10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘I’m at a disco.’

  ‘At your age? Is this the emergency – you want me to talk you out of there?’

  ‘No, I want you to describe Eve to me.’

  ‘Eve?’

  ‘Uncle Joe Toal’s woman.’

  ‘I’ve only seen her in photos.’ Jack Morton thought about it. ‘Blonde out of a bottle, face that could bend nails. Twenty or thirty years ago she might have looked like Madonna, but I’m probably being generous.’

  Eve, Uncle Joe’s lady – chatting Rebus up in an Aberdeen hotel. Coincidence? Hardly. Readying to pump him for information? Nap hand. And up here with Stanley, the two of them looking pretty cosy . . . He remembered her words: ‘I’m in sales. Products for the oil industry.’ Yes, Rebus could guess now what kind of products . . .

  ‘John?’

  ‘Yes, Jack?’

  ‘This phone number, is that an Aberdeen code?’

  ‘Keep it to yourself. No grassing me up to Ancram.’

  ‘Just one question . . .?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can I really hear “Mouldy Old Dough”?’

  Rebus closed the conversation, finished his drink and left. There was a car parked on the other side of the road. The driver lowered his window so Rebus could see him. It was DS Ludovic Lumsden.

  Rebus smiled, waved, started to cross the road. He was thinking: I don’t trust you.

  ‘Hiya, Ludo,’ he said. Just a man who’d been out for a drink and a dance. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘You weren’t in your room. I guessed you might be here.’

  ‘Some guess.’

  ‘You lied to me, John. You told me about a book of matches from Burke’s Club.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘They don’t do books of matches.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘The hotel’s only two minutes away.’

  ‘John.’ Lumsden’s eyes were cold. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘Sure, Ludo.’ Rebus walked around the car and got into the passenger seat.

  They drove down to the harbour, parked on an empty street. Lumsden turned off the ignition and turned in his seat.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So you went to Sullom Voe today and didn’t bother to tell me. So why has my patch suddenly become your patch? How would you like it if I started creeping around Edinburgh behind your back?’

  ‘Am I a prisoner here? I thought I was one of the good guys.’

  ‘It’s not your town.’

  ‘I’m beginning to see that. But maybe it’s not your town either.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean who really runs the place, behind the scenes? You’ve got kids going mad with frustration, you’ve got a ready audience for dope and anything else that might give their life a kick. In that club tonight, I saw the lunatic I told you about, Stanley.’

  ‘Toal’s son?’

  ‘That’s him. Tell me, is he up here for the floral displays?’

  ‘Did you ask him?’

  Rebus lit a cigarette, wound down the window so he could flick the ash out. ‘He didn’t see me.’

  ‘You think we should question him about Tony El.’ A statement of fact, no answer required. ‘What would he tell us – “sure, I did it”? Come on, John.’

  A woman was knocking on the window. Lumsden lowered it, and she was into her spiel.

  ‘Two of you, well, I don’t normally do threesomes but you look like nice . . . Oh, hello Mr Lumsden.’

  ‘Evening, Cleo.’

  She looked at Rebus, then Lumsden again. ‘I see your tastes have changed.’

  ‘Lose yourself, Cleo.’ Lumsden wound the window back up. The woman disappeared into the darkness.

  Rebus turned to face Lumsden. ‘Look, I don’t know just how bent you are. I don’t know whose money will be paying for my stay at the hotel. There’s a lot I don’t know, but I’m beginning to get the feeling I know this city. I know it because it’s much the same as Edinburgh. I know you could live here for years without glimpsing what’s beneath the surface.’

  Lumsden started to laugh. ‘You’ve been here – what? – a day and a half? You’re a tourist here, don’t presume to know the place. I’ve been here a hell of a lot longer, and even I couldn’t claim that.’

  ‘All the same, Ludo . . .’ Rebus said quietly.

  ‘Is this leading somewhere?’

  ‘I thought you were the one who wanted to talk.’

