10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Back at his desk, he started on his memoirs – as ordered by Watson. Gill Templer came past, decided he needed a few soft words.

  ‘None of us thinks you did it, John. But something like this . . . questions being asked by the Japanese consul . . . it has to be done by the book.’

  ‘It all comes down to politics in the end, eh?’ He was thinking of Joseph Lintz.

  At lunchtime he dropped in on Ned Farlowe, asked him if he needed anything. Farlowe wanted sandwiches, books, newspapers, company. He looked drawn, weary of imprisonment. Maybe soon he’d think to ask for a lawyer. A lawyer – any lawyer – would get him out.

  Rebus handed his report to Watson’s secretary and headed out of the station. He’d gone fifty yards when a car pulled up alongside. Range Rover. Pretty-Boy telling him to get in. Rebus looked into the back of the car.

  Telford. Ointment on his blistered face. Looking like a scaled-down Jake Tarawicz . . .

  Rebus hesitated. The cop shop was a short sprint away.

  ‘Get in,’ Pretty-Boy repeated. Sucker for a free offer, Rebus got in.

  Pretty-Boy turned the car. The giant yellow teddy had been strapped into the passenger seat.

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ Rebus said, ‘it’s worth my while asking you to leave Ned Farlowe be?’

  Telford’s mind was on other things. ‘He wants war, he’s going to get war.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your boss.’

  ‘I don’t work for Cafferty.’

  ‘Don’t give me that.’

  ‘I’m the one who put him inside.’

  ‘And you’ve been snuggling up ever since.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Matsumoto.’

  Telford looked at him for the first time, and Rebus could see he was itching for violence.

  ‘You know I didn’t,’ Rebus went on.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Because you did it, and you want me to –’

  Telford’s hands were around Rebus’s neck. Rebus shrugged them off, tried pinning Telford down. Impossible with the car in motion, cramped in the back seat. Pretty-Boy stopped the car and got out, opened Rebus’s door and dragged him on to the pavement. Telford followed, face beetroot-red, eyes bulging.

  ‘You’re not going to pin this on me!’ he roared. Drivers slowed to watch. Pedestrians crossed the road to safety.

  ‘Who else?’ Rebus’s voice was shaky.

  ‘Cafferty!’ Telford screeched. ‘It’s you and Cafferty, trying to shut me down!’

  ‘I’m telling you, I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Boss,’ Pretty-Boy was saying, ‘let’s screw the head, eh?’ He was looking around, nervous of the attention they were attracting. Telford saw his point, let his shoulders relax a little.

  ‘Get in the car,’ he said to Rebus. Rebus just stared at him. ‘It’s okay. Just get in. I want to show you a couple of things.’

  Rebus, world’s craziest cop, got back in.

  There was silence for a couple of minutes, Telford rearranging the dressings on his fingers, which had come loose during the fight.

  ‘I don’t think Cafferty wants war,’ Rebus said.

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  Because I’ve done a deal with him – it’s me who’s going to shut you down. They were heading west. Rebus tried not to think about possible destinations.

  ‘You were in the Army, weren’t you?’ Telford asked.

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘Paratroops, then the SAS.’

  ‘I didn’t get past training.’ Rebus thinking: he’s well-informed.

  ‘So you decided to become a cop instead.’ Telford was completely calm again. He’d brushed down his suit and checked the knot in his tie. ‘Thing is, working for structures like those – Army, cops – you need to obey orders. I hear you’re not very good at it. You wouldn’t last long with me.’ He looked out of the window. ‘What’s Cafferty planning?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Why were you watching Matsumoto?’

  ‘Because he tied into you.’

  ‘Crime Squad pulled their surveillance.’ Rebus said nothing. ‘But you kept yours going.’ Telford turned towards him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you tried to kill my daughter.’

  Telford stared at him, unblinking. ‘Is that what this is about?’

  ‘It’s why Ned Farlowe tried to blind you. He’s her boyfriend.’

  Telford choked out a disbelieving laugh, started to shake his head. ‘I’d nothing to do with your daughter. Where’s the reason?’

  ‘To get at me. Because she helped me with Candice.’

