by Ian Rankin
‘You don’t? He never told you?’
‘Never.’
‘But he talked about Bible John?’
‘Yes.’
‘See, it’s all a bit vague …’ Ancram went into a drawer, hefted two more bulging files on to the desk. ‘I’ve got Geddes’s personnel file and reports here. Plus some stuff from the Bible John inquiry, bits and pieces he was involved in. Seems he grew obsessed.’ Ancram opened one file, turned pages idly, then looked at Rebus. ‘Does that sound familiar?’
‘You’re saying he was obsessed with Lenny Spaven?’
‘I know he was.’ Ancram let that sink in, nodding his head. ‘I know it from interviews with officers from the time, but more importantly I know it because of Bible John.’
The bastard had hooked Rebus. They were only twenty minutes into the interview. Rebus crossed his legs, tried to look unconcerned. His face was so taut, he knew the muscles were probably visible beneath the skin.
‘See,’ Ancram went on, ‘Geddes tried to tie Spaven to the Bible John case. Now, the notes aren’t complete. Either they were destroyed or lost, or else Geddes and his superior didn’t write down everything. But Geddes was going after Spaven, no doubt about that. Tucked away in one of the files I found some old photographs. Spaven’s in them.’ Ancram held the photos up. ‘They’re from the Borneo campaign. Geddes and Spaven were in the Scots Guards together. My feeling is that something happened out there, and from then on Geddes was out for Spaven’s blood. How am I doing so far?’
‘Filling the time nicely till the ciggie break. Can I see those photos?’
Ancram shrugged, handed them over. Rebus looked. Old black and whites with crimped edges, a couple of them no bigger than two inches by an inch and a half, the rest four by sixes. Rebus picked Spaven out straight away, the raptor grin hauling him into history. There was a minister in the photos, army uniform and dog collar. Other men posing, dressed in baggy shorts and long socks, faces sweat-shiny, eyes almost scared. Some of the faces were blurred; Rebus couldn’t make out Lawson Geddes in any of them. The photos were exteriors, bamboo huts in the background, an old jeep nosing into one shot. He turned them over, read an inscription – Borneo, 1965 – and some names.
‘Did these come from Lawson Geddes?’ Rebus asked, handing them back.
‘I’ve no idea. They were just in with all the other Bible John junk.’ Ancram slipped them back into the file, counting them as he did so.
‘They’re all there,’ Rebus said. Jack Morton’s chair scraped the floor: he was checking how long till the tape had to be switched.
‘So,’ Ancram said, ‘we’ve got Geddes and Spaven serving together in the Scots Guards; we’ve got Geddes chasing Spaven during the Bible John inquiry – and getting booted off the case; then we wind forwards a few years and what do we have? Geddes still chasing Spaven, but this time for the murder of Elizabeth Rhind. And getting booted off the case again.’
‘Spaven definitely knew the victim.’
‘No argument there, Inspector.’ Pause: four beats. ‘You knew one of the Johnny Bible victims – does it mean you killed her?’
‘Come up with her necklace in my flat and ask me again.’
‘Ah, well this is where it gets interesting, isn’t it?’
‘Oh good.’
‘You know the word serendipity?’
‘I pepper my speech with it.’
‘Dictionary definition: the ability to make happy chance finds. Useful word.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And Lawson Geddes had the gift, didn’t he? I mean, you get an anonymous tip-off about a consignment of stolen clock-radios. So you hoof it over to a garage, no search warrant, no nothing, and what do you find? Leonard Spaven, the clock-radios, and a hat and shoulder-bag – both belonging to the murder victim. I’d call that a very happy chance find. Except it wasn’t chance, was it?’
‘We had a warrant.’
‘Signed retrospectively by a tame JP.’ Ancram smiled again. ‘You think you’re doing all right, don’t you? You think I’m doing all the talking, which means you’re saying nothing incriminating. Well listen, I’m talking because I want you to know where we stand. Afterwards, you’ll have every opportunity for rebuttal.’
‘I’ll look forward to that.’
