10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  He hugged her. ‘I’m okay,’ he whispered. ‘I should have called you.’

  ‘It’s my fault, I . . .’ She looked at him. ‘You were there, I can see it on your face.’ He nodded. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I lost a friend.’

  ‘Oh, Christ, John.’ She hugged him again. She was still warm from the bedclothes. He could smell shampoo on her hair, perfume on her neck. The people closest to me . . . He pulled away gently, planted a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Go get some sleep,’ he told her.

  ‘Come for breakfast.’

  ‘I just want to go home and crash.’

  ‘You could sleep at my place. It’s Sunday. We could stay in bed.’

  ‘I don’t know what time I’ll finish here.’

  She found his eyes. ‘Don’t feed on it, John. Don’t keep it all inside.’

  ‘Okay, Doc.’ He pecked her cheek again. ‘Now vamoose.’

  He managed a smile and a wink: both felt treacherous. He stood at the door and watched her leave. A lot of times while he’d been married, he’d thought of just walking. There were times when all the responsibilities and the shite at work and the pressure and the need would make him dream of escape.

  He was tempted again now. Push open the door and head off to somewhere that wasn’t here, to do something that wasn’t this. But that, too, would be treachery. He had scores to settle, and a reason to settle them. He knew Telford was somewhere in the building, probably consulting with Charles Groal, saying nothing to anyone else. He wondered how the team were playing it. When would they let Telford know about the tape? When would they tell him the security guard had been a plant? When would they tell him that same man was now dead?

  He hoped they were being clever. He hoped they were rattling Telford’s cage.

  He couldn’t help wondering – and not for the first time – if it was all worth it. Some cops treated it like a game, others like a crusade, and for most of the rest it was neither, just a way of earning their daily bread. He asked himself why he’d invited Jack Morton in. Answers: because he’d wanted a friend involved, someone who’d keep him in the game; because he’d thought Jack was bored, and would enjoy the challenge; because tactics had demanded an outsider. There were plenty of reasons. Claverhouse had asked if Morton had any family, anyone who should be informed. Rebus had told him: divorced, four kids.

  Did Rebus blame Claverhouse? Easy to be wise after the event, but then Claverhouse’s reputation had been built on being wise before the event. And he’d failed . . . monumentally.

  Icy roads: they’d needed the gates closed. The blockade had been too easy to move with the horsepower available to a truck.

  Marksmen in the building: fine in the enclosed space of the yard, but they’d failed to keep the truck there, and the marksmen had been ineffectual once the truck had reversed out.

  More armed officers behind the truck: producing little but a crossfire hazard.

  Claverhouse should have got them to turn off the ignition, or – better still – waited for it to be turned off before making his presence known.

  Jack Morton should have kept his head down.

  And Rebus should have warned him.

  Only, a shout would have turned the gunmen’s attention towards him. Cowardice: was that what was at the bottom of his feelings? Simple human cowardice. Like in the bar in Belfast, when he hadn’t said anything, fearing Mean Machine’s wrath, fearing a rifle-butt turned on him. Maybe that was why – no, of course that was why – Lintz had got beneath Rebus’s skin. Because when it came down to it, if Rebus had been in Villefranche . . . drunk on failure, the dream of conquest over . . . if he’d been under orders, just a lackey with a gun . . . if he’d been primed by racism and the loss of comrades . . . who was to say what he’d have done?

  ‘Christ, John, how long have you been out here?’

  It was Bobby Hogan, touching his face, prising the folder from frozen fingers.

  ‘You’re like ice, man, let’s get you inside.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Rebus breathed. And it had to be true: how else to explain the sweat on his back and his brow? How else to explain that he only started shivering after Bobby led him indoors?

  Hogan got two mugs of sweet tea into him. The station was still buzzing: shock, rumour, theories. Rebus filled Hogan in.

  ‘They’ll have to let Telford walk, if nobody talks.’

  ‘What about the tape?’

  ‘They’ll want to spring that later . . . if they’re being canny.’

  ‘Who’s in with him?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘Farmer Watson himself, last time I heard. He was doing a double-act with Bill Pryde, but I saw Bill later, so they’ve either taken a break or else done a swop.’

  Hogan shook his head. ‘What a fucking business.’

