10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  It was the face, or the lack of it . . . it disturbed Rebus more than anything else in the picture. He drew himself into the scene, wondered what he’d have done. Would he have concentrated on the car, caught its licence plate? Or would his attention have been focused on Sammy? Which would have prevailed: cop instincts or fatherhood? Someone at the station had said, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get him.’ Not, ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be all right.’ Which brought it all down to two things: him – meaning the driver – and retribution, rather than her – the victim – and recovery.

  ‘I’d just have been another witness,’ Rebus said quietly. Then he folded the drawing and put it away.

  Sammy had a room to herself, all tubes and machinery, the way he’d seen it in films and on TV. Only here the room was dingier, paint flaking from the walls and around the window-frames. The chairs had metal legs and rubber feet and moulded plastic seats. A woman rose as he came in. They embraced. He kissed the side of her forehead.

  Aiming for her. Didn’t anyone say that?

  ‘Hello, Rhona.’

  ‘Hello, John.’

  She looked tired, of course, but her hair was stylishly cut and dyed the colour of a dull golden harvest. Her clothes were smart and she wore jewellery. He studied her eyes. Their colour was wrong. Coloured contacts. Not even her eyes were going to betray her past.

  ‘Christ, Rhona, I’m sorry.’

  He was whispering, not wanting to disturb Sammy. Which was ludicrous, because right now all he wanted in the world was for her to wake up.

  ‘How is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Much the same.’

  Mickey stood up. There were three chairs arranged in a sort of semi-circle. Mickey and Rhona had been sitting with an empty chair between them. As Rhona broke from Rebus’s embrace, his brother took her place.

  ‘This is so fucking awful,’ Mickey said, his voice low. He looked the same as ever: a party animal who’d stopped getting the invites.

  Niceties dispensed with, Rebus went to Sammy’s bedside. Her face was still bruised, and now he could place the probable cause of each abrasion: hedge, wall, pavement. One leg was broken, both arms heavily bandaged. A teddy bear, missing one ear, lay by her head. Rebus smiled.

  ‘You brought Pa Broon.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do they know yet if there’s any . . . ?’ His eyes were on Sammy as he spoke.

  ‘What?’ Rhona wanted him to spell it out. No hiding place.

  ‘Brain damage,’ he said.

  ‘Nobody’s told us anything,’ she said, sounding snubbed.

  Aiming for her. Didn’t anyone say that? No, none of the other onlookers had even hinted as much, but then they hadn’t had Renton’s grandstand view.

  ‘Has nobody been in?’

  ‘Not since I got here.’

  ‘And I was here before Rhona,’ Mickey added. ‘Haven’t seen a soul.’

  It was enough. Rebus strode from the room. A doctor and two nurses were standing chatting at the end of the corridor. One of the nurses was leaning against a wall.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Rebus exploded. ‘Nobody’s been near my daughter all morning!’

  The doctor was young, male. Blond hair cut short with a parting.

  ‘We’re doing everything we can.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I can appreciate that you’re –’

  ‘Fuck you, pal. Why hasn’t the big man been to look at her? Why’s she just lying there like a –’ Rebus choked back the words.

  ‘Your daughter was seen by two specialists this morning,’ the doctor said quietly. ‘We’re waiting for some test results to determine whether to operate again. There’s some brain swelling. The tests take a little time to process, there’s nothing we can do about it.’

  Rebus felt cheated: still angry, but nothing to feel angry about, not here. He nodded, turned away.

  Back in the room, he explained the situation to Rhona. A suitcase and large holdall were sitting behind one of the machines.

  ‘Listen,’ he told her, ‘it’d make sense if you stayed at the flat. It’s only ten minutes away, and I could let you have the car.’

  She was shaking her head. ‘We’re booked into the Sheraton.’

  ‘The flat’s nearer, and I tend not to charge . . .’ We? Rebus looked at Mickey, whose eyes were on the bed. Then the door opened and a man came in. Short, thickly built, breathing hard. He was rubbing his hands to let everyone know he’d been to the toilet. Loose folds of flesh furrowed his brow and bulged from his shirt collar. His hair was thick and black, like an oil-slick. He stopped when he saw Rebus.