Ancram referred to his notes. Rebus’s mind was still half on Borneo and those photographs: what the hell could they have to do with Bible John? He wished he’d looked at them a bit harder.
‘I’ve been reading your own version of events, Inspector,’ Ancram went on, ‘and I begin to see why you had your pal Holmes take a good look at them.’ He looked up. ‘That was the idea, wasn’t it?’
Rebus said nothing.
‘See, you weren’t quite a seasoned officer back then, for all Geddes had taught you. You wrote a good report, but you were too conscious of the lies you were telling and the gaps you were having to create. I’m good at reading between the lines, practical criticism if you like.’
Rebus had a picture in his mind: Lawson Geddes shivering and wild-eyed on his doorstep.
‘So here’s how I think it went. Geddes was following Spaven – out on a limb by this time; he’d been ordered off the case. He tracked him to the lock-up one day, waited until Spaven was gone and then broke in. Liked the look of what he saw, and decided to plant some evidence.’
‘No.’
‘So he breaks in again, only this time he has some of the victim’s stuff with him. Now, he didn’t get it from an evidence locker, because according to the records nobody removed a hat or a bag from the victim’s abode. So how did he get it? Two possibilities. One, he waltzed back into her home and took it. Two, he already had it on him, because right from the start he had the idea of fitting up Spaven.’
‘No.’
‘To the first or to the second?’
‘To both.’
‘You’ll stand by that?’
‘Yes.’
Ancram had been leaning further over the desk as he’d made each point. Slowly he sat back again, glanced at his watch.
‘Cigarette break?’ Rebus asked.
Ancram shook his head. ‘No, I think that’s enough for today. You made so many cock-ups in the course of that false report, it’s going to take me time to list them all. We’ll go through them next meeting.’
‘I’m excited already.’ Rebus got up and reached into a pocket for his cigarettes. Jack had switched off the recorder and ejected the tape. He handed it to Ancram.
‘I’ll have a copy made immediately and sent to you for verification,’ Ancram told Rebus.
‘Thanks.’ Rebus inhaled, wished he could hold his breath for ever. Some people, when they exhaled no smoke came out. He wasn’t that selfish. ‘One question.’
‘Yes?’
‘What am I supposed to tell my colleagues when I drag Jack here into the office with me?’
‘You’ll think of something. You’re a more practised liar these days.’
‘I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, but thanks anyway.’ He made to leave.
‘A little birdie tells me you put the nut on a TV reporter.’
‘I tripped, fell into him.’
Ancram almost smiled. ‘Tripped?’ Waited till Rebus had nodded. ‘Well, it’s going to look good, isn’t it? They got the whole thing on video.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘This little birdie of yours … anyone in particular?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, you have your sources, don’t you? In the press, I mean. Jim Stevens for one. Nice little friendship the two of you have got.’
‘No comment, Inspector.’ Rebus laughed, turned away. ‘One more thing,’ Ancram said.
‘What?’
‘When Geddes was trying to pin the murder on Spaven, you interviewed some of Spaven’s friends and associates, including …’ Ancram made show of looking for the name in his notes. ‘Fergus McLure.’
‘What of it?’
‘Mr McLure’s recently deceased.
I believe you went to see him the morning he died?’
Who’d been talking?
‘So?’
Ancram shrugged, looked satisfied. ‘Just another … coincidence. By the way, DCI Grogan called me this morning.’
‘It must be love.’
‘Do you know a pub in Aberdeen called the Yardarm?’
‘It’s down by the docks.’
‘Yes, it is. Ever been inside?’
‘Maybe.’
‘A drinker in there says definitely. You bought him a drink, talked about the rigs.’
The wee man with the heavy cranium. ‘So?’
‘So it shows you were at the docks the night before Vanessa Holden was murdered. Two nights in a row, Inspector. Grogan’s beginning to sound very edgy. I think he wants you back in his custody.’
‘Are you going to hand me over?’ Ancram shook his head. ‘No, you wouldn’t want that, would you?’
