by Ian Rankin
‘Are you going to do anything?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Make it a definite … as a favour to me.’
‘And then you’ll do me this premier-league favour of yours?’
‘That’s right.’
Grogan coughed, cleared his throat. ‘All right,’ he said.
‘For real?’
‘I keep my promises.’
‘Then listen. I’ve just seen a photo of Johnny’s latest victim.’
‘And?’
‘And I’ve seen her before.’
A moment’s silence. ‘Where?’
‘She was walking into Burke’s Club one night as Lumsden and I were leaving.’
‘So?’
‘So she was on the arm of someone I knew.’
‘You know a lot of people, Inspector.’
‘Which doesn’t mean I’m connected to Johnny Bible. But maybe the man on her arm is.’
‘Do you have a name for him?’
‘Hayden Fletcher, works for T-Bird Oil. Public relations.’
Grogan was writing it down. ‘I’ll look into it,’ he said.
‘Don’t forget your promise.’
‘Did I make a promise? I don’t recall.’ The line went dead. Rebus wanted to hammer the receiver, but Ancram was watching, and besides there were children nearby, drooling over a toy display and devising plans of attack on their parents’ pockets. So he replaced the receiver just like any other human being and walked back to the table. The driver got up and went outside, didn’t once look at Rebus, so Rebus knew he was under orders.
‘Everything OK?’ Ancram asked.
‘Hunky dory.’ Rebus sat down opposite Ancram. ‘So when does the inquisition begin?’
‘As soon as we can find a vacant torture chamber.’ They both ended up smiling. ‘Look, Rebus, personally I don’t give a midge’s IQ what happened twenty years ago between your pal Geddes and this Lenny Spaven. I’ve seen villains stitched up before: you can’t nail them for the thing you know they did, so you nail them for something else, something they didn’t do.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens.’
‘There were rumours it happened to Bible John.’
Ancram shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. But see, here’s the crux of the matter. If your chum Geddes became obsessed with Spaven, and stitched him up – with your help, wittingly or unwittingly … Well, you know what that means?’
Rebus nodded, but couldn’t say the words: they’d been choking him for weeks. They’d choked him back then for a few weeks, too.
‘It means,’ Ancram went on, ‘the real killer got away with it. Nobody’s ever tried looking for him, he’s scot free.’ He smiled at this last phrase, then sat back in his chair. ‘Now I’m going to tell you something about Uncle Joe.’ He had Rebus’s attention. ‘He’s probably involved in drug dealing. Big profits, unlikely he wouldn’t want some. But Glasgow was sewn up years ago, and rather than get into a war we think he’s been casting his net wider.’
‘As far as Aberdeen?’
Ancram nodded. ‘We’re compiling a file prior to setting up a surveillance op in conjunction with the Squaddies.’
‘And every surveillance you’ve tried in the past has failed.’
‘There’s a double loop to this one: if someone leaks word to Uncle Joe, we’ll know where the leak started.’
‘So you end up with either Uncle Joe or the grass? It might work … if you don’t go around telling everyone about it.’
‘I’m trusting you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you could fuck things up, pure and simple.’
‘You know, I’ve been here before, people telling me to lay off, leave everything to them.’
‘And?’
‘And they’ve usually had something to hide.’
Ancram shook his head. ‘Not this time. But I do have something to offer. Like I say, personally I’ve no interest in the Spaven case, but professionally I’m duty bound to do my job. Thing is, there are ways and ways of presenting a report. I could minimise your part in the whole thing, I could leave you out altogether. I’m not telling you to drop any investigation; I’m just asking you to freeze it for a week or so.’
‘And let the trail grow cold, maybe enough time for a few more suicides and accidental deaths?’
Ancram looked exasperated.
‘Just do your job, Chief Inspector,’ Rebus said. ‘And I’ll do mine.’ Rebus got to his feet, looked for the paper with the Johnny Bible story, stuffed it in his pocket.
‘Here’s the deal,’ Ancram said, smouldering. ‘I’m going to have a man with you at all times, reporting back to me. It’s either that or a suspension.’
