by Ian Rankin
‘We don’t talk about that,’ Rebus said firmly. ‘It’s history.’
‘Too much history around here.’
‘What else have the Scots got?’
‘You two look about as happy as nuns on a Club 18–30.’ Siobhan Clarke pulled out a chair and sat down.
‘Nice holiday?’ Rebus asked.
‘Relaxing.’
‘I see the weather was lousy.’
She ran a hand up one arm. ‘Took hours of work on the beach to get this.’
‘You’ve always been conscientious.’
She sipped Diet Pepsi. ‘So why’s everyone so down in the dumps?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Two tired, grey men; one young woman, tanned and brimming with life. Rebus knew he’d have to gee himself up for his evening date.
‘So,’ he asked Holmes casually, ‘that thing I asked you to look into …?’
‘It’s slow going. If you want my opinion,’ he looked up at Rebus, ‘whoever wrote up the notes was a master of circumlocution. There’s a lot of circling around the subject. I’d guess most casual readers would give up rather than plough on.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Why would the writer have done that?’
‘To put people off reading it. He probably thought they’d flick to the summing-up, miss out all the rubbish in the middle. Thing is, you can lose things that way, bury them in the text.’
‘Excuse me,’ Siobhan said, ‘have I walked into a masonic meeting by mistake? Is this some code I’m not supposed to get?’
‘Not at all, Brother Clarke,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet. ‘Maybe Brother Holmes will tell you about it.’
Holmes looked to Siobhan. ‘Only if you promise not to show me any holiday snaps.’
‘I wasn’t intending to.’ Siobhan straightened her back. ‘I know naturist beaches aren’t your thing.’
Rebus was purposely early for the rendezvous. Bain hadn’t been lying: there were two restaurants with wood-slatted blinds. They were eighty yards apart, and Rebus walked relays between the two. He saw Gill rounding the corner at Tollcross and waved to her. She hadn’t over-dressed for the occasion: new-looking denims, plain cream blouse, and a yellow cashmere jumper tied around her neck. Sunglasses, gold-chain necklace, and two-inch heels – she liked to make a noise when she walked.
‘Hello, John.’
‘Hiya, Gill.’
‘Is this the place?’
He looked at the restaurant. ‘There’s another one just up the road if you’d prefer. Or there’s French, Thai …’
‘This is fine.’ She pulled open the door, walked in ahead of him. ‘Did you book a table?’
‘Didn’t think they’d be busy,’ Rebus said. The restaurant wasn’t empty, but there was a spare table for two by the window, directly beneath a distorting loudspeaker. Gill removed her brown leather shoulder-bag and laid it under her chair.
‘Something to drink?’ their waiter asked.
‘Whisky and soda for me,’ Gill said.
‘Whisky, no additives,’ Rebus ordered. As the first waiter left, another appeared with menus, popadums and pickles. After he’d gone, Rebus looked around, saw that no one at the other tables was paying attention, and reached up to tug at the speaker-cable, disconnecting it. The music above them stopped.
‘Better,’ Gill said, smiling.
‘So,’ Rebus said, laying his napkin across his thighs, ‘is this business or social?’
‘Both,’ Gill admitted. She broke off as the drinks arrived. The waiter knew something was wrong, eventually placed it. He looked up at the silent speaker.
‘It can be easily mended,’ he told them. They shook their heads, then studied the menus. Having ordered, Rebus raised his glass.
‘Slàinte.’
‘Cheers.’ Gill took a gulp of her drink, exhaled afterwards.
‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘niceties taken care of … to business.’
‘Do you know how many women make chief inspector in the Scottish force?’
‘I know we’re talking the fingers of a blind carpenter’s hand.’
‘Exactly.’ She paused, realigned her cutlery. ‘I don’t want to screw up.’
‘Who does?’
She glanced at him, smiled. Rebus: world’s supply of fuck-ups, his life a warehouse filled to the rafters with them. Harder to shift than eight-track cartridges.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘so I’m an authority.’
