by Ian Rankin
‘I don’t know. Mitch was dead before I could find out.’
‘But that was his intention?’
She shrugged. ‘I guess.’
‘Jo, I think we’ll need a statement from you. Not now, later. All right?’
‘I’ll think about it.’ She paused. ‘We can’t prove anything, can we?’
‘Not yet.’ Maybe not ever, he was thinking. He slid out of the seat, Jack following.
Outside, there were more songs around the camp-fire. Candles danced inside Chinese lanterns strung from the trees. Faces had turned shiny orange, like pumpkins. Joanna Bruce watched from her doorway, leaning against the bottom half of the door as before. Rebus turned to say goodbye.
‘Will you be camped here a while?’
She shrugged. ‘The way we live, who knows?’
‘You like what you’re doing?’
She gave the question serious thought. ‘It’s a life.’
Rebus smiled, moved away.
‘Inspector!’ she called. He turned back to her. Kohl was dribbling down her cheeks. ‘If everything’s so wonderful, how come everything’s so fucked up?’
Rebus didn’t have an answer to that. ‘Don’t let the sun catch you crying,’ he told her instead.
On the drive back, he tried answering her question for himself, found he couldn’t. Maybe it all had to do with balance, cause and effect. Where there was light, there must needs be dark. It sounded like the start of a sermon, and he hated sermons. He tried out his own personal mantra instead: Miles Davis, ‘So What?’ Only, it didn’t sound so clever now.
It didn’t sound clever at all.
Jack was frowning. ‘Why didn’t she come forward with any of this?’ he asked.
‘Because as far as she’s concerned, it’s got nothing to do with us. It didn’t even have anything to do with Mitch, he just blundered in.’
‘Sounded more like he was invited.’
‘An invitation he should have refused.’
‘You think Major Weir did it?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m not even sure it matters. He’s not going anywhere.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He’s in this little private hell she’s constructed for the two of them. As long as he knows she’s out there, demonstrating against everything he holds dear … that’s his punishment and her revenge. No getting away from it for either of them.’
‘Fathers and daughters, eh?’
‘Fathers and daughters,’ Rebus agreed. And past misdemeanours. And the way they refused to go away …
They were beat when they got back to the hotel.
‘Round of golf?’ Jack suggested.
Rebus laughed. ‘I could just about manage coffee and a round of sarnies.’
‘Sounds good to me. My room in ten minutes.’
Their rooms had been made up, fresh chocolates on the pillows, clean bathrobes laid out. Rebus changed quickly, then phoned reception to ask if there were any messages. He hadn’t checked before – hadn’t wanted Jack to know he was expecting one.
‘Yes, sir,’ the receptionist trilled. ‘I’ve a phone message for you here.’ Rebus’s heart rose: she hadn’t just upped and run. ‘Shall I read it to you?’
‘Please.’
‘It says, “Burke’s, half an hour after closing. Tried another time, another place, but he wasn’t having any.” There’s no name.’
‘That’s fine, thanks.’
‘You’re welcome, sir.’
Of course he was welcome: business account. The whole world sucked up to you if you were corporate. He got the outside line, tried Siobhan at home, got her machine again. Tried St Leonard’s, was told she wasn’t there. Tried her at home again, deciding this time to leave his telephone number on her machine. Halfway through, she picked up.
‘What’s the use of an answering machine when you’re home?’ he asked.
‘Call filtering,’ she said. ‘I get to check if you’re a heavy breather or not before I talk to you.’
‘My breathing’s under control, so talk to me.’
‘First victim,’ she said. ‘I spoke to someone at Robert Gordon’s. Deceased was studying geology, and it included time spent offshore. People who study geology up there almost always get a job in the oil industry, the whole course is geared towards it. Because she spent time offshore, deceased did a survival module.’
Rebus was thinking: chopper simulator, ducked in a swimming pool.
‘So,’ Siobhan went on, ‘she spent time at OSC.’
‘The Offshore Survival Centre.’
‘Which deals with nothing but oil people. I got them to fax me staff and student rolls. So much for the first victim.’ She paused. ‘Victim two seemed completely different: older, different set of friends, different city. But she was a prostitute, and we know that a lot of businessmen use that sort of service when they’re away from home.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Victim four worked closely with the oil industry, which left Judith Cairns, the Glasgow victim. Variously employed, including part-time cleaning at a city-centre hotel.’
