10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Last I heard.’

  ‘Remember Bob-a-Job week? You had to go round the neighbours, washing windows, digging their gardens. Then at the end, you handed all the cash over to Akela.’

  ‘Who promptly stuck half in his pocket.’

  Jack looked at him. ‘There’s a touch of the cynic in you, isn’t there?’

  ‘Maybe just a touch.’

  ‘So where to now? Fort Apache?’

  ‘After what I’ve just been through?’

  ‘The Ox?’

  ‘You’re learning.’

  Jack opted for tomato juice – watching his weight, he said – while Rebus had a half-pint and, after a moment’s thought, a nip. The lunchtime trade wasn’t in yet, but the pies and bridies were heating in preparation. Maybe the barmaid had been in the Girl Guides. They took their drinks through to the back room, settled at a corner table.

  ‘It’s funny being back in Edinburgh,’ Jack said. ‘Never used to drink here, did we? What was the name of the local along Great London Road?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’ It was true; he couldn’t even recall the pub’s interior, yet must have been in there two or three hundred times. It was just a place for drink and discussion; what life it had the drinkers brought with them.

  ‘Jesus, the money we wasted in there.’

  ‘There speaks the reformed drinker.’

  Jack forced a smile, lifted his glass. ‘John, tell me though, why do you drink?’

  ‘It kills my dreams.’

  ‘It’ll kill you in the end, too.’

  ‘Something’s got to.’

  ‘Know what someone said to me? They said you were the world’s longest surviving suicide victim.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  Rebus was laughing. ‘Maybe I should apply to the Guinness Book of Records.’

  Jack drained his glass. ‘So what’s the itinerary?’

  ‘There’s someone I’m supposed to call, a journalist.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I suppose she might be home. I’m going back to the bar to use the phone. Are you coming?’

  ‘No, I’ll trust you.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Fairly.’

  So Rebus went to call Mairie, but all he got was her answering machine. He left a brief message, and asked the barmaid if there was a photographer’s within walking distance. She nodded, gave him directions, then went back to wiping glasses. Rebus summoned Jack, and they drifted out of the pub into a day that was growing warmer. There was still a blanket of cloud overhead, oppressive, almost thundery. But you just knew the sun was pummelling it, like a child with its pillow. Rebus took his jacket off, slung it over his shoulder. The photographer’s was one street further along, so they cut through Hill Street.

  The shop carried a window display of portraits – wedding couples seeming to radiate light, young children beaming smiles. Frozen moments of happiness – the great deception – to frame and put in pride of place in your cabinet or on top of the television.

  ‘Holiday snaps, is it?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Just don’t ask how I got them,’ Rebus warned. He explained to the assistant that he wanted reprints made of each negative. She jotted down the instructions and told him it would be next day.

  ‘No chance of one-hour?’

  ‘Not with reprints, sorry.’

  Rebus took the receipt from her and folded it into his pocket. Outside again, the sun had given up. It was raining. Rebus kept his jacket off, sweating enough as it was.

  ‘Look,’ Jack said, ‘you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but I wouldn’t mind knowing a bit about all this.’

  ‘All what?’

  ‘Your trip to Aberdeen, all the little coded messages between Chick and you, just, well, everything.’

  ‘Probably best you don’t know.’

  ‘Why? Because I’m working for Ancram?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Come on, John.’

  But Rebus wasn’t listening. Two shops down from the photographer’s was a small DIY store: paint and brushes and wallpaper rolls. It gave Rebus an idea. Back at the car, he gave directions, telling Jack they were on a mystery tour – remembering Lumsden saying the same thing to him his first night in Furry Boot Town. Near St Leonard’s Rebus told Jack to make a left.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Here.’

  It was a do-it-yourself superstore. The car park was almost empty, so they parked close to the doors. Then Rebus hopped out and found a trolley with four working wheels.

  ‘You’d think in a place like this they’d have someone who could fix them.’

  ‘What are we doing here?’

  ‘I need a few things.’

  ‘You need provisions, not bags of plaster.’

  Rebus turned to him. ‘That’s just where you’re wrong.’

