10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Hm? Oh, you mean you haven’t seen it yet?’ Rebus handed over the paper. Steele, still standing, devoured the story. ‘What do you reckon, sir?’

  He shrugged. ‘Christ knows. I suppose it makes sense. I mean, none of us could think what Gregor was doing in a place like that. I can’t think of a much better reason. The photos certainly look similar . . . I don’t remember Gail at all. Well, I mean, she was always around, but I never paid much attention. She never mixed with us.’ He folded the paper. ‘So Gregor’s off the hook then?’

  Rebus shrugged. Steele made to hand the paper back. ‘No, no, you can keep it if you like. Now, Mr Steele, about this non-existent golfing fixture . . .’

  Steele sat down. It was a pleasant, book-lined room. In fact, it reminded Rebus strongly of another room, a room he’d been in recently . . .

  ‘Gregor would do anything for his friends,’ Steele said candidly, ‘including the odd telling of a lie. We made up the golf game. Well, that’s not strictly true. At first, there was a weekly game. But then I started seeing a . . . a lady. On Wednesdays. I explained it to Gregor. He didn’t see why we shouldn’t just go on telling everyone we were playing golf.’ He looked up at Rebus for the first time. ‘A jealous husband is involved, Inspector, and an alibi was always welcome.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘You’re being very honest, Mr Steele.’

  Steele shrugged. ‘I don’t want Gregor getting into trouble because of me.’

  ‘And you were with this woman on the Wednesday afternoon in question? The afternoon Mrs Jack died?’

  Steele nodded solemnly.

  ‘And will she back you up?’

  Steele smiled grimly. ‘Not a hope in hell.’

  ‘The husband again?’

  ‘The husband,’ Steele acknowledged.

  ‘But he’s bound to find out sooner or later, isn’t he?’ Rebus said. ‘So many people seem to know already about you and Mrs Kinnoul.’

  Steele twitched, as though a small electric shock had been administered to his shoulder blades. He stared down at the floor, willing it to become a pit he might jump into. Then he sat back.

  ‘How did you . . .?’

  ‘A guess, Mr Steele.’

  ‘A bloody inspired guess. But you say other people . . .?’

  ‘Other people are guessing too. You persuaded Mrs Kinnoul to take up an interest in rare books. It makes a good cover, after all, doesn’t it? I mean, if you’re ever found there with her. I even notice that she’s modelled her library on your own room here.’

  ‘It’s not what you think, Inspector.’

  ‘I don’t think anything, sir.’

  ‘Cathy just needs someone to listen to her. Rab never has time. The only time he has is for himself. Gowk was the cleverest of the lot of us.’

  ‘Yes, so Mr Pond was telling me.’

  ‘Tom? He’s back from the States then?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘I was with him just this morning . . . at his cottage.’

  Rebus waited for a reaction, but Steele’s mind was still fixed on Cath Kinnoul. ‘It breaks my heart to see her . . . to see what she’s . . .’

  ‘She’s a friend,’ Rebus stated.

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘Well then, she’s sure to back up your story; a friend in need and all that . . .?’

  Steele was shaking his head. ‘You don’t understand, Inspector. Rab Kinnoul is . . . he can be . . . a violent man. Mental violence and physical violence. He terrifies her.’

  Rebus sighed. ‘Then we’ve only your own word for your whereabouts?’

  Steele shrugged. He looked as though he might cry – tears of frustration rather than anything else. He took a deep breath. ‘You think I killed Liz?’

  ‘Did you?’

  Steele shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Well then, you’ve nothing to worry about, have you, sir?’

  Steele managed that grim smile again. ‘Not a worry in the world,’ he said.

  Rebus rose to his feet. ‘That’s the spirit, Mr Steele.’ But Ronald Steele looked like there was just about enough spirit left in him to fill a teaspoon. ‘All the same, you’re not making it easy for yourself . . .’

  ‘Have you spoken to Gregor?’ Steele asked.

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘Does he know about Cathy and me?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’ They were both heading for the front door now. ‘Would it make any difference if he did?’

  ‘Christ knows. No, maybe not.’

  The day was turning sunny. Rebus waited while Steele closed and double locked the door.

  ‘Just one more thing . . .?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector?’

