10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus wished the settlers well.

  When they got to the Gar-B, Rebus gave the uniforms their instructions and sat in the back seat enjoying the stares of passers-by. They were away a while, but when they came back one of them was pulling a boy by his forearm and pushing the boy’s bike. The other one had two kids, no bikes. Rebus looked at them. He recognised the one with the bike.

  ‘You can let the others go,’ he said. ‘But him, I want in here with me.’

  The boy got into the car reluctantly. His pals ran as soon as the officers released them. When they were far enough away, they turned to watch. They wanted to know what would happen.

  ‘What’s your name, son?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Jock.’

  Maybe it was true and maybe it wasn’t. Rebus wasn’t bothered. ‘Shouldn’t you be at school, Jock?’

  ‘We’ve no’ started back yet.’

  This too could be true; Rebus didn’t know. ‘Do you remember me, son?’

  ‘It wasnae me did your tyres.’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘That’s all right. I’m not here about that. But you remember when I came here?’ The boy nodded. ‘Remember you were with a pal, and he thought I was someone else. Remember? He asked me where my flash car was.’ The boy shook his head. ‘And you told him that I wasn’t who he thought I was. Who did he think I was, son?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘But someone a bit like me, eh? Similar build, age, height? Fancier clothes though, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What about his car, the swanky car?’

  ‘A custom Merc.’

  Rebus smiled. There were some things boys just had eyes and a memory for. ‘What colour Merc?’

  ‘Black, all of it. The windows too.’

  ‘Seen him here a lot?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Nice car though, eh?’

  The boy shrugged.

  ‘Right, son, on you go.’

  The boy knew from the pleased look on the policeman’s face that he’d made a mistake, that he’d somehow helped. His cheeks burned with shame. He snatched his bike from the constable and ran with it, looking back from time to time. His pals were waiting to question him.

  ‘Get what you were looking for, sir?’ asked one of the uniforms, getting back into the car.

  ‘Exactly what I was looking for,’ said Rebus.

  25

  He went to see Mairie, but a friend was looking after her and Mairie herself was sleeping. The doctor had given her a few sleeping pills. Left alone in the flat with an unconscious Mairie, he could have gone through her notes and computer files, but the friend didn’t even let him over the threshold. She had a pinched face with prominent cheeks and a few too many teeth in her quiet but determined mouth.

  ‘Tell her I called,’ Rebus said, giving up. He had retrieved his car from the back of the hotel. Cafferty would find him, with or without the rust-bucket to point the way. He drove to Fettes where DCI Kilpatrick had an update on the Clyde Moncur surveillance.

  ‘He’s acting the tourist, John, no more or less. He and his wife are admiring the sights, taking bus tours, buying souvenirs.’ Kilpatrick sat back in his chair. ‘The men I put on it are restless. Like they say, it’s hardly likely he’s here on business when his wife’s with him.’

  ‘Or else it’s the perfect cover.’

  ‘A couple more days, John, that’s all we can give it.’

  ‘I appreciate it, sir.’

  ‘What about this body at the Crazy Hose?’

  ‘Millie Docherty, sir.’

  ‘Yes, any ideas?’

  Rebus just shrugged. Kilpatrick didn’t seem to expect an answer. Part of his mind was still on Calumn Smylie. They were about to open an internal inquiry. There would be questions to answer about the whole investigation.

  ‘I hear you had a run in with Smylie,’ Kilpatrick said.

  So Ormiston had been talking. ‘Just one of those things, sir.’

  ‘Watch out for Smylie, John.’

  ‘That’s all I seem to do these days, sir, watch out for people.’ But he knew now that Smylie was the least of his problems.

  At St Leonard’s, DCI Lauderdale was fighting his corner, arguing that his team should take on the Millie Docherty investigation from C Division. So he was too busy to come bothering Rebus, and that was fine by Rebus.

  Officers were out at Lachlan Murdock’s flat, talking to him. He was being treated as a serious suspect now; you didn’t lose two flatmates to hideous deaths and not come under the microscope. Murdock would be on the petri dish from now till the case reached some kind of conclusion. Rebus returned to his desk. Since he’d last been there, earlier in the day, people had started using it as a rubbish bin again.

