10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  At six o’clock, Rebus was wakened by the front buzzer. He went to the door, pushed the intercom.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me.’ Bill Pryde, not sounding happy.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘This car I’m supposed to pick up. Just where exactly have you hidden it?’

  ‘Hang on.’

  Rebus walked into the living room, glanced at the sofa. Saw the blanket had been folded neatly; no sign of Darren Rough. Peered out of the window. A space where the car had been. He cursed under his breath. Put his shoes on and headed downstairs.

  ‘I think someone took it,’ he told Bill Pryde.

  ‘This isn’t my fuck-up, John.’ Pryde: ticking off the days till retirement.

  ‘I know,’ Rebus said, unwilling to add that he might know who’d taken it: Darren Rough.

  Pryde pointed at his hands. ‘Word’s out you lost the punch-up. How does Oakes look?’

  ‘That’s not what happened,’ Rebus said.

  ‘You were found KO’d in a skip, way I heard it.’

  Rebus stared at him. ‘You want to walk to work, Bill?’

  Pryde shook his head. ‘I want to be ringside for the main bout: you telling the Farmer how you came to lose the car.’

  Rebus stared up and down the road again. ‘Better slip a horseshoe into my glove for that one,’ he said, turning back into the tenement.

  25

  Rebus drove them to St Leonard’s in his Saab and reported the theft, cheering up the day shift who’d just come on. At quarter to nine, he was in the Farmer’s office, explaining the whole thing yet again, including the scrapes on his hands. The Farmer busied himself at his coffee machine all the time Rebus was making his report. It was an espresso-maker with a spout for steamed milk. He hadn’t offered Rebus a cup. When Rebus stopped talking, the Farmer poured the foamy milk into his mug, switched off the machine, and sat behind his desk. Holding the mug in both hands, he looked at Rebus.

  ‘I always thought surveillance was a fairly simple procedure. Once more, you’ve managed to prove me wrong.’

  ‘It wasn’t going anywhere, sir.’

  ‘Unlike the missing car.’

  Rebus looked down at the floor.

  ‘So let me see where we stand,’ the Farmer continued, taking another sip. ‘I tell you to lay off Darren Rough. You go out looking for him. I tell you to keep an eye on a man whom experts say may murder someone. You end up unconscious in a rubbish skip.’ The Farmer’s voice was rising. ‘You find Darren Rough and take him to your flat. He then leaves, taking one of our cars with him, along with the surveillance log. Does that just about cover it?’ His face was growing red with anger.

  ‘Clear and concise, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you dare be amused!’ The Farmer slapped a hand down on the desk.

  ‘I’m anything but, sir.’ Rebus gritted his teeth. ‘But I thought I was doing the right thing at the time.’

  ‘No, Inspector. As usual, what you were doing was following your own agenda, and to hell with the rest of us. Isn’t that nearer the mark?’

  ‘With respect, sir—’

  ‘Don’t give me that. You’ve no respect for me, no respect for the job we’re supposed to be doing here!’

  ‘Maybe you’re right, sir,’ Rebus said quietly, his head beginning to throb again.

  The Farmer looked at him, leaned back in his chair and took another mouthful of coffee. ‘So what are we going to do about that?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I mean, you’re right: I’ve been having doubts about the job for months. Ever since Jack Morton . . .’

  ‘Maybe even before then?’ Sounding calmer now.

  ‘Maybe, sir. More than once, I’ve thought about chucking it.’ He looked at his boss. ‘Make your life a bit easier.’

  ‘But you haven’t chucked it.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Must be a reason.’

  ‘Maybe a bit of me still believes, sir. And funnily enough, that part’s been growing.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Alan Archibald; Darren Rough: he hadn’t mentioned Archibald to the Farmer, hadn’t seen the point.

  ‘I was wrong about Rough, I admit that. Well . . . I’m not sure I was wrong, to tell you the truth. But I know now why he’s in Edinburgh. I know a bit more about his background.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ The Farmer narrowed his eyes. ‘You understand him, is that it?’ A smile with an edge of cruelty to it. ‘Compassion? You, John? I didn’t know dinosaurs could evolve.’

