by Ian Rankin
‘Evening, Judd,’ Rebus said now.
‘Do I know you?’
Rebus walked up to him. ‘You stupid bastard, you let me get away but you still went on using the cellar.’ He shook his head. ‘Erik will be disappointed.’
‘Screw Erik.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Every man for himself now, eh?’
‘Let’s get it over with.’
‘What?’
‘Why you’re here.’ Fuller looked up at him. ‘You want a free hit at me, this is the only chance you’re ever going to get. So make it good.’
‘I don’t need to hit you, Judd.’ Rebus grinned, showing the stunted tooth.
‘Then you’re yellow.’
Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘I used to be, but not any more.’
He turned his back and walked.
Back in CID, the party was in full swing. A cassette player had been wired up, accordion reels at distorted volume. Only two couples were dancing, and then not very well: there was barely room between the desks for professional ceilidh enthusiasts. Three or four bodies lay slumped at their desks, heads on arms. Someone else lay prone on the floor. Rebus counted nine empty whisky bottles, and someone had been sent out for more cases of beer. Jack was still talking with the secretary, his cheeks red from the heat in the room. The place was beginning to smell like a changing room at full-time.
Rebus walked around the room. The walls were still covered with material pertaining to Johnny Bible’s local victims: maps, diagrams, duty rosters, photographs. He studied the photos, as if memorising the smiling faces. He saw that the fax machine had just finished spewing something out. Car ownership details, metallic blue BMWs. Four in Aberdeen, but only one with the same sequence of letters the witness recalled. Registered to a company called Eugene Construction with a Peterhead address.
Eugene Construction? Eugene Construction?
Rebus emptied his pockets on to a desktop, finding petrol receipts, notebook, scraps of paper with telephone numbers, Rennies, a book of matches … there: business card. Given to him by the man he’d met at the convention. Rebus studied the card. Ryan Slocum, Sales Manager, Engineering Division. The parent company: Eugene Construction, with a Peterhead address. Trembling, Rebus lifted the Borneo photo and looked at it, remembering the man he’d met that day in the bar.
‘No wonder Scotland’s down the pan. And we want independence.’
He’d handed over his business card, then Rebus had announced that he was a policeman.
‘Did I say anything incriminating …? Is it Johnny Bible?’
The face, the eyes, the height … close to the man in the photograph. Close. Ray Sloane … Ryan Slocum. Someone had broken into Rebus’s flat, looking for something, taking nothing. Looking for something that might incriminate them? He looked again at the business card, then reached for a phone, eventually tracked Siobhan down at home.
‘Siobhan, the guy you talked to at the National Library …?’
‘Yes?’
‘He gave you a description of the so-called journalist?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give it to me again.’
‘Hang on.’ She went to fetch her notebook. ‘What’s this about anyway?’
‘I’ll tell you later. Read it out.’
‘“Tall, fair-haired, early fifties, longish face, no distinguishing features.”’
‘Anything about the accent?’
‘Nothing down here.’ She paused. ‘Oh, yes, he did say something. He said it was twangy.’
‘Like American?’
‘But Scottish.’
‘It’s him.’
‘Who?’
‘Bible John, just like you said.’
‘What?’
‘Stalking his offspring …’ Rebus rubbed his forehead, pinched the bridge of his nose. He had his eyes screwed shut. Was it or wasn’t it? Was he obsessed? How different was Johnny Bible’s shrine from the scene in his own kitchen, the table covered in cuttings?
‘I don’t know,’ he said. But he did know. He did. ‘Talk to you later,’ he told Siobhan.
‘Wait!’
But that was the one thing he couldn’t do. He needed to know. He needed to know right now. He looked round the room, saw dissolution and reverie, nobody who could drive, no back-up.
Except Jack.
Who had one arm around the secretary now, and was whispering in her ear. She was smiling, holding her cup with a steady hand. Maybe she was drinking the same thing Jack was: cola. Would Jack give him the keys? Not without an explanation, and Rebus wanted to do this alone, needed to. His motive: confrontation, and maybe exorcism. Besides, Bible John had cheated him out of Johnny Bible.
