10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus held the stare. ‘All right,’ he said.

  ‘You want me to find who did it?’

  Rebus nodded slowly.

  ‘That’s your price?’

  Rhona’s words: I want to look him in the face. Rebus shook his head. ‘I want them delivered to me. I want you to do that, whatever it takes.’

  Cafferty placed his hands on his knees, seemed to take his time positioning them just so. ‘You know it’s probably Telford?’

  ‘Yes. If it’s not you.’

  ‘You’ll be going after him then?’

  ‘Any way I can.’

  Cafferty smiled. ‘But your ways aren’t my ways.’

  ‘You might get to him first. I want him alive.’

  ‘And meantime, you’re my man?’

  Rebus stared at him. ‘I’m your man,’ he said.

  15

  Rebus got a phone call early the next morning from Leith CID, telling him Joseph Lintz was dead. The bad news was, it looked like murder: the body found hanging from a tree in Warriston Cemetery.

  By the time Rebus appeared at the scene, they were cordoning it off, the doctor having concluded that most suicides wouldn’t have bothered administering a violent blow to their own head before commencing with operations.

  The corpse of Joseph Lintz was being zipped into a body bag. Rebus got a look at the face. He’d seen elderly corpses before, and mostly they’d looked wonderfully at peace, their faces shiny and child-like. But Joseph Lintz looked like he’d suffered. He didn’t look to be at rest at all.

  ‘You’ll have come to thank us, no doubt,’ a man said, walking towards Rebus. His shoulders were hunched inside a navy raincoat and he walked with head bowed, hands in pockets. His hair was thick and silver and wiry, his skin an almost jaundiced yellow – the remains of an autumn holiday tan.

  ‘Hiya, Bobby,’ Rebus said.

  Bobby Hogan was Leith CID.

  ‘To get back to my initial observation, John . . .’

  ‘What am I supposed to be thanking you for?’

  Hogan nodded towards the body bag. ‘Taking Mr Lintz off your hands. ‘Don’t tell me you were enjoying digging into all that?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Any idea who might have wanted him dead?’

  Rebus puffed out his cheeks. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘I mean, I’m right to rule out the usual, aren’t I?’ Hogan held up three fingers. ‘It wasn’t suicide, muggers aren’t quite this creative, and it surely wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘Someone was making a point, no doubt about it.’

  ‘But what sort of point?’

  Scene of Crime officers were busying themselves, filling the locus with noise and movement. Rebus gestured for Hogan to walk with him. They were deep in the cemetery, the part Lintz had loved so much. As they walked, the place grew wilder, more overgrown.

  ‘I was here with him yesterday morning,’ Rebus said. ‘I don’t know if he had a routine exactly, but he came here most days.’

  ‘We found a bag of gardening tools.’

  ‘He planted flowers.’

  ‘So if someone knew he’d be coming, they could have been waiting?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘An assassination.’

  Hogan was thoughtful. ‘Why hang him?’

  ‘It’s what happened at Villefranche. The town elders were strung up in the square.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Hogan stopped walking. ‘I know you’ve got other stuff on the go, but can you help out on this, John?’

  ‘Any way I can.’

  ‘A list of possibles would do for a start.’

  ‘How about an old woman living in France, and a Jewish historian who walks with a stick?’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got?’

  ‘Well, there’s always me. Yesterday I as good as accused him of trying to kill my daughter.’ Hogan stared at him. ‘I don’t think he did it.’ Rebus paused, thinking of Sammy: he’d called the hospital first thing. She was still unconscious; they still weren’t using the word ‘coma’. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Special Branch, a guy called Abernethy. He was here talking to Lintz.’

  ‘What’s the connection?’

  ‘Abernethy’s co-ordinating the various war crimes investigations. He’s street-tough, not your typical desk-jockey.’

  ‘A strange choice for the job?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Which hardly makes him a suspect.’

  ‘I’m doing my best, Bobby. We could check Lintz’s house, see if we can turn up any of the hate mail he claimed he’d been getting.’

