Knots And Crosses tirs-1

by Ian Rankin

  The party, it appeared, had started earlier than he had anticipated.

  He recognized a few faces around and beneath him, stepping over two inspectors as he waded into the room. He could see that the table at the far end had bottles and plastic cups heaped upon it, and it seemed as good a vantage point as any, and safer than some.

  Getting to it was the problem however, and he was reminded of some of the assault courses of his Army days.

  ‘Hi there!’

  Cathy Jackson, doing a passable imitation of a rag-doll, reeled into his path for a second before being swept off her feet by the large — the very large — man with whom she was pretending to dance.

  ‘Hello,’ managed Rebus, his face twisting into a grimace rather than a smile. He achieved the relative safety of the drinks-table and helped himself to a whisky and a chaser. That would do for starters. Then he watched as Cathy Jackson (for whom he had bathed, polished, scraped, adjusted, and sprayed) pushed her tongue into the cavernous mouth of her dancing-partner. Rebus thought that he was going to be sick. His partner for the evening had done a bunk before the evening had begun! That would teach him to be optimistic. So what did he do now? Leave quietly, or try to pull a few words of introduction out of his hat?

  A stocky man, not at all a policeman, came from the kitchen, and, cigarette in mouth, approached the table with a couple of empty glasses in his hand.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said to nobody in particular, rummaging amongst the bottles, ‘this is all a bit fucking grim, isn’t it? Excuse my language.’

  ‘Yes, it is a bit.’

  Rebus thought to himself, well, there it is, I’ve done it now, I’ve spoken to someone. The ice is broken, so I may as well leave while the going’s good.

  But he did not leave. He watched as the man weaved his way quite expertly back through the dancers, the drinks as safe as tiny animals in his hands. He watched as another record pounded out of the invisible stereo system, the dancers recommenced their war-dance, and a woman, looking every inch as uncomfortable as he did, squeezed her way into the room and was pointed in the direction of Rebus’s table.

  She was about his own age, a little ragged around the edges. She wore a reasonably fashionable dress, he supposed (who was he to talk about fashion? his suit looked downright funereal in the present company), and her hair had been styled recently, perhaps as recently as this afternoon. She wore a secretary’s glasses, but she was no secretary. Rebus could see that much by looking at her, by examining the way she handled herself as she picked her way towards him.

  He held a Bloody Mary, newly-prepared, towards her.

  ‘Is this okay for you?’ he shouted. ‘Have I guessed right or wrong?’

  She gulped the drink thankfully, pausing for breath as he refilled the tumbler.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I don’t normally drink, but that was much appreciated.’

  Great, Rebus thought to himself, the smile never leaving his eyes, Cathy Jackson’s out of her head (and her morals) on alcohol, and I’m landed with a TT. Oh, but that thought was unworthy of him, and did no justice to his companion. He breathed a quick prayer of contrition.

  ‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked, for his sins.

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘I’m not. What’s wrong?’

  Rebus, guilty of a streak of chauvinism, could not believe it. She was a DI. Moreover, she was Press Liaison Officer on the murder case.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it’s just that I’m working that case, too.’

  ‘Listen, John, if it keeps on like this, every policeman and policewoman in Scotland is going to be on the case. Believe me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s been another abduction. The girl’s mother reported her missing this evening.’

  ‘Shit. Excuse my language.’

  They had danced, drunk, separated, met again, and were now old friends for the evening, it seemed. They stood in the hallway, a little way from the noise and chaos of the dance-floor. A queue for the flat’s only toilet was becoming unruly at the end of the corridor.

  Rebus found himself staring past Gill Templer’s glasses, past all that glass and plastic, to the emerald-green eyes beyond. He wanted to tell her that he had never seen eyes as lovely as hers, but was afraid of being accused of cliche. She was sticking to orange juice now, but he had loosened himself up with a few more whiskies, not expecting anything special from the evening.

  ‘Hello, Gill.’

  Rebus recognized the stocky man before them as the person he had spoken with at the drinks-table.

  ‘Long time no see.’

  The man attempted to peck Gill Templer’s cheek, but succeeded only in falling past her and butting the wall.

