10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘They were fighting?’

  ‘The other man looked like he’d been roughed up beforehand. Nobody’d call it a fair fight. And eventually, after Cafferty’d beaten the living shite out of him, he grabbed him by the neck and forced him down into the muck. He stood on the man’s back, balancing there, and holding the face down with his hands. He looked like it was nothing new. Then the man stopped struggling . . .’

  Rebus and Kintoul were silent, blood pounding through them, both trying to cope with the vision of an early morning pigsty . . . ‘Afterwards,’ said Kintoul, his voice lower than ever, ‘he beamed at us like it was his coronation.’

  Then, in complete grimacing silence, he started to weep.

  Rebus was visiting the Infirmary so often he was considering taking out a season ticket. But he hadn’t expected to see Flower there.

  ‘Checking in? The psychiatric section’s down the hall.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Flower.

  ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

  ‘I could ask you the same question.’

  ‘I live here, what about you?’

  ‘I came to ask some questions.’

  ‘Of Andrew McPhail?’ Flower nodded. ‘Did nobody tell you his jaw’s wired shut?’ Flower twitched, producing a good wide grin from Rebus. ‘How come it’s your business anyway?’

  ‘It involves Cafferty,’ Flower said.

  ‘Oh aye, so it does, I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Looks like we’ve got him this time.’

  ‘Looks like it. But you never know with Cafferty.’ Rebus stared unblinking at Flower as he spoke. ‘The reason he’s lasted so long is he’s clever. He’s clever, and he’s got the best lawyers. Plus he’s got people scared of him, and he’s got people in his pocket . . . maybe even a copper or three.’

  Flower had stared out the gaze; now he blinked. ‘You think I was in Cafferty’s pocket?’

  Rebus had been pondering this. He had Cafferty marked down for the attack on Michael and the scam with the gun. As for the clumsy hit-and-run attempt, that was so amateurish, he guessed at Broderick Gibson for its architect. Quite simply, Cafferty would have used better men.

  He’d been silent long enough, so he shook his head. ‘I don’t think you’re that smart. Cafferty likes smart people. But I do think you had a word with the Inland Revenue about me.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Rebus grinned. ‘I do like a cliché.’ Then he walked on down the hall.

  Andrew McPhail was easy to find. You just looked for the broken face. He was wired up like somebody’s first attempt at a junction box. Rebus thought he could see where they’d used two wires where one would have sufficed. But then he was no doctor. McPhail had his eyes closed.

  ‘Hello there,’ said Rebus. The eyes opened. There was anger there, but Rebus could cope with it. He held up a hand. ‘No,’ he said, ‘don’t bother to thank me.’ Then he smiled. ‘It’s all set up for when they let you out. Up north for rehabilitation, maybe a job, and bracing coastal walks. Man, I envy you.’ He looked around the ward. Every bed had a body in it. The nurses looked like they could use a holiday or at the very least a gin and lime with some dry-roast peanuts.

  ‘I said I’d leave you alone,’ Rebus went on, ‘and I keep my word. But a piece of advice.’ He rested his hands on the edge of the bed and leaned towards McPhail. ‘Cafferty’s the biggest villain in town. You’re probably the only bugger in Edinburgh who didn’t know that. Now his men know a guy called McPhail set their boss up. So don’t ever think of coming back, will you?’ McPhail still glared at him. ‘Good,’ said Rebus. He straightened up, turned, and walked away, then paused and turned. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘and I meant to say something.’ He returned to the bed and stood at its foot, where charts showed McPhail’s temperature and medicaments. Rebus waited till McPhail’s wet eyes were on his, then he smiled sympathetically again.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. This time, when he turned he kept on walking.

  Andy Steele had been the necessary go-between. It was too dangerous for Rebus to put the story out first-hand. The source of the tale might have got back to Cafferty, and that would have ruined everything. McPhail hadn’t been necessary, but he’d been useful. Rebus explained the ruse twice to Andy Steele, and even then the young fisherman didn’t seem to take it all in. He had the look of a man with a dozen unaskable questions.

  ‘So what are you going to do now?’ Rebus asked. He’d been hoping in fact that Steele might already have left for home.

  ‘Oh, I’m applying for a grant,’ said Steele.

  ‘You mean like university?’

  But Steele hooted. ‘Not likely! It’s one of those schemes to get the unemployed into business.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  Steele nodded. ‘I’m eligible.’

  ‘So what’s the business?’

  ‘A detective agency, of course!’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Edinburgh. I’ve made more money since I came here than I made in six months in Aberdeen.’

  ‘You cannot be serious,’ said Rebus. But Andy Steele was.

  36

  He had one last meeting planned, and wasn’t looking forward to it. He walked from St Leonard’s to the University library at George Square. The indifferent security man on the door glanced at his ID and nodded him towards the front desk, where Nell Stapleton, tall and broad-shouldered, was taking returned books from a duffel-coated student. She caught his eye and looked surprised. Pleased at first; but as she went through the books, Rebus saw her mind wasn’t wholly on the job. At last, she came over to him.

  ‘Hello, John.’

