by Ian Rankin
It was November 22 before an artist’s impression of Bible John appeared in the press. By then he was Bible John: the media had come up with the name. Three weeks between the third murder and the artist’s impression: the trail grown good and cold. There’d been an artist’s drawing after the second victim too, but only after a delay of almost a month. Big, big delays. Rebus wondered about them …
He couldn’t quite explain why Bible John was getting to him. Perhaps he was using one old case as a way of warding off another – the Spaven case. But he thought it went deeper than that. Bible John meant the end of the sixties for Scotland; he’d soured the end of one decade and the beginning of another. For a lot of people, he’d all but killed whatever dribble of peace and love had reached this far north. Rebus didn’t want the twentieth century to end the same way. He wanted Johnny Bible caught. But somewhere along the road, his interest in the present case had taken a turning. He’d started to concentrate on Bible John, to the point where he was dusting off old theories and spending a small fortune on period newspapers. In 1968 and ’69, Rebus had been in the army. They’d trained him how to disable and kill, then sent him on tours – including, eventually, Northern Ireland. He felt he’d missed an important part of the times.
But at least he was still alive.
He took glass and bottle through to the living room and sank into his chair. He didn’t know how many bodies he’d seen; he just knew it didn’t get any easier. He’d heard gossip about Bain’s first post mortem, how the pathologist had been Naismith up in Dundee, a cruel bastard at the best of times. He’d probably known it was Bain’s first, and had really done a job on the corpse, like a scrap merchant stripping a car, lifting out organs, sawing the skull open, hands cradling a glistening brain – you didn’t do that so lightly these days, fear of hepatitis C. When Naismith had started unpeeling the genitals, Bain had dropped deadweight to the floor. But credit where due, he’d stuck around, hadn’t bolted or hughied. Maybe Rebus and Bain could work together, once friction had smoothed their edges. Maybe.
He looked out of the bay window, down on to the street. He was still parked on a double yellow. There was a light on in one of the flats across the way. There was always a light on somewhere. He sipped his drink, not wanting to rush it, and listened to the Stones: Black and Blue. Black influences, blues influences; not great Stones, but maybe their mellowest album.
Allan Mitchison was in a fridge in the Cowgate. He’d died strapped to a chair. Rebus didn’t know why. Pet Shop Boys: ‘It’s a Sin’. Segue to the Glimmer Twins: ‘Fool to Cry’. Mitchison’s flat hadn’t been so different from Rebus’s own in some respects: under-used, more a base than a home. He downed the rest of his drink, poured another, downed that too, and pulled the duvet off the floor and up to his chin.
Another day down.
He awoke a few hours later, blinked, got up and went to the bathroom. A shower and shave, change of clothes. He’d been dreaming of Johnny Bible, getting it all mixed up with Bible John. Cops on the scene wearing tight suits and thin black ties, white bri-nylon shirts, pork-pie hats. 1968, Bible John’s first victim. To Rebus it meant Van Morrison, Astral Weeks. 1969, victims two and three; the Stones, Let It Bleed. The hunt went on into 1970, John Rebus wanting to go to the Isle of Wight Festival, not managing it. But of course Bible John had disappeared by then … He hoped Johnny Bible would just sod off and die.
There was nothing in the kitchen to eat, nothing but newspapers. The nearest corner shop had closed down; it wasn’t much more of a walk to the next grocer’s along. No, he’d stop somewhere on route. He looked out of the window and saw a light-blue estate double parked outside, blocking three resident cars. Equipment in the back of the estate, two men and a woman standing on the pavement, supping coffee from take-away beakers.
‘Shit,’ Rebus said, knotting his tie.
Jacketed, he walked outside and into questions. One of the men was hoisting a video camera up to his shoulder. The other man was speaking.
‘Inspector, could we have a word? Redgauntlet Television, The Justice Programme.’ Rebus knew him: Eamonn Breen. The woman was Kayleigh Burgess, the show’s producer. Breen was writer/presenter, loved himself, RPIA: Royal Pain in Arse.