Rebus called downstairs. ‘Any cars going begging?’
‘Not if you’ve been drinking.’
‘Try me with a breath test.’
‘There’s an Escort parked outside.’
Rebus searched desk drawers, found a phone book. Peterhead … Slocum R. No listing. He could try BT, but an unlisted check would take time. Another option: get on the road. It was what he wanted anyway.
The city streets were wild: another Friday night, young souls at play. Rebus was singing ‘All Right Now’. Segue into: ‘Been Down So Long’. Thirty miles north to Peterhead, deep-water port. Tankers and platforms went there for servicing. Rebus wound the motor up, not much traffic heading out of the city. Sky glowing dull pink. Simmer dim, as the Shetlanders called it. Rebus tried not to think about what he was doing. Breaking rules he’d advised others not to break. No back-up. No real authority up here, a long way from home.
He had the address for Eugene Construction, got it from Ryan Slocum’s business card. I stood next to Bible John in a bar. He bought me a drink. Rebus shook his head. Probably a lot of other people could say the same, if only they knew; Rebus wasn’t so special. The company’s phone number was on the card, but all he’d got was an answering machine. It didn’t mean no one was there: security wouldn’t necessarily answer the phones. The card also had a pager number for Slocum, but Rebus wasn’t about to use that.
The company was housed behind a tall mesh fence. It took twenty minutes of driving around and asking questions before he found it. It wasn’t dockside, which was where he’d expected it to be. There was a country business park on the edge of town, and Eugene Construction bordered that. Rebus drove up to the gates. They were locked. He sounded his horn. There was a gatehouse, its lights on, but nobody in. Past the gates were barriers, painted red and white. His headlamps picked them out, and then behind them, coming forwards, a sauntering figure in guard’s uniform. Rebus left the car running, walked up to the gate.
‘What is it?’ the guard asked.
He pressed his warrant card to the mesh. ‘Police. I need a home address for one of your employees.’
‘Can’t it wait till morning?’
Gritted teeth. ‘Afraid not.’
The guard – sixties, retirement age, low-slung paunch – rasped at his chin. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Look, who do you contact in an emergency?’
‘My office.’
‘And they contact someone from the company?’
‘I suppose so. Haven’t had to test it. Some kids tried to scale the fence a few months back, but they –’
‘Could you phone in?’
‘– heard me coming and ran away sharpish. What?’
‘Could you phone in?’
‘I suppose so, if it’s an emergency.’ The guard walked towards his hut.
‘And could you let me in while you’re at it? I’ll need to use your phone afterwards.’
The guard scratched his head, muttered something, but shook a chain of keys from his pocket and walked up to the gate.
‘Thanks,’ Rebus told him.
The hut was sparsely furnished. Kettle, mug, coffee and a little jar of milk sat on a rusted tray. There was a one-bar electric heater, two chairs, and a paperback novel on the desk: a western. Rebus took the telephone a
nd explained the situation to the guard’s supervisor, who asked to speak to the guard again.
‘Yes, sir,’ the guard said, ‘ID and everything.’ Staring at Rebus like he might be leader of a heist gang. He put Rebus back on, and the supervisor handed him the name and phone number he needed. Rebus made the call, waited.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Mr Sturges?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. My name’s Detective Inspector John Rebus. I’m calling from your company’s gatehouse.’
‘Not a break-in or something?’ The man sighed. A break-in meant he’d have to get dressed and go down there.
‘No, sir, I just need some information on one of your employees.’
‘Can’t it wait till morning?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Who is it anyway?’
‘Ryan Slocum.’
‘Ryan? What’s wrong?’
‘A serious illness, sir.’ Rebus had used the lie before. ‘An elderly relative. They need Mr Slocum’s permission to operate.’
‘Good God.’
‘That’s why it’s urgent.’