  ‘Nell.’

  ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Can we have a word?’

  She checked with the other assistant that it was okay to take a five-minute break. They walked as far as a book-lined corridor.

  ‘Brian tells me you’ve closed the case, the one he was so worried about.’

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘That’s great news. Thanks for your help.’

  Rebus shrugged.

  She tilted her head slightly. ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Rebus. ‘Do you want to tell me?’

  ‘Me?’

  Rebus nodded again.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You’ve lived with a policeman, Nell. You know we deal in motives. Sometimes there isn’t much else to go on. I’ve been thinking about motives recently.’ He shut up as a female student pulled open a door, came out into the corridor, smiled briefly at Nell, and went on her way. Nell watched her go. Rebus thought she would like to swop bodies for a few minutes.

  ‘Motives?’ she said. She was leaning against the wall, but Rebus got no notion of calmness from her stance.

  ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘that night in the hospital, the night Brian was attacked. You said something about an argument, and him going off to the Heartbreak Cafe?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s right. We met that night to talk over a drink. But we argued. I don’t see –’

  ‘Only, I’ve been thinking about the motive behind the attack. There were too many at first, but I’ve narrowed them down. They’re all motives you’d have, Nell.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You told me you were scared for him, scared because he was scared. And he was scared because he was poking into something that could nail Big Ger Cafferty. Wouldn’t it be better if there was another body on the case, someone else to attract the fire? Me, in other words. So you got me involved.’

  ‘Now wait a minute –’

  But Rebus held his hand up and closed his eyes, begging silence. ‘Then,’ he said, ‘there was DC Clarke. They were getting along so famously together. Jealousy maybe? Always a good motive.’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’

  Rebus ignored her. ‘And of course the simplest motive. The two of you had been rowing about whether or not to have kids. That and the fac
t that he was overworking, not paying you enough attention.’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  Rebus did not sound unkind. ‘You told me yourself you’d had a row that evening. You knew where he was headed – same place as always. So why not wait near his car and brain him when he came out? A nice simple revenge.’ Rebus paused. ‘How many motives does that make? I’ve lost count. Enough to be going on with, eh?’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’ Tears were rising into her eyes. Every time she blinked, more appeared. She ran a thumb and forefinger down her nose, clearing it, breathing in noisily. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked at last.

  ‘I’m going to lend you a hankie,’ said Rebus.

  ‘I don’t want your fucking hankie!’

  Rebus put a finger to his lips. ‘This is a library, remember?’

  She sniffed and wiped away tears.

  ‘Nell,’ he said quietly, ‘I don’t want you to say anything. I don’t want to know. I just want you to know. All right?’

  ‘You think you’re so fucking smart.’

  He shrugged. ‘The offer of a hankie still stands.’

  ‘Get stuffed.’

  ‘Do you really want Brian to leave the force?’

  But she was walking away from him, head held high, shoulders swinging just a little exaggeratedly. He watched her go behind the desk, where her co-worker saw something was wrong and put a comforting arm around her. Rebus examined the shelves of books in front of him in the corridor, but saw nothing to delay his leavetaking.

  He sat on a bench in the Meadows, the back of the library rising up behind him. He had his hands in his pockets as he watched a hastily arranged game of football. Eight men against seven. They’d come over to him and asked if he fancied making up the numbers.

  ‘You must be desperate,’ he’d said, shaking his head. The goalposts comprised one orange and white traffic cone, one pile of coats, one pile of folders and books, and a branch stuck in the ground. Rebus glanced at his watch more often than necessary. No one on the field was worrying too much about the time taken to play the first half. Two of the players looked like brothers though they played on opposing sides. Mickey had left the flat that morning, taking the photo of their dad and Uncle Jimmy with him.

  ‘To remind me,’ he’d said.

  A woman in a Burberry trenchcoat sat down on the bench beside him.

  ‘Are they any good?’ she asked.

  ‘They’d give Hibs a run for their money.’

  ‘How good does that make them?’ she asked.

  Rebus turned towards Dr Patience Aitken and smiled, reaching out to take her hand in his. ‘What kept you so long?’ he asked.

  ‘Just the usual,’ she said. ‘Work.’

  ‘I tried phoning you so often.’

  ‘Put my mind at rest then,’ she said.

  ‘How?’

  She moved closer. ‘Tell me I’m not just a number in your little black book . . .’

  Acknowledgements

  The author wishes to acknowledge the assistance of the Chandler-Fulbright Award in the writing of this book.

  Discussion points for The Black Book

  The Black Book is the first time Ian Rankin moves Rebus to a real-life police station and mentions the street where he lives. Is this new level of authenticity reflected in any other areas?

  When Rebus meets former Parachute Regiment colleague Deek Torrance he’s reminded of ‘the whole black comedy of his past’. Is this better in Rebus’s eyes than his past being a ‘tragedy’, or does he feel there actually might not be too much of a difference?

  Is the fact that DS Brian Holmes has his own unofficial notebook with jottings on unofficial lines of enquiry indicative of the time he has spent working with Rebus? Does the ‘black book’ of the title refer more to Holmes’s notebook, to Big Ger’s diary or to Black Aengus’s journal?

