10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Come on, Gill,’ he said, ‘I’m being shafted here.’

  ‘Who authorised your surveillance?’

  ‘Nobody. I did it in my own time.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘The Chief Super said I could take a bit of time off.’

  ‘He meant so you could visit your daughter.’ She paused. ‘Is that what this was all about?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘This Mr . . .’ she checked her notes ‘. . . Matsumoto, he was connected to Thomas Telford. And your theory is that Telford was behind the attack on your daughter?’

  Rebus thumped the wall with his fists. ‘It’s a set-up, oldest trick in the book. I’ve yet to see one perfected. There’s got to be something at the scene . . . something out of kilter.’ He turned to his colleagues. ‘You’ve got to let me go there, take a look around.’

  Templer looked to Bill Pryde. Pryde folded his arms, shrugged assent. But it was Templer’s play, she was the senior officer here. She tapped her pen against her teeth, then dropped it on to the desk.

  ‘Will you submit to a blood test?’

  Rebus swallowed. ‘Why not?’ he said at last.

  ‘Come on then,’ she said, getting to her feet.

  The story was: Matsumoto had been on his way back to his hotel. Crossing the road, he’d been hit by a car travelling at speed. The driver hadn’t stopped, not right away. But the car had travelled only another couple of hundred yards before mounting the pavement with its front wheels. It had been abandoned there, driver’s door open.

  A Saab 900, its identity known to half the Lothian and Borders force.

  The interior reeked of whisky, the screw-top from a bottle lying on the passenger seat. No sign of the bottle, no sign of the driver. Just the car, and two hundred yards further back, the body of the Japanese businessman, growing cold by the roadside.

  Nobody had seen anything. Nobody had heard anything. Rebus could believe it: never one of the city centre’s busier routes, at this hour the place was dead.

  ‘When I followed him from his hotel, he didn’t come this way,’ Rebus told Templer. She stood with shoulders hunched, hands deep in her coat pockets, keeping out the cold.

  ‘So?’ she asked.

  ‘Long way round for a short-cut.’

  ‘Maybe he wanted to see the sights,’ Pryde suggested.

  ‘What time’s this supposed to have happened?’ Rebus asked.

  Templer hesitated. ‘There’s a margin of error.’

  ‘Look, Gill, I know this is awkward. You shouldn’t have brought me here, you shouldn’t answer my questions. I’m the number one suspect, after all.’ Rebus knew how much she had to lose. Over two hundred male Chief Inspectors in Scotland; only five women. Bad odds, and a lot of people waiting for her to fail. He held up his hands. ‘Look, if I was blind drunk and I hit somebody, think I’d leave the car at the scene?’

  ‘You might not know you’d hit anyone. You hear a thunk, lose control and mount the kerb, and some survival instinct tells you it’s time to get out and walk.’

  ‘Only I hadn’t been drinking. I left the car near Flint Street, and that’s where they took it from. Any signs it was broken into?’

  She didn’t say anything.

  ‘I’ll guess not,’ Rebus went on. ‘Because professionals don’t leave marks. But to get it started, they must have wired it or got into the steering column. That’s what you should be looking for.’

  The car had been towed. First thing in the morning, forensics would be all over it.

  Rebus laughed, shaking his head. ‘It’s nice though, isn’t it? First they make Sammy look like a hit and run, and now they try to pin me for the same thing.’

  ‘Who’s “they”?’

  ‘Telford and his men.’

  ‘I thought you said they were doing business with Matsumoto?’

  ‘They’re all gangsters, Gill. Gangsters fall out.’

  ‘What about Cafferty?’

  Rebus frowned. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s got an old grudge against you. This way, he stitches you up and annoys Telford.’

  ‘So you do think I’m being stitched up?’

  ‘I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.’ She paused. ‘Not everyone will. What was Matsumoto’s business with Telford?’

  ‘Something to do with a country club – on the surface at least. Some Japanese were buying it, and Telford was clearing the way.’ He shivered: should have worn a coat over his jacket. He rubbed his arm where the blood sample had been taken to test his alcohol level. ‘Of course, a check of the deceased’s hotel room might throw up something.’

