Black And Blue

by Ian Rankin

  This morning, three teenagers sat slumped at a table, barely touching their drinks. Their dishevelled and sleepy state told Rebus they’d just completed a ‘twenty-four’: round-the-clock drinking. The daytime was easy: you started at six in the morning – somewhere like this – and the pubs were licensed till midnight or one o’clock. After that, it had to be clubs, casinos, and you finished the marathon at a pizza parlour on Lothian Road, open till six a.m., at which point you returned here for the last drink of the session.

  The bar was quiet, no TV or radio, the fruit machine not yet plugged in: another unwritten rule. At this time of day, what you did in this place was drink. And read the papers. Rebus poured a helping of water into his whisky, took it and a paper to a table. The sun outside the windows was skin-tone pink against a milky sky. It had been a good walk; he liked the city quiet: taxis and early risers, first dogs being exercised, clear, clean air. But the night before still clung to the place: a litter-bin upturned, a bench on the Meadows with a broken back, traffic cones hoisted on to bus shelter roofs. It was true of the bar too: last night’s fug had not had time to dissipate. Rebus lit a cigarette and read his paper.

  A story on the inside page caught his attention: Aberdeen was hosting an international convention on offshore pollution and the role of the oil industry. Delegates from sixteen countries were expected to attend. There was a smaller story tacked on to the article: the Bannock oil and gas field, 100 miles north-east of Shetland, was coming to the end of its ‘useful economic life’, and was about to undergo decommissioning. Environmentalists were making an issue of Bannock’s main production platform, a steel and concrete structure weighing 200,000 tonnes. They wanted to know what the owners, T-Bird Oil, planned to do with it. As required by law, the company had submitted an Abandonment Programme to the Oil and Gas Division of the Department of Trade and Industry, but its contents had not been made public.

  The environmentalists were saying that there were over 200 oil and gas installations on the UK Continental Shelf, and they all had a finite production life. The government seemed to be backing an option which would leave the majority of the deep-water platforms in place, with only minimal maintenance. There was even talk of selling them off for alternative use – plans included prisons and casino/hotel complexes. The government and the oil companies were talking cost-effectiveness, and about striking a balance between cost, safety and the environment. The protesters’ line was: the environment at any cost. Stoked up from their victory over Shell with the Brent Spar, the pressure groups were planning to make Bannock an issue too, and would be holding marches, rallies, and an open-air concert close to the site of the Aberdeen convention.

  Aberdeen: fast becoming the centre of Rebus’s universe.

  He finished his whisky, decided against a second, then changed his mind. Flicked through the rest of the paper: nothing new on Johnny Bible. There was a property section; he checked the Marchmont/Sciennes prices, then laughed at some of the New Town specs: ‘luxurious townhouse, elegant living on five floors …’; ‘garage for sale separately, £20,000’. There were still a few places in Scotland where £20,000 would buy you a house, maybe with the garage thrown in. He looked down the ‘Country Property’ list, saw more wild prices, flattering photos attached. There was a place on the coast south-east of the city, picture windows and sea views, for the price of a Marchmont flat. Dream on, sailor …

  He walked home, got in his car, and drove out to Craigmillar, one area of the city not yet represented in the property section, and not likely to be for some time to come.

  The night shift was just about to come off. Rebus saw officers he hadn’t seen before. He asked around: it had been a quiet night; the cells were empty, ditto the biscuit-tins. In the Shed, he sat at his desk and saw new paperwork staring up at him. He fetched himself a coffee and picked up the first sheet.

  More dead ends on Allan Mitchison; the head of his children’s home interviewed by local CID. A check of his bank account, nothing amiss. Nothing from Aberdeen CID on Tony El. A woolly suit came in with a package addressed to Rebus. Postmarked Aberdeen, a printed label: T-Bird Oil. Rebus opened it. Publicity material, a compliment slip from Stuart Minchell, Personnel Dept. Half a dozen A4 pamphlets, quality layout and paper, colour throughout, facts kept to a minimum. Rebus, author of five thousand reports, knew waffle when he saw it. Minchell had enclosed a copy of ‘T-BIRD OIL – STRIKING THE BALANCE’, identical to the one in the side pocket of Mitchison’s rucksack. Rebus opened it, saw a map of the Bannock field, laid out across a grid showing which blocks it occupied. A note explained that the North Sea had been divided into blocks of 100 square miles apiece, and oil companies initially made bids for exploration rights to these blocks. Bannock was slap-bang up against the international boundary – a few miles east and you came to more oil fields, but this time Norwegian rather than British.