  He bought paint, rollers and brushes, turps, a couple of ground-sheets, plaster, a hot-air gun, sandpaper (coarse and fine), and varnish, sticking it all on his credit card. Then he treated Jack to lunch at a nearby café, a haunt of his from St Leonard’s days.

  And afterwards: home. Jack helped him carry everything upstairs.

  ‘Brought any old clothes with you?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘I’ve a boilersuit in the boot.’

  ‘Better bring it up.’ Rebus stopped, stared at his open door, dropped the paint and ran into the flat. A quick check told him there was no one there. Jack was examining the jamb.

  ‘Looks like someone took a crowbar to it,’ he said. ‘What’s missing?’

  ‘The hi-fi and telly are still there.’

  Jack walked in, checked the rooms. ‘Looks much the same as when we left it. Want to call it in?’

  ‘Why? We both know this is Ancram trying to rattle me.’

  ‘I don’t see that.’

  ‘No? Funny I get a break-in when I’m being interrogated by him.’

  ‘We should call it in, that way the insurance will cover you for a new door-frame.’ Jack looked around him. ‘Surprised nobody heard it.’

  ‘Deaf neighbours,’ Rebus said. ‘Edinburgh’s famous for them. All right, we’ll call it in. You go back to the store and fetch another lock or something.’

  ‘And what will you be doing?’

  ‘Sitting here, minding the fort. I promise.’

  The minute Jack was out of the door, Rebus headed for the telephone. He asked to be put through to DCI Ancram. Then he waited, looking around the room. Somebody breaks in, then leaves without taking the hi-fi. It was almost an insult.

  ‘Ancram.’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Something on your mind, Inspector?’

  ‘My flat’s been broken into.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it. What did they take?’

  ‘Nothing. That’s where they slipped up. I thought you should tell them.’

  Ancram laughed. ‘You think I had something to do with it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d tell me. The word “harassment” springs to mind.’ As soon as he said it, he thought of The Justice Programme: how desperate were they? Desperate enough for a spot of housebreaking? He couldn’t see it, not Kayleigh Burgess. Eamonn Breen, however, was another matter entirely . . .

  ‘Look, this is a pretty serious allegation. I’m not sure I want to listen to it. Why not calm down and think it over?’

  Rebus was doing just that. He hung up on Ancram, got his wallet out of his jacket pocket. It was full of scraps of paper, receipts, business cards. He plucked out Kayleigh Burgess’s, phoned her office.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not here this afternoon,’ a secretary told him. ‘Can I take a message?’

  ‘What about Eamonn?’ Trying to sound like a friend. ‘Is he in by any chance?’

  ‘I’ll just check. What’s the name?’

  ‘John Rebus.’

  ‘Hold the line.’ Rebus held. ‘No, sorry, Eamonn’s out as well. Shall I
tell him you called?’

  ‘No, it’s all right, I’ll catch up with him later. Thanks anyway.’

  Rebus went through the flat again, more carefully this time. His first thought had been a straight break-in; his second some sort of ruse to wind him up. But now he was thinking of other things someone could have been looking for. It wasn’t easy to tell: Siobhan and her friends hadn’t exactly left the place as they’d found it. But nor had they been particularly thorough. For instance, they hadn’t spent time in the kitchen, hadn’t opened the cupboard where he kept all his cuttings and newspapers.

  But someone had. Rebus knew which cutting he’d last read, and it was no longer on top of the pile. Instead, it had migrated south three or four layers. Maybe Jack . . . no, he didn’t think Jack had been snooping.

  But someone had. Someone most definitely had.

  By the time Jack got back, Rebus had changed into jeans and a gaudy T-shirt bearing the legend DANCING PIGS. A couple of woolly suits had been round to inspect the damage and scribble some notes. They gave Rebus a reference number. His insurers would want it.

  Rebus had already moved some of the furniture out of the living room into the hall, and placed a ground-sheet over everything else. The other sheet went on the carpet. He lifted the fishing-boat painting off the wall.

  ‘I like that,’ Jack said.

  ‘Rhona gave it to me, the first birthday I had after we were married. Bought it at a craft fair, thought it’d remind me of Fife.’ He was studying the painting and shaking his head.

