10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Well, you’d better get a move on, otherwise I’m going to charge Glass with Mrs Jack, too. Ferrie and that solicitor are going to start asking awkward questions any minute now. It’s on a knife edge, John, understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir, oh yes, I understand all about knife edges, believe me . . .’

  Rebus didn’t walk up to Ronald Steele’s front door – not straight away. First, he stood in front of the garage and peered in through a crack between the two doors. Steele’s Citroën was at home, which presumably meant the man himself was at home. Rebus went to the door and pushed the bell. He could hear it sounding in the hall. Halls: he could write a book on them. My night sleeping in a hallway; the day I was almost stabbed in a hallway . . . He rang again. It was a loud and unpleasant bell, not the kind you could easily ignore.

  So he rang one more time. Then he tried the door. It was locked. He walked on to the little strip of grass running in front of the bungalow and pressed his face against the living room window. The room was empty. Maybe he’d just popped out for a pint of milk . . . Rebus tried the gate to the side of the garage, the gate giving access to the back garden. It, too, was locked. He walked back to the front gate and stood beside it, looking up and down the silent street. Then he checked his watch. He could give it five minutes, ten at most. The last thing he felt like was sitting down to dinner with Patience. But he didn’t want to lose her either . . . Quarter of an hour to get back to Oxford Terrace . . . twenty minutes to be on the safe side. Yes, he could still be there by seven thirty. Time enough. Well, you’d better get a move on. Why bother? Why not give Glass his moment of infamy, his second – his famous – victim?

  Why bother with anything? Not for the praise of a pat on the back; not for the rightness of it; maybe, then, from sheer stubbornness. Yes, that would just about fit the bill. Someone was coming . . . His car was pointing the wrong way, but he could see in his rearview. Not a man but a woman. Nice legs. Carrying two carrier bags of shopping. She walked well but she was tired. It couldn’t be . . .? What the . . .?

  He rolled down his window. ‘Hello, Gill.’

  Gill Templer stopped, stared, smiled. ‘You know, I thought I recognized that heap of junk.’

  ‘Ssh! Cars have feelings, too.’ He patted the steering wheel. She put down her bags.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  He nodded towards Steele’s house. ‘Waiting to talk to someone who isn’t going to show.’

  ‘Trust you.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me? I live here. Well, next street on the right to be honest. You knew I’d moved.’

  He shrugged. ‘I didn’t realize it was round here.’

  She gave him an unconvinced smile.

  ‘No, honest,’ he said. ‘But now I am here, can I give you a lift?’

  She laughed. ‘It’s only a hundred yards.’

  ‘Please yourself.’

  She looked down at her bags. ‘Oh, go on then.’

  He opened the door for her and she put the bags down on the floor, squeezing her feet in beside them. Rebus started the car. It spluttered, wheezed, died. He tried again, choke full out. The car gasped, whinnied, then got the general idea.

  ‘Like I said, heap of junk.’

  ‘That’s why it’s behaving like this,’ Rebus warned. ‘Temperamental, like a thoroughbred horse.’

  But the field of an egg-and-spoon race could probably have beaten them over the distance. Finally, they reached the house unscathed. Rebus looked out.

  ‘Nice,’ he said. It was a double-fronted affair with bay windows either side of the front door. There were three floors all told, with a small and steep garden dissected by the stone steps which led from gate to doorway.

  ‘I haven’t got the whole house, of course. Just the ground floor.’

  ‘Nice all the same.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She pushed open the door and manoeuvred her bags out on to the pavement. She gestured towards them. ‘Vegetable stir-fry. Interested?’

  It took him a moment’s eternity to decide. ‘Thanks, Gill. I’m tied up tonight.’

  She had the grace to look disappointed. ‘Maybe another time then.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rebus, as she pushed the passenger door shut. ‘Maybe another time.’