  Telford was thoughtful. ‘Okay,’ he said, nodding, ‘I can see your thinking, and I don’t suppose my word’s going to count for much, but for what it’s worth, I know absolutely nothing about your daughter.’ He paused. Rebus could hear sirens nearby. ‘Is that what took you to Cafferty?’

  Rebus said nothing, which seemed, to Telford’s mind, to confirm his suspicions. He smiled again.

  ‘Pull over,’ Telford said. Pretty-Boy stopped the car. The road ahead was blocked anyway, police diverting traffic down side-streets. Rebus realised he’d been smelling smoke for some time. The tenements had hidden it from view, but now he could see the fire. It was in the lot where Cafferty kept his taxis. The shed used as an office had been reduced to ash. The garage behind, where the cabs were worked on and cleaned up, was about to lose its corrugated roof. A row of vehicles was burning nicely.

  ‘We could have sold tickets,’ Pretty-Boy said. Telford turned from the spectacle to Rebus.

  ‘Fire Brigade’s going to be stretched. Two of Cafferty’s offices are spontaneously combusting . . .’ he checked his watch . . . ‘right about now, as is that beautiful house of his. Don’t worry, we waited till his wife was out shopping. Final ultimatums have been delivered to his men – they can shuffle out of town or off this mortal coil.’ He shrugged. ‘Makes no odds to me. Go tell Cafferty: he’s finished in Edinburgh.’

  Rebus licked his lips. ‘You’ve just said I’m wrong about you, that you had nothing to do with my daughter. What if you’re wrong about Cafferty?’

  ‘Wake up, will you? The stabbing at Megan’s, then Danny Simpson . . . Cafferty’s not exactly subtle.’

  ‘Did Danny say it was Cafferty’s men?’

  ‘He knows, same as I do.’ Telford tapped Pretty-Boy’s shoulder. ‘Back to base.’ To Rebus: ‘Another little message for you to take to Barlinnie. Here’s what I told Cafferty’s men – any of them left in this city after midnight are fair game . . . and I don’t take prisoners.’ He sniffed, seemed pleased with himself, settled back in the seat. ‘You won’t mind if I drop you at Flint Street? Only I’ve a business meeting in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘With Matsumoto’s bosses?’

  ‘If they want Poyntinghame, they’ll keep dealing with me.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘You should deal with me, too. Think about this: who’d want you pissed off with me? It comes back to Cafferty: hitting your daughter, setting up Matsumoto . . . It all comes back to Cafferty. Think it over, then maybe we should talk again.’

  After a couple of minutes, Rebus broke the silence.

  ‘You know a man called Joseph Lintz?’

  ‘Bobby Hogan mentioned him.’

  ‘He phoned your office in Flint Street.’

  Telford shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you what I told Hogan. Maybe it was a wrong number. Whatever it was, I didn’t speak to any old Nazi.’

  ‘You’re not the only one uses that office though.’ Rebus saw Pretty-Boy watching him in the rearview mirror. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Never heard of the cat.’

  A car was parked in Flint Street – a huge white limousine with blackened windows. There was a TV aerial on the boot, and the hubcaps were painted pink.

  ‘Christ,’ Telford said in amusement, ‘look at his latest toy.’ He seemed to have forgotten all about Rebus. He was out of the car and loping towards the man who was emerging from the back of the limo. Wh
ite suit, panama hat, big cigar, and a bright red paisley shirt. None of which stopped you staring at the scarred face and blue-tinted glasses. Telford was commenting on the attire, the car, the audacity, and Mr Pink Eyes was loving it. He put a hand around Telford’s shoulder, steering him towards the amusement arcade. But then he stopped, clicked his fingers, turned back to the limo and reached out a hand.

  And now a woman was emerging. Short black dress and black tights, fur jacket keeping out the chills. Tarawicz rubbed a hand over her backside; Telford kissed her on the neck. She smiled, eyes slightly glazed. Then Tarawicz and Telford turned towards the Range Rover. They were both staring at Rebus.

  ‘Trip’s over, Inspector,’ Pretty-Boy said, telling Rebus it was time to get out. He did so, his eyes on Candice. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was snuggling into Mr Pink Eyes, head on his chest. He was still rubbing her backside, the dress rising and falling. He was watching Rebus, eyes alight, face pulled into a latex grin. Rebus walked over to them, and now Candice saw him, and looked frightened.

