10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Remember, Hector,’ the secretary interrupted nervously, ‘one of my migraines.’

  Hector nodded curtly. ‘I remember.’

  ‘You weren’t exactly honest with DC Broome, were you, sir?’ said Rebus. Colin was licking his lips, enjoying the confrontation.

  ‘On the contrary, Inspector,’ said Hector. ‘I was scrupulously honest in answering the detective constable’s questions. He just didn’t ask the right ones. In fact, he was very sloppy indeed. Took one look at the bookings and seemed satisfied. I recall he was in a hurry . . . he had to meet his wife.’

  Right, thought Rebus, Broome was for a carpeting then. Even so . . .

  ‘Even so, sir, it was your duty –’

  ‘I answered his questions, Inspector. I did not lie.’

  ‘Well then, let’s say that you were “economical with the truth”.’

  Colin snorted. Hector gave him a cold look, but his words were for Rebus. ‘He wasn’t thorough enough, Inspector. It’s as simple as that. I don’t expect my patients to help me if I’m not thorough enough in my treatment of them. You shouldn’t expect me to do your work for you.’

  ‘This is a serious criminal case, sir.’

  ‘Then why are we arguing? Ask your questions.’

  The barman interrupted. ‘Hold on, before you start, I’ve got a question.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘What are you having?’

  Bill the Barman poured the drinks. The round was on him, and he totted up the amount and scribbled it into a small notebook kept beside the till. The bloody marys from the window came over to join in. The beer-drinker was introduced to Rebus as David Cassidy – ‘No jokes, please. How were my parents supposed to know?’ – and the man called Colin was indeed drinking milk – ‘ulcer, doctor’s orders’.

  Hector accepted a thin, delicate glass filled to the lip with dry sherry. He toasted ‘our general health’.

  ‘But not the National Health, eh, Hector?’ added Colin, going on to explain to Rebus that Hector was a dentist.

  ‘Private,’ Cassidy added.

  ‘Which,’ Hector retorted, ‘is what this club is supposed to be. Private. Members’ private business should be none of our concern.’

  ‘Which is why,’ Rebus speculated, ‘you’ve been acting as alibi for Jack and Steele?’

  Hector merely sighed. ‘“Alibi” is rather strong, Inspector. As club members, they are allowed to book and to cancel at short notice.’

  ‘And that’s what happened?’

  ‘Sometimes, yes.’

  ‘But not all the time?’

  ‘They played occasionally.’

  ‘How occasionally?’

  ‘I’d have to check.’

  ‘About once a month,’ Barman Bill said. He held on to the glass-towel as if it were a talisman.

  ‘So,’ said Rebus, ‘three weeks out of four they’d cancel? How did they cancel?’

  ‘By telephone,’ said Hector. ‘Usually Mr Jack. Always very apologetic. Constituency business . . . or Mr Steele was ill . . . or, well, there were a number of reasons.’

  ‘Excuses you mean,’ Cassidy said.

  ‘Mind you,’ said Bill, ‘sometimes Gregor’d turn up anyway, wouldn’t he?’

  Colin conceded that this was so. ‘I went a round with him myself one Wednesday when Steele hadn’t shown up.’

  ‘So,’ said Rebus, ‘Mr Jack came to the club more often than Mr Steele?’

  There were nods at this. Sometimes he’d cancel, then turn up. He wouldn’t play, just sit in the bar. Never the other way round: Steele never turned up without Jack. And on the Wednesday in question, the Wednesday Rebus was interested in?

  ‘It bucketed down,’ Colin said. ‘Hardly any bugger went out that day, never mind those two.’

  ‘They cancelled then?’

  Oh yes, they cancelled. And no, not even Mr Jack had turned up. Not that day, and not since.

  The lull was over. Members were coming in, either for a quick one before starting out or for a quick one before heading home. They came over to the little group, shook hands, swopped stories, and the group itself started to fragment, until only Rebus and Hector were left. The dentist laid a hand on Rebus’s arm.

  ‘One more thing, Inspector,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I hope you won’t think I’m being unsubtle . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But you really should get your teeth seen to.’