  Characters from previous Rebus novels reappear. Does Ian Rankin make allowances for readers who might not have read the earlier books? Discuss the different sorts of ‘ghosts from the past’.

  Is Michael similar to Rebus in that he treats the thought of ‘scary’ things with humour?

  ‘The past was certainly important to Edinburgh. The city fed on its past like a serpent with its tail in its mouth. And Rebus’s past seemed to be circling around again too.’ How does Ian Rankin explore these notions, and why does the reader feel a sense of threat?

  Ian Rankin claims that by the end of The Black Book, newcomer DC Siobhan Clarke has usurped Brian Holmes: ‘It was not in Siobhan’s mind to remain “just another colleague”; she seemed to have other ideas entirely’. How does this play out on the page, and in what ways does she prove herself to Rebus?

  ‘Despite being English, there was something of the Scottish Protestant in Siobhan Clarke.’ What does this mean, and is this perhaps why she and Rebus get on? What distinction does Rebus make between a Protestant work ethic and Calvinist guilt?

  How does Siobhan feel that Rebus draws one into a case?

  Why does Rebus find his visit to Auntie Ena so touching?

  Big Ger Cafferty recognises that there are similarities between him and Rebus; why does Rebus not see this? How does Big Ger manipulate the meeting he and Rebus have?

  What effect is Rebus’s behaviour having on his relationship with Patience?

  Where does Rebus stand on the potential of ‘rehabilitation’ for offenders?

  ‘The bullets shook in the box like a baby’s toy.’ How does this simile work? And how does Rebus justify to himself the fact that he has acquired a gun?

  Even though his faith is different, Rebus visits the church of Our Lady of Perpetual Hell (Help) where he has his first meeting with an unnamed Catholic priest who will reappear in later books. What does Rebus find so thought-provoking about the conversation?

  MORTAL CAUSES

  Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgements

  Discussion Points

  Perhaps Edinburgh’s terrible inability to speak out,

  Edinburgh’s silence with regard to all it should be saying,

  Is but the hush that precedes the thunder,

  The liberating detonation so oppressively imminent now?

  Hugh MacDiarmid

  We’re all gonna be just dirt in the ground.

  Tom Waits

  INTRODUCTION

  I grew up in a small coal-mining town in east-central Scotland, a long way from the Troubles in Northern Ireland. Yet each Saturday night of my childhood I would be awakened by some drunk at the end of our cul-de-sac, pausing on his route home in order to offer up a tuneless rendition of ‘The Sash’. As far as I know, no one ever left their home to remonstrate with him. Even now I wonder: was it the same man every time? Who was he? When sober, did he share his workplace with Catholics, and were they aware of his hatred? Did that hatred even exist during his periods of sobriety, or did it only come bubbling up after a long night’s imbibing? There were only one or two Catholic families in our whole street. One of the kids was my best friend until we started our separate educations, after which we drifted apart, findi
ng other friends who shared our daily routines.

  I met my future wife at university. She had grown up in Belfast during the worst of the Troubles. Over time I got to know the place, visiting her family two or three times a year, but still not fully comprehending the soul of the conflict there. It is hard to grow up working-class in many parts of Scotland without taking sides. In fact, you don’t even have to take sides: they’re pretty much preordained. Now that I had five Rebus novels under my belt, I decided it was time to tackle some of my own questions about sectarianism and religious division in Scotland. But to make things interesting, I decided that this new story would take as its backdrop the Edinburgh Festival. That way, I could show the Scots at play, as opposed to the uglier truths about my home nation’s tribal instincts.

  One of my favourite jobs as a writer is coming up with titles. Previous books had been easy, but I struggled with Mortal Causes. The thing is, I need to have a title down on paper before I can start writing the story. It was my wife Miranda who came up with Mortal Causes, after a brainstorming session and countless dismissed suggestions on both sides. I liked the pun inherent in the title. The Scottish vernacular is rich in colourful euphemisms for inebriation: stocious, stotting, guttered, steaming, steamboats, wellied and hoolit are just a few. Another is ‘mortal’, as in: ‘I was fair mortal last night’ (meaning ‘I was very drunk indeed’). So Mortal Causes evoked, in my mind, the demon drink, just as surely as it did any darker and more violent imagery.

  In this book, the relationship between Rebus and Edinburgh’s premier gangster, ‘Big Ger’ Cafferty, would become more complex, partly as a result of my fondness for New York writer Lawrence Block’s Matt Scudder novels. I’d discovered these during a six-month stint in the USA in the latter half of 1992. I liked the way Scudder (an ex-cop and a man with his own strict moral code) related to a tough-guy hoodlum called Mick Ballou. It was as if they understood one another, maybe even respected one another . . . yet if either got in the other’s way, only one of them would emerge standing. If you’ve yet to read Mortal Causes, I won’t spoil it for you, but suffice to say, by the end of the book the relationship between Rebus and Cafferty has changed markedly, and in ways which would continue to resonate throughout the series.