10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Using my finely honed detective’s skills, I’ll assume you mean Candice.’ Meaning she’d done a runner. Trusting to herself for once. Rebus was proud of her.

  Tarawicz snapped his fingers. Arms grabbed Rebus from behind, pinning back his shoulders. One man stepped forward and punched him solidly on the jaw. Stepped back again. Second man forward: gut punches. A hand tugged his hair, forcing his eyes up to the ceiling. He didn’t see the flat-handed chop aiming for his throat. When it came, he thought he was going to cough out his voice-box. They let him go, and he pitched forward, hands going to his throat, retching for breath. A couple of teeth felt loose, and the skin inside his cheek had burst. He got out a handkerchief, spat blood.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Tarawicz was saying, ‘I have no sense of humour. So I hope you’ll understand I’m not joking when I say that I’ll kill you if I have to.’

  Rebus shook his head free of all the secrets he knew, all the power he held over Tarawicz. He told himself: you don’t know anything.

  He told himself: you’re not going to die.

  ‘Even . . . if . . . I did know . . .’ Fighting for breath. ‘I wouldn’t tell you. If the two of us were standing in a minefield, I wouldn’t let you know. Want me . . . to tell you why?’

  ‘Sticks and stones, Rebus.’

  ‘It’s not because of who you are, it’s what you are. You trade in human beings.’ Rebus dabbed at his mouth. ‘You’re no better than the Nazis.’

  Tarawicz put a hand to his chest. ‘I’m struck to the quick.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ Rebus coughed again. ‘Tell me, why do you want her back?’ Rebus knowing the answer: because he was about to head south, leaving Telford in Shit Street. Because to return to Newcastle without her was a small but palpable defeat. Tarawicz wanted it all. He wanted every last crumb on the plate.

  ‘My business,’ Tarawicz said. Another signal, and the hands grabbed him again, Rebus resisting this time. Packing-tape was being wound around his mouth.

  ‘Everybody tells me how genteel Edinburgh is,’ Tarawicz was saying. ‘Can’t have the neighbours complaining about the screams. Put him on a chair.’

  Rebus was lifted up. He struggled. A kidney punch buckled his knees. They forced him down on to a dining-chair. Tarawicz was removing his jacket, undoing gold cufflinks so he could roll up the sleeves of his pink and blue striped shirt. His arms were hairless, thick, and the same mottled colour as his face.

  ‘A skin complaint,’ he explained, removing his blue-tinted glasses. ‘Some distant cousin of leprosy, they tell me.’ He loosened his top button. ‘I’m not as pretty as Tommy Telford, but I think you’ll find me his master in every other respect.’ A smile to his troops, a smile Rebus wasn’t supposed to understand. ‘We can start anywhere you want, Rebus. And you get to choose when we stop. Just nod your head, tell me where she is, and I walk out of your life forever.’

  He got in close to Rebus, the sheen on his face like a protective seal. His pale blue eyes had tiny black pupils. Rebus thought: consumer as well as pusher. Tarawicz waited for a nod which didn’t come, then retreated. Found an anglepoise lamp next to Rebus’s chair. Planted both feet on its base and yanked on the mains cable, ripping it free.

  ‘Bring him over here,’ he ordered. Two men pulled both Rebus and chair over towards where Tarawicz was checking that the cable was plugged into the wall and that the socket was switched on. Another man closed the curtains: no free show for the kids across the way. Tarawicz was dangling the cable, letting Rebus see the loose wires – the very live wires. Two-hundred-and-forty volts just waiting to make his acquaintance.

  ‘Believe me,’ Tarawicz said, ‘this is nothing. The Serbs had torture down to a fine art. Much of the time, they weren’t even looking for a confession. I’ve helped a few of the more intelligent ones, the ones who knew when it was time to run. There was money to be made in the early days, power for the taking. Now the politicians are moving in, bringing trial-judges with them.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘The intelligent ones always know when it’s time to quit. One last chance, Rebus. Remember, a nod of the head . . .’ The wires were inches from his cheek. Tarawicz changed his mind, moved them towards his nostrils, then his eyeballs.

  ‘A nod of the head . . .’