  ‘And you’re the one who’s talking.’

  Rebus sighed, spoke slowly as to a child. ‘Uncle Joe controls Glasgow, including – my guess – a fair bit of the drug trade. Now his son’s up here, drinking in Burke’s Club. An Edinburgh snitch had some gen on a consignment headed north. He also had the phone number of Burke’s. He ended up dead.’ Rebus held up a finger. ‘That’s one strand. Tony El tortured an oil-worker, who consequently died. Tony El scurried back up here but neatly passed away. That’s three deaths so far, every one of them suspicious, and nobody’s doing much about it.’ A second finger. ‘Strand two. Are the two connected? I don’t know. At the moment, all that connects them is Aberdeen itself. But that’s a start. You don’t know me, Ludo, a start is all I need.’

  ‘Can I change the subject slightly?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Did you get anything on Shetland?’

  ‘Just a bad feeling. A little hobby of mine, I collect them.’

  ‘And tomorrow you’re going out to Bannock?’

  ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘A few phone calls, that’s all it took. Know something?’ Lumsden started the car. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of you. My life was simple until you came along.’

  ‘Never a dull moment,’ Rebus said, opening the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ll walk. Nice night for it.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘I always do.’

  Rebus watched the car move off, turn a corner. He listened to the engine fade, flicked his cigarette on to the tarmac and started to walk. The first place he passed was the Yardarm. It was Exotic Dancer night, with a scarecrow on the door charging admission. Rebus had been there, done that. The heyday of the exotic dancer had been the late seventies, every pub in Edinburgh seemed to have them: men watching from behind pint glasses, the stripper selecting her three records from the jukebox, a collection afterwards if you wanted her to go a bit further.

  ‘Only two quid, pal,’ the scarecrow called, but Rebus shook his head and kept walking.

  The same nighttime sounds were around him: drunken whoops, whistles, and the birds who didn’t know how late it was. A prowl of woolly suits was questioning two teenagers. Rebus passed by, just another tourist. Maybe Lumsden was right, but Rebus didn’t think so. Aberdeen felt so much like Edinburgh. Sometimes, you visited a town or city and couldn’t get a handle on it, but this wasn’t one of those.

  On Union Terrace a low stone wall separated him from the gardens, which were in a gully below. He saw his car still parked across the road, directly outside the hotel. He was about to cross when hands grabbed at his arms and hauled him backwards. He felt the small of his back hit the wall, felt himself tipping backwards, up and over.

  Falling, rolling . . . Skidding down the steep slope into the gardens, not able to stop himself, so going with the roll. He hit bushes, felt them tear at his shirt. His nose gouged the earth, tears springing into his eyes. Then he was on the flat. Clipped grass. Lying winded on his back, adrenalin masking any immediate damage. More sounds: crashing through bushes. They were following him down. He half rose to his knees, but a foot caught him, sent him sprawling on to his front. The foot came down hard on his head, held it there, so he was sucking grass, his nose feeling ready to break. Someone wrenched his hands behind his back and up, the pressure just right: excruciating pain couldn’t overcome the knowledge that if he moved, he’d pop an arm out of its so
cket.

  Two men, at least two. One with the foot. One working the arms. The alcoholic streets seemed a long way off, traffic a distant drone. Now something cold against his temple. He knew the feeling – a handgun, colder than dry ice.

  A voice hissing, close to his ear. Blood pounding there, so he had to strain to hear it. A hiss close to a whisper, hard to identify.

  ‘There’s a message, so I hope you’re listening.’

  Rebus couldn’t speak. His mouth was full of dirt.

  He waited for the message, but it didn’t come. Then it did.

  Pistol-whipped to the side of his head, just above the ear. An explosion of light behind his eyes. Then darkness.

  He woke up and it was still night. Sat up and looked around. His eyes hurt when he moved them. He touched his head – no blood. It hadn’t been that kind of thwack. Blunt, not sharp. Just the one by the feel of things. After he’d lost consciousness they’d left him. He searched his pockets, found money, car keys, warrant card and all his other cards. But of course it hadn’t been a robbery. It had been a message, hadn’t they told him so themselves?

