10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus had never met the governor before, though he’d seen him at functions, and come across him in the media. His name was Jim Flett or, more often, just ‘Big Jim’.

  ‘Well, you’re right, sir,’ Rebus said, ‘I am here to talk to you about Hugh McAnally.’

  ‘So I gather.’ Flett tapped a manila file on his desk, the record of Prisoner 1117, C-Hall, HMP Edinburgh, McAnally, Hugh. Jim Flett opened the file. ‘I’ve had a read of this, and I’ve been to talk to some of the warders and McAnally’s fellow inmates.’ He gave Rebus a grin. ‘I think I’m prepared. By the way, something to drink?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. This won’t take long. Why was McAnally released so early?’

  ‘Not so early. His good behaviour was taken into account, as was his illness.’

  ‘You knew he was ill?’

  ‘Inoperable cancer. Normally, the stage of sentence he was at, we’d be readying to transfer him to the TFF hostel.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Training for Freedom. He’d have gone out unsupervised to a work placement. But Mr McAnally was a category C prisoner, and only category D’s qualify for TFF. In any event, he was due parole.’

  ‘What made him category C?’

  Flett shrugged. ‘A bust-up with a warder.’

  ‘I thought you mentioned good behaviour?’

  ‘The bust-up was a while back. The man was dying, inspector. We knew we weren’t going to see him in here again.’

  ‘Did he seem suicidal?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware. I’m just glad he did away with himself on the outside: it makes him your problem rather than mine.’

  ‘What about aggro? Was he subject to threats or violence?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He was a convicted rapist, his victim legally a child at the time of the offence. I hear the stories, same as everyone else: if you’re a sex offender and you’re not put in a separate wing, you get beaten up, people pish in your tea, you’re an outcast. Can’t exactly be good for the spirit.’

  ‘Spirit?’ Flett gave a wry smile. ‘Let’s just say I’m not aware of any incidents of that nature. If any occurred, they’d be dealt with.’

  ‘I don’t suppose the victims lodge complaints that often.’

  ‘You think you know so much about us, Inspector, maybe you should be sitting this side of the desk?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Look, there’s nothing in his time here that made anyone think he was about to stick a shotgun in his gub.’

  Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. He’d only been here eleven months.’

  ‘Where was he before?’

  ‘Glenochil.’

  ‘Any problems while he was there?’

  ‘Not according to the files. Look, Inspector, I know what you’re thinking, what you’re trying to put together. But he didn’t commit harry-carry because of anything that happened to him in here. His cellmate was as shocked as anyone when he heard what happened. McAnally had served two previous sentences; it’s not as if incarceration was new or strange to him.’

  Rebus thought again of Willie and Dixie, of what would have happened to them in prison.

  ‘Surely,’ Flett was saying, ‘it’s much more realistic to say that the illness wore him down and led him to kill himself.’

  ‘With respect, sir, his previouses weren’t for rape of a minor.’

  Flett stared at Rebus, then glanced at his watch, letting him know the score.

  ‘Just a couple of final questions, sir. How much money did he leave prison with?’

  Flett had to check that in the file. ‘There was eight pounds sixty among his effects when he came in.’

  ‘And other than that?’

  ‘Other than that, he was entitled to the same benefits as any other ex-prisoner. It seems an odd question to ask.’

  ‘His flat shows signs of a recent overhaul; I’m wondering where the money came from.’

  ‘Best ask his wife. Anything else?’

  ‘Who was his contact on the outside?’

  ‘You mean his supervising officer?’ Flett looked this up too. ‘Jennifer Benn at Social Services.’ Rebus entered the name in his notebook. ‘Well, if that’s all, inspector . . .?’ The governor was on his feet. He walked around the desk and smiled towards Rebus, and Rebus suddenly knew the man was hiding something. He’d been edgy during the conversation, as though expecting some awkward question to arise. It hadn’t, and his relief was evident in that smile, in his complete change of attitude.

