by Ian Rankin
‘You’ll pay for that!’
‘Send me the bill and we’ll see.’
He walked back inside and closed the door after him, put the chain on as a hint, and watched through the spy-hole till she’d gone.
He sat in his chair by the window, thinking of Lawson Geddes. Typical Scot, he couldn’t cry about it. Crying was for football defeats, animal bravery stories, ‘Flower of Scotland’ after closing time. He cried about stupid things, but tonight his eyes remained stubbornly dry.
He knew he was in shit. They only had him now, and they’d redouble their efforts to salvage a programme. Besides, Burgess was right: prisoner suicide, policeman suicide – it was a hell of a punch-line. But Rebus didn’t want to be the man to feed them it. Like them, he wanted to know the truth – but not for the same reasons. He couldn’t even say why he wanted to know. One course of action: start his own investigation. The only problem was, the further he dug, the more he might be creating a pit for his own reputation – what was left of it – and, more importantly, that of his one-time mentor, partner, friend. Problem connected to the first: he wasn’t objective enough; he couldn’t investigate himself. He needed a stand-in, an understudy.
He picked up the telephone, pressed seven numbers. A sleepy response.
‘Yeah, hello?’
‘Brian, it’s John. Sorry to phone so late, I need that favour repaid.’
They met in the car park at Newcraighall. Lights were on in the UCI cinema complex, some late showing. The Mega Bowl was closed; so was McDonald’s. Holmes and Nell Stapleton had moved into a house just off Duddingston Park, looking across Portobello Golf Course and the Freightliner Terminal. Holmes said the freight traffic didn’t keep him awake through the night. They could have met at the golf course, but it was too close to Nell for Rebus’s liking. He hadn’t seen her in a couple of years, not even at social functions – each had a gift for knowing when the other would or wouldn’t be in attendance. Old scrapes; Nell picking at the scabs, obsessive.
So they met a couple of miles away, in a gully, surrounded by closed shops – DIY store, shoe emporium, Toys R Us – still cops, even off duty.
Especially off duty.
Their eyes darted, using wing mirrors and rearview, looking for shadows. Nobody in sight, they still talked in an undertone. Rebus explained exactly what he wanted.
‘This TV programme, I need some ammo before I talk to them. But it’s too personal with me. I need you to go back over the Spaven case – case notes, trial proceedings. Just read through them, see what you think.’
Holmes sat in the passenger seat of Rebus’s Saab. He looked what he was: a man who’d got undressed and gone to bed, only to have to get up too shortly thereafter and put dayshift clothes on again. His hair was ruffled, shirt open two buttons, shoes but no socks. He stifled a yawn, shaking his head.
‘I don’t get it. What am I looking for?’
‘Just see if anything jars. Just … I don’t know.’
‘You’re taking this seriously then?’
‘Lawson Geddes just killed himself.’
‘Christ.’ But Holmes didn’t even blink; beyond compassion for men he didn’t know, figures from history. He had too much on his own mind.
‘Something else,’ Rebus said. ‘You might track down an ex-con who says he was the last person to talk to Spaven. I forget the name, but it was reported in all the papers at the time.’
‘One question: do you think Geddes framed Lenny Spaven?’
Rebus made a show of thinking it over, then shrugged. ‘Let me tell you the story. Not the story you’ll find in my written notes on the case.’
Rebus began to talk: Geddes turning up at his door, the too-easy finding of the bag, Geddes frantic before, unnaturally calm after. The story they manufactured, anonymous tip-off. Holmes listened in silence. The cinema began to empty, young couples hugging, air-hopping towards their cars, walking like they’d rather be lying down. A gathering of engine-noise, exhaust fumes and headlights, tall shadows on the canyon walls, the car park emptying. Rebus finished his version.
‘Another question.’
Rebus waited, but Holmes was having trouble forming the words. He gave up finally and shook his head. Rebus knew what he was thinking. He knew Rebus had put the squeeze on Minto, while believing Minto to have a case against Holmes. And now he knew that Rebus had lied to protect Lawson Geddes and to secure the conviction. The question in his mind a double strand – was Rebus’s version the truth? How dirty was the copper sitting behind the steering wheel?
How dirty would Holmes allow himself to get before he left the force?
