10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘I still don’t know why he did it,’ she said now, reluctant to see her husband’s death as anything other than suicide.

  But the pathology and forensic tests had cast this into doubt.

  ‘Have you ever heard,’ Rebus asked, ‘of a man called Tommy Telford?’

  ‘He runs a nightclub, doesn’t he? Gavin took me there once.’

  ‘So Gavin knew him?’

  ‘Seemed to.’

  Yes: because no way was Mr Taystee setting up his hot-dog pitch outside Telford’s premises without Telford’s okay. And Telford’s okay almost certainly meant payment of some kind. A percentage maybe . . . or a favour.

  ‘The week before Gavin died,’ Rebus went on, ‘you said he’d been busy?’

  ‘Working all hours.’

  ‘Days as well as nights?’ She nodded. ‘The weather was lousy that week.’

  ‘I know. I told him: you’ll never get them buying ice-cream, a day like this. Pelting down outside. But still he went out.’

  Rebus shifted in his chair. ‘Did he ever mention SWEEP, Mrs Tay?’

  ‘He had some woman would visit him . . . red hair.’

  ‘Mae Crumley?’

  She nodded, eyes staring at the coal-effect fire. She asked him again if he wanted some tea. Rebus shook his head and made to leave. Did pretty well: knocked over just the two ornaments on his way to the door.

  The hospital was quiet. When he pushed open the door to Sammy’s room, he saw that another bed had been added, a middle-aged woman sleeping in it. Her hands lay on the bedcovers, a white identity tag around one wrist. She was hooked up to a machine, and her head was bandaged.

  Two women were sitting by Sammy’s bed. Rhona, and Patience Aitken. Rebus hadn’t seen Patience in a while. The women were sitting close together. Their whispered conversation stopped as he came in. He lifted a chair and placed it beside Patience’s. She leaned over and squeezed his hand.

  ‘Hello, John.’

  He smiled at her, spoke to Rhona. ‘How is she?’

  ‘The specialist says those last tests were very positive.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means there’s brain activity. She’s not in deep coma.’

  ‘Is that his version?’

  ‘He thinks she’ll come out of it, John.’ Her eyes were bloodshot. He noticed a handkerchief gripped in one hand.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Which doctor was it?’

  ‘Dr Stafford. He’s just back from holiday.’

  ‘I can’t keep track of them all.’ Rebus rubbed his forehead.

  ‘Look,’ Patience said, checking her watch, ‘I really should be going. I’m sure the two of you . . .’

  ‘Stay as long as you like,’ Rebus told her.

  ‘I’m already late for an appointment, actually.’ She got to her feet. ‘Nice to meet you, Rhona.’

  ‘Thanks, Patience.’ The two women shook hands a little awkwardly, then Rhona got up and they hugged, and the awkwardness vanished. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  Patience turned to Rebus. She looked radiant, he decided. Light really seemed to emanate from her skin. She was wearing her usual perfume, and had had her hair restyled.

  ‘Thanks for looking in,’ he said.

  ‘She’s going to be fine, John.’ She took his hands in hers, leaned towards him. A peck on the cheek, a kiss between friends. Rebus saw Rhona watching them.

  ‘John,’ she said, ‘see Patience out, will you?’

  ‘No, that’s all –’

  ‘Of course, yes,’ Rebus said.

  They left the room together. Walked the first few steps in silence. Patience spoke first.

  ‘She’s great, isn’t she?’

  ‘Rhona?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Rebus was thoughtful. ‘She’s terrific. Have you met her paramour?’

  ‘He’s gone back to London. I’ve . . . I asked Rhona if she wanted to come stay with me. Hotels can be . . .’

  Rebus smiled tiredly. ‘Good idea. Then all you’d have to do is invite my brother over and you’d have the whole set.’

  Her face cracked into an embarrassed grin. ‘I suppose it must look a bit like I’m collecting you all.’

  ‘The perfect hand of Unhappy Families.’

