10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  Who would face terror across a courtroom, if they could choose to avoid it?

  Who indeed.

  The survivors’ group comprised eight individuals who had chosen the more difficult path. They were going to see to it that after all these years justice was finally done. They were going to lock away the two monsters who’d ripped apart their innocence, monsters who were still there in the world whenever they woke from their nightmares.

  Harold Ince was fifty-seven, short and skinny and bespectacled. He had curly hair, turning grey. He had a wife and three grown children. He was a grandfather. He hadn’t worked in seven years. He had a dazed look to him in all the photographs Rebus had seen.

  Ramsay Marshall was forty-four, tall and broad, hair cut short and spiky. Divorced, no children, had until recently been living and working (as a chef) in Aberdeen. Photographs showed a scowling face, jutting chin.

  The two men had met at Shiellion in the early 1980s, formed a friendship or at the very least an alliance. Found they shared a common interest, one that could, it seemed, be carried out with impunity in Shiellion House.

  Abusers. Rebus was sickened by them. They couldn’t be cured or changed. They just went on and on. Released into the community, they’d soon revert to type. They were control junkies, weak-minded, and just awful. They were like addicts who couldn’t be weaned off their fix. There were no prescription drugs, and no amount of psychotherapy seemed to work. They saw weakness and had to exploit it; saw innocence and had to explore it. Rebus had had a bellyful of them.

  Like with Darren Rough. Rebus knew he’d snapped in the zoo because of Shiellion, because of the way it wasn’t going away. The trial had lasted two weeks so far, heading into week three, and still there were stories to be told, still there were people crying in the waiting room.

  ‘Chemical castration,’ the guard said, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘It’s the only way.’

  Then there was a cry from the courthouse door: one of the ushers.

  ‘Inspector Rebus?’ she called. Rebus nodded, flicked his cigarette on to the setts.

  ‘You’re up,’ she called. He was already moving towards her.

  Rebus didn’t know why he was here. Except that he’d interviewed Harold Ince. Which was to say, he’d been part of the team interviewing Ince. But only for one day – other work had pulled him away from Shiellion. Only for one day, early on in the inquiry. He’d shared the sessions with Bill Pryde, but it wasn’t Bill Pryde the defence wanted to examine. It was John Rebus.

  The public gallery was half-empty. The jury of fifteen sat with glazed expressions, the effect of sharing someone else’s nightmare, day in, day out. The judge was Lord Justice Petrie. Ince and Marshall sat in the dock. Ince leaned forward, the better to hear the evidence, his hands twisting the polished brass rail in front of him. Marshall leaned back, looking bored by proceedings. He examined his shirt-front, then would turn his neck from side to side, cracking it. Clear his throat and click his tongue and go back to studying himself.

  The defence lawyer was Richard Cordover, Richie to his friends. Rebus had had dealings with him before; he’d yet to be invited to call the lawyer ‘Richie’. Cordover was in his forties, hair already grey. Medium height and with a muscular neck, face tanned. Health club regular, Rebus guessed. Prosecution was a fiscal-depute nearly half Rebus’s age. He looked confident but careful, browsing through his case notes, jotting points down with a fat black fountain pen.

  Petrie cleared his throat, reminding Cordover that time was passing. Cordover bowed to the judge and approached Rebus.

  ‘Detective Inspector Rebus . . .’ Pausing immediately for effect. ‘I believe you interviewed one of the suspects.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. I was present at the interview of Harold Ince on October the twentieth last year. Others present included—’

  ‘This was where exactly?’

  ‘Interview Room B, St Leonard’s police station.’

  Cordover turned away from Rebus, walked slowly towards the jury. ‘You were part of the investigating team?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Just over a week, sir.’

  Cordover turned to Rebus. ‘How long did the investigation last in total, Inspector?’

  ‘A matter of some months, I believe.’

