by Ian Rankin
Ancram got up. He wanted to pace the room, but it wasn’t big enough. ‘This is bad,’ he said.
‘How can the truth be bad?’ But Rebus knew Ancram was right. He didn’t want to agree with Ancram about anything – that would be to fall into the interrogator’s trap: empathy – but he couldn’t make himself disagree on this one point. This was bad. His life was turning into a Kinks song: ‘Dead End Street’.
‘You’re up to your oxters, pal,’ Ancram said.
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
Grogan lit a cigarette for himself, offered one to Rebus, who refused the ploy with a smile. He had his own if he wanted one.
He wanted one – but not enough yet. Instead, he scratched at his palms, clawing his nails across them, a wake-up call to his nerve-endings. There was silence in the room for a minute or so. Ancram rested his backside against the table.
‘Christ, is he waiting for the coffee beans to grow or what?’
Grogan shrugged. ‘Shift changeover, the canteen’ll be busy.’
‘You just can’t get the staff these days,’ Rebus said. Head down, Ancram smiled into his chest. Then he gave a sideways look at the seated figure.
Here we go, thought Rebus: the sympathy routine. Maybe Ancram read his mind, changed his own accordingly.
‘Let’s talk a bit more about Bible John,’ he said.
‘Fine with me.’
‘I’ve started on the Spaven casenotes.’
‘Oh aye?’ Had he got to Brian Holmes?
‘Fascinating reading.’
‘We had a few publishers interested at the time.’
No smile for that one. ‘I didn’t know,’ the inquisitor said quietly, ‘that Lawson Geddes worked on Bible John.’
‘No?’
‘Or that he was kicked off the inquiry. Any idea why that was?’
Rebus didn’t say anything. Ancram spotted the flaw in the armour, stood up and leaned over him.
‘You didn’t know?’
‘I knew he’d worked the case.’
‘But you didn’t know he’d been ordered off it. No, because he didn’t tell you. I found that particular nugget in the Bible John files. But no mention of why.’
‘Is this going anywhere other than up the garden path?’
‘Did he talk to you about Bible John?’
‘Maybe once or twice. He talked a lot about his old cases.’
‘I’m sure he did, the two of you were close. And from what I hear, Geddes liked to shoot his mouth off.’
Rebus glared at him. ‘He was a good copper.’
‘Was he?’
‘Believe it.’
‘But even good coppers make mistakes, John. Even good coppers can cross the line once in their lives. Little birdies tell me you’ve crossed that line more than a few times yourself.’
‘Little birdies shouldn’t shit in their own nests.’
Ancram shook his head. ‘Your past conduct isn’t an issue here.’ He straightened up and turned away, letting that remark sink in. He still had his back to Rebus when he spoke. ‘You know something? This media interest in the Spaven case, it coincided with the first Johnny Bible killing. Know what that might make people think?’ Now he turned round, held up a finger. ‘A copper obsessed with Bible John, remembering stories his old sparring partner told him about the case.’ Second finger. ‘The dirt on the Spaven case is about to be uncovered, years after said copper thought it was buried.’ Third finger. ‘Copper snaps. There’s been this time-bomb in his brain, and now it’s activated …’
Rebus got to his feet. ‘You know it’s not true,’ he said quietly.
‘Convince me.’
‘I’m not sure I need to.’
Ancram looked disappointed in him. ‘We’ll want to take samples – saliva, blood, prints.’
‘What for? Johnny Bible hasn’t left any clues.’
‘I also want a forensic lab to look at your clothes, and a team to give your flat the once-over. If you haven’t done anything, there should be nothing to object to.’ He waited for a reply, got none. The door opened. ‘About fucking time,’ he said.
Lumsden bearing a tray swimming with spilled coffee.
Break-time. Ancram and Grogan went into the corridor for a chat. Lumsden stood by the door, arms folded, thinking he was on guard duty, thinking Rebus wasn’t pumped-up enough to rip his head off.
But Rebus just sat there drinking what was left of his coffee. It tasted disgusting, so probably was unleaded. He took out his cigarettes, lit one, inhaled like it might be his last. He held the cigarette vertical, wondered how something so small and brittle could have taken such a hold over him. Not so very different from this case … The cigarette wavered: his hands were shaking.