  She turned to him. They were at the main doors of the hospital. She touched his shoulder. ‘John, I’m really sorry about Sammy. Anything I can do, you’ve only got to ask.’

  ‘Thanks, Patience.’

  ‘But asking for things has never been your strong point, has it? You just sit in silence and hope they come to you.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss you. I think that’s why I took in Sammy. If I couldn’t be close to you, at least I could be close to someone who was. Does that make any sense? Is this where you say something about not deserving me?’

  ‘You’ve seen the script.’ He pulled back a little from her, just so he could look at her face. ‘I miss you, too.’

  All the nights slumped at the bar, or in his chair at home, the long midnight drives so he could keep his restlessness alive. He’d have the TV and the hi-fi on at the same time, and the flat would still feel empty. Books he tried reading, finding he was ten pages in and couldn’t remember anything. Gazing from his window at the darkened flats across the street, imagining lives at rest.

  All because he didn’t have her.

  They embraced in silence for a while. ‘You’re going to be late,’ he said.

  ‘God, John, what are we going to do?’

  ‘See one another?’

  ‘That sounds like a start.’

  ‘Tonight? Mario’s at eight?’ She nodded and they kissed again. He squeezed her hand. Her head was turned to look at him as she pushed open the doors.

  Emerson, Lake and Palmer: ‘Still . . . You Turn Me On.’

  Rebus felt a little giddy as he walked back to Sammy’s room. Only it wasn’t any more, wasn’t ‘Sammy’s room’. Now there was another patient there. They’d said there was always that possibility – shortage of space, cutbacks. The woman was still asleep or unconscious, breathing noisily. Rebus ignored her and sat where Patience had been sitting.

  ‘I’ve got a message for you,’ Rhona said. ‘From Dr Morrison.’

  ‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. All he said was, could he have his t-shirt back?’

  The ghoul with the scythe . . . Rebus picked up Pa Broon, turned the bear in his hands. They sat in silence for a while, until Rhona shifted in her chair. ‘Patience is really nice.’

  ‘Did the two of you have a good chat?’ She nodded. ‘And you told her what a perfect husband I’d been?’

  ‘You must be crazy, walking out on her.’

  ‘Sanity’s never exactly been my strong point.’

  ‘But you used to know a good thing when you saw it.’

  ‘Trouble is, that’s never what I see when I look in the mirror.’

  ‘What do you see?’

  He looked at her. ‘Sometimes I don’t see anything at all.’

  Later, they took a coffee-break, went to the machine.

  ‘I lost her, you know,’ Rhona said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sammy, I lost her. She came back here. She came back to you.’

  ‘We hardly see one another, Rhona.’

  ‘But she’s here. Don’t you get it? It’s you she wants, not me.’ She turned away from him, fumbled for her handkerchief. He stood close behind her, then couldn’t think of anything to say. He was all out of words; every line of sympathy rang hollow to him, just another cliché. He touched the back of her neck, rubbed it. She lowered her head a little, didn’t resist. Massage: there’d been a lot of massage early on in their relationship. By the end, he hadn’t even given her time for a handshake.

  ‘I don’t know why she came back, Rhona,’ he said at last. ‘But I don’t think she was running away, and I don’t think it had much to do with seeing me.’

  A couple of
nurses ran past, urgency in their movements.

  ‘I’d better get back,’ Rhona said, rubbing a hand over her face, pulling it into something resembling composure.

  Rebus went with her to the room, then said he had to be going. He bent down to kiss Sammy, feeling the breath from her nostrils against his cheek.

  ‘Wake up, Sammy,’ he cajoled. ‘You can’t stay in bed all your life. Time to get up.’

  When there was no movement, no response, he turned and left the room.

  17

  David Levy was no longer in Edinburgh. At least, he wasn’t at the Roxburghe Hotel. Rebus could think of only one way of contacting him. Seated at his desk, he called the Holocaust Investigation Bureau in Tel Aviv and asked to speak with Solomon Mayerlink. Mayerlink wasn’t available, but Rebus identified himself and said he needed to contact him as a matter of urgency. He got a home telephone number.

