10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  His phone was ringing. It was Siobhan Clarke. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked.

  ‘Walking.’

  ‘Walking?’

  ‘How are things at St Leonard’s?’

  ‘The chief super is keeping tabs on Brian and me, and he keeps piling the work on.’

  ‘So you haven’t been able to do anything?’

  ‘On the contrary, I’ve some interesting news. Councillor Gillespie’s document shredder wasn’t bought, it was rented. There’s a business supply company in Stockbridge, they hire out all sorts of office equipment. Which reminds me, when you get back there’s a little surprise for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The new PCs have arrived.’

  ‘Good, we could do with a few more men on the beat.’

  ‘Gosh,’ her voice dripped irony, ‘I’ve not heard that one today. Anyway, there’s one on your desk, plugged in and ready to run.’

  ‘When did Gillespie rent the shredder?’

  ‘Wednesday. He told the shop assistant he’d been trying to find one for a few days, but they were too expensive to buy.’

  ‘Thank God he’s mean with money, or we might never know he’d shredded anything.’

  ‘Want to hear the rest? I finally got through to the consulate and asked to speak to Haldayne.’ She paused. ‘They told me Mr Haldayne was out of the office. His first name’s Richard. I got them to spell his surname for me: it has a “y” in the middle.’

  ‘You’re a genius.’

  ‘Want to hear the rest?’

  Rebus forgot all about his sore calves, his weary feet. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I ran a check on Mr Richard Haldayne. Have you ever had dealings with the diplomats in town?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I have. I handed out a few parking tickets when I was in uniform. My boss said I was wasting my time ticketing a diplomatic plate. They never pay their fines, because we’re not allowed to prosecute them.’

  ‘So you looked in the computer?’

  ‘Eighteen unpaid parking tickets dating back to 1985. That’s under two a year, which counts as law-abiding for a diplomat.’

  ‘It’s still a lot of tickets. An officer might want a quiet word with Mr Haldayne about them.’

  ‘Just don’t get caught, sir.’

  ‘Same goes for you, Clarke, and thanks.’

  He put the phone down and tapped his fingers on the receiver. It was a start, definitely a start. He lifted the receiver again and dialled Sammy’s work number. She wasn’t there. The woman who told him this sounded upset.

  ‘I’m her father,’ Rebus said, ‘is anything wrong?’

  ‘She was in a terrible state. Someone had to take her home.’

  ‘Why was she in a state?’

  ‘Her landlady.’ The woman sniffed.

  ‘What about her landlady?’

  ‘Well, she’s upset, and she got Sammy all upset.’

  Rebus stopped pretending to be calm. ‘Upset about what?’

  ‘I love cats,’ the woman said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cats. It’s her landlady’s cat. It was torn to bits last night by somebody’s dog.’

  Rebus finally plucked up the courage to phone Patience’s flat, and was relieved that Sammy herself answered.

  ‘I heard,’ he said. ‘How’s Patience?’

  ‘She’s gone out. She was . . . it was horrible.’

  Rebus swallowed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Lucky was in the garden, and some dog must have come over the wall. Lucky ran to the catflap to get in, but the catflap was locked . . .’ Her voice fell. ‘And that was that.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Rebus.

  ‘The thing is, Dad, Patience blames me.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not –’

  ‘She says I must have locked the flap. She’s hardly spoken a word to me since I got back.’

  ‘The lock must have fallen by itself.’

  ‘I don’t know. But I know I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Look, Sammy, the reason I’m phoning –’

  ‘Yes?’

  Rebus stared at the notes in front of him. ‘SWEEP’s contact at the Scottish Office: can you give me his name . . .?’

  He had an appointment that afternoon with the Lord Provost.

  Rebus hadn’t been specific on the telephone; he’d just told the secretary that it was part of an ‘investigation’ – he’d been careful not to preface the word with ‘official police’. The secretary had taken his home number and called him back. The Lord Provost could see him for five minutes at four o’clock.

  ‘Five minutes should do it,’ Rebus had said.