  ‘Inspector,’ Tarawicz said, ‘good to see you again. Come to whisk the damsel away to safety?’

  Rebus ignored him. ‘Come on, Candice.’ His hand, not quite steady, held out towards her.

  She looked at him and shook her head. ‘Why would I want that?’ she said, and was rewarded with another kiss from Tarawicz.

  ‘You were abducted. You can press charges.’

  Tarawicz was laughing, leading her into the café.

  ‘Candice.’ Rebus reached for her arm, but she pulled away and followed her master inside.

  Two of Telford’s men were blocking the door. Pretty-Boy was behind Rebus.

  ‘No cheap heroics?’ he asked, making to pass the policeman.

  Back at St Leonard’s, Rebus took Farlowe his food and newspapers, then hitched a lift in a patrol car to Torphichen. The man he wanted was DI ‘Shug’ Davidson, and Davidson was in the CID office, looking frazzled.

  ‘Somebody torched a taxi rank,’ he told Rebus.

  ‘Any idea who?’

  Davidson’s eyes narrowed. ‘The rank was owned by Jock Scallow. Is there something you’re trying to tell me?’

  ‘Who really owned the outfit, Shug?’

  ‘You know damned well.’

  ‘And who’s muscling in on Cafferty’s patch?’

  ‘I’ve heard rumours.’

  Rebus rested against Davidson’s desk. ‘Tommy Telford’s going into combat, unless we can stop him.’

  ‘“We”?’

  ‘I want you to take me somewhere,’ Rebus said.

  Shug Davidson was happily married to an understanding wife, and had kids who didn’t see as much of him as they deserved. A year back, he’d won forty grand on the Lottery. Everyone in his station got a drink. The rest of the money had been salted away.

  Rebus had worked with him before. He wasn’t a bad cop, maybe lacking a little in imagination. They had to work their way around the scene of the fire. A further mile and a half on, Rebus told him to stop.

  ‘What is it?’ Davidson asked.

  ‘That’s what I want you to tell me.’ Rebus was looking towards the brick building, the same one which so interested Tommy Telford.

  ‘It’s Maclean’s,’ Davidson said.

  ‘And what’s Maclean’s when it’s at home?’

  Davidson smiled. ‘You really don’t know?’ He opened his car door. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

  They had to have their identities checked at the main entrance. Rebus noticed a lot of security, albeit subtle: cameras trained down from the corners of the building, catching every angle of approach. A phone call was made, and a man in a white coat came down to sign them in. They pinned visitor’s badges to their jackets, and the tour began.

  ‘I’ve been here before,’ Davidson confided. ‘If you ask me, it’s the best kept secret in the city.’

  They climbed steps, walked down passageways. Everywhere there was security: guards checked their badges; doors had to be unlocked; cameras charted their progress. Which puzzled Rebus, for it was such an unassuming building, really. And nothing spectacular was happening.

  ‘What is it, Fort Knox?’ he asked. But then their guide handed them white coats to put on, before pushing open the door to a laboratory, and Rebus started to understand.

  People were working with chemicals, examining test-tubes, writing notes. There were all sorts of weird and wonderful machines, but in essence it was a school chemistry-lab on a slightly grander scale.

  ‘Welcome,’ Davidson said, ‘to the world’s biggest drugs factory.’

  Which wasn’t quite correct, for Maclean’s was only the world’s largest legal producer of heroin and cocaine, something the guide explained.

  ‘We’re licensed by the government. Back in 1961 there was an international agreement: every country in the world was allowed just one producer, and we’re it for Britain.’

  ‘So what do you make?’ Rebus was staring at the rows of locked fridges.

  ‘All sorts of things: methadone for heroin addicts, pethedine for women in labour. Diamorphine to ease terminal illnesses and cocaine for use in medical procedures. The company started out supplying laudanum to the Victorians.’

  ‘And these days?’

  ‘We produce about seventy tonnes of opiates a year,’ the guide said. ‘And around two million pounds’ worth of pure cocaine.’

  Rebus rubbed his forehead. ‘I begin to see the need for security.’

  The guide smiled. ‘The MoD has asked us for advice – that’s how good our security is.’

  ‘No break-ins?’

  ‘A couple of attempts, nothing we couldn’t deal with.’