Rebus jerked his thumb towards the window. ‘Him out there?’ The driver was enjoying a smoke in the sunshine. Ancram shook his head.
‘Someone who knows you better.’
Rebus came up with the answer a second before Ancram spoke.
‘Jack Morton.’
He was waiting for Rebus outside the flat. Water was dribbling down the dishels from where neighbours were cleaning their cars. Jack had been sitting in his own car, windows rolled down, his paper open at the crossword. Now he was out of the car and had his arms folded, head inclined to the sun’s rays. He was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and faded jeans, newish white trainers on his feet.
‘Sorry to muck up your weekend,’ Rebus told him, as he got out of Ancram’s car.
‘Remember,’ Ancram called to Jack, ‘don’t let him out of your sight. If he goes for a dump, I want you keeking through the key-hole. If he says he’s putting the rubbish out, I want you inside one of the bags. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jack said.
The police driver was asking Rebus where he should park the Saab. Rebus pointed to the double yellow line at the bottom of the street. The windscreen still boasted its Grampian Police Business sign. Rebus was in no hurry to tear it off. Ancram got out of his driving seat and opened the rear door. His driver handed Rebus the keys to the Saab and his suitcase out of the boot, and got into his boss’s car, adjusting the seat and the rearview. Rebus and Jack watched Ancram being driven away.
‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘I hear you’re with the Juice Church these days.’
Jack wrinkled his nose. ‘I can take or leave the holy roller stuff, but it’s helped me give up the hooch.’
‘That’s great.’
‘How come I never know when you’re being serious?’
‘Years of practice.’
‘Nice holiday?’
‘Nice doesn’t begin to describe it.’
‘I see your face took a dunt.’
Rebus touched his temple. The swelling was going down. ‘Some people get temperamental when you beat them to the sunbeds.’
They climbed the stairwell, Jack a couple of steps behind Rebus.
‘Are you seriously not going to let me out of your sight?’
‘That’s what the boss wants.’
‘And what he wants he gets?’
‘If I know what’s good for me. It’s taken me a lot of years to come to the conclusion that I do want what’s good for me.’
‘So speaks the philosopher.’ Rebus put his key in the lock, pushed the door open. There was some mail on the hall carpet, but not much. ‘You realise this is probably against a couple of dozen laws. I mean, you can’t just follow me around if I don’t want you to.’
‘So take it to the Court of Human Rights.’ Jack followed Rebus into the living room. The suitcase stayed out in the hall.
‘Fancy a drink?’ Rebus asked.
‘Ha ha.’
Rebus shrugged, found a clean glass and poured himself some of Kayleigh Burgess’s whisky. It went down without touching the sides. He exhaled noisily. ‘You must miss it though?’
‘All the time,’ Jack admitted, slumping on to the sofa.
Rebus poured another. ‘I know I would.’
‘That’s half the battle.’
‘What?’
/>
‘Admitting you’d have a problem without it.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Jack shrugged, got to his feet again. ‘Mind if I make a phone call?’
‘My home is your home.’
Jack walked over to the telephone. ‘Looks like you’ve got some messages. Want to play them?’
‘They’ll all be from Ancram.’
Jack lifted the receiver, pressed seven digits. ‘It’s me,’ he said at last. ‘We’re here.’ Then he put the telephone down.
Rebus looked at him above the rim of the glass.
‘There’s a team on its way,’ Jack explained. ‘To look the place over. Chick said he’d tell you.’
‘He told me. No search warrant, I suppose?’
‘If you want it, we can get one. But if I were you, I’d just sit back and let it happen – quick and painless. Plus … if anything ever comes to court, you’ll have the prosecution on a technicality.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Are you on my side, Jack?’ Jack sat down again, but didn’t say anything. ‘You told Ancram I’d phoned you, didn’t you?’
Jack shook his head. ‘I kept my trap shut when maybe I shouldn’t.’ He sat forward. ‘Chick knows we go back, you and me, that’s why I’m here.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘It’s a loyalty thing, he’s testing my loyalty to him, pitting the past – that’s you and me – against my future.’
‘And how loyal are you, Jack?’