  ‘John,’ Rhona said, ‘this is a friend of mine, Jackie.’

  ‘Jackie Platt,’ the man said, reaching out a plump hand.

  ‘When Jackie heard, he insisted on driving me up.’

  Platt shrugged, his head almost disappearing into his shoulders. ‘Couldn’t have her training it up on her ownio.’

  ‘Hell of a drive,’ Mickey said, his tone hinting at repetition.

  ‘Could have done without the roadworks,’ Jackie Platt agreed. Rebus’s eyes caught Rhona’s; she looked away quickly, dodging reproach.

  To Rebus, this bulk didn’t belong. It was as if a character had wandered on to the wrong set. Platt hadn’t been in the script.

  ‘She looks so peaceful, don’t she?’ the Londoner was saying, making for the bed. He touched her arm, Sammy’s bandaged arm, grazing it with the back of his hand. Rebus’s fingernails dug into his palms.

  Then Platt yawned. ‘You know, Rhona, it might not be good manners, but I think I’m about to crash. See you back at the hotel?’ She nodded, relieved. Platt picked up the suitcase. As he passed her, his hand went into his trouser pocket, came out with a fold of banknotes.

  ‘Get a cab back, all right?’

  ‘All right, Jackie. See you later.’

  ‘Cheers, pet.’ And he squeezed her hand. ‘Take care, Mickey. All the best, John.’ A huge, face-creasing wink, then he was gone. They waited in silence for a few seconds. Rhona held up her free hand, the one without the wad of notes.

  ‘Not a word, okay?’

  ‘Furthest thing from my mind,’ Rebus said, sitting down. ‘“Think I’m about to crash”. Tactful or what?’

  ‘Come on, Johnny,’ Mickey said. Johnny: only Mickey could do that, using the name so that the years fell from both of them. Rebus looked at his brother and smiled. Mickey was a therapist by profession; he knew the things to say.

  ‘Why the cases?’ Rebus asked Rhona.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re going to a hotel, why not leave them in his car?’

  ‘I thought about staying here. They said I could if I wanted to. Only then I saw her . . . and I changed my mind.’ Tears started down her face, smudging already-smudged mascara. Mickey had a handkerchief ready.

  ‘John, what if she . . . ? Oh, Jesus Christ, why did this have to happen?’ She was wailing now. Rebus went over to her chair, crouched in front of it, his hands resting on hers. ‘She’s all we’ve got, John. She’s all we ever had.’

  ‘She’s still here, Rhona. She’s right here.’

  ‘But why her? Why Samantha?’

  ‘I’ll ask him when I find him, Rhona.’ He kissed her hair, his eyes on Mickey. ‘And believe me, I’m going to find him.’

  Later, when Ned Farlowe visited, Rebus took him outside. There was drizzle falling, but the air felt good.

  ‘One of the eye-witnesses,’ Rebus said, ‘thinks it was deliberate.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He thinks the driver meant to hit Sammy.’

  ‘I still don’t get it.’

  ‘Look, there are two scenarios. One, he was intent on hitting a pedestrian, and anyone would have done. Two, Sammy was his target. He’d been following her, saw his chance when she crossed the road, only the lights were against him so he had to jump them. Then she was so close to the kerb he had to switch lanes.’

  ‘But why
?’

  Rebus stared at him. ‘This is Sammy’s dad and her lover, right? For the purposes of what follows, I want you to stop being a reporter.’

  Farlowe stared back, nodded slowly.

  ‘I’ve had a few run-ins with Tommy Telford,’ Rebus said. He was seeing teddy bears: Pa Broon, and the one Telford kept in his car. ‘This might have been a message for me.’ Telford or Tarawicz: flip a coin. ‘Or for you, if you’ve been asking questions about Telford.’

  ‘You think my book . . .’

  ‘I’m keeping an open mind. I’ve been working the Lintz case . . . and so have you.’

