by Ian Rankin
Which, Rebus guessed, would be the reaction Bible John would be hoping for. He’d be hoping they wouldn’t try too hard to find him. If he’d come out of retirement, then it had been to one end only – the killing of his impersonator. Johnny Bible had taken the glory, the achievement away from his predecessor; now there’d come the revenge.
Rebus sat in the CID office, staring into space, thinking. When someone handed him a cup, he raised it to his lips. But then Jack’s hand stopped him.
‘It’s whisky,’ he warned. Rebus looked down, saw sweet liquid the colour of honey, gazed at it for a moment, then put the cup down on the desk. There was laughter in the office, cheering and singing, like a football crowd after a result: same songs, same chants.
‘John,’ Jack said, ‘remember Lawson.’ It sounded like a warning.
‘What about him?’
‘He became obsessed.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘This is different. I know it was Bible John.’
‘What if it was?’
Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘Come on, Jack, after everything I told you? After Spaven and everything else? You know better than to ask that.’
Grogan was waving Rebus over to a telephone. Smiling, with whisky breath, he handed Rebus the receiver.
‘Someone wants a word.’
‘Hello?’
‘What in God’s name are you doing there?’
‘Oh, hello, Gill. Congratulations, looks like everything’s coming right for once.’
She melted a little. ‘Siobhan’s doing, not mine. I only passed the info along.’
‘Make sure that goes on record.’
‘I will.’
‘I’ll talk to you later.’
‘John . . . when are you coming back?’ Not what she’d wanted to ask.
‘Tonight, maybe tomorrow.’
‘OK.’ She paused. ‘See you then.’
‘Fancy doing something on Sunday?’
She sounded surprised by the question. ‘What sort of thing?’
‘I don’t know. A drive, a walk, somewhere down the coast?’
‘Yes, OK.’
‘I’ll call you. Bye, Gill.’
‘Bye.’
Grogan was refilling a cup. There were at least a couple of crates of whisky, and three of bottled beer.
‘Where do you get this stuff?’ Rebus asked.
Grogan smiled. ‘Oh, you know.’
‘Pubs? Clubs? Places you’re owed a favour?’
Grogan just winked. More officers were arriving all the time – uniforms, civilian staff, even people who looked to be off-duty: all had heard, and all wanted to be part of it. The top brass looked stiff but smiling, declining refills.
‘Maybe Ludovic Lumsden gets it for you?’
Grogan’s face creased. ‘I know you think he shafted you, but Ludo’s a good copper.’
‘Where is he?’
Grogan looked around. ‘No idea.’
In fact, no one knew where Lumsden was; he hadn’t been seen all day. Someone had called him at home, but only got an answering machine. His bleeper was turned on, but he wasn’t responding. A patrol car, detouring past his house, reported no sign of him, though his car was outside. Rebus got an idea, and went downstairs to the comms room. There were people at work here – taking incoming calls, keeping communications open with patrol cars and beat officers. But they had a bottle of whisky of their own, and plastic cups to go round. Rebus asked if he could see the day’s sheets.
He only had to look back an hour. A call from a Mrs Fletcher, reporting her husband missing. He’d gone to work that morning as usual, but hadn’t arrived, and hadn’t come home since. The sheet listed details of his car and a brief description. Patrols had been requested to keep a look-out. In another twelve hours or so, they’d start to deal with it more seriously.
Christian name of missing spouse: Hayden.
Rebus recalled Judd Fuller talking about dumping bodies at sea, or inland, places they’d never be found because no one ever went there. He wondered if that would be the fate of Lumsden and Fletcher . . . No, he couldn’t do it. He wrote a message on the back of one of the sheets and handed it to the duty officer, who read it silently before reaching for the mike.
‘Any patrol in the vicinity of the city centre, to College Street, Burke’s Club. Apprehend Judd Fuller, co-owner, and bring to Queen Street for questioning.’ The comms officer turned to Rebus, who nodded. ‘And check the cellar,’ he continued, ‘persons possibly being held there against their will.’