  He phoned London, and waited to be passed along the line. It was not a call he could have made from Fettes.

  ‘Abernethy speaking.’

  ‘About bloody time. It’s DI Rebus here.’

  ‘Well well. I wondered if I’d hear from you.’

  Rebus could imagine Abernethy leaning back in his chair. Maybe his feet were up on the desk in front of him. ‘I must have left a dozen messages, Abernethy.’

  ‘I’ve been busy, what about you?’ Rebus stayed silent. ‘So, Inspector Rebus, how can I help?’

  ‘I’ve got a few questions. How much stuff is the Army losing?’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Someone walking past offered Rebus a cigarette. Without thinking he accepted it. But then the donor walked away, leaving Rebus without a light. He sucked on the filter anyway. ‘I think you know what I’m talking about.’ He opened the desk drawers, looking for matches or a lighter.

  ‘Well, I don’t.’

  ‘I think material has been going missing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’ Rebus waited. He didn’t want to speculate too wildly, and he certainly didn’t want Abernethy to know any more than was necessary. But there was silence on the other end of the line. ‘Or you suspect it’s going missing.’

  ‘That would be a matter for Army Intelligence or the security service.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re Special Branch, aren’t you? You’re the public arm of the security service. I think you came up here in a hurry because you damned well know what’s going on. The question is, why did you disappear again in such a hurry too?’

  ‘You’ve lost me again. Maybe I’d better pack my bag for a trip, what do you say?’

  Rebus didn’t say anything, he just put down the phone. ‘Anyone got a light?’ Someone tossed a box of matches onto the desk. ‘Cheers.’ He lit the cigarette and inhaled, the smoke rattling his nerves like they were dice in a cup.

  He knew Abernethy would come.

  He kept moving, the most difficult kind of target. He was trusting to his instincts; after all, he had to trust something. Dr Curt was in his office at the university. To get to the office you had to walk past a row of wooden boxes marked with the words ‘Place Frozen Sections Here’. Rebus had never looked in the boxes. In the Pathology building, you kept your eyes front and your nostrils tight. They were doing some work in the quadrangle. Scaffolding had been erected, and a couple of workmen were belying their name by sitting on it smoking cigarettes and sharing a newspaper.

  ‘Busy, busy, busy,’ Curt said, when Rebus reached his office. ‘You know, most of the university staff are on holiday. I’ve had postcards from the Gambia, Queensland, Florida.’ He sighed. ‘I am cursed with a vocation while others get a vacation.’

  ‘I bet you were awake all night thinking up that one.’

  ‘I was awake half the night thanks to your discovery at the Crazy Hose Saloon.’

  ‘Post-mortem?’

  ‘Not yet complete. It was a corrosive of some kind, the lab will tell us exactly which. I am constantly surprised by the methods murderers will resort to. The fire hose was new to
me.’

  ‘Well, it stops the job becoming routine, I suppose.’

  ‘How’s Caroline?’

  ‘I’d forgotten all about her.’

  ‘You must pray that she’ll let you.’

  ‘I stopped praying a long time ago.’

  He walked back down the stairs and out into the quadrangle, wondering if it was too soon in the day for a drink at Sandy Bell’s. The pub was just round the corner, and he hadn’t been there in months. He noticed someone standing in front of the Frozen Sections boxes. They had the flap open, like they’d just made a deposit. Then they turned around towards Rebus and smiled.

  It was Cafferty.

  ‘Dear God.’

  Cafferty closed the flap. He was dressed in a baggy black suit and open-necked white shirt, like an undertaker on his break. ‘Hello, Strawman.’ The old nickname. It was like an ice-pack on Rebus’s spine. ‘Let’s talk.’ There were two men behind Rebus, the two from the churchyard, the two who’d watched him taking a beating. They escorted him back to a newish Rover parked in the quadrangle. He caught the licence number, but felt Cafferty’s hand land on his shoulder.

