by Ian Rankin
‘He can’t run far.’
‘He better try. He knows I won’t give up.’
‘You knew him, didn’t you? Moncur, I mean. He’s an old pal of Alan Fowler’s. When Fowler was UVF, the UVF laundered money using your salmon farm. Moncur bought the salmon with his good US dollars.’
‘You never stop.’
‘It’s my business.’
‘Well,’ said Cafferty, glancing back at the club, ‘this was business, too. Only, sometimes you have to cut a few corners. I know you have.’
Rebus was wiping his face. ‘Problem is, Cafferty, when you cut a corner, it bleeds.’
Cafferty studied him. There was blood on Rebus’s ear, sweat cloying his hair. Davey Soutar’s blood still spattered his shirt, mixed now with smoke. And Kilpatrick’s handprint was still there. Cafferty stood up.
‘Not thinking of going anywhere?’ Rebus said.
‘You going to stop me?’
‘You know I’ll try.’
A car drew up. In it were Cafferty’s men, the two from the kirkyard plus weasel-face. Cafferty walked to the car. Rebus was still sitting on the pavement. He got up slowly now, and walked towards the police car. He heard Cafferty’s car door shutting, and looked at it, noting the licence plate. As the car passed him, Cafferty was looking at the road ahead. Rebus opened his own car and got on the radio, giving out the licence number. He thought about starting his engine and giving chase, but just sat there instead, watching the firemen go about their business.
I played it by the rules, he thought. I cautioned him and then I called in. It didn’t say in the rules that you had to have a go when there were four of them and only one of you.
Yes, he’d played it by the rules. The good feeling started to wear off after only minutes, and damned few minutes at that.
They finally picked Clyde Moncur up at a ferry port. Special Branch in London were dealing with him. Abernethy was dealing with him. Before he’d left, Rebus had asked a simple question.
‘Will it happen?’
‘Will what happen?’
‘Civil war.’
‘What do you think?’
So much for that. The story was simple. Moncur was visiting town to see how the money from US Shield was being spent. Fowler was around to make sure Moncur was happy. The Festival had seemed the perfect cover for Moncur’s trip. Maybe Billy had been executed to show the American just how ruthless SaS could be . . .
In hospital, recovering from his stab wounds, DCI Kilpatrick was smothered to death with his pillow. Two of his ribs had been cracked from the weight of his attacker pressing down on him.
‘Must’ve been the size of a grizzly,’ Dr Curt announced.
‘Not many grizzlies about these days,’ said Rebus.
He phoned the Procurator Fiscal’s office, just to check on Caro Rattray. After all, Cafferty had spoken of her. He just wanted to know she was okay. Maybe Cafferty was out there tying up a lot of loose ends. But Caro had gone.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Some private practice in Glasgow offered her a partnership. It’s a big step up, she grabbed it, anyone would.’
‘Which office is it?’
Funny, it was the office of Cafferty’s own lawyers. It might mean something or nothing. After all, Rebus had given Cafferty some names. Mairie Henderson had gone down to London to try to follow up the Moncur story. Abernethy phoned Rebus one night to say he thought she was terrific.
‘Yes,’ said Rebus, ‘you’d make a lovely couple.’
‘Except she hates my guts.’ Abernethy paused. ‘But she might listen to you.’
‘Spit it out.’
‘Just don’t tell her too much, all right? Remember, Jump Cantona will take most of the credit anyway, and wee Mairie’s been paid upfront. She doesn’t have to bust a gut. Most of what she’d say wouldn’t get past the libel lawyers and the Official Secrets Act anyway.’
Rebus had stopped listening. ‘How do you know about Jump Cantona?’ He could almost hear Abernethy easing his feet up onto the desk, leaning back in his chair.
‘The FBI have used Cantona before to put out a story.’
‘And you’re in with the FBI?’
‘I’ll send them a report.’
‘Don’t cover yourself with too much glory, Abernethy.’
‘You’ll get a mention, Inspector.’
‘But not star billing. That’s how you knew about Mairie, isn’t it? Cantona told the FBI? It’s how you had all the stuff on Clyde Moncur to hand?’
‘Does it matter?’
Probably not. Rebus broke the connection anyway.
He shopped for a coming home meal, pushing the trolley around a supermarket close to Fettes HQ. He wouldn’t be going back to Fettes. He’d phoned his farewell to Ormiston and told him to tell Blackwood to cut off his remaining strands of hair and be done with it.
‘He’d have a seizure if I told him that,’ said Ormiston. ‘Here, what about the Chief? You don’t think . . .?’
But Rebus had rung off. He didn’t want to talk about Ken Smylie, didn’t want to think about it. He knew as much as he needed to. Kilpatrick had been on the fringe; he was more useful to The Shield that way. Bothwell was the executioner. He’d killed Billy Cunningham and he’d ordered the deaths of Millie Docherty and Calumn Smylie. Soutar had done his master’s bidding in both cases, except Millie had proved messy, and Soutar had left her where he’d killed her. Bothwell must have been furious about that, but of course Davey Soutar had other things on his mind, other plans. Bigger things.