  ‘I take it it didn’t?’

  ‘I come from west Fife – mining villages, rough – not the East Neuk.’ All fishing creels, tourists and retirement homes. ‘I don’t think she ever understood.’ He took the painting through to the hall.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ Jack said.

  ‘And on police time. Which would you rather do, paint the walls, strip the door, or fit the lock?’

  ‘Paint.’ With his blue boilersuit on, Jack looked the part. Rebus handed him the roller, then reached under the sheet to put the hi-fi on. Stones, Exile on Main Street. Just right. The two of them got to work.

  23

  They took a break and walked up Marchmont Road, buying groceries. Jack kept his boilersuit on, said he felt like he was undercover. He had a smudge of paint on his face, but didn’t bother wiping it off. He was enjoying himself. He’d sung along to the music, even though he didn’t always know the words. They bought junk food mostly, carbohydrate, but added four apples and a couple of bananas. Jack asked if Rebus was going to buy any beer. Rebus shook his head, chose Irn-Bru and bricks of orange juice instead.

  ‘What’s all this in aid of?’ Jack asked as they sauntered home.

  ‘Clearing the mind,’ Rebus answered, ‘giving me time to think . . . I don’t know. Maybe I’m thinking of selling.’

  ‘Selling the flat?’

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘And doing what exactly?’

  ‘Well, I could buy a round-the-world ticket, couldn’t I? Take off for six months. Or stick the money in the bank and live off the interest.’ He paused. ‘Or maybe buy myself a place outside town.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Somewhere by the sea.’

  ‘That’d be nice.’

  ‘Nice?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I just fancy a change.’

  ‘Right next to the beach?’

  ‘Could be a cliff-top, who knows?’

  ‘What’s brought this on?’

  Rebus thought about it. ‘My home doesn’t feel like my castle any longer.’

  ‘Yes, but we bought all the painting stuff before the break-in.’

  Rebus didn’t have an answer to that.

  They worked the rest of the afternoon, windows open to let out the paint fumes.

  ‘Am I supposed to sleep in here tonight?’ Jack asked.

  ‘The spare room,’ Rebus told him.

  The phone rang at half past five. Rebus got to it just as the answering machine cut in.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘John, it’s Brian. Siobhan told me you were back.’

  ‘Well, she should know. How are you?’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘You’re not pick of the week with DCI Ancram.’

  Jack Morton started to take an interest in the call.

  ‘Maybe not, but he’s not my boss.’

  ‘He has pull, though.’

  ‘So let him pull.’

  ‘Brian, I know what you’re up to. I want to talk to you about it. Can we come round there?’

  ‘We?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Maybe I could come see you.’

  ‘This place is a building site. We’ll be there in about an hour, all right?’

  Holmes hesitated, then said that would be fine.

  ‘Brian, this is Jack Morton, an old friend of mine. He’s with Falkirk CID, currently seconded to DI John Rebus.’

  Jack winked at Brian. He’d washed the paint off his face and hands. ‘What he means is, I’m supposed to keep him out of trouble.’

  ‘UN Peacekeeper, eh? Well, come in.’

  Brian Holmes had spent the hour tidying the living room. He saw Rebus’s appraisal.

  ‘Just don’t go into the kitchen – looks like an Apache raiding party’s ridden through.’

  Rebus smiled and sat on the sofa, Jack next to him. Brian asked if they wanted anything to drink. Rebus shook his head.

  ‘Brian, I’ve told Jack a wee bit about what’s happened. He’s a good man, we can speak in front of him. OK?’

  Rebus was taking a calculated risk, hoping the afternoon’s bonding had worked. If not, at least they’d made progress on the room: three walls with first coats, and half of one side of the door stripped. Plus a new lock on the door.

  Brian Holmes nodded and sat down on a chair. There were photos of Nell on top of the gas fire. It looked like they’d been newly framed and placed there: a makeshift shrine.

  ‘Is she at her mum’s?’ Rebus asked.

  Brian nodded. ‘But mostly working late shifts at the library.’

  ‘Any chance she’s coming back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Brian made to bite a fingernail, discovered there was nothing there to bite.

