at the hospital. X-rays were mentioned. Cracked ribs.

  ‘When I find whoever did this . . .’ Mitch’s dad said, balling his fists.

  And then later, the bad news: a retina had been dislodged, maybe even worse. Mitch would lose the sight in one eye.

  And by the time Johnny was allowed in to see him – with warnings not to stay too long, not to wear him out – Mitch had heard the news and was in tears.

  ‘Christ, Johnny. Blind in one eye, how about that?’

  There was a gauze patch over the eye in question.

  ‘Long John fucking Silver and no mistake.’ One of the patients on the ward coughed at the swear-word. ‘And you can fuck off too!’ Mitch yelled at him.

  ‘Jesus, Mitch,’ Johnny whispered. Mitch grabbed his wrist, squeezed it hard.

  ‘It’s you now. For both of us.’

  Johnny licked his lips. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘They won’t take me, not blind in one eye. I’m sorry, pal. You know I am.’

  Johnny was shaking, trying to think his way out. ‘Right,’ he said, nodding. It was all he could say, and he kept repeating it.

  ‘You’ll come back and see us, though, eh?’ Mitch was saying. ‘Tell me all about it. That’s what I’d like . . . as if I was there with you.’

  ‘Right, right.’

  ‘You’re going to have to live it for me, Johnny.’

  ‘Sure, right.’

  A smile from Mitch. ‘Thanks, pal.’

  ‘Least I can do,’ said Johnny.

  So he’d joined up. Janice hadn’t seemed to mind. Mitch had waved him off at the station. And that was that. He sent Mitch and Janice letters; received none in return. By the time of his first leave, Mitch was nowhere to be found, and Janice was on holiday with her parents. Later, he found out Mitch had run off somewhere, no one seemed to know why or where. Johnny had half an idea: those letters, the visits home – reminders of the life Mitch could now never have . . .

  Then his brother Mickey wrote to him, told him Janice had said to tell him she was going out with Barney Mee. And Johnny hadn’t gone home after that for a while, had found other places to be when he was on leave, writing lies home so his father and brother wouldn’t suspect, coming to think of the army as his home now . . . the only place he could be understood.

  Drifting further in his mind from Cardenden and the friends he’d once had, and the dreams he’d once thought were within his reach . . .

  45

  It was dark and Cary Oakes was hungry and the game still wasn’t over.

  In prison, he’d been given lots of good advice about evading capture, all of it from men who’d been caught. He knew he needed to change his appearance: easily achieved with a visit to a charity shop. A new outfit of jacket, shirt and trousers for less than £20, topped off with a flat tweed cap. After all, he couldn’t suddenly make his hair grow. When he saw his likeness in the newspaper, he made further adjustments, shaving himself scrupulously in a public convenience. He found a few stray carrier bags and filled them with rubbish. Examining himself in a shop window, he saw an unemployed man, a little bitter but still with enough money to buy the shopping.

  He found the places where the down-and-outs spent their days: drop-in centres in the Grassmarket; the bench beside the toilets at the Tron Kirk; the foot of The Mound. These were safe places for him. People shared a can and a cigarette and didn’t ask questions he couldn’t make up answers to.

  He was shivery and achy, made soft from his stay in the hotel. The windswept night on the hills had skimmed off some of his strength. It hadn’t played the way he’d wanted it to. Archibald was still alive. Two spirits needed cleansing from his life: both were still to be dealt with.

  And Rebus . . . Rebus had turned out to be something more than the ‘wild operator’ described by Jim Stevens. The way the reporter had talked, Oakes had expected Rebus to turn up naked to do battle. But Rebus had brought a whole goddamned army with him. Oakes had escaped by dint of good fortune and the weather. Or because the gods wanted his mission to succeed.

  He knew things now would be difficult. In the centre of the city, he could remain anonymous, but further out there’d be more danger of discovery. The suburbs of Edinburgh remained places where strangers did not go undetected for long. It was as if people sat with their chairs at their windows in a constant state of alert. Yet one such suburb was his ultimate destination, as it had been all along.

