Black And Blue

by Ian Rankin

  He thought of Lawson Geddes, his one-time mentor, boss, protector, his memory rippling back through two decades.

  John Rebus, mid-twenties, a detective constable, looking to put army years behind him, ghosts and nightmares. A wife and infant daughter trying to be his life. And Rebus maybe seeking out a surrogate father, finding one in Lawson Geddes, Detective Inspector, City of Edinburgh Police. Geddes was forty-five, ex-army, served in the Borneo conflict, told stories of jungle war versus The Beatles, no one back in Britain very interested in a last spasm of colonial muscle. The two men found they shared common values, common night sweats and dreams of failure. Rebus was new to CID, Geddes knew everything there was to know. It was easy to recall the first year of growing friendship, easy now to forgive the few hiccups: Geddes making a pass at Rebus’s young wife, almost succeeding; Rebus passing out at a Geddes party, waking in the dark and pissing into a dresser-drawer, thinking he’d found the toilet; a couple of fist-fights after last orders, the fists not connecting, turning into wrestling matches instead.

  Easy to forgive so much. But then they landed a murder inquiry, Leonard Spaven Geddes’ chief suspect. Geddes and Lenny Spaven had been playing cat-and-mouse for a couple of years – aggravated assault, pimping, the hijacking of a couple of cigarette lorries. Even whispers of a murder or two, gangster stuff, trimming the competition. Spaven had been in the Scots Guards same time as Geddes, maybe the bad blood started there, neither man ever said.

  Christmas 1976, a gruesome find on farmland near Swanston: a woman’s body, decapitated. The head turned up almost a week later, New Year’s Day, in another field near Currie. The weather was sub-zero. From the rate of decay, the pathologist was able to say that the head had been kept indoors for some time after being severed from the body, while the body itself had been dumped fresh. Glasgow police semi-interested, the file on Bible John still open six years on. Identification from clothing initially, a member of the public coming forward to say the description sounded like a neighbour who hadn’t been seen for a couple of weeks. The milkman had kept on delivering until he decided no one was home, that she had gone away for Christmas without telling him.

  Police forced the front door. Unopened Christmas cards on the hall carpet; a pot of soup on the stove, speckled with mould; a radio playing quietly. Relatives were found, identified the body – Elizabeth Rhind, Elsie to her friends. Thirty-five years old, divorced from a sailor in the merchant navy. She’d worked for a brewery, shorthand and typing. She’d been well liked, the outgoing type. The ex-husband, suspect one, had a steel-toecapped alibi: his ship was in Gib at the time. Lists of the victim’s friends, especially boyfriends, and a name came up: Lenny. No surname, someone Elsie had gone out with for a few weeks. Drinking companions provided a description, and Lawson Geddes recognised it: Lenny Spaven. Geddes formed his theory quickly: Lenny had zeroed in on Elsie when he learned she worked at the brewery. He was probably looking for inside gen, maybe thinking of a truck hijack or a simple break-in. Elsie refused to help, he got angry, and he killed her.

  It sounded good to Geddes, but he found it hard to convince anyone else. There was no evidence either. They couldn’t determine a time of death, leaving a twenty-four-hour margin of error, so Spaven didn’t need to provide an alibi. A search of his home and those of his friends showed no bloodstains, nothing. There were other strands they should have been following, but Geddes couldn’t stop thinking about Spaven. It nearly drove John Rebus demented. They argued loudly, more than once, stopped going for drinks together. The brass had a word with Geddes, told him he was becoming obsessed to the detriment of the inquiry. He was told to take a holiday. They even had a collection for him in the Murder Room.

  Then one night he’d come to Rebus’s door, begging a favour. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, or changed his clothes over that time. He said he’d been following Spaven, and had tracked him to a lock-up in Stockbridge. He was probably still there if they hurried. Rebus knew it was wrong; there were procedures. But Geddes was shivering, wild-eyed. All idea of search warrants and the like evaporated. Rebus insisted on driving, Geddes giving directions.

  Spaven was still in the garage. So were brown cardboard boxes, piled high: the proceeds from a South Queensferry warehouse break-in back in November. Digital clock-radios: Spaven was fitting plugs to them, preparing to hawk them around the pubs and clubs. Behind one pile of boxes, Geddes discovered a plastic carrier bag. Inside were a woman’s hat and a cream shoulder-bag, both later identified as having belonged to Elsie Rhind.