  The car crawled back along her road. If it gives out on me, he thought, I’ll go back and take her up on her offer. It’ll be a sign. But the car actually began to sound healthier as it passed Steele’s bungalow. There was still no sign of life, so Rebus kept going. He was thinking of a set of weighing scales. On one side sat Gill Templer, on the other Dr Patience Aitken. The scales rose and fell, while Rebus did some hard thinking. Christ, it was hard too. He wished he had more time, but the traffic lights were with him most of the way, and he was back at Patience’s by half past.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said as he walked into the kitchen. ‘I really don’t believe you actually kept a date.’ She was standing beside the microwave. Inside, something was cooking. Rebus pulled her to him and gave her a wet kiss on the lips.

  ‘Patience,’ he said, ‘I think I love you.’

  She pulled back from him a little, the better to look at him. ‘And there’s not a drop of alcohol in the man either. What a night for surprises. Well, I think I should tell you that I’ve had a foul day and as a result I’m in a foul mood . . . that’s why we’re eating chicken.’ She smiled and kissed him. ‘“I think I love you,’” she mimicked. ‘You should have seen the look on your face when you said that. A picture of sheer puzzlement. You’re not exactly the last of the red-hot romantics, are you, John Rebus?’

  ‘So teach me,’ said Rebus, kissing her again.

  ‘I think,’ said Patience . . . ‘I think we’ll have that chicken cold.’

  He was up early next morning. More unusually, he was up before Patience herself, who lay with a satisfied, debauched look on her sleeping face and with her hair wild around her on the pillow. He let Lucky in and gave him a bigger than normal bowl of food, then made tea and toast for himself and Patience.

  ‘Pinch me, I must be dreaming,’ she said when he woke her up. She gulped at the tea, then took a small bite from one buttered triangle. Rebus half refilled his own cup, drained it, and got up from the bed.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’m off.’

  ‘What?’ She looked at her clock. ‘Night shift is it this week?’

  ‘It’s morning, Patience. And I’ve a lot on today.’ He bent over her to peck her forehead, but she pulled at his tie, tugging him further down so that she could give him a salty, crumbly kiss on the mouth.

  ‘See you later?’ she asked.

  ‘Count on it.’

  ‘It would be nice to be able to.’ But he was already on his way. Lucky came into the room and leapt on to the bed. The cat was licking his lips.

  ‘Me too, Lucky,’ said Patience. ‘Me too.’

  He drove straight to Ronald Steele’s bungalow. The traffic was heavy coming into town, but Rebus was heading out. It wasn’t yet quite eight. He didn’t take Steele for an early riser. This was a grim anniversary: two weeks to the day since Liz Jack was murdered. Time to get things straight.

  Steele’s car was still in its garage. Rebus went to the front door and pressed the bell, attempting a jaunty rhythm of rings – a friend, or the postman . . . someone you’d want to open your door to.

  ‘Come on, Suey, chop-chop.’

  But there was no answer. He peered through the letter box. Nothing. He looked in through the living room window. Exactly as it had been yesterday evening. The curtains hadn’t even been pulled shut. No sign of life.

  ‘I hope you haven’t done a runner,’ Rebus muttered. Though maybe it would be better if he had. At least it would be an action of some kind, a sign of fear or of something to hide. He could ask the neighbours if they’d seen anything, but a wall separated Steele’s bungalow from theirs. He decided against it. It might only serve to alert Steele to Rebus’s interest, an interest strong enoug
h to bring him here at breakfast time. Instead, he got back into the car and drove to Suey Books. A hundred-to-one shot this. As he’d suspected, the shop was barred and meshed and padlocked. Rasputin lay asleep in the window. Rebus made a fist and pounded it against the glass. The cat’s head shot up and it let out a sharp, shocked yowl.

  ‘Remember me?’ said Rebus, grinning.

  Traffic was slower now, treacle through the sieve of the road system. He slipped down on to the Cowgate to avoid the worst of it. If Steele couldn’t be found, there was only one thing for it. He’d have to change Farmer Watson’s mind. What’s more, he’d have to do it this morning, while the old boy was bristling with caffeine. Now there was a thought . . . what time did that deli just off Leith Walk open . . .?

  ‘Well thank you, John.’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘We drink enough of your coffee, sir. I just thought it was time someone else did the buying for a change.’

  Watson opened the bag and sniffed. ‘Mmm, freshly ground.’ He started to tip the dark powder into his filter. The machine was already full of water. ‘What kind did you say?’