  ‘So I’ve been told, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘So I’ve been told. Incidentally, I hope you won’t think I’m being unsubtle . . .?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector?’

  Rebus leaned close to the man, the better to hiss into his ear. ‘I’m going to try my damnedest to see you on a charge for obstruction.’ He placed his empty glass on the bar.

  ‘Cheers then,’ said Barman Bill. He took the glass and rinsed it in the machine, then placed it on the plastic drip-mat. When he looked up, Hector was still standing where the policeman had left him, his sherry glass rigid in his hand.

  ‘You told me on Friday,’ Rebus said, ‘that you were jettisoning what you didn’t need.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I take it you did feel you needed the alibi of your golf game?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your weekly round with your friend Ronald Steele.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Funny isn’t it? I’m making the statements and you’re asking the questions. Should be the other way round.’

  ‘Should it?’

  Gregor Jack looked like a war casualty who could still hear and see the battle, no matter how far from the front he was dragged. The newsmen were still outside his gates, while Ian Urquhart and Helen Greig were still inside. The sounds of a printer doing its business came from the distant back office. Urquhart was ensconced in there with Helen. Another day, another press release.

  ‘Do I need a solicitor?’ Jack asked now, his eyes dark and sleepless.

  ‘That’s entirely up to you, sir. I just want to know why you’ve lied to us about this round of golf.’

  Jack swallowed. There was an empty whisky bottle on the coffee table, and three empty coffee mugs. ‘Friendship, Inspector,’ he said, ‘is . . . it’s . . .’

  ‘An excuse? You need more than excuses, sir. What I need right now are some facts.’ He thought of Hector as he said the word. ‘Facts,’ he repeated.

  But Jack was still mumbling something about friendship. Rebus rose awkwardly from his ill-fitting marshmallow-chair. He stood over the MP. MP? This wasn’t an MP. This wasn’t the Gregor Jack. Where was the confidence, the charisma? Where the voteworthy face and that clear, honest voice? He was like one of those sauces they make on cookery programmes – reduce and reduce and reduce . . .

  Rebus reached down and grabbed him by his shoulders. He actually shook him. Jack looked up in surprise. Rebus’s voice was cold and sharp like rain.

  ‘Where were you that Wednesday?’

  ‘I was . . . I . . . was . . . nowhere. Nowhere really. Everywhere.’

  ‘Everywhere except where you were supposed to be.’

  ‘I went for a drive.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Down the coast. I think I ended up in Eyemouth, one of those fishing villages, somewhere like that. It rained. I walked along the sea front. I walked a lot. Drove back inland. Everywhere and nowhere.’ He began to sing. ‘You’re everywhere and nowhere, baby.’ Rebus shook him again and he stopped.

  ‘Did anyone see you? Did you speak to anyone?’

  ‘I went into a pub . . . two pubs. One in Eyemouth, one somewhere else.’

  ‘Why? Where was . . . Suey? What was he up to?’

  ‘Suey.’ Jack smiled at the name. ‘Good old Suey. Friends, you see, Inspector. Where was he? He was where he always was – with some woman. I’m his cover. If anyone asks, we’re out playing golf. And sometimes we are. But the rest of the time, I’m covering for him. Not that I mind. It’s quite nice really, having that time to
myself. I go off on my own, walking . . . thinking.’

  ‘Who’s the woman?’

  ‘What? I don’t know. I’m not even sure it’s just the one. . .’

  ‘You can’t think of any candidates?’

  ‘Who?’ Jack blinked. ‘You mean Liz? My Liz? No, Inspector, no.’ He smiled briefly. ‘No.’

  ‘All right, what about Mrs Kinnoul?’

  ‘Gowk?’ Now he laughed. ‘Gowk and Suey? Maybe when they were fifteen, Inspector, but not now. Have you seen Rab Kinnoul? He’s like a mountain. Suey wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Well, maybe Suey will be good enough to tell me.’

  ‘You’ll apologize, won’t you? Tell him I had to tell you.’

  ‘I’d be grateful,’ Rebus said stonily, ‘if you’d think back on that afternoon. Try to remember where you stopped, the names of the pubs, anyone who might remember seeing you. Write it all down.’

  ‘Like a statement.’