  Rebus stared at his tea. ‘I hate sugar.’

  ‘You drank the first mug all right.’

  ‘Did I?’ He took a mouthful, squirmed.

  ‘What the hell did you think you were doing out there?’

  ‘Catching a breath.’

  ‘Catching your death more like.’ Hogan patted down an unruly clump of hair. ‘I had a visit from a man called Harris.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Hogan shrugged. ‘Let it go, I suppose.’

  Rebus stared at him. ‘You might not have to.’

  36

  Colquhoun didn’t look happy to be there.

  ‘Thanks for coming in,’ Rebus told him.

  ‘I didn’t have much choice.’ He had a solicitor sitting beside him, a middle-aged man: one of Telford’s? Rebus couldn’t have cared less.

  ‘You might have to get used to not having choices, Dr Colquhoun. Know who else is in here tonight? Tommy Telford; Brian Summers.’

  ‘Who?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘You’re getting your script wrong. It’s okay for you to know who they are: we talked about them in front of Candice.’

  Colquhoun’s face flushed.

  ‘You remember Candice, don’t you? Her real name’s Karina: did I ever tell you that? She’s got a son somewhere, only they took him away. Maybe she’ll find him one day, maybe not.’

  ‘I don’t see what this –’

  ‘Telford and Summers are going to be spending a while behind bars.’ Rebus sat back. ‘If I want to, I could have a damned good go at putting you in there with them. How would you like that, Dr Colquhoun? Conspiracy to pervert, et cetera.’

  Rebus could feel himself relaxing into his work; doing it for Jack.

  The solicitor was about to say something, but Colquhoun got in first. ‘It was a mistake.’

  ‘A mistake?’ Rebus hooted. ‘One way of putting it, I suppose.’ He sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. ‘Time to talk, Dr Colquhoun. You know what they say about confession . . .’

  Brian ‘Pretty-Boy’ Summers looked immaculate.

  He had a lawyer with him, too, a senior partner who looked like an undertaker and wasn’t taking kindly to being kept waiting. As they settled at the table in the Interview Room, and Hogan slotted tapes into cassette machine and video recorder, the lawyer started the protest he’d spent the past hour or two preparing in his head.

  ‘On behalf of my client, Inspector, I feel duty bound to say that this is some of the most appalling behaviour I’ve –’

  ‘You think you’ve seen appalling behaviour?’ Rebus answered. ‘In the words of the song, you ain’t seen nothing yet.’

  ‘Look, it’s clear to me that you –’

  Rebus ignored him, slapped the folder down on to the table, slid it towards Pretty-Boy.

  ‘Take a look.’

  Pretty-Boy was wearing a charcoal suit and purple shirt, open at the neck. No sunglasses or car-keys. He’d been brought in from his flat in the New Town. Comment from one of the men who’d gone to fetch him: ‘Biggest hi-fi I’ve seen in my life. Bugger was wide awake, listening to Patsy Cline.’

  Rebus started whistling ‘Crazy�
�: that got Pretty-Boy’s attention and a wry smile, but he kept his arms folded.

  ‘I would if I were you,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Ready,’ Hogan said, meaning he had the tapes running. They went through the formalities: date and time, location, individuals present. Rebus looked towards the lawyer and smiled. He looked pretty expensive. Telford would have ordered the best, same as always.

  ‘Know any Elton John, Brian?’ Rebus asked. ‘He’s got this song: “Someone Saved My Life Tonight”. You’ll be singing it to me once you’ve looked inside.’ He tapped the folder. ‘Go on, you know it makes sense. I’m not playing some trick, and you don’t have to say anything. But you really should do yourself a favour . . .’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say.’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘Just open the folder, take a look.’

  Pretty-Boy looked to his lawyer, who seemed uncertain.

  ‘Your client won’t be incriminating himself,’ Rebus explained. ‘If you want to read what’s in there first, that’s fine. It might not mean much to you, but go ahead.’

  The lawyer opened the folder, found a dozen sheets of paper.

  ‘Sorry in advance for any mistakes,’ Rebus said. ‘I typed it in a bit of a rush.’

  Pretty-Boy didn’t so much as glance towards the material. He kept his eyes on Rebus, while the lawyer sifted through the papers.

  ‘These allegations,’ the lawyer finally said, ‘you must realise they’re worthless?’