  He tried standing. His side hurt. He checked, saw that he’d grazed it coming down the slope. A graze on his forehead too, and his nose had bled a little. He checked the ground around him, but they hadn’t left anything. It wouldn’t have been professional. All the same, he tried as best he could to trace the route they’d come down, just in case something had been left behind.

  Nothing. He hauled himself back over the wall. A taxi driver looked at him in disgust and pressed harder on the accelerator. He’d seen a drunk, a tramp, a loser.

  Last year’s man.

  Rebus limped across the road into the hotel. The woman behind the reception desk was reaching for the phone, ready to summon back-up, but then recognised him from earlier.

  ‘Whatever happened to you?’

  ‘Fell down some steps.’

  ‘Do you want a doctor?’

  ‘Just my key, please.’

  ‘We’ve a first aid kit.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Have it sent up to my room.’

  He took a bath, a good long soak, then towelled off and examined the damage. His temple was swollen where the butt had connected, and he had a headache worse than half a dozen hangovers. Some thorns had lodged in his side, but he was able to pick them out with his fingernails. He cleaned the graze, no need for plasters. He might ache in the morning, but he’d probably sleep, so long as the ticking noise didn’t come back. A double brandy had arrived with the first aid; he sipped it, hand trembling. He lay on his bed and phoned home, checking the machine. Ancram, Ancram, Ancram. It was too late to phone Mairie, but he tried Brian Holmes’s number. A lot of rings later, Holmes picked up.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Brian, it’s me.’

  ‘What can I do you for?’

  Rebus had his eyes screwed shut; difficult to think past the pain. ‘Why didn’t you tell me Nell had walked out?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I came by your house. I know a batch pad when I see one. Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is it the same problem as before?’

  ‘She wants me to leave the force.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And maybe she’s right. But I’ve tried before, and it’s hard.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, there’s more than one way of leaving.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ And he wouldn’t say any more about it. He wanted to talk about the Spaven case. The bottom line from his reading of the notes: Ancram would smell collusion, a certain economy with the truth; which wasn’t to say there was anything he could do about it.

  ‘I also notice you interviewed one of Spaven’s friends at the time, Fergus McLure. He’s just died, you know.’

  ‘Dearie me.’

  ‘Drowned in the canal, out Ratho way.’

  ‘What did the post mortem say?’

  ‘He received a nasty bump to the head some time before entering the water. It’s being treated as suspicious, so . . .’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So if I were you, I’d steer clear. Don’t want to hand Ancram any more ammo.’

  ‘Speaking of Ancram . . .’

  ‘He’s looking for you.’

  ‘I sort of missed our first interview.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Laying low.’ With his eyes closed and three paracetamol in his stomach.

  ‘I don’t think he went for your flu story.’

  ‘That’s his problem.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So you’re finished on Spaven?’

  ‘Looks like.’

  ‘What about that prisoner? The one who was the last to speak to Spaven?’

  ‘I’m on it, but I think he’s no fixed abode, could take a while.’

  ‘I really appreciate it, Brian. Do you have a story ready if Ancram finds out?’

  ‘No problem. Take care, John.’

  ‘You too, son.’ Son? Where had that come from? Rebus put down the phone, picked up the TV remote. Beach volleyball would just about do him for tonight . . .

  Dead Crude

  18

  Oil: black gold. The North Sea’s exploration and exploitation rights had been divvied up long ago. The oil companies spent a lot of money on that initial exploration. A block might yield no oil or gas at all. Vessels were sent out laden with scientific equipment, their data studied and discussed – all this before a single test well was sunk. The reserves might lie three thousand metres beneath the sea bed – Mother Nature not keen to give up the hidden trove. But the plunderers had ever more technical expertise; water depths of two hundred metres no longer bothered them. In fact, the latest discoveries – Atlantic oil, two hundred kilometres west of Shetland – involved a water depth of between four and six hundred metres.