Rebus almost blew some smoke in Ancram’s face. Almost. Maybe he was more selfish than he thought …
‘That went as well as could be expected,’ Jack Morton said. He was in the driver’s seat, Rebus electing to sit in the front with him.
‘Only because you thought there’d be a bloodbath.’
‘I was trying to remember my first aid training.’
Rebus laughed, releasing tension. He had a headache.
‘Aspirin in the glove compartment,’ Jack told him. Rebus opened it. There was a little plastic bottle of Vittel there, too. He washed down three tablets.
‘Were you ever in the Scouts, Jack?’
‘I was a sixer in the Cubs, never made the transfer to Scouts. I had other hobbies by then. Are the Scouts still going?’
‘Last I heard.’
‘Remember Bob-a-Job week? You had to go round the neighbours, washing windows, digging their gardens. Then at the end, you handed all the cash over to Akela.’
‘Who promptly stuck half in his pocket.’
Jack looked at him. ‘There’s a touch of the cynic in you, isn’t there?’
‘Maybe just a touch.’
‘So where to now? Fort Apache?’
‘After what I’ve just been through?’
‘The Ox?’
‘You’re learning.’
Jack opted for tomato juice – watching his weight, he said – while Rebus had a half-pint and, after a moment’s thought, a nip. The lunchtime trade wasn’t in yet, but the pies and bridies were heating in preparation. Maybe the barmaid had been in the Girl Guides. They took their drinks through to the back room, settled at a corner table.
‘It’s funny being back in Edinburgh,’ Jack said. ‘Never used to drink here, did we? What was the name of the local along Great London Road?’
‘I don’t remember.’ It was true; he couldn’t even recall the pub’s interior, yet must have been in there two or three hundred times. It was just a place for drink and discussion; what life it had the drinkers brought with them.
‘Jesus, the money we wasted in there.’
‘There speaks the reformed drinker.’
Jack forced a smile, lifted his glass. ‘John, tell me though, why do you drink?’
‘It kills my dreams.’
‘It’ll kill you in the end, too.’
‘Something’s got to.’
‘Know what someone said to me? They said you were the world’s longest surviving suicide victim.’
‘Who said that?’
‘Never mind.’
Rebus was laughing. ‘Maybe I should apply to the Guinness Book of Records.’
Jack drained his glass. ‘So what’s the itinerary?’
‘There’s someone I’m supposed to call, a journalist.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I suppose she might be home. I’m going back to the bar to use the phone. Are you coming?’
‘No, I’ll trust you.’
‘You sure?’
‘Fairly.’
So Rebus went to call Mairie, but all he got was her answering machine. He left a brief message, and asked the barmaid if there was a photographer’s within walking distance. She nodded, gave him directions, then went back to wiping glasses. Rebus summoned Jack, and they drifted out of the pub into a day that was growing warmer. There was still a blanket of cloud overhead, oppressive, almost thundery. But you just knew the sun was pummelling it, like a child with its pillow. Rebus took his jacket off, slung it over his shoulder. The photographer’s was one street further along, so they cut through Hill Street.
The shop carried a window display of portraits – wedding couples seeming to radiate light, young children beaming smiles. Frozen moments of happiness – the great deception – to frame and put in pride of place in your cabinet or on top of the television.
‘Holiday snaps, is it?’ Jack asked.
‘Just don’t ask how I got them,’ Rebus warned. He explained to the assistant that he wanted reprints made of each negative. She jotted down the instructions and told him it would be next day.
‘No chance of one-hour?’
‘Not with reprints, sorry.’
Rebus took the receipt from her and folded it into his pocket. Outside again, the sun had given up. It was raining. Rebus kept his jacket off, sweating enough as it was.
‘Look,’ Jack said, ‘you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but I wouldn’t mind knowing a bit about all this.’
‘All what?’
‘Your trip to Aberdeen, all the little coded messages between Chick and you, just, well, everything.’
‘Probably best you don’t know.’
‘Why? Because I’m working for Ancram?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Come on, John.’