  ‘We’ll change plates this afternoon, Strawman.’ Someone was getting out of the car. It was weasel-face. Rebus and Cafferty got into the back of the car, weasel-face and one of the heavies into the front. The other heavy stood outside, blocking Rebus’s door. He looked towards where the scaffolding stood. The workmen had vanished. There was a sign on the scaffolding, just the name of a firm and their telephone number. A light came on in practically the last dark room in Rebus’s head.

  Big Ger Cafferty had made no effort at disguise. His clothes didn’t look quite right – a bit large and not his style – but his face and hair were unchanged. A couple of students, one Asian and one Oriental, walked across the quadrangle towards the Pathology building. They didn’t so much as glance at the car.

  ‘I see your stomach cleared up.’

  Cafferty smiled. ‘Fresh air and exercise, Strawman. You look like you could do with both.’

  ‘You’re crazy coming back here.’

  ‘We both know I had to.’

  ‘We’ll have you inside again in a matter of days.’

  ‘Maybe I only need a few days. How close are you?’

  Rebus stared through the windscreen. He felt Cafferty’s hand cover his knee.

  ‘Speaking as one father to another . . .’

  ‘You leave my daughter out of this!’

  ‘She’s in London, isn’t she? I’ve a lot of friends in London.’

  ‘And I’ll tear them to shreds if she so much as stubs a toe.’

  Cafferty smiled. ‘See? See how easy it is to get worked up when it’s family?’

  ‘It’s not family with you, Cafferty, you said so yourself. It’s business.’

  ‘We could do a trade.’ Cafferty looked out of his window, as though thinking. ‘Say someone’s been bothering you, could be an old flame. Let’s say she’s been disrupting your life, making things awkward.’ He paused. ‘Making you see red.’

  Rebus nodded to himself. So weasel-face had witnessed the little scene with the spray-can.

  ‘My problem, not yours.’

  Cafferty sighed. ‘Sometimes I wonder how hard you really are.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘I’d like to find out.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘I will, Strawman, one day. Trust me on that.’

  ‘Why not now? Just you and me?’

  Cafferty laughed. ‘A square go? I haven’t the time.’

  ‘You used to shuffle cash around for the UVF, didn’t you?’

  The question caught Cafferty unaware. ‘Did I?’

  ‘Till Jinky Johnson disappeared. You were in pretty tight with the terrorists. Maybe that’s where you heard of the SaS. Billy was a member.’

  Cafferty’s eyes were glassy. ‘I don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘No, but you know what I’m talking about. Ever heard the name Clyde Moncur?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That sounds like another lie to me. What about Alan Fowler?’

  Now Cafferty nodded. ‘He was UVF.’

  ‘Not now he isn’t. Now he’s SaS, and he’s here. They’re both here.’

  ‘Why are you telling me?’ Rebus didn’t answer. Cafferty moved his face closer. ‘It’s not because you’re scared. There’s something else . . . What’s on your mind, Rebus?’ Rebus stayed silent. He saw Dr Curt coming out of the Pathology building. Curt’s car, a blue Saab, was parked three cars away from the Rover.

  ‘You’ve been busy,’ Cafferty said.

  Now Curt was looking over towards the Rover, at the big man standing there and the men seated inside.

  ‘Any more names?’ Cafferty was beginning to sound impatient, losing all his cool veneer. ‘I want all of them!’ His right hand lashed around Rebus’s throat, his left hand pushing him deep into the corner of the seat. ‘Tell me all of it, all of it!’

  Curt had turned as though forgetting something, and was walking back towards the building. Rebus blinked away the water in his eyes. The stooge outside thumped on the bodywork. Cafferty released his grip and watched Curt going back into Pathology. He used both hands to grasp Rebus’s face, turning it towards his, holding Rebus with the pressure of his palms on Rebus’s cheekbones.

  ‘We’ll meet again, Rebus, only it won’t be like in the song.’ Rebus felt like his head was going to crack, but then the pressure stopped.

  The heavy outside opened the door and he got out fast. As the heavy got in, the driver gunned the engine. The back window went down, Cafferty looking at him, saying nothing.