  Rebus was twisting, arms holding him down – his legs, arms, shoulders. Hands holding his head, chest. Wait! The shock would pass straight through Tarawicz’s men! Rebus saw it for a bluff. His eyes met Tarawicz’s, and they both knew. Tarawicz pulled back.

  ‘Tape him to the chair.’ Two-inch-wide runs of tape, fixing him in place.

  ‘This time for real, Rebus.’ To his men: ‘Hold him till I get close. Pull away when I say.’

  Rebus thinking: there’d be a split-second after they let go . . . A moment in which to break free. The tape wasn’t the strongest he’d seen, but there was plenty of it. Maybe too much. He flexed his chest against it, felt no sign that it would break.

  ‘Here we go,’ Tarawicz said. ‘First the face . . . then the genitals. You will tell me, we both know it. How much bravado you want to show is up to you, but don’t think it means anything.’

  Rebus said something behind the gag.

  ‘No point talking,’ Tarawicz said. ‘The only thing I want from you is a nod, understood?’

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘Was that a nod?’

  Forcing a smile, Rebus shook his head.

  Tarawicz didn’t look impressed. His mind was on business. That was all Rebus was to him. He aimed the wire at Rebus’s cheek.

  ‘Let go!’

  The pressure on Rebus fell away. He pushed against his bonds, couldn’t budge them. Electricity flashed through his nervous system, and he went rigid. His heart felt like it had doubled in size, his eyeballs bulged, tongue pushing against the gag. Tarawicz lifted the cable away.

  ‘Hold him.’

  Arms fell on Rebus again, finding less resistance than before.

  ‘Doesn’t even leave a mark,’ Tarawicz said. ‘And the real beauty is, you end up paying for it from your own electric bill.’

  His men laughed. They were beginning to enjoy themselves.

  Tarawicz crouched down, face to face. His eyes sought Rebus’s.

  ‘For your information, that was a five-second jolt. Things only start to get interesting at the half-minute mark. How’s your heart? For your sake, I hope it’s in good condition.’

  Rebus felt like he’d just mainlined adrenaline. Five seconds: it had seemed much longer. He was changing strategies, trying to think up some new lies Mr Pink might believe, anything to get him out of the flat . . .

  ‘Undo his trousers,’ Tarawicz was saying. ‘Let’s see what a jolt down there will do.’

  Behind the gag, Rebus started screaming. His tormentor was looking around the room again.

  ‘Definitely lacks the feminine touch.’

  Hands were loosening his trouser-belt. They stopped when a buzzer sounded. There was someone at the main door.

  ‘Just wait,’ Tarawicz said quietly. ‘They’ll go away.’

  The buzzer sounded again. Rebus wrestled with his bonds. Silence. Then the buzzer again, more insistent now. One of the men went for the window.

  ‘Don’t!’ Tarawicz snapped.

  Buzzer again. Rebus hoped it would go on forever. Couldn’t think who it might be: Rhona? Patience? A sudden thought . . . what if they persisted, and Tarawicz decided to allow them inside? Rhona or Patience . . .

  Time stretched. No more buzzing. They’d gone away. Tarawicz was beginning to relax, focusing his mind on his work once more.

  Then there was a knock at the flat door. The person had got into the tenement. Now they were on the landing outside. Knocking again. Lifting the flap of the letterbox.

  ‘Rebus!’

  A male voice. Tarawicz looked to his men, nodded another signal. Curtains were opened; Rebus’s bonds cut; the tape ripped from his face. Tarawicz rolled down his sleeves, put his jacket back on. Left the flex lying
on the floor. One last word to Rebus: ‘We’ll speak again.’ Then he marched his men to the door, opened it.

  ‘Excuse us.’

  Rebus was left sitting on the chair. He couldn’t move, felt too shaky to stand up.

  ‘Hang on a minute, chief!’

  Rebus placed the voice: Abernethy. It didn’t sound as if Tarawicz was heeding the Special Branch man.

  ‘What’s the score?’ Now Abernethy was in the living-room, looking around.

  ‘Business meeting,’ Rebus croaked.

  Abernethy came forward. ‘Funny old business where you have to unzip your flies.’

  Rebus looked down, started to make repairs.

  ‘Who was that?’ Abernethy persisted.

  ‘A Chechen from Newcastle.’

