10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  The bath was filling slowly. An Archimedean screw would have been more efficient. Still, it gave him time to make another telephone call to the station, to check on how they were treating Tracy. The news was not good. She was becoming irritable, refusing to eat, complaining of pains in her side. Appendicitis? More likely cold turkey. He felt a fair amount of guilt at not having gone to see her before now. Another layer of guilt wouldn’t do any harm, so he decided to put off the visit until morning. Just for a few hours he wanted to be away from it all, all the sordid tinkering with other people’s lives. His flat didn’t feel so secure any more, didn’t feel like the castle it had been only a day or two ago. And there was internal damage as well as the structural kind: he was feeling soiled in the pit of his gut, as though the city had scraped away a layer of its surface grime and force-fed him the lot.

  To hell with it.

  He was caught all right. He was living in the most beautiful, most civilised city in northern Europe, yet every day had to deal with its flipside, with the minor matter of its animus. Animus? Now there was a word he hadn’t used in a while. He wasn’t even sure now what it meant exactly; but it sounded right. He sucked from the beer bottle, holding the foam in his mouth like a child playing with toothpaste. This stuff was all foam. No substance.

  All foam. Now there was another idea. He would put some foaming bath oil in the water. Bubblebath. Who the hell had given him this stuff? Oh. Yes. Gill Templer. He remembered now. Remembered the occasion, too. She had been gently chiding him about how he never cleaned the bath. Then had presented him with this bath oil.

  ‘It cleans you and your bath,’ she had said, reading from the bottle. ‘And puts the fun back into bathtime.’

  He had suggested that they test this claim together, and they had. . . . Jesus, John, you’re getting morbid again. Just because she’s gone off with some vacuum-headed disc jockey with the unlikely name of Calum McCallum. It wasn’t the end of anybody’s world. The bombs weren’t falling. There were no sirens in the sky.

  Nothing but . . . Ronnie, Tracy, Charlie, James and the rest. And now Hyde. Rebus was beginning to know now the meaning of the term ‘dead beat’. He rested his naked limbs in the near-scalding water and closed his eyes.

  Thursday

  That house of voluntary bondage . . . with its inscrutable recluse.

  Dead beat: Holmes yawned again, dead on his feet. For once, he had actually beaten the alarm, so that he was returning to bed with instant coffee when the radio blared into action. What a way to wake up every day. When he had a spare half hour, he’d retune the bloody thing to Radio Three or something. Except he knew Radio Three would send him straight back to sleep, whereas the voice of Calum McCallum and the grating records he played in between hoots and jingles and enthusiastic bad jokes brought him awake with a jolt, ready, teeth gritted, to face another day.

  This morning, he had beaten the smug little voice. He switched the radio off.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Coffee, and time to get up.’

  Nell turned her head from the pillow, squinting up at him.

  ‘Has it gone nine?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  She turned back into the pillow again, moaning softly.

  ‘Good. Wake me up again when it does.’

  ‘Drink your coffee,’ he chided, touching her shoulder. Her shoulder was warm, tempting. He allowed himself a wistful smile, then turned and left the bedroom. He had gone ten paces before he paused, turned, and went back. Nell’s arms were long, tanned, and open in welcome.

  Despite the breakfast he had brought her in the cell, Tracy was furious with Rebus, and especially when he explained to her that she could leave whenever she wanted, that she wasn’t under arrest.

  ‘This is called protection,’ he told her. ‘Protection from the men who were chasing you. Protection from Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie. . . .’ She calmed a little at the sound of his name, and touched her bruised eye. ‘But why didn’t you come to see me sooner?’ she complained. Rebus shrugged.

  ‘Things to do,’ he said.

  He stared at her photograph now, while Brian Holmes sat on the other side of the desk, warily sipping coffee from a chipped mug. Rebus wasn’t sure whether he hated Holmes or loved him for bringing this into the office, for laying it flat on the desktop in front of him. Not saying a word. No good morning, no hail fellow well met. Just this. This photograph, this nude shot. Of Tracy.

