10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus put down the receiver, drummed his fingers against it. Wouldn’t that be a nice irony? Rebus out to get Telford, does the Good Samaritan bit for one of his men, gets AIDS and dies. Rebus stared at the ceiling.

  Nice one, Big Man.

  The phone rang again. Rebus snatched it up.

  ‘Switchboard,’ he said.

  ‘Is that you, John?’ Patience Aitken.

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘Just wanted to check we’re still on for tonight.’

  ‘To be honest, Patience, I’m not sure I’ll be at my most sparkling.’

  ‘You want to cancel?’

  ‘Absolutely not. But I have something to take care of. At the hospital.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘No, I don’t think you understand. It’s not Sammy this time, it’s me.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  So he told her.

  She went with him. Same hospital Sammy was in, different department. Last thing he wanted was to bump into Rhona, have to explain everything to her. Possibly HIV-infected: chances were, she’d red-card him from the bedside.

  The waiting room was white, clean. Lots of information on the walls. Leaflets on every table, as if paperwork was the real virus.

  ‘I must say, it’s very pleasant for a leper colony.’

  Patience didn’t say anything. They were alone in the room. Someone on reception had dealt with him first, then a nurse had come out and taken some details. Now another door opened.

  ‘Mr Rebus?’

  A tall thin woman in a white coat, standing in the doorway: Dr Jones, he presumed. Patience took his arm as they walked towards her. Halfway across the floor, Rebus turned on his heels and bolted.

  Patience caught up with him outside, asked what was wrong.

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ he told her.

  ‘But, John . . .’

  ‘Come on, Patience. All I got was a bit of blood splashed on me.’

  She didn’t look convinced. ‘You need to take the test.’

  He looked back towards the building. ‘Fine.’ Started walking away. ‘But some other time, eh?’

  It was one in the morning when he drove back into Arden Street. No dinner date with Patience: instead, they’d visited the hospital, sat with Rhona. He’d made a silent pact with the Big Man: bring her back and I’ll keep off the booze. He’d driven Patience home. Her last words to him: ‘Take that test. Get it over and done with.’

  As he locked his car, a figure appeared from nowhere.

  ‘Mr Rebus, long time no see.’

  Rebus recognised the face. Pointy chin, misshapen teeth, the breathing a series of small gasps. The Weasel: one of Cafferty’s men. He was dressed like a down-and-out, perfect camouflage for his role in life. He was Cafferty’s eyes and ears on the street.

  ‘We need to talk, Mr Rebus.’ His hands were deep in the pockets of a tweed coat meant for someone eight inches taller. He glanced towards the tenement door.

  ‘Not in my flat,’ Rebus stated. Some things were sacrosanct.

  ‘Cold out here.’

  Rebus just shook his head, and the Weasel sniffed hard.

  ‘You think it was a hit?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Rebus answered.

  ‘She was meant to die?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘A pro wouldn’t fuck up.’

  ‘Then it was a warning.’

  ‘We could do with seeing your notes.’

  ‘Can’t do that.’

  The Weasel shrugged. ‘Thought you wanted Mr Cafferty’s help?’

  ‘I can’t give you the notes. What about if I summarise?’

  ‘It’d be a start.’

  ‘Rover 600, stolen from George Street that afternoon. Abandoned on a street by Piershill Cemetery. Radio and some tapes lifted – not necessarily by the same person.’

  ‘Scavengers.’

  ‘Could be.’

  The Weasel was thoughtful. ‘A warning . . . That would mean a professional driver.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rebus said.

  ‘And not one of ours . . . Doesn’t leave too many candidates. Rover 600 . . . what colour?’

  ‘Sherwood Green.’

  ‘Parked on George Street?’

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘Thanks for that.’ The Weasel made to turn away, then paused. ‘Nice doing business with you again, Mr Rebus.’

  Rebus was about to say something, then remembered he needed the Weasel more than the Weasel needed him. He wondered how much crap he’d take from Cafferty . . . how long he’d have to take it. All his life? Had he made a contract with the devil?

  For Sammy, he’d have done much, much worse . . .