  ‘If that’s your opinion, fair enough. I’m not asking Mr Summers to admit or deny anything. Like I said, he can do a deaf and dumb routine for all I care, so long as he uses his eyes.’

  A smile from Pretty-Boy, then a glance towards his lawyer, who shrugged his shoulders, saying there was nothing here to fear. A glance back at Rebus, and Pretty-Boy unfolded his arms, picked up the first sheet, and started reading.

  ‘Just so we have a record for the tape,’ Rebus said, ‘Mr Summers is now reading a draft report prepared by myself earlier today.’ Rebus paused. ‘Actually, I mean yesterday, Saturday. He’s reading my interpretation of recent events in and around Edinburgh, events concerning his employer, Thomas Telford, a Japanese business consortium – which is really, in my opinion, a Yakuza front – and a gentleman from Newcastle by the name of Jake Tarawicz.’

  He paused. The lawyer said: ‘Agreed, thus far.’ Rebus nodded and continued.

  ‘My version of events is as follows. Jake Tarawicz became an associate of Thomas Telford only because he wanted something Telford had: namely, a slick operation to bring drugs into Britain without raising suspicion. Either that or it was only later on, once their relationship had become established, that Tarawicz decided he could move in on Telford’s turf. To facilitate this, he manufactured a war between Telford and Morris Gerald Cafferty. This was easily accomplished. Telford had moved in aggressively on Cafferty’s territory, probably with Tarawicz egging him on. All Tarawicz had to do was make sure things escalated. To this end, he had one of his men attack a drug dealer outside one of Telford’s night-clubs, Telford immediately placing the blame on Cafferty. He also had some of his men attack a Telford stronghold in Paisley. Meanwhile, there were attacks on Cafferty’s territory and associates, retaliation by Telford for perceived wrongs.’

  Rebus cleared his throat, took a sip of tea – a fresh cup, no sugar.

  ‘Does this sound familiar, Mr Summers?’ Pretty-Boy said nothing. He was busy reading. ‘My guess is that the Japanese were never meant to become involved. In other words, they had no knowledge of what was happening. Telford was showing them around, easing the way for them as they tried to buy a country club. Rest and recreation for their members, plus a good way of laundering money – less suspect than a casino or similar operation, especially when an electronics factory is about to open, so that the Yakuza slip into the country as just a few more Japanese businessmen.

  ‘I think when Tarawicz saw this, he began to worry. He didn’t want to get rid of Tommy Telford just to leave the way open for other competitors to muscle in. So he decided they’d have to become part of his plan. He had Matsumoto followed. He had him killed, and in a nice twist made me the chief suspect. Why? Two reasons. First, Tommy Telford had me pegged as Cafferty’s man, so by fingering me, Tarawicz was fingering Cafferty. Second, he wanted me out of the game, because I’d gone to Newcastle, and had met one of his men, a guy called William ‘The Crab’ Colton. I knew the Crab of old, and it so happened Tarawicz had used him for the hit on the drug dealer. He didn’t want me putting two and two together.’

  Rebus paused again. ‘How’s it sounding, Brian?’

  Pretty-Boy had finished reading. His arms were folded again, eyes on Rebus.

  ‘We’ve yet to see any evidence, Inspector,’ the lawyer said.

  Rebus shrugged. ‘I don’t need evidence. See, the same file you’ve got there, I delivered a copy to a Mr Sakiji Shoda at the Caledonian Hotel.’ Rebus watched Pretty-Boy’s eyelids flutter. ‘Now, the way I see it, Mr Shoda is going to be a bit pissed off. I mean, he’s already pissed off, that’s why he was here. He’d seen Telford screw up, and wanted to see if he could do anything right. I don’t suppose the raid on Maclean’s will have given him any renewed sense of confidence. But he was also here to find out why one of his men had been killed, and who was responsible. This report tells him Tarawicz was behind it, and if he chooses to believe that, he’ll go after Tarawicz. In fact, he checked out of his hotel yesterday evening – seems he was in a bit of a rush. I’m wondering if he was on his way home via Newcastle. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’ll still be pissed off at Telford for letting it happen. And meantime Jake Tarawicz is going to be wondering who shopped him to Shoda. The Yakuza are not nice people, Brian. You lot are nursery school by comparison.’ Rebus sat back in his chair.