  As he walked through the main door of the City Chambers, he looked down at the floor, aware that directly beneath it was Mary King’s Close, Edinburgh’s buried plague street. They’d covered the street up and built on it anew: that was the Edinburgh way, to bury and forget.

  The Lord Provost came out of his office to meet him. He looked tired, his pale face deeply lined, his square jaw slack. He had dark hair streaked with silver, and thick black eyebrows. It was a strongly defined face, the kind that might have been found, a generation back, at the coal-face.

  ‘Inspector.’ They shook hands. The Lord Provost turned to his secretary. ‘My constitutional,’ he said. ‘I’ll be five or ten minutes.’ He turned back to Rebus. ‘I like to get out of here for a few minutes in the afternoon, it clears my head. Do you mind?’

  Rebus said he didn’t.

  No one on the street seemed to recognise Cameron Kennedy. He crossed the High Street and nodded towards St Giles’ Cathedral. Rebus followed him into the huge old church. It was empty, save for a party of three tourists who huddled around their guidebook. Rebus and the Lord Provost walked the central aisle.

  ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’

  ‘Well, sir, it’s about your daughter.’

  The Lord Provost’s face became more animated. ‘Have you found her?’

  ‘No, sir. But I know where she’s been quite recently. You remember those two hoaxers?’

  ‘Don’t I just. You were in that terrible crash, weren’t you?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘The thing is, it may not have been a hoax after all.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, the girl you spoke to on the telephone . . .’

  ‘Ach, I don’t think it was Kirstie.’

  ‘It could have been. There’s evidence she knew the two boys who died.’

  The Lord Provost looked at him. ‘Evidence?’

  ‘Something we found in a bedroom.’ Rebus brought out the business plan and handed it to the Lord Provost. ‘This is yours, isn’t it, sir?’

  The Lord Provost studied it. ‘Where did you say you found it?’

  ‘It was hidden in the bedroom belonging to one of the boys. Do you know when and where you lost it?’

  ‘No, I . . . It was a while back. I thought I’d taken it home with me . . .’

  ‘Kirstie probably took it with her when she left.’

  The Lord Provost nodded slowly.

  ‘The question is, why? I mean, did it have any significance for her?’

  ‘I don’t see how it could.’

  ‘Me neither, I was hoping you might help. Take a look at the last page, please.’

  The Lord Provost turned to the last page and looked startled.

  ‘Did you write that, sir?’

  ‘No.’ He was staring wide-eyed at the name.

  ‘Is it Kirstie’s writing?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, do you know what it means?’

  The Lord Provost shook his head slowly and closed the report. ‘Inspector, I . . . it seems to me maybe I’m making too much fuss over Kirstie. I’m sure she’s managing fine.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying I’m grateful to the police for trying to trace her, but maybe it’s time to call a halt.’

  Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘Why now
?’ He made to take the report back, but the Lord Provost was folding it into his pocket.

  ‘Does there have to be a reason?’

  ‘Is it something to do with that report?’

  ‘You’ve read it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It’s just an initial report of a possible business venture.’

  ‘In Gyle Park West?’ The Lord Provost nodded. ‘A new subsidiary of PanoTech?’

  ‘You’re well informed, Inspector.’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘I’m just curious why Kirstie would take it, and why it was kept hidden, like it had some importance.’

  Kennedy smiled. ‘It’s of no importance, Inspector. It’s a projection, it’s just something that might happen. God knows we could do with it.’

  ‘Why’s that, sir?’

  ‘The jobs, of course.’

  ‘Tell me, is the LABarum plan before any committee at present?’

  The Lord Provost sat in a pew. Rebus sat one pew in front of him. ‘I don’t see what that could have to do with my daughter.’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘I’m just curious.’

  ‘It will be discussed soon, yes.’

  ‘By Councillor Gillespie’s industry committee?’

  ‘Initially, yes. Look, I really don’t see what this has to do with Kirstie. I accept that she could have taken the document from my office at home. I’d say if it was anything, it was an act of pure rebellion – she took it because she could.’

  ‘Is she a rebel then, sir?’

