10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Traffic was bottle-necked heading into the centre, which was fine – it meant he had time to study both map and street names. He found Queen Street and parked, walked into Police HQ and told them who he was.

  ‘I spoke to someone on the phone earlier, a DC Shanks.’

  ‘I’ll try CID for you,’ the uniform on reception said. She told him to take a seat. He sat down and watched the movement of bodies in and out of the station. He could tell the plainclothes officers from ordinary punters – when you made eye contact, you knew. A couple of the men sported CID moustaches, bushy but neatly trimmed. They were young, trying to look older. Some kids were sitting across from him, looking subdued but with a gleam in their eyes. They were fresh-faced and freckly, with bloodless lips. Two of them were fair-haired, one red-headed.

  ‘Inspector Rebus?’

  The man was standing over to his right, could have been there a couple of minutes or more. Rebus stood up and they shook hands.

  ‘I’m DS Lumsden, DC Shanks passed your message on. Something about an oil company?’

  ‘Based up here. One of their employees took a flight out of an Edinburgh tenement.’

  ‘Jumped?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘There were others on the scene, one of them’s a known villain called Anthony Ellis Kane. I’ve had word he’s working up here.’

  Lumsden nodded. ‘Yes, I heard Edinburgh CID were asking about that name. Doesn’t mean a thing to me, sorry. Normally, we’d assign the Oil Liaison Officer to look after you, but he’s on holiday and I’m filling in, which makes me your guide for the duration.’ Lumsden smiled. ‘Welcome to Silver City.’

  Silver for the River Dee which ran through it. Silver for the colour of the buildings in sunlight – grey granite transformed into shimmering light. Silver for the money the oil boom had brought. Lumsden explained as Rebus drove them back down on to Union Street.

  ‘Another myth about Aberdeen,’ he said, ‘is that the folk are mean. Wait till you see Union Street on a Saturday afternoon. It must be the busiest shopping street in Britain.’

  Lumsden wore a blue blazer with shiny brass buttons, grey trousers, black slip-on shoes. His shirt was an elegant blue and white stripe, his tie salmon-pink. The clothes made him look like the secretary of some exclusive golf club, but the face and body told another story. He was six feet two, wiry, with cropped fair hair emphasising a widow’s peak. His eyes weren’t so much red-rimmed as chlorinated, the irises a piercing blue. No wedding ring. He could have been anywhere between thirty and forty years old. Rebus couldn’t quite place the accent.

  ‘English?’ he asked.

  ‘From Gillingham originally,’ Lumsden acknowledged. ‘The family moved around a bit. My dad was in the forces. You did well to spot the accent, most people think I’m a Borderer.’

  They were driving to a hotel, Rebus having declared that he’d probably be staying at least the one night, maybe more.

  ‘No problem,’ Lumsden had said. ‘I know just the place.’

  The hotel was on Union Terrace, overlooking the gardens, and Lumsden told him to park outside the entrance. He took a piece of card from his pocket and pressed it to the inside of the windscreen. It stated OFFICIAL GRAMPIAN POLICE BUSINESS. Rebus got his case out of the boot, but Lumsden insisted on carrying it. And Lumsden took care of the details at reception. A porter took the case upstairs, Rebus following.

  ‘Just make sure you like the room,’ Lumsden told him. ‘And I’ll see you in the bar.’

  The room was on the first floor. It had the tallest windows Rebus had ever seen, and gave him a view down on to the gardens. The room was baking hot. The porter closed the curtains.

  ‘It’s always like this when we get the sun,’ he explained. Rebus gave the rest of the room a once-over. It was probably the fanciest hotel room he’d ever been in. The porter was watching him.

  ‘What, no champagne?’

  The porter didn’t get the joke, so Rebus shook his head and handed him a pound note. The porter explained how the in-house movies worked, told him about room service, the restaurant, and other facilities, then handed Rebus his key. Rebus followed the man back downstairs.

  The bar was quiet, the lunchtime crowd having disappeared back to work, leaving their plates, bowls and glasses behind. Lumsden was perched on a stool at the bar, munching peanuts and watching MTV. There was a pint of beer in front of him.

