10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  It was a great thing, hindsight.

  He looked into his glass and saw the leavers’ dance. Saw a gangly kid called Johnny leading his girlfriend out of the hall, out the school doors and down the steps. Making like it was a game, but tugging her hard by both hands. Both of them pretending it was all right, because that was part of the whole ritual. And back in the hall, Johnny’s pal Mitch – best friends; always sticking up for one another – not realising he was being stalked by three boys who’d become his enemies. Boys who knew this might be their last chance for revenge. Revenge for what? They probably didn’t know themselves. Maybe for some ugly feeling that life had already short-changed them; that people like Mitch were going to succeed where they’d taste only failure.

  Three against one.

  While Johnny Rebus played out another fate entirely.

  Rebus finished his drink, drove home. Sank into his chair, a double malt in his fist. Listened to Tommy Smith, The Sound of Love. Pondered whether or not you really could hear love.

  Fell asleep in the orange sodium glow of the streetlights.

  As close to being at peace as he got.

  It had taken them a while to find a church with an unlocked door.

  ‘No one has any trust these days,’ Cary Oakes had said, ‘not even God.’

  They’d walked through Leith and up the Walk to Pilrig. It was a Catholic church, nobody around but them. Cool and dark inside. There were plenty of windows, but the church was surrounded on three sides by tenement buildings. Time was, as Stevens recalled, you weren’t allowed to build anything higher than a church. Oakes was sitting in a pew near the front, head bowed. He didn’t look exactly peaceful or contemplative: his neck and shoulders were tensed, his breathing fast and shallow. Stevens wasn’t comfortable. The door might not have been locked, but he felt like a trespasser. A Catholic church, too: he didn’t think he’d been in one of those his whole life. Didn’t look much different from the Presbyterian model: no smell of incense. Confession boxes, but he’d seen those before in films. One of them, the curtain was open. He glanced in, trying not to think that it looked like a Photo-Me booth. He tried to take soundless steps; didn’t want a priest appearing, having to explain what they were doing there.

  Oakes’s request: ‘I’d like to go to church.’

  Stevens: ‘Can’t it wait till Sunday?’

  But Oakes’s eyes had told him it was no joking matter. So they’d headed off on foot, the surveillance car following at a crawl, drawing attention to itself and to them.

  ‘They want to play it that way,’ Oakes had said, ‘that’s fine by me.’

  Ten, fifteen minutes passed. Stevens wondered if maybe Oakes had nodded off. He walked down the aisle, stopped beside him. Oakes looked up.

  ‘A couple more minutes, Jim.’ Oakes motioned with his head. ‘Take a break, if you like.’

  Stevens didn’t need telling twice. Stepped outside for a cigarette. Cop car parked at the end of the street, driver watching him. He’d just got one lit when the thought struck him: you’re a reporter on a story. You should be in there, trying to find an angle, running phrases through your head. Oakes in church: it could open one of the book chapters. So he nipped the cigarette, slipped it back into the packet. Pushed open the door and went inside.

  There was no sign of Oakes in any of the pews. Sound of running water. Stevens peered into the gloom, eyes adjusting slowly. A shape over by the confessional. Oakes standing there, looking over his shoulder towards Stevens, body arched as he urinated through the curtain. Oakes grinned, winked. Finished his business and zipped himself up. He was walking back up the aisle, back to where Stevens stood, face failing to disguise his shock. Oakes pointed up towards the ceiling.

  ‘Got to remind Him just who’s boss, Jim.’ He moved past Stevens and out into daylight. Stevens stood there a moment longer. Pissing into the confessional: a message to God, or to the reporter himself? Stevens turned and left the church, wondering how the hell his world had come to this.

  16

  A young DS called Roy Frazer was the fourth member of the surveillance team. He’d arrived at St Leonard’s the previous month, a rare recruit from F Division, based in Livingston. Edinburgh city cops knew the Livingston operation as ‘F Troop’. They’d had a few digs at Frazer, but he’d been able – or at least willing – to take them. The Farmer had chosen Frazer for the team. The Farmer thought Frazer was a bit special.

  Rebus sat beside him in the Rover, listening to his report.

