10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well fuck that, Jack, and fuck you, too.’ The doorbell rang. ‘You get it,’ Rebus said. ‘They’re your dogs.’

  Jack looked hurt as he made for the door. Rebus went into the hall, grabbed his case and took it into his bedroom. He threw it on the bed and opened it. Whoever had packed it had just stuffed everything in, clean and dirty. The whole lot would have to go to the launderette. He lifted out his wash-bag. There was a note folded below it. It told him that ‘certain items of clothing’ had been held back by Grampian Police for forensic ‘exploration’. Rebus looked: his grass-stained trousers and torn shirt from the night he’d been attacked, they were missing. Grogan was having them tested, just in case Rebus had killed Vanessa Holden. Fuck him, fuck them all. Fuck the whole fucking lot of them. Rebus threw the open case across the room, just as Jack came to the doorway.

  ‘John, they say they won’t be long.’

  ‘Tell them to take as long as they like.’

  ‘And tomorrow morning there’ll be blood tests and a saliva sample.’

  ‘I’ll have no trouble with the latter. Just stand Ancram in front of me.’

  ‘He didn’t ask for this job, you know.’

  ‘Fuck off, Jack.’

  ‘I wish I could.’

  Rebus pushed past him into the hall. He glanced into the living room. There were men in there, some of them he knew, all dressed in white boilersuits and polythene gloves. They were lifting the cushions from his sofa, ruffling the pages of his books. They didn’t look like they were enjoying it: small consolation. It made sense that Ancram would use local people: easier than hauling a consignment from weegie-land. The one crouching in front of the corner cupboard got up, turned. Their eyes met.

  ‘Et tu, Siobhan?’

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ Siobhan Clarke said, ears and cheeks reddening. It was about all Rebus needed. He grabbed his jacket, headed for the door.

  ‘John?’ Jack Morton called after him.

  ‘Catch me if you can,’ Rebus said. Halfway down the stairs, Jack did just that.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘We’re going to a pub,’ Rebus told him. ‘We’ll take my car. You won’t be drinking, so you can drive me home afterwards. That way we stay the right side of the law.’ Rebus pulled the door open. ‘Now let’s see just how strong your Juice Church really is.’

  Outside, Rebus almost collided with a tall man with black curly hair, turning grey. He saw the microphone, heard the man rattle off a question. Eamonn Breen. Rebus ducked his head just enough to catch Breen on the bridge of his nose: no power in the ‘Glasgow kiss’, just enough to let Rebus past.

  ‘Bastard!’ Breen spluttered, dropping the mike and cupping both hands over his nose. ‘Did you catch that? Did you?’

  Rebus glanced back, saw blood dripping between Breen’s fingers, saw the cameraman nodding, saw Kayleigh Burgess over to one side, a pen in her mouth, looking at Rebus with half a smile.

  ‘She probably thought you’d prefer to have a friendly face around,’ Jack Morton said.

  They were standing in the Oxford Bar, and Rebus had just told him about Siobhan.

  ‘Given the circumstances, I know I would.’ Jack was halfway down a pint of fresh orange and lemonade. Ice rattled in the glass when he tipped it. Rebus was on his second pint of Belhaven Best, motoring in fifth: nice and smooth. Sunday evening in the Ox, only twenty minutes after opening time, the place was quiet. Three regulars stood beside them at the bar, heads angled up towards the television, some quiz programme. The quizmaster had topiary where his haircut should have been and teeth transplanted from a Steinway. His job was to hold a card up to just below his face, read out the question, stare at the camera, then repeat the question as though nuclear disarmament depended on the answer.

  ‘So, Barry,’ he intoned, ‘for two hundred points: which character plays the Wall in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream?’

  ‘Pink Floyd,’ said the first regular.

  ‘Snout,’ said the second.

  ‘Cheerio, Barry,’ said the third, waving his fingers at the television, where Barry was clearly in trouble. A buzzer sounded. The quizmaster opened the question to the other two contestants.