Rebus knew Nell nagged him every day, quiet persuasion. He was young enough for another career, any career, something clean and risk-free. There was still time for him to get out. But maybe not much time.
‘OK,’ Holmes said, opening the car door. ‘I’ll start a.s.a.p.’ He paused. ‘But if I find any dirt, anything concealed in the margins …’
Rebus turned on his lights, high-beam. He started the car and drove off.
4
Rebus woke up early. There was a book open on his lap. He looked at the last paragraph he’d read before falling asleep, didn’t recall any of it. Mail lying inside the door: who’d be a postman in Edinburgh, all those tenement stairs? His credit-card bill: two supermarkets, three off-licences, and Bob’s Rare Vinyl. Impulse buys one Saturday afternoon, after a lunchtime sesh in the Ox – Freak Out on single vinyl, mint; The Velvet Underground, peel-off banana intact; Sergeant Pepper in mono with the sheet of cut-outs. He’d yet to play any of them, already had scratchy copies of the Velvets and Beatles.
He shopped on Marchmont Road, ate breakfast at the kitchen table with the Bible John/Johnny Bible material for a cloth. Johnny Bible headlines: ‘Catch This Monster!’; ‘Baby-Faced Killer Claims Third Victim’; ‘Public Warned: Be Vigilant’. Much the same banners Bible John was earning a quarter century before.
Johnny Bible’s first victim: Duthie Park, Aberdeen. Michelle Strachan came from Pittenweem in Fife, so of course all her Furry Boot pals called her Michelle Fifer. She didn’t look like her near-namesake: short and skinny, mousy shoulder-length hair, front teeth prominent. She was a student at Robert Gordon University. Raped, strangled, one shoe missing.
Victim two, six weeks later: Angela Riddell, Angie to her friends. In her time she’d worked at an escort agency, been arrested in a slapper sweep near Leith docks, and fronted a blues band, husky-voiced but trying too hard. A record company had now released the band’s only demo as a CD single, making money from ghouls and the curious. Edinburgh CID had spent a lot of hours – thousands of man hours – trawling through Angie Riddell’s past, seeking out old clients, friends, fans of the band, looking for a prozzy punter turned killer, an obsessed blues fan, whatever. Warriston Cemetery, where the body was found, was a known haunt of Hell’s Angels, amateur black magicians, perverts and loners. In the days following the discovery of the body, at dead of night you were more likely to trip over a snoozing surveillance team than a crucified cat.
A month-long gap, during which the first two murders had been connected – Angie Riddell not only raped and strangled, but missing a distinctive necklace, a row of two-inch metal crosses, bought in Cockburn Street – then a third killing, this time in Glasgow. Judith Cairns, ‘Ju-Ju’, was on the dole, which hadn’t stopped her working in a chip shop late evenings, a pub some lunchtimes, and as a hotel chambermaid weekend mornings. When she was found dead, there was no sign of her backpack, which friends swore she took everywhere, even to clubs and warehouse raves.
Three women, aged nineteen, twenty-four and twenty-one, murdered within three months. It was two weeks since Johnny Bible had struck. A six-week gap between victims one and two had been whittled to a calendar month between two and three. Everyone was waiting, waiting for the worst possible news. Rebus drank his coffee, ate his croissant, and examined photos of the three victims, culled from the newspapers, blown-up grainy, all the young
women smiling, the way you only usually did for a photographer. The camera always lied.
Rebus knew so much about the victims, so little about Johnny Bible. Though no police officer would admit it in public, they were impotent, all but going through the motions. It was his play; they were waiting for him to slip up: overconfidence, or boredom, or a simple desire to be caught, the knowledge of what was right and wrong. They were waiting for a friend, a neighbour, a loved one to come forward, maybe an anonymous call – one that would prove not merely malicious. They were all waiting. Rebus ran a finger over the biggest photo of Angie Riddell. He’d known her, had been part of the team that had arrested her and a lot of other working girls that night in Leith. The atmosphere had been good, a lot of jokes, jibes at married officers. Most of the prostitutes knew the routine, those who did calming those who were new to the game. Angie Riddell had been stroking the hair of a hysterical teenager, a druggie. Rebus had liked her style, had interviewed her. She’d made him laugh. A couple of weeks later, he’d driven down Commercial Street, asked how she was doing. She’d told him time was money, and talk didn’t come cheap, but offered him a discount if he wanted anything more substantial than hot air. He’d laughed again, bought her tea and a bridie at a late-opening café. A fortnight later, he found himself down in Leith again, but according to the girls she hadn’t been around, so that was that.