‘This is you,’ he told Lumsden. ‘You’ve sold your boss a story. I can live with that, but don’t think I’ll forget.’
Lumsden stared at him. ‘Do I look scared?’
Rebus stared back, smoked his cigarette, said nothing. Ancram and Grogan came back into the room, all business-like.
‘John,’ Ancram said, ‘CI Grogan and I have decided this would be best dealt with in Edinburgh.’
Meaning they couldn’t prove a thing against him. If there was the slightest possibility, then Grogan would want a home collar.
‘There are disciplinary matters here,’ Ancram went on. ‘But they can be dealt with as part of my inquiry into the Spaven case.’ He paused. ‘Shame about DS Holmes.’
Rebus went for it, had to. ‘What about him?’
‘When we went to pick up the Spaven casenotes, some clerk told us there’d been a lot of interest in them recently. Holmes had consulted them three days in a row, apparently for hours at a time – when he should have been on regular duties.’ Another pause. ‘Your name was down, too. Apparently you visited him. Going to tell me what he was up to?’
Silence.
‘Removing evidence?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘That’s the way it looks. Stupid move, whatever it was. He’s refusing to talk, facing disciplinary action. He could be out on his ear.’
Rebus kept his face a blank; not so easy to blank his heart.
‘Come on,’ Ancram said, ‘let’s get you out of here. My driver can take your car, we’ll take mine, maybe have a wee chat on the road.’
Rebus stood up, walked over to Grogan, who straightened his shoulders as if expecting physical assault. Lumsden clenched his fists, ready. Rebus stopped with his face inches from Grogan’s.
‘Are you on the take, sir?’ It was fun to watch the balloon fill with blood, highlighting burst veins and ageing lines.
‘John …’ Ancram warned.
‘It’s an honest question,’ Rebus went on. ‘See, if you’re not, you could do a lot worse than put a surveillance on two Glasgow hoods who seem to be holidaying up here – Eve and Stanley Toal, only his real name’s Malky. His dad’s called Joseph Toal, Uncle Joe, and he runs Glasgow, where CI Ancram works, lives, splashes out money and buys his suits. Eve and Stanley drink at Burke’s Club, where coke isn’t something in a long glass with ice. DS Lumsden took me there, looked like he’d been before. DS Lumsden reminded me that Johnny Bible had picked out his first victim there. DS Lumsden drove me down to the harbour that night, I didn’t ask to be taken there.’ Rebus looked over at Lumsden. ‘He’s a canny operator, DS Lumsden. The games he plays, no wonder he’s called Ludo.’
‘I won’t have malicious comments made about my men.’
‘Surveillance on Eve and Stanley,’ Rebus stressed. ‘And if it’s blown, you know where to look.’ Same place he was looking now.
Lumsden flew at him, hands at his throat. Rebus threw him off.
‘You’re as dirty as bilge-water, Lumsden, and don’t think I don’t know it!’
Lumsden swung a punch; it didn’t connect. Ancram and Grogan pulled the two of them apart. Grogan pointed to Rebus, but spoke to Ancram.
‘Maybe we’d better keep him here after all.’
&nbs
p; ‘I’m taking him back with me.’
‘I’m not so sure about that.’
‘I said I’m taking him back, Ted.’
‘Long time since I had two men fighting over me,’ Rebus said with a smile.
The two Aberdeen officers were looking ready to plough a field with him. Ancram slapped a proprietorial hand on to his shoulder.
‘Inspector Rebus,’ he said, ‘I think we’d best be going, don’t you?’
‘Do me one favour,’ Rebus said.
‘What?’ They were in the back of Ancram’s car, heading for Rebus’s hotel, where they’d pick up his car.
‘A quick detour down to the docks.’
Ancram glanced at him. ‘Why?’
‘I want to see where she died.’
Ancram looked at him again. ‘What for?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘To pay my respects,’ he said.
