10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Andy Davies is Rough’s social worker.’

  The Farmer underlined the words. ‘Leave it with me, John.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Meantime, I’d like to take a look at Jim’s suicide.’

  ‘Mind if I ask why?’

  ‘To see if it does tie in with Rough.’ And maybe, he could have added, to satisfy his own curiosity.

  The Farmer nodded. ‘On the subject of Shiellion . . . when do you give evidence?’

  ‘Tomorrow, sir.’

  ‘Got your spiel rehearsed?’

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘Remember the secret of a good court appearance, John.’

  ‘Presentation, sir?’

  The Farmer shook his head. ‘Make sure you take plenty of reading matter with you.’

  That evening, on his way home, he dropped in to see his daughter. Sammy had moved out of her first-floor colony flat into a newish ground-floor flat in a brick-built block off Newhaven Road.

  ‘Downhill all the way to the coast,’ she’d told her father. ‘And you should see this thing with the brakes off.’

  Referring to her wheelchair. Rebus had wanted to put his hand in his pocket for a motorised one, but she’d waved away the offer.

  ‘I’m building up my muscles,’ she’d said. ‘And besides, I won’t be in this thing for long.’

  Perhaps not, but the road back to full mobility was proving hard going. She was receiving physio only twice a week, spending the rest of her time concentrating on home exercises. It was as if the accident had affected both her spine and her legs.

  ‘My brain tells them what to do, but they don’t always listen.’

  There was a little wooden ramp at the main door to her block. A friend of a friend had constructed it for her. One of the bedrooms in the flat had been turned into a makeshift gym, a large mirror placed against one wall, and parallel bars taking up most of the available space. The doorways were narrow, but Sammy had proved adept at manoeuvring her wheelchair in and out without grazing knuckles or elbows.

  When Rebus arrived, Ned Farlowe opened the door. He had a job subbing for one of the local freesheets. The hours were short, which gave him time to help Sammy with her workouts. The two men still didn’t trust one another – did fathers ever really come to trust the men who were sleeping with their daughters? – but Ned seemed to be doing his damnedest for Sammy.

  ‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘She’s working out. Fancy a cuppa?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I’m just making some dinner.’ Ned was already retreating to the long, narrow kitchen. Rebus knew he’d only be in the way.

  ‘I’ll just go and . . .’

  ‘Fine.’

  The smells from the kitchen were like those in the Engine Shed: aromatic and vegetarian. Rebus walked down the hall, noting graze-marks on the walls where the wheelchair had connected. Music was coming from the spare bedroom, a disco beat. Sammy was lying on the floor in her black leotard and tights, trying to get her legs to do things. Her face was flushed with effort, hair matted to her forehead. When she saw her father, she rested her head against the floor.

  ‘Turn that thing off, will you?’ she said.

  ‘I could just watch.’

  But she shook her head. She didn’t like him watching her at work. This was her fight, a private battle with her own body. Rebus switched off the tape machine.

  ‘Recognise it?’ she asked.

  ‘Chic, “Le Freak”. I went to enough bad discos in the seventies.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you in flares.’

  ‘Distress flares.’

  She had pushed herself up to sitting. He made just the one step forward to help her, knowing if he got any closer she’d shoo him away.

  ‘How’s your claim for disability going?’

  She rolled her eyes, reached a hand out for a towel, starting wiping her face. ‘I thought I knew all about bureaucracy. Thing is, I’m going to get better.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So there are all kinds of complications. Plus my job at SWEEP’s still open.’

  ‘But the office is three floors up.’ He sat on the floor beside her.

  ‘I can work from home.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Only I don’t want to. I don’t want to become dependent on just these four walls.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘If there’s anything you need . . .’

  ‘Got any disco tapes?’

  He smiled. ‘I was more Rory Gallagher and John Martyn.’

  ‘Well, nobody’s perfect,’ she said, wrapping the towel around her neck. ‘Speaking of which, how’s Patience?’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘I talk to her on the phone.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She says I speak to her more than you do.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  Rebus looked at his daughter. Had she always had this edge to her? Was it something to do with the accident?