  In his flat, he stuck on the CD of Rock ’n’ Roll Circus, skipping to the actual Stones tracks. His answering machine was flashing. Three messages. The first: Hogan.

  ‘Hello, John. Just thought I’d check, see if there’s been any word from BT.’

  Not by the time Rebus had left the office. Message two: Abernethy.

  ‘Me again, bad penny and all that. Heard you’ve been trying to catch me. I’ll call you tomorrow. Cheers.’

  Rebus stared at the machine, willing Abernethy to say more, to give some hint of a location. But the machine was on to the final message. Bill Pryde.

  ‘John, tried you at the office, left a message. But I thought you’d want to know, we’ve had final word on those prints. If you want to try me at home, I’m on . . .’

  Rebus took down the number. Two in the morning, but Bill would understand.

  After a minute or so, a woman picked up. She sounded groggy.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rebus said. ‘Is Bill there?’

  ‘I’ll get him.’

  He heard background dialogue, then the receiver being hoisted.

  ‘So what’s this about prints?’ he asked.

  ‘Christ, John, when I said you could call, I didn’t mean the middle of the night!’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Yes, I know. How’s she doing anyway?’

  ‘Still out cold.’

  Pryde yawned. ‘Well, most of the prints inside the car belong to the owner and his wife. But we found one other set. Problem is, looks like they belong to a kid.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘The size.’

  ‘Plenty of adults around with small hands.’

  ‘I suppose so . . .’

  ‘You sound sceptical.’

  ‘More likely to be one of two scenarios. One, Sammy was hit by a joyrider. I know what you think, but it does happen. Two, the prints belong to whoever rifled the car after it was left at the cemetery.’

  ‘The kid who took the cassette player and tapes?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘No other prints? Not even partials?’

  ‘The car was clean, John.’

  ‘Exterior?’

  ‘Same three sets on the doors, plus Sammy’s on the bonnet.’ Pryde yawned again. ‘So what about your grudge theory?’

  ‘Still holds. A pro would be wearing gloves.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking. Not too many pros out there though.’

  ‘No.’ Rebus was thinking of the Weasel: I’m dealing with slime to catch a slug. Nothing he hadn’t done before, only this time there were personal reasons.

  And he didn’t think there’d be a trial.

  18

  Breakfast was on Hogan: bacon rolls in a brown paper bag. They ate them in the CID room at St Leonard’s. A Murder Room had been established in Leith, and that’s where Hogan should have been.

  Only he wanted Rebus’s files, and he knew better than to trust Rebus to deliver them.

  ‘Thought I’d save you the hassle,’ was what he said.

  ‘You’re a gentleman,’ Rebus answered, examining the interior of his roll. ‘Tell me, are pigs an endangered species?’

  ‘I lifted half a slice from you.’ Hogan pulled a string of fat from his mouth, tossed it into a bin. ‘
Thought I was doing you a favour: cholesterol and all that.’

  Rebus put the roll to one side, took a swig from the can of Irn-Bru – Hogan’s idea of a morning beverage – and swallowed. What was sugar consumption compared to HIV? ‘What did you get from the cleaning lady?’

  ‘Grief. Soon as she heard her employer was dead, the taps were on.’ Hogan brushed flour from his fingers: mealtime over. ‘She never met any of his friends, never had occasion to answer his telephone, hadn’t noticed any change in him recently, and doesn’t think he was a mass murderer. Quote: “If he’d killed that many people, I’d have known”.’

  ‘What is she, psychic or something?’

  Hogan shrugged. ‘About all I got from her was a glowing character reference and the fact that as she was paid in advance, she owes his estate a partial refund.’

  ‘There’s your motive.’

  Hogan smiled. ‘Speaking of motives . . .’

  ‘You’ve got something?’

  ‘Lintz’s lawyer has come up with a letter from the deceased’s bank.’ He handed Rebus a photocopy. ‘Seems our man made a cash withdrawal of five grand ten days ago.’

  ‘Cash?’

  ‘We found ten quid on his person, and about another thirty bar in the house. No five grand. I’m beginning to think blackmail.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘What about his address book?’

