10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Not exactly the “A-Team” in here, is it?’ Rebus retrieved the plane, straightened its crumpled nose, and sent it back to Ormiston, who asked what he was doing there.

  ‘Liaising,’ Rebus told him. ‘My boss wants a progress report.’

  Ormiston glanced towards Claverhouse, who was tipping himself back in his chair, hands behind his head.

  ‘Want to take a guess at the headway we’ve made?’

  Rebus sat down opposite Claverhouse, nodded a greeting to Siobhan.

  ‘How’s Sammy?’ she asked.

  ‘Just the same,’ Rebus answered. Claverhouse looked abashed, and Rebus suddenly realised that he could use Sammy as a lever, play on people’s sympathy. Why not? Hadn’t he used her in the past? Wasn’t Ned Farlowe on the nail there?

  ‘We’ve pulled the surveillance,’ Claverhouse said.

  ‘Why?’

  Ormiston snorted, but it was Claverhouse who answered.

  ‘High maintenance, low returns.’

  ‘Orders from above?’

  ‘It isn’t as if we were close to getting a result.’

  ‘So we just let him get on with getting on?’

  Claverhouse shrugged. Rebus wondered if news would get back to Newcastle. Jake Tarawicz would be happy. He’d think Rebus was fulfilling his part of the bargain. Candice would be safe. Maybe.

  ‘Any news on that nightclub killing?’

  ‘Nothing to link it to your chum Cafferty.’

  ‘He’s not my chum.’

  ‘Whatever you say. Stick the kettle on, Ormie.’ Ormiston glanced towards Clarke, then rose grudgingly from his chair. Rebus had thought the tension in the office was all to do with Telford. Not a bit of it. Claverhouse and Clarke close together, involved. Ormiston off on his own, a kid making paper planes, seeking attention. An old Status Quo song: ‘Paper Plane’. But the status quo here had been disturbed: Clarke had usurped Ormiston. The office junior was absolved from making the tea.

  Rebus could see why Ormiston was pissed off.

  ‘I hear Herr Lintz was a bit of a swinger,’ Claverhouse said.

  ‘Now there’s a joke I haven’t heard before.’ Rebus’s pager sounded. The display gave him a number to call.

  He used Claverhouse’s phone. It sounded like he was connected to a pay-phone. Street sounds, heavy traffic close by.

  ‘Mr Rebus?’ Placed the voice at once: the Weasel.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A couple of questions. The tape player from the car, any idea of the make?’

  ‘Sony.’

  ‘The front bit detachable?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So all they got was the front bit?’

  ‘Yes.’ Claverhouse and Clarke, back at their report, pretending they weren’t listening.

  ‘What about the tapes? You said some tapes got stolen?’

  ‘Opera – The Marriage of Figaro and Verdi’s Macbeth.’ Rebus squeezed his eyes shut, thinking. ‘And another tape with film music on it, famous themes. Plus Roy Orbison’s Greatest Hits.’ This last the wife’s. Rebus knew what the Weasel was thinking: whoever took the stuff, they’d try flogging it round the pubs or at a car boot sale. Car boot sales were clearing houses for knock-off. But getting whoever had lifted the stuff from the unlocked car wasn’t going to nail the driver . . . Unless the kid – the one who’d lifted the stuff, whose prints were on the car – had seen something: been hanging around on the street, watched the car screeching to a stop, a man getting out and hoofing it . . .

  An eye witness, someone who could describe the driver.

  ‘The only prints we got were small, maybe a kid’s.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘Anything else I can do,’ Rebus said, ‘just let me know.’

  The Weasel hung up.

  ‘Sony’s a good make,’ Claverhouse said, fishing.

  ‘Some stuff lifted from a car,’ Rebus told him. ‘It might have turned up.’

  Ormiston had made the tea. Rebus went to fetch himself a chair, saw someone walk past the open doorway. He dropped the chair and ran into the corridor, grabbed at an arm.

  Abernethy spun quickly, saw who it was and relaxed.

  ‘Nice one, son,’ he said. ‘You almost had knuckles for teeth.’ He was working on a piece of chewing gum.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Visiting.’ Abernethy looked back at the open door, walked towards it. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Working.’