  He could have taken a bus, but in the end he walked. It took him well over an hour. He passed Alan Archibald’s bungalow: 1930s styling with a bow window and white harled walls. There was no sign of life within. Archibald was in a hospital bed, and – according to one newspaper – under police guard. For the moment, Oakes had scratched him from his plans. Maybe the old bastard would die in hospital anyway. No, he was heading uphill and along another winding road into East Craigs. He’d been here just twice before, knowing people would get suspicious if he suddenly started frequenting the area. Two trips, one at night, one in the daytime. Both times he’d taken taxis from the foot of Leith Walk, making sure he was dropped off a few streets from his destination, not wanting the cabbies to know. In the dead of night, he’d walked right up to the walls of the building and touched trembling fingers to the stonework, trying to feel for a single life-force within.

  He knew he was in there.

  Couldn’t stop shaking.

  Knew he was in there, because he’d called to ask, identifying himself as the son of a friend. Asked if he could keep his call a secret: he wanted his visit to be a surprise.

  He wondered if it would be a surprise . . .

  Now, he was level with the car park. He sauntered past, just another tired worker on his way home. From the corner of his eye, he checked for police cars. Not that he thought they’d have guessed, but he wasn’t going to underestimate Rebus again.

  And saw instead a car he thought he recognised. Stopped and put his bags down, making to change hands, making out they were heavier than they were. And studied the car. A Vauxhall Astra. Numberplate the same. Oakes bared his teeth and let out a hiss of air. This was too much, the bastards were determined to wreck his plans.

  Only one thing for it. He fingered the knife in his pocket, knowing he’d have to do some killing.

  He had ditched the carrier bags and was lying beneath the car when he heard footsteps. Turned his head to watch them coming closer. He reckoned he’d been lying on the ground for a good hour and a half. His back was chilled, and the shivers were starting again. When he heard the clunk of the locks disengaging, he slid out from his hiding-place and tugged open the passenger door. Seeing him, the driver made to get out again, but Cary Oakes had the knife in his right hand while his left grabbed at Jim Stevens’s sleeve.

  ‘Thought you’d be pleased to see me again, Jimbo,’ Oakes said. ‘Now close the door and get this thing moving.’ He took off his jacket, tossed it on to the back seat.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Just drive, man.’ His shirt followed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Stevens asked. But Oakes ignored him, loosed his trousers and threw them into the back too.

  ‘This is all a bit sudden for me, Cary.’

  ‘A man who likes a joke, huh?’ As they left the car park, Oakes realised he was sitting on something. Pulled out the reporter’s notebook and pen.

  ‘Been working, Jim?’ He opened the notebook, and was disappointed to see Stevens had used shorthand.

  ‘Why’d you go see him?’ Oakes asked, beginning to tear each page of the notebook into four.

  ‘See who? I was visiting an old neighbour of mine, and—’

  The knife arced into Stevens’s side. He took his hands off the wheel, and the car veered towards the kerb. Oakes straightened it up.

  ‘Keep your foot down, Jim! If this car stops, you’re
a dead man!’

  Stevens examined his palm. It was wet with blood. ‘Hospital,’ he croaked, face twisted with pain.

  ‘You’ll get a hospital after I’ve had my answers! What made you go to see him?’

  Stevens hunched over the wheel, taking control again. Oakes thought he was going to pass out, but it was just the pain.

  ‘I was checking details.’

  ‘That all?’ Ripping at the notebook.

  ‘What else would I be doing?’

  ‘Well, that’s why I’m asking, Jim-Bob. And if you don’t want knifing again, you’ll convince me.’ Oakes reached for the heater switch, slid it to full.

  ‘It’s for the book.’

  ‘The book?’ Oakes narrowed his eyes.

  ‘I don’t have enough material with just the interviews.’

  ‘You should have asked me first.’ Oakes was silent for a minute.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Stevens had one hand on the steering-wheel, one pressed to his side.

  ‘Turn right at the roundabout, head out of town.’

  ‘The Glasgow road? I need a hospital.’

  Oakes wasn’t listening. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What did he say about me?’