  ‘We get along fine,’ he said.

  ‘On whose terms?’

  He stood up. ‘I think your dinner’s nearly ready. Want me to help you into the chair?’

  ‘Ned likes to do it.’

  He nodded slowly.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘I’m a policeman. Usually we ask the questions.’

  She draped the towel over her head. ‘Is it because of me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ever since . . .’ She looked down at her legs. ‘It’s like you blame yourself.’

  ‘It was an accident.’ He wasn’t looking at her.

  ‘It pushed the two of you back together. Do you see what I’m saying?’

  ‘You’re saying I’m busy blaming myself for your accident, while you’re busy blaming yourself for Patience and me.’ He glanced towards her. ‘Does that just about sum it up?’

  She smiled. ‘Stay and have something to eat.’

  ‘Don’t you think I should head home to Patience?’

  She lifted the towel from her eyes. ‘Is that where you’re going?’

  ‘Where else?’ He gave her a wave as he left the room.

  9

  Being down Newhaven Road, he stopped off at a couple of waterfront bars, a pint in one, nip of whisky in the other. Plenty of water in the whisky. It was dark, but he could see streetlights across the Forth in Fife. He thought of Janice and Brian Mee, who had never left their home town. He wondered how he’d have turned out if he’d stayed. He thought again of Alec Chisholm, the boy who had never been found. They’d scoured the countryside, sent men down into disused coal-shafts, dredged the river. A long hot summer, the Beatles and the Stones on the café jukebox, ice-cold bottles of Coke from the machine. Glass coffee cups topped with frothed milk. And questions about Alec, questions which showed that none of them had ever really known him, not deep down, not the way they thought they knew each other. And Alec’s parents and grandparents, walking the streets late at night, stopping to ask strangers the same thing: have you seen our boy? Until the strangers became acquaintances, and they ran out of people to stop.

  Now Damon Mee had stepped away from the world, or had been yanked out of it by some irresistible force. Rebus got back in his car and drove along the coast, came up on to the Forth Bridge, and headed into Fife. He tried telling himself he wasn’t escaping – from Sammy’s words and Patience and Edinburgh, from all the ghosts. From thoughts of paedophiles and suicide leaps.

  When he got to Cardenden, he slowed the car, finally coming to a stop on the main drag. There seemed to be flyers in every shop window: Damon’s picture and the word MISSING. There were more taped to lamp-posts and the bus shelter. Rebus started the car again and headed for Janice’s house. But there was no one at home. A neighbour supplied the information Rebus needed, information which sent him straight back to Edinburgh and Rose Street, where he found Janice and Brian sticking more flyers on to lamp-posts and walls, pushing them through letterboxes. Photocopied she
ets of A4. Holiday photo of Damon, and handwritten plea: DAMON MEE IS MISSING: HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? Physical description, including the clothes he’d been wearing, and the Mees’ telephone number.

  ‘We’ve covered the pubs,’ Brian Mee said. He looked tired, eyes dark, face unshaven. The roll of sellotape he held was nearly finished. Janice leaned against a wall. Looking at the pair of them was far from like stepping into the past – present worries had scarred them.

  ‘The one place they don’t want to know,’ Janice said, ‘is that club.’

  ‘Gaitano’s?’

  She nodded. ‘Bouncers wouldn’t let us in. Wouldn’t even take flyers from us. I stuck one on the door but they took it down.’ She was almost in tears. Rebus looked back along the street towards the flashing neon sign above Gaitano’s.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s try the magic word this time.’

  And when he got to the door, he flashed his ID and said, ‘Police.’ The three were ushered inside while someone got on the phone to Charmer Mackenzie. Rebus looked to Janice and winked.

  ‘Open Sesame,’ he said. She was looking at him as if he’d done something wonderful.

  ‘Mr Mackenzie’s not here,’ one of the bouncers said.

  ‘So who’s in charge?’

  ‘Archie Frost. He’s assistant manager.’

  ‘Lead me to him.’