‘Businessmen again.’
‘So tomorrow they begin faxing me names. They weren’t keen, client confidentiality and all that.’
‘But you can be persuasive.’
‘Yes.’
‘So what are we hoping for? A guest at the Fairmount who’s got a connection with Robert Gordon’s?’
‘It’ll be in my prayers.’
‘How soon tomorrow will you know?’
‘That’s down to the hotel. I may have to drive over there and gee them up.’
‘I’ll phone you.’
‘If you get the machine, leave a number where I can reach you.’
‘Will do. Cheers, Siobhan.’ He put the telephone down, went along to Jack’s room. Jack was wearing his robe.
‘I might have to splash out on one of these,’ he said. ‘Sarnies are on their way up, ditto a big pot of coffee. I’m just going to take a shower.’
‘Fine. Listen, Siobhan might be on to something.’ He filled Jack in.
‘Sounds promising. Then again …’ Jack shrugged.
‘Christ, and I thought I was cynical.’
Jack winked, went into the bathroom. Rebus waited till he could hear the shower running, and Jack humming what sounded like ‘Puppy Love’. Jack’s clothes were on a chair. Rebus fished in the jacket pockets, came up with car keys, pocketed them for himself.
He wondered what time Burke’s closed on a Thursday night. He wondered what he was going to say to Judd Fuller. He wondered how badly Fuller would take it, whatever it was.
The shower stopped. ‘Puppy Love’ segued into ‘What Made Milwaukee Famous’. Rebus liked a man with catholic tastes. Jack emerged, wrapped in his robe and doing prize-fighter impressions.
‘Back to Edinburgh tomorrow?’
‘First thing,’ Rebus agreed.
‘To face the music.’
Rebus didn’t say he might well be facing the music long before that. But when the sandwiches arrived, he found he’d lost his appetite. Thirsty though: four cups of coffee. He needed to stay awake. Long night coming, no moon in the sky.
Darkness on the short drive in, thin rain falling. Rebus felt jolted by coffee, loose wires sparking where his nerves should be. One-fifteen in the morning: he’d rung Burke’s, the bar-side payphone, asked a punter what time the place shut.
‘Party’s nearly finished, ya radge!’ Phone slammed home. Background music: ‘Albatross’, so it was moon-dance time. Two or three slows, your last chance to grab a breakfast partner. Desperate times on the dance floor; as desperate in your forties as in your teens.
Albatross.
Rebus tried the radio – vacuous pop, pounding disco, telephone chat. Then jazz. Jazz was OK. Jazz was fine, even on Radio Two. He parked near Burke’s, watched a dumb-show as two bouncers took on three farm-boys whose girlfriends were trying to pull them away.
‘Listen to the lad
ies,’ Rebus muttered. ‘You’ve proved yourselves for tonight.’
The fight dissolved into pointed fingers and swearing, the bouncers, arms not touching their sides, waddling back inside. A final kick at the doors, saliva hitting the porthole-styled windows, then hauled away and up the road. Opening curtain on another north-east weekend. Rebus got out and locked the car, breathed the city air. Shouts and sirens up on Union Street. He crossed the road and headed for Burke’s.
The doors were locked. He kicked at them, but nobody answered: probably thinking the farm-boys were back. Rebus kept kicking. Someone poked a head round the interior doors, saw he didn’t look like a punter, shouted something back into the club. Now a bouncer came out, jangling a chain of keys. He looked like he wanted to go to bed, day’s work done. The door rattled, and he opened it an inch.
‘What?’ he growled.
‘I’ve an appointment with Mr Fuller.’
The bouncer stared at him, pulled the door wide. The lights were on in the main bar, staff emptying ashtrays and wiping down tables, collecting an enormous number of glasses. With the lights up, the interior looked as bleak as any moorland vista. Two men who looked like DJs – ponytails, black sleeveless T-shirts – sat smoking at the bar, sinking bottles of beer. Rebus turned to the bouncer.
‘Mr Stemmons around?’