  ‘Had a drop too much to drink, Jim?’ said Gill, coolly.

  The man shrugged his shoulders. He was looking at Rebus.

  ‘We all have our crosses to bear, eh?’

  A hand was extended towards Rebus.

  ‘Jim Stevens,’ said the man.

  ‘Oh, the reporter?’

  Rebus accepted the man’s warm, moist hand for a moment.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant John Rebus,’ said Gill.

  Rebus noticed the quick flushing in Stevens’ face, the startled eyes of a hare. He recovered quickly though, expertly.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. Then, motioning with his head, ‘Gill and I go back a long way, don’t we, Gill?’

  ‘Not as far as you seem to think, Jim.’

  He laughed then, glancing towards Rebus.

  ‘She’s just shy,’ he said. ‘Another girl murdered, I hear.’

  ‘Jim has spies everywhere.’

  Stevens tapped the side of his blood-red nose, grinning towards Rebus.

  ‘Everywhere,’ he said, ‘and I get everywhere, too.’

  ‘Yes, spreads himself a little thin, does our Jim,’ said Gill, her voice sharp as a blade’s edge, her eyes suddenly shrouded in glass and plastic, inviolable.

  ‘Another press briefing tomorrow, Gill?’ said Stevens, searching through his pockets for his cigarettes, lost long before.

  ‘Yes.’

  The reporter’s hand found Rebus’s shoulder.

  ‘A long way, me and Gill.’

  Then he was gone, his hand held back towards them as he retreated, waving without the necessity of acknowledgement, searching out his cigarettes, filing away John Rebus’s face.

  Gill Templer sighed, leaning against the wall where Stevens’ failed kiss had landed.

  ‘One of the best reporters in Scotland,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

  ‘And your job is dealing with the likes of him?’

  ‘He’s not so bad.’

  An argument seemed to be starting in the living-room.

  ‘Well,’ said Rebus, all smiles, ‘shall we phone for the police, or would you rather be taken to a little restaurant I know?’

  ‘Is that a chat-up line?’

  ‘Maybe. You tell me. After all, you’re the detective.’

  ‘Well, whatever it is, Detective Sergeant Rebus, you’re in luck. I’m starving. I’ll get my coat.’

  Rebus, feeling pleased with himself, remembered that his own coat was lurking somewhere. He found it in one of the bedrooms, along with his gloves, and — a cracking surprise — his unopened bottle of wine. He pocketed this, seeing it as a divine sign that he would be needing it later.

  Gill was in the other bedroom, rummaging through the pile of coats on the bed. Beneath the bedcovers, congress seemed to be taking place, and the whole mess of coats and bedclothes seethed and writhed like some gigantic amoeba. Gill, giggling through it all, found her coat at last and came towards Rebus, who smiled conspiratorially in the doorway.

  ‘Goodbye, Cathy,’ she shouted back into the room, ‘thanks for the party.’

  There was a muffled roar, perhaps an acknowledgement, from beneath the bedclothes. Rebus, his eyes wide, felt his moral fibre crumbling like a dry cheese-biscuit.
>
  In the taxi, they sat a little distance apart.

  ‘So, do you and this Stevens character go back a long way?’

  ‘Only in his memory.’ She stared past the driver at the sleek wet road beyond. ‘Jim’s memory can’t be what it was. Seriously, we went out together once, and I do mean once.’ She held up a finger. ‘A Friday night, I think it was. A big mistake, it certainly was.’

  Rebus was satisfied with that. He began to feel hungry again.

  By the time they reached the restaurant, however, it was closed — even to Rebus — so they stayed in the taxi and Rebus directed the driver towards his flat.

  ‘I’m a dab hand at bacon sandwiches,’ he said.

  ‘What a pity,’ she said. ‘I’m a vegetarian.’

  ‘Good God, you mean you eat no vegetables at all?’

  ‘Why is it,’ acid seeping into her voice, ‘that carnivores always have to make a joke out of it? It’s the same with men and women’s lib. Why is that?’

  ‘It’s because we’re afraid of them,’ said Rebus, quite sober now.