Raped, beaten, strangled.
It all reminded him of the World’s End killings, of other murders of young women, so many of them left unsolved. World’s End: October ’77, the year before Spaven, two teenagers drinking in the World’s End pub on the High Street. Their bodies turned up next morning. Beaten, hands tied, strangled, bags and jewellery missing. Rebus hadn’t worked the case, but knew men who had: they carried with them the frustration of a job left undone, and would carry it to the grave. The way a lot of them saw it, when you worked a murder investigation, your client was the deceased, mute and cold, but still screaming out for justice. It had to be true, because sometimes if you listened hard enough you could hear them screaming. Sitting in his chair by the window, Rebus had heard many a despairing cry. One night, he’d heard Angie Riddell and it had pierced his heart, because he’d known her, liked her. In that instant it became personal for him. He couldn’t not be interested in Johnny Bible. He just didn’t know what he could do to help. His curiosity about the original Bible John case was probably no help at all. It had sent him back in time, spending less and less time in the present. Sometimes it took all his strength to pull him back to the here and now.
Rebus had telephone calls to make. First: Pete Hewitt at Howdenhall.
‘Morning, Inspector, and isn’t she a beauty?’
Voice dripping irony. Rebus looked out at milky sunshine. ‘Rough night, Pete?’
‘Rough? You could shave a yak with it. I take it you got my message?’ Rebus had pen and paper ready. ‘I got a couple of decent prints off the whisky bottle: thumb and forefinger. Tried lifting from the polythene bag and the tape binding him to the chair, but only a few partials, nothing to build a case on.’
‘Come on, Pete, get to the ID.’
‘Well, all that money you complain we spend on computers … I got a match within quarter of an hour. The name is Anthony Ellis Kane. He has a police record for attempted murder, assault, reset. Ring any bells?’
‘Not a one.’
‘Well, he used to operate out of Glasgow. No convictions these past seven years.’
‘I’ll look him up when I get to the station. Thanks, Pete.’
Next call: the personnel office at T-Bird Oil. A long-distance call; he’d wait and make it from Fort Apache. A glance out of the window: no sign of the Redgauntlet crew. Rebus put his jacket on and made for the door.
He stopped in at the boss’s office. MacAskill was guzzling Irn-Bru.
‘We have a fingerprint ID, Anthony Ellis Kane, previous convictions for violence.’
MacAskill tossed the empty can into his waste-basket. His desk was stacked with old paperwork – drawer one of the filing cabinet. There was an empty packing case on the floor.
‘What about the decedent’s family, friends?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Deceased worked for T-Bird Oil. I’m going to call the personnel manager for details.’
‘Make that job one, John.’
‘Job one, sir.’
But when he got to the Shed and sat at his desk, he thought about phoning Gill Templer first, decided against it. Bain was at his desk; Rebus didn’t want an audience.
‘Dod,’ he said, ‘run a check on Anthony Ellis Kane. Howdenhall found his prints on the carry-out.’ Bain nodded and started typing. Rebus phoned Aberdeen, gave his name and asked to be put through to Stuart Minchell.
‘Good morning, Inspector.’
‘Thanks for leaving a message, Mr Minchell. Do you have Allan Mitchison’s employment details?’
‘Right in front of me. What do you want to know?’
‘A next of kin.’
Minchell shuffled paper. ‘There doesn’t appear to be one. Let me check his CV.’ A long pause, Rebus happy not to be making the call from home. ‘Inspector, it seems Allan Mitchison was an orphan. I have details of his education, and there’s a children’s home mentioned.’
‘No family?’
‘No mention of a family.’
Rebus had written Mitchison’s name on a sheet of paper. He underlined it now, the rest of the page a blank. ‘What was Mr Mitchison’s position within the company?’