  ‘Slow work. A lot of old numbers, people who’ve moved on or died. Plus a few charities, museums . . . an art gallery or two.’ Hogan paused. ‘What about you?’

  Rebus opened his drawer, pulled out the fax sheets. ‘Waiting for me this morning. The calls Lintz wanted kept secret.’

  Hogan looked down the list. ‘Calls plural, or one in particular?’

  ‘I’ve just started going through them. Best guess: there’ll be callers he spoke to regularly. Those numbers will show up on the other statements. We’re looking for anomalies, one-offs.’

  ‘Makes sense.’ Hogan looked at his watch. ‘Anything else I should know?’

  ‘Two things. Remember I told you about the Special Branch interest?’

  ‘Abernethy?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘I tried calling him yesterday.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘According to his office, he was on his way up here. He’d already heard the news.’

  ‘So I’ve got Abernethy sniffing around, and you don’t trust him? Terrific. What’s the other thing?’

  ‘David Levy. I spoke with his daughter. She doesn’t know where he is. He could be anywhere.’

  ‘With a grudge against Lintz?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘What’s his phone number?’

  Rebus patted the topmost file on his desk. ‘Ready for you to take away.’

  Hogan studied the foot-high pile, looking glum.

  ‘I whittled it down to what’s absolutely necessary,’ Rebus told him.

  ‘There’s a month’s reading there.’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘My case is your case, Bobby.’

  With Hogan gone, Rebus went back to the British Telecom list. It was as detailed as he could have wished for. Lots of calls to Lintz’s solicitor, a few to one of the city’s taxi firms. Rebus tried a couple of numbers, found himself connected to charity offices: Lintz would have been phoning to tender his resignation. There were a few calls that stood out from the crowd: the Roxburghe Hotel – duration four minutes; Edinburgh University – twenty-six minutes. The Roxburghe had to mean Levy. Rebus knew Levy had talked to Lintz – Lintz himself had admitted it. Talking to him – being confronted by him – was one thing; calling him at his hotel quite another.

  The number for Edinburgh University connected Rebus to the main switchboard. He asked to be put through to Lintz’s old department. The secretary was very helpful. She’d been in the job over twenty years, was due to retire. Yes, she remembered Professor Lintz, but he hadn’t contacted the department recently.

  ‘Every call that comes through here, I know about it.’

  ‘He might have got straight through to a tutor though?’ Rebus suggested.

  ‘No one’s mentioned speaking to him. There’s nobody here from the Professor’s day.’

  ‘He doesn’t keep in touch with the department?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him in years, Inspector. Too many years for me to remember . . .’

  So who had he been talking to for over twenty minutes? Rebus thanked the secretary and put down the phone. He went through the other numbers: a couple of restaurants, a wine shop, and the local radio station. Rebus told the receptionist what he was after, and she said she’d do her best. Then he went back to the restaurants, asked them to check if Lintz had been making a reservation.

  Within half an hour, the calls started coming in. First restaurant: a booking for dinner, just the one cover. The radio station: they’d asked Lintz to appear on a programme. He’d said he’d consider it, then had called back to decline. Second restaurant: a lunch reservation, two covers.

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Mr Lintz and one other.’

  ‘Any idea who the “other” might have been?’

  ‘Another gentleman, quite elderly, I think . . . I’m sorry, I don’t really remember.’

  ‘Did he walk with a stick?’

  ‘I wish I could help, but it’s a madhouse here at lunchtime.’

  ‘You remember Lintz though?’

  ‘Mr Lintz is a regular . . . was a regular.’

  ‘Did he usually eat alone, or with company?’

  ‘Mostly alone. He didn’t seem to mind. He’d bring a book with him.’

  ‘Do you happen to recall any of his other guests?’

  ‘I remember a young woman . . . his daughter maybe? Or granddaughter?’

  ‘So when you say “young” . . .?’

  ‘Younger than him.’ A pause. ‘Maybe much younger.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘I really don’t remember.’ The voice impatient now.