‘Don’t push it.’
Rebus drained his glass. ‘This is going to be an interesting few days. What happens if I get lucky winching? Are you going to want to hide beneath the bed, like a piss-pot or the fucking bogeyman?’
‘John, don’t get —’
But Rebus was on his feet. ‘This is my home, for Christ’s sake! The one place I can hide from all the shite flying around out there! Am I supposed to just sit here and take it? You standing guard, forensics sniffing around like mongrels at a lamp-post – am I supposed to sit here and let you get on with it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well fuck that, Jack, and fuck you, too.’ The doorbell rang. ‘You get it,’ Rebus said. ‘They’re your dogs.’
Jack looked hurt as he made for the door. Rebus went into the hall, grabbed his case and took it into his bedroom. He threw it on the bed and opened it. Whoever had packed it had just stuffed everything in, clean and dirty. The whole lot would have to go to the launderette. He lifted out his wash-bag. There was a note folded below it. It told him that ‘certain items of clothing’ had been held back by Grampian Police for forensic ‘exploration’. Rebus looked: his grass-stained trousers and torn shirt from the night he’d been attacked, they were missing. Grogan was having them tested, just in case Rebus had killed Vanessa Holden. Fuck him, fuck them all. Fuck the whole fucking lot of them. Rebus threw the open case across the room, just as Jack came to the doorway.
‘John, they say they won’t be long.’
‘Tell them to take as long as they like.’
‘And tomorrow morning there’ll be blood tests and a saliva sample.’
‘I’ll have no trouble with the latter. Just stand Ancram in front of me.’
‘He didn’t ask for this job, you know.’
‘Fuck off, Jack.’
‘I wish I could.’
Rebus pushed past him into the hall. He glanced into the living room. There were men in there, some of them he knew, all dressed in white boilersuits and polythene gloves. They were lifting the cushions from his sofa, ruffling the pages of his books. They didn’t look like they were enjoying it: small consolation. It made sense that Ancram would use local people: easier than hauling a consignment from weegie-land. The one crouching in front of the corner cupboard got up, turned. Their eyes met.
‘Et tu, Siobhan?’
‘Afternoon, sir,’ Siobhan Clarke said, ears and cheeks reddening. It was about all Rebus needed. He grabbed his jacket, headed for the door.
‘John?’ Jack Morton called after him.
‘Catch me if you can,’ Rebus said. Halfway down the stairs, Jack did just that.
‘Where are we going?’
‘We’re going to a pub,’ Rebus told him. ‘We’ll take my car. You won’t be drinking, so you can drive me home afterwards. That way we stay the right side of the law.’ Rebus pulled the door open. ‘Now let’s see just how strong your Juice Church really is.’
Outside, Rebus almost collided with a tall man with black curly hair, turning grey. He saw the microphone, heard the man rattle off a question. Eamonn Breen. Rebus ducked his head just enough to catch Breen on the bridge of his nose: no power in the ‘Glasgow kiss’, just enough to let Rebus past.
‘Bastard!’ Breen spluttered, dropping the mike and cupping both hands over his nose. ‘Did you catch that? Did you?’
Rebus glanced back, saw blood dripping between Breen’s fingers, saw the cameraman nodding, saw Kayleigh Burgess over to one side, a pen in her mouth, looking at Rebus with half a smile.
‘She probably thought you’d prefer to have a friendly face around,’ Jack Morton said.
They were standing in the Oxford Bar, and Rebus had just told him about Siobhan.
‘Given the circumstances, I know I would.’ Jack was halfway down a pint of fresh orange and lemonade. Ice rattled in the glass when he tipped it. Rebus was on his second pint of Belhaven Best, motoring in fifth: nice and smooth. Sunday evening in the Ox, only twenty minutes after opening time, the place was quiet. Three regulars stood beside them at the bar, heads angled up towards the television, some quiz programme. The quizmaster had topiary where his haircut should have been and teeth transplanted from a Steinway. His job was to hold a card up to just below his face, read out the question, stare at the camera, then repeat the question as though nuclear disarmament depended on the answer.