  ‘No?’ he said. ‘No takers?’ He seemed surprised, but had to refer to his card to find the answer. ‘Snout,’ he said, looking at the hapless trio, then repeating the name just so they’d remember next time. Another card. ‘Jasmine, for a hundred and fifty points: in which American state would you find the town of Akron?’

  ‘Ohio,’ said the second regular.

  ‘Isn’t he a character in Star Trek?’ asked the first.

  ‘Cheerio, Jasmine,’ said the third.

  ‘So,’ Jack asked, ‘are we talking?’

  ‘It takes more than my home being raided, my clothes confiscated, and a suspicion of multiple murder hanging over my head to put me in the huff. Of course we’re fucking talking.’

  ‘Well, that’s all-fucking-right then.’

  Rebus snorted into his drink, then had to wipe foam off his nose. ‘I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed nutting that wanker.’

  ‘He probably enjoyed the fact that the whole thing was being filmed.’

  Rebus shrugged, reached into his pocket for cigarettes and lighter.

  ‘Go on then,’ Jack said, ‘give me one.’

  ‘You’ve stopped, remember?’

  ‘Aye, but there’s no AA for smokers. Come on.’

  But Rebus shook his head. ‘I appreciate the gesture, Jack, but you’re right.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About looking out for your future. You’re dead right. So don’t cave in, stick to it. No booze, no cigs, and report my doings back to Chick Ancram.’

  Jack looked at him. ‘You mean that?’

  ‘Every word of it,’ Rebus drained his glass. ‘Except the bit about Ancram, of course.’

  Then he ordered another round.

  ‘The answer’s Ohio,’ the quizmaster said, no surprise to anyone in the bar.

  ‘I think,’ Jack said a little later on, halfway down his second pint of juice, ‘we’re about to hit our first crisis of faith.’

  ‘You need a piss?’ Jack nodded. ‘Well forget it,’ Rebus said, ‘I’m not going in there with you.’

  ‘Give me your word you’ll stay put.’

  ‘Where would I go?’

  ‘John . . .’

  ‘OK, OK. Would I get you into trouble, Jack?’

  ‘I don’t know, would you?’

  Rebus winked at him. ‘Off you go to the bog and find out.’

  Jack stood his ground as long as he could, then turned and fled. Rebus leaned his elbows on the bar, smoking his cigarette. He was wondering what Jack would do if he ran out on him right now: would he report it to Ancram, or would he keep quiet? Would he be doing himself any favours by reporting it? After all, it showed him in a bad light, and he wouldn’t want that. So maybe he’d keep quiet. Rebus could go about his business without Ancram knowing.

  Except that Ancram had ways of knowing. The man wasn’t solely dependent on Jack Morton. It was an interesting point, nevertheless: a point of faith, apt enough on a Sunday night. Maybe Rebus would drag Jack along to see Father Conor Leary later on. Jack used to be a real hun, a blue-nose, maybe still was. A drink with a Catholic priest might send him scurrying into the night. He looked round and saw Jack at the top of the steps, looking relieved – in both senses of the word.

  Poor bastard, Rebus thought. Ancram wasn’t being fair on him. You could see the strain around Jack’s mouth. Rebus felt tired suddenly, remembered he’d been up since six, and had been on the rack ever since. He drained his glass and gestured towards the door. Jack seemed only too glad to be leaving.

  When they got outside, Rebus asked him, ‘How close were you in there?’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Ordering a real drink.’

  ‘As close as I ever get.’

  Rebus leaned on the roof
of the car, waiting for Jack to unlock it. ‘Sorry I did that to you,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Brought you here.’

  ‘I should have the willpower to go into a pub without drinking.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  And he had a little smile to himself. Jack would be OK. Jack wouldn’t shop him. The man had lost too much self-respect already.

  ‘There’s a spare room,’ Rebus said, getting into the car, ‘but no sheets or anything. We’ll make up the sofa if that’s OK.’

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ Jack said.

  Fine for Jack, yes, but not so fine for Rebus. It meant he’d have to sleep in his bed. No more nights half-dressed on the chair by the window. No more Stones at two a.m. He knew he had to get busy, had to finish this as fast as he could, one way or another.