  ‘“Claimed”?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘You were never sure where you were with Lintz. Do you have any idea what happened?’

  ‘From what you’ve told me, I’d guess he came down here as usual to do his gardening stint – he’s certainly dressed for it. Someone was waiting. They smacked him over the head, stuck his neck in a noose, and hauled him up into the tree. The rope was tied around a headstone.’

  ‘Did the hanging kill him?’

  ‘Doctor says yes. Haemorrhages in the eyes. What do you call them?’

  ‘Tardieu spots.’

  ‘That’s it. The blow to the head was just to knock him out. Something else – bruising and cuts on the face. Looks like someone kicked him when he was down.’

  ‘Knock him cold, thump him in the face, then string him up.’

  ‘Big-time grudge.’

  Rebus looked around. ‘Someone with a flair for theatre.’

  ‘And not afraid to take risks. This place might never get exactly crowded, but it’s a public space and that tree’s in open view. Anyone could have walked past.’

  ‘What time are we talking about?’

  ‘Eight, eight-thirty. I’m guessing Mr Lintz would have wanted to do his digging in daylight.’

  ‘Could have been earlier,’ Rebus suggested. ‘A prearranged meeting.’

  ‘Then why the tools?’

  ‘Because by the time it got light, the meeting would be over.’

  Hogan looked doubtful.

  ‘And if it was a meeting,’ Rebus said, ‘there might be some record of it at Lintz’s home.’

  Hogan looked at him, nodded. ‘My car or yours?’

  ‘Better get his keys first.’

  They started back up the slope.

  ‘Searching through a dead man’s pockets,’ Hogan said to himself. ‘Why is that never mentioned during recruitment?’

  ‘I was here yesterday,’ Rebus said. ‘He invited me back for tea.’

  ‘No family?’

  ‘None.’

  Hogan looked around the hallway. ‘Big place. What happens to the money when it’s sold?’

  Rebus looked at him. ‘We could split it two ways.’

  ‘Or we could just move ourselves in. Basement and ground for me, you can have first and second.’

  Hogan smiled, tried one of the doors off the hall. It opened on to an office. ‘This could be my bedroom,’ he said, going in.

  ‘When I came here before, he always took me upstairs.’

  ‘On you go. We’ll take a floor each, then swop.’

  Rebus headed up the staircase, running his hand over the varnished banister: not a speck of dust. Cleaning ladies could be invaluable informants.

  ‘If you find a chequebook,’ he called down to Hogan, ‘look for regular payments to a Mrs Mop.’

  Four doors led off the first-floor landing. Two were bedrooms, one a bathroom. The last door led into the huge drawing-room, where Rebus had asked his questions and listened to the stories and philosophy that Lintz had used in place of answers.

  ‘Do you think guilt has a genetic component, Inspector?’ he’d asked one time. ‘Or are we taught it?’

  ‘Does it matter, so long as it’s there?’ Rebus had said, and Lintz had nodded and smiled, as if the pupil had given some satisfactory answer.

  The room was big, not too much furniture. Huge sash windows – recently cleaned – looked down on to the street. There were fram
ed prints and paintings on the walls. They could have been priceless originals or junk-store stuff – Rebus was no expert. He liked one painting. It showed a ragged white-haired man seated on a rock, surrounded by a barren plain. He had a book open on his lap, but was staring skywards in horror or awe as a shining light appeared there, picking him out. It had a Biblical look, but Rebus couldn’t quite place it. He knew the look on the man’s face though. He’d seen it before when some suspect’s carefully crafted alibi had suddenly come tumbling down.

  Over the marble fireplace was a large gilt-framed mirror. Rebus studied himself in it. Behind him he could see the room. He knew he didn’t fit here.

  One bedroom was for guests, the other was Lintz’s. A faint smell of embrocation, half a dozen medicine bottles on the bedside table. Books, too, a pile of them. The bed had been made, a dressing-gown draped across it. Lintz was a creature of habit; he’d been in no special hurry this morning.