  ‘Aren’t all teenagers?’

  ‘Not all teenagers are drug-users, sir.’

  Rebus watched the colour come back to the Lord Provost’s cheeks. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That’s why you didn’t have a more recent photo to give us. Junkies aren’t exactly photogenic’

  The Lord Provost shot to his feet. ‘How dare you!’ The tourists stopped consulting their guidebook.

  ‘Then tell me I’m a liar,’ Rebus said quietly. The Lord Provost opened his mouth, then closed it again. ‘Tell me I’m a liar and I’ll take back what I said.’

  Cameron Kennedy’s eyes were glistening in the half-light. He looked all around him, at the frayed standards hanging limply from the walls, at the altar and the windows and the roof. Then he looked back to Rebus, shook his head, and walked away.

  Rebus sat a few minutes by himself, hands clasped in his lap. He didn’t exactly feel good about himself, but then that was nothing new.

  21

  The name of SWEEP’s contact at the Scottish Office was Rory McAllister, and he agreed to meet Rebus for lunch the next day, suggesting an Italian restaurant at the top of Leith Walk.

  When Rebus arrived at twelve-thirty, McAllister was already there. He’d just about completed the Scotsman crossword with an elegant chrome ballpoint pen. He stood up long enough to shake hands. Rebus noticed he was drinking mineral water.

  ‘Stick to the businessman’s lunch,’ McAllister prompted, as a waiter handed Rebus an oversized menu. So Rebus stuck to the businessman’s lunch.

  Rory McAllister was in his late thirties with thinning, neatly cut hair and a face which still seemed to bear traces of both puppy-fat and acne. He peered at Rebus with eyes slightly narrowed, as if he might need spectacles but was too vain to wear them. His dark wool suit went well with a cream-coloured shirt and grey tie, knotted tightly at the throat.

  Every inch the civil servant, Rebus thought. McAllister’s voice was educated Edinburgh: nasal and lilting, not wanting to let go of the ends of syllables.

  ‘So, Inspector,’ he said, putting his newspaper out of sight under the table, ‘your call was intriguing. What is it you want exactly?’

  ‘I want you to tell me about the Scottish Office, Mr McAllister. I also need to know about the SDA and Scottish Enterprise.’

  ‘Well,’ McAllister started to unwrap a bread-stick, ‘let’s order while I collect my thoughts, shall we?’ He spoke to the waiter in a quiet, firm voice. Rebus knew the type: loud only in agreement, never in denial; when roused to anger, he’d bet McAllister’s voice would drop to a whisper.

  ‘The tomato soup’s not bad,’ Rebus was informed. ‘Ditto the veal, but the pollo is very good, too. And as for the wine . . .’ Rebus shrugged assent with any suggestion McAllister might make. ‘A half each of house white and red.’ The civil servant snapped shut the wine list, another piece of business brought successfully to a close. He waved to two diners across the room. Their suits were like a uniform. The restaurant was filling quickly; half the diners looked like refugees from New St Andrew’s House.

  ‘So.’ McAllister clapped his hands together and rubbed them. ‘You want to know about the Scottish Office. Well, shall I start at the bottom or the top? You’ve met me, so that’s the bottom taken care of.’ He smiled to let Rebus know this was a joke. Sammy had said McAllister was a high-flier, clever and dedicated.

  And helpful.

  ‘So,’ he went on, ‘maybe I’ll start at the top – the top, of course, being one of two men, depending on your situation. You can say that the Secretary of State for Scotland is the head of the Scottish Office, and as far as the public is concerned you’d be right. But politicians come and go, the Scottish Office remains.’

  ‘You’re saying the real head is the most senior civil servant?’

  ‘Exactly, and that’s the Permanent Under-Secretary, more usually known as the Permanent Secretary.’

  ‘Why bother with two titles?’

  McAllister laughed, a sound like a pig at the trough. ‘Don’t question; just accept.’ A basket of bread rolls arrived, and he broke one into three. ‘Now, the Scottish Office has responsibility for most functions of government in Scotland, excepting defence, foreign policy, and social security. We’ve a small outpost in Whitehall, but most of us are based here, either in St Andrew’s House or New St Andrew’s House.’