But Rebus wasn’t listening. Two shops down from the photographer’s was a small DIY store: paint and brushes and wallpaper rolls. It gave Rebus an idea. Back at the car, he gave directions, telling Jack they were on a mystery tour – remembering Lumsden saying the same thing to him his first night in Furry Boot Town. Near St Leonard’s Rebus told Jack to make a left.
‘Here?’
‘Here.’
It was a do-it-yourself superstore. The car park was almost empty, so they parked close to the doors. Then Rebus hopped out and found a trolley with four working wheels.
‘You’d think in a place like this they’d have someone who could fix them.’
‘What are we doing here?’
‘I need a few things.’
‘You need provisions, not bags of plaster.’
Rebus turned to him. ‘That’s just where you’re wrong.’
He bought paint, rollers and brushes, turps, a couple of ground-sheets, plaster, a hot-air gun, sandpaper (coarse and fine), and varnish, sticking it all on his credit card. Then he treated Jack to lunch at a nearby café, a haunt of his from St Leonard’s days.
And afterwards: home. Jack helped him carry everything upstairs.
‘Brought any old clothes with you?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’ve a boilersuit in the boot.’
‘Better bring it up.’ Rebus stopped, stared at his open door, dropped the paint and ran into the flat. A quick check told him there was no one there. Jack was examining the jamb.
‘Looks like someone took a crowbar to it,’ he said. ‘What’s missing?’
‘The hi-fi and telly are still there.’
Jack walked in, checked the rooms. ‘Looks much the same as when we left it. Want to call it in?’
‘Why? We both know this is Ancram trying to rattle me.’
‘I don’t see that.’
‘No? Funny I get a break-in when I’m being interrogated by him.’
‘We should call it in, that way the insurance will cover you for a new door-frame.’ Jack looked around him. ‘Surprised nobody heard it.’
‘Deaf neighbours,’ Rebus said. ‘Edinburgh’s famous for them. All right, we’ll call it in. You go back to the store and fetch another lock or something.’
‘And what will you be doing?’
‘Sitting here, minding the fort. I promise.’
The minute Jack was out of the door, Rebus headed for the telephone. He asked to be put through to DCI Ancram. Then he waited, looking around the room. Somebody breaks in, then leaves without taking the hi-fi. It was almost an insult.
‘Ancram.’
‘It’s me.’
‘Something on your mind, Inspector?’
‘My flat’s been broken into.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. What did they take?’
‘Nothing. That’s where they slipped up. I thought you should tell them.’
Ancram laughed. ‘You think I had something to do with it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I was hoping you’d tell me. The word “harassment” springs to mind.’ As soon as he said it, he thought of The Justice Programme: how desperate were they? Desperate enough for a spot of housebreaking? He couldn’t see it, not Kayleigh Burgess. Eamonn Breen, however, was another matter entirely …
‘Look, this is a pretty serious allegation. I’m not sure I want to listen to it. Why not calm down and think it over?’
Rebus was doing just that. He hung up on Ancram, got his wallet out of his jacket pocket. It was full of scraps of paper, receipts, business cards. He plucked out Kayleigh Burgess’s, phoned her office.
‘I’m afraid she’s not here this afternoon,’ a secretary told him. ‘Can I take a message?’
‘What about Eamonn?’ Trying to sound like a friend. ‘Is he in by any chance?’
‘I’ll just check. What’s the name?’
‘John Rebus.’
‘Hold the line.’ Rebus held. ‘No, sorry, Eamonn’s out as well. Shall I tell him you called?’
‘No, it’s all right, I’ll catch up with him later. Thanks anyway.’
Rebus went through the flat again, more carefully this time. His first thought had been a straight break-in; his second some sort of ruse to wind him up. But now he was thinking of other things someone could have been looking for. It wasn’t easy to tell: Siobhan and her friends hadn’t exactly left the place as they’d found it. But nor had they been particularly thorough. For instance, they hadn’t spent time in the kitchen, hadn’t opened the cupboard where he kept all his cuttings and newspapers.
But someone had. Rebus knew which cutting he’d last read, and it was no longer on top of the pile. Instead, it had migrated south three or four layers. Maybe Jack … no, he didn’t think Jack had been snooping.