  ‘Bannock will be the first T-Bird field to undergo rigorous decommissioning,’ Rebus read. There seemed to be seven options available, from Leave In Place to Total Removal. The company’s ‘modest proposal’ was for mothballing: leaving the structure to be dealt with at a later date.

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ Rebus muttered, noting that mothballing ‘would leave funds available for future exploration and development’.

  He put the pamphlets back in their envelope and shoved it in a drawer, returning to his paperwork. A sheet of fax paper was hidden near the bottom. He pulled it out. It was from Stuart Minchell, sent the previous day at seven in the evening: further details on Allan Mitchison’s two workmates. The one who worked at the Sullom Voe terminal was called Jake Harley. He was on a walking/birdwatching holiday somewhere on Shetland, and probably hadn’t yet heard of his friend’s demise. The one who worked offshore was called Willie Ford. He was halfway through a sixteen-day stint, and ‘of course’ had learned about Allan Mitchison.

  Rebus picked up his telephone, reached into the drawer for Minchell’s compliment slip. He got the number from it and pushed the buttons. It was early; all the same …

  ‘Personnel.’

  ‘Stuart Minchell, please.’

  ‘Speaking.’ Bingo: Minchell a company man, early starter.

  ‘Mr Minchell, it’s Inspector Rebus again.’

  ‘Inspector, you’re lucky I picked up the phone. Usually I just let it ring, only way I can get some work done before the rush.’

  ‘Your fax, Mr Minchell – why did you say “of course” Willie Ford had learned of Allan Mitchison’s death?’

  ‘Because they worked together, didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘Offshore?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which platform, Mr Minchell?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you that either? Bannock.’

  ‘The one that’s being mothballed?’

  ‘Yes. Our Public Relations team’s got its work cut out there.’ A pause. ‘Is it important, Inspector?’

  ‘Probably not, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘Thanks anyway.’ Rebus put down the receiver, drummed his fingers against it.

  He went out to the shops, bought a filled roll for breakfast – corned beef and onion. The roll was too floury, and stuck to the roof of his mouth. He bought himself a coffee to wash it down. When he got back to the Shed, Bain and Maclay were at their desks, feet up, tabloid reading. Bain was eating a dough-ring; Maclay burping sausage-meat.

  ‘Snitch reports?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Nothing so far,’ Bain said, not taking his eyes from the paper.

  ‘Tony El?’

  Maclay’s turn: ‘Description’s gone out to every Scottish force, nothing’s come back.’

  ‘I phoned Grampian CID myself,’ Bain added, ‘told them to check out Mitchison’s Indian restaurant. Looks like he was a regular, they might know something.’

  ‘Nice one, Dod,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Not just a pretty face, is he?’ Maclay said.

  The weather forecast was for sunshine and showers. It seemed to Rebus, as he drove out to Ratho, that they
were coming at ten-minute intervals. Brisk black clouds, shafts of sunlight, blue skies, then clouds gathering again. At one point, it started raining when there didn’t seem to be a cloud in the sky.

  Ratho was surrounded by farmland, with the Union Canal bordering it to the north. It was popular in the summer: you could take a boat trip on the canal, or feed the ducks, or eat at a waterfront restaurant. Yet it was less than a mile from the M8, two miles from Turnhouse Airport. Rebus drove out along Calder Road, trusting to his sense of direction. Fergus McLure’s house was on Hallcroft Park. He knew he could find it: there were only a dozen streets in the whole village. McLure was known to work from home. Rebus had decided against phoning ahead: he didn’t want Fergie forewarned.