  ‘Just to help you remember. It often helps when you write things down.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Meantime, I’m going to have to think about charging you with obstruction.’

  ‘What?’

  The door opened. It was Urquhart. He came in and closed it behind him. ‘That’s that done,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ Jack said casually. Urquhart, too, looked like he was just hanging on. His eyes were on Rebus, even when he was speaking to his employer.

  ‘I told Helen to run off a hundred copies.’

  ‘As many as that? Well, whatever you think, Ian.’

  Now Urquhart looked towards Gregor Jack. He wants to shake him, too, Rebus thought. But he won’t.

  ‘You’ve got to be strong, Gregor. You’ve got to look strong.’

  ‘You’re right, Ian. Yes, look strong.’

  Like wet tissue paper, Rebus thought. Like an infestation of woodworm. Like an old person’s bones.

  Ronald Steele was a hard man to catch. Rebus even went to his home, a bungalow on the edge of Morningside. No sign of life. Rebus went on trying the rest of the day. At the fourth ring of Steele’s telephone, an answering machine came into play. At eight o’clock, he stopped trying. What he didn’t want was Gregor Jack warning Steele that their story had come apart at its badly stitched seams. Given the means, he’d have kept Steele’s answering machine busy all night. But instead his own telephone rang. He was in the Marchmont flat, slumped in his own chair, with nothing to eat or drink, and nothing to take his mind off the case.

  He knew who it would be. It would be Patience. She would just be wondering if and when he intended making an appearance. She would just have been worried, that was all. They’d spent a rare weekend together: shopping on Saturday afternoon, a film at night. A drive to Cramond on Sunday, wine and backgammon on Sunday night. Rare . . . He picked up the receiver.

  ‘Rebus.’

  ‘Jesus, you’re a hard man to catch.’ It was a male voice. It was not Patience. It was Holmes.

  ‘Hello, Brian.’

  ‘I’ve been trying you for hours. Always engaged or else not answering. You should get an answering machine.’

  ‘I’ve got an answering machine. I just sometimes forget to plug it in. What do you want anyway? Don’t tell me, you’re telephone-selling as a sideline? How’s Nell?’

  ‘As well as can be not expecting.’

  ‘She’s negative then?’

  ‘I’m positive she is.’

  ‘Maybe next time, eh?’

  ‘Listen, thanks for the interest, but that’s not why I’m calling. I thought you’d want to know, I had a very interesting chat with Mr Pond.’

  A.k.a. Tampon, thought Rebus. ‘Oh yes?’ he said.

  ‘You’re not going to believe it . . .’ said Brian Holmes. For once, he was right.

  10

  Brothel Creepers

  The way Tom Pond explained it to Rebus, architects were either doomed to failure or else doomed to success. He had no doubt at all that he came into the latter category.

  ‘I know architects my age, guys I went to college with, they’ve been on the dole for the past half dozen years. Or else they give up and go do something sensible like working on a building site or living on a kibbutz. Then there are some of us, for a time we can’t put a foot wrong. This prize leads to that contract, and that contract gets noticed by an American corporation, and we start calling ourselves “international”. Note, I say “for a time”. It can all turn sour. You get in a rut, or the economic situation can’t support your new ideas. I’ll tell you, the best architectural designs are sitting locked away in drawers – nobody can afford to build the buildings, not yet anyway, maybe not ever. So I’m just enjoying my lucky break. That’s all I’m doing.’

  It was not quite all Tom Pond was doing. He was also crossing the Forth Road Bridge doing something in excess of one hundred miles an hour. Rebus daren’t look at the speedo.

  ‘After all,’ Pond had explained, ‘it’s not every day I can go breaking the speed limit with a policeman in the car to explain it away if we get stopped.’ And he laughed. Rebus didn’t. Rebus didn’t say much after they hit the ton.

  Tom Pond owned a forty-grand Italian racing job that looked like a kit-car and sounded like a lawnmower. The last time Rebus had been sitting this close to ground level, he’d just slipped on some ice outside his flat.

  ‘I’ve got three habits, Inspector: fast cars, fast women, and slow horses.’ And he laughed again.

  ‘If you don’t slow down, son,’ Rebus yelled above the engine’s whine, ‘I’m going to have to book you for speeding myself!’

