by Ian Rankin
‘It’s not just you. They’ve been grassing up Eddie Segal, Moose Maloney …’ Rebus pulling out the names Stanley had mentioned.
‘Fletcher and Lumsden?’ Fuller said to himself. He shook his head, but Rebus could see he was halfway convinced. He stared at Rebus, who tried to look as beaten as a man could be – no great acting required.
‘There’s a Scottish Crime Squad operation coming,’ Rebus said. ‘Lumsden and Fletcher are in their pockets.’
‘They’re dead men,’ Fuller said at last.
‘Why stop when you’re having fun?’
A cold, wicked smile. Fletcher and Lumsden were for the future: but Rebus was right here.
‘We’ll go for a little ride,’ Fuller said. ‘Don’t worry, you did all right. I’ll make it quick. One bullet to the back of the head. You won’t go out screaming.’ He let the bottle drop to the floor and crunched glass on his way to the stairs. Rebus looked around fast, no way of knowing how long he had. The hook looked pretty solid – it had held his weight so far, no problem. If he could stand on a box, get some height, then he could unhook the ropes. There was the empties’ crate, not three feet away. Rebus stretched, his arms in agony, felt with his shoe, just touched the rim of the crate and started to drag it. Fuller had climbed up through a trapdoor, but left it open. Rebus could hear a voice echoing in the bar. Maybe Fuller wanted a bouncer, someone to witness the policeman’s demise. The crate caught in a dip in the floor, wouldn’t budge. Rebus tried to lift it with the toe of his shoe, couldn’t. He was soaked: blood, booze and sweat. The box gave, and he hauled it beneath him, climbed on to it and pushed with his knees. He freed the rope from the hook and brought his arms down slowly, trying to enjoy the pain, feeling blood tingle its way back along them. His fingers stayed numb and cold. He chewed at the knots in the rope, couldn’t budge them. There was plenty of broken glass around, but sawing through would take too long. He bent down, picked up a broken bottle, then saw something even better.
A cheap pink plastic lighter. Fuller had probably used it to ignite the whisky on Rebus’s arms, dropped it afterwards. Rebus picked it up, looked around. There was a lot of booze down here. No way out except the ladder. He found a rag, opened a bottle of whisky and stuffed it into the neck. Not quite a petrol bomb, but a weapon at any rate. One option: ignite it and toss it into the club, get the fire alarm going and wait for the cavalry. Supposing they came. Supposing that would stop Judd Fuller …
Option two: think again.
He looked around. CO2 cylinders; plastic crates; runs of rubber tubing. Hanging on the wall: a small fire extinguisher. He grabbed the fire extinguisher, primed it, got it under one arm so he could carry the whisky bottle up the steps.
The club looked dead, dimly lit. Someone had left a glitterball turning, throwing glass jewels across walls and ceiling. He was halfway across the dance floor when the door flew open, Fuller standing there, lit from behind by the foyer. He had a set of car keys between his teeth, dropped them as his mouth opened. He was reaching into his jacket pocket when Rebus got the rag lit, tossed the bottle two-handed. It turned in the air, shattered in front of Fuller. A pool of blue flame spread across the floor. Rebus was still coming, fire extinguisher ready. The gun was in Fuller’s hand as the spray caught him full in the face. Rebus followed it up with a head-butt to the bridge of Fuller’s nose and a knee hard into the groin. Not exactly textbook stuff, but powerfully effective. The American sank to his knees. Rebus kicked him in the face and ran, pulled open the door to the outside world and almost fell into Jack Morton.
‘Christ Almighty, man, what have they done to you?’
‘He’s got a gun, Jack, let’s get the fuck out of here.’
They sprinted for the car. Jack got the keys from Rebus’s pocket. Into the car and accelerating away, Rebus feeling a bewildering mix of emotions, chief among them elation.
‘You smell like a brewery,’ Jack said.
‘Jesus, Jack, how did you get here?’
‘Took a taxi.’