  ‘Forgot to ask your tipple,’ he said as Rebus sat down next to him.

  ‘A pint of the same,’ Rebus told the barman.

  ‘How’s the room?’

  ‘A bit rich for my taste, to be honest.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Grampian CID will pick up the tab.’ He winked. ‘It’s a courtesy thing.’

  ‘I must visit more often.’

  Lumsden smiled. ‘So tell me what you want to do while you’re here.’

  Rebus glanced at the TV screen, saw the Stones hamming it up in their latest production. Jesus, they looked old. Stonehenge with a blues riff.

  ‘Talk to the oil company, maybe see if I can track down a couple of the deceased’s friends. Find out if there’s any sign of Tony El.’

  ‘Tony El?’

  ‘Anthony Ellis Kane.’ Rebus reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘Do you mind?’

  Lumsden shook his head twice: once to say he didn’t mind, and again to refuse Rebus’s offer of one.

  ‘Cheers,’ Rebus said, taking a mouthful of beer. He smacked his lips, it was OK. Beer was fine. But the row of optics kept trying to attract his attention. ‘So how’s the Johnny Bible case going?’

  Lumsden scooped more peanuts into his mouth. ‘It isn’t. Dead slow to stop. Are you attached to the Edinburgh side?’

  ‘Only by association. I’ve interviewed a few nutters.’

  Lumsden nodded. ‘Me, too. I’d like to throttle some of them. I had to interview some of our RPOs, too.’ He made a face. RPOs: Registered Potential Offenders. These were the ‘usual suspects’, a list of known perverts, sex attackers, flashers and peepers. In a case like Johnny Bible, they all had to be interviewed, alibis provided and checked.

  ‘I hope you took a bath afterwards.’

  ‘Half a dozen at least.’

  ‘No new leads then?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You think he’s local?’

  Lumsden shrugged. ‘I don’t think anything: you need to keep an open mind. Why the interest?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The interest in Johnny Bible.’

  It was Rebus’s turn to shrug. They sat in silence for a moment, until Rebus thought of a question. ‘What does an Oil Liaison Officer do?’

  ‘Blunt answer: liaises with the oil industry. It’s a major player up here. The thing is, Grampian Police isn’t just a dry-land force – our beat includes the offshore installations. If there’s a theft on a platform, or a fight, or whatever, anything they bother to report, it’s down to us to investigate. You can end up flying three hours out to the middle of hell on a paraffin budgie.’

  ‘Paraffin budgie?’

  ‘Helicopter. Three hours out, chucking your guts up along the way, so you can investigate some minor complaint. Thank Christ we don’t usually get involved. It’s a real frontier out there, with frontier policing.’

  One of the Glasgow uniforms had said the same about Uncle Joe’s estate.

  ‘You mean they police themselves?’

  ‘It’s a bit naughty, but effective. And if it saves me a six-hour round trip I won’t say I’m sorry.’

  ‘What about Aberdeen itself?’

  ‘Reasonably quiet, except at weekends. Union Street on a Saturday night can be like downtown Saigon. There are a lot of frustrated kids around. They’ve grown up with money and stories of money. Now they want their share, only it’s not there any more. Christ, that was quick.’ Rebus saw that he’d finished his pint; only the top inch was missing from Lumsden’s. ‘I like a man who’s not afraid to bevvy.’

  ‘I’ll get this one,
’ Rebus said. The barman was standing ready. Lumsden didn’t want another, so Rebus ordered an abstemious half. First impressions and all that.

  ‘The room’s yours for as long as you need it,’ Lumsden said. ‘Don’t pay cash for that drink, charge it to the room. Meals aren’t included, but I can let you have a few addresses. Tell them you’re a cop, you’ll find the bill pretty reasonable.’

  ‘Tut tut,’ Rebus said.

  Lumsden smiled again. ‘Some fellow officers I wouldn’t tell that to, but somehow I think we’re on the same wavelength. Am I right?’

  ‘You could be.’

  ‘I’m not often wrong. Who knows, my next posting could be Edinburgh. A friendly face is always an asset.’

