10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Bye, Patience,’ he said, easing into the outside lane and putting his foot down.

  Dr Patience Aitken had a taxi ordered. When it arrived, the driver pushed open her gate, headed down the steep and winding set of stone steps which led to her garden flat. He rang the doorbell and waited, scuffing his feet on the flagstones. He liked the New Town’s garden flats, the way they were below street level at the front, but had gardens at the back. And they had these little courtyards at the front, with cellars built into the facing wall. Not that you’d use the cellars for much; too damp. Certainly not for keeping wine in. He’d taken the wife to the Loire the previous summer, learned all about the wines. He had three mixed cases now, stored in the cupboard beneath his stairs. Far from ideal conditions: a modern two-storey semi out at Fairmilehead. Too dry, too warm. What he needed was a flat like this one – he’d bet there’d be cupboards inside just right for laying down wine, cool and dryish with thick stone walls.

  He noticed that the doctor had tried for a sort of garden feel in the courtyard: hanging baskets, terracotta pots. Nothing down here would get too much light, that was the thing. First thing he’d done with his front garden when he’d moved in: put flagstones over most of it, leaving just a square of earth in the middle, couple of roses planted in there. Minimum maintenance.

  The door opened and the doctor stepped out, pulling a shawl around her shoulders. Perfume wafted out with her: nothing too overbearing.

  ‘Sorry I’ve kept you,’ she said, pulling the door closed and making for the steps.

  ‘I’d double-lock it if I were you,’ he suggested.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yales,’ he explained, shaking his head. ‘A kid could be inside in ten seconds flat.’

  She thought about it, shrugged her shoulders. ‘What’s life without a bit of a risk?’

  ‘As long as you’re insured,’ he said, studying her ankles as he climbed the steps after her.

  Jim Stevens lay on his bed, one hand covering his eyes, the other holding the telephone receiver to his ear. He was listening to Matt Lewin, who had just told him how good the weather was in Seattle. Stevens had faxed him portions of Cary Oakes’s ‘confession’, and Lewin was giving his views.

  ‘Well, Jim, bits of it seem to tally all right. The truck driver story is new, and frankly, I don’t think it’s worth chasing.’

  ‘You think he made it up?’

  ‘Not my problem, thank God. I tell you, Jim, no disrespect, but I wouldn’t trust anything that bastard told me, and I sure as hell wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it in print.’

  Which seemed to be Stevens’ boss’s view, too. The projected eight-parter had been cut to just five.

  ‘I’m sure as hell glad he’s your problem now and not ours,’ Lewin went on.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘He giving you any trouble?’

  Stevens didn’t see the point in telling Lewin that Oakes was proving more awkward by the day. He’d slipped away from the hotel again that afternoon, stayed out the best part of three hours and wouldn’t say where he’d been.

  ‘It’s nearly over anyway,’ Stevens said, rubbing his hand over his brow.

  ‘Good riddance, that’s my advice.’

  ‘Yes.’ But Stevens couldn’t help but worry. He worried about what Oakes would do with himself afterwards, once he was out on the street. No way was Stevens’ paper going to come up with ten K, not for the scraps Oakes had given them. Stevens still had to break that news to Oakes.

  He worried for himself too. He was part of Oakes’s sphere now, and was just hoping Oakes would let him go.

  He got the feeling, God help him, that it might not be all that easy . . .

  Cary Oakes watched the taxi leave. Dr P, he presumed. Getting on a bit, but then the state Rebus was in, he doubted he’d be complaining. Basement apartment too: perfect for what he had in mind. He came out from behind the parked car and looked up and down the street. The place was dead. Half of Edinburgh seemed dead to him: you could wander around for ages and not go noticed, never mind raise suspicion.

  Jim Stevens had been in a foul mood, watching the Cary Oakes story relegated as the editor decided to run a special on vigilanteism. Stevens blamed the paedophile murder.

  ‘Bloody Rebus again,’ he’d muttered, and Oakes had asked him to explain.

  Stevens’ theory: Rebus had outed Darren Rough, raised the mob against him. And now one of them had taken it too far. Everything Oakes learned about the detective made Rebus seem more interesting, more complicated.

  ‘What sort of code does he live by, do you think?’ he’d asked.

  Stevens had snorted. ‘Could be Morse or Highway for all I know.’