  Gill looked at him, but he was watching from his window as the city’s late-night drunks rolled their way up and down the obstacle-strewn hazard of Lothian Road, seeking alcohol, women, happiness. It was a never-ending search for some of them, staggering in and out of clubs and pubs and take-aways, gnawing on the packaged bones of existence. Lothian Road was Edinburgh’s dustbin. It was also home to the Sheraton Hotel and the Usher Hall. Rebus had visited the Usher Hall once, sitting with Rhona and the other smug souls listening to Mozart’s Requiem Mass. It was typical of Edinburgh to have a crumb of culture sited amidst the fast-food shops. A requiem mass and a bag of chips.

  ‘So how is the old Press Liaison these days?’

  They were seated in his rapidly tidied living-room. His pride and joy, a Nakamichi tape-deck, was tastefully broadcasting one of his collection of late-night-listening jazz tapes; Stan Getz or Coleman Hawkins.

  He had rustled up a round of tuna fish and tomato sandwiches, Gill having admitted that she ate fish occasionally. The bottle of wine was open, and he had prepared a pot of freshly ground coffee (a treat usually reserved for Sunday breakfasts). He now sat across from his guest, watching her eat. He thought with a small start that this was his first female guest since Rhona had left him, but then recalled, very vaguely, a couple of other one-nighters.

  ‘Press Liaison is fine. It’s not really a complete waste of time, you know. It serves a useful purpose in this day and age.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not knocking it.’

  She looked at him, trying to gauge how serious he was being.

  ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘it’s just that I know a lot of our colleagues who think that a job like mine is a complete waste of time and manpower. Believe me, in a case like this one it’s absolutely crucial that we keep the media on our side, and that we let them have the information that we want made public when it needs to be made public. It saves a lot of hassle.’

  ‘Hear, hear.’

  ‘Be serious, you rat.’

  Rebus laughed.

  ‘I’m never anything other than serious. A one-hundred percent policeman’s policeman, that’s me.’

  Gill Templer stared at him again. She had a real inspector’s eyes: they worked into your conscience, sniffing out guilt and guile and drive, seeking give.

  ‘And being a Liaison Officer,’ said Rebus, ‘means that you have to … liaise with the press quite closely, — right?’

  ‘I know what you’re getting at, Sergeant Rebus, and as your superior, I’m telling you to stop it.’

  ‘Ma’am!’ Rebus gave her a short salute.

  He came back from the kitchen with another pot of coffee.

  ‘Wasn’t that a dreadful party?’ said Gill.

  ‘It was the finest party I have ever attended,’ said Rebus. ‘After all, without it, I might never have met you.’

  She roared with laughter this time, her mouth filled with a paste of tuna and bread and tomato.

  ‘You’re a nutter,’ she cried, ‘you really are.’

  Rebus raised his eyebrows, smiling. Had he lost his touch? He had not. It was miraculous.

  Later, she needed to go to the bathroom. Rebus was changing a tape, and realising how limited his musical tastes were. Who were these groups that she kept referring to?

  ‘It’s in the hall,’ he said. ‘On the left.’

  When she returned, more jazz was playing, the music at times almost too low to be heard, and Rebus was back in his chair.

  ‘What’s that room across from the bathroom, John?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, pouring coffee, ‘it used to be my daughter’s, but now it’s just full of junk. I never use it.’

  ‘When did your wife and you split up?’

  ‘Not as long ago as we should have. I mean that seriously.’

  ‘How old is your daughter?’ She sounded maternal now, domestic; no longer the acid single woman or the professional.

  ‘Nearly twelve,’ he said. ‘Nearly twelve.’

  ‘It’s a difficult age.’

  ‘Aren’t they all.’

  When the wine was finished and the coffee was down to its last half-cup, one or the other of them suggested bed. They exchanged sheepish smiles and ritual promises about not promising anything, and, the contract agreed and signed without words, went to the bedroom.

  It all started well enough. They were mature, had played this game before too often to let the little fumblings and apologies get to them. Rebus was impressed by her agility and invention, and hoped that she was being impressed by his. She arched her spine to meet him, seeking the ultimate and unobtainable ingress.