  When he reached Ratho, it took him five minutes to locate Hallcroft Park. He found Fergie’s address, stopped the car, and walked up to the door. There was no sign of life. He rang the bell a second time. Net curtains stopped him peering through the window.

  ‘Should have phoned,’ Rebus muttered.

  A woman was walking past, terrier straining on its leash. The small dog made terrible choking sounds as it sniffed the pavement.

  ‘Is he not in?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Funny, his car’s here.’ She had time to nod in the direction of a parked Volvo before the dog hauled her away. It was a blue 940 estate. Rebus looked in through the windows, but all he saw was how clean the interior looked. He checked the mileage: low. A new car. The tyre-walls hadn’t even had time to lose their shine.

  Rebus got back into his own car – mileage to date fifty times the Volvo’s – and decided to head back into town by the Glasgow Road. But as he made to drive over the canal bridge, he saw a police car at the far end of the restaurant car park, sitting on the slip-road down to the canal. There was an ambulance parked next to it. Rebus braked, reversed, and turned into the car park, crawling towards the scene. A woolly suit came to warn him off, but Rebus had his warrant card ready. He parked and got out.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Somebody went for a dip with their clothes on.’

  The constable followed Rebus down to the jetty. There were cruise boats moored there, and a couple of tourist-types who looked like they’d come for a trip on one of them. The rain had started again, pockmarking the surface of the canal. The ducks were keeping their distance. A body had been hauled out of the water, clothes sodden, and laid on the wooden slats that constituted the jetty. A man who looked like a doctor was checking for signs of life, no real hope in his face. The back door to the restaurant was open, staff members standing there, faces interested but full of horror.

  The doctor shook his head. One of the tourists, a woman, began to cry. Her companion, a man, cradled his video camera and put an arm around her.

  ‘He must’ve slipped and fallen in,’ someone said, ‘banged his head.’

  The doctor checked the corpse’s head, found a clean gash.

  Rebus looked up towards the staff. ‘Anyone see anything?’ Headshakes. ‘Who reported it?’

  ‘I did.’ The woman tourist, English accent.

  Rebus turned to the doctor. ‘How long has he been in the water?’

  ‘I’m just a GP, not an expert. All the same, if you want a guess … not long. Certainly not overnight.’ Something had rolled out of the drowned man’s jacket pocket and wedged between two of the slats. A small brown bottle with white plastic top. Prescription pills. Rebus looked at the bloated face, fixed it to a much younger man, a man he’d interviewed in 1978 about his connection to Lenny Spaven.

  ‘He’s a local,’ Rebus told the company. ‘His name’s Fergus McLure.’

  He tried phoning Gill Templer, couldn’t track her down, ended up leaving messages for her in half a dozen different places. Back home, he polished his shoes and changed into his best suit, picked out the shirt with the fewest creases, and found the most sober tie he had (excepting his funeral one).

  He looked at himself in the mirror. He’d showered and shaved, dried his hair and combed it. The knot in his tie looked OK, and for once he’d found a matching pair of socks. He looked fine, felt anything but.

  It was half past one, time to go to Fettes.

  The traffic wasn’t too bad, the lights with him, like they didn’t want to hold up his appointment. He was early at L&B HQ thought of driving around, but knew it would only make him more nervous. Instead, he went inside, and sought out the Murder Room. It was on the second floor, a large central office space with smaller compartments off for the senior officers. This was the Edinburgh side of the triangle Johnny Bible had created, the heart of the Angie Riddell investigation. Rebus knew some of the faces on duty, smiled, nodded. The walls were covered with maps, photographs, charts – an attempt at order. So much of police work was putting things in some kind of order: fixing chronology, getting the details right, tidying up after the mess of people’s lives as well as their deaths.

  Most of the people on duty this afternoon looked tired, lacking enthusiasm. They were waiting by telephones, waiting for the elusive tip-off, the missing link, a name or a sighting, waiting for the man … They’d been waiting a long time. Someone had mocked up a photofit of Johnny Bible: horns curling from the head, wisps of smoke from the flared nostrils, fangs and a serpent’s forked tongue.

  The Bogeyman.

