10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Think you’re tough enough, punk?’ one of them challenged as Rebus walked past. They had names like Harbinger and NecroCop, this latter reminding Rebus of how old he felt. He looked at the faces around him, saw a few he recognised, kids who’d been pulled into St Leonard’s. They’d be on the fringes of Telford’s gang, awaiting the call-up, hanging around like foster children, hoping The Family would take them. Most of them came from families who weren’t families, latchkey kids grown old before their time.

  One of the staff came in from the café.

  ‘Who ordered the bacon sarnie?’

  Rebus smiled as the faces turned to him. Bacon meant pig meant him. A moment’s examination was all he warranted. There were more pressing demands on their attention. At the far end of the arcade were the really big machines: half-size motorbikes you sat astride as you negotiated the circuit on the screen in front of you. A small appreciative coterie stood around one bike, on which sat a young man dressed in a leather jacket. Not a market-stall jacket, something altogether more special. Quality goods. Shiny sharp-toed boots. Tight black denims. White polo neck. Surrounded by fawning courtiers. Steely Dan: ‘Kid Charlemagne’. Rebus found a space for himself in the midst of the glaring onlookers.

  ‘No takers for that bacon sarnie?’ he asked.

  ‘Who are you?’ the man on the machine demanded.

  ‘DI Rebus.’

  ‘Cafferty’s man.’ Said with conviction.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I hear you and him go back.’

  ‘I put him inside.’

  ‘Not every cop gets visiting rights though.’ Rebus realised that though Telford’s gaze was fixed on the screen, he was watching Rebus in its reflection. Watching him, talking to him, yet still managing to control the bike through hairpin bends.

  ‘So is there some problem, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a problem. We picked up one of your girls.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘She calls herself Candice. That’s about as much as we know. But foreign lassies are a new one on me. And you’re fairly new around here, too.’

  ‘I’m not getting your drift, Inspector. I supply goods and services to the entertainment sector. Are you accusing me of being a pimp?’

  Rebus stuck out a foot and pushed the bike sideways. On the screen, it spun and hit a crash barrier. A moment later, the screen changed. Back to the start of the race.

  ‘See, Inspector,’ Telford said, still not turning round. ‘That’s the beauty of games. You can always start again after an accident. Not so easy in real life.’

  ‘What if I cut the power? Game over.’

  Slowly, Telford swivelled from the hips. Now he was looking at Rebus. Close up, he looked so young. Most of the gangsters Rebus had known, they’d had a worn look, undernourished but overfed. Telford had the look of some new strain of bacteria, not yet tested or understood.

  ‘So what is it, Rebus? Some message from Cafferty?’

  ‘Candice,’ Rebus said quietly, the slight tremor in his voice betraying his anger. With a couple of drinks in him, he’d have had Telford on the floor by now. ‘From tonight, she’s off the game, understood?’

  ‘I don’t know any Candice.’

  ‘Understood?’

  ‘Hang on, let’s see if I’ve got this. You want me to agree with you that a woman I’ve never met should stop touting her hole?’

  Smiles from the spectators. Telford turned back to his game. ‘Where’s this woman from anyway?’ he asked, almost casually.

  ‘We’re not sure,’ Rebus lied. He didn’t want Telford knowing any more than was necessary.

  ‘Must have been a great little chat the two of you had.’

  ‘She’s scared shitless.’

  ‘Me, too, Rebus. I’m scared you’re going to bore me to death. This Candice, did she give you a taste of the goods? I’m betting it’s not every scrubber would get you this het up.’

  Laughter, Rebus its brunt.

  ‘She’s off the game, Telford. Don’t think about touching her.’

  ‘Not with a bargepole, pal. Myself, I’m a clean-living sort of individual. I say my prayers last thing at night.’

  ‘And kiss your cuddly bear?’

  Telford looked at him again. ‘Don’t believe all the stories, Inspector. Here, grab a bacon sarnie on your way out, I think there’s one going spare.’ Rebus stood his ground a few moments longer, then turned away. ‘And tell the mugs out front I said hello.’

  Rebus walked back through the arcade and out into the night, heading for Nicolson Street. He was wondering what he was going to do with Candice. Simple answer: let her go, and hope she had the sense to keep moving. As he made to pass a parked car, its window slid down.

