10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Jack was thoughtful. ‘Does it matter?’ he said at last.

  ‘You mean whether I’m right or not? Jesus, Jack, I don’t know.’ Rebus rubbed his eyes. ‘It was all so long ago. Does it matter if the killer got away? Even if I’d come forward at the time, it would have maybe cleared Spaven but it wouldn’t have got us the real killer, would it?’ He let out a breath. ‘I’ve been spinning it in my head all these years, the grooves are worn almost to nothing.’

  ‘Time to buy a new record?’

  Rebus smiled for real this time. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘One thing I don’t understand . . . why didn’t Spaven himself explain any of this? I mean, he never touches on it in his book. He could have just said why Geddes had it in for him.’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘Look at Weir and his daughter.’

  ‘You mean it was personal?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jack.’

  Jack picked up the letter, turning its pages. ‘Interesting about the Borneo pics though. Ancram thought they were relevant because they showed Spaven. Now we find it was this guy Sloane that Geddes was after.’ Jack checked his watch. ‘We should nip over to Fettes, show this to Ancram.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Let’s do it. But first, I want a photocopy of Lawson’s letter. Like you say, Jack, I might not believe it, but it’s here in black and white.’ He looked up at his friend. ‘Which should be good enough for The Justice Programme.’

  Ancram looked like he should have been fitted with a pressure valve. He was so angry he’d almost swung all the way round to calm. His voice was the first wisp of smoke from a sleeping volcano.

  ‘What is it?’

  Rebus was trying to hand him a sheet of paper, folded in half. They were in Ancram’s office. Ancram was seated, Rebus and Jack standing.

  ‘Look and see,’ Rebus said.

  Ancram stared at him, then unfolded the headed note.

  ‘It’s a doctor’s line,’ Rebus explained. ‘Forty-eight-hour stomach bug. Dr Curt was very clear that I should isolate myself. He said it could be catching.’

  When he spoke, Ancram’s voice was little more than whisper. ‘Since when do pathologists hand out sick notes?’

  ‘You haven’t seen the queues at my health centre.’

  Ancram crunched the note into a ball.

  ‘It’s dated and everything,’ Rebus said. Of course it was: Dr Curt had been their last call before heading north with Eve.

  ‘Shut up, sit down, and listen to me while I tell you why you’re on an official reprimand. And don’t think a reprimand’s going to be the end of the affair.’

  ‘Maybe you should read this first, sir,’ Jack said, handing over Geddes’ letter.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Not so much the end of the affair, sir,’ Rebus told him, ‘more like the heart of the matter. While you’re digesting it, maybe I could have a browse through the files.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Those Borneo pics, I’d like another look.’

  After the first few sentences of Lawson Geddes’ confession, Ancram was hooked. Rebus could have walked out unnoticed with the files under his arm. But instead he slipped the photos out of their packet and went through them, checking the back of each for identifying names.

  In one photo, third from the left was marked as Pvt. Sloane, R. Rebus stared at the face. Slightly blurred, with some water damage and fading. A fresh-faced young man, not long out of teens, his smile slightly crooked, maybe the fault of his teeth.

  Bible John had one tooth which overlapped another, according to the eye-witness.

  Rebus shook his head. That really was stretching the evidence, and Lawson Geddes had done enough of that in his time for both of them. Without knowing exactly why, and checking first that Ancram was still immersed in the letter, Rebus slid the photo into his pocket.

  ‘Well,’ Ancram said at last, ‘this will obviously have to be discussed.’

  ‘Obviously, sir. No interview today then?’

  ‘Just a couple of questions. Number one, what the devil happened to your nose and tooth?’

  ‘I got too close to a fist. Anything else, sir?’

  ‘Yes, what the hell have you been doing with Jack?’

  Rebus turned, saw what Ancram meant: Jack fast asleep on a chair by the wall.

  ‘So,’ Jack said, ‘this is the big challenge.’

  They’d come to the Oxford Bar, just for somewhere to be. Rebus ordered two orange juices, then turned to Jack. ‘You want some breakfast?’ Jack nodded. ‘And four packets of crisps, any flavour,’ Rebus told the barmaid.