  ‘Probably what you’d expect.’

  ‘He’s compos mentis then?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  Oakes wound down the window, scattering the scraps of paper. When he turned round again, Stevens was scrabbling on the floor with his hand.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Oakes brandished the knife.

  ‘Paper hankies. I thought I’d a box somewhere.’

  Oakes examined his handiwork. ‘Just between you and me, Jim, I don’t think paper tissues are going to do the job.’

  ‘I feel faint. I’ve got to stop.’

  ‘Keep going!’

  Stevens’ eyelids looked heavy. ‘See if they’re in the back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The box of hankies.’

  So Oakes turned in his seat, pushed his clothes around. ‘Nothing here.’

  Stevens was rooting in his pockets. ‘Must be something . . .’ Eventually he found a large cotton handkerchief, eased it inside his shirt.

  ‘Take the airport exit,’ Oakes commanded.

  ‘You leaving us, Cary?’

  ‘Me?’ Oakes grinned. ‘When I’m just beginning to enjoy myself?’ He sneezed, spraying the windscreen with spittle.

  ‘Bless you,’ Stevens said. There was silence in the car for a moment, then both men laughed.

  ‘That’s funny,’ Oakes said, wiping an eye. ‘You blessing me.’

  ‘Cary, I’m losing a lot of blood.’

  ‘It’s all right, Jimbo. I’ve seen people bleed to death before. You’ve got hours left in you.’ He sat back in his seat. ‘So you were out there all by yourself, checking background . . .? Who knew you were going?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Not your editor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And John Rebus?’

  Stevens snorted. ‘Why would I tell him?’

  ‘Because I made you mad.’ Oakes pushed out his bottom lip. ‘Sorry about that, by the way.’

  ‘Was it really all lies?’

  ‘That’s between me and my conscience, man.’

  The car hit a bump and Stevens grimaced.

  ‘Know what they say about pain, Jim? They say it makes you see colour for the very first time. Makes everything really vivid.’

  ‘The blood certainly looks vivid.’

  ‘There’s nothing like it,’ Oakes said quietly, ‘not in the whole world.’

  They were coming to another roundabout. Off to their left sat Ingliston Showground, unused for the most part of the year. Unused tonight.

  ‘Airport?’ Stevens asked.

  ‘No, take a left.’

  So Stevens did, and found himself approaching a building site. Another new hotel was being thrown up, to complement the one at the airport exit. Around it lay farmland, the dwellings few and far between. There were no visible lights at all, not even from planes landing and taking off.

  ‘No hospitals near here,’ Stevens said, dread overcoming him.

  ‘Pull over.’

  Stevens did as he was told.

  ‘They’ll have a doctor at the airport,’ Oakes told him. ‘I’ll need your car, but you can walk it.’

  ‘Better still, you could drop me off.’ Jim Stevens licked his dry lips.

  ‘Or better yet . . .’ Cary Oakes said. And his hand flew, and the knife went into Stevens’ side again.

  And again and again, as the journalist’s words became twisted sounds, finding a new vocabulary of terror, resignation and pain.

  Oakes dragged the corpse out and dumped it behind a mound of earth. Searched in the pockets and found Stevens’ cassette recorder. There wasn’t much light, but he was able to prise it open, remove the tape. Left the recorder behind; took the tape. Little money in Stevens’ wallet: credit cards, but he wanted neither to use them nor be caught with them in his possession. He bent down again, wiped the recorder on Stevens’ jacket, getting rid of prints.

  The wind was cutting through him. If he tried concealing the body, he might die of hypothermia. He raced back to the car, got into the driver’s seat and headed off. The heater wouldn’t go any higher. The blood was sticking his underpants to the seat. He could feel it against his skin. Couldn’t put his clothes on yet: had to keep them clean. Couldn’t go wandering around Edinburgh with bloodstained clothes.

  Another trick from prison. Maybe his fellow inmates hadn’t been so stupid after all.

  On the way back into town, he stopped in a deserted supermarket car park, threw the tape into a bin.

