10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus leaned his head against the mirror. His voice was a near whisper.

  ‘Your fees are too high.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Andrews’ voice seemed closer than ever, his breathing almost audible. Rebus’s voice was still a whisper.

  ‘I said your fees are too high.’

  Suddenly, he pulled back an arm, made a fist, and pushed straight through the mirror, shattering it. Another trick from his SAS training. Don’t punch at something; always punch through, even if it’s a brick wall you’re attacking. Glass splintered around him, digging into the sleeve of his jacket, seeking flesh. His fist uncurled, became a claw. Just through the mirror, he found Andrews’ throat, clamped it, and hauled the man forward. Andrews was shrieking. Glass was in his face, flakes of it in his hair, his mouth, prickling his eyes. Rebus held him close, teeth gritted.

  ‘I said,’ he hissed, ‘your fees are too high.’ Then he brought his other hand into a fresh new fist and placed a blow on Andrews’ chin, releasing him so that the unconscious figure fell back into the room.

  Rebus pulled off the useless shoe and tapped away the shards of glass which still clung around the edges of the frame. Then, carefully, he hauled himself through into the room, went to the door, and opened it.

  He saw Tracy immediately. She was standing hesitantly in the middle of the boxing ring, arms hanging by her sides.

  ‘Tracy?’ he said.

  ‘She may not hear you, Inspector Rebus. Heroin can do that, you know.’

  Rebus watched as Malcolm Lanyon stepped out from the shadows. Behind him were two men. One was tall, well built for a man of his mature years. He had thick black eyebrows and a thick moustache tinged with silver. His eyes were deep-set, his whole face louring. He was the most Calvinist-looking thing Rebus had ever seen. The other man was stouter, less justified in his sinning. His hair was curly but thinning, his face scarred like a knuckle, a labourer’s face. He was leering.

  Rebus stared at Tracy again. Her eyes were like pinpoints. He went to the ring and climbed in, hugging her to him. Her body was totally compliant, her hair damp with sweat. She might have been a life-sized rag doll for all the impetus in her limbs. But when Rebus held her face so that she had to look back at him, her eyes glimmered, and he felt her body twitch.

  ‘My edge,’ Lanyon was saying. ‘It seems I needed it.’ He glanced towards the room where Andrews was lying unconscious. ‘Finlay said he could handle you himself. Having seen you last night, I doubted that.’ He beckoned to one of the men. ‘See if Finlay’s going to be all right.’ The man headed off. Rebus liked the way the odds were going.

  ‘Would you care to step into my office and talk?’ he said.

  Lanyon considered this, saw that Rebus was a strong man, but that he had his hands full with the girl. Also, of course, Lanyon had his men, while Rebus was alone. He walked to the ring, grabbed onto a rope, and hauled himself up and in. Now, face to face with Rebus, he saw the cuts on Rebus’s arm and hand.

  ‘Nasty,’ he said. ‘If you don’t get those seen to. . . .’

  ‘I might bleed to death?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Rebus looked down at the canvas, where his own blood was making fresh stains beside those of nameless others. ‘How many of them died in the ring?’ he asked.

  ‘I really don’t know. Not many. We’re not animals, Inspector Rebus. There may have been the occasional . . . accident. I seldom came to Hyde’s. I merely introduced new members into it.’

  ‘So when do they make you a judge?’

  Lanyon smiled. ‘Not for a considerable time yet. But it Will happen. I once attended a club similar to Hyde’s in London. Actually, that’s where I met Saiko.’ Rebus’s eyes widened. ‘Oh yes,’ Lanyon said, ‘she’s a very versatile young woman.’

  ‘I suppose Hyde’s has given you and Andrews carte blanche throughout Edinburgh?’

  ‘It has helped with the odd planning application, the odd court case just happening to go the right way, that sort of thing.’

  ‘So what happens now that I know all about it?’

  ‘Ah, well, you needn’t worry there. Finlay and I see a long-term future for you in the development of Edinburgh as a great city of commerce and industry.’ The guard below chuckled.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Rebus. He could feel Tracy’s body tensing, growing strong again. How long it would last he couldn’t know.