  Abernethy read the sign on the door. ‘Crime Squad,’ he said, sounding amused, taking in the office and the people in it. Hands in pockets, he sauntered in, Rebus following.

  ‘Abernethy, Special Branch,’ the Londoner said by way of introduction. ‘That music’s a good idea: play it at interrogations, sap the suspect’s will to live.’ He was smiling, surveying the premises like he was thinking of moving in. The mug meant for Rebus was on the corner of the desk. Abernethy picked it up and slurped, made a face, started chewing again. The three Crime Squad officers were like a frozen tableau. Suddenly they looked like a unit: it had taken Abernethy to do that.

  Had taken him all of ten seconds.

  ‘What you working on?’ No one answered. ‘Must’ve got the sign on the door wrong,’ Abernethy said. ‘Should be Mime Squad.’

  ‘Is there something we can do for you?’ Claverhouse asked, his voice level, hostility in his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know. It was John pulled me in here.’

  ‘And I’m pulling you out again,’ Rebus said, taking his arm. Abernethy shrugged free, bunched his fists. ‘A word in the corridor . . . please.’

  Abernethy smiled. ‘Manners maketh the man, John.’

  ‘What does that maketh you?’

  Abernethy turned his head slowly, looked at Siobhan Clarke who’d just spoken.

  ‘I’m just a regular guy with a heart of gold and twelve big inches of ability.’ He grinned at her.

  ‘To go with your twelve big points of IQ,’ she said, going back to the report. Ormiston and Claverhouse weren’t trying too hard to conceal their laughter as Abernethy stormed out of the room. Rebus hung back long enough to watch Ormiston pat Clarke on the back, then headed off after the Special Branch man.

  ‘What a bitch,’ Abernethy said. He was making for the exit.

  ‘She’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘And they say you can choose your friends . . .’ Abernethy shook his head.

  ‘What brings you back?’

  ‘You have to ask?’

  ‘Lintz is dead. Case closed as far as you’re concerned.’

  They emerged from the building.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So,’ Rebus persisted, ‘why come all the way back here? What is there that couldn’t be done with a phone or fax?’

  Abernethy stopped, turned to face him. ‘Loose ends.’

  ‘What loose ends?’

  ‘There aren’t any.’ Abernethy gave a cheerless smile and took a key from his pocket. As they approached his car, he used the remote to unlock it and disable the alarm.

  ‘What’s going on, Abernethy?’

  ‘Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.’ He opened the driver’s-side door.

  ‘Are you glad he’s dead?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lintz. How do you feel about him being murdered?’

  ‘I’ve no feelings either way. He’s dead, which means I can cross him off my list.’

  ‘That last time you came up here, you were warning him.’

  ‘Not true.’

  ‘Was his phone bugged?’ Abernethy just snorted. ‘Did you know he might be killed?’

  Abernethy turned on Rebus. ‘What’s it to you? I’ll tell you: nothing. Leith CID are on the murder, and you’re out of it. End of story.’

  ‘Is it the Rat Line? Too embarrassing if it all came to light?’

  ‘Christ, what is it with you? Just give it a rest.’ Abernethy got into the car, closed the door. Rebus didn’t mo
ve. The engine turned and caught, Abernethy’s window slid down. Rebus was ready.

  ‘They sent you four hundred miles just to check there were no loose ends.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So there’s rather a large loose end, isn’t there?’ Rebus paused. ‘Unless you know who Lintz’s killer was.’

  ‘I leave that sort of thing to you guys.’

  ‘Heading down to Leith?’

  ‘I have to talk to Hogan.’ Abernethy stared at Rebus. ‘You’re a hard bastard, aren’t you? Maybe even a bit selfish.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘If I’d a daughter in hospital, police work would be the last thing on my mind.’

  As Rebus lunged towards the open window, Abernethy gunned the car. Footsteps behind: Siobhan Clarke.

  ‘Good riddance,’ she said, watching the car speed off. A finger appeared from Abernethy’s window. She gave a two-fingered reply. ‘I didn’t want to say anything in the office . . .’ she began.

  ‘I took the test yesterday,’ Rebus lied.