‘The Spaven case, Inspector. A few minutes of your time, that’s all we need really, help everybody get to the bottom —’
‘I’m already there.’ Rebus saw the camera wasn’t ready yet. He turned quickly, his nose almost touching the reporter’s. He thought of Mental Minto breathing the word ‘harassment’, not knowing what harassment was, not the way Rebus had grown to know.
‘You’ll think you’re in childbirth,’ he said.
Breen blinked. ‘Sorry?’
‘When the surgeons are taking that camera out of your arse.’ Rebus tore a parking ticket from his windscreen, unlocked the car, and got in. The video camera was finally up and running, but all it got was a shot of a battered Saab 900 reversing at speed from the scene.
Rebus had a morning meeting with his boss, Chief Inspector Jim MacAskill. The boss’s office looked as chaotic as any other part of the station: packing cases still waiting to be filled and labelled, half-empty shelves, ancient green filing cabinets with their drawers open, displaying acre upon acre of paperwork, all of which would have to be shipped out in some semblance of order.
‘The world’s hardest jigsaw puzzle,’ MacAskill said. ‘If everything gets to the other end unscathed, it’ll be a miracle on a par with Raith Rovers winning the UEFA Cup.’
The boss was a Fifer like Rebus, born and raised in Methil, back when the shipyard had been making boats rather than rigs for the oil industry. He was tall and well-built and younger than Rebus. His handshake was not masonic, and he’d not yet married, which had caused the usual gossip that maybe the boss was a like-your-loafers. It didn’t worry Rebus – he never wore loafers himself – but he hoped that if his boss was gay there was no guilt involved. It was when you wanted a secret kept that you fell prey to blackmailers and shame merchants, destructive forces both interior and exterior. Jesus, and didn’t Rebus know about that.
Whatever, MacAskill was handsome, with plenty of thick black hair – no grey, no sign of dyeing – and a chiselled face, all angles, the geometry of eyes, nose and chin making it look like he was smiling even when he wasn’t.
‘So,’ the boss said, ‘how does it read to you?’
‘I’m not sure yet. A party gone wrong, a falling out – literally in this case? They hadn’t started on the booze.’
‘Question one in my mind: did they come together? The victim could have come alone, surprised some people doing something they shouldn’t —’
Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Taxi driver confirms dropping off a party of three. Gave descriptions, one of which matches the deceased pretty well. The driver paid him most attention, he was behaving the worst. The other two were quiet, sober even. Physical descriptions aren’t going to get us far. He picked up the fare outside Mal’s Bar. We’ve had a word with the staff. They sold them the carry-out.’
The boss ran a hand down his tie. ‘Do we know anything more about the deceased?’
‘Only that he had Aberdeen connections, maybe worked in the oil business. He didn’t use his Edinburgh flat much, makes me think he used to work heavy shifts, two weeks on, two off. Maybe he didn’t always come home between times. He was earning enough to pay off a mortgage in the Financial District, and there’s a two-week gap between his latest credit-card transactions.’
‘You think he could have been offshore during that time?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘I don’t know if that’s the way it still works, but in the early days I had friends who went to seek their fortune on the rigs. The stints lasted two weeks, seven days a week.’
‘Well, it’s worth following up. We need to check family, too, next of kin. Priority for the paperwork and formal ID. Question one in my mind: motive. Are we sticking with an argument?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘There was
too much premeditation, way too much. Did they just happen to find sealing-tape and a polythene bag in that tip? I think they brought them. Do you remember how the Krays got to Jack “the Hat” McVitie? No, you’re too young. They invited him to a party. He’d been paid to do a contract, but bottled it and couldn’t pay them back. It was in a basement, so down he comes crying out for birds and booze. No birds, no booze, just Ronnie grabbing him and Reggie stabbing him to death.’
‘So these two men lured Mitchison to the derelict flat?’