  ‘I’m not sure this is the answer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can’t make yourself resign, so you’re going to let Ancram kick you out: not cooperating, acting the mule.’

  ‘I had a good teacher.’

  Rebus smiled. It was true, after all. He’d had Lawson Geddes; and Brian had had him.

  ‘This happened to me once before,’ Brian went on. ‘At school, I had this really good friend, and we were going to go to university together, only he’d decided to go to Stirling, so I said I’d go there, too. But my first choice had been Edinburgh, and to knock Edinburgh’s offer on the head I had to fail Higher German.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I sat in the exam hall . . . knowing if I just sat there and didn’t answer any of the questions, that would be it.’

  ‘But you answered them?’

  Brian smiled. ‘Couldn’t help myself. I got a C pass.’

  ‘Same problem now,’ Rebus said. ‘If you go this way, you’ll always regret it, because in your heart you don’t want to leave. You like what you’re doing. And beating yourself up about it . . .’

  ‘What about beating other people up?’ Brian looked straight at him as he asked the question. Mental Minto, sporting bruises.

  ‘You lost the head once.’ Rebus held up a finger for emphasis. ‘It was once too often, but you got away with it. I don’t think you’ll do that to anyone ever again.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ Holmes turned to Jack Morton. ‘I had this suspect in the biscuit-tin, I gave him a smack.’

  Jack nodded: Rebus had told him all about it. ‘I’ve been
there myself, Brian,’ Jack said. ‘I mean, it’s never come to blows, but I’ve been close. I’ve skinned my knuckles on a few walls.’

  Holmes held up ten fingers: scrapes all across them.

  ‘See,’ Rebus said, ‘like I say, you’re beating yourself up. Mental’s got a few marks, but they’ll fade.’ He tapped his head. ‘But when the bruises are in here . . .’

  ‘I want Nell back.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘But I want to be a copper.’

  ‘You’ve got to make both those clear to her.’

  ‘Christ.’ Brian rubbed his face. ‘I’ve tried explaining it . . .’

  ‘You’ve always written a good, clear report, Brian.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If the words aren’t coming out right, try writing them down.’

  ‘Send her a letter?’

  ‘Call it that if you like. Just put down what it is you want to say, maybe try explaining why you feel that way.’

  ‘Have you been reading Cosmopolitan or something?’

  ‘Only the problem page.’

  They had a laugh at that, though it didn’t really merit one. Brian stretched in his chair. ‘I need a sleep,’ he said.

  ‘Get an early night, write the letter first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Maybe I will, aye.’

  Rebus started to get to his feet. Brian watched him rise.

  ‘Don’t you want to hear about Mick Hine?’

  ‘Who he?’

  ‘Ex-con, the last man to speak to Lenny Spaven.’

  Rebus sat down again.

  ‘I had a job tracking him down. Turns out he was here in town all the time, sleeping rough.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I had a word with him.’ Brian paused. ‘And I think you should, too. You’ll get a very different picture of Lenny Spaven, believe me.’

  Rebus believed him, whatever he meant. He didn’t want to, but he did.

  Jack was utterly opposed to the idea.

  ‘Look, John, my boss is going to want to talk to this guy Hine, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘How’s it going to look when he finds out not just that your pal Brian’s been there first, but that you’ve followed up?’

  ‘It’s going to look bad, but he hasn’t told me not to.’

  Jack growled his frustration. They’d dropped his car back at the flat, and were now walking down on to Melville Drive. One side of the road was Bruntsfield Links, the other the Meadows, a flat grassy stretch which could be wonderful on a hot summer’s afternoon – a place to relax, to play football or cricket – but scary at night. The paths were lamp-lit, but it was like the wattage had been turned down. Some nights, the walk was positively Victorian. But this was summer, the sky still pink. There were squares of light shining from the Royal Infirmary and a couple of the tall university buildings huddled around George Square. Female students crossed the Meadows in packs, a lesson learned from the animal world. Maybe there were no predators out there tonight, but the fear was just as real. The government had pledged to combat ‘the fear of crime’. It was reported on the TV news just before the latest Hollywood shoot-’em-up.