  ‘Likes to travel mob-handed, does he?’ Abernethy walked around the room, found the bare flex and tut-tutted, unplugged it at the socket. ‘Fun and games,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Rebus told him, ‘it’s under control.’

  Abernethy laughed.

  ‘What do you want anyway?’

  ‘Brought someone to see you.’ He nodded towards the doorway. A distinguished-looking man was standing there, dressed in three-quarter-length black woollen coat and white silk scarf. He was completely bald, with a huge dome of a head and cheeks reddened from cold. He had a sniffle, and was wiping his nose with a handkerchief.

  ‘Thought we might pop out somewhere,’ the man said, locution impeccable, his eyes everywhere but on Rebus. ‘Get a spot to eat, if you’re hungry.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Something to drink then.’

  ‘There’s whisky in the kitchen.’

  The man looked reluctant.

  ‘Look, pal,’ Rebus told him, ‘I’m staying right here. You can join me or you can bugger off.’

  ‘I see,’ the man said. He put the handkerchief away and stepped forward, stretched out a hand. ‘Name’s Harris, by the way.’

  Rebus took the hand, expecting sparks to leap from his fingertips.

  ‘Mr Harris, let’s sit at the dining-table.’ Rebus got to his feet. He was shaky, but his knees held till he’d crossed the floor. Abernethy appeared from the kitchen with the bottle and three glasses. Left again, and returned with a milk-jug of water.

  Ever the host, Rebus poured, sizing up the trembling in his right arm. He felt disoriented. Adrenaline and electricity coursing through him.

  ‘Slainte,’ he said, lifting the glass. But he paused with it at his nostrils. Pact with the Big Man: no drinking, and Sammy back. His throat hurt when he swallowed, but he put the glass down untouched. Harris was pouring too much water into his own glass. Even Abernethy looked disapproving.

  ‘So, Mr Harris,’ Rebus said, rubbing his throat, ‘just who the hell are you?’

  Harris affected a smile. He was playing with his glass.

  ‘I’m a member of the intelligence community, Inspector. I know what that probably conjures up in your mind, but I’m afraid the reality is far more prosaic. Intelligence-gathering means just that: lots of paperwork and filing.’

  ‘And you’re here because of Joseph Lintz?’

  ‘I’m here because DI Abernethy says you’re determined to link the murder of Joseph Lintz with the various accusations which have been made against him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And that, of course, is your prerogative. But there are matters not necessarily germane which might prove . . . embarrassing, if brought into the open.’

  ‘Such as that Lintz really was Linzstek, and was brought to this country by the Rat Line, probably with help from the Vatican?’

  ‘As to whether Lintz and Linzstek were the same man . . . I can’t tell you. A lot of the documentation was destroyed just after the war.’

  ‘But “Joseph Lintz” was brought to this country by the Allies?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why did we do that?’

  ‘Lintz was useful to this country, Inspector.’

  Rebus poured a fresh whisky for Abernethy. Harris hadn’t touched his. ‘How useful?’

  ‘He was a reputable academic. As such he was invited to attend conferences and give guest lectures all round the world. During this time, he did some work for us. Translation, intelligence-gathering, recruitment . . .’

  ‘He recruited people in other countries?’ Rebus stared at Harris. ‘He was a spy?’

  ‘He did some dangerous and . . . influential work for this country.’

  ‘And got his reward: the house in Heriot Row?’

  ‘He earned every penny in the early days.’

  Harris’s tone told Rebus something. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He became . . . unreliable.’ Harris lifted the glass to his nose, sniffed it, but put it down again untouched.

  ‘Drink it before it evaporates,’ Abernethy chided. Harris looked at him, and the Londoner mumbled an apology.

  ‘Define “unreliable”,’ Rebus said, pushing aside his own glass.

  ‘He began to . . . fantasise.’

  ‘He thought a colleague at the university had been in the Rat Line?’

  Harris was nodding. ‘He became obsessed with the Rat Line, began to imagine that everyone around him had been involved in it, that we were all culpable. Paranoia, Inspector. It affected his work and eventually we had to let him go. This was years back. He hasn’t worked for us since.’

  ‘So why the interest? What does it matter if any of this comes out?’

  Harris sighed. ‘You’re right, of course. The problem is not the Rat Line per se, or the notion of Vatican involvement or any of the other conspiracy theories.’