‘Maybe.’
‘To what end?’
‘Well, first thing they did was tie him up and wrap a bag around his head, so they didn’t have any questions to ask. They just wanted him crapping himself and then dead. I’d say it was straight assassination, with a bit of malicious cruelty thrown in.’
‘So was he thrown or did he jump?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Very much, John.’ MacAskill stood up, leaned against the filing cabinet with his arms folded. ‘If he jumped, that’s tantamount to suicide, even if they had been planning to kill him. With the bag over his head and the way he was trussed up, we’ve got maybe culpable homicide. Their defence would be that they were trying to scare him, he got too scared and did something they hadn’t been expecting – jumped through a window.’
‘To do which he must have been scared out of his wits.’
MacAskill shrugged. ‘Still not murder. The crux is, were they trying to scare him, or kill him?’
‘I’ll be sure to ask them.’
‘It’s got a gang feel to it: drugs maybe, or a loan he’d stopped repaying, somebody he’d ripped off.’ MacAskill returned to his chair. He opened a drawer and took out a can of Irn-Bru, opened it and started to drink. He never went to the pub after work, didn’t share the whisky when the team got a result. Soft drinks only: more ammo for the like-your-loafers brigade. He asked Rebus if he wanted a can.
‘Not while I’m on duty, sir.’
MacAskill stifled a burp. ‘Get a bit more background on the victim, John, let’s see if it leads anywhere. Remember to chase forensics for fingerprint ID on the carry-out, and pathology for the PM results. Did he do drugs, that’s question one in my mind. Make things easier for us if he did. Unsolved, and we don’t even know how to frame it – not the sort of case I want to drag to the new station. Understood, John?’
‘Unquestionably, sir.’
He turned to go, but the boss hadn’t quite finished. ‘That trouble over … what was the name again?’
‘Spaven?’ Rebus guessed.
‘Spaven, yes. Quietened down yet, has it?’
‘Quiet as the grave,’ Rebus lied, making his exit.
3
That evening – a long-standing engagement – Rebus was at a rock concert at Ingliston Showground, an American headliner with a couple of biggish-name British acts supporting. Rebus was part of a team of eight, four different city stations represented, providing back-up (meaning protection) for Trading Standards sniffers. They were looking for bootleg gear – T-shirts and programmes, tapes and CDs – and had the full support of the bands’ management. This meant backstage passes, liberal use of the hospitality marquee, a lucky-bag of official merchandising. The lackey passing out the bags smiled at Rebus.
‘Maybe your kids or grandkids …’ Thrusting the bag at him. He’d bitten back a remark, passed straight to the booze tent, where he couldn’t decide between the dozens of hooch bottles, so settled for a beer, then wished he’d taken a nip of Black Bush, so eased the unopened bottle into his lucky-bag.
They had two vans parked outside the arena, way back behind the stage, filling with counterfeiters and their merchandise. Maclay weaved back to the vans nursing a set of knuckles.
‘Who did you pop, Heavy?’
Maclay shook his head, wiping sweat from his brow, a Michelangelo cherub turned bad.
‘Some choob was resisting,’ he said. ‘Had a suitcase with him. I punched a hole right through it. He didn’t resist after that.’
Rebus looked into the back of a van, the one holding bodies. A couple of kids, hardening already to the system, and two regulars, old enough to know the score. They’d be fined a day’s wages, the loss of their stock just another debit. The summer was young, plenty festivals to come.
‘Fucking awful racket.’
Maclay meant the music. Rebus shrugged; he’d been getting into it, thought maybe he’d take home a couple of the bootleg CDs. He offered Maclay the bottle of Black Bush. Maclay drank from it like it was lemonade. Rebus offered him a mint afterwards, and he threw it into his mouth with a nod of thanks.
‘Post mortem results came in this afternoon,’ the big man said.
Rebus had meant to phone, hadn’t got round to it. ‘And?’