  Rebus tried to think what the question could be. Out in the secretary’s office, while Big Jim was shaking his hand a final time, he was still thinking about it. I’ve let him off the hook, he thought. He reran the meeting in his head as he walked back to his car.

  ‘Buggered if I know,’ he announced to himself. But as he sat in the idling car, he knew he was going to have to find out.

  That evening, he visited one of only two drop-in centres available to ex-cons in Edinburgh. It reminded him most of Fraser Leitch’s establishment, except that here there was a colour TV rather than black and white.

  Nobody could help him. Hugh McAnally hadn’t been near the place, not as far as anyone knew. He wasn’t about to press the point or outstay his lukewarm welcome, but he took a quick look round before he left.

  In a corner of the main room, a woman with a huge canvas bag slung over her shoulder was crouching down in conversation with a man who sat slumped in a chair. The man stared past her, not interested. Eventually the woman gave up, wrote something on a pad, closed it, and returned it to the canvas bag. The man leaned forward then and whispered something into her ear. She listened, her cheeks reddened, and she got to her feet, turning to walk away.

  Rebus was right behind her. She brought herself up short to avoid a collision.

  ‘You wouldn’t be Jennifer Benn, would you?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘My lucky night.’ Rebus looked past her, to where the seated man was rubbing his forehead, trying not to let Rebus see his face. ‘Hiya, Pete.’

  The man looked up and seemed to place Rebus. ‘Evening, Mr Rebus.’

  ‘How long have you been out?’

  ‘Three weeks two days.’

  ‘And you fancy another trip back already? Give the lady back her purse.’

  The social worker stared in surprise as Pete slipped the bulging black leather purse out of his denim jacket. She snatched it back and checked the contents.

  ‘Do you want to press charges?’ Rebus asked. She shook her head. ‘Fine, then let’s have a little chat.’

  By the time they reached the front door, Jennifer Benn had regained her composure.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Somewhere I’m a bit more welcome. There’s a pub across the road.’

  ‘I don’t like pubs.’

  ‘My car then?’

  She turned to him. ‘Can I see some ID?’

  ‘I thought that scene back there would have been ID enough.’ But she wasn’t budging, so he dug out his warrant card, which she inspected slowly.

  ‘All right,’ she said, handing it back, ‘we can talk here.’

  ‘Here?’ They were on the pavement. She wrapped a woollen scarf around her neck and pulled on sheepskin mitts. She was in her late-twenties and had frizzy blonde hair and outsized glasses. ‘It’s freezing here,’ Rebus complained.

  ‘Then best hurry up.’

  He sighed. ‘You were Shug McAnally’s social worker?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m investigating his suicide.’

  She was shaking her head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help. He never kept an appointment, we never met.’

  ‘Did you report him?’

  She nodded. ‘But I didn’t think anything would come of it. What punishment do you mete out to someone with terminal cancer?’

  And with that she turned and walked quickly to her ca
r. Rebus thought that she’d asked a very good question indeed.

  16

  Next morning, he found himself summoned to Chief Superintendent Watson’s office.

  Gill Templer was already there when he arrived. She was standing with her back to the filing cabinet, arms folded. There wasn’t much room: three large cardboard boxes marked ‘PanoTech’ sat on the floor by the desk.

  ‘My new computer,’ the Farmer explained. ‘Sit down, John.’ The Farmer looked like a man with bad news: Rebus had been here before; same look, same tone of voice.

  ‘I’d rather stand, sir.’

  ‘Been up to anything we should know about, John?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Not that I know of, sir. Why?’

  Watson glanced towards Gill Templer. ‘I had a phone call yesterday evening from Allan Gunner.’ Gunner: the deputy chief constable. ‘He doesn’t often call me at home.’

  ‘Do I take it he had bad news?’ Rebus decided to sit down after all.

  ‘HM Inspectorate of Constabulary are thinking of investigating us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘B Division.’

  ‘That’s us all right.’

  ‘It’s no joking matter.’