  ‘Speaking of which, I don’t want my presence here broadcast.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The media are after me. They’re making a programme about a case, ancient history, and they want to talk to me.’

  ‘I get the idea.’

  ‘They may try tracking me down, phoning up pretending to be colleagues . . .’

  ‘Well, no one knows you’re here except me and DC Shanks. I’ll try to keep it that way.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it. They may try using the name Ancram. That’s the reporter.’

  Lumsden winked, finished the bowl of peanuts. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

  They finished their drinks and Lumsden said he had to get back to the station. He gave Rebus his telephone numbers – office and home – and took note of Rebus’s room number.

  ‘Anything I can do, give me a call,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You know how to get to T-Bird Oil?’

  ‘I’ve got a map.’

  Lumsden nodded. ‘What about tonight? Fancy going for a meal?’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I’ll drop by about seven-thirty.’

  They shook hands again. Rebus watched him leave, then headed back to the bar for a whisky. As advised, he charged it to the room, and took it upstairs. With the curtains closed, the room was cooler but still airless. He looked to see if he could open the windows, but couldn’t. They had to be twelve feet high. With the curtains closed, he lay on the bed and slipped off his shoes, then replayed his conversation with Lumsden. It was something he did, usually finding things he could have said, better ways of saying them. Suddenly he sat up. Lumsden had mentioned T-Bird Oil, but Rebus couldn’t recall telling him the name of the company. Maybe he had . . . or maybe he’d mentioned it to DC Shanks over the phone, and Shanks had told Lumsden.

  He didn’t feel relaxed any more, so prowled the room. In one of the drawers he found material about Aberdeen, tourist stuff, PR stuff. He sat down at the dressing table and started to go through it. The facts came with a zealot’s force.

  Fifty thousand people in the Grampian region worked in the oil and gas industry, twenty per cent of total employment. Since the early seventies, the area’s population had increased by sixty thousand, housing stock had increased by a third, creating major new suburbs around Aberdeen. A thousand acres of industrial land had been developed around the city. Aberdeen Airport had seen a tenfold increase in passenger numbers, and was now the world’s busiest heliport. There wasn’t a negative comment anywhere in the literature, except for the minor mention of a fishing village called Old Torry, which had been granted its charter three years after Columbus landed in America. When oil came to the north-east, Old Torry was flattened to make way for a Shell supply base. Rebus raised his glass and toasted the memory of the village.

  He showered, changed his clothes, and headed back to the bar. A flustered-looking woman in long tartan skirt and white blouse came bustling up to him.

  ‘Are you with the convention?’

  He shook his head, and remembered reading about it: pollution in the North Sea or something. Eventually the woman shepherded three corpulent businessmen out of the hotel. Rebus went into the lobby and watched a limo take them away. He checked his watch. Time to go.

  Finding Dyce was easy, he just followed signs to the airport. Sure enough, he saw helicopters in the sky. The area around the airport was a mix of farming land, new hotels, and industrial complexes. T-Bird Oil had its headquarters in a modest three-storey hexagon, most of it smoked glass. There was a car park at the front, and landscaped gardens with a path meandering through them to the building itself. In the distance, light aircraft were taking off and landing.

  The reception area was spacious and light. Under glass there were models of the North Sea oilfields and of some of T-Bird’s production platforms. Bannock was the biggest as well as the oldest. A scale-sized double-decker bus had been placed beside it, dwarfed by the rig. There were huge colour photos and diagrams on the walls, along with a slew of framed awards. The receptionist told him he was expected, and should take the lift to the first floor. The lift was mirrored, and Rebus examined himself. He remembered taking the lift up to Allan Mitchison’s flat, Bain shadow-boxing his reflection. Rebus knew if he tried that just now, his reflection would probably win. He crunched down on another mint.

  A pretty girl was waiting for him. She asked him to follow her, not exactly an onerous task. They moved through an open plan office, only half the desks in current use. There were TVs switched on to Teletext news, share indices, CNN. They came out of the office into another corridor, much quieter, deep carpeting underfoot. At the second door, which was open, the girl gestured for Rebus to enter.