‘Yes, I see, I see.’ It always worked: grandmas in peril. ‘Well, it’s not every employee whose address I know off the top of my head.’
‘But you know Mr Slocum’s?’
‘Been to dinner there a few times.’
‘He’s married?’ Enter a spouse into the equation. Rebus hadn’t imagined Bible John married.
‘Wife’s name’s Una, lovely couple.’
‘And the address, sir?’
‘Well, it’s the phone number you’ll be wanting?’
‘Both actually. That way, if no one’s home, we can send someone round to wait.’
Rebus copied the details into his notebook, thanked the man and put down the phone.
‘Any idea how to get to Springview?’ he asked the guard.
35
Springview was a modern development on the coast road south of town. Rebus parked outside Three Rankeillor Close, shut off the engine, and took a good long look at the house. There was a landscaped garden to the front – clipped lawn, rockery, shrubs and flower beds. No fence or hedge separated the garden from the pavement in front. The other properties were the same.
The house itself was a newish two-storey with gabled roof. To the right of the house was an integral garage. There was an alarm box above one of the bedroom windows. A light was on behind the living-room curtains. The car parked on the gravel driveway was a white Peugeot 106.
‘Now or never, John,’ Rebus told himself, taking a deep breath as he got out of the car. He walked up to the front door and rang the bell, then stepped back off the doorstep. If Ryan Slocum himself answered, Rebus wanted a bit of distance. He remembered his army training – unarmed combat – and an old maxim: shoot first, ask questions later. Something he should have remembered when he’d gone to Burke’s Club.
A woman’s voice came through the door. ‘Yes? What is it?’
Rebus realised he was being watched through a spy-hole. He stepped back up on to the doorstep, so she could get a close look. ‘Mrs Slocum?’ Holding his warrant card up in front of him. ‘CID, madam.’
The door was flung open. A small, slender woman stood there, black cusps beneath her eyes, her hair short and dark and untidy.
‘Oh my God,’ she said, ‘what’s happened?’ Her accent was American.
‘Nothing, madam.’ Relief washed over her face. ‘Why should there be?’
‘Ryan,’ she said, sniffing back tears. ‘I don’t know where he is.’ She sought a handkerchief, realised the box was back in the living room, and told Rebus he’d better come in. He followed her into the large, well-furnished room, and while she was pulling out paper hankies took the opportunity to open the curtains a little. If a blue BMW turned up, he wanted to know about it.
‘Working late maybe?’ he said, already knowing the answer.
‘I tried his office.’
‘Yes, but he’s a sales manager, could he be entertaining a client?’
‘He always phones, he’s very dutiful that way.’
Dutiful: odd choice of word. The room looked the sort that got cleaned before it was ever dirty; Una Slocum looked like the cleaner. Her hands twitched with the bundle of tissues, her whole face drawn with tension.
‘Try to calm down, Mrs Slocum. Is there anything you could take?’ He’d bet she had a doctor’s prescription somewhere in the house.
‘In the bathroom, but I don’t want any. They make me dopey.’
Towards the far end of the room, a large mahogany dining table and six straight-backed chairs sat in front of a trio of wall units. China dolls behind glass, bathed by recessed lighting. Some silverware. No family photographs …
‘Maybe a friend who could …?’
Una Slocum sat down, got up again, remembering she had a guest. ‘Some tea, Mr …?’
‘Rebus, Inspector Rebus. Tea would be great.’
Give her something to do, keep her mind busy. The kitchen was only slightly smaller than the living room. Rebus peered out into the back garden. It looked enclosed, no easy way for Ryan Slocum to sneak up on the house. Rebus’s ears were primed for car noises …
‘He’s gone,’ she said, stopping suddenly in the middle of the floor with the kettle in one hand, teapot in the other.
‘What makes you say that, Mrs Slocum?’
‘A suitcase, some clothes … they’re gone.’
‘Business, maybe? Something at the last minute?’
She shook her head. ‘He’d have left a note or something, a message on the machine.’