‘No, I mean …’
‘You can thank Shetland.’ Jack sniffed. ‘That wind up there, I’ve got a cold coming. Went to get the hankie out of my trouser pocket … no car keys. No car in the car park, and no John Rebus tucked up in bed.’
‘And?’
‘And reception repeated the message they gave you, so I phoned for a taxi. What the hell happened?’
‘I took a beating.’
‘I’d say that was an understatement. Who’s got the gun?’
‘Judd Fuller, the American.’
‘We’ll stop at the nearest phone, get an armed response unit over there.’
‘No.’
Jack turned. ‘No?’ Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Why not?’
‘I was taking a calculated risk, Jack.’
‘Time to buy a new calculator.’
‘I think it worked. Now all we need to do is give it a bit of time.’
Jack thought about it. ‘You want them turning on each other?’ He nodded. ‘Never were one to play by the book, were you? The note was from Eve?’ Rebus nodded. ‘And you thought you’d leave me out. Know something? When I saw the keys were gone, I was so angry, I almost said “Stuff it, let him do what he wants, it’s his neck”.’
‘It almost was.’
‘You’re a stupid bastard.’
‘Years of dedicated practice, Jack. Can you stop and untie me?’
‘I like you better tied up. Casualty or a doctor call-out?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ The nosebleed had already stopped; there was no pain from the dead tooth.
‘So what did you do there?’
‘I fed Fuller a line, and I found out Hayden Fletcher hired Allan Mitchison’s killer.’
‘And you’re telling me there wasn’t an easier way?’ Jack shook his head slowly. ‘If I live to be a hundred, I swear I’ll never understand you.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ Rebus said, leaning his head back against the seat.
Back at the hotel, they decided it was time to leave Aberdeen. Rebus had a bath first, and Jack checked his injuries.
‘Strictly an amateur sadist, our Mr Fuller.’
‘He did apologise at the start.’ Rebus checked his gap-toothed smile in the mirror.
Every bit of his body ached, but he’d live, and he didn’t need a doctor to agree with him. They loaded the car, signed out without fuss, and got back on the road.
‘What an end to our holidays,’ Jack commented. But his audience of one was already asleep.
When he had narrowed the list to four individuals, four companies, it was time to use the ‘key’ – Vanessa Holden herself.
More of the suspects had turned out to be too old, or not right in some other way: one, first name Alex, had turned out to be a woman.
Bible John made the call from his own office, door closed. He had his notepad in front of him. Four companies, four individuals.
Eskflo
James Mackinley
LancerTech
Martin Davidson
Gribbin’s
Steven Jackobs
Yetland
Oliver Howison
The call was to Vanessa Holden’s company. A receptionist answered.
‘Hello,’ he told her, ‘Queen Street CID here, Detective Sergeant Collier. General question: I was wondering if you’d ever undertaken any work for Eskflo Fabrication?’
‘Eskflo?’ The receptionist sounded dubious. ‘Let me put you through to Mr Westerman.’
Bible John wrote the name on his notepad, circled it. When Westerman answered, he repeated his question.
‘Is this to do with Vanessa?’ the man asked.
‘No, sir, though I was sorry to hear about Ms Holden. You have my deepest sympathies – same goes for everyone here.’ He looked around the walls of his office. ‘And I’m sorry to have to call at such a distressing time.’
‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant. It’s been a great shock.’
&nb
sp; ‘Of course, and rest assured, we’re following up several lines of inquiry concerning Ms Holden. But my present request concerns a suspected fraud.’
‘Fraud?’
‘Nothing to do with yourselves, Mr Westerman, but we’re investigating several companies.’
‘Including Eskflo?’
‘Indeed.’ Bible John paused. ‘You’ll appreciate that I’m telling you this in the strictest confidence?’
‘Oh, of course.’
‘Now, the companies I’m concerned with are …’ He made show of shuffling some papers, eyes on the notepad. ‘Here we are: Eskflo, LancerTech, Gribbin’s, and Yetland.’
‘Yetland,’ said Westerman, ‘we did some work for them recently. No, wait … We pitched for a contract, didn’t get it.’