  ‘We’ve already been there,’ Pryde said. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Which deadbeat did you send?’

  ‘I went myself,’ Gill Templer said, voice as icy as the wind. Rebus bowed his head in apology. She had a point though: Matsumoto and Telford had been doing business. There had been nothing about their farewell to one another to suggest a break-up, and Matsumoto had seemed happy and confident at the casino. What had Telford to gain by bumping him off?

  Apart from maybe getting Rebus off his back.

  Templer had mentioned Cafferty: was Big Ger capable of such a move? What did he stand to gain? Apart from settling a long-held grudge against Rebus, giving Telford a headache, and maybe gaining Poyntinghame and the Japanese deal for himself.

  Balance the two – Telford against Cafferty. Cafferty’s side tipped, went clunk as it hit the ground.

  ‘Let’s get back to the station,’ Templer said. ‘I’m reaching the early stages of frostbite.’

  ‘Can I go home then?’

  ‘We’re not done with you yet, John,’ she said, getting into the car. ‘Not by a long chalk.’

  But eventually they had to let him go. He wasn’t being charged, not yet. There was work still to be done. He knew they could make a case against him if they wanted to, knew it only too well. He’d followed Matsumoto out of the club. He was the one with the grudge against Telford. He was the one who’d see poetic justice in sending Telford a message by driving over one of his associates.

  He, John Rebus, was firmly in the frame. It was tightly constructed and quite elegant in its way. The scales suddenly tipped back towards Telford again, so much subtler than Cafferty.

  Telford.

  Rebus visited Farlowe in his cell. The reporter wasn’t asleep.

  ‘How long do I have to stay here?’ he asked.

  ‘As long as possible.’

  ‘How’s Telford?’

  ‘Minor burns. Don’t expect him to press charges. He’ll want you on the outside.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to let me go.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it, Ned. We can press charges. We don’t need Telford.’

  Farlowe looked at him. ‘You’re going to prosecute me?’

  ‘I saw the whole thing. Unwarranted attack on an innocent man.’

  Farlowe snorted, then smiled. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? Charging me for my own good.’ He paused. ‘I won’t be able to see Sammy, will I?’

  Rebus shook his head.

  ‘I didn’t think of that. Fact is, I didn’t think.’ He looked up from his ledge. ‘I just did. And right up until the moment I did it, it felt . . . brilliant.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  Farlowe shrugged. ‘What does afterwards matter? It’s only the rest of my life.’

  Rebus didn’t go home, knew he wouldn’t sleep. And he’d no car, so he couldn’t go driving. Instead, he visited the hospital, sat down by Sammy’s bedside. He took her hand, rested it against his face.

  When a nurse came in and asked if he wanted anything, he asked if she’d any Paracetamol.

  ‘In a hospital?’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  21

  Rebus was due for further questioning at St Leonard’s at ten o’clock, so when his pager sounded at eight-fifteen, he assumed it was a reminder. But the phone number it wanted him t
o call was the mortuary down in the Cowgate. He called from the hospital payphone, and was put through to Dr Curt.

  ‘Looks like I’ve drawn the short straw,’ Curt told him.

  ‘You’re about to start work on Matsumoto?’

  ‘For my sins. Look, I’ve heard the stories . . . don’t suppose there’s any truth in them?’

  ‘I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, John.’ Curt seemed to be struggling to say something. ‘There are questions of ethics, of course, so I can’t suggest that you come down here . . .’

  ‘There’s something you think I should see?’

  ‘That I can’t say.’ Curt cleared his throat. ‘But if you happened to be here . . . and the place is always very quiet this time of the morning . . .’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  The Infirmary to the mortuary: a ten-minute walk. Curt himself was waiting to lead Rebus to the body.

  The room was all white tile, bright light and stainless steel. Two of the dissecting-tables lay empty. Matsumoto’s naked body lay on the third. Rebus walked around it, stunned by what he saw.

  Tattoos.