  The car sped off, tyres screeching as it turned into the one-way traffic on Teviot Place. Dr Curt appeared in the Pathology doorway, then came briskly across the quadrangle.

  ‘Are you all right? I’ve just phoned the police.’

  ‘Do me a favour, when they get here tell them you were mistaken.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell them anything, but don’t tell them it was me.’

  Rebus started to move off. Maybe he’d have that drink at Sandy Bell’s. Maybe he’d have three.

  ‘I’m not a very good liar,’ Dr Curt called after him.

  ‘Then the practice will be good for you,’ Rebus called back.

  Frankie Bothwell shook his head again.

  ‘I’ve already spoken with the gentlemen from Torphichen Place. You want to ask anyone, ask them.’

  He was being difficult. He’d had a difficult night, what with being dragged from his bed and then staying up till all hours dealing with the police, answering their questions, explaining the stash of cased spirits they’d found on the first floor. He didn’t need this.

  ‘But you knew Miss Murdoch was upstairs,’ Rebus persisted.

  ‘Is that right?’ Bothwell wriggled on his barstool and tipped ash onto the floor.

  ‘You were told she was upstairs.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Your manager told you.’

  ‘You’ve only got his word for that.’

  ‘You deny he said it? Maybe if we could get the two of you together?’

  ‘You can do what you like, he’s out on his ear anyway. I sacked him first thing. Can’t have people dossing upstairs like that, bad for the club’s image. Let them sleep on the streets like everyone else.’

  Rebus tried to imagine what resemblance the kid at the Gar-B had seen between himself and Frankie Bothwell. He was here because he was feeling reckless. Plus he’d put a few whiskies away in Sandy Bell’s. He was here because he quite fancied beating Lee Francis Bothwell to a bloody mush on the dance floor.

  Stripped of music and flashing lights and drink and dancers, the Crazy Hose had as much life as a warehouse full of last year’s fashions. Bothwell, appearing to dismiss Rebus from his mind, lifted one foot and began to rub some dust from a cowboy boot. Rebus feared the white trousers would either split or else eviscerate their wearer. The boot was black and soft with small puckers c
overing it like miniature moon craters. Bothwell caught Rebus looking at it.

  ‘Ostrich skin,’ he explained.

  Meaning the craters were where each feather had been plucked. ‘Look like a lot of little arseholes,’ Rebus said admiringly. Bothwell straightened up. ‘Look, Mr Bothwell, all I want are a couple of answers. Is that so much to ask?’

  ‘And then you’ll leave?’

  ‘Straight out the door.’

  Bothwell sighed and flicked more ash onto the floor. ‘Okay then.’

  Rebus smiled his appreciation. He rested his hand on the bar and leaned towards Bothwell.

  ‘Two questions,’ he said. ‘Why did you kill her and who’s got the disk?’

  Bothwell stared at him, then laughed. ‘Get out of here.’

  Rebus lifted his hand from the bar. ‘I’m going,’ he said. But he stopped at the doors to the foyer, holding them open. ‘You know Cafferty’s in town?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘That’s not the point. The point is, has he heard of you? Your father was a minister. Did you ever learn Latin?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nemo me impune lacessit.’ Bothwell didn’t even blink. ‘Never mind, it won’t worry Cafferty one way or the other. See, you didn’t just meddle with him, you meddled with his family.’

  He let the doors swing shut behind him. This was the way he should have worked it throughout, using Cafferty – the mere threat of Cafferty – to do his work for him. But would Cafferty be enough to scare the American and the Ulsterman?

  Somehow, John Rebus doubted it.

  Back at St Leonard’s, Rebus first phoned the scaffolding company, then placed a call to Peter Cave.

  ‘Something I’ve been meaning to ask you, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’ Cave sounded tired, deep down inside.

  ‘Since the Church stopped supporting the youth club, how do you survive?’

  ‘We manage. Everyone who comes along has to pay.’

  ‘Is it enough?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re not subsidising the place out of your own pocket?’ Cave laughed at this. ‘What then? Sponsorship?’