  ‘Fucking well get in,’ a voice ordered from the passenger seat. Rebus stopped, looked at the man who’d spoken, recognised the face.

  ‘Ormiston,’ he said, opening the back door of the Orion. ‘Now I know what he meant.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tommy Telford. I’m to tell you he said hello.’

  The driver stared at Ormiston. ‘Rumbled again.’ He didn’t sound surprised. Rebus recognised the voice.

  ‘Hello, Claverhouse.’

  DS Claverhouse, DC Ormiston: Scottish Crime Squad, Fettes’s finest. On surveillance. Claverhouse: as thin as ‘twa ply o’ reek’, as Rebus’s father would have said. Ormiston: freckle-faced and with Mick McManus’s hair – slick, pudding-bowl cut, unfeasibly black.

  ‘You were blown before I walked in there, if that’s any consolation.’

  ‘What the fuck were you doing?’

  ‘Paying my respects. What about you?’

  ‘Wasting our time,’ Ormiston muttered.

  The Crime Squad were out for Telford: good news for Rebus.

  ‘I’ve got someone,’ he said. ‘She works for Telford. She’s frightened. You could help her.’

  ‘The frightened ones don’t talk.’

  ‘This one might.’

  Claverhouse stared at him. ‘And all we’d have to do is . . .?’

  ‘Get her out of here, set her up somewhere.’

  ‘Witness relocation?’

  ‘If it comes to that.’

  ‘What does she know?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Her English isn’t great.’

  Claverhouse knew when he was being sold something. ‘Tell us,’ he said.

  Rebus told them. They tried not to look interested.

  ‘We’ll talk to her,’ Claverhouse said.

  Rebus nodded. ‘So how long has this been going on?’

  ‘Ever since Telford and Cafferty squared off.’

  ‘And whose side are we on?’

  ‘We’re the UN, same as always,’ Claverhouse said. He spoke slowly, measuring each word and phrase. A careful man, DS Claverhouse. ‘Meantime, you go charging in like some bloody mercenary.’

  ‘I’ve never been a great one for tactics. Besides, I wanted to see the bastard close up.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He looks like a kid.’

  ‘And he’s as clean as a whistle,’ Claverhouse said. ‘He’s got a dozen lieutenants who’d take the fall for him.’

  At the word ‘lieutenants’, Rebus’s mind flashed to Joseph Lintz. Some men gave orders, some carried them out: which group was the more culpable?

  ‘Tell me something,’ he said, ‘the teddy bear story . . . is it true?’

  Claverhouse nodded. ‘In the passenger seat of his Range Rover. A fucking huge yellow thing, sort they raffle in the pub Sunday lunchtime.’

  ‘So what’s the story?’

  Ormiston turned in his seat. ‘Ever hear of Teddy Willocks? Glasgow hardman. Carpentry nails and a claw-hammer.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘You welched on someone, Willocks came to see you with the carpentry bag.’

  ‘But then,’ Claverhouse took over, ‘Teddy got on the wrong side of some Geordie bastard. Telford was young, making a name for himself, and he very badly wanted an in with
this Geordie, so he took care of Teddy.’

  ‘And that’s why he carries a teddy around with him,’ Ormiston said. ‘A reminder to everyone.’

  Rebus was thinking. Geordie meant someone from Newcastle. Newcastle, with its bridges over the Tyne . . .

  ‘Newcastle,’ he said softly, leaning forward in his seat.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Maybe Candice was there. Her city of bridges. She might link Telford to this Geordie gangster.’

  Ormiston and Claverhouse looked at one another.

  ‘She’ll need a safe place to stay,’ Rebus told them. ‘Money, somewhere to go afterwards.’

  ‘A first-class flight home if she helps us nail Telford.’

  ‘I’m not sure she’ll want to go home.’

  ‘That’s for later,’ Claverhouse said. ‘First thing is to talk to her.’

  ‘You’ll need a translator.’

  Claverhouse looked at him. ‘And of course you know just the man . . . ?’

  She was asleep in her cell, curled under the blanket, only her hair visible. The Mothers of Invention: ‘Lonely Little Girl’. The cell was in the women’s block. Painted pink and blue, a slab to sleep on, graffiti scratched into the walls.