  If the test drilling proved successful, showing reserves worth the game, a production platform would be built, along with all the various modules to accompany it. In some parts of the North Sea the weather was too unpredictable for tanker loading, so pipelines would have to be installed – the Brent and Ninian pipelines took crude directly to Sullom Voe, while other pipelines carried gas to Aberdeenshire. All this, and still the oil proved stubborn. In many fields, you could expect to recover only forty or fifty per cent of the available reserve, but then the reserve might consist of one and a half billion barrels.

  Then there was the platform itself, sometimes three hundred metres high, a jacket weighing forty thousand tonnes, covered in eight hundred tonnes of paint, and with additional weight of modules and equipment totalling thirty thousand tonnes. The figures were staggering. Rebus tried to take them in, but gave up after a while and decided just to be awestruck. He’d only ever once seen a rig, when he’d been visiting relatives in Methil. The street of prefab bungalows led down to the construction yard, where a three-dimensional steel grid lay on its side, towering into the sky. From a distance of a mile, it had been spectacular enough. He recalled it now, staring at the glossy photographs in the brochure, a brochure all about Bannock. The platform, he read, carried fifteen hundred kilometres of electrical cable, and could accommodate nearly two hundred workers. Once the jacket had been towed out to the oilfield and anchored there, over a dozen modules were placed atop it, everything from accommodation to oil and gas separation. The whole structure had been designed to withstand winds of one hundred knots, and storms with hundred-foot waves.

  Rebus was hoping for calm seas today.

  He was sitting in a lounge at Dyce Airport, only a little nervous about the flight he was about to take. The brochure assured him that safety was paramount in ‘such a potentially hazardous environment’, and showed him photos of fire-fighting teams, a safety and support vessel on constant standby, and fully equipped lifeboats. ‘The lessons of Piper Alpha have been learned.’ The Piper Alpha platform, north-east of Aberdeen: over a hundred and
sixty fatalities on a summer’s night in 1988.

  Very reassuring.

  The flunkey who’d handed him the brochure had said he hoped Rebus had brought something to read.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the flight can take three hours total, and most of the time it’s too noisy for chit-chat.’

  Three hours. Rebus had gone into the terminal’s shop and bought himself a book. He knew the journey comprised two stages – Sumburgh first, and then a Super Puma helicopter out to Bannock. Three hours out, three hours back. He yawned, checked his watch. It wasn’t quite eight o’clock yet. He’d skipped breakfast – didn’t like the idea of boaking it back up on the flight. His total consumption this morning: four paracetamol, one glass of orange juice. He held his hands out in front of him: tremors he could put down to aftershock.

  There were two anecdotes he liked in the brochure: he learned that a ‘derrick’ was named after a seventeenth-century hangman; and that the first oil had come ashore at Cruden Bay, where Bram Stoker once took his holidays. From one kind of vampirism to another . . . only the brochure didn’t put it like that.

  There was a television on in front of him, playing a safety video. It told you what to do if your helicopter went down into the North Sea. It all looked very slick on the video: nobody panicked. They slid out of their seats, located the inflatable life-rafts and launched them on to the calm waters of an indoor pool.

  ‘Holy God, what happened to you?’

  He looked up. Ludovic Lumsden was standing there, newspaper folded in his jacket pocket, a beaker of coffee in his hand.

  ‘Mugged,’ Rebus said. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?’

  ‘Mugged?’

  ‘Two men were waiting for me last night outside the hotel. Threw me over the wall into the gardens, then stuck a gun against my head.’ Rebus rubbed the lump on his temple. It felt worse than it looked.

  Lumsden sat down a couple of seats away, looked aghast. ‘Did you get a look at them?’

  ‘No.’

  Lumsden put his coffee on the floor. ‘Did they take anything?’

  ‘They weren’t after anything. They just had a message for me.’