  They raised their glasses, said ‘Cheers’, and drank.

  ‘Fancy a smoke?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I’d kill for one,’ Rebus said, laughing.

  ‘So,’ Jack said, ‘what’s been achieved?’

  ‘Depends on your point of view,’ Rebus said. He’d been asking himself the same question. Maybe the Squaddies would nab all the drug players: Uncle Joe, Fuller, Stemmons. Maybe before that happened, Fuller would have done something with Ludovic Lumsden and Hayden Fletcher. Maybe. Hayden Fletcher was a regular at Burke’s. He met Tony El there, maybe even scored nose-talc from him. Maybe Fletcher was the type who liked to hang out with gangsters – some people were like that. Seeing the Major was worried, and learning that Allan Mitchison was the problem . . . it would have been easy to talk it over with Tony El, and for Tony to see the chance of some easy cash . . . Maybe Major Weir himself ordered Mitch’s death. Well, his was the one certain punishment, his daughter would make sure of that. And had Tony El ever actually intended to kill Mitch? Rebus couldn’t even be sure of that. Maybe he’d have torn the bag from Mitch’s head at the last minute. Then maybe he’d have warned him to forget all about T-Bird Oil.

  It seemed part of some larger pattern, accidents forming themselves into a dance of association. Fathers and daughters, fathers and sons, infidelities, the illusions we sometimes call memory. Past errors harped on, or made good by spurious confession. Bodies littered down the years, mostly forgotten except by the perpetrators. History turning sour, or fading away like old photographs. Endings . . . no rhyme or reason to them. They just happened. You died, or disappeared, or were forgotten. You became nothing more than a name on the back of an old photo, and sometimes not even that.

  Jethro Tull: ‘Living in the Past’. Rebus had been a slave to that rhythm for far too long. It was the work that did it. As a detective, he lived in people’s pasts: crimes committed before he arrived on the scene; witnesses’ memories ransacked. He had become a historian, and the role had bled into his personal life. Ghosts, bad dreams, echoes.

  But maybe now he had a chance. Look at Jack: he’d reinvented himself. Good news week.

  The phone rang, was answered by the barmaid, who nodded towards Rebus. He took the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I tried your first home, decided to try your second home.’

  Siobhan. Rebus straightened up.

  ‘What did you get?’

  ‘A name: Martin Davidson. Stayed at the Fairmount three weeks before the Judith Cairns murder. The room was charged to his employer, a firm called LancerTech, as in technical support. Based in Altens, just outside Aberdeen. They design the safety elements into platform equipment, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You’ve talked to them?’

  ‘Soon as I got his name. Don’t worry, I didn’t mention him. I just asked a couple of general questions. Receptionist said I was the second person in two days to ask her the same thing.’

  ‘Who was the other person?’

  ‘Chamber of Commerce, she said.’ They were quiet for a moment.

  ‘And Davidson fits with Robert Gordon’s?’

  ‘He hosted some seminars earlier this year. His name was down on the staff roll.’

  A solid connection. Rebus could feel it like a punch. His knuckles were white on the receiver.

  ‘There’s more,’ Siobhan said. ‘You know how businesses sometime
s stay faithful to one hotel chain? Well, the Fairmount has a sister establishment here. Martin Davidson of LancerTech was in town the night Angie Riddell was killed.’

  Rebus saw her picture again: Angie. Hoped she was getting ready to rest.

  ‘Siobhan, you’re a genius. Have you told anyone else?’

  ‘You’re the first. After all, you gave me the tip.’

  ‘I gave you a hunch, that’s all. It might not have paid off. This is down to you. Now take it to Gill Templer – she’s your boss – tell her what you’ve just told me, let her pass it on to the Johnny Bible team. Stick to procedure.’

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

  ‘Pass the news along, and make sure you get the credit. Then we’ll wait and see. All right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He put down the receiver, told Jack what she’d just told him. Then they just stood there, drinking their drinks, staring at the mirror behind the bar. Calmly at first, then with more agitation. Rebus was the first to say what they both knew.

  ‘We need to be there, Jack. I need to be there.’