  And not just the kilted piper on a sailor’s arm. These were works of art, and they were massive. A scaly green dragon, breathing pink and red fire, covered one shoulder and crept down the arm towards the wrist. Its back legs reached around the body’s neck, while its front ones rested on the chest. There were other smaller dragons, and a landscape – Mount Fuji reflected in water. There were Japanese symbols and the visored face of a kendo champion. Curt put on rubber gloves, and had Rebus do the same. Then the two men rolled the body over, displaying a further gallery across Matsumoto’s back. A masked actor, something out of a Noh play, and a warrior in full armour. Some delicate flowers. The effect was mesmerising.

  ‘Stunning, aren’t they?’ Curt said.

  ‘Phenomenal.’

  ‘I’ve visited Japan a few times, given papers at conferences.’

  ‘So you recognise some of these?’

  ‘A few of the references, yes. Thing is, tattoos – especially on this scale – usually mean you’re a gang member.’

  ‘Like the Triads?’

  ‘The Japanese are called Yakuza. Look here.’ Curt held up the left hand. The pinkie had been severed at the first joint, the skin healed in a rough crust.

  ‘That’s what happens when they screw up, isn’t it?’ Rebus said, the word ‘Yakuza’ bouncing around in his head. ‘Someone cuts off a finger every time.’

  ‘I think so, yes,’ Curt said. ‘Just thought you might like to know.’

  Rebus nodded, eyes glued to the corpse. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t started on him yet, really. All looks fairly standard: evidence of impact with a moving vehicle. Crushed ribcage, fractures to the arms and legs.’ Rebus noticed that a bone was protruding from one calf, obscenely white against the skin. ‘There’ll be a lot of internal damage. Shock probably killed him.’ Curt was thoughtful. ‘I must let Professor Gates know. Doubt he’ll have seen anything like it.’

  ‘Can I use your phone?’ Rebus asked.

  He knew one person who might know about the Yakuza – she’d seemed knowledgeable about every other country’s criminal gangs. So he spoke to Miriam Kenworthy in Newcastle.

  ‘Tattoos and missing fingers?’ she said.

  ‘Bingo.’

  ‘That’s Yakuza.’

  ‘Actually, it’s only the top bit missing from one little finger. That’s done to them when they step out of line, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not quite. They do it to themselves as a way of saying they’re sorry. I’m not sure I know much more than that.’ There was the sound of papers being shifted. ‘I’m just looking for my notes.’

  ‘What notes?’

  ‘When I was connecting all these gangs, different cultures, I did some research. Might be something on the Yakuza . . . Look, can I call you back?’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Five minutes.’

  Rebus gave her Curt’s number, then sat and waited. Curt’s room wasn’t so much an office as a walk-in cupboard. Files were stacked high on his desk, and a dictaphone lay on top of them, along with a fresh pack of tapes. The room reeked of cigarettes and bad ventilation. On the walls: schedules of meetings, postcards, a couple of framed prints. The place was a bolt-hole, a necessity; Curt spent most of his time elsewhere.

  Rebus took out Colquhoun’s business card, tried home and office. As far as his secretary was concerned, Dr Colquhoun was still off sick.

  Maybe, but he was well enough to visit a casino. One of Telford’s casinos. No coincidence surely . . .

  Kenworthy was good as gold.

  ‘Yakuza,’ she said, sounding like she was lifting from her script. ‘Ninety thousand members split into something like two and a half thousand groupings. Utterly ruthless, but also highly intelligent and sophisticated. Very hierarchical structure, almost impenetrable to outsiders. Like a secret society. They even have a sort of middle management level, called the Sokaiya.’

  Rebus was writing it all down. ‘How do you spell that?’

  She told him. ‘Back in Japan they run pachinko parlours – that’s a sort of gaming thing – and have fingers in most other illegal pies.’

  ‘Unless they’ve lopped them off. What about outside Japan?’

  ‘Only thing I’ve got down here is that they ship expensive designer stuff back home to sell on the black market, also stolen art, ship it back to wealthy buyers . . .’

  ‘Wait a minute, you told me Jake Tarawicz started out smuggling icons out of Russia.’