  Nor was it. HMIC was independent of the police service; it reported directly to the Secretary of State for Scotland. HMIC’s public remit encompassed examining police standards and indicating areas for improvement. It inspected all eight regional forces each year, but only four of these were full ‘primary’ inspections. They looked at rises in crime stats, falls in detection rates, and complaints from the public. No problem there: the recorded crime rate was steady when it wasn’t falling, and recent clear-up rates were marginally improved. But HMIC could really screw up a station’s working practices, just by being on the premises. There were long lists of questions to answer, an initial pre-inspection followed by the full inspection . . . and, as everyone in the room knew, HMIC could sometimes stumble upon something better left unqueried. Or, as the Farmer put it, ‘You know those buggers, John. If they want to find dirt on us, there’s dirt to be found. We don’t exactly work in an antiseptic environment.’

  ‘That’s because we don’t deal with people who wash behind their ears every morning. What are you getting at, sir? So what if we’ve been picked out? It’s the luck of the draw.’

  ‘Ah,’ Watson said, holding up a prodigious forefinger. ‘I only said they were thinking of picking us out.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  The Farmer shifted – so far as he was able – in his chair. He was not a small man; it was not a large chair. ‘To be honest, neither do I, the DCC was being bloody cagey. I think the gist was, we’re doing something naughty, and if we stop doing it, another division might find itself under scrutiny instead of us.’

  ‘Did he actually say that?’ Gill Templer asked.

  The Farmer shrugged. ‘I’m giving my interpretation, that’s all. Now, after his phone call, I did some thinking. I asked myself: who would be getting up people’s noses? Well, I know one copper who’s like cocaine in that respect.’

  ‘Nobody sniffs coke these days, sir.’ Watson just sat there, unblinking. ‘OK,’ Rebus said, standing again. ‘I went to see Big Jim Flett yesterday, probably a couple of hours before Gunner called you.’

  ‘Why?’ Gill Templer asked. She looked furious that he hadn’t told her beforehand.

  ‘McAnally.’

  ‘The suicide?’ The Farmer frowned as Rebus nodded.

  ‘The thing is, sir, there’s something . . . I don’t know, I just think there’s something there. Why go all the way to Warrender School to blow your brains out in front of a councillor, a man who says he never even knew the deceased? And how come the widow’s suddenly got money to spend? Those are two questions; I’ve got a wheen more.’

  ‘Well,’ the Farmer said, ‘that might explain the second phone call. Also last night, and also at my home. It was from Derek Mantoni.’

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘Councillor Mantoni is chair of Lothian and Borders Joint Police Board.’

  Rebus saw now: Gillespie had been complaining to his friend.

  ‘He was asking about you, John.’

  ‘Nice of him.’

  ‘Apparently you’ve rubbed Councillor Gillespie up the wrong way. I should remind you that the councillor is a victim here, and one who’s been through a terrible experience.’ The Farmer sounded as if he was quoting Derek Mantoni.

  ‘Inspector Rebus,’ Gill Templer said, ‘is there any reason to believe it wasn’t a suicide?’

  ‘No,’ Rebus admitted. ‘I’m sure it was suicide.’

  ‘Then I don’t see the problem.’

  Rebus turned to her. ‘Well, I do!’ He jabbed his thumb into his chest to reinforce the point. ‘And now everyone suddenly wants it covered up!’ She turned her head away from him.

  ‘John,’ the Farmer warned, ‘that’s out of order. I’ve been looking at the hours you’ve been putting in. You’re due some time off . . . a lot of time actually. It’s a quiet time of year.’

  Rebus held the Farmer’s stare. ‘You’ve got to back me up on this, sir.’

  ‘I’m telling you to take some time off, that’s all.’

  ‘Who is it you’re scared of: the DCC? Mantoni? HMIC?’

  The Farmer ignored him. ‘Take a week, ten days . . . clear your head, Inspector.’

  Rebus slammed both hands down on the desktop. A framed photo of the Farmer’s family fell off and landed on a cardboard box. Gill Templer stooped to pick it up.

  ‘You’ve got to back me up,’ Rebus repeated. He knew Gill was a lost cause; he had eyes only for the Farmer, but the Farmer wasn’t looking.