‘And that’s good.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Because I’m still fucking up.’
She smiled. ‘Five months, John, and I haven’t made a good collar yet.’
‘But that’s about to change?’
‘I don’t know.’ Another gulp of courage. ‘Someone’s passed me some information about a drug deal … a biggie.’
‘Which protocol dictates you should pass on to the Scottish Crime Squad.’
She gave him a look. ‘And hand those lazy bastards the glory? Come on, John.’
‘I’ve never been a great believer in protocol myself. All the same …’ All the same: he didn’t want Gill fucking up. He could see this was important to her: maybe too important. She needed perspective, same as he needed on Spaven.
‘So who passed you the info?’
‘Fergus McLure.’
‘Feardie Fergie?’ Rebus pursed his lips. ‘Wasn’t he one of Flower’s snitches?’
Gill nodded. ‘I took over Flower’s list when he moved.’
‘Jesus, how much did he screw out of you?’
‘Never you mind.’
‘Most of Flower’s grasses are worse than anyone they could possibly snitch on.’
‘Nevertheless, he gave me his list.’
‘Feardie Fergie, eh?’
Fergus McLure had been in and out of private hospitals half his life. A nervous wreck, he drank nothing stronger than Ovaltine, and couldn’t watch anything more exciting than Pets Win Prizes. His constant supply of prescription drugs bolstered the profits of the British pharmaceutical industry. This said, he ran a nice little empire which just bordered on the legal: jeweller by trade, he also put on sales of Persian rugs, fire-damaged and water-damaged merchandise, receivership auctions. He lived in Ratho, a village on the edge of the city. Feardie Fergie was a known homosexual, but lived quietly – unlike some judges of Rebus’s acquaintance.
Gill crunched on a popadum, dribbled chutney on the remaining piece.
‘So what’s the problem?’ Rebus asked.
‘How well do you know Fergus McLure?’
Rebus shrugged, lied. ‘Reputation only. Why?’
‘Because I want this watertight before I act on it.’
‘Problem with snitches, Gill, you can’t always have corroboration.’
‘No, but I can have a second opinion.’
‘You want me to talk to him?’
‘John, for all your flaws –’
‘For which I am famous.’
‘– you’re a good judge of character, and you know enough about informers.’
‘My back-up subject for Mastermind.’
‘I just want to know if you think he’s on the level. I don’t want to go to all the trouble and effort of opening an investigation, maybe setting up surveillance, taps, even a sting operation, only to have the carpet pulled out from under me.’
‘Understood, but you know the Squaddies will be peeved if you keep them in the dark. They’ve got the manpower and experience for this sort of thing.’
She just stared at him. ‘Since when did you start going by the book?’
‘We’re not talking about me. I’m the L&B bad apple – doubtless they think one’s more than enough.’
Their food arrived, the table filling with platters and dishes, a nan bread big enough to be plotting world domination. They looked at one another, realising they didn’t feel that hungry any more.
‘A couple more of the same,’ Rebus said, handing the wai
ter his empty glass. To Gill: ‘So tell me Fergie’s story.’
‘It’s sketchy. Some drugs are coming north in a consignment of antiques. They’re going to be handed over to the dealers.’
‘The dealers being …?’
She shrugged. ‘McLure thinks they’re Americans.’
Rebus frowned. ‘Who? The sellers?’
‘No, the buyers. The sellers are German.’
Rebus went through the major Edinburgh dealers, couldn’t think of a single American.
‘I know,’ Gill said, reading his thoughts.
‘New boys trying to break in?’
‘McLure thinks the stuff’s headed further north.’
‘Dundee?’
She nodded. ‘And Aberdeen.’
Aberdeen again. Jesus. A town called malice. ‘So how’s Fergie involved?’
‘One of his sales would be the perfect cover.’
‘He’s fronting?’
