10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Peter Petrie was one of those basically intelligent but not exactly perceptive officers who climbed the ladder by passing the exams (though never with brilliant marks) and not getting in anyone’s way. Petrie was quiet and methodical; she didn’t doubt his competence, it was just that he lacked any spark of inspiration or instinct. And probably, she thought, he was sitting there with his thermos summing her up as an over-talkative smart-arse with a university degree. Well, whatever he was he was no John Rebus.

  She had accused her superior of not exactly motivating those who worked for him, but this was a lie. He could draw you into a case, and into his way of thinking about a case, merely by being so narrow-minded about the investigation. He was secretive – and that drew you in. He was tenacious – and that drew you in. Above all, though, he had the air of knowing exactly where he was going. And he wasn’t all that bad looking either. She’d learned a lot about him by sticking close to Brian Holmes, who had been only too willing to chat about past cases and what he knew of his boss’s history.

  Poor Brian. She hoped he was going to be all right. She had thought a lot last night about Brian, but even more about Cafferty and his gang. She hoped she could be of help to Inspector John Rebus. She already had a few ideas about the fire at the Central Hotel . . .

  ‘Here comes someone,’ said Petrie. He was squatting behind the tripod and busily adjusting the focus on the camera. He fired off half a dozen shots. ‘Unidentified male. Denim jacket and light-coloured trousers. Approaching the office on foot.’

  Siobhan took up her pad and copied down Petrie’s description, noting the time alongside.

  ‘He’s entering the office . . . now.’ Petrie turned away from the camera and grinned. ‘This is what I joined the police for: a life of adventure.’ Having said which, he poured more hot chocolate from his thermos into a cup.

  ‘I can’t use that loo,’ said Elsa-Beth Jardine. ‘I’ll have to go out.’

  ‘No can do,’ said Petrie, ‘it would attract too much attention, you tripping in and out every time you needed a piss.’

  Jardine turned to Siobhan. ‘He’s got a way with words, your colleague.’

  ‘Oh, he’s a right old romantic. But it’s true enough about going to the toilet.’ The bathroom had flooded during the previous year’s break-in, leaving the floor unsafe. Hence the broom closet.

  Jardine flipped over a page of her magazine. ‘Burt Reynolds has seven bathrooms in his home,’ she commented.

  ‘One for every dwarf,’ muttered Petrie.

  Rebus might, in Siobhan’s phrase, have an air of knowing exactly where he was going, but in fact he felt like he was going round in circles. He’d visited a few early-opening pubs (near the offices of the daily newspaper; down towards the docks at Leith), social clubs and betting shops, and had asked his question and left his message in all of them. Deek Torrance was either keeping a low profile, or else he’d left the city. If still around, it was unfeasible that he wouldn’t at some point stagger into a bar and loudly introduce himself and his thirst. Few people, once introduced, could forget Deek Torrance.

  He’d also opened communications with hospitals in Edinburgh and Dundee, to see if either of the Robertson brothers had received surgery for a broken right arm, the old injury found on the Central Hotel corpse.

  But now it was time to give up and go check out Operation Moneybags. He’d left Michael still asleep this morning, and likely to remain asleep for quite some time if those pills were anything to go by. The students had tiptoed in at a minute past midnight, ‘well kettled’ as one of them termed it, having spent Rebus’s thirty quid on beverages at a local hostelry. They too had been asleep when Rebus had let himself out of the flat. He hardly dared admit to himself that he liked sleeping rough in his own living-room.

  The whole weekend seemed like a strange bad dream now. The drive to Aberdeen, Auntie Ena, Michael . . . then the drive to Perth, the lock-fitting, and too much spare time (even after all that) in which to brood. He wondered how Patience’s weekend had gone. She’d be back later today for sure. He’d try phoning again.

  He parked in one of the many side streets off Gorgie Road and locked his car. This was not one of the city’s safest areas. He hoped Siobhan hadn’t worn a green and white scarf to work this morning . . . He walked down onto Gorgie Road, where buses were spraying the pavement with some of the morning’s rainwater, and was careful not to pause outside the door, careful not to glance across the street at the cab offices. He just pushed the door open and climbed the stairs, then knocked at another door.

  Siobhan Clarke herself opened it. ‘Morning, sir.’ She looked cold, though she had wrapped up well enough. ‘Coffee?’