  ‘John,’ pushing at him now.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just going to turn over, okay?’

  He knelt up, and she turned her back to him, sliding her knees down the bed, clawing at the smooth wall with her fingertips, waiting. Rebus, in the slight pause, looked around at the room, the pale blue light shading his books, the edges of the mattress.

  ‘Oh, a futon,’ she had said, pulling her clothes off quickly. He had smiled in the silence.

  He was losing it.

  ‘Come on, John. Come on.’

  He bent towards her, resting his face on her back. He had talked about books with Gordon Reeve when they had been captured. Talked endlessly, it seemed, reading to him from his memory. In close confinement, torture a closed door away. But they had endured. It was a mark of the training.

  ‘John, oh, John.’

  Gill raised herself up and turned her head towards his, seeking a kiss. Gill, Gordon Reeve, seeking something from him, something he couldn’t give. Despite the training, despite the years of practice, the years of work and persistence.

  ‘John?’

  But he was elsewhere now, back inside the training camp, back trudging across a muddy field, the Boss screaming at him to speed up, back in that cell, watching a cockroach pace the begrimed floor, back in the helicopter, a bag over his head, the spray of the sea salty in his ears …

  ‘John?’

  She turned round now, awkwardly, concerned. She saw the tears about to start from his eyes. She held his head to her.

  ‘Oh, John. It doesn’t matter. Really, it doesn’t.’

  And a little later: ‘Don’t you like it that way?’

  They lay together afterwards, he guiltily, and cursing the facts of his confusion and the fact that he had run out of cigarettes, she drowsily, caring still, whispering bits and pieces of her life-story to him.

  After a while, Rebus forgot to feel guilty: there was nothing, after all, to feel guilty about. He felt merely the distinct lack of nicotine. And he remembered that he was seeing Sammy in six hours’ time, and that her mother would instinctively know what he, John Rebus, had been up to these past few hours. She was cursed with a witch-like ability to see into the soul, and she had seen his occasional bouts of crying at very close quarters indeed. Partly, he supp
osed, that had been responsible for their break-up.

  ‘What time is it, John?’

  ‘Four. Maybe a little after.’

  He slid his arm from beneath her and rose to leave the room.

  ‘Do you want anything to drink?’ he said.

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Coffee maybe. It’s hardly worth going to sleep now, but if you feel sleepy, don’t mind me.’

  ‘No, I’ll take a cup of coffee.’

  Rebus knew from her voice, from its slurred growliness, that she would be fast asleep by the time he reached the kitchen.

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  He made himself a cup of dark, sweet coffee and slumped into a chair with it. He turned on the living-room’s small gas fire and began to read one of his books. He was seeing Sammy today, and his mind wandered from the story in front of him, a tale of intrigue which he could not remember having started. Sammy was nearly twelve. She had survived many years of danger, and now, for her, other dangers were imminent. The perverts in watch, the ogling old men, the teenage cock-fighters, would be supplemented by the new urges of boys her age, and boys she already knew as friends would become sudden and forceful hunters. How would she cope with it? If her mother had anything to do with it, she would cope admirably, biting in a clinch and ducking on the ropes. Yes, she would survive without her father’s advice and protection.

  The kids were harder these days. He thought back to his own youth. He had been Mickey’s big brother, fighting battles for the two of them, going home to watch his brother coddled by his father. He had pushed himself further into the cushions on the settee, hoping to disappear one day. Then they’d be sorry. Then they’d be sorry …

  At seven-thirty he went through to the musky bedroom, which smelt two parts sex to one part animal lair, and kissed Gill awake.

  ‘It’s time,’ he said. ‘Get up, I’ll run you a bath.’

  She smelt good, like a baby on a fireside towel. He admired the shapes of her twisted body as they awoke to the thin, watery sunlight. She had a good body all right. No real stretch-marks. Her legs unscarred. Her hair just tousled enough to be inviting.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She had to be at HQ by ten in order to co-ordinate the next press release. There could be no rest. The case was still growing like a cancer. Rebus filled the bath, wincing at the rim of grime around it. He needed a cleaning-lady. Perhaps he could get Gill to do it.