10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Ancram frowned. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Tell your driver to be careful with my car. The steering’s a bit loose.’

  The Panic of Dreams

  21

  They were chasing him up and down monkey-puzzle ladders, the tumorous sea raging beneath, buckling weakened metal. Rebus lost his grip, tumbled down steel steps, gashed his side and dabbed a hand there, finding oil instead of blood. They were twenty feet above him and laughing, taking their time: where was there for him to go? Maybe he could fly, flap his arms and leap into space. The only thing to fear was the drop.

  Like landing on concrete.

  Was that better or worse than landing on spikes? He had decisions to make; his pursuers weren’t far behind. They were never far behind, yet he always stayed in front of them, even wounded. I could get out of this, he thought.

  I could get out of this!

  A voice directly behind him: ‘In your dreams.’ Then a push out into space.

  Rebus started awake so suddenly his head hit the car roof. His body surged with fear and adrenalin.

  ‘Christ,’ Ancram said from the driver’s seat, regaining control of the steering-wheel, ‘what happened?’

  ‘How long was I asleep?’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were.’

  Rebus looked at his watch: maybe only a couple of minutes. He rubbed his face, told his heart it could stop hammering any time it liked. He could tell Ancram it was a bad dream; he could tell him it was a panic attack. But he didn’t want to tell him anything. Until proven otherwise, Ancram was the enemy as surely as any gun-toting thug.

  ‘What were you saying?’ he said instead.

  ‘I was outlining the deal.’

  ‘The deal, right.’ The Sunday papers had slid from Rebus’s lap. He picked them off the floor. Johnny Bible’s latest outrage had made only one front page; the others had been printed too early.

  ‘Right now, I’ve enough against you to have you suspended,’ Ancram said. ‘Not such an unusual situation for you, Inspector.’

  ‘I’ve been there before.’

  ‘Even if I overlook the Johnny Bible questions, there’s still the matter of your distinct lack of cooperation with my inquiries into the Spaven case.’

  ‘I had flu.’

  Ancram ignored this. ‘We both know two things. First, a good cop is going to get into trouble from time to time. I’ve had complaints made against me in the past. Second, these TV programmes almost never uncover new evidence. It’s all speculation and maybes, whereas a police investigation is meticulous, and the gen we gather is passed to the Crown Office and pored over by what are supposed to be some of the finest criminal lawyers in the country.’

  Rebus turned in his seat to study Ancram, wondering where this was leading. In the mirror, he could see his own car being driven with due care and attention by Ancram’s lackey. Ancram kept his eyes on the road.

  ‘See, John, what I’m saying is, why run when you’ve nothing to fear?’

  ‘Who says I’ve nothing to fear?’

  Ancram smiled. The old pals routine was just that – a routine. Rebus trusted Ancram the way he’d trust a paedophile in a play-park. All the same, when Uncle Joe had lied about Tony El, it was Ancram who’d come up with the Aberdeen info . . . Whose side was the man on? Was he playing a double game? Or had he just thought Rebus wouldn’t get anywhere, info or no info? Was it a way of covering up that he was in Uncle Joe’s pocket?

  ‘If I’m hearing you right,’ Rebus said, ‘you’re saying I’ve nothing to fear from the Spaven case?’

  ‘This could be true.’

  ‘You’d make it true?’ Ancram shrugged. ‘In return for what?’

  ‘John, you’ve ruffled more feathers than a puma in a parrot-house, and you’ve been about as subtle.’

  ‘You want me to be more subtle?’

  Ancram’s voice tightened. ‘I want you to sit on your arse for once.’

  ‘Drop the Mitchison inquiry?’ Ancram didn’t say anything. Rebus repeated the question.

  ‘You might find it does you the world of good.’

  ‘And you’d have done Uncle Joe Toal another good turn, eh, Ancram?’

  ‘Wake up to reality. This isn’t a linoleum floor, big squares of black and white.’

  ‘No, it’s grey silk suits and crisp green cash.’

  ‘It’s give and take. People like Uncle Joe don’t go away: you get rid of him and a young pretender starts making claims.’