  The offer was from her thermos, and Rebus shook his head. Normally during a surveillance, drinks and food could be brought in, but not to this surveillance. There wasn’t supposed to be any activity in the building, so it would look more than a mite suspicious if someone suddenly appeared at the door with three beakers of tea and a home-delivery pizza. There wasn’t even a back entrance to the building.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Slow.’ This from Elsa-Beth Jardine, who didn’t look at all comfortable. There was an open magazine on her lap. ‘Thank God I’m relieved at one o’clock.’

  ‘Think yourself lucky, then,’ commented DC Petrie.

  Ah, how Rebus liked to see a happy crew. ‘It’s not supposed to be fun,’ he told them. ‘It’s supposed to be work. If and when we nab Dougary and Co., that’s when the party begins.’ They had nothing to add to this, and neither did Rebus. He walked over to the window and peered out. The window itself was so grimy he doubted anyone could see them through it, and especially not from across the street. But a square had been cleaned off just a little, enough so that any photos would be recognisable.

  ‘Camera working okay?’

  ‘So far,’ said Petrie. ‘I don’t really trust these motorised jobs. If the motor goes, you’re buggered. You can’t wind on by hand.’

  ‘Got enough batteries?’

  ‘Two back-up sets. They’re not going to be a problem.’

  Rebus nodded. He knew Petrie’s reputation as a solid detective who might climb a little higher up the ladder yet. ‘How about the phone?’

  ‘It’s connected, sir,’ said Siobhan Clarke.

  Usually, there would be radio contact between any stake-out and headquarters, but not for Moneybags. The problem was the cab company. The cabs and their home base were equipped with two-way radios, so it was possible that communications from Moneybags to HQ could actually be picked up across the road. There was the added complication, too, that the cab radios might interfere with Moneybags’ transmissions.

  To avoid these potential disasters, a telephone line had been installed early on Sunday morning. The telephone apparatus sat on the floor near the door. So far it had been used twice: once by Jardine to make a hairdresser’s appointment; and once by Petrie to make a bet after he’d checked the day’s horse-racing tips in his tabloid. Siobhan intended using it this afternoon to check on Brian’s condition. But now Rebus was actually using it to phone St Leonard’s.

  ‘Any messages for me?’ He waited. ‘Oh? That’s interesting. Anything else? What? Why the hell didn’t you tell me that first?’ He slammed the phone down. ‘Brian’s awake,’ he said. ‘He’s sitting up in bed eating chicken soup and watching daytime TV.’

  ‘Either of which could give him a relapse,’ said Siobhan. She was wondering what the other message had been.

  ‘Hello, Brian.’

  ‘Hello, sir.’ Holmes had been listening to a personal hi-fi. He switched it off and slipped the headphones down around his neck. ‘Patsy Cline,’ he said. ‘I’ve been listening to a lot of her since Nell booted me out.’

  ‘Where did the tape come from?’

  ‘My aunt brought it in, bless her. She knows what I like. It was waiting for me when I woke up.’

  Rebus had a sudden thought. They played music to coma victims, didn’
t they? Maybe they’d been playing Patsy Cline to Holmes. No wonder he’d been a long time waking up.

  ‘I’m finding it hard to take in, though,’ Holmes went on. ‘I mean, whole days of my life, just gone like that. I wouldn’t mind, I mean I like a good sleep. Only I can’t remember a bloody thing I dreamt about.’

  Rebus sat down by the bedside. The chair was already in place. ‘Been having visitors?’

  ‘Just the one. Nell looked in.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘She spent the whole time crying. My face isn’t horribly scarred and no one’s telling me?’

  ‘Looks as ugly as ever. What about amnesia?’

  Holmes smiled. ‘Oh no, I remember the whole thing, not that it’ll help.’

  Holmes really did look fine. It was like the doctors said, the brain shuts all systems down, thinks what damage has been done, effects repairs, and then you wake up. Policeman heal thyself.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So,’ said Holmes, ‘I’d spent the evening in the Heartbreak Cafe. I can even tell you what I ate.’

  ‘Whatever it was, I’ll bet you finished with Blue Suede Choux.’

  Holmes shook his head. ‘They’d none left. Like Eddie said, it’s the fastest mover since the King himself.’