  ‘Breakfast blend, sir, I think. Robustica and Arabica . . . something like that. I’m not exactly an expert . . .’

  But Watson waved the apology aside. He put the jug in position and flipped the switch. ‘Takes a couple of minutes,’ he said, sitting down behind his desk. ‘Right, John.’ He put his hands together in front of him. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, sir, it’s about Gregor Jack.’

  ‘Yes . . .?’

  ‘You know how you told me we’d to help Mr Jack if possible? How you felt he’d perhaps been set up?’ Watson merely nodded. ‘Well, sir, I’m close to proving not only that he was, but who did it.’

  ‘Oh? Go on.’

  So Rebus told his story, the story of a chance meeting in a red-lit bedroom. And of three men. ‘What I was wondering was . . . I know you said you couldn’t divulge your source, sir . . . but was it one of them?’

  Watson shook his head. ‘Way off, I’m afraid, John. Mmm, do you smell that?’ The room was filling with the aroma. How could Rebus not smell it?

  ‘Yes, sir, very nice. So it wasn’t –?’

  ‘It wasn’t anyone who knows Gregor Jack. If pro –’ He stuttered to a halt. ‘Can’t wait for that coffee,’ he said, rather too eagerly.

  ‘You were about to say, sir?’ But what? What? Providence? Provost? Prodigal? Problem?

  Provost? No, no. Not provost. Protestant? Proprietor? A name or a title.

  ‘Nothing, John, nothing. I wonder if I’ve any clean cups . . .?’

  A name or a title. Professor. Professor!

  ‘You weren’t about to mention a professor then?’

  Watson’s lips were sealed. But Rebus was thinking fast now.

  ‘Professor Costello, for instance. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he, sir? He doesn’t know Mr Jack then?’

  Watson’s ears were turning red. Got you, thought Rebus. Got you, got you, got you. That coffee was worth every last penny.

  ‘Interesting though,’ mused Rebus, ‘that the Professor would know about a brothel.’

  Watson slapped the desk. ‘Enough.’ His light morning mood had vanished. His whole face was red now, except for two small white patches, one on either cheek. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You might as well know, it was Professor Costello who told me.’

  ‘And how did the Professor know?’

  ‘He said . . . he said he had a friend who’d visited the place one night, and now felt ashamed. Of course,’ Watson lowered his voice to a hiss, ‘there isn’t any friend. It’s the old chap himself. He just can’t bring himself to admit it. Well,’ his voice rising again, ‘we’re all tempted some time, aren’t we?’ Rebus thought of Gill Templer last night. Yes, tempted indeed. ‘So I promised the Professor I’d have the place closed down.’

  Rebus was thoughtful. ‘And did you let him know when Operation Creeper was set for?’

  It was Watson’s turn to be thoughtful. Then he nodded. ‘But he’s . . . he’s a professor . . . of divinity. He wouldn’t have been the one to tip off the papers. And he doesn’t know Gregor bloody Jack.’

  ‘But you told him? Date and time?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Why? Why did he need to know?’

  ‘His “friend” . . . The “friend” needed to know so he could warn anyone he knew from going there.’

  Rebus leapt to his feet. ‘Jesus Christ, sir!’ He paused. ‘With respect. But don’t you see? There was a friend. There was someone who needed to be warned. But not so they could stop their friends being caught . . . so they could ensure Gregor Jack walked straight into the trap. As soon as they knew when we were going in, all they had to do was phone Jack and tell him his sister was there. They knew he couldn’t not go and check it out for himself.’ He tugged open the door.

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘To see Professor Costello. Not that I need to, not really, but I want to hear him say the name, I want to hear it for myself. Enjoy your coffee, sir.’

  But Watson didn’t. It tasted like charred wood. Too bitter, too strong. For some time now he’d been wavering; now he made the decision. He’d stop drinking coffee altogether. It would be his penance. Just like Inspector John Rebus was his comforter . . .

  ‘Good morning, Inspector.’

  ‘Morning, sir. Not disturbing you?’

  Professor Costello waved his arm airily around the empty room. ‘Not a student in Edinburgh’s awake at this – to them – ungodly hour. Not the divinity students at any rate. No, Inspector, you’re not disturbing me.’