  ‘Better the devil you know?’

  ‘Not a bad motto.’

  John Martyn: ‘I’d Rather Be the Devil’.

  ‘Here’s another,’ Rebus said, ‘don’t rock the boat. Sounds like that’s what you’re telling me.’

  ‘I’m advising you for your own good.’

  ‘Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.’

  ‘Christ, Rebus, I begin to see why you’re always out on a limb: you’re not easy to like, are you?’

  ‘Mr Personality six years running.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I even cried on the catwalk.’ A pause. ‘Did you ask Jack Morton about me?’

  ‘Jack has a bizarrely high opinion of you, something I put down to sentiment.’

  ‘Big of you.’

  ‘This is getting us nowhere.’

  ‘No, but it’s passing the time.’ Rebus saw signs for a service area. ‘Are we stopping for lunch?’

  Ancram shook his head.

  ‘You know, there’s one question you haven’t asked me.’

  Ancram considered not asking, then caved in. ‘What?’

  ‘You haven’t asked what Stanley and Eve were doing in Aberdeen.’

  Ancram signalled to pull into the service area, braking hard. The driver in Rebus’s Saab nearly missed the slip-road, tyres squealing on tarmac.

  ‘Trying to lose him?’ Rebus enjoyed seeing Ancram rattled.

  ‘Coffee break,’ Ancram snarled, opening his door.

  Rebus sat with the tabloid on the table in front of him, reading about Johnny Bible. The victim this time was Vanessa Holden, twenty-seven and married – none of the others had been married. She was director of a company which put on ‘corporate presentations’: Rebus wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. The photo in the paper was the usual smile-for-the-camera job, taken by a friend. She had shoulder-length wavy hair, nice teeth, probably hadn’t thought about dying much short of her eightieth birthday.

  ‘We’ve got to catch this monster,’ Rebus said, echoing the last sentence of the story. Then he crumpled the paper and reached for his coffee. Glancing down at the table, he caught a sideways glimpse of Vanessa Holden, and got the feeling he’d seen her before somewhere, just a fleeting glance. He covered her hair with his hand. Old photo; maybe she’d changed hairstyle. He tried to see her face with a few more miles on its clock. Ancram wasn’t watching, was talking to the lackey, so he didn’t see the shock of recognition hit Rebus’s face.

  ‘I have to make a phone call,’ Rebus said, rising. The public phone was beside the front door; he’d be in view of the table. Ancram nodded.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he said.

  ‘Today’s Sunday, I should’ve been at church. The minister will be worried.’

  ‘This bacon’s easier to swallow than that.’ Ancram stabbed his fork at the offending article. But he let Rebus go.

  Rebus made the call, hoped he’d have enough change: Sunday, cheap rate. Someone at Grampian Police HQ picked up.

  ‘DCI Grogan, please,’ Rebus said, his eyes on Ancram. The restaurant was busy with Sunday drivers and their families; no chance of Ancram hearing him.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s busy at the moment.’

  ‘This is about Johnny Bible’s latest victim. I’m in a phone-box and money’s tight.’

  ‘Hold on, please.’

  Thirty seconds. Ancram watching him, frowning. Then: ‘DCI Grogan speaking.’

  ‘It’s Rebu
s.’

  Grogan sucked in breath. ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘I want to do you a favour.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘It could make your career.’

  ‘Is this your idea of a joke? Because let me tell you —’

  ‘No joke. Did you hear what I said about Eve and Stanley Toal?’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Are you going to do anything?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Make it a definite . . . as a favour to me.’

  ‘And then you’ll do me this premier-league favour of yours?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Grogan coughed, cleared his throat. ‘All right,’ he said.

  ‘For real?’

  ‘I keep my promises.’

  ‘Then listen. I’ve just seen a photo of Johnny’s latest victim.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’ve seen her before.’

  A moment’s silence. ‘Where?’

  ‘She was walking into Burke’s Club one night as Lumsden and I were leaving.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So she was on the arm of someone I knew.’

  ‘You know a lot of people, Inspector.’