  ‘I mean,’ Lanyon was saying, ‘that you could be preserved in concrete, supporting one of the new orbital roads.’

  ‘You’ve done that before, have you?’ The question was rhetorical; the goon’s chuckle had already answered it.

  ‘Once or twice, yes. When there was something that needed clearing away.’

  Rebus saw that Tracy’s hands were slowly closing into fists. Then the goon who had gone to see Andrews came back.

  ‘Mr Lanyon!’ he called. ‘I think Mr Andrews is pretty bad!’

  Just then, as Lanyon turned from them, Tracy flew from Rebus with a terrifying shriek and swung her fists in a low arc, catching Lanyon with a sickening thump between his legs. He didn’t so much fall as deflate, gagging as he went, while Tracy stumbled, the effort having been too great, and fell to the canvas.

  Rebus was quick, too. He grabbed Lanyon and pulled him upright, locking his arm behind his back with one hand while the other hand went to his throat. The two heavies made a move towards the ring, but Rebus dug his fingers into Lanyon’s flesh just a little deeper, and they hesitated. There was a moment’s stalemate before one of them made a dash for the stairs, closely followed by his partner. Rebus was breathing heavily. He released his grip on Lanyon and watched him crumple to the floor. Then, standing in the centre of the ring, he counted softly to ten – referee style – before raising one arm high into the air.

  Upstairs, things had quietened down. The staff were tidying themselves up, but held their heads high, having acquitted themselves well. The drunks – Holmes, McCall, McGrath and Todd – had been seen off, and Paulette was smoothing the rumpled atmosphere with offers of free drinks all round. She saw Rebus coming through the door of Hyde’s, and froze momentarily, then turned back into the perfect hostess, but with her voice slightly less warm than before, and her smile counterfeit.

  ‘Ah, John.’ It was Superintendent Watson, glass still in hand. ‘Wasn’t that a tussle? Where did you disappear to?’

  ‘Is Tommy McCall around, sir?’

  ‘Somewhere around, yes. Heard the offer of a free drink and headed in the direction of the bar. What have you done to your hand?’

  Rebus looked down and saw that his hand was still bleeding in several places.

  ‘Seven years bad luck,’ he said. ‘Do you have a minute, sir? There’s something I’d like to show you. But first I need to phone for an ambulance.’

  ‘But why, for God’s sake? The rumpus is over, surely?’

  Rebus looked at his superior. ‘I wouldn’t bet on that, sir,’ he said. ‘Not even if the chips were on the house.’

  Rebus made his way home wearily, not from any real physical tiredness, but because his mind felt abused. The stairwell almost defeated him. He paused on the first floor, outside Mrs Cochrane’s door, for what seemed minutes. He tried not to think about Hyde’s, about what it meant, what it had been, what emotions it had serviced. But, not consciously thinking of it, bits of it flew around inside his head anyway, little jagged pieces of horror.

  Mrs Cochrane’s cats wanted out. He could hear them on the other side of the door. A cat-flap would have been the answer, but Mrs Cochrane didn’t believe in them. Like leaving your door open to strangers, she had said. Any old moggie could just waltz in.

  How true. Somehow, Rebus found that little unwrapped parcel of strength which was necessary to climb the extra flight. He unlocked his door and closed it again behind him. Sanctuary. In the kitchen, he munched on a dry roll while he waited for the kettle to boil.

  Watson had listened to his story with mounting unease and disbelief.
He had wondered aloud just how many important people were implicated. But then only Andrews and Lanyon could answer that. They’d found some video film as well as an impressive selection of still photographs. Watson’s lips had been bloodless, though many of the faces meant nothing to Rebus. Still, a few of them did. Andrews had been right about the judges and the lawyers. Thankfully, there were no policemen on display. Except one.

  Rebus had wanted to clear up a murder, and instead had stumbled into a nest of vipers. He wasn’t sure any of it would come to light. Too many reputations would fall. The public’s faith in the beliefs and institutions of the city, of the country itself would be shattered. How long would it take to pick up the pieces of that broken mirror? Rebus examined his bandaged wrist. How long for the wounds to heal?

  He went into the living room, carrying his tea. Tony McCall was seated in a chair, waiting.