Another nod. She chewed on a piece of chicken, dipped nan bread into the sauce. Rebus watched her eat, remembering little things about her: the way her ears moved when she chewed, the way her eyes flicked over the different dishes, the way she rubbed her fingers together afterwards … There were rings around her neck that hadn’t been there five years ago, and maybe when she visited her hairdresser they added some colour to her roots. But she looked good. She looked great.
‘So?’ she asked.
‘Is that all he told you?’
‘He’s scared of these dealers, too scared to tell them to get lost. But the last thing he wants is us catching on and putting him in jail as an accessory. That’s why he’s grassing.’
‘Even though he’s scared?’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘When’s all this supposed to happen?’
‘When they phone him.’
‘I don’t know, Gill. If it were a peg, you couldn’t hang a fucking hankie on it, never mind your coat.’
‘Colourfully put.’
She was staring at his tie as she said it. It was a loud tie, purposely so: it was supposed to distract attention from his unironed shirt with the missing button.
‘OK, I’ll go talkies tomorrow, see if I can wring any more out of him.’
‘But gently.’
‘He’ll be putty in my hands.’
They ate only half the food, still felt bloated. Coffee and mints came: Gill put both mints into her bag for later. Rebus had a third whisky. He was looking ahead, seeing them standing outside the restaurant. He could offer to walk her home. He could ask her back to his flat. Only she couldn’t stay the night: there might be reporters outside in the morning.
John Rebus: presumptuous bastard.
‘Why are you smiling?’ she asked.
‘Use it or lose it, they say.’
They split the bill, the drinks coming to as much as the food. And then they were outside. The night had grown cool.
‘What are my chances of finding a taxi?’ Gill was looking up and down the street.
‘Pubs aren’t out yet, you should be OK. My car’s back at the flat …’
‘Thanks, John, I’ll be all right. Look, here’s one.’ She waved to it. The driver signalled and pulled over with a squeak of brakes. ‘Tell me how you get on,’ she said.
‘I’ll phone you straight after.’
‘Thanks.’ She pecked his cheek, a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Then she got into the taxi and closed the door, giving her address to the driver. Rebus watched the cab execute a slow U-turn into the traffic heading for Tollcross.
Rebus stood there for a moment, looking at his shoes. She’d wanted a favour, that was all. Good to know he was still useful for some things. ‘Feardie Fergie’, Fergus McLure. A name from the past; one-time friend of a certain Lenny Spaven. Worth a morning trip to Ratho for definite.
He heard another taxi coming – unmistakable engine sound. Its yellow light was on. He waved it down, got in.
‘The Oxford Bar,’ he said.
The more Bible John thought about the Upstart … the more he learned about him … the surer he felt that Aberdeen was the key.
He sat in his study, door locked against the outside world, and stared at the UPSTART file on his laptop. The gap between victims one and two was six weeks, between victims two and three only four. Johnny Bible was a hungry little devil, but so far he hadn’t killed again. Or if he had, he was still playing with the body. But that wasn’t the Upstart’s way. He killed them quick, then presented the bodies to the world. Bible John had worked back, and had found two newspaper stories – both in the Aberdeen Press and Journal. A woman attacked on her way home from a nightclub, a man attempting to drag her into an alley. She’d screamed, he’d panicked and fled. Bible John had driven out to the scene one night. He stood in the alley and thought of the Upstart standing there, biding his time till the nightclub emptied. There was a housing scheme nearby, and the route home passed the mouth of the alley. Superficially, it was the perfect spot, but the Upstart had been nervous, ill-prepared. He’d probably been waiting there for an hour or two, standing back in the shadows, afraid someone would stumble upon him. His nerve had come and gone. When he’d finally picked a victim, he hadn’t disabled it quickly enough. A scream was all it had taken to send him running.
Yes, it could well be the Upstart. He’d studied his failure, come up with a better plan: go into the nightclub, get talking to the victim … put the victim at its ease, then strike.