  ‘Which doesn’t mean I’m connected to Johnny Bible. But maybe the man on her arm is.’

  ‘Do you have a name for him?’

  ‘Hayden Fletcher, works for T-Bird Oil. Public relations.’

  Grogan was writing it down. ‘I’ll look into it,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t forget your promise.’

  ‘Did I make a promise? I don’t recall.’ The line went dead. Rebus wanted to hammer the receiver, but Ancram was watching, and besides there were children nearby, drooling over a toy display and devising plans of attack on their parents’ pockets. So he replaced the receiver just like any other human being and walked back to the table. The driver got up and went outside, didn’t once look at Rebus, so Rebus knew he was under orders.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Ancram asked.

  ‘Hunky dory.’ Rebus sat down opposite Ancram. ‘So when does the inquisition begin?’

  ‘As soon as we can find a vacant torture chamber.’ They both ended up smiling. ‘Look, Rebus, personally I don’t give a midge’s IQ what happened twenty years ago between your pal Geddes and this Lenny Spaven. I’ve seen villains stitched up before: you can’t nail them for the thing you know they did, so you nail them for something else, something they didn’t do.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens.’

  ‘There were rumours it happened to Bible John.’

  Ancram shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. But see, here’s the crux of the matter. If your chum Geddes became obsessed with Spaven, and stitched him up – with your help, wittingly or unwittingly . . . Well, you know what that means?’

  Rebus nodded, but couldn’t say the words: they’d been choking him for weeks. They’d choked him back then for a few weeks, too.

  ‘It means,’ Ancram went on, ‘the real killer got away with it. Nobody’s ever tried looking for him, he’s scot free.’ He smiled at this last phrase, then sat back in his chair. ‘Now I’m going to tell you something about Uncle Joe.’ He had Rebus’s attention. ‘He’s probably involved in drug dealing. Big profits, unlikely he wouldn’t want some. But Glasgow was sewn up years ago, and rather than get into a war we think he’s been casting his net wider.’

  ‘As far as Aberdeen?’

  Ancram nodded. ‘We’re compiling a file prior to setting up a surveillance op in conjunction with the Squaddies.’

  ‘And every surveillance you’ve tried in the past has failed.’

  ‘There’s a double loop to this one: if someone leaks word to Uncle Joe, we’ll know where the leak started.’

  ‘So you end up with either Uncle Joe or the grass? It might work . . . if you don’t go around telling everyone about it.’

  ‘I’m trusting you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you could fuck things up, pure and simple.’

  ‘You know, I’ve been here before, people telling me to lay off, leave everything to them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And they’ve usually had something to hide.’

  Ancram shook his head. ‘Not this time. But I do have something to offer. Like I say, personally I’ve no interest in the Spaven case, but professionally I’m duty bound to do my job. Thing is, there are ways and ways of presenting a report. I could minimise your part in the whole thing, I could leave you out altogether. I’m not telling you to drop any investigation; I’m just asking you to freeze it for a week or so.’

  ‘And let the trail grow cold, maybe enough time for a few more suicides and accidental deaths?’

  Ancram looked exasperated.

  ‘Just do your job, Chief Inspector,’ Rebus said. ‘And I’ll do mine.’ Rebus got to his feet, looked for the paper with the Johnny Bible story, stuffed it in his pocket.

  ‘Here’s the deal,’ Ancram said, smouldering. ‘I’m going to have a man with you at all times, reporting back to me. It’s either that or a suspension.’

  Rebus jerked his thumb towards the window. ‘Him out there?’ The driver was enjoying a smoke in the sunshine. Ancram shook his head.

  ‘Someone who knows you better.’

  Rebus came up with the answer a second before Ancram spoke.

  ‘Jack Morton.’

  He was waiting for Rebus outside the flat. Water was dribbling down the dishels from where neighbours were cleaning their cars. Jack had been sitting in his own car, windows rolled down, his paper open at the crossword. Now he was out of the car and had his arms folded, head inclined to the sun’s rays. He was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and faded jeans, newish white trainers on his feet.