‘I thought your appointment was with Mr Fuller.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Just wondered if Mr Stemmons was available.’ Talk to him first – the sane member of the cast; businessman, therefore a listener.
‘He might be upstairs.’ They went back into the foyer, climbed to where Stemmons and Fuller had their offices. The bouncer opened a door. ‘In you go.’
In Rebus went, ducking too late. The hand hit his neck like a side of beef, flooring him. Fingers sought his throat, probing for the carotid artery, applying pressure. No brain damage, Rebus thought, as the edges of his vision darkened. Please, God, let there be no damage …
31
He woke up drowning.
Sucking foam and water in through his nose, his mouth. Fizzing taste – not water, beer. He shook his head wildly, opened his eyes. Lager trickled down his throat. He tried coughing it out. Someone was standing behind him, holding the now-empty bottle, chuckling. Rebus tried turning and found his arms were on fire. Literally. He could smell whisky, see a shattered bottle on the floor. His arms had been doused in the stuff and set alight. He cried out, wriggled. A bar towel flapped at the flames and they died. The smouldering towel fell with a slap on to the floor. Laughter echoing around the walls.
The place reeked of alcohol. It was a cellar. Bare lightbulbs and aluminium kegs, boxes of bottles and glasses. Half a dozen brick pillars supporting the ceiling. They hadn’t tied Rebus to one of these. Instead, he hung suspended from a hook, the rope fraying his wrists, arms readying to pop from sockets. Rebus shifted more weight on to his feet. The figure from behind tossed the beer-bottle into a crate and came round to stand in front of him. Slick black hair with a kiss-curl at the front, and a large hooked nose in the centre of a face lush with corruption. A diamond glinted in one of the teeth. Dark suit, white T-shirt. Rebus took a wild guess – Judd Fuller – but reckoned the time for introductions was past.
‘Sorry I don’t have Tony El’s ingenuity with power tools,’ Fuller said. ‘But I do what I can.’
‘From where I’m standing, you’re doing fine.’
‘Thanks.’
Rebus looked around. They were alone in the cellar, and nobody’d thought to tie his legs together. He could kick Fuller in the balls and …
The punch came low, hitting him just above the groin. It would have doubled him up, if his arms had been free. As it was, he instinctively raised his knees, lifting his feet off the floor. His shoulder-joints told him this was not the brightest move.
Fuller was walking away, flexing the fingers of his right hand. ‘So, cop,’ he said, his back to Rebus, ‘how do you like it so far?’
‘I’m ready for a break if you are.’
‘Only break you’re going to get is your goddamn neck.’ Fuller turned to him, grinned, then picked up another beer-bottle, smacked it open against a wall and gulped half the contents.
The smell of the alcohol was overpowering, and the few mouthfuls Rebus had swallowed seemed already to be having an effect. His eyes stung; so did his hands where the flames had licked them. His wrists were already blistering.
‘We have a nice club here,’ Fuller was saying. ‘Everybody has fun. You can ask around, it’s a popular spot. What gives you the right to spoil the party?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You made Erik upset the night you talked to him.’
‘Does he know about this?’
‘He’ll never get to know about this. Erik’s happier not knowing. He has an ulcer, you know. He worries.’
‘Can’t think why that is.’ Rebus stared at Fuller. If you caught his face in the right kind of shadow, he resembled a young Leonard Cohen, the Travolta comparison way off.
‘You’re a nuisance, that’s all you are, an itch that needs to be scratched.’
‘You don’t get it, Judd. You’re not in America. You can’t just hide a body here and hope nobody stumbles across it.’
‘Why not?’ Fuller opened his arms wide. ‘Boats head out of Aberdeen all the time. Weight you down and tip you into the North Sea. Know how hungry the fish are out there?’
‘I know it’s overfished – do you want some trawler netting me?’
‘Option two,’ Fuller said, raising two fingers, ‘the mountains. Let the fucking sheep find you, nibble you clean to the bone. Plenty of options, don’t think we haven’t used them before.’ He paused. ‘Why did you come here tonight? What did you ever hope you were going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘When Eve phoned … she couldn’t hide it, it was in her voice – I knew she was shitting me, setting me up. But I have to admit, I was expecting something a little more challenging.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
‘I’m glad it’s you, though, I’ve been wanting to see you again.’