  Rebus had stared at it while Holmes made his report. Holmes had worked hard yesterday, and had achieved a result. So why had he snubbed Rebus in the bar? If he’d seen this picture last night, it would not now be ruining his morning, not now be eroding the memory of a good night’s sleep. Rebus cleared his throat.

  ‘Did you find out anything about her?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Holmes. ‘All I got was that.’ He nodded towards the photograph, his eyes unblinking: I’ve given you that. What more do you want from me?

  ‘I see,’ said Rebus, his voice level. He turned the photo over and read the small label on the back. Hutton Studios. A business telephone number. ‘Right. Well, leave this with me, Brian. I’ll have to give it some thought.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Holmes, thinking: he called me Brian! He’s not thinking straight this morning.

  Rebus sat back, sipping from his own mug. Coffee, milk no sugar. He had been disappointed when Holmes had asked for his coffee the same way. It gave them something in common. A taste in coffee.

  ‘How’s the househunting going?’ he said conversationally.

  ‘Grim. How did you . . .?’ Holmes remembered the Houses for Sale list, folded in his jacket pocket like a tabloid newspaper. He touched it now. Rebus smiled, nodded.

  ‘I remember buying my flat,’ he said. ‘I scoured those freesheets for weeks before I found a place I liked.’

  ‘Liked?’ Holmes snorted. ‘That would be a bonus. The problem for me is just finding somewhere I can afford.’

  ‘That bad, is it?’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed?’ Holmes was slightly incredulous. So involved was he in the game, it was hard to believe that anyone wasn’t. ‘Prices are going through the roof. In fact, a roof’s about all I can afford near the centre of the city.’

  ‘Yes, I remember someone telling me about it.’ Rebus was thoughtful. ‘At lunch yesterday. You know I was with the people putting up the money for Farmer Watson’s drugs campaign? One of them was James Carew.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be anything to do with Carew Bowyers?’

  ‘The head honcho. Do you want me to have a word? See about a discount on your house?’

  Holmes smiled. Some of the glacier between them had been chipped away. ‘That would be great,’ he said. ‘Maybe he could arrange for a summertime sale, bargains in all departments.’ Holmes started this sentence with a grin, but it trailed away with his words. Rebus wasn’t listening, was lost somewhere in thought.

  ‘Yes,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘I’ve got to have a word with Mr Carew anyway.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘To do with some soliciting.’

  ‘Thinking of moving houses yourself?’

  Rebus looked at Holmes, not comprehending. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I suppose we need a plan of attack for today.’

  ‘Ah.’ Holmes looked uncomfortable. ‘I wanted to ask you about that, sir. I had a phone call this morning. I’ve been working for some months on a dog-fighting ring, and they’re about to arrest the gang.’

  ‘Dog fighting?’

  ‘Yes, you know. Put two dogs in a ring. Let them tear each other to shreds. Place bets on the result.’

  ‘I thought that died with the depression.’

  ‘There’s been a revival of late. Vicious it is, too. I could show you some photos –’

  ‘Why the revival?’

  ‘Who knows? People looking for kicks, something less tame than a bet at the bookie’s.’

  Rebus was nodding now, almost lost to his own thoughts again.

  ‘Woul
d you say it was a yuppie pursuit, Holmes?’

  Holmes shrugged: he’s getting better. Stopped calling me by my first name.

  ‘Well, never mind. So you want to be in on the arrest?’

  Holmes nodded. ‘If possible, sir.’

  ‘Entirely possible,’ said Rebus. ‘So where’s it all happening?’

  ‘I still have to check that out. Somewhere in Fife though.’

  ‘Fife? Home territory for me.’

  ‘Is it? I didn’t know. What’s that saying again . . .?’

  ‘“Ye need a lang spoon tae sup wi’ a Fifer.”’

  Holmes smiled. ‘Yes, that’s it. There’s a similar saying about the devil, isn’t there?’

  ‘All it means is that we’re close, Holmes, tightly knit. We don’t suffer fools and strangers gladly. Now off you go to Fife and see what I’m on about.’