  ‘Would you mind if I took a look in the boot of your car?’

  ‘What?’ Steele stared at Rebus, but saw that the policeman was not about to explain. He sighed. ‘Why not?’ he said.

  Steele unlocked the boot and Rebus peered inside, peered at a pair of mud-crusted wellingtons. There was muck on the floor, too.

  ‘Tell you what, sir,’ said Rebus, closing the boot. ‘Maybe it’d be best if you came down to the station just now. Sooner we get everything cleared up the better, eh?’

  Steele stood up very straight. Two women were walking past, gossiping. ‘Am I under arrest, Inspector?’

  ‘I just want to make sure we get your side of things, Mr Steele. That’s all.’

  But Rebus was wondering: Were there any forensics people left spare? Or had he tied each and every one of them up already? If so, Steele’s car might have to wait. If not, well, here was another little job for them. It really was turning into Guinness Book of Records stuff, wasn’t it? How many forensic scientists can one detective squeeze into a case?

  ‘What case?’

  ‘I’ve just told you, sir.’

  Lauderdale looked unimpressed. ‘You haven’t told me anything about the murder of Mrs Jack. You’ve told me about mysterious lovers, alibis for assignations, a whole barrel-load of mixed-up yuppies but not a blind thing about murder.’ He pointed to the floor. ‘I’ve got someone downstairs who swears he committed both murders.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Rebus said calmly, ‘and you’ve also got a psychiatrist who says Glass could just as easily admit the murders of Gandhi or Rudolf Hess.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About the psychiatric report?’

  ‘Call it an inspired guess, sir.’

  Lauderdale began to look a little dispirited. He licked his lips thoughtfully. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘Go through it one more time for me.’

  So Rebus went through it one more time. It was like a giant collage to him now: different textures but the same theme. But it was also like a kind of artist’s trick: the closer he moved towards it, the further away it seemed. He was just finishing, and Lauderdale was still looking sceptical, when the telephone rang. Lauderdale picked it up, listened and sighed.

  ‘It’s for you,’ he said, holding the receiver towards Rebus.

  ‘Yes?’ Rebus said.

  ‘Woman for you,’ explained the switchboard operator. ‘Says it’s urgent.’

  ‘Put her through.’ He waited till the connection was made. ‘Rebus here,’ he said.

  He could hear background noise, announcements. A railway station. Then: ‘About bleedin’ time. I’m at Waverley. My train goes in forty-five minutes. Get here before it leaves and I’ll tell you something.’ The line went dead. Short and sour, but intriguing for all that. Rebus checked his watch.

  ‘I’ve got to go to Waverley Station,’ he told Lauderdale. ‘Why don’t you talk to Steele yourself meantime, sir? See what you make of him?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lauderdale. ‘Maybe I will . . .’

  She was sitting on a bench in the concourse, conspicuous in sunglasses which were supposed to disguise her identity.

  ‘That bastard,’ she said, ‘putting the papers on to me like that.’ She was talking of her brother, Gregor Jack. Rebus didn’t say anythin
g. ‘One yesterday,’ she went on, ‘then this morning, half a dozen of the bastards. Picture plastered all over the front pages . . .’

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t your brother,’ Rebus said.

  ‘What? Who else could it be?’ Behind the dark lenses, Rebus could still make out Gail Crawley’s tired eyes. She was dressed as though in a hurry – tight jeans, high heels, baggy t-shirt. Her luggage seemed to consist of a large suitcase and two carrier bags. In one hand she clutched her ticket to London, in the other she held a cigarette.

  ‘Maybe,’ Rebus suggested, ‘it was the person who knew who you were, the person who told Gregor where to find you.’

  She shivered. ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you about. God knows why. I don’t owe the bastard any favours . . .’

  Nor do I, thought Rebus, yet I always seem to be doing them for him.

  ‘What about a drink?’ she suggested.

  ‘Sure,’ said Rebus. He picked up her suitcase, while she clip-clopped along carrying the bags. Her shoes made a lot of noise, and attracted glances from some of the men lolling about. Rebus was quite relieved to reach the safety of the bar, where he bought a half of export for himself and a Bacardi and Coke for her. They found a corner not too near the gaming machine or the frazzled loudspeaker of the jukebox.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said, trying to drink and inhale at much the same time. She spluttered and swore, then stubbed out the cigarette, only seconds later to light another.