  ‘Some months, yes . . .’ Cordover went as if to check his notes. Rebus noticed a woman seated on a chair near the door. She was a CID detective called Jane Barbour. Though she sat with arms folded and legs crossed, she looked as tense as Rebus felt. Normally, she worked out of Fettes, but halfway through Shiellion she’d been put in charge: after Rebus’s time; he hadn’t had any dealings with her.

  ‘Eight and a half months,’ Cordover was saying. ‘A decent period of gestation.’ He smiled coldly at Rebus, who said nothing. He was wondering where this was leading; knew now that the defence had some bloody good reason for bringing him here. Only he didn’t yet know what.

  ‘Were you pulled from the inquiry, Inspector Rebus?’ Asked casually, as if to satisfy curiosity only.

  ‘Pulled? No, sir. Something else came up—’

  ‘And someone was needed to deal with it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why you, do you think?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, sir.’

  ‘No?’ Cordover sounded surprised. He turned towards the jury. ‘You’ve no idea why you were pulled from that inquiry after just one—’

  The prosecution counsel was on his feet, arms spread. ‘The detective inspector has already stated that the word “pulled” is an inaccuracy, Your Honour.’

  ‘Well then,’ Cordover went on quickly, ‘let’s say you were transferred. Would that be more accurate, Inspector?’

  Rebus just shrugged, unwilling to agree to anything. Cordover was persistent.

  ‘Yes or no will do.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yes, you were transferred from a major inquiry after one week?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea why?’

  ‘Because I was needed elsewhere, sir.’ Rebus was trying not to look towards the fiscal-depute: any glance in that direction would have Cordover scenting blood, scenting someone who needed rescuing. Jane Barbour was shifting in her seat, still with arms folded.

  ‘You were needed elsewhere,’ Cordover repeated in a flat tone of voice. He returned to his notes. ‘How’s your disciplinary record, Inspector?’

  The fiscal-depute was on his feet. ‘Inspector Rebus is not on trial here, Your Honour. He has come to give evidence, and so far I can’t see any point to the—’

  ‘I withdraw the remark, Your Honour,’ Cordover said airily. He smiled at Rebus, approached again. ‘You conducted how many interviews with Mr Ince?’

  ‘Two sessions over a single day.’

  ‘Did they go well?’ Rebus looked blank. ‘Did my client co-operate?’

  ‘His answers were deliberately obtuse, sir.’

  ‘“Deliberately”? Are you some kind of expert, Inspector?’

  Rebus fixed his eyes on the advocate. ‘I can tell when someone’s being evasive.’

  ‘Really?’ Cordover was making for the jury again. Rebus wondered how many miles of floor he covered in a day. ‘My client is of the opinion that you were “a threatening presence” – his words, not mine.’

  ‘The interviews were recorded, sir.’

  ‘Indeed they were. And videotaped, too. I’ve watched them several times, and I think you’d have to agree that your method of questioning is aggressive.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No?’ Cordover raised his eyebrows. ‘My client was obviously terrified of you.’

  ‘The interviews followed every procedure, sir.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes,’ Cordover said dismissively, ‘but let’s be honest here, Inspector.’ He was in front of Rebus now, close enough to hit. ‘There are ways and ways, aren’t there? Body language, gestures, ways of phrasing a question o
r statement. You may or may not be expert at divinating obtuse answers, but you’re certainly a ruthless questioner.’

  The judge peered over the top of his glasses. ‘Is this leading somewhere, other than to an attempt at character assassination?’

  ‘If you’ll bear with me a moment longer, Your Honour.’ Cordover bowed again, consummate showman. Not for the first time, Rebus was struck by the utter ridiculousness of the whole enterprise: a game played by well-paid lawyers using real lives as the pieces.

  ‘A few days ago, Inspector,’ Cordover went on, ‘were you part of a surveillance team at Edinburgh Zoo?’

  Oh, hell. Rebus knew now exactly where Cordover was leading, and like a bad chess-player put against a master, he could do little to forestall the conclusion.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You ended up in pursuit of a member of the public?’

  The fiscal-depute was on his feet again, but the judge waved him aside.