  ‘Is there news on Linzstek, Inspector?’ Mayerlink’s voice was a harsh rasp.

  ‘Of a kind, yes. He’s dead.’

  Silence on the line, then a slow release of breath. ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘People die, a little bit of history dies with them. We would have preferred to see him in court, Inspector. Dead, he’s worthless.’ Mayerlink paused. ‘I take it this ends your inquiry?’

  ‘It changes the nature of the investigation. He was murdered.’

  Static on the line; an eight-beat pause. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘He was hung from a tree.’

  There was a longer silence on the line. ‘I see,’ Mayerlink said at last. There was a slight echo on his voice. ‘You think the allegations led to his murder?’

  ‘What would you say?’

  ‘I’m not a detective.’

  But Rebus knew Mayerlink was lying: detection was exactly the role he’d chosen in life. A detective of history.

  ‘I need to talk to David Levy,’ Rebus said. ‘Do you have his address and phone number?’

  ‘He came to see you?’

  ‘You know he did.’

  ‘It’s not that simple with David. He doesn’t work for the Bureau. He’s self-motivated. I ask him for help occasionally. Sometimes he helps, sometimes he doesn’t.’

  ‘But you do have some way of contacting him?’

  It took Mayerlink a full minute to come up with the details. An address in Sussex, plus telephone number.

  ‘Is David your number one suspect, Inspector?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I could tell you you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘The same tree Joseph Lintz swung from?’

  ‘Can you really see David Levy as a murderer, Inspector?’

  Safari suit, walking stick. ‘It takes all sorts,’ Rebus said, putting down the phone.

  He tried Levy’s number. It rang and rang. He gave it a couple of minutes, drank a coffee, tried again. Still no answer. He called British Telecom instead, explained what he needed, was finally put through to the right person.

  ‘My name’s Justine Graham, Inspector. How can I help?’

  Rebus gave her Lintz’s details. ‘He used to get itemised bills, then he switched.’

  He heard her fingers hammer a keyboard. ‘That’s right,’ she told him. ‘The customer asked for itemised billing to be discontinued.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘No record of that. You don’t need to give an excuse, you know.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A couple of months back. The customer had requested monthly billing several years previously.’

  Monthly billing: because he was meticulous, kept his accounts by the month. A couple of months back – September – the Lintz/Linzstek story had blown up in the media. And, suddenly, he hadn’t wanted his phone calls to be a matter of record.

  ‘Do you have records of his calls, even the unitemised ones?’

  ‘Yes, we should have that information.’

  ‘I’d like to see a list. Everything from the first unitemised call through to this morning.’

  ‘Is that when he died – this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She was thoughtful. ‘Well, I’ll need to check.’

  ‘Please do. But remember, Ms Graham, this is a murder inquiry.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And your information could be absolutely crucial.’

  ‘I’m quite aware of –’

  ‘So if I could have that by the end of today . . . ?’

  She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I can promise that.’

  ‘And one last thing. The bill for September is missing. I’d like a copy of it. Let me give you the fax number here, speed things up.’

  Rebus congratulated himself with another cup of coffee and a cigarette in the car park. She might or might not deliver later in the day, but he was confident she’d be trying her best. Wasn’t that all you could ask of anybody?

  Another call: Special Branch in London. He asked for Abernethy.

  ‘I’ll just put you through.’

  Someone picked up: a grunt in place of an acknowledgement.

  ‘Abernethy?’ Rebus asked. He heard liquid being swallowed. The voice became clearer.

  ‘He’s not here. Can I help?’

  ‘I really need to speak to him.’

  ‘I could have him paged, if it’s urgent.’

  ‘My name’s DI Rebus, Lothian and Borders Police.’

  ‘Oh, right. Have you lost him or something?’

  Rebus’s expression turned quizzical. His voice carried a false note of humour. ‘You know what Abernethy’s like.’