  ‘Hello, Tony,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Hello, John.’

  ‘Thanks for your help back there.’

  ‘What are friends for?’

  Earlier in the day, when Rebus had asked for Tony McCall’s help, McCall had broken down.

  ‘I know all about it, John,’ he had confessed. ‘Tommy took me along there once. It was hideous, and I didn’t stick around. But maybe there are pictures of me . . . I don’t know . . . Maybe there are.’

  Rebus hadn’t needed to ask any more. It had come spilling out like beer from a tap: things bad at home, bit of fun, couldn’t tell anyone about it because he didn’t know who already knew. Even now he thought it best to keep quiet about it. Rebus had accepted the warning.

  ‘I’m still going ahead,’ he had said. ‘With you or without. Your choice.’

  Tony McCall had agreed to help.

  Rebus sat down, placed the tea on the floor, and reached into his pocket for the photograph he had lifted from the files at Hyde’s. He threw it in McCall’s direction. McCall lifted it, stared at it with fearful eyes.

  ‘You know,’ Rebus said, ‘Andrews was after Tommy’s haulage company. He’d have had it, too, and at a bargain-basement price.’

  ‘Rotten bastard,’ McCall said, tearing the photograph methodically into smaller and smaller pieces.

  ‘Why did you do it, Tony?’

  ‘I told you, John. Tommy took me along. Just a bit of fun –’

  ‘No, I mean why did you break into the squat and plant that powder on Ronnie?’

  ‘Me?’ McCall’s eyes were wider than ever now, but the look in them was still fear rather than surprise. It was all guesswork, but Rebus knew he was guessing right.

  ‘Come on, Tony. Do you think Finlay Andrews is going to let any names stay secret? He’s going down, and he’s got no reason to let anyone’s head stay above water.’

  McCall thought about this. He let the bits of the photograph flutter into the ashtray, then set light to them with a match. They dissolved to blackened ash, and he seemed satisfied.

  ‘Andrews needed a favour. It was always “favours” with him. I think he’d seen The Godfather too many times. Pilmuir was my beat, my territory. We’d met through Tommy, so he thought to ask me.’

  ‘And you were happy to oblige.’

  ‘Well, he had the picture, didn’t he?’

  ‘There must’ve been more.’

  ‘Well . . .’ McCall paused again, crushed the ash in the ashtray with his forefinger. A fine dust was all that was left. ‘Yes, hell, I was happy enough to do it. The guy was a junkie after all, a piece of rubbish. And he was already dead. All I had to do was place a little packet beside him, that’s all.’

  ‘You never questioned why?’

  ‘Ask no questions and all that.’ He smiled. ‘Finlay was offering me membership, you see. Membership of Hyde’s. Well, I knew what that meant. I’d be on nodding terms with the big boys, wouldn’t I? I even started to dream about career advancement, something I hadn’t done in quite some time. Let’s face it, John, we’re tiny fish in a small pool.’

  ‘And Hyde was offering you the chance to play with the sharks?’

  McCall smiled sadly. ‘I suppose that was it, yes.’

  Rebus sighed. ‘Tony, Tony, Tony. Where would it have ended, eh?’

  ‘Probably with you having to call me “sir”,’ McCall answered, his voice firming up. ‘Instead of which, I suppose the trial will see me on the front of the scum sheets. Not quite the kind of fame I was looking for.’

  He rose from the chair.

  ‘See you in court,’ he said, leaving John Rebus to his flavourless tea and his thoughts.

  Rebus slept fitfully, and was awake early. He showered, but without any of his usual vocal accompaniment. He telephoned the hospital, and ascertained that Tracy was fine, and that Finlay Andrews had been patched up with the loss of very little blood. Then he drove to Great London Road, where Malcolm Lanyon was being held for questioning.

  Rebus was still officially a non-person, and DS Dick and DC Cooper had been assigned to the interrogation. But Rebus wanted to be close by. He knew the answers to all their questions, knew the sorts of trick Lanyon was capable of pulling. He didn’t want the bastard getting away with it because of some technicality.