  ‘Sorry to muck up your weekend,’ Rebus told him, as he got out of Ancram’s car.

  ‘Remember,’ Ancram called to Jack, ‘don’t let him out of your sight. If he goes for a dump, I want you keeking through the key-hole. If he says he’s putting the rubbish out, I want you inside one of the bags. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jack said.

  The police driver was asking Rebus where he should park the Saab. Rebus pointed to the double yellow line at the bottom of the street. The windscreen still boasted its Grampian Police Business sign. Rebus was in no hurry to tear it off. Ancram got out of his driving seat and opened the rear door. His driver handed Rebus the keys to the Saab and his suitcase out of the boot, and got into his boss’s car, adjusting the seat and the rearview. Rebus and Jack watched Ancram being driven away.

  ‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘I hear you’re with the Juice Church these days.’

  Jack wrinkled his nose. ‘I can take or leave the holy roller stuff, but it’s helped me give up the hooch.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘How come I never know when you’re being serious?’

  ‘Years of practice.’

  ‘Nice holiday?’

  ‘Nice doesn’t begin to describe it.’

  ‘I see your face took a dunt.’

  Rebus touched his temple. The swelling was going down. ‘Some people get temperamental when you beat them to the sunbeds.’

  They climbed the stairwell, Jack a couple of steps behind Rebus.

  ‘Are you seriously not going to let me out of your sight?’

  ‘That’s what the boss wants.’

  ‘And what he wants he gets?’

  ‘If I know what’s good for me. It’s taken me a lot of years to come to the conclusion that I do want what’s good for me.’

  ‘So speaks the philosopher.’ Rebus put his key in the lock, pushed the door open. There was some mail on the hall carpet, but not much. ‘You realise this is probably against a couple of dozen laws. I mean, you can’t just follow me around if I don’t want you to.’

  ‘So take it to the Court of Human Rights.’ Jack followed Rebus into the living room. The suitcase stayed out in the hall.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Ha ha.’ />
  Rebus shrugged, found a clean glass and poured himself some of Kayleigh Burgess’s whisky. It went down without touching the sides. He exhaled noisily. ‘You must miss it though?’

  ‘All the time,’ Jack admitted, slumping on to the sofa.

  Rebus poured another. ‘I know I would.’

  ‘That’s half the battle.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Admitting you’d have a problem without it.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  Jack shrugged, got to his feet again. ‘Mind if I make a phone call?’

  ‘My home is your home.’

  Jack walked over to the telephone. ‘Looks like you’ve got some messages. Want to play them?’

  ‘They’ll all be from Ancram.’

  Jack lifted the receiver, pressed seven digits. ‘It’s me,’ he said at last. ‘We’re here.’ Then he put the telephone down.

  Rebus looked at him above the rim of the glass.

  ‘There’s a team on its way,’ Jack explained. ‘To look the place over. Chick said he’d tell you.’

  ‘He told me. No search warrant, I suppose?’

  ‘If you want it, we can get one. But if I were you, I’d just sit back and let it happen – quick and painless. Plus . . . if anything ever comes to court, you’ll have the prosecution on a technicality.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘Are you on my side, Jack?’ Jack sat down again, but didn’t say anything. ‘You told Ancram I’d phoned you, didn’t you?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘I kept my trap shut when maybe I shouldn’t.’ He sat forward. ‘Chick knows we go back, you and me, that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘It’s a loyalty thing, he’s testing my loyalty to him, pitting the past – that’s you and me – against my future.’

  ‘And how loyal are you, Jack?’

  ‘Don’t push it.’

  Rebus drained his glass. ‘This is going to be an interesting few days. What happens if I get lucky winching? Are you going to want to hide beneath the bed, like a piss-pot or the fucking bogeyman?’

  ‘John, don’t get —’

  But Rebus was on his feet. ‘This is my home, for Christ’s sake! The one place I can hide from all the shite flying around out there! Am I supposed to just sit here and take it? You standing guard, forensics sniffing around like mongrels at a lamp-post – am I supposed to sit here and let you get on with it?’