  ‘Only real highlight,’ Frazer was saying, ‘that restaurant next to the pub back there, they took pity on me, brought me out a meal.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’ Rebus looked back towards the pub in question. Just past closing time, and drinkers were taking their grudging leave.

  ‘Carrot soup, then some chicken thing in puff pastry. Wasn’t bad at all.’

  Rebus looked down at the carrier bag he’d brought with him: flask of strong coffee; two filled rolls (corned beef and beetroot); chocolate and crisps; some tapes and his Walkman; an evening paper and a couple of books.

  ‘Brought it out on a tray, came back half an hour later with some coffee and mints.’

  ‘You want to be careful, son,’ Rebus cautioned. ‘No such thing as a free dinner. Once you start taking bribes . . .’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘I mean, it might have been the done thing in Livingston, but you’re not in the sticks now.’

  Frazer saw at last that he was joking, produced a grin which was two parts relief to one part humour. He was strong-looking, played rugby for the police team. Cropped black hair, square-jawed. When he’d arrived at St Leonard’s, he’d sported a thick moustache, but had shaved it off for some reason. The skin beneath still looked pink and delicate. Rebus knew he came from farming stock – somewhere between West Calder and the A70. His father still farmed there. Something he had in common with The Farmer, whose family had worked the land around Stonehaven. Another thing the two men shared: regular church-going. Rebus, too, went to churches, but seldom on a Sunday. He liked them empty except for his thoughts.

  ‘Have you got the log?’ Rebus asked. Frazer produced the A4-sized notebook. Bill Pryde had taken over from Siobhan Clarke at 6 a.m., recorded that Oakes and Stevens had stayed in the hotel until eleven. Up till then, they hadn’t come downstairs – he’d checked with the front desk. Morning coffee for two had been ordered for Oakes’s room. Pryde’s interpretation: they were working. A cab had arrived at eleven, and both men had come out of the hotel. Stevens had handed a large envelope to the cabbie, who’d driven off again. Pryde’s guess: tape of first interview, heading for the newspaper office.

  With the taxi gone, Stevens and Oakes had walked into Leith Docks, Pryde following on foot. They looked like they were killing time, taking a breather. Then it was back to the hotel. Siobhan Clarke took over at noon: Rebus had persuaded her to change shifts with him. Not that it had been difficult: ‘I like my own bed at night,’ she’d admitted.

  The afternoon had gone much as the morning: the two men ensconced in the hotel; taxi taking delivery of an envelope; the two men taking a break. Except this time they’d headed into town, stopping at a church in Pilrig. Rebus looked at Frazer.

  ‘A church?’

  Frazer just shrugged. After the church, they’d headed to the top of the Walk and John Lewis’s, where they shopped for clothes for Oakes. New shoes, too. Stevens put everything on his plastic. Then they’d hit a couple of pubs: the Café Royal, Guildford Arms. Clarke had stayed outside: ‘Didn’t know whether to go in or not. It’s not as if they didn’t know I was there.’

  Back to the hotel, Oakes giving her a wave as she pulled up outside.

  Relieved by Frazer at 6 p.m. The two men, Stevens and Oakes, had walked to one of the new restaurants built facing the Scottish Office. One wall was all glass, affording them a view of Frazer as he kicked his heels outside. Apart from his own surprise dinner – not mentioned in the notebook – that was about it.

  ‘Woul
d I be right in thinking this is a complete waste of time?’ Frazer stated when Rebus had finished reading.

  ‘Depends on your parameters,’ Rebus said. He’d lifted the line from a training course at Tulliallan.

  ‘Well, they’re obviously here for the duration, aren’t they?’

  ‘We just want Oakes to know.’

  ‘Yes, but surely the time to let him know is when he’s left to his own devices. Once he’s found himself a place to live, and all the media stuff’s finished.’

  Frazer had a point. Rebus conceded as much with a slow nod of his head. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, ‘tell the Chief Super.’

  ‘That’s just what I did.’ Rebus looked at him, waiting for more. ‘He turned up about nine o’clock, wanting to know how things were going.’

  ‘And you told him?’

  Frazer nodded; Rebus laughed.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said to give it a few more days.’