Second newspaper item: a woman complaining of a peeper in her back garden. When police were called, they found marks on her kitchen door, clumsy attempts at entering. Maybe connected to the first story, maybe not. Story one: eight weeks before the first murder. Story two: a further four weeks back. A pattern of months establishing itself. And another pattern on top of the first: peeper becoming attacker. Of course, there could be other stories he’d missed, ones from other cities, making for different theories, but Bible John was happy to go with Aberdeen. First victim: often the first victim was local. Once the killer’s confidence was up, he would range further afield. But that first success was so very important.
A timid knock at the study door. ‘I’ve made coffee.’
‘I’ll be out soon.’
Back to his computer. He knew the police would be busy compiling their own composites, their psychological profiles, remembered the one a psychiatrist had compiled of him. You knew he was ‘an authority’ because of all the letters after his name: BSc, BL, MA, MB, ChB, LLB, DPA, FRCPath. Meaningless in the wider scheme, as was his report. Bible John had read it in a book years back. The few things about him it got right, he attempted to remedy. The serial murderer was supposedly withdrawn, with few close friends, so he had forced himself to become gregarious. The type was known for a lack of drive and fear of adult contacts, so he took a job where drive and contacts were crucial. As for the rest of the thesis … rubbish, mostly.
Serial killers not infrequently had a history of homosexual activity – not guilty.
They were usually unmarried – tell that to the Yorkshire Ripper.
They often heard two voices inside their heads, one good and the other evil. They collected weapons, and gave them pet names. Many dressed up in women’s clothes. Some showed an interest in black magic or in monsters, and collected sadistic pornography. Many had a ‘private place’ where objects such as hoods, dolls and rubber diving-suits would be kept.
He looked around his study and shook his head.
There were only a few points where the psychiatrist got it right. Yes, he would say he was egocentric – like half the population. Yes, he was neat and tidy. Yes, he had an interest in the Second World War (but not solely Nazism or concentration camps). Yes, he was a plausible liar – or rather, people were gullible listeners. And yes, he planned his culls well in advance, as it appeared the Upstart was now doing.
The librarian had not yet finished compiling his newspaper list. A check of requests for Bible John literature had drawn a blank. That w
as the bad news. But there was good news too. Thanks to the recent upsurge of interest in the original Bible John case, he had newspaper details of other unsolved murders, seven of them. Five took place in 1977, one in ’78, and one much more recently. These gave him a second thesis. The first had the Upstart just beginning his career; the second had him recommencing it after a long gap. He might have been out of the country, or in some institution, or even in a relationship where he did not feel it necessary to kill. If the police were being meticulous – which he doubted – they’d be looking at recent divorces of men who had married in ’78 or ’79. Bible John did not have the means at his disposal to do this, which was frustrating. He got up and stared at his shelves of books, not really seeing them. There was an opinion that the Upstart was Bible John, that the eyewitness descriptions were flawed. As a result, the police and the media had dusted off their photofits and artists’ impressions.
Dangerous. He knew the only way to quash such speculation was to locate the Upstart. Imitation was not the sincerest form of flattery. It was potentially lethal. He had to find the Upstart. Either that or lead the police to him. One way or another, it would be done.
8
He was in a six a.m. opener, drinking off a good sleep.
He’d woken up way too early, got dressed, and decided to go for a walk. He crossed the Meadows, headed down George IV Bridge and the High Street, left on to Cockburn Street. Cockburn Street: shopping mecca to teenagers and hippies; Rebus remembered Cockburn Street market when it was a damned sight more disreputable than these days. Angie Riddell had bought her necklace in a shop on Cockburn Street. Maybe she’d worn it the day he’d taken her to the café, but he didn’t think so. He switched off the thought, turned down a passageway, a steep flight of steps, and took another left on Market Street. He was opposite Waverley Station, and there was a pub open. It catered to night-shift workers, a drink or two before home and bed. But you saw businessmen in it too, bracing themselves for the day ahead.
With newspaper offices nearby, the regulars were print-workers and subs, and there were always first editions available, the ink just dry. Rebus was known here, and no one ever bothered him. Even if a reporter was having a drink, they didn’t hassle him for stories or quotes – it was an unwritten rule, never breached.