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘You were part of an undercover team trying to catch our notorious poisoner?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And the man you chased . . . I believe it was into the sea-lion enclosure?’ Cordover looked up for confirmation. Rebus nodded dutifully. ‘Was this man the poisoner?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did you suspect him of being the poisoner?’

  ‘He was a convicted paedophile . . .’ There was anger in Rebus’s voice, and he knew his face had reddened. He broke off, but too late. He’d given the defence lawyer everything he wanted.

  ‘A man who had served his sentence and been released into the community. A man who has not reoffended. A man who was enjoying the pleasures of a trip to the zoo until you recognised him and chased after him.’

  ‘He ran first.’

  ‘He ran? From you, Inspector? Now why would he do a thing like that?’

  All right, you sarky bastard, get it over with.

  ‘The point I’m making,’ Cordover said to the jury, approaching them with something close to reverence, ‘is that there is prejudice against anyone even suspected of crimes against children. The Inspector happened to catch sight of a man who had served a single custodial sentence, and immediately suspected the worst, and acted on that suspicion – quite wrongly, as it turned out. No charges were made, the poisoner struck again, and I believe the innocent party is considering suing the police for wrongful arrest.’ He nodded. ‘Your tax money, I’m afraid.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Now, it may be that we can all understand the Inspector’s feelings. The blood rises where children are involved. But I’d ask you: is it morally right? And does it contaminate the entire case against my clients, seeping down through the tools of the investigation, coming to rest with the very officers who conducted the inquiry?’ He pointed towards Rebus, who felt now that he was in the dock rather than the witness box. Seeing his discomfort, Ramsay Marshall’s eyes were twinkling with pleasure. ‘Later, I shall produce further evidence that the initial police investigation was flawed from the outset, and that Detective Inspector Rebus here was not the only culprit.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘No more questions.’

  And Rebus was dismissed.

  ‘That was a tough one.’

  Rebus looked up at the figure walking slowly towards him. He was lighting a cigarette, inhaling deeply. He offered one over, but she shook her head.

  ‘Have you come across Cordover before?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘We’ve had our run-ins,’ Jane Barbour said.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t . . .’

  ‘Not much you could have done about it.’ She exhaled noisily, clutching a briefcase to her chest. They were outside the court building. Rebus felt gritty and exhausted. He noticed she was looking pretty tired herself.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’

  She shook her head. ‘Things to do.’

  He nodded. ‘Think we’ll win?’

  ‘Not if Cordover has anything to do with it.’ She scraped the heel of one shoe across the ground. ‘I seem to be losing more than I’m winning lately.’

  ‘You still at Fettes?’

  She nodded. ‘Sex Offences.’

  ‘Still a DI?’

  She nodded again. Rebus remembered a rumour about a promotion. So Gill Templer remained the only female chief inspector in Lothian. Rebus studied her from behind his cigarette. She was tall, what his mother would have called ‘big-boned’. Shoulder-length brown hair fashioned into waves. Mustard-coloured two-piece with a light silk blouse. She sported a mole on one cheek and another on her chin. Mid-thirties . . .? Rebus was hopeless with ages.

  ‘Well . . .’ she said, ready to leave but looking for an excuse not to.

  ‘Goodbye then.’ A voice sounded behind them. They turned and watched Richard Cordover walking to his car. It was a red TVR with personalised plate. By the time he was unlocking the car, he seemed to have forgotten about them.

  ‘One cold bastard,’ Barbour muttered.

  ‘Must have saved him a few bob.’

  She looked at Rebus. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘He could skip the TVR’s air-conditioning option. Sure about that drink? There’s something I wanted to ask you . . .’

  They bypassed Deacon Brodie’s – too many ‘clients’ drank there – and headed for the Jolly Judge. Rebus had once had a drink there with an advocate who drank advocaat. Now Rangers had signed a Dutch manager called Advocaat and the jokes were being dusted off . . . He bought a Virgin Mary for Barbour and a half of Eighty for himself. They sat at a table below the stairs, well out of the way.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said.

  Rebus raised his glass to her, then to his lips.