  ‘You got the books all right, sir?’

  Costello pointed towards his glass-fronted bookshelves. ‘Safe and sound. The officer who delivered them said something about them being found abandoned . . .?’

  ‘Something like that, sir.’ Rebus glanced back at the door. ‘You haven’t had a proper lock fitted yet.’

  ‘Mea culpa, Inspector. Fear not, one’s on its way.’

  ‘Only I wouldn’t like you to lose your books again . . .’

  ‘Point taken, Inspector. Sit down, won’t you? Coffee?’ The hand this time was directed towards an evil-looking percolator sitting smoking on a hotplate in a corner of the room.

  ‘No thanks, sir. Bit early for me.’

  Costello bowed his head slightly. He slid into the comfortable leather chair behind his comfortable oaken desk. Rebus sat on one of the modern, spindly metal-framed chairs the other side of it. ‘So, Inspector, social niceties dispensed with . . . what can I do for you?’

  ‘You gave some information to Chief Superintendent Watson, sir.’

  Costello pursed his lips. ‘Confidential information, Inspector.’

  ‘At one time perhaps, but it may help us with a murder inquiry.’

  ‘Surely not!’

  Rebus nodded. ‘So you see, sir, that changes things slightly. We need to know who your “friend” was, the one who told you about the . . . er . . .’

  ‘I believe the phrase is “hoor-hoose”. Almost poetic, much nicer at any rate than “brothel”.’ Costello almost squirmed in his chair. ‘My friend, Inspector, I did promise him . . .’

  ‘Murder, sir. I’d advise against withholding information.’

  ‘Oh yes, agreed, agreed. But one’s conscience . . .’

  ‘Was it Ronald Steele?’

  Costello’s eyes opened wide. ‘Then you already know.’

  ‘Just an inspired guess, sir. You’re a frequent customer in his shop, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, I do like to browse . . .’

  ‘And you were in his shop when he told you.’

  ‘That’s right. It was a lunchtime. Vanessa, his assistant, she was on her break. She’s a student here, actually. Lovely girl . . .’

  If only you knew, thought Rebus.

  ‘Anyway, yes, Ronald told me his little guilty secret. He’d been taken to this hoor-hoose one night by some friends. H
e really was very embarrassed about it all.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Oh, terribly. He knew I knew Superintendent Watson, and he wondered if I could pass word on about the establishment.’

  ‘So we could close it down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he needed to know the night?’

  ‘He was desperate to know. His friends, you see, the ones who’d taken him. He wanted to warn them off.’

  ‘You know Mr Steele is a friend of Gregor Jack’s?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The MP.’

  ‘I’m sorry, the name doesn’t . . . Gregor Jack?’ Costello frowned, shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘He’s been in all the newspapers.’

  ‘Really?’

  Rebus sighed. The real world, it seemed, stopped at the door to Costello’s office. This was a lighter realm altogether. He was almost startled by the sudden electronic twittering of the high-tech telephone. Costello apologized and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Yes? Speaking. Yes, he is. Wait one moment, please.’ He held the receiver out towards Rebus. ‘It’s for you, Inspector,’ Somehow, Rebus wasn’t surprised . . .

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘The Chief Superintendent said I’d find you there.’ It was Lauderdale.

  ‘Good morning to you too, sir.’

  ‘Cut the crap, John. I’m just in and already a bit of the ceiling’s fallen off and missed my head by inches. I’m not in the mood for it okay?’

  ‘Understood, sir.’

  ‘I’m only phoning because I thought you’d be interested.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Forensics didn’t take long with those two glasses you found in Mr Pond’s bathroom.’

  Of course they didn’t. They had all the match-up prints they needed, taken so as to eliminate people from Deer Lodge.

  ‘Guess who they belong to?’ Lauderdale asked.

  ‘One set will be Mrs Jack, the other set Ronald Steele.’

  There was silence on the other end of the telephone.

  ‘Was I close?’ asked Rebus.

  ‘How the hell did you know?’

  ‘What if I told you it was an inspired guess?’

  ‘I’d tell you you’re a liar. Get back here. We need to talk.’