  ‘One last point,’ he said. ‘Tarawicz’s base is Newcastle. I’m betting he had eyes and ears here in Edinburgh. In fact, I know he did. I’ve just been having a chat with Dr Colquhoun. You remember him, Brian? You’d heard about him from Lintz. Then when Tarawicz offered East Europeans as working girls, you reckoned maybe Tommy should have a few foreign phrases to hand. Colquhoun did the teaching. You told him stories about Tarawicz, about Bosnia. Catch was, he’s the only person round these parts who knew the subject, so when we picked up Candice, we ended up using him, too. Colquhoun sussed straight off what was happening. He wasn’t sure if he had anything to fear: he’d never met her, and her answers were reassuringly vague – or he kept them that way. All the same, he came to you. Your solution: ship Candice to Fife, then snatch her, and take Colquhoun out of the game till the heat died.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘He told you about Fife. Yet it was Tarawicz who got Candice. I think Tommy will find that a bit odd, don’t you? So, here we sit. And I can tell you that the minute you walk out of here, you’re going to be a marked man. Could be the Yakuza, could be Cafferty, could be your own boss or Tarawicz himself. You haven’t got any friends, and nowhere’s safe any more.’ Rebus paused. ‘Unless we help you. I’ve talked to Chief Superintendent Watson, and he’s agreeing to witness protection, new identity, whatever you want. There may be a short sentence to serve – just so it looks right – but it’ll be a soft option, room of your own, no other prisoners allowed near. And afterwards, you’ll be home and dry. That’s a big commitment on our part, and we’ll need a big commitment from you. We’ll want everything.’ Rebus counted off on his fingers. ‘The drug shipments, the war with Cafferty, the Newcastle connection, the Yakuza, the prostitutes.’ He paused again, drained his tea. ‘Tall order, I know. Your boss had a meteoric rise, Brian, and he nearly made it. But that’s all over. Best thing you can do now is talk. It’s either that or spend the rest of your days waiting for the bullet or the machete to strike . . .’

  The lawyer started to protest. Rebus held up a hand.

  ‘We’ll need all of it, Brian. Including Lintz.’

  ‘Lintz,’ Pretty-Boy said dismissively. ‘Lintz is nothing.’


  ‘So where’s the harm?’

  The look in Pretty-Boy’s eyes was a mix of anger, fear and disorientation. Rebus stood up.

  ‘I need something else to drink. What about you gentlemen?’

  ‘Coffee,’ the lawyer said, ‘black, no sugar.’

  Pretty-Boy hesitated, then said, ‘Get me a Coke.’ And at that point – for the very first time – Rebus knew a deal might be done. He stopped the interview, Hogan switched off the tapes, and both men left the room. Hogan patted him on the back.

  Farmer Watson was coming along the corridor towards them. Rebus moved to meet him, leading them away from the door.

  ‘I think we might be in with a shout, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘He’ll try to twist the deal, give us less than we want, but I think there’s a chance.’

  Watson beamed a smile, as Rebus leaned against the wall, eyes closed. ‘I feel about a hundred years old.’

  ‘Experience tells,’ Hogan said.

  Rebus growled at him, then they went to fetch the drinks.

  ‘Mr Summers,’ the lawyer said, as Rebus handed him his cup, ‘would like to tell you the story of his relationship with Joseph Lintz. But first we’ll need some assurances.’

  ‘What about everything else I mentioned?’

  ‘These can be negotiated.’

  Rebus stared at Pretty-Boy. ‘You don’t trust me?’

  Pretty-Boy picked up his can, said ‘No’, and drank.

  ‘Fine.’ Rebus walked over to the far wall. ‘In that case, you’re free to go.’ He checked his watch. ‘Soon as you’ve finished your drinks, I want you out of here. Interview Rooms are at a premium tonight. DI Hogan, mark up the tapes, will you?’

  Hogan ejected both cassettes. Rebus sat down beside him and they started discussing work, as though Pretty-Boy had been dismissed from their minds. Hogan examined a sheet of paper, checking who was due to be interviewed next.

  From the corner of his eye, Rebus saw Pretty-Boy leaning in towards his lawyer, whispering something. He turned on them.