  Beginning tomorrow.

  As they left the Ox, Rebus decided on a detour, directed Jack down towards Leith, let him drive them around for a bit, then pointed to a darkened shop doorway.

  ‘That was her pitch,’ he said.

  ‘Whose?’ Jack stopped the car. The street was lifeless, the working girls busy elsewhere.

  ‘Angie Riddell’s. I knew her, Jack. I mean, I’d met her a couple of times. First time, it was business, I was pulling her in. But then I came down here looking for her.’ He looked at Jack, expecting a jokey comment, but Jack’s face was serious. He was listening. ‘We sat and talked. Next thing I knew, she was dead. It’s different when you know someone. You remember their eyes. I don’t mean the colour or anything, I mean all the things their eyes told you about them.’ He sat in silence for a moment. ‘Whoever killed her, he couldn’t have been looking at her eyes.’

  ‘John, we’re not priests, you know. I mean, this is a job, right? You have to be able to lay it aside sometimes.’

  ‘Is that what you do, Jack? Home after a shift, and suddenly everything’s OK? Doesn’t matter what you’ve seen out there, your home is your castle, eh?’

  Jack shrugged, hands rubbing the steering-wheel. ‘It’s not my life, John.’

  ‘Good for you, pal.’ He looked towards the doorway again, expecting to see something of her there, the trace of a shadow, something left behind. But all he saw was darkness.

  ‘Get me home,’ he told Jack, closing his eyes with both thumbs.

  The Fairmount Hotel was situated in Glasgow’s west end, just off the main traffic routes. From the outside, it was an unassuming slab of concrete. Inside, it was a middle-management sort of place, its main business taking place during the week. Bible John booked for the Sunday night only.

  News of the Upstart’s latest victim had broken on Sunday morning, too late for coverage in the quality press. Instead, he caught the hourly news bulletins on the radio in his room, tuning between half a dozen stations, and watched what TV news he could, making notes between times. The Teletext flashes were brief paragraphs. Almost all he knew was that the victim, a married woman in her late twenties, had been found near the harbour in Aberdeen.

  Aberdeen again. It was all fitting together. At the same time, if it was the Upstart, he was breaking his pattern – his first married victim, and perhaps his oldest. Which might mean that the pattern had never been there in the first place. It didn’t of necessity negate an existing pattern; it just meant that that pattern had yet to be established.

  Which was what Bible John was counting on.

  Meantime, he opened the UPSTART file on his laptop and read the notes on the third victim. Judith Cairns, known to her friends as Ju-Ju. Twenty-one years old, shared a rented flat in Hillhead, just across Kelvingrove Park – he could almost see Hillhead from his window. Although she was registered unemployed, Judith Cairns had worked the black economy – some bar work at lunchtimes; a chip shop in the evenings; and weekend mornings as a chambermaid at the Fairmount Hotel. Which was, Bible John was guessing, how the Upstart had come to meet her. A travelling man frequented hotels: he should know. He wondered how close he was to the Upstart – not physically, but mentally. He didn’t want to feel close in any way to this brash pretender, this usurper. He wanted to feel unique.

  He paced his room, wanting to be back in Aberdeen while the latest inquiry unfolded, but he had work here in Glasgow, work he could not accomplish until the middle of the night. He stared out of the window, imagining Judith Cairns crossing Kelvingrove Park: she must have done it dozens of times. And one time she did it with the Upstart. Once was all he needed.

  During the course of the afternoon and evening, more news filtered down of the latest victim. She was now being described as a ‘successful twenty-seven-year-old company director’. The word businessman was like a shriek in Bible John’s head. Not a lorry driver or any other profession; a simple businessman. The Upstart. He sat down at his computer and scrolled back to his notes on the first victim, the student at Robert Gordon’s University, studying geology. He needed to know more about her, but couldn’t think which route to take. And now there was a fourth victim to occupy him. Perhaps study of number four would mean he wouldn’t need the first cull to complete his picture. Tonight might point the way.