Ancram had only a vague idea where the body had been found, but it didn’t take long to find the runs of bright police tape which were there to secure the scene. The docks were quiet, no sign of the crate in which the body had been discovered. It would be in a police lab somewhere. Rebus kept the right side of the cordon, looked around him. Huge white gulls strutted at a safe distance. The wind was fresh. He couldn’t tell how close this was to the spot where Lumsden had dropped him off.
‘What do you know about her?’ he asked Ancram, who stood, hands in pockets, studying him.
‘Name’s Holden, I think. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight.’
‘Did he take a souvenir?’
‘Just one of her shoes. Listen, Rebus … all this interest is because you once bought a prostitute a cup of tea?’
‘Her name was Angie Riddell.’ Rebus paused. ‘She had beautiful eyes.’ He gazed towards a rusting hulk chained dockside. ‘There’s a question I’ve been asking myself. Do we let it happen, or do we make it happen?’ He looked at Ancram. ‘Any idea?’
Ancram frowned. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Me neither,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Tell your driver to be careful with my car. The steering’s a bit loose.’
The Panic of Dreams
21
They were chasing him up and down monkey-puzzle ladders, the tumorous sea raging beneath, buckling weakened metal. Rebus lost his grip, tumbled down steel steps, gashed his side and dabbed a hand there, finding oil instead of blood. They were twenty feet above him and laughing, taking their time: where was there for him to go? Maybe he could fly, flap his arms and leap into space. The only thing to fear was the drop.
Like landing on concrete.
Was that better or worse than landing on spikes? He had decisions to make; his pursuers weren’t far behind. They were never far behind, yet he always stayed in front of them, even wounded. I could get out of this, he thought.
I could get out of this!
A voice directly behind him: ‘In your dreams.’ Then a push out into space.
Rebus started awake so suddenly his head hit the car roof. His body surged with fear and adrenalin.
‘Christ,’ Ancram said from the driver’s seat, regaining control of the steering-wheel, ‘what happened?’
‘How long was I asleep?’
‘I didn’t realise you were.’
Rebus looked at his watch: maybe only a couple of minutes. He rubbed his face, told his heart it could stop hammering any time it liked. He could tell Ancram it was a bad dream; he could tell him it was a panic attack. But he didn’t want to tell him anything. Until proven otherwise, Ancram was the enemy as surely as any gun-toting thug.
‘What were you saying?’ he said instead.
‘I was outlining the deal.’
‘The deal, right.’ The Sunday papers had slid from Rebus’s lap. He picked them off the floor. Johnny Bible’s latest outrage had made only one front page; the others had been printed too early.
‘Right now, I’ve enough against you to have you suspended,’ Ancram said. ‘Not such an unusual situation for you, Inspector.’
‘I’ve been there before.’
‘Even if I overlook the Johnny Bible questions, there’s still the matter of your distinct lack of cooperation with my inquiries into the Spaven case.’
‘I had flu.’
Ancram ignored this. ‘We both know two things. First, a good cop is going to get into trouble from time to time. I’ve had complaints made against me in the past. Second, these TV programmes almost never uncover new evidence. It’s all speculation and maybes, whereas a police investigation is meticulous, and the gen we gather is passed to the Crown Office and pored over by what are supposed to be some of the finest criminal lawyers in the country.’
Rebus turned in his seat to study Ancram, wondering where this was leading. In the mirror, he could see his own car being driven with due care and attention by Ancram’s lackey. Ancram kept his eyes on the road.
‘See, John, what I’m saying is, why run when you’ve nothing to fear?’
‘Who says I’ve nothing to fear?’
Ancram smiled. The old pals routine was just that – a routine. Rebus trusted Ancram the way he’d trust a paedophile in a play-park. All the same, when Uncle Joe had lied about Tony El, it was Ancram who’d come up with the Aberdeen info … Whose side was the man on? Was he playing a double game? Or had he just thought Rebus wouldn’t get anywhere, info or no info? Was it a way of covering up that he was in Uncle Joe’s pocket?
‘If I’m hearing you right,’ Rebus said, ‘you’re saying I’ve nothing to fear from the Spaven case?’
‘This could be true.’
‘You’d make it true?’ Ancram shrugged. ‘In return for what?’