  Rebus looked closer. The photofit had been done on computer. The starting-point had been an old photofit of Bible John. With the horns and fangs, he bore a vague likeness to Alister Flower …

  He examined the photographs of Angie Riddell in life, kept his eyes away from her autopsy pics. He remembered her the night he’d arrested her, remembered her sitting in his car talking, almost too full of life. Her hair seemed to be dyed a different colour in almost every picture, like she was never quite happy with herself. Maybe she’d just needed to keep changing, running from the person she’d been, laughing to stop herself crying. Circus clown, painted smile …

  Rebus checked his watch. Fuck it: it was time.

  9

  There was just the CC Rider himself, Colin Carswell, waiting for Rebus in the comfortable and carpeted office.

  ‘Take a seat, won’t you?’ Carswell had half-risen to welcome Rebus, now sat down again. Rebus sat opposite him, studying the desktop, looking for clues. The Yorkshireman was tall, with a body that sagged towards a beer drinker’s gut. His hair was brown, thinning, his nose small, almost flat like a pug’s. He sniffed. ‘Sorry, can’t oblige with your request for biscuits, but there’s tea or coffee if you want it.’

  Rebus remembered the phone call: Will there be tea and biccies? I’m not coming otherwise. The remark had been passed along.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, sir.’

  Carswell opened a folder, picked something up, a newspaper clipping. ‘Damned shame about Lawson Geddes. I hear he was an exceptional officer in his day.’

  The story concerned Geddes’ suicide.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Rebus said.

  ‘They say it’s a coward’s way out, but I know I wouldn’t have the guts.’ He looked up. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I hope I never have to find out, sir.’

  Carswell smiled, put the cutting back, closed the folder. ‘John, we’re getting flak from the media. At first it was just that TV crew, but now everyone seems to want to join the circus.’ He stared at Rebus. ‘Not good.’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘So we’ve decided – the Chief Constable and myself – that we should make an effort.’

  Rebus swallowed. ‘You’re reopening the Spaven case?’

  Carswell brushed invisible dust off the folder. ‘Not straight away. There’s no new evidence, therefore no real need to.’ He looked up quickly. ‘Unless you know some reason why we should?’

  ‘It was cut and dried, sir.’

  ‘Try telling the media that.’

  ‘I have, believe me.’

  ‘We’re going to open an internal inquiry, just to satisfy ourselves
that nothing was overlooked or … untoward … at the time.’

  ‘Putting me under suspicion.’ Rebus could feel his hackles rising.

  ‘Only if you’ve got something to hide.’

  ‘Come on, sir, you reopen an investigation, everyone begins to look dirty. And with Spaven and Lawson Geddes dead, I’m left carrying the can.’

  ‘Only if there’s a can to carry.’

  Rebus leapt to his feet.

  ‘Sit down, Inspector, I’ve not finished with you yet!’

  Rebus sat down, made his hands grip the sides of the chair. He felt if he let go, he might fly clean through the ceiling. Carswell was taking a second to regain his own composure.

  ‘Now, to keep things objective, the inquiry will be headed by someone from outside Lothian and Borders, reporting directly to me. They’ll go through the original files …’

  Warn Holmes.

  ‘… do any follow-up interviews deemed necessary, and compile their report.’

  ‘Is this going to be made public?’

  ‘Not until I have the finished report. It can’t look like a whitewash, that’s all I’ll say. If any breach of the rules has taken place anywhere down the line, it’ll be dealt with. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now, is there anything you’d like to tell me?’

  ‘Just between us, or do you want to bring the strongarm in?’

  Carswell allowed this as a joke. ‘I’m not sure you could call him that.’

  Him.

  ‘Who’s in charge, sir?’

  ‘An officer from Strathclyde, DCI Charles Ancram.’

  Oh dear Jesus fucking Christ. His goodbye to Ancram: an accusation of graft. And Ancram had known, all that day he’d known this was coming, the way he’d smiled, like he had secrets, the way he’d studied Rebus, like they might well become adversaries.

  ‘Sir, there may be some bad blood between CI Ancram and myself.’

  Carswell stared at him. ‘Care to elucidate?’

  ‘No, sir, with respect.’