  ‘Yes, sir. What about you? I mean, what will you do about . . .?’ His eyes were on the photograph again. Rebus picked it up and placed it carefully in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, son. I’ve plenty to keep me busy. Just keeping out of range of Farmer Watson is work enough for a day. Maybe I’ll take the car out. Nice day for a drive.’

  ‘Nice day for a drive.’

  Tracy was doing her best to ignore him. She stared from her passenger side window, seemingly interested in the passing parade of shops and shoppers, tourists, kids with nothing to do now the schools had broken up for summer.

  She’d been keen enough to get out of the station though. He’d held the car door open for her, dissuading her from just walking away. And she’d complied, but silently, sullenly. Okay, she was in the huff with him. He’d get over it. So would she.

  ‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘You’re pissed off. But how many times do I have to tell you? It was for your own safety, while I was doing some checking up.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Do you know this part of town?’

  She was silent. There was to be no conversation. Only questions and answers: her questions.

  ‘We’re just driving,’ he said. ‘You must know this side of town. A lot of dealing used to go on around here.’

  ‘I’m not into that!’

  It was Rebus’s turn to be silent. He wasn’t too old to play a game or two himself. He took a left, then another, then a right.

  ‘We’ve been here already,’ she commented. She’d noticed then, clever girl. Still, that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that slowly, by degrees, by left and right then left and right again, he was guiding them towards the destination.

  He pulled into the kerb abruptly and yanked on the handbrake.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’re here.’

  ‘Here?’ She looked out of the side window, up at the tenement building. The red stone had been cleaned in the past year, giving it the look of a child’s plasticine, pinky ochre and malleable. ‘Here?’ she repeated, the word choking off as she recognised the exact address, and then tried not to let that recognition show.

  The photograph was on her lap when she turned from the window. She flicked it from her with a squeal, as though it were an insect. Rebus plucked the photo from the floor of the car and held it out to her.

  ‘Yours, I believe.’

  ‘Where the hell did you get that?’

  ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

  Her face was as red as the stonework now, her eyes flitting in panic like a bird’s. She fumbled with the seatbelt, desperate to be out of the car, but Rebus’s hand on the catch was rock hard.

  ‘Let me go!’ she yelled, thumping down on his fist. Then she pushed open the door, but the camber of the road pulled it shut again. There was not enough give in the seatbelt anyway. She was securely bound.

  ‘I thought we’d pay Mr Hutton a call,’ Rebus was saying, his voice like a blade. ‘Ask him about this photo. About how he paid you a few quid to model for him. About how you brought him Ronnie’s pictures. Looking for a few bob more maybe, or just to spite Ronnie. Is that how it was, Tracy? I’ll bet Ronnie was pissed off when he saw Hutton had stolen his ideas. Couldn’t prove it though, could he? And how was he to know how the hell Hutton got them in the first place? I suppose you put the blame on Charlie, and that’s why the two of you aren’t exactly on speaking terms. Some friend to Ronnie you were, sweetheart. Some friend.’

  She broke down at that, and gave up trying to free herself from the seatbelt. Her head angled forward into her hands, and she wept, loudly and at length. While Rebus caught his breath. He wasn’t proud of himself, but it had needed saying. She had to stop hiding from the truth. It was all conjecture, of course, but Rebus was sure Hutton could confirm the details if pressed. She had modelled for money, maybe happened to mention that her boyfriend was a photographer. Had taken the photos to Hutton, giving away Ronnie’s glimmer of a chance, his creativity, for a few more pound notes. If you couldn’t trust your friends, who could you trust?

  He had left her overnight in the cells to see if she would crack. She hadn’t, so he supposed she must be clean. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have some kind of habit. If not needles, then something else. Everybody needed a little something, didn’t they? And the money was needed, too. So she had ripped off her boyfriend. . . .

  ‘Did you plant that camera in Charlie’s squat?’