  ‘Candice,’ Rebus said quietly, squeezing her shoulder. She started awake, as if he’d administered an electric shock. ‘It’s okay, it’s me, John.’

  She looked round blindly, focused on him slowly. ‘John,’ she said. Then she smiled.

  Claverhouse was off making phone calls, squaring things. Ormiston stood in the doorway, appraising Candice. Not that Ormiston was known to be choosy. Rebus had tried Colquhoun at home, but there’d been no answer. So now Rebus was gesturing, letting her know they wanted to take her somewhere.

  ‘A hotel,’ he said.

  She didn’t like that word. She looked from him to Ormiston and back again.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s just a place for you to sleep, that’s all, somewhere safe. No Telford, nothing like that.’

  She seemed to soften, came off the bed and stood in front of him. Her eyes seemed to say, I’ll trust you, and if you let me down I won’t be surprised.

  Claverhouse came back. ‘All fixed,’ he said, his examination falling on Candice. ‘She doesn’t speak any English?’

  ‘Not as practised in polite society.’

  ‘In that case,’ Ormiston said, ‘she should be fine with us.’

  Three men and a young woman in a dark blue Ford Orion, heading south out of the city. It was late now, past midnight, black taxis cruising. Students were spilling from pubs.

  ‘They get younger every year.’ Claverhouse was never short of a cliché.

  ‘And more of them end up joining the force,’ Rebus commented.

  Claverhouse smiled. ‘I meant prossies, not students. We pulled one in last week, said she was fifteen. Turned out she was twelve, on the run. All grown up about it.’

  Rebus tried to remember Sammy at twelve. He saw her scared, in the clutches of a madman with a grievance against Rebus. She’d had lots of nightmares afterwards, till her mother had taken her to London. Rhona had phoned Rebus a few years later. She just wanted to let him know he’d robbed Sammy of her childhood.

  ‘I phoned ahead,’ Claverhouse said. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve used this place before. It’s perfect.’

  ‘She’ll need some clothes,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Siobhan can fetch her some in the morning.’

  ‘How is Siobhan?’

  ‘Seems fine. Hasn’t half cut into the jokes and the language though.’

  ‘Ach, she can take a joke,’ Ormiston said. ‘Likes a drink, too.’

  This last was news to Rebus. He wondered how much Siobhan Clarke would change in order to blend with her new surroundings.

  ‘It’s just off the bypass,’ Claverhouse said, meaning their destination. ‘Not far now.’

  The city ended suddenly. Green belt, plus the Pentland Hills. The bypass was quiet, Ormiston doing the ton between exits. They came off at Colinton and signalled into the hotel. It was a motorist’s stop, one of a nationwide chain: same prices, same rooms. The cars which crowded the parking area were salesmen’s specials, cigarette packets littering the passenger seats. The reps would be sleeping, or lying in a daze with the TV remote to hand.

  Candice seemed reluctant to get out of the car, until she saw that Rebus was coming, too.

  ‘You light up her life,’ Ormiston offered.

  At reception, they signed her in as one half of a couple – Mrs Angus Campbell. The two Crime Squad cops had the routine off pat. Rebus watched the hotel clerk, but a wink from Claverhouse told him the man was okay.

  ‘Make it the first floor, Malcolm,’ Ormiston said. ‘Don’t want anyone peeking in the windows.’

  Room number 20. ‘Will someone be with her?’ Rebus asked as they climbed the stairs.

  ‘Right there in the room,’ Claverhouse said. ‘The landing’s too obvious, and we’d freeze our bums off in the car. Did you give me Colquhoun’s number?’

  ‘Ormiston has it.’

  Ormiston was unlocking the door. ‘Who’s on first watch?’

  Claverhouse shrugged. Candice was looking towards Rebus, seeming to sense what was being discussed. She snatched at his arm, jabbering in her native tongue, looking first to Claverhouse and then to Ormiston, all the time waving Rebus’s arm.

  ‘It’s okay, Candice, really. They’ll take care of you.’

  She kept shaking her head, holding him with one hand and pointing at him with the other, prodding his chest to make her meaning clear.