  ‘Good health,’ said Rebus, sipping his own drink. ‘So, what was it you wanted to get off your chest?’

  She snorted. ‘I like that: get off your chest.’ This time she remembered to swallow her mouthful of rum before drawing on the cigarette. ‘Only,’ she said, ‘what you were saying, about how somebody might have known who I was . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I remembered. It was a night a while back. Like, a couple of months. Six weeks . . . something like that. I hadn’t been up here long. Anyway, the usual trio of pissed punters comes in. Funny how they usually come in threes . . .’ She paused, snorted. ‘If you’ll pardon the expression.’

  ‘So three men came to the brothel?’

  ‘Just said so, didn’t I? Anyway, one of them liked the look of me, so off we went upstairs. I told him my name was Gail. I can’t see the point of all those stupid names everybody else uses – Candy and Mandy and Claudette and Tina and Suzy and Jasmine and Roberta. I’d just forget who I was supposed to be.’

  Rebus glanced at his watch. A little over ten minutes left . . . She seemed to understand.

  ‘So, anyway, I asked him if he had a name. And he laughed. He said, “You mean you don’t recognize the face?” I shook my head, and he said, “Of course, you’re a Londoner, aren’t you? Well hen,” he said, “I’m weel kent up here.” Something stupid like that. Then he says, “I’m Gregor Jack.” Well, I just started laughing, don’t ask me why. He did ask me why. So I said, “No you’re not. I know Gregor Jack.” That seemed to put him off his stroke. In the end, he buggered off back to his pals. All the usual winks and slaps on the back, and I didn’t say anything . . .’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Big. Like a Highlander. One of the other girls said she thought she had seen him on the telly . . .’

  Rab Kinnoul. Rebus described him briefly.

  ‘Sounds about right,’ she conceded.

  ‘What about the men who were with him?’

  ‘Didn’t pay much attention. One of them was the shy type, tall and skinny like a beanpole. The other was fat and had on a leather jacket.’

  ‘You didn’t catch their names?’

  ‘No.’

  Well, it didn’t matter. Rebus would bet she could pick them out from a line-up. Ronald Steele and Barney Byars. A night out on the town. Byars, Steele, and Rab Kinnoul. A curious little assembly, and another incendiary he could toss in Steele’s direction.

  ‘Finish your drink, Gail,’ he said. ‘Then let’s get you on to that train.’

  But on the way, he extracted an address from her, the same one she had given before, the one he’d had George Flight check on.

  ‘That’s where I’ll be,’ she said. She took a final look around her. The train was idling, filling with people. Rebus lifted her suitcase in through one of the doors. She was still staring up at the glass roof of the station. Then she lowered her gaze to Rebus. ‘I should never have left London, should I? Maybe nothing would have happened if I’d stayed where I was.’

  Rebus tilted his head slightly. ‘You’re not to blame, Gail.’ But all the same, he couldn’t help feeling that she had a point. If she’d stayed away from Edinburgh, if she hadn’t come out with that “I know Gregor Jack” . . . who could say? She stepped up on to the train, then turned back towards him.

  ‘If you see Gregor . . .’ she began. But there wasn’t anything else. She shrugged and turned away, carrying her case and her bags with her. Rebus, never one for emotional farewells where prostitutes were concerned, turned briskly on his heels and headed back towards his car.

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘I’ve let him go.’

  ‘You’ve let Steele go?’ Rebus couldn’t believe it. He paced what there was of Lauderdale’s floor. ‘Why?’

  Now Lauderdale smiled coldly. ‘What was the charge, John? Be realistic, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Did you talk to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He seems very plausible.’

  ‘In other words, you believe him?’

  ‘I think I do, yes.’

  ‘What about his car boot?’

  ‘You mean the mud? He told you himself, John, Mrs Kinnoul and he go for walks. That hillside’s hardly what you’d call paved. You need wellies, and wellies get muddy. It’s their purpose.’

  ‘He admitted he was seeing Cath Kinnoul?’

  ‘He admitted nothing of the sort. He just said there was a “woman”.’