‘Please repeat,’ one patrol car said. The message was repeated. Rebus went back upstairs.
In spite of the party, some work was still being done. Rebus saw Jack manoeuvring one of the secretaries into a corner, chatting her up twenty to the dozen. Near them, a couple of desk-bound officers were making phone calls. Rebus picked up a spare receiver, called Gill.
‘It’s me.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing. Listen, you passed all the stuff about Toal and Aberdeen on to the Scottish Crime Squad?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s your contact there?’
‘Why?’
‘Because whoever it is, I’ve a message for them. I think Judd Fuller has picked up DS Ludovic Lumsden and a man called ‘Hayden Fletcher, and intends to make sure they’re not seen again.’
‘What?’
‘A patrol car’s gone out to the club, God knows what they’ll find, but the Squaddies should keep an eye on it. If they’re found, they’ll be brought back to Queen Street. The Squaddies might want someone on the scene.’
‘I’ll get on it. Thanks, John.’
‘Any time.’
I’m getting soft in my old age, he thought. Or maybe I’ve just relocated my conscience.
He went walkabout, asked a few drinkers the same question, and eventually had the Oil Liaison officer, DI Jenkins, pointed out to him. Rebus just wanted to look at him. His name was mentioned in Stanley’s confession, along with Lumsden. The Squaddies would be wanting a word with him. He was smiling, looking unconcerned, tanned and rested after his holiday. It gave Rebus a warm glow to realise the man would soon be sweating under an internal inquiry.
Maybe he wasn’t getting so soft after all.
He walked over to the working officers, looked down over their shoulders. They were doing the preliminary work on the murder of Martin Davidson, collating information from neighbours and employer, trying to track down a next of kin, and all the time keeping the media at bay.
One of them slammed his phone down and suddenly had a big grin on his face. He reached for his mug of whisky and drained it.
‘Something?’ Rebus asked.
A balled-up piece of paper hit the officer on the head. Laughing, he threw it back.
‘Neighbour came off the night shift,’ he said, ‘found a car blocking his drive. Had to park on the street. Says he hadn’t seen the car before, and took a good look so he’d know it again. Woke up around lunchtime, and it was gone. Metallic blue BMW, 5 Series. He even got part of the licence plate.’
‘Hell’s bells.’
The officer was reaching for his phone. ‘Shouldn’t take too long.’
‘It better not,’ Rebus replied, ‘or DCI Grogan may not be sober enough to take it in.’
34
Grogan caught Rebus in the hallway, slapped an arm around him. He was missing his tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt were open, showing tufts of wiry grey hair. He’d danced a jig with a couple of WPCs and was sweating profusely. The shift had changed; or rather, a new shift had come on, while the old shift stayed put, not wanting to break the spell. There was occasional talk of pubs and restaurants, nightclubs and bowling alleys, but nobody seemed to leave, and there was communal applause when an Indian restaurant nearby delivered boxes and bags full of food – courtesy of the brass, who by then actually had left the scene. Rebus had helped himself to pakora, keema nan, and chicken tikka, while one CID officer tried t
o explain to another why his saying ‘Bhajis, we don’ need no steenking bhajis’ was a joke.
Judging by Grogan’s breath, he hadn’t taken a meal break. ‘My wee Lowland laddie,’ he said. ‘How are you doing? Enjoying our Highland hospitality?’
‘It’s a great party.’
‘So why the face like a thistle?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘It’s been a long day.’ And a long night before it, he could have added.
Grogan patted his back. ‘You’re welcome back here any time, any time at all.’ Grogan made towards the toilets, paused and turned. ‘Any sign of Ludo?’
‘He’s in the City Hospital, next bed along from a man called Hayden Fletcher.’
‘What?’
‘There’s a Crime Squad officer on the ward, too, waiting for them to wake up and give their statements. That’s how clean Lumsden is. About time you woke up to the fact.’