  ‘It’ll be negative.’

  ‘Are you positive?’

  She smiled a little longer than the joke merited. ‘Ormiston chucked your tea away, said he was going to disinfect the mug.’

  ‘Abernethy has that effect on people.’ He looked at her. ‘Remember, Ormiston and Claverhouse go back years.’

  ‘I know. I think Claverhouse has a crush on me. It’ll pass, but until it does . . .’

  ‘Tread carefully.’ They started walking back towards the main entrance. ‘And don’t let him tempt you into the broom cupboard.’

  19

  Rebus went back to St Leonard’s, saw that the office was coping quite well without him, and headed over to the hospital with Dr Morrison’s Iron Maiden t-shirt in a plastic bag. A third bed had been moved into Sammy’s room. An elderly woman lay in it. Though awake, she stared fixedly at the ceiling. Rhona was at Sammy’s bedside, reading a book.

  Rebus stroked his daughter’s hair. ‘How is she?’

  ‘No change.’

  ‘Any more tests planned?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘That’s it then? She just stays like this?’

  He lifted a chair over, sat down. It had turned into a sort of ritual now, this bedside vigil. It felt almost . . . the word he wanted to use was ‘comfortable’. He squeezed Rhona’s hand, sat there for twenty minutes, saying almost nothing, then went to find Kirstin Mede.

  She was in her office at the French Department, marking scripts. She sat at a big desk in front of the window, but moved from this to a coffee-table with half a dozen chairs arranged around it.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said. Rebus sat down.

  ‘I got your message,’ he told her.

  ‘Hardly matters now, does it? The man’s dead.’

  ‘I know you spoke with him, Kirstin.’

  She glanced towards him. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You waited for him outside his house. Did the two of you have a nice chat?’

  Colour had risen to her cheeks. She crossed her legs, tugged the hem of her skirt towards her knee. ‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘I went to his house.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wanted to see him close up.’ Her eyes were on his now, challenging him. ‘I thought maybe I could tell from his face . . . the look in his eyes. Maybe something in his tone of voice.’

  ‘And could you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not a damned thing. No window to the soul.’

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘I told him who I was.’

  ‘Any reaction?’

  ‘Yes.’ She folded her arms. ‘His words: “My dear lady, will you kindly piss off.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes. Because I knew then. Not whether he was Linzstek or not, but something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That he was at the end of his tether.’ She was nodding. ‘Absolutely at breaking point.’ She looked at Rebus again. ‘And capable of anything.’

  The problem with the Flint Street surveillance was that it had been so open. A hidden operation – deep cover – that’s what was needed. Rebus had decided to scout out the territory.

  The tenement flats across the road from Telford’s café and arcade were served by a single main door. It was locked, so Rebus chose a buzzer at random – marked HETHERINGTON. Waited, pushed again. An elderly voice came on the intercom.

  ‘Who is it, please?’

  ‘Mrs Hetherington? Detective Inspector Rebus, I’m your Community CID officer. Can I talk to you about home security? There’ve been a few break-ins around here, especially with elderly victims.’

  ‘Gracious, you’d better come up.’

  ‘Which floor?’

  ‘The first.’ The door buzzed, and Rebus pushed it open.

  Mrs Hetherington was waiting for him in her doorway. She was tiny and frail-looking, but her eyes were lively and her movements assured. The flat was small, well-maintained. The sitting-room was heated by a two-bar electric fire. Rebus wandered over to the window, found himself looking down on to the arcade. Perfect location for a surveillance. He pretended to check her windows.

  ‘These seem fine,’ he said. ‘Are they always locked?’

  ‘I open them a bit in the summer,’ Mrs Hetherington said, ‘and when they need washing. But I always lock them again afterwards.’

  ‘One thing I should warn you about, and that’s bogus officials. People coming to your door, telling you they’re so-and-so. Always ask to see some ID, and don’t open up until you’re satisfied.’

  ‘How can I see it without opening the door?’

  ‘Ask them to push it through the letterbox.’

  ‘I didn’t see your identification, did I?’

  Rebus smiled. ‘No, you didn’t.’ He took it out and showed her. ‘Sometimes the fake stuff can look pretty convincing. If you’re unsure, keep the door locked and call the police.’ He looked around. ‘You have a phone?’