  ‘You know they think Oakes might kill again?’

  ‘Only person within range at the moment is that reporter. Anything happened to him, I’d be heartbroken.’

  Rebus burst out laughing again. ‘Know something, Roy? You’re going to be all right.’

  ‘The power of prayer, sir.’

  Rebus had been in the car by himself for an hour, cold seeping inside his three pairs of socks, when he saw someone push open the door of the hotel and step outside. The hotel bar was still open, wouldn’t close till the last guest had had enough. Stevens wore his tie loose around his neck, top two shirt buttons open. He was blowing cigarette smoke up into the sky, shuffling his feet to keep his balance. Been there, done that, Rebus thought. Eventually, Stevens focused on the police car, seemed to find it amusing. Chuckled to himself, bending forward at the waist, shaking his head slowly. Came walking towards the car. Rebus got out, waited for him.

  ‘So we meet at last, Moriarty,’ Stevens said. Rebus folded his arms, leaned against the car.

  ‘How’s the baby-sitting?’

  Stevens puffed out his cheeks. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m having trouble getting a handle on him.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘All that time behind bars – no pun intended – you’d think he might want to celebrate.’

  ‘I’m guessing he doesn’t drink.’

  ‘Your guess is correct. Says drink contaminates his mind, makes him feel dangerous.’ A humourless laugh.

  ‘How much longer?’ Rebus could smell the whisky on Stevens’ breath. Give him a minute or two, he’d place the brand.

  ‘Couple more days. It’s good stuff, wait till you read it.’

  ‘Know what the Yanks told us? They said he’ll kill again.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Has he said anything?’

  Stevens nodded. ‘Gave me a list of his next victims. Nice tie-in with the story.’ Stevens grinned lopsidedly, saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘Sorry, sorry. Not in very good taste. I’ve got a publisher interested, did I tell you? Coming back to me tomorrow or the day after with an offer.’

  ‘How can you do it?’ Rebus asked quietly.

  Stevens got his balance back. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Do what you do.’

  ‘Sounds like a Motown line.’ He sniffed, coughed. ‘It’s an interesting story, Rebus. That’s what he means to me: a story. What does he mean to you?’ He awaited a response, didn’t get one, wagged a finger. ‘That note you left me: “Drop him”. Think I’d suddenly see the light, hand him over to somebody else, some other paper? No chance, pal. This isn’t the Damascus Road.’

  ‘I’d noticed.’

  ‘And my boy’s not the only ex-offender in the news, is he? I see someone outed a paedophile. Word is, it was a cop.’ He tutted, wagged his finger again. ‘Any comment to make, Inspector?’

  ‘Go fuck yourself, Stevens.’

  ‘Ah, now there’s another thing. Guy’s been in the nick fourteen years, and here we are in Leith, Edinburgh’s knocking-shop, and he’s not interested. Can you credit that?’

  ‘Maybe he’s got other things on his mind.’

  ‘Wouldn’t bother me if he preferred chickens, just so long as he gets me a book deal.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Look at us, eh? You out here, me in that big hotel. Makes you think.’

  ‘Go to bed, Stevens. You need all the beauty sleep you can get.’

  Stevens turned away, remembered something and turned back. ‘OK for a wee photo-shoot tomorrow night? Photographer’s coming anyway, and I thought it’d make a nice sidebar: cop who’ll never sleep while killer’s at large.’

  Rebus said nothing, waited till the reporter had turned away again. ‘What did he want in the church?’ The question stopped Stevens cold. Rebus repeated it. Stevens half-turned towards him, shook his head slowly, then walked back across the road. There was something tired in the walk now, something Rebus couldn’t interpret. He reached into the car for his cigarettes, lit one. Closed the driver’s door and walked fifty yards to the end of the road, then across the bridge to the other side of the basin, where a boat was moored. There was a sign telling patrons to respect the neighbours and keep the noise down late at night. But the boat wasn’t being used tonight, no private party or celebration. Nearby, they were building more ‘New York loft-style apartments’ for young professionals, part of Leith’s revival. Rebus crossed back to the pub, but it was closed now. The bar staff would probably be inside, enjoying a drink as they replayed the evening’s highlights. Rebus walked back to the car.