  Stuart Minchell’s name was on the door, so Rebus assumed the man rising to his feet to shake hands was Minchell.

  ‘Inspector Rebus? Nice to meet you at last.’

  It was true what they said about voices, you could seldom pin the right face and body to them. Minchell spoke with authority, but looked too young – mid-twenties tops, with a sheen to his face, red cheeks, short slicked-back hair. He wore round metal-framed glasses and had thick dark eyebrows, making the face seem mischievous. He still affected wide red braces with his trousers. When he half-turned, Rebus saw his hair at the back had been coaxed into the beginnings of a ponytail.

  ‘Coffee or tea?’ the girl was asking.

  ‘No time, Sabrina,’ Minchell said. He opened his arms wide to Rebus in apology. ‘Change of plan, Inspector. I have to be at the North Sea Conference. I did try reaching you to warn you.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Rebus was thinking: shit. If he called Fort Apache, that means they’ll know I’m up here.

  ‘I thought we could take my car, talk on the way out there. I should only be half an hour or so. If you’ve any questions, we can talk afterwards.’

  ‘That’ll be fine.’

  Minchell was shrugging into his jacket.

  ‘Files,’ Sabrina reminded him.

  ‘Check.’ He picked up half a dozen, stuffed them into a briefcase.

  ‘Business cards.’

  He opened his Filofax, saw he had a supply. ‘Check.’

  ‘Cellphone.’

  He patted his pocket, nodded. ‘Is the car ready?’

  Sabrina said she’d check, and went to find her phone.

  ‘We may as well wait downstairs,’ Minchell said.

  ‘Check,’ said Rebus.

  They waited for the lift. When it came, there were already two men inside, which still left room. Minchell hesitated. He looked like he was about to say they’d wait, but Rebus had already stepped into the lift, so he followed, with a slight bow to one of the men, the elder of the two.

  Rebus watched in the mirror, saw the elder man staring back at him. He had long yellow-silver hair swept back from his forehead and behind both ears. He rested his hands on a silver-topped cane and wore a baggy linen suit. He looked like a character out of Tennessee Williams, his face chiselled and frowning, gait only slightly stooped despite his years. Rebus looked down and noticed the man was wearing a pair of well-worn trainers. The man brought a notepad out of his pocket, scribbled something on it while still holding his cane, tore the sheet off and handed it to the second man,
who read it and nodded.

  The lift opened at the ground floor. Minchell physically held Rebus back until the other two had got out. Rebus watched them march to the front door of the building, the man with the note veering off to make a call at reception. There was a red Jaguar parked directly outside. A liveried chauffeur held the back door open for Big Daddy.

  Minchell was rubbing his brow with the fingers of one hand.

  ‘Who was that?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘That was Major Weir.’

  ‘Wish I’d known, I’d’ve asked him why I can’t get Green Shield stamps with my petrol any more.’

  Minchell wasn’t in the mood for a joke.

  ‘What was the note all about?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘The Major doesn’t say much. He communicates better on paper.’ Rebus laughed: communication breakdown. ‘I’m serious,’ Minchell said. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard him say more than a couple of dozen words all the time I’ve worked for him.’

  ‘Something wrong with his voice?’

  ‘No, he sounds fine, a little croaky, but that’s to be expected. Thing is, his accent is American.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So he wishes it was Scottish.’

  With the Jag gone, they walked out to the car park. ‘He’s got this obsession with Scotland,’ Minchell went on. ‘His parents were Scots migrants, used to tell him stories about the “old country”. He got hooked. He only spends maybe a third of the year here – T-Bird Oil stretches around the globe – but you can tell he hates to leave.’

  ‘Anything else I should know?’

  ‘He’s a strict teetotaller, one whiff of alcohol from an employee and they’re out.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Widower. His wife’s buried on Islay or somewhere like that. This is my car.’

  It was a midnight-blue Mazda racing model, low-slung with just enough room for two bucket seats. Minchell’s briefcase all but filled the back. He hooked his phone up before turning the ignition.