  ‘Someone warning us off Lintz?’

  Rebus thought of Abernethy, shrugged. ‘Then there’s Sammy’s job, working with ex-cons. Maybe one of them had a grudge.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘She hadn’t mentioned anyone following her? Nobody odd in the area?’ Same question he’d put to the Drinics, only different victim . . .

  Farlowe shook his head. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘until five minutes ago I thought this was an accident. Now you’re saying it was attempted murder. Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m trusting a witness.’ But he knew what Bill Pryde thought: a drunk driver, a crazy man. And a grandstand spectator who wore glasses and had read it wrong. He took out the drawing again.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Rebus handed it over. ‘This is what someone saw last night.’

  ‘What kind of car is it?’

  ‘Rover 600, Ford Mondeo, something like that. Dark green. Ring any bells?’

  Ned Farlowe shook his head, then looked at Rebus. ‘Let me help. I can ask around.’

  ‘One kid in a coma’s enough.’

  The rest of the office had packed up and gone home. Now there were only Rebus and Sammy’s boss, a woman called Mae Crumley. The light from half a dozen desk-lamps illuminated the haphazard office, which was on the top floor of an old four-storey building off Palmerston Place. Rebus knew Palmerston Place: there was a church there where the AA held meetings. He’d been to a couple. He could still taste whisky at the back of his throat. Not that he’d had any so far today, not in daylight hours. But then he hadn’t phoned Jack Morton either.

  The address might have been posher than Rebus was expecting, but the accommodation was cramped. The office was in the eaves of the building, so that you couldn’t stand up in half the available space, which hadn’t stopped desks being sited in the most awkward corners.

  ‘Which is hers?’ Rebus asked. Mae Crumley pointed to the desk next to her own. There was a computer there somewhere, but only its screen was showing. Loose sheets of paper, books and pamphlets and reports, the whole lot spilled on to the chair and from there down on to the floor.

  ‘She works too hard,’ Crumley said. ‘We all do.’

  Rebus sipped the coffee she’d made him. Cafe Hag.

  ‘When Sammy came here,’ she went on, ‘the first thing she said was that her father was CID. She never tried to hide it.’

  ‘And you’d no qualms about taking her on?’

  ‘None at all.’ Crumley folded her arms. They were big arms; she was a big woman. Her hair was a fiery red, long and frizzy and tied back with a black ribbon. She wore an oatmeal linen shirt with a denim jacket over the top of it. Her eyebrows had been plucked into thin arches over pale grey eyes. Her desk was relatively tidy, but only, as she’d explained to Rebus, because she tended to stay later than anyone else.

  ‘What about her clients?’ Rebus asked. ‘Could any of them have held a grudge?’

  ‘Against her or against you?’

  ‘Against me through her.’

  Crumley considered this. ‘To the extent that they’d run her over just to make a point? I very much doubt it.’

  ‘I’d be interested to see her client list.’

  She shook her head. ‘Look . . . you shouldn’t be doing this. It’s too personal, you know that. I mean, who am I talking to here: Sammy’s father, or a copper?’

  ‘You think I’ve a score to settle?’

  ‘Well haven’t you?’

  Rebus put down the coffee mug. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And that’s why you shouldn’t be doing this.’ She sighed. ‘Number one on my wish list: Sammy back on her feet and back here. But what about if meantime I do a bit of poking around? I stand a better chance of getting them to talk than you do.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘I’d appreciate that.’ He got to his feet. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

  Outside, he checked the list the Juice Church had given him. He kept it in his pocket, didn’t refer to it often. There was a meeting at Palmerston Place in about an hour and a half. No good. He knew he’d spend the time beforehand in a pub. Jack Morton had introduced him to Al-Anon, but Rebus hadn’t really taken to it, though the stories had affected him.

  ‘See,’ one man had told the group, ‘I had problems at work, problems with my wife, my kids. I had money problems and health problems and everything else. Practically the only problem I didn’t have was with the drink. And that’s because I was a drunk.’

  Rebus lit himself a cigarette and drove home.