‘John, you’ve ruffled more feathers than a puma in a parrot-house, and you’ve been about as subtle.’
‘You want me to be more subtle?’
Ancram’s voice tightened. ‘I want you to sit on your arse for once.’
‘Drop the Mitchison inquiry?’ Ancram didn’t say anything. Rebus repeated the question.
‘You might find it does you the world of good.’
‘And you’d have done Uncle Joe Toal another good turn, eh, Ancram?’
‘Wake up to reality. This isn’t a linoleum floor, big squares of black and white.’
‘No, it’s grey silk suits and crisp green cash.’
‘It’s give and take. People like Uncle Joe don’t go away: you get rid of him and a young pretender starts making claims.’
‘Better the devil you know?’
‘Not a bad motto.’
John Martyn: ‘I’d Rather Be the Devil’.
‘Here’s another,’ Rebus said, ‘don’t rock the boat. Sounds like that’s what you’re telling me.’
‘I’m advising you for your own good.’
‘Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.’
‘Christ, Rebus, I begin to see why you’re always out on a limb: you’re not easy to like, are you?’
‘Mr Personality six years running.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I even cried on the catwalk.’ A pause. ‘Did you ask Jack Morton about me?’
‘Jack has a bizarrely high opinion of you, something I put down to sentiment.’
‘Big of you.’
‘This is getting us nowhere.’
‘No, but it’s passing the time.’ Rebus saw signs for a service area. ‘Are we stopping for lunch?’
Ancram shook his head.
‘You know, there’s one question you haven’t asked me.’
Ancram considered not asking, then caved in. ‘What?’
‘You haven’t asked what Stanley and Eve were doing in Aberdeen.’
Ancram signalled to pull into the service area, braking hard. The driver in Rebus’s Saab nearly missed the slip-road, tyres squealing on tarmac.
‘Trying to lose him?’ Rebus enjoyed seeing Ancram rattled.
‘Coffee break,’ Ancram snarled, opening his door.
Rebus sat with the tabloid on the table in front of him,
reading about Johnny Bible. The victim this time was Vanessa Holden, twenty-seven and married – none of the others had been married. She was director of a company which put on ‘corporate presentations’: Rebus wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. The photo in the paper was the usual smile-for-the-camera job, taken by a friend. She had shoulder-length wavy hair, nice teeth, probably hadn’t thought about dying much short of her eightieth birthday.
‘We’ve got to catch this monster,’ Rebus said, echoing the last sentence of the story. Then he crumpled the paper and reached for his coffee. Glancing down at the table, he caught a sideways glimpse of Vanessa Holden, and got the feeling he’d seen her before somewhere, just a fleeting glance. He covered her hair with his hand. Old photo; maybe she’d changed hairstyle. He tried to see her face with a few more miles on its clock. Ancram wasn’t watching, was talking to the lackey, so he didn’t see the shock of recognition hit Rebus’s face.
‘I have to make a phone call,’ Rebus said, rising. The public phone was beside the front door; he’d be in view of the table. Ancram nodded.
‘What’s the problem?’ he said.
‘Today’s Sunday, I should’ve been at church. The minister will be worried.’
‘This bacon’s easier to swallow than that.’ Ancram stabbed his fork at the offending article. But he let Rebus go.
Rebus made the call, hoped he’d have enough change: Sunday, cheap rate. Someone at Grampian Police HQ picked up.
‘DCI Grogan, please,’ Rebus said, his eyes on Ancram. The restaurant was busy with Sunday drivers and their families; no chance of Ancram hearing him.
‘I’m afraid he’s busy at the moment.’
‘This is about Johnny Bible’s latest victim. I’m in a phone-box and money’s tight.’
‘Hold on, please.’
Thirty seconds. Ancram watching him, frowning. Then: ‘DCI Grogan speaking.’
‘It’s Rebus.’
Grogan sucked in breath. ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘I want to do you a favour.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘It could make your career.’
‘Is this your idea of a joke? Because let me tell you —’
‘No joke. Did you hear what I said about Eve and Stanley Toal?’
‘I heard.’