  ‘What do you say, John?’ Claverhouse asked. ‘A happy witness is a willing witness.’

  ‘What time’s Siobhan expected?’

  ‘I’ll hurry her up.’

  Rebus looked at Candice again, sighed, nodded. ‘Okay.’ He pointed to himself, then to the room. ‘Just for a little while, okay?’

  Candice seemed satisfied with this, and went inside. Ormiston handed Rebus the key.

  ‘I don’t want you young things waking the neighbours now . . .’

  Rebus closed the door on his face.

  The room was exactly as expected. Rebus filled the kettle and switched it on, dumped a tea-bag into a cup. Candice pointed to the bathroom, made turning motions with her hands.

  ‘A bath?’ He gestured with his arm. ‘Go ahead.’

  The curtain over the window was closed. He parted it and looked out. A grassy slope, occasional lights from the bypass. He made sure the curtains were closed tight, then tried adjusting the heating. The room was stifling. There didn’t seem to be a thermostat, so he went back to the window and opened it a fraction. Cold night air, and the swish of nearby traffic. He opened the pack of custard creams, two small biscuits. Suddenly he felt ravenous. He’d seen a snack machine in the lobby. Plenty of change in his pockets. He made the tea, added milk, sat down on the sofa. For want of any other distractions, he turned the TV on. The tea was fine. The tea was absolutely fine, no complaints there. He picked up the phone and called Jack Morton.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘Not really. How’s it going?’

  ‘I wanted a drink today.’

  ‘So what’s new?’

  Rebus could hear his friend making himself comfortable. Jack had helped Rebus get off the booze. Jack had said he could phone any time he liked.

  ‘I had to talk to this scumbag, Tommy Telford.’

  ‘I know the name.’

  Rebus lit a cigarette. ‘I think a drink would have helped.’

  ‘Before or after?’

  ‘Both.’ Rebus smiled. ‘Guess where I am now?’

  Jack couldn’t, so Rebus told him the story.

  ‘What’s your angle?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Rebus thought about it. ‘She seems to need me. It’s been a long time since anyone’s felt like that.’ As he said the words, he feared they didn’t tell the whole story. He remembered another argument with Rhon
a, her screaming that he’d exploited every relationship he’d ever had.

  ‘Do you still want that drink?’ Jack was asking.

  ‘I’m a long way from one.’ Rebus stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Sweet dreams, Jack.’

  He was on his second cup of tea when she came back in, wearing the same clothes, her hair wet and hanging in rat’s-tails.

  ‘Better?’ he asked, making the thumbs-up sign. She nodded, smiling. ‘Do you want some tea?’ He pointed to the kettle. She nodded again, so he made her a cup. Then he suggested a trip to the snack machine. Their haul included crisps, nuts, chocolate, and a couple of cans of Coke. Another cup of tea finished off the tiny cartons of milk. Rebus lay along the sofa, shoes off, watching soundless television. Candice lay on the bed, fully-clothed, sliding the occasional crisp from its packet, flicking channels. She seemed to have forgotten he was there. He took this as a compliment.

  He must have fallen asleep. The touch of her fingers on his knee brought him awake. She was standing in front of him, wearing the t-shirt and nothing else. She stared at him, fingers still resting on his knee. He smiled, shook his head, led her back to bed. Made her lie down. She lay on her back, arms stretched. He shook his head again and pulled the duvet over her.

  ‘That’s not you any more,’ he told her. ‘Goodnight, Candice.’

  Rebus retreated to the sofa, lay down again, and wished she would stop saying his name.

  The Doors: ‘Wishful Sinful’ . . .

  A tapping at the door brought him awake. Still dark outside. He’d forgotten to close the window, and the room was cold. The TV was still playing, but Candice was asleep, duvet kicked off, chocolate wrappers strewn around her bare legs and thighs. Rebus covered her up, then tiptoed to the door, peered through the spyhole, and opened up.

  ‘For this relief, much thanks,’ he whispered to Siobhan Clarke.

  She was carrying a bulging polythene bag. ‘Thank God for the twenty-four-hour shop.’ They went inside. Clarke looked at the sleeping woman, then went over to the sofa and started unpacking the bag.

  ‘For you,’ she whispered, ‘a couple of sandwiches.’