  ‘So what can I do for you?’

  He put down the glass. ‘Just some background. You used to work MisPers, didn’t you?’

  ‘For my sins, yes.’

  ‘What did you do exactly?’

  ‘Collect, collate, stick them all into filing cabinets and computer memories. A bit of liaison, punting our MisPers to other forces and receiving theirs in return. Lots of meetings with the various charities . . .’ She puffed out her cheeks. ‘Lots of meetings with families, too, trying to help them understand what had happened.’

  ‘Job satisfaction?’

  ‘Up there with sewing mailbags. Why the interest?’

  ‘I’ve got a missing person.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘He’s nineteen. Still lives at home; his parents are worried.’

  She was shaking her head. ‘Needle in a haystack.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Did he leave a note?’

  ‘No, and they say he’d no reason to leave.’

  ‘Sometimes there aren’t reasons, not any that would make sense to the family.’ She straightened in her chair. ‘Here’s the checklist.’ She counted fingers as she spoke. ‘Bank accounts, building society, anything like that. You’re looking for withdrawals.’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘Check with hostels. Local, plus the usual cities – anything between Aberdeen and London. Some of them have charities who deal with the homeless and runaways: Centrepoint in London, for example. Get a description out. Then there’s the National Missing Persons Bureau in London. Fax any details to them. You might ask the Sally Army to keep their eyes open too. Soup kitchens, night shelters, you never know who’ll turn up.’

  Rebus was jotting in his notebook. He looked up, watched her shrug.

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘Is it a big problem?’

  She smiled. ‘Thing is, it’s not a problem at all, not unless you’re the one who’s lost somebody. A lot of them turn up, some don’t. Last estimate I saw said there could be as many as a quarter of a million MisPers out there. People who’ve just dropped out, changed their identity, or been dumped by the so-called “caring” services.’

  ‘Care in the community?’

  She gave her bitter smile again, drank some of her drink, checked her watch.

  ‘I can see Shiellion must
have come as a welcome break.’

  She snorted. ‘Oh yes, like a camping trip. Abuse cases are always a breeze.’ She turned thoughtful. ‘I had a double rapist a few weeks back, he ended up walking. Crown cocked it up, prosecuted it as a summary case.’

  ‘Maximum sentence three months?’

  She nodded. ‘He wasn’t up for rape this time, just indecent exposure. The Sheriff was furious. By the time remand was taken into account, the bastard had under two weeks to serve, so the Sheriff put him back on the streets.’ She looked at Rebus. ‘Psych report said he’d do it again. Probation and community service, with a bit of counselling thrown in. And he’ll do it again.’

  He’ll do it again. Rebus was thinking of Darren Rough, but of Cary Oakes too. He checked his own watch. Soon Oakes would be touching down at Turnhouse. Soon he’d be a problem . . .

  ‘Sorry I can’t be more help about your MisPer,’ she said, beginning to stand. ‘Is it someone you know?’

  ‘Son of some friends.’ She was nodding. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘No offence, John, but you probably wouldn’t be bothering otherwise.’ She lifted up her briefcase. ‘He’s one out of quarter of a million. Who’s got the time?’

  12

  There were reporters waiting inside the terminal building. Most carried mobile phones with which they kept in touch with the office. Photographers chatted to each other about lenses and film speeds and the impact digital cameras would eventually have. There were three TV crews: Scottish, BBC and Edinburgh Live. Everyone seemed to know everyone else; they were all pretty relaxed, maybe even looking a bit tired by the wait.

  The flight was subject to a twenty-minute delay.

  Rebus knew the reason why. The reason was that the Met officers at Heathrow had taken their time transferring Cary Oakes. Oakes had spent over an hour in Heathrow. He’d visited the toilet, had a drink in one of the bars, bought a newspaper and a couple of magazines, and taken a telephone call.

  The telephone call had intrigued Rebus.

  ‘He was paged,’ the Farmer had informed him. ‘Someone got a call through to him.’

  ‘Who would that be?’