‘So, Barry,’ he intoned, ‘for two hundred points: which character plays the Wall in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream?’
‘Pink Floyd,’ said the first regular.
‘Snout,’ said the second.
‘Cheerio, Barry,’ said the third, waving his fingers at the television, where Barry was clearly in trouble. A buzzer sounded. The quizmaster opened the question to the other two contestants.
‘No?’ he said. ‘No takers?’ He seemed surprised, but had to refer to his card to find the answer. ‘Snout,’ he said, looking at the hapless trio, then repeating the name just so they’d remember next time. Another card. ‘Jasmine, for a hundred and fifty points: in which American state would you find the town of Akron?’
‘Ohio,’ said the second regular.
‘Isn’t he a character in Star Trek?’ asked the first.
‘Cheerio, Jasmine,’ said the third.
‘So,’ Jack asked, ‘are we talking?’
‘It takes more than my home being raided, my clothes confiscated, and a suspicion of multiple murder hanging over my head to put me in the huff. Of course we’re fucking talking.’
‘Well, that’s all-fucking-right then.’
Rebus snorted into his drink, then had to wipe foam off his nose. ‘I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed nutting that wanker.’
‘He probably enjoyed the fact that the whole thing was being filmed.’
Rebus shrugged, reached into his pocket for cigarettes and lighter.
‘Go on then,’ Jack said, ‘give me one.’
‘You’ve stopped, remember?’
‘Aye, but there’s no AA for smokers. Come on.’
But Rebus shook his head. ‘I appreciate the gesture, Jack, but you’re right.’
‘About what?’
‘About looking out for your future. You’re dead right. So don’t cave in, stick to it. No booze, no cigs, and report my doings back to Chick Ancram.’
Jack looked at him. ‘You mean that?’
‘Every word of it,’ Rebus drained his glass. ‘Except the bit about Ancram, of course.’
Then he ordered another round.
/>
‘The answer’s Ohio,’ the quizmaster said, no surprise to anyone in the bar.
‘I think,’ Jack said a little later on, halfway down his second pint of juice, ‘we’re about to hit our first crisis of faith.’
‘You need a piss?’ Jack nodded. ‘Well forget it,’ Rebus said, ‘I’m not going in there with you.’
‘Give me your word you’ll stay put.’
‘Where would I go?’
‘John …’
‘OK, OK. Would I get you into trouble, Jack?’
‘I don’t know, would you?’
Rebus winked at him. ‘Off you go to the bog and find out.’
Jack stood his ground as long as he could, then turned and fled. Rebus leaned his elbows on the bar, smoking his cigarette. He was wondering what Jack would do if he ran out on him right now: would he report it to Ancram, or would he keep quiet? Would he be doing himself any favours by reporting it? After all, it showed him in a bad light, and he wouldn’t want that. So maybe he’d keep quiet. Rebus could go about his business without Ancram knowing.
Except that Ancram had ways of knowing. The man wasn’t solely dependent on Jack Morton. It was an interesting point, nevertheless: a point of faith, apt enough on a Sunday night. Maybe Rebus would drag Jack along to see Father Conor Leary later on. Jack used to be a real hun, a blue-nose, maybe still was. A drink with a Catholic priest might send him scurrying into the night. He looked round and saw Jack at the top of the steps, looking relieved – in both senses of the word.
Poor bastard, Rebus thought. Ancram wasn’t being fair on him. You could see the strain around Jack’s mouth. Rebus felt tired suddenly, remembered he’d been up since six, and had been on the rack ever since. He drained his glass and gestured towards the door. Jack seemed only too glad to be leaving.
When they got outside, Rebus asked him, ‘How close were you in there?’
‘To what?’
‘Ordering a real drink.’
‘As close as I ever get.’
Rebus leaned on the roof of the car, waiting for Jack to unlock it. ‘Sorry I did that to you,’ he said quietly.
‘What?’
‘Brought you here.’
‘I should have the willpower to go into a pub without drinking.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
And he had a little smile to himself. Jack would be OK. Jack wouldn’t shop him. The man had lost too much self-respect already.