  Jack looked at him, nodded. ‘Your turn to drive or mine?’

  33

  British Telecom had listings for two Martin Davidsons in Aberdeen. But Friday afternoon, he was most likely still at work.

  ‘Doesn’t mean we’ll find him at Altens,’ Jack said.

  ‘Let’s go there anyway.’ Practically Rebus’s only thought the whole drive: he needed to see Martin Davidson, not necessarily speak to him, just clap eyes on him. Eye contact: Rebus wanted that memory.

  ‘He could be working at OSC, or anywhere else for that matter,’ Jack went on. ‘He might not even be in Aberdeen.’

  ‘Let’s go there anyway,’ Rebus repeated.

  Altens Industrial Estate was south of the city, signposted off the A92. They found a map at the entrance to the estate, and used it to wind their way in towards LTS – Lancer Technical Support. There was what looked like a jam at one point, cars blocking the road, nobody going anywhere. Rebus got out to take a look, and almost wished he hadn’t. They were police cars, unmarked but with tell-tale static coming from their radios. Siobhan had passed on the info, and someone had been fast to act.

  A man was bearing down on Rebus. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Rebus shrugged, hands in pockets. ‘Informal observer?’

  DCI Grogan narrowed his eyes. But his mind was elsewhere; he’d no time or inclination for argument.

  ‘Is he inside?’ Rebus asked, nodding towards the LTS building, a typical industrial unit of windowless white corrugation.

  Grogan shook his head. ‘We came steaming down here, now it seems he hasn’t come in today.’

  Rebus frowned. ‘Day off?’

  ‘Not officially. The switchboard tried his home, no answer.’

  ‘Is that where you’re headed?’

  Grogan nodded.

  Rebus didn’t ask if they could tag along; Grogan would only say no. But once the convoy was moving, no one would notice an extra car at the tail.

  He got back into the Peugeot and told Jack about it, while Jack reversed and found a parking spot out of the way. They watched the police cars execute three-point turns and head back out of the estate, then eased their way in behind the last of them.

  They headed north over the Dee and along Anderson Drive, passing more buildings belonging to Robert Gordon’s University, and several oil company HQs. At last they headed off Anderson Drive, past Summerhill Academy, and into a tight maze of suburban streets with green-field sites beyond.

  A couple of the cars left the convoy, probably to circle around and come at Davidson’s house from the other direction, blocking him in. Brake lights came on, the cars stopping in the middle of the road. Doors opened, officers appearing. Quick confabs, Grogan issuing orders, pointing to left and right. Most eyes were on a single house, its curtains closed.

  ‘Reckon he’s flown?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Let’s find out.’ Rebus undid his seat-belt and opened the door.

  Grogan was sending men to the neighbouring houses, some to ask questions, some to nip out the back door and work their way round the back of the suspect’s house.

  ‘Hope this isn’t a wild goose chase,’ Grogan muttered. He saw Rebus, but still barely registered his presence.

  ‘Men in position, sir.’

  People had come out of their houses, wondering what was going on. Rebus could hear the distant chimes of an ice-cream van.

  ‘Armed Response Unit standing by, sir.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll need them.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’

  Grogan sniffed, ran a finger under his nose, then selected two men to go with him to the suspect’s door. He pressed the bell, and there was a collective holding of breath while they waited. Grogan rang again.

  ‘What can they see round the back?’

  One of Grogan’s men radioed to ask. ‘Curtains are closed upstairs and down, no sign of life.’

  Just like at the front.

  ‘Buzz a JP, say we need a warrant.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And meantime, take a sledgehammer to that bloody door.’

  The officer nodded, gave a signal, and a car boot was opened. Inside was like the back of a builder’s van. Out came the sledgehammer. Three blows and the door was open. Ten seconds later there were cries for an ambulance. Ten seconds after that, someone suggested a hearse instead.

  Jack was a good copper: the boot of his car held scene of crime equipment, including overshoes and gloves, and the all-over plastic boilersuits which made you look like a walking condom. Officers were being kept out of the house so as not to contaminate the scene. They stood crammed in the doorway, trying to see what they could. When Rebus and Jack stepped forward, no one recognised them, so took them for forensics. The crowd parted for a moment, and both men were inside.