  An hour later, a taxi pulled up outside the hotel. His first thought: another tape for the newspaper. But someone was in the taxi. They paid the driver, got out. Rebus checked his watch. Two fifteen. One of the guests who’d been out on the town. He took a nip from his quarter-bottle, slipped the headphones back on to his ears. String Driven Thing: ‘Another Night in This Old City’.

  That’s all it ever was . . .

  Forty minutes later, the man from the taxi exited the hotel. He waved back to the night porter. Window down, Rebus heard him say, ‘Good night.’ He stood outside, glanced at his watch, looked up and down the street. Looking for a taxi, Rebus thought. Who would be visiting a hotel this time of night? Who would he be visiting?

  The man’s gaze fell on the police car. Rebus wound the window down further, flicked ash on to the roadway. The man was making his way towards the car. Rebus opened his door, got out.

  ‘Inspector Rebus?’ The man held out his hand. Rebus gave him a once-over. Late fifties, well-dressed. Didn’t look the type to pull a stunt, but you could never be sure. The man read his thoughts, smiled.

  ‘I don’t blame you. Middle of the night, stranger wants to make friends, already knows your name . . .’

  Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

  ‘A while back. You’ve got a good memory. My name’s Archibald. Alan Archibald.’

  Rebus nodded, finally shook Archibald’s hand. ‘You had a posting at Great London Road.’

  ‘For a couple of months, yes. Before I retired, I was based at Fettes, pushing paper around a desk.’

  Alan Archibald: tall, cropped salt-and-pepper hair. A face full of strong features, a body resisting the ageing process.

  ‘I heard you’d retired.’

  Archibald shrugged. ‘Twenty years in, I thought it was time.’ His look said: what about you? Rebus’s mouth twitched.

  ‘It’s warmer in the car. I can’t offer you a lift, but I could probably . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Alan Archibald was saying. ‘Cary Oakes told me.’

  ‘He what?’

  Archibald nodded towards the car. ‘I’ll take you up on your offer, though. I’m not used to night shifts these days.’

  So they got into the car, Archibald tucking his black woollen overcoat around him. Rebus ran the engine, stuck the heating on, offered Archibald a cigarette.

  ‘I don’t, thanks all the same. But don’t let me stop you.’

&
nbsp; ‘You’d need heavy artillery to stop me,’ Rebus said, lighting another for himself. ‘So what’s the story with Oakes?’

  Archibald touched his fingers to the dashboard. ‘He called me, told me where he was.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘He knows all about you.’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘That’s the point.’

  ‘Yes, he knows that too. But he knew you were on the late shift.’

  ‘Not difficult. He can see me from his bedroom window.’ Rebus pointed towards it. ‘Or maybe his minder told him.’

  ‘The journalist? I didn’t meet him.’

  ‘Probably in bed.’

  ‘Yes, I had to ring up to Oakes’s bedroom. He wasn’t sleeping, though, told me it’s jet-lag.’

  ‘How did he get your number?’

  ‘It’s unlisted.’ Archibald paused. ‘I’m guessing the journalist pulled a few strings.’

  Rebus inhaled smoke, let it pour down his nostrils. ‘So what’s the story?’

  ‘My guess is, Oakes wants to play some game.’

  Rebus looked at his passenger. ‘What sort of game?’

  ‘The sort that gets me out of bed at one in the morning. That’s when he phoned, said we had to meet now or never at all.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The murder.’

  Rebus frowned. ‘Murder singular?’

  ‘Not one of the ones he committed in the States. This happened right here in Edinburgh. More specifically, out at Hillend.’

  Hillend: at the northern tip of the Pentland Hills – hence the name. Known locally for its artificial ski-slope. From the bypass, you could see the lights at night. Suddenly, Rebus remembered the case. An outcrop of rocks, a woman’s body. Young woman: student at a teacher-training college. Rebus had helped with the initial search. The search had taken him from Hillend to Swanston Cottages, an extraordinary cluster of homes, seemingly untouched by modernity. All at once he’d wanted to buy a place there, but it had been too isolated for his wife – and outwith their means anyway.