  He went to the canteen first, bought a bacon roll, and, seeing Dick and Cooper seated at a table, went to join them.

  ‘Hello, John,’ Dick said, staring into the bottom of a stained coffee mug.

  ‘You lot are early birds,’ Rebus noted. ‘You must be keen.’

  ‘Farmer Watson wants it out of the way as soon as poss, sooner even.’

  ‘I’ll bet he does. Look, I’m going to be around today, if you need me to back up anything.’

  ‘We appreciate that, John,’ said Dick, in a voice which told Rebus his offer was as welcome as a dunce’s cap.

  ‘Well . . .’ Rebus began, but bit off the sentence, and ate his breakfast instead. Dick and Cooper seemed dulled by the enforced early rise. Certainly, they were not the most vivacious of table companions. Rebus finished quickly and rose to his feet.

  ‘Mind if I take a quick look at him?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Dick. ‘We’ll be there in five minutes.’

  Passing through the ground-floor reception area, Rebus almost bumped into Brian Holmes.

  ‘Everyone’s after the worm today,’ Rebus said. Holmes gave him a puzzled, sleepy look. ‘Never mind. I’m off to take a peek at Lanyon-alias-Hyde. Fancy a bit of voyeurism?’

  Holmes didn’t answer, but fell in stride with Rebus.

  ‘Actually,’ Rebus said, ‘Lanyon might appreciate that image.’ Holmes gave him a more puzzled look yet. Rebus sighed. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, bit of a late night yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Thanks for that, by the way.’

  ‘I nearly died when I saw the bloody Farmer staring at the lot of us, him in his undertaker’s suit and us pretending to be pissed Dundonians.’

  They shared a smile. Okay, the plan had been lame, conceived by Rebus during the course of his fifty-minute drive back from Calum McCallum’s cell in Fife. But it had worked. They’d got a result.

  ‘Yes,’ Rebus said. ‘I thought you looked a bit nervy last night.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well. you were doing your Italian army impression, weren’t you? Advancing backwards, and all that.’

  Holmes stopped dead, his jaw dropping. ‘Is that the thanks I get? We put our careers on the line for you last night, all four of us. You’ve used me as your gofer – go find this, go check that – as a bit of bloody shoeleather, half the time for jobs that weren’t even official, you’ve had my girlfriend half killed –’

  ‘Now wait just one second –’

  ‘– and all to satisfy your own curiosity. Okay, so there are bad guys behind bars, that’s good, but look at the scales. You’ve got them, the rest of us have got sod all except a few bruises and no bloody soles on our shoes!’

  Rebus stared at the floor, almost contrite. The air flew from his nostrils as from a Spa
nish bull’s.

  ‘I forgot,’ he said at last. ‘I meant to take that bloody suit back this morning. The shoes are ruined. It was you talking about shoeleather that reminded me.’

  Then he set off again, along the corridor, towards the cells, leaving Holmes speechless in his wake.

  Outside the cell, Lanyon’s name had been printed in chalk on a board. Rebus went up to the steel door and pulled aside the shutter, thinking how it reminded him of the shutter on the door of some prohibition club. Give the secret knock and the shutter opened. He peered into the cell, started, and groped for the alarm bell situated beside the door. Holmes, hearing the siren, forgot to be angry and hurt and hurried forward. Rebus was pulling at the edge of the locked door with his fingernails.

  ‘We’ve got to get in!’

  ‘It’s locked, sir.’ Holmes was afraid: his superior looked absolutely manic. ‘Here they come.’

  A uniformed sergeant came at an undignified trot, keys jangling from his chain.

  ‘Quick!’

  The lock gave, and Rebus yanked open the door. Inside, Malcolm Lanyon lay slumped on the floor, head resting against the bed. His feet were splayed like a doll’s. One hand lay on the floor, some thin nylon wire, like a fishing-line, wrapped around the knuckles, which were blackened. The line was attached to Lanyon’s neck in a loop which had embedded itself so far into the flesh that it could hardly be seen. Lanyon’s eyes bulged horribly, his swollen tongue obscene against the blood-darkened face. It was like a last macabre gesture, and Rebus watched the tongue protruding towards him, seeming to take it as a personal insult.