‘And the others?’
‘Look, can I get back to you? I’m going to have to go to the files. I seem to be having trouble concentrating.’
‘I understand, sir. I’m due out on a call … how about if I phone again in an hour?’
‘Perhaps if I call you when I’m ready?’
‘I’ll phone again in an hour, Mr Westerman. I do appreciate this.’
He put the phone down, bit a fingernail. Would Westerman try phoning Queen Street CID, asking for a DS Collier? He’d give him forty minutes.
But in the end, he gave him thirty-five.
‘Mr Westerman? That call didn’t take as long as I thought. I wonder if you’ve come up with anything for me?’
‘Yes, I think I’ve got what you need.’
Bible John concentrated on the tone of voice, listening for any doubt or suspicion, any inkling Westerman might have that he was not talking to a policeman. He found none.
‘As I said,’ Westerman continued, ‘we pitched for a Yetland contract but didn’t get it. That was in March this year. Lancer … we did a panel display for them in February. They had a stand at the Safety at Sea conference.’
Bible John consulted his list. ‘Do you happen to know who your contact was?’
‘I’m sorry, Vanessa handled it. She was very good with clients.’
‘The name Martin Davidson doesn’t ring any bells?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Not to worry, sir. And the other two companies …?’
‘Well, we’ve worked for Eskflo in the past, but not for a couple of years. And Gribbin’s … well, to be honest, I’ve never heard of them.’
Bible John ringed Martin Davidson’s name. Put a question mark beside James Mackinley: a lag-time of a couple of years? Doubtful, but possible. Decided that Yetland was a distant third, but just to be sure …
‘Would Yetland have dealt with yourself or Ms Holden?’
‘Vanessa was on holiday around then. It was just after Safety at Sea, she was exhausted.’
Bible John scored both Yetland and Gribbin’s off his list.
‘Mr Westerman, you’ve been a big help. I appreciate it.’
‘Glad to help. Just one thing, Detective Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘If you ever find the bastard who killed Vanessa, give him one from me.’
Two M. Davidsons in the phone book, one James Mackinley and two J. Mackinleys. Addresses noted.
Then another phone call, this time to Lancer Technical Support.
‘Hello, it’s the Chamber of Commerce here, just a general question. We’re compiling a database on local companies connected to the oil business. That would include LancerTech, wouldn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes,’ the receptionist said. ‘Definitely.’ She sounded a bit frazzled. Background noise: staff talking, a photocopier, another phone ringing.
‘Can you give me a thumbnail sketch?’
‘Well … we, erm, we design safety aspects into oil platforms, support vessels …’ She sounded like she was reading from a crib-sheet. ‘That sort of thing.’ Her voice trailed off.
‘I’m just writing that down,’ Bible John told her. ‘If you work in safety design, can I take it you have links to RGIT?’
‘Oh yes, close links. We cooperate on half a dozen projects. A couple of our staff are partly based there.’
Bible John underlined the name Martin Davidson. Twice.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Goodbye.’
Two M. Davidsons in the phone book. One might be a woman. He could telephone, but that would be to give the Upstart advance warning … What would he do with him? What did he want to do with him? He had begun his task in anger, but was now composed … and more than a little curious. He could call the police, an anonymous tip-off, that’s what they were waiting for. But he knew now that he wasn’t going to do that. At one point, he’d assumed he could simply dispatch the wretch and resume his life as before, but that just wasn’t possible. The Upstart had changed everything. His fingers went to his tie, checked the knot. He ripped the sheet from his notepad and tore it into tiny pieces, letting them flutter into the waste-bin.
He wondered if he should have stayed in the States. No, there would always have been the craving for home. He remembered one of the early theories about him – that he had been a member of the ‘Exclusive Brethren’. And in a sense, he had been and still was. And intended to remain a member.
Good understanding giveth favour, but the way of transgressors is hard.
Hard it was, hard would always be. He wondered if he had ‘good understanding’ of the Upstart? He doubted it, and wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.