  Spaven protested his innocence from the moment Geddes lifted up the carrier bag and asked what was inside. He protested all the way through the rest of the investigation, the trial, and as he was being hauled back to the cells after being handed down a life sentence. Geddes and Rebus were in court, Geddes back to normal, beaming satisfaction, Rebus just a little uneasy. They’d had to concoct a story: an anonymous tip-off on a consignment of stolen goods, a chance find … It felt right and wrong at the same time. Lawson Geddes hadn’t wanted to talk about it afterwards, which was strange: usually they dissected their cases – successful or not – over a drink. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Geddes had resigned from the force, with promotion only a year or two away. Instead, he’d gone to work in his father’s off-sales business – there was always a discount waiting for serving officers – made some money, and retired at a youthful fifty-five. For the past ten years, he’d been living with his wife Etta in Lanzarote.

  Ten years ago Rebus had received a postcard. Lanzarote had ‘not much fresh water, but enough to temper a glass of whisky, and the Torres wines need no adulteration’. The landscape was almost lunar, ‘black volcanic ash, so an excuse not to garden!’, and that was about it. He hadn’t heard anything since, and Geddes hadn’t furnished his address on the island. That was OK, friendships came and went. Geddes had been a useful man to know at the time, he’d taught Rebus a lot.

  Dylan: Don’t Look Back.

  The here and now: light-show stinging Rebus’s eyes. He blinked back tears, stepped away from the stage, retreated to hospitality. Pop stars and entourage, loving the media interest. Flash-bulbs and questions. A spume of champagne. Rebus brushed flecks from his shoulder, decided it was time to find his car.

  The Spaven case should have remained closed, no matter how loudly the prisoner himself protested. But in jail, Spaven had started writing, his writings smuggled out by friends or bribed jailers. Pieces had started to see publication – fiction at first, an early story picking up first prize in some newspaper competition. When the winner’s true identity and where-abouts were revealed, the newspaper got itself a bigger news story. More writing, more publication. Then a TV drama, penned by Spaven. It won an award somewhere in Germany, another in France, it was shown in the USA, an estimated audience of twenty million worldwide. There was a follow-up. Then a novel, and then the non-fiction pieces started appearing – Spaven’s early life at first, but Rebus knew where the story would lead.

  By this time there was loud support in the media for an early release, nullified when Spaven assaulted another prisoner severely enough to cause brain damage. Spaven’s pieces from jail became more eloquent than ever – the man had been jealous of all the attention, had attempted to murder Spaven in the corridor outside his cell. Self-defence. And the crunch: Spaven would not have been placed in this invidious position were it not for a gross miscarriage of justice. The second instalment of Spaven’s autobiography ended with the Elsie Rhind case, and with mention of the two police officers who’d framed him – Lawson Geddes and John Rebus. Spaven reserved his real loathing for Geddes, Rebus just a bit-player, Geddes’ lackey. More media interest. Rebus saw it as a revenge fantasy, planned over long incarcerated years, Spaven unhinged. But whenever he read Spaven’s work, he saw powerful manipulation of the reader, and he thought back to Lawson Geddes on his doorstep that night, to the lies they told afterwards …

  And then Lenny Spaven died, committed suicide. Took a
scalpel to his throat and opened it up, a gash you could fit your hand inside. More rumour: he’d been murdered by jailers before he could complete volume three of his autobiography, detailing his years and depredations in several Scottish prisons. Or jealous prisoners had been allowed access to his cell.

  Or it was suicide. He left a note, three drafts crumpled on the floor, maintaining to the end his innocence in the Elsie Rhind killing. The media started sniffing their story, Spaven’s life and death big news. And now … three things.

  One: the incomplete third volume of autobiography had been published – ‘heart-breaking’ according to one critic, ‘a massive achievement’ for another. It was still on the bestseller list, Spaven’s face staring out from bookshop windows all along Princes Street. Rebus tried to avoid the route.

  Two: a prisoner was released, and told reporters he was the last person to see or speak to Spaven alive. According to him, Spaven’s last words were: ‘God knows I’m innocent, but I’m so tired of saying it over and over.’ The story earned the ex-offender £750 from a newspaper; easy to see it as flannel waved at a gullible press.