  No, Rebus thought, but then you’ve never had to deal with Tommy Telford and the Yakuza ... not yet.

  Rebus walked around the lab, smiled and nodded at a woman who just seemed to be standing there, not doing anything.

  ‘Who’s she?’ he asked the guide.

  ‘Our nurse. She’s on stand-by.’

  ‘What for?’

  The guide nodded towards where a man was operating one of the machines. ‘Etorphine,’ he said. ‘Forty thousand pounds a kilo, and extremely potent. The nurse has the antidote, just in case.’

  ‘So what’s it used for, this etorphine?’

  ‘Knocking out rhinos,’ the guide said, like the answer should have been obvious.

  The cocaine was produced from coca leaves flown in from Peru. The opium came from plantations in Tasmania and Australia. The pure heroin and cocaine were kept in a strongroom. Each lab had its share of locked safes. The storage warehouse boasted infrared detectors and movement sensors. Five minutes in the place told Rebus exactly why Tommy Telford was interested in Maclean’s. And he’d brought the Yakuza in on the plan either because he needed their help – which was unlikely – or to brag about the exploit.

  Back at the car, Davidson asked the obvious question.

  ‘What’s this all about, John?’

  Rebus pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I think Telford’s planning to hit this place.’

  Davidson snorted. ‘He’d never get in. Like you said yourself, it’s Fort bloody Knox.’

  ‘It’s a prestige thing, Shug. If he can empty the place, it’ll make his name. He’ll have beaten Cafferty hands down.’ It was the same with the fire-bombings: they weren’t just a message to Cafferty, but a sort of ‘red carpet’ for Mr Pink Eyes – welcome to Edinburgh, and look what I can do.

  ‘I’m telling you,’ Davidson said, ‘there’s no way in. Christ, that’s cheap!’ Davidson’s attention had been diverted by signs on the window of the corner shop. Rebus looked, too. Cut-price cigarettes. Cheap sandwiches and hot rolls. Plus five pence off any morning paper.

  ‘Competition around here must be crippling,’ Davidson said. ‘Fancy a roll?’

  Rebus was watching workers leaving the gates of Maclean’s. Afternoon break maybe. Saw them cross the road, dodging traffic. Counting small change from their poc
kets as they pushed open the door to the shop.

  ‘Yes,’ Rebus said quietly, ‘why not?’

  The small shop was packed out. Davidson got in the queue, while Rebus looked at the rack of papers and magazines. The workers were sharing jokes and gossip. Two staff worked behind the counter – young males, mixing banter with less-than-efficient service.

  ‘What do you fancy, John? Bacon?’

  ‘Fine,’ Rebus said. Remembered he hadn’t had lunch. ‘Make it two.’

  Two bacon rolls came in at one pound exactly. They sat in the car to eat.

  ‘You know, Shug, the usual ploy with a shop like that is to take a beating on one or two necessities to get the punters in.’ Davidson nodded, attacked his roll. ‘But that place looked like Bargain City.’ Rebus had stopped eating. ‘Do us both a favour: find out the shop’s history, who owns it, who those two are behind the counter.’

  Davidson’s chewing slowed. ‘You think ... ?’

  ‘Just check it out, all right?’

  22

  Back at St Leonard’s, his telephone was ringing. He sat down and prised the lid from a beaker of coffee. On the drive back he’d been thinking about Candice. Two swigs of coffee and he lifted the receiver.

  ‘DI Rebus,’ he said.

  ‘What the fuck is that little shite up to?’ The voice of Big Ger Cafferty.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Where do you think I am?’

  ‘Sounds like a mobile.’

  ‘Amazing the things that find their way into Barlinnie. Now tell me, what is happening over there?’

  ‘You’ve heard then.’

  ‘He torched my house! My house! Am I supposed to let him get away with that?’

  ‘Look, I think I may have found a way to get to him.’

  Cafferty calmed a little. ‘Tell me?’

  ‘Not yet, I want to –’

  ‘And all my taxis,’ Cafferty exploded again. ‘The little bastard!’

  ‘Look, the point is: what’s he expecting you to do? He’s waiting for instant retaliation.’

  ‘And he’s going to get it.’

  ‘He’ll be ready. Wouldn’t it be better to catch him off-guard?’