  ‘I’ve given you an order, Inspector.’

  Rebus gave one of the boxes a kick on his way out of the room.

  When he thought it over later, Rebus didn’t blame the Farmer. He was covering his arse; so was Gill, if it came down to it. Now Rebus was a free agent, or at least a loose one. He couldn’t get anyone into trouble but himself, and that was fine with him. He’d cleared his desk, pushing everything into drawers and, when he ran out of space, the wastepaper-bin. He’d left St Leonard’s without a word to anyone.

  There were just the two problems – neither of them insignificant – and he pondered them as he sat in the back room of the Oxford Bar with a half of Caledonian Eighty and a double malt.

  The first problem was, police routine gave his daily life its only shape and substance; it gave him a schedule to work to, a reason to get up in the morning. He loathed his free time, dreaded Sundays off. He lived to work, and in a very real sense he worked to live, too: the much-maligned Protestant work-ethic. Subtract work from the equation, and the day became flabby, like releasing jelly from its mould. Besides, without work, what reason had he not to drink?

  It worried him, because now there was nothing to stop him raising two fingers to the shade of Wee Shug McAnally, a man not exactly universally mourned, and get on with some serious bevvying instead. He could spend a seven-to-ten stretch in the Ox no problem, augmented by betting-shop gossip and nourished by pies and bridies. It would be wonderfully easy.

  Then there was the second problem, not unconnected to the first.

  For, now that he had so much time on his hands, what was to stop him booking a dentist’s appointment?

  The only thing to do was to keep working. Besides, there were some things he needed to do in a hurry, before word got around that he was on leave. The first of these involved another visit to C Division in Torphichen Place.

  DI Davidson was again on duty, to Rebus’s relief.

  ‘I can smell it off you,’ Davidson said, leading him to the CID room.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The drink. How can you torture me like that? There’s another two hours before I finish my shift.’

  Rebus saw that they were alone in the CID room. ‘I need the casenotes on McAnally, the
ones from the rape charge.’

  ‘What for?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘I just need to see them.’

  Davidson went to a desk drawer and brought out a bunch of keys. ‘You know, John, there’s enough to be getting on with in the here-and-now.’ He went to a walk-in cupboard and opened it. ‘I don’t suppose there’ll be a copy still here. Everything’ll have been archived by now.’

  There were reports packed tight along each shelf. On every spine, in fat felt-marker, was an officer’s name, depending on whose copy the report was. The spines faced upwards, the base of each report facing out. On the base was the name of the accused. There was no McAnally.

  So then they’d to traipse to another part of the building, locate another set of keys, and unlock a storeroom, inside which stood a dozen tall double-doored filing cupboards. Davidson stood in thought for a moment, then pointed at one.

  ‘That’s probably got the year we’re after.’ He unlocked the cabinet. There was a smell of musty paper, much stronger than in the cupboard they’d tried earlier. Davidson ran his finger along each row of spines. ‘McAnally,’ he said at last, pulling out two thick files of A4 paper and handing them to Rebus. Each was loose-bound, held together by two removable metal clips. The blue covers were faded at their edges. Davidson’s surname was on the spine. Rebus read from one of the covers.

  ‘“The Case Against Hugh McAnally, Born 12.1.44.”’ He flipped through both files, not surprised to see their bulk consisted of witness statements.

  ‘Enjoy,’ said Davidson, relocking the cabinet.

  Rebus stopped off on his way home and bought a jar of coffee, rolls, bacon, and two four-packs of Export. He was preparing for a long haul.

  The flat was fairly warm. He emptied the jar beneath the leaking radiator and replaced it, then turned the hi-fi on. He washed three aspirin down with a swig of beer, then checked his face in the bathroom mirror. The skin around and below his nose was definitely inflamed. When he waggled one particular tooth it felt deadened, anaesthetised, while its neighbours jangled like they’d been wired to the mains. The blister on his palm had receded, and now sported only a thin strip of sticking-plaster. Beneath the plaster, the engine’s serial number was still there.