  ‘No!’ It was as though, after all that had gone before, the accusation still hurt. Rebus nodded. So Charlie had taken the camera, or someone else had planted it there. For him to find. No . . . not quite, because he hadn’t found it: McCall had. And very easily at that, the way he had blithely found the dope in the sleeping bag. A true copper’s nose? Or something else? A little information perhaps, inside information? If you can’t trust your friends. . . .

  ‘Did you see the camera the night Ronnie died?’

  ‘It was in his room, I’m sure it was.’ She blinked back the tears and wiped her nose on the handkerchief Rebus gave her. Her voice was cracked still, her throat a little clogged, but she was recovering from the shock of the photo, and the greater shock that Rebus knew now of her betrayal.

  ‘That guy who came to see Ronnie, he was in Ronnie’s room after me.’

  ‘You mean Neil?’

  ‘I think that was his name, yes.’

  Too many cooks, Rebus was thinking. He was going to have to revise his definition of ‘circumstantial’. He had very little so far that wasn’t circumstantial. It felt like the spiral was widening, taking him further and further away from the central, crucial point, the point where Ronnie lay dead on a damp, bare floor, flanked by candles and dubious friends.

  ‘Neil was Ronnie’s brother.’

  ‘Really?’ Her voice was disinterested. The safety curtain between her and the world was coming down again. The matinee was over.

  ‘Yes, really.’ Rebus felt a sudden chill. If nobody, nobody cares what happened to Ronnie except Neil and me, why am I bothering?

  ‘Charlie always thought they had some kind of gay thing going. I never asked Ronnie. I don’t suppose he would have told me.’ She rested her head against the back of the seat, seeming to relax again. ‘Oh God.’ She released a whistle of breath from her lungs. ‘Do we have to stick around here?’

  Her hands were rising slowly, ready to clasp her head, and Rebus was beginning to answer in the negative, when he saw those same hands come swiftly down, curling into tiny fists. There was no room to escape them, and so they hit him full in the groin. A flashgun exploded somewhere behind his eyes, the world turning into nothing but sound and blinding pain. He was roaring, doubled up in agony, head coming to rest on the steering wheel, which was also the car’s horn. It was blaring lazily as Tracy undid her seatbelt, opened the door, and swivelled out of the car. She left the door wide open as she ran. Rebus watched through eyes brimming with tears, as if he were in a swimming pool, watching her running along the edge of the pool away from him, chlorine stinging his pupils.

  ‘Jesus Almight
y Christ,’ he gasped, still hunched over the wheel, and not about to move for some considerable time.

  Think like Tarzan, his father had told him once: one of the old man’s few pieces of advice. He was talking about fights. About one-to-one scrapes with the lads at school. Four o’clock behind the bike shed, and all that. Think like Tarzan. You’re strong, king of the jungle, and above all else you’re going to protect your nuts. And the old boy had raised a bent knee towards young John’s crotch. . . .

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ Rebus hissed now. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’ Then the reaction hit his stomach.

  By lunchtime he could just about walk, so long as he kept his feet close to the ground, moving as though he had wet himself. People stared, of course, and he tried to improvise a limp specially for them. Ever the crowd pleaser.

  The thought of the stairs to his office was too much, and driving the car had been excruciating, the foot pedals impossible to operate. So he had taken a taxi to the Sutherland Bar. Three quarter-gill measures of whisky later, he felt the pain replaced by a drowsy numbness.

  ‘“As though of hemlock . . .”,’ he muttered to himself.

  He wasn’t worried about Tracy. Anyone with a punch like that could look after herself. There were probably kids on the street harder than half the bloody police force. Not that Tracy was a kid. He still hadn’t found out anything about her. That was supposed to be Holmes’s department, but Holmes was off on a wild dog chase in Fife. No, Tracy would be all right. Probably there had been no men chasing her. But then why come to him that night? There could be a hundred reasons. After all, she’d conned a bed, the best part of a bottle of wine, a hot bath and breakfast out of him. Not bad going that, and him supposed to be a hardened old copper. Too old maybe. Too much the ‘copper’, not enough the police officer. Maybe.