  Then he was on his way. Knew he had at least one night before the body was found. One night when he’d have some shelter, courtesy of Jim Stevens’ car.

  46

  Anything out west was a Torphichen call, but news travelled fast. Roy Frazer drove Rebus out to the scene. The whole drive, Rebus only said one thing to the young man.

  ‘You screwed up about Eddie Mearn. It happens. Best to have it happen young when you can still learn from it. Otherwise you get intimations of infallibility, which translates to your colleagues as “smart-arse”.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Frazer said, frowning as though trying to memorise the advice. Then he reached into his pocket. ‘Message from DS Clarke.’ He handed over the note. Rebus unfolded the piece of paper. At first he didn’t take it in. His brain was overloaded as it was. But eventually the words hit him with the force of electricity.

  I did a bit of digging. Joseph Margolies wasn’t just a doctor. He worked for the council for a time, had special responsibility for children’s homes. Don’t know if it means anything, but I get the feeling you had him down as a GP. Cheers, S.

  He read the note half a dozen times. He wasn’t sure if it did mean anything. But he could see definite connections beginning to appear. And connections could always be exploited . . .

  The DI from Torphichen was Shug Davidson. He offered a brief smile as Rebus got out of the car.

  ‘They say the culprit always returns to the scene of the crime.’

  ‘That’s not funny, Shug.’

  ‘Way I hear it, you and the deceased weren’t exactly bosom buddies.’

  ‘Maybe towards the end,’ Rebus said. ‘Have they moved him yet?’

  Davidson shook his head. Work on the construction site had stopped. There were faces at the portakabin windows. Other workers milled around outside, wearing hard hats, drinking tea from their flasks. Their gaffer was complaining that work was a fortnight behind as it was.

  ‘Then a few more hours isn’t going to make much of a dent, is it?’ Davidson said.

  Rebus had ducked beneath the locus tape. The victim had been pronounced dead. They were photographing the body. Forensics had already completed taping it. Uniforms were spreading out from the locus, seeking clues. Davidson had the whole sit
uation under control.

  ‘Any ideas?’ Davidson asked Rebus.

  ‘One fairly big one.’

  ‘Oakes?’ Rebus looked at Davidson, who smiled. ‘I read the papers too, John. Friend of a friend told me Oakes had dumped on Stevens. Next thing, Oakes is on the run after the attack on Alan Archibald.’ He broke off. ‘How is he, by the way?’

  ‘Doing better than this poor bugger,’ Rebus said, moving closer to the body. Professor Gates was crouched – or as Gates himself liked to say, on his ‘cuddy-hunkers’ – at Stevens’ head. He nodded a greeting towards Rebus, but carried on with his initial appraisal of the scene. One of the forensics team held out a clear plastic bag, into which Jim Stevens’ possessions were being dropped.

  ‘No car keys?’ Rebus asked. The forensics woman shook her head.

  ‘No car either,’ Davidson added.

  ‘Stevens drives a Vauxhall Astra.’

  ‘I know, John. It’s being hunted.’

  ‘Must have been brought here in a car. Oakes doesn’t have one.’

  ‘Probably lost a lot of blood en route,’ Gates said. ‘His shirt and trousers are soaked, but there’s not that much lying beneath him.’

  ‘You think he was stabbed somewhere else?’

  ‘That would be my guess.’ Gates turned to the forensics officer. ‘Let Inspector Rebus see the machine.’

  She lifted a small metal box from the bag. Rebus looked at it closely, but knew better than to touch.

  ‘It’s his recorder.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gates said. ‘And in his right-hand pocket, well away from the wounds and the blood.’

  ‘But there’s blood on it,’ Rebus said.

  Gates nodded. ‘And no tape inside.’

  ‘The killer took the tape?’

  ‘Or it was important enough for the deceased to take time to remove it, even though by that time he’d already been stabbed and was probably entering a state of shock.’

  Rebus turned to Davidson. ‘Any sign of it?’

  ‘That’s what they’re looking for.’ Davidson motioned towards the uniforms. ‘John, have you any idea what Stevens was up to?’