  Three: a new TV series was launched, The Justice Programme, a hard-hitting look at crime, the system, and miscarriages of justice. High ratings for its first series – attractive presenter Eamonn Breen scooping women viewers – so now a second series was on the blocks, and the Spaven case – severed head, accusations, and suicide of a media darling – was to be the showcase opener.

  With Lawson Geddes out of the country, address unknown, leaving John Rebus to carry the film-can.

  Alex Harvey: ‘Framed’. Segue to Jethro Tull: ‘Living in the Past’.

  He went home by way of the Oxford Bar – a long detour, always worthwhile. The gantry and optics had a quietly hypnotic effect, the only possible explanation as to why the regulars could stand and stare at them for hours at a stretch. The barman waited for an order; Rebus did not have a ‘usual’ drink these days, variety the spice of life and all that.

  ‘Dark rum, and a half of Best.’

  He hadn’t touched dark rum in years, didn’t think of it as a young man’s drink. Yet Allan Mitchison had drunk it. A seaman’s drink, another reason to think he worked offshore. Rebus handed over money, downed the short in one sour swallow, rinsed his mouth with the beer, found himself finishing it too quickly. The barman turned with his change.

  ‘Make it a pint this time, Jon.’

  ‘And another rum?’

  ‘Jesus, no.’ Rebus rubbed his eyes, bummed a cigarette from his drowsy neighbour. The Spaven case … it had dragged Rebus backwards through time, forcing him to confront memory, then to wonder if his memory was playing tricks. It remained unfinished business, twenty years on. Like Bible John. He shook his head, tried to clear it of history, and found himself thinking of Allan Mitchison, of falling headlong on to spiked rails, watching them rise towards you, arms held fast to a chair so there was only one choice left: did you confront doom open-eyed or closed? He walked around the bar to use the telephone, put money in and then couldn’t think who to call.

  ‘Forgotten the number?’ a drinker asked as Rebus got his coin back.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘what’s the Samaritans’ again?’

  The drinker surprised him, knew the number pat.

  *

  Four blinks from his answering machine meant four messages. He lifted the instruction manual. It was open at page six, the ‘Playback’ section boxed with red pen, paragraphs underlined. He followed the instructions. The machine decided to work.

  ‘It’s Brian.’ Brian Holmes. Rebus opened the Black Bush and poured, listening. ‘Just to say … well, thanks. Minto’s recanted, so I’m off the hook. Hope I can return the favour.’ No energy in the voice, a mouth tired of words. End message. Rebus savoured the whiskey.

  Blip: message two.

  ‘I was working late and thought I’d give you a call, Inspector. We spoke earlier, Stuart Minchell, personnel manager at T-Bird Oil. I can confirm that Allan Mitchison was in our employ. I can fax through the details if you have a number. Call me at the office tomorrow. Bye.’

  Goodbye and bingo. A relief to know something about the deceased other than his taste in music. Rebus’s ears were roaring: the concert and the alcohol, blood pounding.

  Message three: ‘It’s Howdenhall here, thought you were in a hurry but I can’t find you. Typical CID.’ Rebus knew the voice: Pete Hewitt at the police lab, Howdenhall. Pete looked fifteen, but was probably early twenties, smart-mouthed with a brain to match. Fingerprints a speciality. ‘I got mostly partials, but a couple of beauties, and guess what? Their owner’s on the computer. Past convictions for violence. Phone me back if you want a name.’

  Rebus checked his watch. Pete doing his usual tease. It was gone eleven, he’d be home or out on the ran-dan, and Rebus didn’t have a home number for him. He kicked the sofa, wished he’d stayed home: carting off bootleggers a pure waste of time. Still, he had the Black Bush and a bagful of CDs, T-shirts he’d never wear, a poster of four tykes with acne close-ups. He’d seen their faces before, couldn’t think where …

  One message to go.

  ‘John?’

  A woman’s voice, one he recognised.

  ‘If you’re home, pick up, please. I hate these things.’ Pause, waiting. A sigh. ‘OK then, look, now that we’re not … I mean, now I’m not your boss, how about some socialising? Dinner or something. Give me a call at home or office, OK? While there’s time. I mean, you won’t be at Fort Apache for ever. Take care.’