Rebus went downstairs to the interview rooms, opened the door of the one he’d been interviewed in. There were two more Squaddies inside. And smoking a cigarette at the table, Judd Fuller. Rebus had come down earlier, just for a look, and to explain to the officers what had happened, referring them back to Gill’s tapes and notes.
‘Evening, Judd,’ Rebus said now.
‘Do I know you?’
Rebus walked up to him. ‘You stupid bastard, you let me get away but you still went on using the cellar.’ He shook his head. ‘Erik will be disappointed.’
‘Screw Erik.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Every man for himself now, eh?’
‘Let’s get it over with.’
‘What?’
‘Why you’re here.’ Fuller looked up at him. ‘You want a free hit at me, this is the only chance you’re ever going to get. So make it good.’
‘I don’t need to hit you, Judd.’ Rebus grinned, showing the stunted tooth.
‘Then you’re yellow.’
Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘I used to be, but not any more.’
He turned his back and walked.
Back in CID, the party was in full swing. A cassette player had been wired up, accordion reels at distorted volume. Only two couples were dancing, and then not very well: there was barely room between the desks for professional ceilidh enthusiasts. Three or four bodies lay slumped at their desks, heads on arms. Someone else lay prone on the floor. Rebus counted nine empty whisky bottles, and someone had been sent out for more cases of beer. Jack was still talking with the secretary, his cheeks red from the heat in the room. The place was beginning to smell like a changing room at full-time.
Rebus walked around the room. The walls were still covered with material pertaining to Johnny Bible’s local victims: maps, diagrams, duty rosters, photographs. He studied the photos, as if memorising the smiling faces. He saw that the fax machine had just finished spewing something out. Car ownership details, metallic blue BMWs. Four in Aberdeen, but only one with the same sequence of letters the witness recalled. Registered to a company called Eugene Construction with a Peterhead address.
Eugene Construction? Eugene Construction?
Rebus emptied his pockets on to a desktop, finding petrol receipts, notebook, scraps of paper with telephone numbers, Rennies, a book of matches . . . there: business card. Given to him by the man he’d met at the convention. Rebus studied the card. Ryan Slocum, Sales Manager, Engineering Division. The parent company: Eugene Construction, with a Peterhead address. Trembling, Rebus lifted the Borneo photo and looked at it, remembering the man he’d met that day in the bar.
‘No wonder Scotland’s down the pan. And we want independence.’
He’d handed over his business card, then Rebus had announced that he was a policeman.
‘Did I say anything incriminating . . .? Is it Johnny Bible?’
The face, the eyes, the height . . . close to the man in the photograph. Close. Ray Sloane . . . Ryan Slocum. Someone had broken into Rebus’s flat, looking for something, taking nothing. Looking for something that might incriminate them? He looked again at the business card, then reached for a phone, eventually tracked Siobhan down at home.
‘Siobhan, the guy you talked to at the National Library . . .?’
‘Yes?’
‘He gave you a description of the so-called journalist?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give it to me again.’
‘Hang on.’ She went to fetch her notebook. ‘What’s this about anyway?’
‘I’ll tell you later. Read it out.’
‘“Tall, fair-haired, early fifties, longish face, no distinguishing features.”’
‘Anything about the accent?’
‘Nothing down here.’ She paused. ‘Oh, yes, he did say something. He said it was twangy.’
‘Like American?’
‘But Scottish.’
‘It’s him.’
‘Who?’
‘Bible John, just like you said.’
‘What?’
‘Stalking his offspring . . .’ Rebus rubbed his forehead, pinched the bridge of his nose. He had his eyes screwed shut. Was it or wasn’t it? Was he obsessed? How different was Johnny Bible’s shrine from the scene in his own kitchen, the table covered in cuttings?
‘I don’t know,’ he said. But he did know. He did. ‘Talk to you later,’ he told Siobhan.
‘Wait!’
But that was the one thing he couldn’t do. He needed to know. He needed to know right now. He looked round the room, saw dissolution and reverie, nobody who could drive, no back-up.