  ‘Either that or the species dies,’ Rebus said, pressing his hands to his knees. How could he explain it, explain what he was learning: that the past shapes the present, that free will is a fantasy, that a force we could call Fate or God controls the paths we take? Janice throwing a punch . . . young Darren Rough in a car on the way to Shiellion . . . Alan Archibald and his niece. All seemed connected in some strange and intricate way.

  ‘You’ll want a full report,’ Rebus said, straightening in his chair.

  The Farmer nodded. ‘I was about to pull the surveillance anyway.’ He put down his mug. ‘Do you think Cary Oakes is dangerous?’

  ‘Definitely. But I think he’s changed.’

  ‘Changed how?’

  ‘His spree in the States, it wasn’t planned. There was a lack of deliberation, and it always seemed to be part of some other strategy.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘He killed because he needed things: money, a car, whatever. But towards the end, I think he was really getting a taste for it. Then he got caught. He’s been all these years in jail, remembering that buzz.’

  ‘So now he might kill for no other reason than the buzz?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think he has some sort of plan, something that involves Edinburgh.’ And Alan Archibald, he might have added. ‘I think he’s getting all sorts of tingly feelings just planning it.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll put it off indefinitely.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘I don’t think so. This is foreplay to him.’

  The Farmer seemed embarrassed by the image, relieved when his phone sounded. He picked up the receiver, listened.

  ‘Good,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll let him know.’

  He put down the receiver, looked up at Rebus. ‘The car’s turned up.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Handily parked, too.’

  Rebus asked what the Farmer meant. The answer gave him the shock of his life.

  A couple of uniforms were already on the scene when Rebus, the Farmer and Bill Pryde arrived at The Shore. The Rover was sitting in its usual spot, opposite the hotel.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Rebus said for the fifth or sixth time.

  ‘This isn’t some joke of yours?’ Bill Pryde asked.

  The Farmer looked inside. ‘Where’s the log?’

  ‘It was under the seat, sir.’

  The Farmer reached in, pulled out the log and a set of car keys.

  ‘Did you say anything to Rough about the surveillance?’ he asked. Rebus shook his head. ‘So can we assume Rough did not take the car?’ Rebus shrugged.

  ‘Looks like it was someone who knew what we were up to,’ Bill Pryde admitted.

  ‘Or simply read about it in the log,’ Rebus said. ‘Anyone finding the keys would have found the log.’

  ‘True,’ Pryde conceded.

  ‘Which might put Rough back in the frame,’ the Farmer said. ‘Thing is, it also means whoever stole the car read the surveillance notes.’

  ‘Red faces all round, sir,’ Pryde said.

  ‘More than that if Fettes get to hear about it.’

  ‘Who’s going to tell them?’

  The Farmer had flipped through the notes, coming to Rebus’s final section – or what should have been the final section. He opened the book wide, held it out so Rebus and Pryde could see it.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Rebus looked. Written in big capitals, red felt pen. Someone had added a postscript to
Rebus’s thoughts on the case:

  NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY. WHERE’S MR ARCHIBALD????

  The Farmer was staring at him.

  ‘Who’s Mr Archibald?’

  Pryde was shrugging. ‘Search me.’

  But the Farmer had eyes only for John Rebus.

  ‘Who’s Mr Archibald?’ he repeated, red rising to his cheeks. Rebus said nothing, crossed the street and looked in through the large windows of the restaurant. They were serving late breakfasts, tables half-hidden behind potted plants and hanging baskets. But there, at a window table and enjoying the show, sat Cary Oakes. He waved a fork at Rebus, sat beaming a grin as he lifted a glass of orange juice and toasted him. Rebus made for the hotel door, pushed it open, strode inside. Cooking smells were wafting from the restaurant. A waiter asked if he wanted a table for one. Rebus ignored him, walked straight up to the table where Cary Oakes was seated.

  ‘Care to join me, Inspector?’

  ‘Not even if you were coming apart at the seams.’ Rebus pushed his knuckles into Oakes’s face. ‘Remember these?’