  The next floor up, Rebus found two further bedrooms and a toilet. There was a slight smell of damp in one room, and the ceiling was discoloured. Rebus didn’t suppose Lintz got many visitors; no impetus to redecorate. Out on the landing again, he saw that one of the stair-rails was missing. It had been propped against the wall, awaiting repair. A house this size, things would always be going wrong.

  He went back downstairs. Hogan was in the basement. The kitchen had a door on to a back garden – stone patio, lawn covered in rotting leaves, an ivy-covered wall giving privacy.

  ‘Look what I found,’ Hogan said, coming back from the utility room. He was holding a length of rope, frayed at one end where it had been cut.

  ‘You think it’ll match with the noose? That would mean the killer got it from here.’

  ‘Meaning Lintz knew them.’

  ‘Anything in the office?’

  ‘It’s going to take a bit of time. There’s an address book, lots of entries, but most of them seem to go back a while.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Old STD codes.’

  ‘Computer?’

  ‘Not even a typewriter. He used carbons. Lots of letters to his solicitor.’

  ‘Trying to shut the media up?’

  ‘You get a couple of mentions, too. Anything upstairs?’

  ‘Go take a look. I’ll check the office.’

  Rebus climbed upstairs and stood in the office doorway, looking around. Then he sat down at the desk and imagined the room was his. What did he do here? He conducted his daily business. There were two filing-cabinets, but to get to them he’d have to stand up from the desk. And he was an old man. Say the cabinets were for dead correspondence. More recent stuff would be closer to hand.

  He tried the drawers. Found the address book Hogan had mentioned. A few letters. A small snuff-box, its contents turned solid. Lintz hadn’t even allowed himself that small vice. In a bottom drawer were some files. Rebus lifted out the one marked ‘General/Household’. It comprised bills and guarantees. A large brown envelope was marked BT. Rebus opened it and took out the phone bills. They went back to the beginning of the year. The most recent bill was at the front. Rebus was disappointed to find that it wasn’t itemised. Then he noticed that all the other statements were. Lintz had been meticulous, placing names beside calls made, double-checking British Telecom’s totals at the foot of each page. The whole year was like that . . . right up until recently. Frowning, Rebus realised that the penultimate statement was missing. Had Lintz mislaid it? Rebus couldn’t see him mislaying anything. A missing bill would have hinted at chaos in his ordered world. No, it had to be somewhere.

  But Rebus was damned if he could find it.

  Lintz’s correspondence was all business, either to lawyers or else to do with local charities and committees. He’d been resigning from his committees. Rebus wondered if pressure had been applied. Edinburgh could be cruel and cold that way.

  ‘Well?’ Hogan said, sticking his head round the door.

  ‘I’m just wondering . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Whether to add on a conservatory and knock through from the kitchen.’

  ‘We’d lose some garden space,’ Hogan said. He came in, rested against the desk. ‘Anything?’

  ‘A missing phone bill, and a sudden change from being itemised.’

  ‘Worth a call,’ Hogan admitted. ‘I found a chequebook in his bedroom. Stubs show payments of £60 a month to E. Forgan.’

  ‘Where in the bedroom?’

  ‘Marking his place in a book.’ Hogan reached into the desk’s top drawer, lifted out the address book.

  Rebus got up. ‘Pretty rich street this. Wonder how many of them do their own dusting.’

  Hogan shut the book. ‘No listing for an E. Forgan. Think the neighbours will know?’

  ‘Edinburgh neighbours know everything. It’s just that they most often keep it to themselves.’

  16

  Joseph Lintz’s neighbours: an artist and her husband on one side; a retired advocate and his wife on the other. The artist used a cleaning lady called Ella Forgan. Mrs Forgan lived in East Claremont Street. The artist gave them a telephone number.

  Conclusions drawn from the two interviews: shock and horror that Lintz was dead; praise for the quiet, considerate neighbour. A Christmas card every year, and an invitation to drinks one Sunday afternoon each July. Hard to tell when he’d been at home and when he’d been out. He went off on holiday without telling anyone except Mrs Forgan. Visitors to his home had been few – or few had been noticed, which wasn’t quite the same thing.