  He went out late for a walk. It was very pleasant, balmy night air, not much traffic about. Glasgow wasn’t such a bad place: he’d been to cities in the States that could eat it for brunch. He remembered the city of his youth, stories of razor gangs and bare-knuckle bouts. Glasgow had a violent history, but that didn’t tell the full story. It could be a beautiful city, too, a city for photographers and artists. A place for lovers . . .

  I didn’t want to kill them. He would like to be able to tell Glasgow that, but of course it would be a lie. At the time . . . at the last moment . . . all he’d wanted in the world was their death. He had read interviews with killers, sat through trial testimony a couple of times, too, wanting someone to explain his feelings to him. No one came close. It was impossible either to describe or to understand.

  There were many who especially didn’t understand his choice of third victim. It felt pre-ordained, he could have told them. It didn’t matter about the witness in the taxi. Nothing mattered, it had all been decided by some higher power.

  Or some lower one.

  Or merely by some collision of chemicals in his brain, by a genetic mismatch.

  And afterwards, there’d been his uncle’s offer of a job in the States, so he could afford to leave Glasgow. Leave the whole life behind him and create a new one, a new identity . . . as if marriage and a career could ever take the place of what he’d left behind . . .

  He bought the next morning’s edition of the Herald at a street corner and retired to a bar to devour it. He drank orange juice and sat in a corner. No one paid him any attention. There were more details about the Upstart’s latest victim. She worked in corporate presentations, which meant putting together packages for industry: videos, displays, speech-writing, trade stands . . . He studied the photo again. She’d worked in Aberdeen, and there was really only one industry in Aberdeen. Oil. He didn’t recognise her, felt sure they’d never met. All the same, he wondered why the Upstart had chosen her: could he be sending Bible John a message? Impossible: it would mean he knew who Bible John was. Nobody knew. Nobody.

  It was midnight when he returned to the hotel. Reception was deserted. He went up to his room, dozed for a couple of hours, and had the alarm wake him at half past two. He took the carpeted stairs down to reception, which was still deserted. Breaking into the office took thirty seconds. He closed the door after him and sat down in darkness at the computer. It was switched on and in screen saver mode. He nudged the mouse to activate the screen, then got to work. He searched back six weeks from the date of Judith Cairns’s murder, checking room registrations and payment methods. He was looking for accounts charged to companies based in or near Aberdeen. His feeling was that the Upstart hadn’t come to this hotel looking for a victim, but had been here on business, and had found her by chance. He was looking for the elusive pattern to star
t emerging.

  Fifteen minutes later, he had a list of twenty companies, and of the individuals who had paid with a company credit card. For now, that was all he needed, but he was left with a dilemma: delete the files from the computer, or leave them? With the information deleted, he would have every chance of beating the police to the Upstart. Yes, but someone from the hotel staff would notice, and would be curious. They might contact the police. There would probably be back-ups on floppy. He would actually be helping the police, alerting them to his presence . . . No, leave well alone. Do no more than is necessary. The maxim had served him well in the past.

  Back in his room, he pored over the list in his notebook. It would be easy to check where each company was based, what it did – work for later. He had a meeting in Edinburgh tomorrow, and would use the trip to do something about John Rebus. He checked Teletext one last time before retiring for the night. After turning off the lights, he opened the curtains, then lay down on the bed. There were stars in the sky, a few of them bright enough to be visible through the streetlight. Dead, a lot of them, or so the astronomers said. So many dead things around, what difference would another one make?

  None at all. Not one jot.

  22

  They took Jack’s car to Howdenhall, Rebus sitting in the back, calling Jack his ‘chauffeur’. It was a gloss-black Peugeot 405, three years old, turbo version; Rebus disregarded the No Smoking sticker and lit up, but kept the window open beside him. Jack didn’t say anything, didn’t even look in the rearview. Rebus hadn’t slept well in the bed; night sweats, the sheets like a straitjacket. Chase dreams waking him every hour or so, sending him shooting out of bed to stand naked and trembling in the middle of the floor.

  Jack for his part had complained first thing of a stiff neck. His second complaint: the kitchen, bare fridge and all. He couldn’t go out to the shops, not without Rebus, so they’d made straight for the car.