  ‘Then what is . . . ?’ Rebus broke off, realised the truth. ‘The problem is the personnel,’ he stated. ‘The other people brought in by the Rat Line.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Who are we talking about? Who might be implicated?’

  ‘Senior figures,’ Harris admitted. He’d stopped playing with the glass. His hands were flat on the table. He was telling Rebus: this is serious.

  ‘Past or present?’

  ‘Past . . . plus people whose children have gone on to achieve positions of power.’

  ‘MPs? Government ministers? Judges?’

  Harris was shaking his head. ‘I can’t tell you, Inspector. I haven’t been trusted with that knowledge myself.’

  ‘But you could hazard a guess.’

  ‘I don’t deal in guesswork.’ He looked at Rebus. There was steel behind the eyes. ‘I deal in known quantities. It’s a good maxim – one you should try.’

  ‘But whoever killed Lintz did so because of his past.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense otherwise.’

  ‘DI Abernethy tells me there’s a link with some criminal elements in Edinburgh, perhaps a question of prostitution. It all sounds sordid enough to be believable.’

  ‘And if it’s believable, that’s good enough for you?’

  Harris stood up. ‘Thank you for listening.’ He blew his nose again, looked to Abernethy. ‘Time to go, I believe. DI Hogan is waiting for us.’

  ‘Harris,’ Rebus said, ‘you said yourself, Lintz had gone loopy, become a liability. Who’s to say you didn’t have him killed?’

  Harris shrugged. ‘If we’d arranged it, his demise would not have been quite so obvious.’

  ‘Car crash, suicide, falling from a window . . .?’

  ‘Goodbye, Inspector.’

  As Harris walked to the door, Abernethy stood up and locked eyes with Rebus. He didn’t say anything, but the message was there.

  This is deeper water than either of us wants to be in. So do yourself a favour, swim for shore.

  Rebus nodded, reached out a hand. The two men shook.

  34

  Two in the morning.

  Frost on the car windscreens. They couldn’t clear them: had to blend in with the other cars on the street. Back-up – four units – parked in a builder’s yard just round the corner. Bulbs ha
d been removed from street-lights, leaving the area in almost total darkness. Maclean’s was like a Christmas tree: security lights, every window blazing, same as every other night.

  No heating in the unmarked cars: heat would melt the frost; exhaust fumes a dead giveaway.

  ‘This all seems very familiar,’ Siobhan Clarke said. The surveillance on Flint Street seemed a lifetime ago to Rebus. Clarke was in the driving seat, Rebus in the back. Two to each car. That way, they had space to duck should anyone come snooping. Not that they expected anyone to do that: the whole heist was half-baked. Telford desperate and with his mind on other things. Sakiji Shoda was still in town – a quiet word with the hotel manager had revealed a Monday morning check-out. Rebus was betting Tarawicz and his men had already gone.

  ‘You look pretty snug,’ Rebus said, referring to her padded ski-jacket. She brought a hand out of her pocket, showed him what it was holding. It looked like a slim lighter. Rebus lifted it from her palm. It was warm.

  ‘What the hell is it?’

  Clarke smiled. ‘I got it from one of those catalogues. It’s a handwarmer.’

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘Fuel rods. Each one lasts up to twelve hours.’

  ‘So you’ve got one warm hand?’

  She brought her other hand out, showed him an identical rod. ‘I bought two,’ she said.

  ‘You might have said.’ Rebus closed his fingers around the handwarmer, stuck it deep into his pocket.

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘Call it a privilege of rank.’

  ‘Lights,’ she warned. They dived for cover, surfaced again when the car had sped past: false alarm.

  Rebus checked his watch. Jack Morton had been told to expect the truck some time between one-thirty and two-fifteen. Rebus and Clarke had been in the car since just after midnight. The snipers on the roof, poor bastards, had been in position since one o’clock. Rebus hoped they had a good supply of fuel rods. He still felt jittery from the afternoon’s events. He didn’t like that he owed Abernethy such a huge favour; indeed, maybe owed him his life. He knew he could cancel it out by agreeing – along with Hogan – to soft-pedal on the Lintz inquiry. He didn’t like the idea, but all the same . . . And the day’s silver lining: Candice had made the break from Tarawicz.