  ‘So what happened after you ate?’

  ‘The usual, I sat at the bar drinking and chatting, wondering if any gorgeous young ladies were going to slip onto the stool beside mine and ask if I came there often. I talked with Pat for a while. He was on bar duty that night.’ Holmes paused. ‘I should explain, Pat is –’

  ‘Eddie’s business partner, and maybe a sleeping partner too.’

  ‘Now now, no homophobia.’

  ‘Some of my best friends know gays,’ Rebus said. ‘You’ve mentioned Calder in the past. I can also tell you he doesn’t drive.’

  ‘That’s right, Eddie does.’

  ‘Even when he’s shit-faced.’

  Holmes shrugged. ‘I’ve never made it my business.’

  ‘You will when he knocks some poor old lady down.’

  Holmes smiled. ‘That car of his might look like a hotrod, but it’s in terrible shape. It barely does forty on the open road. Besides, Eddie’s the most, if you will, pedestrian driver I know. He’s so slow I’ve seen him overtaken by a skateboard – and that was being carried under somebody’s arm at the time.’

  ‘So it was just you and Calder at the bar?’

  ‘Until Eddie joined us, after he’d finished cooking. I mean, there were other people in the place, but no obvious villains.’

  ‘Pray continue.’

  ‘Well, I went to go home. Someone must have been waiting behind the dustbins. Next thing I knew there was a draught up my kilt. I opened my eyes and saw these two nurses washing my tadger.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what woke me up, I swear.’

  ‘It’s a medical miracle.’

  ‘The magic sponge,’ said Holmes.

  ‘So who thumped you, any ideas?’

  ‘I’ve been mulling it over. Maybe they were after Eddie or Pat.’

  ‘And why would that be?’

  Holmes shrugged.

  ‘Don’t keep secrets from old Uncle Rebus, Brian. You forget, I can read your mind.’

  ‘Well, you tell me then.’

  ‘Could be they’ve not been paying their dues.’

  ‘You mean protection?’

  ‘Insurance, as people like to call it.’

  ‘Well, maybe.’

  ‘The dynamic duo at the Heartbreak Cafe seem to think maybe it’s an unholy alliance of curry house owners disgruntled at the fall-off in trade.’

  ‘I can’t see that.’

  ‘Neither can I. Maybe it was nobody, Brian. Maybe nobody was after Eddie and Pat. Maybe they were after you. Now why would that be?’

  The pink in Holmes’ cheeks grew slightly redder. ‘You’ve seen the Black Book?’

  ‘Of course I have. I was looking for clues, so I had a rifle through your stuff. And there it was, all in code, too. Or at least in shorthand, so nobody but another copper would know what you were on about. But I’m another copper, Brian. Now there were a lot of cases in there, but only one that stood out.’

  ‘The Central Hotel.’

  ‘Give the man a cigar. Yes, the Central. A poker game took place, and in attendance were Tam and Eck Robertson, neither of whom crop up in the list of punters at the Central that night. You’ve been trying to find them. No luck so far?’ Holmes shook his head. ‘But someone told you all this, didn’t they? There’s no mention in the files of any poker game. Now,’ Rebus leaned closer, ‘would I be right in thinking that the person who told you is the mysterious El?’ Holmes nodded. ‘Then that’s all you need to tell me, Brian. Who the hell is El?’

  At that moment, a nurse pushed open the door and came in bearing medicine and a lunch tray for Holmes.

  ‘I’m starving,’ he explained to Rebus. ‘This is my second meal since I woke up.’ He lifted the metal cover from the plate. A pale pink slice of meat, watery mashed spuds, and sliced green beans.

  ‘Yum yum,’ said Rebus. But Holmes looked keen enough. He scooped some mash and gravy into his mouth and swallowed it down.

  ‘I’d have thought,’ he said, ‘that since you’ve figured out the hard part, you wouldn’t have had any trouble with El.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you. Who is he?’

  ‘It’s Elvis,’ said Brian Holmes. ‘Elvis himself told me.’ He lifted another forkful of mush to his lips and started to slurp it down.