  The bouncer looked unhappy. ‘He’s having a drink at the bar.’

  ‘No problem,’ Rebus said. ‘We know our way.’

  Bass music was pulsing, the club’s interior dark and hot. Couples were hitting the dancefloor, others smoking furiously, knees pumping as they scanned the dimness for action. Rebus leaned towards Janice, so his mouth was an inch from her ear.

  ‘Go round the tables, ask your questions.’

  She nodded, passed the message along to Brian, who was looking uncomfortable with the noise.

  Rebus walked towards the bar, walked through beams of indigo light. There were people waiting for drinks, but only two men actually drinking at the bar. Well, one of them was drinking. The other – who looked thirsty – was listening to what was being said to him.

  ‘Sorry to butt in,’ Rebus said.

  The speaker turned to him. ‘You will be in a minute.’

  Maybe twenty or twenty-one, black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Stocky, wearing a suit with no lapels and a dazzling white T-shirt. Rebus pushed his warrant card into the face, identified himself.

  ‘Been taking charm-school lessons from your boss?’ he asked. Archie Frost said nothing, just finished his drink. ‘I want a word, Mr Frost.’

  ‘They don’t look like polis,’ Frost said, nodding towards where Janice and Brian Mee were working the room.

  ‘That’s because they’re not. Their son went missing. Disappeared from here, in fact.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well then, you’ll know why I’m here.’ Rebus brought out the photograph of the mystery blonde. ‘Seen her before?’

  Frost shook his head automatically.

  ‘Take a closer look.’

  Frost took the photo grudgingly, and angled it towards the light. Then he shook his head and tried handing it back.

  ‘What about your pal?’

  ‘What about him?’

  The ‘pal’ in question, the young man without a drink, had half-turned from them, so he was watching the dancefloor.

  ‘He’s not in here much,’ Frost said.

  ‘All the same,’ Rebus persisted. So Frost stuck the photo in front of his friend’s nose. An immediate shake of the head.

  ‘I’m going to take this around your punters,’ Rebus said, lifting the photo from Frost’s hand, ‘see if their memories are any better.’ He wasn’t looking at Frost; he was looking at his companion. ‘Do I know you from somewhere, son? Your face looks familiar.’

  The young man snorted, kept his eyes on the dancing.

  ‘I’ll let you get back to your business then,’ Rebus said. He did a circuit of the room, following behind Janice and Brian. They’d left flyers on most of the tables. A couple had already been crumpled up. Rebus fixed the culprits with a stare. He wasn’t faring any better with his own picture, but saw that ahead of him Janice and Brian had seated themselves at a table and were deep in conversation with two girls there. Eventually, he caught up with them. Janice looked up at him.

  ‘They say they saw Damon,’ she yelled, fighting the music.

  ‘He was getting into a taxi,’ one of the girls repeated for the newcomer’s benefit.

  ‘Where?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Outside The Dome.’

  ‘Other side of the road,’ her friend corrected. They were wearing too much make-up, trying for a look they’d probably call ‘sophisticated’, trying to look older than their years. Soon enough, they’d be reversing the process. They wore incredibly short skirts. Rebus could see Brian trying not to stare.

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About quarter past twelve. We were late for a party.’

  ‘You’re sure about the date?’ Rebus asked. Janice looked at him accusingly, not wanting this fragile bubble to burst.

  One girl got a diary out of her handbag, tapped a page. ‘That’s the party.’

  Rebus looked: it was the same date Damon had disappeared. ‘How come you noticed him?’

  ‘We’d seen him in here earlier.’

  ‘Just standing at the bar,’ her friend added. ‘Not dancing or anything.’

  A couple of young men, still in their day-job suits, had peeled off from an office party and were approaching, ready to ask for a dance. The girls tried to look disinterested, but a glower from Rebus sent the suitors back in the direction they’d come.

  ‘We were after a taxi ourselves,’ one girl explained. ‘Saw them waiting across the road. Only they got lucky, we ended up walking.’

  ‘“They”?’

  ‘Him and his girl.’

  Rebus looked to Janice, then handed over the photo.