Rebus bought the makings for the meal and added bottles of rosé champagne, malt whisky and gin to the trolley. A mile and a half to the north, the shops on the Gar-B estate would be closing for the evening, pulling down heavy metal shutters, fixing padlocks, double-checking alarm systems. He paid with plastic at the check-out and drove back up the hill to Oxford Terrace. Curiously, the rust bucket was sounding healthier these days. Maybe that knock from Hay’s van had put something back into alignment. Rebus had replaced the glass, but was still debating the doorframe.
At the flat, Patience was waiting for him, back from Perth earlier than expected.
‘What’s this?’ she said.
‘It was meant to be a surprise.’ He put down the bags and kissed her. She drew away from him slowly afterwards.
‘You look an absolute mess,’ she said.
He shrugged. It was true, he’d seen boxers in better shape after fifteen rounds. He’d seen punchbags in better shape.
‘So it’s over?’ she said.
‘Finishes today.’
‘I don’t mean the Festival.’
‘I know you don’t.’ He pulled her to him again. ‘It’s over.’
‘Did I hear a clink from one of those bags?’
Rebus smiled. ‘Gin or champagne?’
‘Gin and orange.’
They took the bags into the kitchen. Patience got ice and orange juice from the fridge, while Rebus rinsed two glasses. ‘I missed you,’ she said.
‘I missed you, too.’
‘Who else do I know who tells awful jokes?’
‘Seems a while since I told a joke. It’s a while since I heard one.’
‘Well, my sister told me one. You’ll love it.’ She arched back her head, thinking. ‘God, how does it go?’
Rebus unscrewed the top from the gin bottle and poured liberally.
‘Whoah!’ Patience said. ‘You don’t want us getting mortal.’
He splashed in some orange. ‘Maybe I do.’
She kissed him again, then pulled away and clapped her hands. ‘Yes, I’ve got it now. There’s this octopus in a restaurant, and it’s –’
‘I’ve heard it,’ said Rebus, dropping ice into her glass.
Acknowledgements
A lot of people helped me with this book. I’d like to thank the people of Northern Ireland for their generosity and their ‘crack’. Particular thanks need to go to a few people who can’t be named or wouldn’t
thank me for naming them. You know who you are.
Thanks also to: Colin and Liz Stevenson, for trying; Gerald Hammond, for his gun expertise; the officers of the City of Edinburgh Police and Lothian and Borders Police, who never seem to mind me telling stories about them; David and Pauline, for help at the Festival.
The best book on the subject of Protestant paramilitaries is Professor Steve Bruce’s The Red Hand (OUP, 1992). One quote from the book: ‘There is no “Northern Ireland problem” for which there is a solution. There is only a conflict in which there must be winners and losers.’
The action of Mortal Causes takes place in a fictionalised summer, 1993, before the Shankill Road bombing and its bloody aftermath.
Discussion points for Mortal Causes
‘Edinburgh’s history was full of licence and riotous behaviour. But the Festival, especially the Festival Fringe, was different. Tourism was its lifeblood, and where there were tourists there was trouble.’ Discuss the different kinds of ‘trouble’ that Rebus encounters in Mortal Causes.
What is Rebus describing when he thinks about the ‘massive grey nonentity’? And why does it make him pray?
Rebus knows that in theory police work should be a team effort. But, ‘It wasn’t Rebus’s way. He wanted to follow up every lead personally, cross-referencing them all, taking them through from first principle to final reckoning. He’d been described, not unkindly, as a terrier, locking on with his jaws and not letting go. Some dogs you had to break the jaw to get them off.’ Discuss.
Rebus seems to like Mairie Henderson – why is this odd?
One of the themes in Mortal Causes is sectarianism and religious division in Scotland. How does Ian Rankin use narrative techniques (such as religious imagery) to add texture to this debate? Does DS Siobhan Clarke’s support of Hibs accord with her religious beliefs?
What is Clyde Moncur doing in Edinburgh?
Bearing in mind that ‘mortal’ is a Scottish euphemism for drunkenness, discuss the various implications of the word. And, bearing in mind Rebus’s own love of drink, consider how he feels about caffeine.
Why does Rebus kiss Caro Rattray? What are the implications of his actions?
The relationship between Rebus and Big Ger Cafferty is evolving, as are Rebus’s relationships with DS Siobhan Clarke and Father Leary; look at how Ian Rankin reveals these developments.
Ian Rankin employs a convoluted running joke to do with an octopus, although without the punchline; does it counterbalance the grimmer aspects of the crime story?
LET IT BLEED
Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
Introduction
One: Bridges
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
Two: Shreds
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
Three: Zugzwang
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Acknowledgements
Discussion Points
Avarice, the spur of industry.
(David Hume, ‘Of Civil Liberty’)
The more sophisticated readers simply repeated the Italian proverb, ‘If it isn’t true, it’s to the point.’
(Muriel Spark, The Public Image)
Without women, life is a pub.