  The rules on contamination didn’t seem to extend to senior officers and their flunkeys: Grogan stood in the living room, hands in pockets, examining the scene. The body of a young man lay on the black leather sofa. His fair hair was matted over a deep cut. More blood had dried on his face and neck. There were signs of a struggle: the glass and chrome coffee table overturned, magazines crumpled underfoot. A black leather jacket had been thrown over the man’s chest, a gentle act after the bloodshed. Stepping closer, Rebus saw marks on the neck, visible below the blood-lines. On the floor in front of the body sat a large green holdall, the sort you took to the gym or for a weekend trip. Rebus peered inside, saw a backpack, a single shoe, Angie Riddell’s necklace . . . and a length of plastic-covered clothes-line.

  ‘I think we can rule out suicide,’ Grogan muttered.

  ‘Knocked unconscious, then strangled,’ Rebus guessed.

  ‘You reckon it’s him?’

  ‘That bag isn’t just sitting there for fun. Whoever did this, they knew who he was, and wanted us to know, too.’

  ‘An accomplice?’ Grogan asked. ‘A mate, someone he blabbed to?’

  Rebus shrugged again. He was intent on the corpse’s face, felt cheated by it: the closed eyes, the repose. I’ve come all this way, thanks to you, you bastard ... He stepped closer, lifted the jacket a couple of inches and peered beneath. A black slip-on shoe had been stuffed into Martin Davidson’s left armpit.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Rebus said, turning to Grogan and Jack. ‘Bible John did this.’ He saw disbelief mingled with horror in their faces. Rebus lifted the jacket a little higher so they could see the shoe. ‘He’s been here all the time,’ he said. ‘He never went away . . .’

  The Scene of Crime team did their business, photographing and videoing, bagging and taping potential evidence. The pathologist examined the body, then said it could be removed and taken to the mortuary. There were reporters outside, kept at a distance by police cordons. Once the SOC team had finished upstairs, Grogan took Rebus and Jack up for a look. He didn’t seem to mind them being there, probably wouldn’t h
ave minded if he’d had Jack the Ripper himself for an audience: Grogan was the man who’d be on TV tonight, the man who tracked down Johnny Bible. Only he hadn’t, of course – someone had beaten them to it.

  ‘Tell me again,’ Grogan said, as they climbed the stairs.

  ‘Bible John took souvenirs – shoes, clothes, handbags. But he also placed a sanitary towel in the left armpit. Downstairs . . . that was him letting us know who did this.’

  Grogan shook his head. He would take some convincing. Meantime, he had things to show them. The main bedroom was just that, but beneath the bed were boxes of magazines and videos – hard core S&M, similar to the stuff in Tony El’s bedroom, text in English and several other languages. Rebus wondered if one of the American gangs had brought it to Aberdeen.

  There was a small guest bedroom with a padlock on it. Crowbarred open, it gave the lie to one area of speculation. A couple of the CID men had been wondering if Johnny Bible were tricking them – killing an innocent man and setting him up to look like the killer. The guest bedroom said Martin Davidson was Johnny Bible. It had been turned into a shrine to Bible John and other killers: dozens of scrapbooks, cuttings and photos pinned to the cork boards which lined the walls, videos of documentaries about serial killers, paperback books, heavily annotated, and at the centre of it all a blow-up of one of the Bible John flyers: the face almost smiling, a kindly face, and above it the same basic question: Have You Seen This Man?

  Rebus almost answered yes; there was something about the shape of the face, he’d seen it before somewhere . . . somewhere recently. He took the Borneo photo from his pocket, looked at Ray Sloane, then back at the poster. They were very alike, but that wasn’t the similarity that was niggling Rebus. There was something else, someone else . . .

  Then Jack asked him something from the doorway, and Rebus lost it.

  They followed everyone back to Queen Street. Rebus and Jack had, by association, become part of the team. There was quiet jubilation, tempered with the knowledge that another murderer was in their midst. But as at least one officer put it, ‘If he did for that bastard, good luck to him.’