  Pond looked hurt, but eased back on the accelerator. And after all, he was doing them all a favour, wasn’t he?

  ‘Thank you,’ Rebus conceded.

  Holmes had told him he wouldn’t believe it. Rebus was still trying. Pond had arrived back the previous day from the States, only to find a message waiting for him on his answering machine.

  ‘It was Mrs Heggarty.’

  ‘Mrs Heggarty being . . .?’

  ‘She looks after my cottage. I’ve got a cottage up near Kingussie. Mrs Heggarty goes in now and again to give it a clean and check everything’s okay.’

  ‘And this time everything wasn’t?’

  ‘That’s right. At first, she said there’d been a break-in, but then I called her back and from what she said they’d used my spare key to get in. I keep a key under a rock beside the front door. Hadn’t made any mess or anything, not really. But Mrs Heggarty knew somebody’d been there and it hadn’t been me. Anyway, I happened to mention it to the detective sergeant . . .’

  The detective sergeant whose geography was better than fair. Kingussie wasn’t far from Deer Lodge. It certainly wasn’t far from Duthil. Holmes had asked the obvious question.

  ‘Would Mrs Jack have known about the key?’

  ‘Maybe. Beggar knew about it. I suppose everybody knew about it, really.’

  All of which Holmes had relayed to Rebus. Rebus had gone to see Pond, their conversation lasting just over half an hour, at the end of which he had announced a wish to see the cottage.

  ‘Be my guest,’ Pond had said. And so Rebus was trapped in this narrow metal box, travelling so fast at times that his eyeballs were aching. It was well after midnight, but Pond seemed neither to notice nor to mind.

  ‘I’m still in New York,’ he said. ‘Brain and body still disconnected. You know, this all sounds incredible, all this stuff about Gregor and Liz and her being found by Gowk. Just incredible.’

  Pond had been in the United States for a month; already he was hooked. He was testing out the language, the intonation, even some of the mannerisms. Rebus studied him. Thick, wavy blond hair (dyed? highlighted?) atop a beefy face, the face of someone who had been good-looking in youth. He wasn’t tall, but he seemed taller than he was. A trick of posture; yes, to a certain extent, but he also had that confidence, that aura Gregor Jack had once possessed. He was firing on all cylinders.

  ‘Can this
car take a corner or what? Say what you like about the Italians, they build a mean ice cream and a meaner car.’

  Rebus gritted his lower intestine. He was determined to talk seriously with Pond. It was too good a chance to miss, the two of them trapped like this. He tried to talk without his teeth knocking each other out of his mouth.

  ‘So, you’ve known Mr Jack since school?’

  ‘I know, I know, it’s hard to believe, isn’t it? I look so much younger than him. But yes, we only lived three streets apart. I think Bilbo lived in the same street as Beggar. Sexton and Mack lived in the same street, too. I mean, the same street as one another, not the same as Beggar and Bilbo. Suey and Gowk lived a bit further away, other side of the school from the rest of us.’

  ‘So what drew you all together?’

  ‘I don’t know. Funny, I’ve never really thought about it. I mean, we were all pretty clever, I suppose. Down a gear for this corner . . . and . . . like shit off a goddamned shovel!’

  Rebus felt as though his seat was trying to push its way through his body.

  ‘More like a motorbike than a car. What do you think, Inspector?’

  ‘Do you keep in touch with Mack?’ Rebus asked at last.

  ‘Oh, you know about Mack? Well . . . no, not really. Beggar was the catalyst. I think it was only because I kept in touch with him that I kept in touch with everybody else. But after Mack . . . well, when he went into the nuthouse . . . no, I don’t keep in touch. I think Gowk does. You know, she was the cleverest of the lot of us, and look what happened to her.’

  ‘What did happen to her?’

  ‘She married that spunk-head and started shovelling Valium because it was the only way she could cope.’

  ‘Is her problem common knowledge then?’

  He shrugged. ‘I only know because I’ve seen it happen to other people . . . other times.’

  ‘Have you tried talking to her?’

  ‘It’s her life, Inspector. I’ve got enough trouble keeping myself together.’