  ‘That’s all he’d say when I brought him in. But he admitted it back in his house.’

  ‘I think it’s quite noble of him, trying to protect her.’

  ‘Or could it be that he knows she couldn’t back up his story anyway?’

  ‘You mean it’s a pack of lies?’

  Rebus sighed. ‘No, I think I believe it, too.’

  ‘Well then.’ Lauderdale sounded – for Lauderdale – genuinely gentle. ‘Sit down, John. You’ve had a hard twenty-four hours.’

  Rebus sat down. ‘I’ve had a hard twenty-four years.’

  Lauderdale smiled. ‘Tea?’

  ‘I think some of the Chief Superintendent’s coffee would be a better idea.’

  Lauderdale laughed. ‘Kill or cure, certainly. Now look, you’ve just admitted yourself that you believe Steele’s story –’

  ‘Up to a point.’

  Lauderdale accepted the clause. ‘But still, the man wanted to leave. How the hell was I going to hold him?’

  ‘On suspicion. We’re allowed to hang on to suspects a bit longer than ninety minutes.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector, I’m aware of that.’

  ‘So now he toddles back home and gives the boot of his car a damned good clean.’

  ‘You need more than mucky wellies for a conviction, John.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what forensics can do . . .’

  ‘Ah, now that’s another thing. I hear you’ve been getting up people’s noses faster than a Vick’s inhaler.’

  ‘Anybody in particular?’

  ‘Everybody in the field of forensic science, it seems. Stop hassling them, John.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Take a break. Just for the afternoon, say. What about the Professor’s missing tomes?’

  ‘Back with their owner.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lauderdale waited for elucidation.

  ‘A turn-up for the books, sir,’ Rebus said instead. He stood up. ‘Well, if there’s nothing else –’

  The telephone rang. ‘Hold on,’
Lauderdale ordered. ‘The way things have been going, that’ll probably be for you.’ He picked up the receiver. ‘Lauderdale.’ Then he listened. ‘I’ll be right down,’ he said at last, before replacing the receiver. ‘Well, well, well. Take a guess who’s downstairs.’

  ‘The Dundonald and Dysart Pipe Band?’

  ‘Close. Jeanette Oliphant.’

  Rebus frowned. ‘I know the name . . .’

  ‘She’s Sir Hugh Ferrie’s solicitor. And also, it seems, Mr Jack’s. They’re both down there with her.’ Lauderdale had risen from his chair and was straightening his jacket. ‘Let’s see what they want, eh?’

  Gregor Jack wanted to make a statement, a statement regarding his movements on the day his wife was murdered. But the prime mover was Sir Hugh Ferrie; that much was obvious from the start.

  ‘I saw that piece in the paper this morning,’ he explained. ‘Phoned Gregor to ask if it was true. He says it was. I felt a sight better for knowing it, though I told him he’s a bloody fool for not telling anyone sooner.’ He turned to Gregor Jack. ‘A bloody fool.’

  They were seated around a table in one of the conference rooms – Lauderdale’s idea. No doubt an interview room wasn’t good enough for Sir Hugh Ferrie. Gregor Jack had been smartened up for the occasion: crisp suit, tidied hair, sparkling eyes. Seated, however, between Sir Hugh and Jeanette Oliphant, he was always going to come home third in the projection stakes.

  ‘The point is,’ said Jeanette Oliphant, ‘Mr Jack told Sir Hugh about something else he’d been keeping secret, namely that his Wednesday round of golf was a concoction.’

  ‘Bloody fool –’

  ‘And,’ Oliphant went on, a little more loudly, ‘Sir Hugh contacted me. We feel that the sooner Mr Jack makes a statement regarding his genuine actions on the day in question, the less doubt there will be.’ Jeanette Oliphant was in her mid-fifties, a tall, elegant, but stern-faced woman. Her mouth was a thin slash of lipstick, her eyes piercing, missing nothing. Her ears stuck out ever so slightly from her short permed hair, as though ready to catch any nuance or ambiguity, any wrong word or overlong pause.

  Sir Hugh, on the other hand, was stocky and pugnacious, a man more used to speaking than listening. His hands lay flat against the table top, as though they were attempting to push through it.