  ‘Yeah, that looks like her.’

  ‘Blonde out of a bottle,’ the other agreed.

  Janice took the photo from them, looked at it herself.

  ‘Who is she, John?’

  Rebus shook his head, telling her he didn’t know. Glancing towards the bar, he saw two things. One was that Archie Frost was watching him intently over the rim of a fresh glass. The other was that his non-drinking friend had gone.

  ‘Maybe they’ve run off together,’ one of the girls was saying, trying hard to be helpful. ‘That would be romantic, wouldn’t it?’

  Janice and Brian hadn’t eaten, so Rebus took them to an Indian on Hanover Street, where he explained the little he knew about the woman in the photograph. Janice kept the photo in one hand as she ate.

  ‘It’s a start, isn’t it?’ Brian said, pulling apart a nan bread.

  Rebus nodded agreement.

  ‘I mean,’ Brian went on, ‘we know now he left with someone. He’s probably still with her.’

  ‘Only he didn’t go off with her,’ Janice said. ‘John’s already told us, Damon left on his own.’

  In fact, Rebus hadn’t even gone that far. They only had the girls’ word for it that Damon had left the club at all . . .

  ‘Well,’ Brian stumbled on, ‘thing is, he wouldn’t want his mates seeing them together, not when he was supposed to be engaged.’

  ‘I can’t believe it of Damon.’ Janice’s eyes were on Rebus. ‘He loves Helen.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘But it happens, doesn’t it?’

  She gave a rueful smile. Brian saw a look passing between them, but chose to ignore it.

  ‘Anyone want any more rice?’ he asked instead, lifting the salver from its hotplate.

  ‘We should be getting home,’ his wife said. ‘Damon might have tried phoning.’ She was getting to her feet. Rebus gestured towards the photo, and she handed it back. It was smudged, creased at the corners. Brian was looking down at the food still on his plate.

  ‘Brian .
. .’ Janice said. He sniffed and got up from his chair. ‘Get the bill, will you?’

  ‘This is on me,’ Rebus said. ‘They’ll stick it on my tab.’

  ‘Thanks again, John.’ She held out her hand and he took it. It was long and slender. Rebus remembered holding it when they danced, remembered the way it would be warm and dry, unlike other girls’ hands. Warm and dry, and his heart pounding in his chest. She’d been so slender at the waist, he’d felt he could encircle her with just his hands.

  ‘Yes, thanks, Johnny.’ Brian Mee laughed. ‘You don’t mind me calling you Johnny?’

  ‘Why should I mind?’ Rebus said, still looking into Janice’s eyes. ‘It’s my name, isn’t it?’

  10

  First thing, Rebus looked through the newspapers, but he didn’t find anything to interest him.

  He headed down to Leith police station, where Jim Margolies had been stationed. He’d told the Farmer he was looking for a connection between Rough’s reappearance and Jim’s death, but he wasn’t particularly confident of finding one. Still, he really did want to know why Jim had done it, had done something Rebus had thought about doing more than once – taking the high walk. He was met in Leith by a wary Detective Inspector Bobby Hogan.

  ‘I know I owe you a favour or two, John,’ Hogan began. ‘But do you mind telling me what it’s all about? Margolies was a good man, we’re missing him badly.’

  They were walking through the station, making for CID. Hogan was a couple of years younger than Rebus, but had been on the force for longer. He could take retirement any time he wanted, but Rebus doubted the man would ever want it.

  ‘I knew him, too,’ Rebus was saying. ‘I’m probably just asking myself the same question all of you have been asking.’

  ‘You mean why?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘He was headed for the top, Bobby. Everyone knew it.’

  ‘Maybe he got vertigo.’ Hogan shook his head. ‘The notes aren’t going to tell you anything, John.’

  They had stopped outside an interview room.

  ‘I just need to see them, Bobby.’

  Hogan stared at him, then nodded slowly. ‘This makes us even, pal.’

  Rebus touched him on the shoulder, walked into the room. The manila file was sitting on the otherwise empty desk. There were two chairs in the room.