(Martin Amis, Money)
INTRODUCTION
I first heard the Rolling Stones album Let It Bleed when I was only ten or eleven years old. I didn’t like the music – at that age I was listening to Marc Bolan and not much else; it was my sister’s boyfriend who was the Stones fan. I did find the lyrics intriguing, however. Even though I barely understood the references, I could tell that there was something ‘dirty’ about them. They hinted at sex, debauchery, violence and drugs. There was even one song (‘Midnight Rambler’) which seemed to be about a real-life serial killer. I eventually had to buy the album for myself.
By this time, however, I was in my twenties and had already written a couple of books. I was also working as a music journalist and hi-fi equipment reviewer in London. Let It Bleed, with its fantastic studio sound, soon became a constant on my Linn Sondek, and when the time came, in 1994, to write the seventh John Rebus novel, I felt emboldened to borrow the album’s title.
Though the book is set in the depths of an Edinburgh winter, it was written at my house in south-west France, mostly in blazing summer heat. (I’d long since given up the hi-fi job, but still used the Linn record deck.) I’m not sure now if working on the book provided me with some sort of internal air-conditioning, but one thing I knew was that during any cold snap in Edinburgh you would want your central heating to be working. Hence the pun in the title – what Rebus really needs to bleed in the book is a radiator.
For a little while in the 1990s, I became convinced that in order to make a decent amount of money I would have to transfer my skills to television. I had already made several attempts at scripts for the established cop show The Bill. At meetings with the production team, I learned that each Bill script had to contain three scenarios, and that none of the action could involve the cops’ private lives or show them off-duty. Somehow I couldn’t stick to this formula. At around the same time, television had shown some interest in Rebus. I attended more meetings, this time with the BBC, and tried writing a few scripts (both adaptations and original stories), but seemed to hit a series of walls. Eventually, I started pitching non-Rebus ideas at my TV contacts, but still to no avail. All of which, however, may go some way towards explaining the slam-bang action opening of Let It Bleed. It’s still something I’d love to see on the big screen, done Hollywood-style: a night-time car chase in a blizzard, with the Forth Road Bridge beckoning. Fantastic.
Let It Bleed was a political novel, in that it used local and national politics for much of its plotting. By this time I had a real-life detective on my side, a fan of the books who had pointed out various procedural errors in previous stories. And with a few published novels under my belt, I was a known commodity in Edinburgh, so could approach complete strangers (council officials, for example) with a view to aiding my research. On my trips back to Edinburgh for Let It Bleed, I slept on a friend’s sofa, asked a lot of questions at the reception desks of various government agencies, and bought a few lunches and rounds of drinks. In some ways, the new book would be a return to the Edinburgh of my second novel, Hide Seek. Both stories are concerned with the changing face of Edinburgh, its attempts to embrace new employment opportunities (meaning new technologies) while still retaining a sense of identity. Structural change to Scotland’s capital was already under way: there was a plan for one of the breweries to open a theme park near the Palace of Holyrood. Eventually, the site would house Our Dynamic Earth and the Scottish Parliament instead, but at the time I was filled with a sense of glee: a theme park built on booze! Well, why not? Several city landmarks, including the Usher Hall, had been built with cash from brewing dynasties. The least we could do in the late twentieth century was celebrate our national relationship with alcohol: hence the use of a favourite Martin Amis line at the very start of the book: ‘Wit
hout women, life is a pub.’
While there is an abundance of action in Let It Bleed, it is also, to my mind, rather a soulful book. We are allowed access to Rebus’s thoughts as never before. We learn why he likes music, and why he turns so frequently to the bottle. Memories from his childhood are revealed, adding to our sense of him as a three-dimensional human being. The book contains some of my favourite scenes and images (for example, Rebus’s visit to a dry-stane dyker, or his invitation to a Perthshire shooting party), and ends with a few loose ends left straggling. Those loose ends seemed realistic to me, but irritated my American publishers to such an extent that they asked me to consider contributing an extra final chapter for US publication. This I eventually did, though I didn’t feel it added anything to the sum of the book (which is why it’s not being reprinted here). Between times, some old friends return to the series (Rebus’s daughter Sammy; his ex-lover Gill; the reporter Mairie Henderson). This, plus the fact that Rebus is back in his old flat, having jettisoned the students he’d been renting the place to, gives the book a solid, comfortable feel. By now I was confident in my ability to write a decent crime story, and to recreate Rebus’s world . . . which probably explains why I would be at pains to make my next book so different, providing me with a fresh set of challenges.
But for now, I was happy. I knew the inside of Rebus’s head. And he was happy, too, happy with his booze, cigarettes and music:
‘After a drink he liked to listen to the Stones. Women, relationships and colleagues had come and gone, but the Stones had always been there. He put the album on and poured himself a last drink. The guitar riff, one of easily half a dozen in Keith’s tireless repertoire, kicked the album off. I don’t have much, Rebus thought, but I have this . . .’
On the album Let It Bleed there’s a song about the Boston Strangler. Mick Jagger had written about a real-life crime. And what was good enough for Mick was surely good enough for me, as my next novel would demonstrate.