  ‘In the bedroom.’

  ‘Any windows in there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I take a look?’

  The bedroom window also looked out on to Flint Street. Rebus noticed travel brochures on the dressing-table, a small suitcase standing near the door.

  ‘Off on holiday, eh?’ With the flat empty, maybe he could move the surveillance in.

  ‘Just a long weekend,’ she said.

  ‘Somewhere nice?’

  ‘Holland. Wrong time of year for the bulb-fields, but I’ve always wanted to go. It’s a nuisance flying from Inverness, but so much cheaper. Since my husband died . . . well, I’ve done a bit of travelling.’

  ‘Any chance of taking me with you?’ Rebus smiled. ‘This window’s fine, too. I’ll just check your door, see if it could do with more locks.’ They went into the narrow hall.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘we’ve always been very lucky here, no break-ins or anything like that.’

  Hardly surprising with Tommy Telford as proprietor.

  ‘And with the panic button, of course . . .’

  Rebus looked at the wall next to the front door. A large red button. He’d assumed it was for the stairhead lights or something.

  ‘Anyone who calls, anyone at all, I’m supposed to press it.’

  Rebus opened the door. ‘And do you?’

  Two very large men were standing right outside.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Hetherington said. ‘I always do.’

  For thugs, they were very polite. Rebus showed them his warrant card and explained the nature of his visit. He asked them who they were, and they told him they were ‘representatives of the building’s owner’. He knew the faces though: Kenny Houston, Ally Cornwell. Houston – the ugly one – ran Telford’s doormen; Cornwell, with his wrestler’s bulk, was general muscle. The little charade was carried out with humour and good nature on both sides. They accompanied him downstairs. Across the street, Tommy Telford was standing
in the café doorway, wagging his finger. A pedestrian crossed Rebus’s line of vision. Too late, Rebus saw who it was. Had his mouth open to shout something, then saw Telford hang his head, hands going to his face. Screeching.

  Rebus ran across the road, pulled the pedestrian round: Ned Farlowe. A bottle dropped from Farlowe’s hand. Telford’s men were closing in. Rebus held tight to Farlowe.

  ‘I’m placing this man under arrest,’ he said. ‘He’s mine, understood?’

  A dozen faces glaring at him. And Tommy Telford down on his knees.

  ‘Get your boss to the hospital,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m taking this one to St Leonard’s . . .’

  Ned Farlowe sat on the ledge in one of the cells. The walls were blue, smeared brown near the toilet-pan. Farlowe was looking pleased with himself.

  ‘Acid?’ Rebus said, pacing the cell. ‘Acid? All this research must have gone to your head.’

  ‘It’s what he deserved.’

  Rebus glared at him. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done.’

  ‘I know exactly what I’ve done.’

  ‘He’ll kill you.’

  Farlowe shrugged. ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘You’d better believe it, son. I want you kept out of harm’s way. If I hadn’t been there . . .’ But he didn’t want to think about that. He looked at Farlowe. Looked at Sammy’s lover, who’d just staged a full-frontal assault on Telford, the kind of assault Rebus knew wouldn’t work.

  Now Rebus would have to redouble his efforts. Because otherwise, Ned Farlowe was a dead man . . . and when Sammy came round, he didn’t want news like that to be waiting for her.

  He drove back towards Flint Street, parked at a distance from it, and headed there on foot. Telford had the place sewn up, no doubt about it. Letting his flats to old folk might have been a charitable act but he’d made damned sure it served its purpose. Rebus wondered if, given the same circumstances, Cafferty would have been clever enough to think of panic-buttons. He suspected not. Cafferty wasn’t thick, but most of what he did he did by instinct. Rebus wondered if Tommy Telford had ever made a rash move in his life.

  He was staking out Flint Street because he needed an in, needed to find the weak link in the chain around Telford. After ten minutes of windchill, he thought of a better idea. On his mobile, he called one of the city’s taxi firms. Identified himself and asked if Henry Wilson was on shift. He was. Rebus told the switchboard to put a call out to Henry. It was as simple as that.