‘You’ve checked?’
She nodded. ‘I was in Aberdeen all day, shopping, walking around. When I got back, the house felt different somehow, emptier. I think I knew right off.’
‘Has he said anything about leaving?’
‘No.’ The ghost of a smile. ‘But a wife gets to know, Inspector. Another woman.’
‘A woman?’
Una Slocum nodded. ‘Isn’t it always? He’s been so … I don’t know, just different lately. Short-tempered, distracted … spending time away from home when I knew he’d no business meetings.’ She was still nodding, confirming it to herself. ‘He’s gone.’
‘And you’ve no idea where he could be?’
She shook her head. ‘Wherever she is, that’s all.’
Rebus walked back through to the living room, checked the window: no BMW. A hand touched his arm, and he spun. It was Una Slocum.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘I nearly died.’
‘Ryan always complains I never make any noise. It’s the carpet.’
Half-inch Wilton, yards of it.
‘Have you any children, Mrs Slocum?’
She shook her head. ‘I think Ryan would have liked a son. Maybe that was the problem …’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘A long time, fifteen years, nearer sixteen.’
‘Where did you meet?’
She smiled, drifting back. ‘Galveston, Texas. Ryan was an engineer, I was a secretary in the same company. He’d emigrated from Scotland some time before. I could tell he missed home, I always knew we’d end up coming back.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Four and a half years.’ And no killings during that time, so maybe Bible John had come out of retirement for this one job … ‘Of course,’ Una Slocum said, ‘we go back now and then to see my folks. They’re in Miami. And Ryan goes over three or four times a year on business.’
Business. Rebus added a rider to his previous thought: or maybe not.
‘Is he a churchgoer, Mrs Slocum?’
She stared at him. ‘He was when we met. It tailed off, but he’s been attending again.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Any chance I could look around? He may have left a clue where he was headed.’
‘Well … I suppose that would be all right.’ The kettle came to the
boil and clicked off. ‘I’ll make the tea.’ She turned to go, paused, turned back. ‘Inspector, what are you doing here?’
Rebus smiled. ‘A routine inquiry, Mrs Slocum, to do with your husband’s work.’
She nodded as though this explained everything, then walked silently back to the kitchen.
‘Ryan’s study’s to the left,’ she called. So Rebus started there.
It was a small room, made smaller by the furniture and bookshelves. There were dozens of books about the Second World War, a whole wall covered with them. Papers were laid out neatly on the desk – stuff from Slocum’s work. In the drawers were more work files, plus others for tax, house and life insurance, pension. A life put into compartments. There was a small radio, and Rebus turned it on. Radio Three. He turned it off again, just as Una Slocum put her head round the door.
‘Tea’s in the living room.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, another thing, he’s taken his computer.’
‘Computer?’
‘You know, a laptop. He used it a lot. He kept this door locked while he worked, but I could hear the clatter of keys.’
There was a key on the inside of the door. When she’d gone, Rebus closed the door and locked himself in, then turned and tried to imagine this as the den of a murderer. He couldn’t. It was a workspace, nothing more. No trophies, and no place to hide them. No bag filled with souvenirs, like Johnny Bible had collected. And no shrine, no scrapbooks of horror. No indication at all that this person lived a double life …
Rebus unlocked the door, went through to the living room, checked the window again.
‘Find anything?’ Una Slocum was pouring tea into fine china cups. A Battenberg cake had been sliced on a matching plate.
‘No,’ Rebus admitted. He took a cup and a slice of cake from her. ‘Thank you.’ Then retreated to the window again.
‘When your husband’s a salesman,’ she went on, ‘you get used to seeing him irregularly, to having to attend boring parties and gatherings, to being hostess at dinner parties where the guests are not ones you’d have chosen for yourself.’
‘Can’t be easy,’ Rebus agreed.
‘But I never complained. Maybe Ryan would have paid me more attention if I had.’ She looked at him. ‘You’re sure he’s not in trouble?’