  A snort. ‘Don’t I just.’

  ‘So any help appreciated.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Look, give me your number. I’ll get him to call you.’

  Have you lost him or something? ‘You’ve no idea where he is then?’

  ‘It’s your city, chum. Take your best shot.’

  He’s up here, Rebus thought. He’s right here.

  ‘I bet the office is quiet without him.’

  Laughter on the line, then the sounds of a cigarette being lit. A long exhalation. ‘It’s like being on holiday. Keep him as long as you like.’

  ‘So how long have you been without him?’

  A pause. As the silence lengthened, Rebus could feel the change of atmosphere.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘DI Rebus. I was only asking when he left London.’

  ‘This morning, soon as he heard. So what have I won: the hatchback or the hostess trolley?’

  Rebus’s turn to laugh. ‘Sorry, I’m just nosy.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to tell him that.’ A single click, then the sound of an open line.

  Later that afternoon, Rebus chased up British Telecom, then tried Levy’s house again. This time he got through to a woman.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Levy? My name’s John Rebus. I was wondering if I could have a word with your husband?’

  ‘You mean my father.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Is your father there?’

  ‘No, he’s not.’

  ‘Any idea when . . . ?’

  ‘Absolutely none.’ She sounded peeved. ‘I’m just his cook and cleaner. Like I don’t have a life of my own.’ She caught herself. ‘Sorry, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Rebus.’

  ‘It’s just that he never says how long he’s going to be away.’

  ‘He’s away just now?’

  ‘Has been for the best part of a fortnight. He rings two or three times a week, asks if there’ve been any calls or letters. If I’m lucky, he might remember to ask how I’m doing.’

  ‘And how are you doing?’

  A smile in her voice. ‘I know, I know. I sound like I’m his mother or something.’

  ‘Well, you know, fathers . . .’ Rebus stared into the middle distance . . . ‘if you don’t tell them anything’s wrong, they’re happy to assume the best and hold their peace.’

  ‘You speak
from experience?’

  ‘Too much experience.’

  She was thoughtful. ‘Is it something important?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Well, give me your name and number, and next time he calls I’ll have him phone you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Rebus reeled off two numbers: home and mobile.

  ‘Got that,’ she said. ‘Any other message?’

  ‘No, just have him call me.’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Has he had any other calls?’

  ‘You mean, people trying to reach him? Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just . . . no real reason.’ He didn’t want to say he was a policeman; didn’t want her spooked. ‘No reason,’ he repeated.

  As he came off the phone, someone handed him another coffee. ‘That receiver must be red hot.’

  He touched it with the tips of his fingers. It was pretty warm. Then it rang and he picked it up again.

  ‘DI Rebus,’ he said.

  ‘John, it’s Siobhan.’

  ‘Hiya, how’s tricks?’

  ‘John, you remember that guy?’ Her tone was warning him of something.

  ‘What guy?’ The humour was gone from his voice.

  ‘Danny Simpson.’ He of the flappy skull; Telford’s lackey.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’ve just found out he’s HIV positive. His GP let the hospital know.’

  Blood in Rebus’s eyes, his ears, dribbling down his neck . . .

  ‘Poor guy,’ he said quietly.

  ‘He should have said something at the time.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When we got him to the hospital.’

  ‘Well, he had other things on his mind, and some of them were in danger of falling off.’

  ‘Christ, John, be serious for a minute!’ Her voice was loud enough to have people glance up from their desks. ‘You need to get a blood test.’

  ‘Fine, no problem. How is he, by the way?’

  ‘Back home but poorly. And sticking to his story.’

  ‘Do I detect the influence of Telford’s lawyer?’

  ‘Charles Groal? That one’s so slimy, he’s practically primordial.’

  ‘Saves you the cost of a valentine.’

  ‘Look, just phone the hospital. Talk to a Dr Jones. She’ll fix an appointment. They can do a test right away. Not that it’ll be the last word – there’s a three-month incubation.’

  ‘Thanks, Siobhan.’