  ‘Looks nasty,’ Oakes said. ‘I’d get a doctor to look at them. Lucky you already know one.’

  ‘You know where I live,’ Rebus hissed. ‘Jim Stevens told you.’

  ‘Did he?’ Oakes started cutting up a sausage. Rebus noticed that he sliced it lengthwise first, as though dissecting it.

  ‘You took the car.’

  ‘Bit early for riddles.’ Oakes lifted a morsel of meat to his lips. Rebus flung out a hand, sent fork and sausage flying. Then he hoisted Cary Oakes to his feet.

  ‘What the fuck are you up to?’

  ‘Shouldn’t that be my line?’ Oakes said, grinning. There was a sudden explosion of light. Rebus half-turned his head. Jim Stevens was behind him. Next to him stood a photographer.

  ‘Now,’ Stevens was saying, ‘if we could have the two of you shaking hands in the next one.’ He winked at Rebus. ‘Told you I wanted some pictures.’

  Rebus dropped Oakes, flew towards the journalist.

  ‘Inspector!’

  The Farmer’s voice. He was in the restaurant doorway, face like fury. ‘A word with you outside, if you don’t mind.’ A voice not to be disobeyed. Rebus stared hard at Jim Stevens, letting him know this wasn’t the end of anything. Then he walked out of the dining room and into reception. The Farmer was after him.

  ‘I’m still waiting for an answer. Who is Mr Archibald?’

  ‘A man with a mission,’ Rebus told him. In his mind, he could still see the grin on Oakes’s face. ‘Problem is, he’s not the only one.’

  Rebus spent till lunchtime ‘in conference’ with the Farmer. Just before midday, Archibald himself joined them, the Farmer having dispatched a squad car to Corstorphine to pick him up. The two men knew one another of old.

  ‘Thought you’d have had the gold watch by now,’ Archibald said, shaking the Farmer’s hand. But the Farmer was not to be mollified.

  ‘Sit down, Alan. For a retired copper, you haven’t half been busy.’

  Archibald glanced at Rebus, who was staring at the window-blind.

  ‘I’m going to nail him, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all, is it?’ The Farmer looked mock-astonished. ‘John tells me you’ve seen the files on Cary Oakes. In fact, you’ve got more gen on him than we have. So you should know who you’re dealing with.’

  ‘I know what I’m dealing with.’

  The Farmer’s gaze went from Archibald to Rebus and back again. ‘It’s bad enough I’m lumbered with this one,’ he said, nodding towards Rebus. ‘Last thing I need is yet another headcase out there trying to take the law into his own hands. You think Oakes killed your niece, show me the evidence.’

  ‘Come on, man . . .’

  ‘Show me the evidence!’

  ‘I would if I could.’

  ‘Would you, Alan?’ The Farmer paused. ‘Or would you want to keep it personal, right to the bitter end?’ He turned to Rebus. ‘What about you, John? Were you going to lend a hand burying the body?’

  ‘If I’d wanted him dead,’ Archibald said, ‘he’d be in the ground by now.’

  ‘But what if he confesses, Alan? Just you and him, no third party.’ The Farmer shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be enough to go to court with, so what would you do?’

  ‘It’d be enough,’ Archibald said quietly.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For me. For Deirdre’s memory.’

  The Farmer waited, turned to Rebus. ‘Do you buy that? You think Alan here would listen to Oakes’s confession and then just walk away?’

  ‘I don’t know him well enough to comment.’ Rebus still seemed mesmerised by the window-blind.

  ‘Two peas in a pod,’ the Farmer said. Rebus glanced at Archibald, who was looking at him. There was a knock at the door. The Farmer barked an order to enter. It was Siobhan Clarke.

  ‘Come to intercede?’ the Farmer asked.

  ‘No, sir.’ She seemed unwilling to come in; stood with only her head showing round the door.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Suspicious death, sir. Up on Salisbury Crags.’

  ‘How suspicious?’

  ‘First reports say very.’

  The Farmer pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘This is one of those weeks that seem to last a fortnight.’