  He sat in his chair and thought about Rhona. They’d shared so much over so many years . . . and then it had all stopped. He’d chosen his job over his marriage, and that could not be forgiven. Last time he’d seen her had been in London, wearing her new life like armour. Nobody had warned him about Jackie Platt. His phone rang, and he snatched it from the floor.

  ‘Rebus.’

  ‘It’s Bill.’ Pryde sounded halfway to excited, which was as far as he ever ventured.

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Dark green Rover 600 – I think the owner called it “Sherwood Green” – stolen yesterday evening about an hour before the collision.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Metered parking on George Street.’

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘My advice is, keep an open mind. Having said that, at least now we’ve got a licence plate. Owner reported it at six-forty last night. It hasn’t turned up anywhere, so I’ve upped the alert status.’

  ‘Give me the reg.’ Pryde read out the letters and numbers. Rebus thanked him and put down the phone. He was thinking of Danny Simpson, dumped outside Fascination Street around the time Sammy was being hit. Coincidence? Or a double message, Telford and Rebus. Which put Big Ger Cafferty in the frame. He called the hospital, was told there was no change. Farlowe was in visiting. The nurse said he had his laptop with him.

  Rebus recalled Sammy growing up – a series of isolated images. He hadn’t been there for her. He saw her in a series of fast jerky impressions, as if the film had been spliced. He tried not to think about the hell she had gone through at the hands of Gordon Reeve . . .

  He saw good people doing bad things and bad people doing good, and he tried dividing the two into groups. He saw Candice and Tommy Telford and Mr Pink Eyes. And encompassing it all, he saw Edinburgh. He saw the mass of the people just getting on with their lives, and he saluted them. They knew things and felt things, things he’d never feel. He used to think he knew things. As a kid, he’d known everything. Now he knew differently. The only thing you could be sure of was the inside of your head, and even that could deceive you. I don’t even know myself, he thought. So how could he ever hope to know Sammy? And with each year, he understood less.

  He thought of the Oxford Bar. Even on the wagon, he’d stayed a regular, drinking cola and mugs of coffee. A pub like the Ox was about so much more than just the hooch. It was therapy and refuge, entertainment and art. He checked his watch, thinking he could head down there now. Just a couple of whiskies and a beer, something to make him feel good about himself until the morning.

  The phone rang again. He picked it up.

  ‘Evening, John.’

  Rebus smiled, leaned back in his chair. ‘Jack, you must be a bloody mind reader . . .’

  14

  Mid-morning, Rebus walked through the cemetery. He’d been to t
he hospital to check on Sammy – no change. Now, he felt he had time to kill . . .

  ‘A bit cooler today, Inspector.’ Joseph Lintz rose from his knees and pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. There were damp patches on his trousers from where he’d been kneeling. He dropped his trowel on to a white polythene bag. Beside the bag stood pots of small green plants.

  ‘Won’t the frost get them?’ Rebus asked. Lintz shrugged.

  ‘It gets all of us, but we’re allowed to bloom for a while.’

  Rebus turned away. Today, he wasn’t in the mood for games. Warriston Cemetery was vast. In the past, it had been a history lesson to Rebus – headstones telling the story of nineteenth-century Edinburgh – but now he found it a jarring reminder of mortality. They were the only living souls in the place. Lintz had pulled out a handkerchief.

  ‘More questions?’ he asked.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Truth is, Mr Lintz, I’ve got other things on my mind.’

  The old man looked at him. ‘Maybe all this archaeology is beginning to bore you, Inspector?’

  ‘I still don’t get it, planting things before the first frost?’

  ‘Well, I can’t plant very much afterwards, can I? And at my age . . . any day now I could be lying in the ground. I like to think there might be a few flowers surviving above me.’ He’d lived in Scotand the best part of half a century, but there was still something lurking beneath the local accent, peculiarities of phrasing and tone that would be with Joseph Lintz until he died, reminders of his far less recent history.

  ‘So,’ he said now, ‘no questions today?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘You’re right, Inspector, you do seem preoccupied. Is it something I can help with?’