Maclay crushed the mint to powder. ‘The fall killed him. Apart from that, not much.’
The fall killed him: little chance of a straight murder conviction. ‘Toxicology?’
‘Still testing. Professor Gates said when they cut into the stomach, there was a strong whiff of dark rum.’
‘There was a bottle in the bag.’
Maclay nodded. ‘The decedent’s tipple. Gates said no initial signs of drug use, but we’ll have to wait for the tests. I went through the phone book for Mitchisons.’
Rebus smiled. ‘So did I.’
‘I know, one of the numbers I called, you’d already been on to them. No joy?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I got a number for T-Bird Oil in Aberdeen. Their personnel manager’s going to call me back.’
A Trading Standards officer was coming towards them, arms laden with T-shirts and programmes. His face was red from exertion, his thin tie hanging loose at the neck. Behind him, an officer from ‘F Troop’ – Livingston Division – was escorting another prisoner.
‘Nearly done, Mr Baxter?’
The Trading Standards officer dumped the T-shirts, lifted one and wiped his face with it.
‘That should about do it,’ he said. ‘I’ll round up my soldiers.’
Rebus turned to Maclay. ‘I’m starving. Let’s see what they’ve laid on for the superstars.’
There were fans trying to breach security, teenagers mostly, split half and half, boys and girls. A few had managed to inveigle their way in. They wandered around behind the barriers looking for faces they would recognise from the posters on their bedroom walls. Then when they did spot one, they’d be too awed or shy to talk.
‘Any kids?’ Rebus asked Maclay. They were in hospitality, nursing bottles of Beck’s taken from a coolbox Rebus hadn’t noticed first time round.
Maclay shook his head. ‘Divorced before it became an issue, if you’ll pardon the pun. You?’
‘One daughter.’
‘Grown up?’
‘Sometimes I think she’s older than me.’
‘Kids grow up faster than in our day.’ Rebus smiled at that, Maclay a good ten years his junior.
A girl, squealing resistance, was being hauled back to the perimeter by two burly security men.
‘Jimmy Cousins,’ Maclay said, pointing out one of the security bears. ‘Do you know him?’
‘He was stationed at Leith for a while.’
‘Retired last year, only forty-seven. Thirty years in. Now he’s got his pension and a job. Makes you think.’
‘Makes me think he misses the force.’
Maclay smiled. ‘It can turn into a habit.’
‘That why you divorced?’
‘I dare say it played a part.’
Rebus thought of Brian Holmes, feared for him. Stress getting to the younger man, affecting work and personal life both. Rebus had been there.
‘You know Ted Michie?’
Rebus nodded: the man he’d replaced at Fort Apache.
‘Doctors think it’s terminal. He won’t let them cut, says knives are against his religion.’
‘I hear he was handy with a truncheon in his day.’
One of the support bands entere
d the marquee to scattered applause. Five males, mid-twenties, stripped to the waist with towels around their shoulders, high on something – maybe just from performing. Hugs and kisses from a group of girls at a table, whoops and roars.
‘We fucking killed them out there!’
Rebus and Maclay drank their drinks in silence, tried not to look like promoters, succeeded.
When they walked back outside, it was dark enough for the light-show to be worth watching. There were fireworks, too, reminding Rebus that it was the tourist season. Not long till the nightly Tattoo, fireworks you could hear from Marchmont, even with the windows closed. A camera crew, stalked by photographers, was itself stalking the main support band who were ready to go on. Maclay watched the procession.
‘You’re probably surprised they’re not after you,’ he said, mischief in his voice.
‘Fuck off,’ Rebus replied, making for the side of the stage. The passes were colour-coded. His was yellow, and it got him as far as the stage-wings, where he watched the entertainment. The sound system was a travesty, but there were monitors nearby and he concentrated on those. The crowd seemed to be having fun, bobbing up and down, a sea of disembodied heads. He thought of the Isle of Wight, of other festivals he’d missed, headliners who weren’t around any more.