Except Jack.
Who had one arm around the secretary now, and was whispering in her ear. She was smiling, holding her cup with a steady hand. Maybe she was drinking the same thing Jack was: cola. Would Jack give him the keys? Not without an explanation, and Rebus wanted to do this alone, needed to. His motive: confrontation, and maybe exorcism. Besides, Bible John had cheated him out of Johnny Bible.
Rebus called downstairs. ‘Any cars going begging?’
‘Not if you’ve been drinking.’
‘Try me with a breath test.’
‘There’s an Escort parked outside.’
Rebus searched desk drawers, found a phone book. Peterhead . . . Slocum R. No listing. He could try BT, but an unlisted check would take time. Another option: get on the road. It was what he wanted anyway.
The city streets were wild: another Friday night, young souls at play. Rebus was singing ‘All Right Now’. Segue into: ‘Been Down So Long’. Thirty miles north to Peterhead, deep-water port. Tankers and platforms went there for servicing. Rebus wound the motor up, not much traffic heading out of the city. Sky glowing dull pink. Simmer dim, as the Shetlanders called it. Rebus tried not to think about what he was doing. Breaking rules he’d advised others not to break. No back-up. No real authority up here, a long way from home.
He had the address for Eugene Construction, got it from Ryan Slocum’s business card. I stood next to Bible John in a bar. He bought me a drink. Rebus shook his head. Probably a lot of other people could say the same, if only they knew; Rebus wasn’t so special. The company’s phone number was on the card, but all he’d got was an answering machine. It didn’t mean no one was there: security wouldn’t necessarily answer the phones. The card also had a pager number for Slocum, but Rebus wasn’t about to use that.
The company was housed behind a tall mesh fence. It took twenty minutes of driving around and asking questions before he found it. It wasn’t dockside, which was where he’d expected it to be. There was a country business park on the edge of town, and Eugene Construction bordered that. Rebus drove up to the gates. They were locked. He sounded his horn. There was a gatehouse, its lights on, but nobody in. Past the gates were barriers, painted red and white. His headlamps picked them out, and then behind them, coming forwards, a sauntering figure in guard’s uniform. Rebus left the car running, walked up to the gate.
‘What is it?’ the guard asked.
He pressed his warrant card to the mesh. ‘Police. I need a home addres
s for one of your employees.’
‘Can’t it wait till morning?’
Gritted teeth. ‘Afraid not.’
The guard – sixties, retirement age, low-slung paunch – rasped at his chin. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Look, who do you contact in an emergency?’
‘My office.’
‘And they contact someone from the company?’
‘I suppose so. Haven’t had to test it. Some kids tried to scale the fence a few months back, but they –’
‘Could you phone in?’
‘– heard me coming and ran away sharpish. What?’
‘Could you phone in?’
‘I suppose so, if it’s an emergency.’ The guard walked towards his hut.
‘And could you let me in while you’re at it? I’ll need to use your phone afterwards.’
The guard scratched his head, muttered something, but shook a chain of keys from his pocket and walked up to the gate.
‘Thanks,’ Rebus told him.
The hut was sparsely furnished. Kettle, mug, coffee and a little jar of milk sat on a rusted tray. There was a one-bar electric heater, two chairs, and a paperback novel on the desk: a western. Rebus took the telephone and explained the situation to the guard’s supervisor, who asked to speak to the guard again.
‘Yes, sir,’ the guard said, ‘ID and everything.’ Staring at Rebus like he might be leader of a heist gang. He put Rebus back on, and the supervisor handed him the name and phone number he needed. Rebus made the call, waited.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Mr Sturges?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. My name’s Detective Inspector John Rebus. I’m calling from your company’s gatehouse.’
‘Not a break-in or something?’ The man sighed. A break-in meant he’d have to get dressed and go down there.
‘No, sir, I just need some information on one of your employees.’
‘Can’t it wait till morning?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Who is it anyway?’