  12

  Rebus studied the menu, finding little to his liking beyond the often painful puns. The Heartbreak Cafe was open all day, but he’d arrived just in time for the special luncheon menu. A foot-long sausage on a roll was predictably if unappetisingly a ‘Hound Dog’. Rebus could only hope that there was no literal truth to the appelation. More obscure was the drinks list, with one wine called ‘Mama Liked the Rosé’. Rebus decided that he wasn’t so hungry after all. Instead, he nursed his ‘Teddy’ beer at the bar and handed the menu back to the teenage barman.

  ‘Pat’s not in then?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Doing some shopping. He’ll be back later.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘But Eddie’s around?’

  ‘In the kitchen, yeah.’ The barman glanced towards the restaurant area. He wore three gold studs in his left ear. ‘He won’t be much longer, unless he’s making something special for tonight.’

  ‘Right,’ said Rebus. A few minutes later, he picked up his beer glass and wandered over to a huge jukebox near the toilets. Finding it to be ornamental only, he studied some of the Presley mementoes on the walls, including a signed photograph of the Vegas Elvis and what looked like a rare Sun Records pressing. Both were protected by thick framed glass, and both were picked out by spotlights from the surrounding gloom. Finding himself, as if by chance, at the door to the kitchen, Rebus pushed it open with his shoulder and let it swing shut behind him.

  Eddie Ringan was creating. Sweat glistened on his face, thin strands of hair sticking to his brow, as he shook a small frying pan over a gas flame. The set-up was impressive: cleaner than Rebus had expected, with many more cookers and pots and work surfaces. A lot of money had been spent; the Cafe wasn’t just a designer façade. Amusingly, it seemed to Rebus, there was different music here from the constant diet of Presley served at the bar. Eddie Ringan was listening to Miles Davis.

  The chef hadn’t noticed Rebus yet, and Rebus hadn’t noticed a trainee chef who’d been fetching something from one of several fridges at the back of the kitchen.

  Rebus watched as Eddie, pausing from his work, grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam by its neck and upended it into his mouth, taking it away again with a satisfied exhalation.

  ‘Hey,’ said the trainee chef, ‘no one’s allowed in here.’ Eddie looked up from the pan and gave a whoop.

  ‘You’re just the man!’ he cried. “The very man! Come over here.’


  If anything, he sounded drunker than at their first meeting. But then, at their first meeting there had been the civilising (or at least restricting) presence of Pat Calder, as well as the sobering fact of Brian Holmes’s attack.

  Rebus walked over to the cooker. He too was starting to sweat in the heat.

  ‘This,’ said Eddie Ringan, nodding towards the pan, ‘is my latest dish. Pieces of Roquefort cheese imprisoned in breadcrumb and spice and fried. Either pan-fried or deep-fried, that’s what I’m deciding.’

  ‘Jailhouse Roquefort,’ Rebus guessed. Ringan whooped again, losing his balance slightly and sliding back with one foot.

  ‘Your idea, Inspector Rabies.’

  ‘I’m flattered, but the name’s Rebus.’

  ‘Aye, well, you should be flattered. Maybe we’ll gie you a wee mention on the menu. How about that, eh?’ He studied the golden nuggets, turning them expertly with a fork. ‘I’m giving this lot six minutes. Willie!’

  ‘I’m right here.’

  ‘How long’s that been?’

  The protégé checked his watch. ‘Three and a half. I’ve put the butter down there next to the eggs.’

  ‘Willie’s my assistant, Inspector.’

  The exasperation in Willie’s voice and expressions made Rebus doubt he would be assisting for much longer. Though younger than Ringan, Willie was about the same size. You wouldn’t call him slender. Rebus reckoned chefs were partial to too much R&D. ‘Can we talk for a minute?’

  ‘Two and a half minutes if you like.’

  ‘I’d like to know about the Central Hotel.’ Ringan didn’t seem to hear this, his attention on the contents of the frying-pan. ‘You were there the night it burned down.’

  El was short for Elvis, and Elvis was code for Eddie Ringan. Holmes hadn’t wanted the wrong people getting hold of the Black Book and being able to identify the person who’d been talking. That’s why he’d gone an extra step in disguising Ringan’s identity.

  He’d also made Rebus promise that he wouldn’t tell the chef Holmes had shared their secret. It was to have been a secret, a little tale spilt from a bottle of bourbon. But Ringan hadn’t poured out nearly enough, he’d just given Holmes a taste.