  ‘I appreciate your help, sir. Just one more minute of your time . . . This woman, did he bring her more than once?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. The kitchen needs me.’

  ‘Well, if you think of anything else . . .’

  ‘Of course. Goodbye.’

  Rebus put the phone down, made some notes. Just one number left. He waited for an answer.

  ‘Yeah?’ The voice grudging.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘This is Malky. Who the fuck are you?’

  A voice in the background: ‘Tommy says that new machine’s fucked.’ Rebus put the phone down. His hand was shaking. That new machine . . . Tommy Telford on his arcade motorbike. He remembered The Family mugshots: Malky Jordan. Tiny nose and eyes in a balloon of a face. Joseph Lintz talking to one of Telford’s men? Phoning Telford’s office?? Rebus found the number of Hogan’s mobile.

  ‘Bobby,’ he said. ‘If you’re driving, better slow down right now . . .’

  Hogan’s notion: five in cash was just Telford’s style. Blackmail? But where was the connection? Something else . . .?

  Hogan’s play: he’d talk to Telford.

  Rebus’s notion: five was a bit steep for a hit-man. All the same, he wondered about Lintz . . . paying five thou’ to Telford to set up the ‘accident’. Motive: give Rebus a fright, scare him off? It put Lintz back in the frame, potentially.

  Rebus had fixed up another meeting, one he didn’t want anyone knowing about. Haymarket Station was nice and anonymous. The bench on platform one. Ned Farlowe was already waiting. He looked tired: worry over Sammy. They talked about her for a couple of minutes. Then Rebus got down to business.

  ‘You know Lintz has been murdered?’

  ‘I didn’t think this was a social call.’

  ‘We’re looking at a blackmail angle.’

  Farlowe looked interested. ‘And he didn’t pay up?’

  Oh, he paid up all right, Rebus thought. He paid up, and someone still took him out of the game.

  ‘Lo
ok, Ned, this is all off the record. By rights I should take you in for questioning.’

  ‘Because I followed him for a few days?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that makes me a suspect?’

  ‘It makes you a possible witness.’

  Farlowe thought about it. ‘One evening. Lintz left his house, walked down the road, made a call from a phone-box, then went straight back home.’

  Not wanting to use his home phone . . . afraid it was bugged? Afraid of the number being traced? Telephone bugging: a favourite ploy of Special Branch.

  ‘And something else,’ Farlowe was saying. ‘He met this woman on his doorstep. Like she was waiting for him. They had a few words. I think she was crying when she left.’.

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘Tall, short dark hair, well-dressed. She had a briefcase with her.’

  ‘Wearing?’

  Farlowe shrugged. ‘Skirt and jacket . . . matching. Black and white check. You know . . . elegant.’

  He was describing Kirstin Mede. Her phone message to Rebus: I can’t do this any more . . .

  ‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ Farlowe was saying. ‘That girl Candice.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘You asked me if anything unusual had happened just before Sammy got hit.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, she happened, didn’t she?’ Farlowe’s eyes narrowed. ‘Does she have anything to do with it?’

  Rebus looked at Farlowe, who started nodding.

  ‘Thanks for the confirmation. Who was she?’

  ‘One of Telford’s girls.’

  Farlowe leaped to his feet, paced the platform. Rebus waited for him to sit down again. When he did, there could be no doubting the fury in his eyes.

  ‘You hid one of Telford’s girls with your own daughter?’

  ‘I didn’t have much choice. Telford knows where I live. I . . .’

  ‘You were using us!’ He paused. ‘Telford did this, didn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rebus said. Farlowe leaped to his feet again. ‘Look, Ned, I don’t want you –’

  ‘Quite frankly, Inspector, I don’t think you’re in any position to give advice.’ He started walking, and though Rebus called after him, he never once looked back.

  As Rebus walked into the Crime Squad office, a paper plane glided past and crashed into the wall. Ormiston had his feet up on the desk. Country and western music was playing softly in the background, its source a tape player on the window ledge behind Claverhouse’s desk. Siobhan Clarke had pulled a chair over beside him. They were poring over some report.