  ‘St Andrew’s House being . . .?’

  ‘It’s on Regent Road. You know, it looks like the Reichstag.’

  ‘Oh, the power station.’

  McAllister conceded the image. ‘That’s where the Secretary of State and his advisors do their work. The rest of us are relegated to the neo-brutalism of New St Andrew’s House – until Victoria Quay is ready.’ Two bowls of thin-looking tomato soup arrived. ‘The Secretary of State’s retinue consists of the likes of the Lord Advocate and the Solicitor-General: they’re both ministers of the Crown, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Plus a minister of State and three pusses.’

  ‘Pusses?’

  McAllister wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. ‘Don’t tell anyone I called them that: Parliamentary Under-Secretaries of State.’

  ‘I thought you said there was only one?’

  McAllister shook his head. ‘Don’t confuse Parliamentary with Permanent: the Permanent Under-Secretary is the only one who’s a civil servant. He’s the only one who is –’

  ‘Permanent?’

  McAllister nodded. He took some soup and chewed on his roll, preparing for another onslaught. The wine had arrived, and he poured a glass of white for himself. Rebus opted for red.

  ‘Now,’ McAllister said, ‘we come to the departments.’ He counted them off on his fingers: ‘SOID, SOED, SOEnD, SOHHD, SOAFD, and – shamefully prosaic – Central Services.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘Mr McAllister, I think you’re purposely trying to bamboozle me.’

  McAllister looked shocked. ‘No, I assure you . . .’

  ‘Look, what I really want is a rundown on the SDA and Scottish Enterprise.’

  ‘We’ll get to them, don’t worry.’ The waiter came to take their bowls. ‘Bit peppery today,’ McAllister told him; not a complaint, a simple matter of interpretation.

  The civil servant was halfway through his next dissertation before Rebus realised they’d moved on to the topics he was interested in.

  ‘. . . so he was at SOHHD until the LECs came along. The SDA and HIDB became SE and HIE
and the poor man, who’d been responsible for RDGs and RSA found himself –’

  ‘Keep going, you might just drift back into English.’

  McAllister produced another snorted laugh. ‘Maybe I don’t have enough dealings with the public. I’m used to people who understand the codes.’

  ‘Well, I don’t understand the codes, so humour me.’

  McAllister took a deep breath. ‘The SDA,’ he began, ‘was set up by Wilson in 1975, some say to appease the rising nationalism of that time. It had a budget of £200 million – which was not inconsiderable for the time – and took over from three old existing bodies, including the SIEC – the Scottish Industrial Estates Corporation. The SIEC brought with it twenty-five million square metres of factory space.’

  ‘Sounds like a lot.’

  ‘A hellish lot, a lot to keep occupied. The SDA got busy. It’s been estimated there were as many as five thousand projects under its aegis at any one time. And remember, the SDA didn’t cover the whole of Scotland – there was the Highlands and Islands Development Board, too. In fact, HIDB was by far the elder of the two.’ The pasta starters arrived. McAllister sprinkled parmesan cheese over his and got to work with his fork. ‘Then someone had the bright idea of getting rid of the SDA.’ He shook his head. ‘Do you know the old saying, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it? The SDA was in good fettle. It had been investigated by several bodies and committees and given a clean bill of health. It did get into trouble over the Glasgow Garden Festival, and over a deal with a building contractor called Quinlon, but by then the blueprint for Scottish Enterprise had already been set up.

  ‘On the first of April – note the date – 1991, the SDA and HIDB became Scottish Enterprise and Highlands and Islands Enterprise. Basically, the changes were twofold: the new agencies took on the Scottish remit of the Training Agency and, more importantly, the central role of the SDA became more devolved.’

  ‘How so?’ Rebus wasn’t touching the wine; he needed all his wits about him.

  ‘Authority was devolved to a network of private-sector-led local enterprise companies, LECs for short.’

  ‘Like Lothian and Edinburgh Enterprise Limited?’