  ‘Thing is, sir, from the description, I’d say we have an ID.’

  He looked at her, hearing something in her tone. ‘Someone we know?’

  Clarke was looking towards Rebus. ‘I’d say so, sir.’

  ‘This isn’t a parlour game, DC Clarke.’

  She cleared her throat. ‘I think it might be Darren Rough.’

  26

  ‘Start any time you’re ready.’

  Jim Stevens’ room was beginning to look messy and lived-in, just the way he liked. But they weren’t in Stevens’ room, they were in Oakes’s, and it looked like its occupant hadn’t spent any time there at all. There were two chairs at a small circular table by the window. The complimentary book of matches still sat folded open in its ashtray. Two magazines of interest to visitors to Edinburgh sat beside it, and lying on top of them was the guests’ comment card, yet to be filled in, or even perused.

  Most people, Stevens guessed, even people who’d spent a third of their life enjoying the facilities of a foreign country’s prison service, would do what he’d done in his own room: explore it, try out and touch everything, flick through every piece of literature.

  But not Cary Oakes, who now cleared his throat.

  ‘Aren’t you curious about what Rebus wanted?’

  Stevens looked at him. ‘I just want this finished.’

  ‘Lost the old vigour and vim, eh, Jim?’

  ‘You have that effect on people.’

  ‘Tracked down any of my old teenage gang?’ Oakes laughed at the look on Stevens’ face. ‘Thought not. Probably scattered to the four winds by now.’

  ‘Last time we broke off,’ Stevens said coldly, checking the spools were turning, ‘you were crossing America.’

  Oakes nodded. ‘I got to a place called, believe it or not, Opportunity, a ratty little truck-stop on the Washington-Idaho border. That’s where I met the trucker, Fat Boy. I never learned his real name; I think even the ID he carried was fake.’

  ‘What name was on the ID?’

  Oakes ignored the question. ‘Fat Boy had these notions about a government conspiracy, told me he kept his home booby-trapped whenever he was working long-distance. He said truckers got a real good view of the world – by which he meant the USA; that’s as far as his world stretched – a real good view from behind the wheel of a truck. He knew a trucker would make a damned good President.

  ‘So that was Fat Boy. My introduction to him. Opportunity, Washington. Lots of names like that in the States. Lots of Fat Boys, too. We got talking about murder. The radio was on, and every other station had news flashes about unlawful killing. He said the word “unlawful” was a misnomer. There was “wrong” killing and
“right” killing, and which was which was down to the individual, not the lawmakers.’

  ‘And what kind did you do?’

  Oakes didn’t like his flow being interrupted. ‘I’m talking about Fat Boy, not me.’

  ‘How long did you travel with him?’ Stevens was trying to keep the chronology right.

  ‘Three, four days. We headed south to make a delivery, then back up on to 1-90.’

  ‘What was he carrying?’

  ‘Electrical goods. He worked for General Electric. Meant he travelled all over. He said that was good, considering his hobby. His hobby was killing people.’ Oakes looked to Stevens. ‘It was supposed to unnerve me, him saying something like that while we’re travelling fifty-five on an interstate. Maybe if it had, that would have been it: he’d have tried skinning me. But I just looked at him, told him that was interesting.’ A laugh. ‘Mild understatement, right? Someone tells you they’re a serial killer and you say “Mm, that’s interesting.”’

  ‘But you believed him?’

  ‘After a while, yes. And I thought: all this stuff he’s telling me, no way is he letting me go. Every time we stopped, I thought he was about to whack me.’

  ‘You were ready for him?’ Stevens was staring at Oakes, trying to gauge how much of the story was true. Did it relate in some way to the relationship between Oakes and the reporter himself?

  ‘You know the strange part? I just let myself relax into it. Like, if he was going to kill me, OK, that’s what was going to happen. It was as if I didn’t care; I could have died right then, and it would have been poetic justice or something.’

  ‘Did he kill anyone while you were on the road?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he convinced you he wasn’t lying?’

  ‘You think he was lying, Jim?’

  ‘When they arrested you, did you tell the police about him?’

  ‘Why the hell would I do that?’