The truth was, now he was here, he didn’t know what he wanted.
But he knew what he needed.
32
They crash-landed in Arden Street at breakfast time, neither of them feeling much like breakfast. Rebus had taken over the driving at Dundee, so Jack could crawl into the back seat for an hour. It was like driving back after one of his all-nighters, the roads quiet, rabbits and pheasant in the fields. The cleanest time of day, before everyone got busy messing it up again.
There was mail behind the door of the flat, and so many messages on his machine the red indicator was almost solid.
‘Don’t you dare leave,’ Jack said, before shuffling into the guest room, leaving the door open. Rebus made a mug of coffee, then slumped into his chair by the window. The blisters on his wrists looked like nettle-rash. His nostrils were crusted with blood.
‘Well,’ he said to the waking world, ‘that went as well as could be expected.’ He closed his eyes for five minutes. The coffee was cold when he opened them again.
His phone was ringing. He got to it before the machine.
‘Hello?’
‘CID awakes. It’s like a Ray Harryhausen film.’ Pete Hewitt from Howdenhall. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be doing this, but strictly off the record …’
‘What?’
‘All those forensic checks we ran on you – nothing. I expect they’ll get round to telling you officially, but I thought I’d put your mind at rest.’
‘If only you could, Pete.’
‘Hard night?’
‘Another one for the record books. Thanks, Pete.’
‘Bye, Inspector.’
Rebus didn’t put down the receiver; called Siobhan instead. Got her answering machine. Told her he was at home. Another home number, this time answered.
‘What?’ The voice groggy.
‘Morning, Gill.’
‘John?’
‘Alive and kicking. How did it go?’
‘I talked with Malcolm Toal, I think he’s good as gold – that is, when he’s not hitting his head against the cell wall – but …’
‘But?’
‘But I’ve passed everything on to the Squaddies. They’re the experts, after all.’ Silence. ‘John? Look, I’m sorry if you think I bottled out …’
‘You can’t see me smiling. You played it just right, Gill. You’ll get your share of the glory, but let them do the dirty work. You’ve learned.’
‘Maybe I had a good teacher.’
He laughed quietly. ‘No, I don’t think s
o.’
‘John … thanks … for everything.’
‘Want to know a secret?’
‘What?’
‘I’m on the wagon.’
‘Good for you. I’m really impressed. What happened?’
Jack slouched into the room, yawning and scratching his head.
‘I had a good teacher,’ Rebus said, replacing the receiver.
‘I heard the phone,’ Jack said. ‘Any coffee on the go?’
‘In the kettle.’
‘Want one?’
‘Go on then.’ Rebus went into the hall and picked up his mail. One envelope was fatter than the others. London postmark. He tore it open as he walked through to the kitchen. There was another envelope inside, fat, with his name and address printed on it. There was also a single sheet of notepaper. Rebus sat down at the table to read it.
It was from Lawson Geddes’ daughter.
My father left the enclosed envelope with instructions that it should be sent on to you. I’m just back from Lanzarote, having had to arrange not only the funeral but the sale of my parents’ house and the sorting out and removal of all their things. As you may remember, Dad was a bit of a magpie. Apologies for the slight delay in sending this on, which I trust you will understand. Hoping all is well with you and your family.
She’d signed it Aileen Jarrold (née Geddes).
‘What is it?’ Jack asked as Rebus tore open the second envelope. He read the first couple of lines, then looked up at Jack.
‘It’s a very long suicide note,’ he said. ‘From Lawson Geddes.’
Jack sat down and they read it together.
John, I’m sitting here writing this in the full and certain knowledge that I’m about to top myself: we always called it the coward’s way out, remember? I’m not so sure about that now, but I get the feeling I’m maybe being more selfish than cowardly exactly, selfish because I know the telly are looking at Spaven again – they’ve even sent a team to the island. This isn’t about Spaven, it’s about Etta. I miss her, and I want to be with her, even if all the afterlife consists of is my bones lying next to hers somewhere.