  ‘You’re saying Pink Eyes might connect to the Yakuza?’

  ‘Tommy Telford’s been chauffeuring them around. There’s a warehouse everyone seems interested in, plus a country club.’

  ‘What’s in the warehouse?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Maybe you should find out.’

  ‘It’s on my list. Something else, these pachinko parlours . . . would those be like amusement arcades?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Another connection with Telford: he puts gaming machines into half the pubs and clubs on the east coast.’

  ‘You think the Yakuza saw someone they could do a deal with?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He tried stifling a yawn.

  ‘Too early in the morning for big questions?’

  He smiled. ‘Something like that. Thanks for your help, Miriam.’

  ‘No problem. Keep me posted.’

  ‘Sure. Anything new on Tarawicz?’

  ‘Nothing I’ve heard. No sign of Candice either, sorry.’

  ‘Thanks again.’

  ‘’Bye.’

  Curt was standing in the doorway. He’d stripped off gown and gloves, and his hands smelled of soap.

  ‘Not much I can do till my assistants get in.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Fancy a spot of breakfast?’

  ‘You have to appreciate how this looks, John. The media could be all over us. I can think of a few journalists who’d give their drinking-arm to nail you.’

  Chief Superintendent Watson was in his element. Seated behind his desk, hands folded, he had the serenity of a large stone Buddha. The occasional crises with which John Rebus presented him had hardened the Farmer to life’s lesser knocks and taught him calm acceptance.

  ‘You’re going to suspend me,’ Rebus stated with conviction – he’d been here before. He finished the coffee his boss had given him, but kept his hands locked around the mug. ‘Then you’re going to open an investigation.’

  ‘Not straight away,’ Watson surprised him by saying. ‘What I want first of all is your statement – and I mean a full and frank explanation – of your recent movements, your interest in Mr Matsumoto and Thomas Telford. Bring in anything you want about your daughter’s accident, any suspicions you’ve had, and above all the validity of those suspicions. Telford already has a lawyer asking awkward questions about our Japanese friend’s unt
imely end. The lawyer . . .’ Watson looked to Gill Templer, seated by the door, mouth a thin unimpressed line.

  ‘Charles Groal,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Groal, yes. He’s been asking at the casino. He got a description of a man who came in just after Matsumoto, and left immediately after him. He seems to think it’s you.’

  ‘Are you telling him otherwise?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘We’re telling him nothing, not until our own inquiries have established . . . et cetera. But I can’t hold him off forever, John.’

  ‘Have you asked anyone what Matsumoto was doing here?’

  ‘He works for a firm of management consultants. He was here at a client’s behest, finalising the takeover of a country club.’

  ‘With Tommy Telford in tow.’

  ‘John, let’s not lose sight of . . .’

  ‘Matsumoto was a member of the Yakuza, sir. The closest I’ve come to one of those before has been on a TV screen. Now suddenly they’re in Edinburgh.’ Rebus paused. ‘Don’t you find that just a wee bit curious? I mean, doesn’t it worry you at all? I don’t know, maybe I’m getting my priorities all wrong, but it seems to me we’re splashing about in puddles while a tidal wave’s coming in!’

  The pressure of his hands around the mug had been increasing by degrees. Now the thing broke, a piece falling to the floor as Rebus winced. He picked one ceramic shard out of his palm. Drops of blood hit the carpet. Gill Templer had come forward, was reaching for his hand.

  ‘Here, let me.’

  He spun away from her. ‘No!’ Way too loud. Fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief.

  ‘I’ve got some paper ones in my bag.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Blood dripping on to his shoes. Watson was saying something about the mug having a crack; Templer was staring at him. He wrapped white cotton around the wound.

  ‘I’ll go wash it,’ he said. ‘With your permission, sir?’

  ‘On you go, John. Sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  It wasn’t a bad cut. Cold water helped. He dried off with paper towels, which he flushed down the toilet, waiting to see they’d gone. A first aid box next: half a dozen plasters, cover the nick good and proper. He bunched his fist, saw no sign of leakage. Had to be content with that.