‘Well, here I am.’
‘What did Eve tell you?’
‘Eve? She didn’t tell me anything.’
A roundhouse kick took time: Rebus did what he could, turned sideways on to it, caught it in the ribs. Fuller followed up with a punch to the face, his hand moving so slowly Rebus could see the scar on its back – a long ugly welt. A tooth split in half, one of his root-canal jobs. Rebus spat the tooth and some blood at Fuller, who backed off a little, impressed at the damage.
Rebus knew he was dealing with someone who at best could be termed unpredictable, at worst psychotic. Without Stemmons to keep him in check, Judd Fuller looked capable of anything.
‘All I did,’ Rebus lisped, ‘was do a deal with her. She set up the meeting with you, and I let her go.’
‘She must have told you something.’
‘She’s a hard nut to crack. I got even less from Stanley.’ Rebus tried to sound defeated: not difficult. He wanted Fuller to go for the whole story.
‘Stanley and her have gone off together?’ Fuller chuckled again. ‘Uncle Joe’s going to shit monkeys.’
‘Putting it mildly.’
‘So tell me, cop, how much do you know? Make it good, maybe we can work something out.’
‘I’m open to offers.’
Fuller shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Ludo already sniffed you out about that.’
‘He didn’t exactly have the cards you’ve got.’
‘Well, that’s true.’ Fuller took a swipe at Rebus’s face with the jagged neck of his bottle. Instead of connecting, Rebus felt air brush his cheek. ‘Next time,’ Fuller said, ‘I might get careless. You could lose your looks.’
As if the condemned man cared for beauty. But Rebus was shaking.
‘Do I look like martyr material? All I was doing was my job. It’s what they pay me for, I’m not marr
ied to it!’
‘But you’re persistent.’
‘Blame fucking Lumsden, he got right up my back!’ A memory came to him unbeckoned: closing time at the Ox, nights when they’d stumbled out into the cold, joking about getting locked in the cellar and drinking the place dry. Now all Rebus wanted was out.
‘How much do you know?’ The jagged glass was an inch from his nose. Fuller stretched his arm until the bottle was beneath Rebus’s nostrils. Lager fumes, the cold touch of glass, pressing upwards. ‘Remember the old joke?’ Fuller asked. ‘Ask yourself how you’d smell without a nose.’
Rebus sniffed. ‘I know the lot,’ he spat.
‘And how much is that?’
‘The dope comes up from Glasgow, straight to here. You sell it, and ship it out to the rigs. Eve and Stanley collected the cash, Tony El was Uncle Joe’s man on the spot.’
‘Proof?’
‘Almost non-existent, especially with Tony El dead and Eve and Stanley on the run. But —’ Rebus swallowed.
‘But what?’
Rebus kept his mouth shut. Fuller flicked the bottle up and pulled it away. Rebus’s nose dribbled fresh blood.
‘Maybe I’ll just bleed you dry! “But what?’”
‘But it doesn’t matter,’ Rebus said, trying to wipe his nose on his shirt. His eyes were watering. He blinked, tears streaking both cheeks.
‘Why not?’ Fuller interested.
‘Because people are blabbing.’
‘Who?’
‘You know I can’t —’
The bottle flew to his right eye. Rebus screwed his eyes shut. ‘All right, all right!’ The bottle stayed where it was, so close he had to focus past it. He took a deep breath. Time to stir the shit. His big plan. ‘How many cops on your payroll?’
Fuller frowned. ‘Lumsden?’
‘He’s been talking … and someone’s been talking to him.’
Rebus could almost hear the cogs creaking inside Fuller’s head, but even he had to work it out eventually.
‘Mr H?’ Fuller’s eyes widened. ‘Mr H. talked to Lumsden, I heard about that. But it was supposed to be about the woman who got herself killed …’ Fuller busied himself thinking.
Mr H. – the man who’d paid Tony El. And now Rebus knew who Mr H. was – Hayden Fletcher, interviewed by Lumsden about Vanessa Holden. Fletcher had paid Tony El to take care of Allan Mitchison – the two men had probably met right here. Maybe Fuller himself had introduced them.