  ‘Men? Women?’ Rebus had asked. ‘Or a mixture?’

  ‘A mixture, I’d say,’ the artist had replied, measuring her words. ‘Really, we knew very little about him, to say we’ve been neighbours these past twenty-odd years . . .’

  Ah, and that was Edinburgh for you, too, at least in this price bracket. Wealth was a very private thing in the city. It wasn’t brash and colourful. It stayed behind its thick stone walls and was at peace.

  Rebus and Hogan held a doorstep conference.

  ‘I’ll call the cleaning lady, see if I can meet her, preferably here.’ Hogan looked back at Lintz’s front door.

  ‘I’d love to know where he got the money to buy this place,’ Rebus said.

  ‘That could take some excavating.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Solicitor would be the place to start. What about the address book? Worth tracking down some of these elusive friends?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Hogan looked dispirited at the prospect.

  ‘I’ll follow up on the phone bills,’ Rebus said. ‘If that’ll help.’

  Hogan was nodding. ‘And remember to get me copies of your files. Are you busy otherwise?’

  ‘Bobby, if time was money, I’d be in hock to every lender in town.’

  Mae Crumley reached Rebus on his mobile.

  ‘I thought you’d forgotten me,’ he told Sammy’s boss.

  ‘Just being methodical, Inspector. I’m sure you’d want no less.’ Rebus stopped at traffic lights. ‘I’ve been in to see Sammy. Is there any news?’

  ‘Nothing much. So you’ve talked to her clients?’

  ‘Yes, and they all seemed genuinely upset and surprised. Sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m disappointed?’

  ‘Sammy has a good rapport with all her clients. None of them would have wanted her hurt.’

  ‘What about the ones who didn’t want to be her clients?’

  Crumley hesitated. ‘There was one man . . . When he was told Sammy had a police inspector for a father, he’d have nothing to do with her.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘It couldn’t have been him though.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he killed himself. His name was Gavin Tay. He used to drive an ice-cream van . . .’

  Rebus thanked her for her call, and put down the phone. If someone had tried to kill Sammy on purpose, the question was: why? Rebus had been investigating Lintz;
Ned Farlowe had been following him. Rebus had twice confronted Telford; Ned was writing a book about organised crime. Then there was Candice . . . Could she have told Sammy something, something which might have threatened Telford, or even Mr Pink Eyes? Rebus just didn’t know. He knew the most likely culprit – the most vicious – was Tommy Telford. He remembered their first meeting, and the young gangster’s words to him: That’s the beauty of games. You can always start again after an accident. Not so easy in real life. At the time it had sounded like bravado, a performance for the troops. But now it sounded like a plain threat.

  And now there was Mr Taystee, connecting Sammy to Telford. Mr Taystee had worked Telford’s clubs; Mr Taystee had rejected Sammy. Rebus knew he’d have to talk to the widow.

  There was just the one problem. Mr Pink Eyes had intimated that if Telford wasn’t left alone, Candice would suffer. He kept seeing images of Candice: torn from home and homeland; used and abused; abusing herself in the hope of respite; clinging to a stranger’s legs . . . He recalled Levy’s words: Can time wash away responsibility? Justice was a fine and noble thing, but revenge . . . revenge was an emotion, and so much stronger than an abstract like justice. He wondered if Sammy would want revenge. Probably not. She’d want him to help Candice, which meant yielding to Telford. Rebus didn’t think he could do that.

  And now there was Lintz’s murder, unconnected but resonant.

  ‘I’ve never felt comfortable with the past, Inspector,’ Lintz had said once. Funny, Rebus felt the same way about the present.

  Joanne Tay lived in Colinton: a newish three-bedroomed semi with the Merc still parked in the drive.

  ‘It’s too big for me,’ she explained to Rebus. ‘I’ll have to sell it.’

  He wasn’t sure if she meant the house or the car. Having declined her offer of tea, he sat in the busy living-room, ornaments on every flat surface. Joanne Tay was still in mourning: black skirt and blouse, dark grooves beneath her eyes. He’d interviewed her back at the start of the inquiry.