  Rebus sat down, staring at the machine as it clicked off. Gill Templer, Chief Inspector, one-time ‘significant other’. She’d become his boss only recently, frost on the surface, no sign of anything but iceberg beneath. Rebus took another drink, toasted the machine. A woman had just asked him for a date: when had that last happened? He got up and went to the bathroom, examined his reflection in the cabinet mirror, rubbed his chin and laughed. Twilit eyes, lank hair, hands that trembled when he lifted them level.

  ‘Looking good, John.’ Yes, and he could fib for Scotland. Gill Templer, looking as good these days as when they’d first met, asking him out? He shook his head, still laughing. No, there had to be something … A hidden agenda.

  Back in the living room, he emptied his lucky-bag, found that the poster of the four tykes matched the cover of one of the CDs. He recognised it: The Dancing Pigs. One of Mitchison’s tapes, their latest recording. He recalled a couple of the faces from the hospitality tent: We fucking killed them out there! Mitchison had owned at least two of their albums.

  Funny he hadn’t had a ticket to the gig …

  His front door bell: short, two rings. He walked back down the hall, checking the time. Eleven twenty-five. Put his eye to the spy-hole, didn’t believe what he saw, opened the door wide.

  ‘Where’s the rest of the crew?’

  Kayleigh Burgess stood there, heavy bag hanging from her shoulder, hair tucked up under an oversized green beret, strands curling down past both ears. Cute and cynical at the same time: Don’t-Muck-Me-About-Unless-I-Want-You-To. Rebus had seen the model and year before.

  ‘In their beds, most likely.’

  ‘You mean Eamonn Breen doesn’t sleep in a coffin?’

  A guarded smile; she adjusted the weight of the bag on her shoulder. ‘You know,’ not looking at him, fussing with the bag instead, ‘you’re doing yourself no favours refusing to even discuss this with us. It doesn’t make you look good.’

  ‘I was no pin-up to start with.’

  ‘We’re not taking sides, that’s not what The Justice Programme’s about.’

  ‘Really? Well, much as I enjoy a blether on the doorstep last thing at night …’

  ‘You haven’t heard, have you?’ Now she looked at him. ‘No, I didn’t think so. Too soon. We’ve had a unit out in Lanzarote, trying to interview Lawson Geddes. I got a phone call this evening …’

  Rebus knew the face and tone of voice; he’d used them himself on many g
rim occasions, trying to break the news to family, to friends …

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He committed suicide. Apparently he’d been suffering from depression since his wife died. He shot himself.’

  ‘Aw, Christ.’ Rebus swivelled from the door, legs heavy as he made for the living room, the whiskey bottle. She followed him, placed her bag on the coffee table. He motioned with the bottle and she nodded. They chinked glasses.

  ‘When did Etta die?’

  ‘About a year ago. Heart attack, I think. There’s a daughter, lives in London.’

  Rebus remembered her: a cheeky-faced pre-teen with braces. Her name was Aileen.

  ‘Did you hound Geddes the way you’ve hounded me?’

  ‘We don’t “hound”, Inspector. We just want everyone to have their say. It’s important to the programme.’

  ‘The programme.’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Well, you’ve not got a programme now, have you?’

  The drink had brought colour to her face. ‘On the contrary, Mr Geddes’ suicide could be construed as an admission of guilt. It makes a hell of a punch-line.’ She’d recovered well; Rebus wondered how much of her earlier timidity had been an act. He realised she was standing in his living room: records, CDs, empty bottles, books piled high on the floor. He couldn’t let her see the kitchen: Johnny Bible and Bible John spread across the table, evidence of an obsession. ‘That’s why I’m here … partly. I could have given you the news over the telephone, but I thought it was the sort of thing best done face to face. And now that you’re alone, the only living witness so to speak …’ She reached into the bag, produced a professional-looking tape deck and microphone. Rebus put down his glass and walked over to her, hands out.

  ‘May I?’

  She hesitated, then handed over the equipment. Rebus walked down the hall with it. The front door was still open. He stepped into the stairwell, reached a hand over the guard-rail, and let go the recorder. It fell two flights, case splintering on impact with the stone floor. She was right behind him.