‘He was … let’s see, he worked for Platform Maintenance, specifically as a painter. We have a base in Shetland, maybe he worked there.’ More paper shuffling. ‘No, Mr Mitchison worked on the platforms themselves.’
‘Painting them?’
‘And general maintenance. Steel corrodes, Inspector. You’ve no idea how fast the North Sea can strip paint from steel.’
‘Which rig did he work on?’
‘Not a rig, a production platform. I’d have to check that.’
‘Could you do that, please? And could you fax me through his personnel file?’
‘You say he’s dead?’
‘Last time I looked.’
‘Then there should be no problem. Give me your number there.’
Rebus did so, and terminated the call. Bain was waving him over. Rebus crossed the room and stood by Bain’s side, the better to see the computer screen.
‘This guy’s pure mental,’ Bain said. His phone rang. Bain picked up, started a conversation. Rebus read down the screen. Anthony Ellis Kane, known as ‘Tony El’, had a record going back to his youth. He was now forty-four years old, well known to Strathclyde police. The bulk of his adult life had been spent in the employ of Joseph Toal, a.k.a. ‘Uncle Joe’, who practically ran Glasgow with muscle provided by his son and by men like Tony El. Bain put down the receiver.
‘Uncle Joe,’ he mused. ‘If Tony El is still working for him, we could have a very different case.’
Rebus was remembering what the boss had said: it’s got a gang feel to it. Drugs or a default on a loan. Maybe MacAskill was right.
‘You know what this means?’ Bain said.
Rebus nodded. ‘A trip to weegie-land.’ Scotland’s two main cities, separated by a fifty-minute motorway trip, were wary neighbours, as though years back one had accused the other of something and the accusation, unfounded or not, still rankled. Rebus had a couple of contacts in Glasgow CID, so went to his desk and made the calls.
‘If you want info on Uncle Joe,’ he was told during the second call, ‘best talk to Chick Ancram. Wait, I’ll give you his number.’
Charles Ancram, it turned out, was a Chief Inspector based in Govan. Rebus spent a fruitless half hour trying to find him, then went for a walk. The shops in front of Fort Apache were the usual metal shutters and mesh grille affairs, Asian owners mostly, even if the shops were staffed with white faces. Men hung around on the street outside, T-shirted, sporting tattoos, smoking. Eyes as trustwo
rthy as a weasel in a hen-house.
Eggs? Not me, pal, can’t stand them.
Rebus bought cigarettes and a newspaper. Walking out of the shop, a baby buggy caught his ankles, a woman told him to mind where he was fucking going. She bustled away, hauling a toddler behind her. Twenty, maybe twenty-one, hair dyed blonde, two front teeth missing. Her bared forearms showed tattoos, too. Across the road, an advertising hoarding told him to spend £20k on a new car. Behind it, the discount supermarket was doing no business, kids using its car park as a skateboard rink.
Back in the Shed, Maclay was on the telephone. He held the receiver out to Rebus.
‘Chief Inspector Ancram, returning your call.’ Rebus rested against the desk.
‘Hello?’
‘Inspector Rebus? Ancram here, I believe you want a word.’
‘Thanks for getting back to me, sir. Two words really: Joseph Toal.’
Ancram snorted. He had a west coast drawl, nasal, always managing to sound a little condescending. ‘Uncle Joe Corleone? Our own dear Godfather? Has he done something I don’t know about?’
‘Do you know one of his men, a guy called Anthony Kane?’
‘Tony El,’ Ancram confirmed. ‘Worked for Uncle Joe for years.’
‘Past tense?’
‘He hasn’t been heard of in a while. Story is he crossed Uncle Joe, and Uncle Joe got Stanley to see to things. Tony El was all cut up about it.’
‘Who’s Stanley?’
‘Uncle Joe’s son. It’s not his real name, but everyone calls him Stanley, on account of his hobby.’
‘Which is?’
‘Stanley knives, he collects them.’
‘You think Stanley topped Tony El?’
‘Well, the body hasn’t turned up, which is usually proof enough in a perverse way.’
‘Tony El’s very much alive. He was through here a few days ago.’
‘I see.’ Ancram was quiet for a moment. In the background Rebus could hear busy voices, radio transmissions, police station sounds. ‘Bag over the head?’