  ‘Some people make up their own rules,’ Oakes had mused.

  ‘You mean like the serial killer?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘The one who picked you up in his truck.’

  ‘Oh, him . . . Well, yes, of course.’

  And Stevens had looked at him. And Cary Oakes had stared back.

  He crossed the road now. No houses across the street from where he’d be working, just a wrought-iron fence, a bank of grass behind it. No neighbours to spot him as he went about his business.

  He expected no interruptions at all.

  The batteries were fading anyway, Rebus rationalised, and he didn’t have the recharger with him. So he switched off his mobile.

  ‘The weekend starts here,’ he said, as they crossed the Forth Road Bridge into Fife.

  Later: ‘Roads have changed,’ as they came off the dual carriageway outside Kirkcaldy. But the old Kirkcaldy–Cardenden road seemed much the same, same twists and turns, potholes and bumps.

  ‘Remember we walked to Kirkcaldy once to go to the pictures?’ Janice said.

  Rebus smiled. ‘I’d forgotten that. Why didn’t we just take the bus?’

  ‘I think we didn’t have enough money.’

  He frowned. ‘Was it just us?’

  ‘Mitch and his girlfriend too. Can’t remember who he was dating at the time.’

  ‘He went through them, all right.’

  ‘Maybe they got fed up of him.’

  ‘Maybe.’ They sat in silence for a minute. ‘What was the film?’

  ‘Which film?’

  ‘The one we walked six miles to see.’

  ‘I don’t recall watching much of it.’

  They glanced at one another, burst out laughing.

  Brian Mee heard the car, came out to meet them.

  ‘This is a surprise,’ he said, shaking Rebus’s hand.

  ‘I need to talk to Damon’s pals,’ Rebus explained.

  Janice touched her husband’s arm. ‘He said he wanted to go to the hotel.’

  ‘Rubbish, you can stay with us. Damon’s room’s . . .’

  ‘I thought maybe the sofa,’ Janice interjected.

  Brian recovered well. ‘Oh aye, it’s not that old. Comfy too. I should know: I nod off on it most nights myself.’

  ‘That’s settled then,’ Janice said. She had a man on either arm as she walked up the front path.

  They ordered Chinese from the takeaway, opened a couple of bottles of wine. Old stories, rekindled memories. Half-remembered names; the exploits of those who’d grown old in the town; changes to the fabric of the place. Rebus had phoned Damon’s friends, the ones who’d been with him at Gaitano’s, but neither of them was in. He’d left messages, saying he had to see them in the morning.

  ‘We could go out for a drink,’ he told his hosts. His eyes were on Janice as he spoke. ‘Be the first time we had a drink together in the Goth without being underage.’

  ‘The Goth’s shut, John,’ Brian said.

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘They’re turning it into a centre for the unemployed.’

  ‘Isn’t that what it always was?’

  They smiled at that. The Goth closed: his dad’s watering-hole; the first place John Rebus had ever bought a round.

  ‘Railwa
y Tavern’s still going,’ Brian added. ‘We’ll be there tomorrow night for the karaoke.’

  ‘You’ll stay for that, won’t you?’ Janice asked.

  ‘I’m kind of allergic to karaokes, actually.’ Rebus was once again in the ‘seat by the fire’, the one he’d been made to sit in on his first visit. The TV was playing, sound turned down. It was like a magnet, their eyes sliding towards it throughout the conversation. Janice cleared away the dishes – they’d eaten with the plates on their laps. He helped her take the things through to the kitchen, saw it was too small for three people to eat in. There was a dining table in front of the living room window, but set with ornaments, its leaves folded. Used for special occasions only. With the leaves opened, it would all but fill the room. They ate all their meals on their laps, in front of the TV. He imagined the three of them – mother, father, son – staring at the screen, using it to excuse the lengthening gaps in conversation.

  After coffee, Janice said she was going up to bed. Brian said he’d be up in a while. She brought down blankets and a pillow for Rebus, told him where the bathroom was. Told him where the light-switch was in the hall. Told him there was plenty of hot water if he wanted a bath.

  ‘See you in the morning.’

  Brian reached for the remote, switched off the TV, then caught himself.

  ‘There wasn’t something you wanted to . . .?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘I’m not a big fan.’

  ‘And what would you say to a wee whisky?’

  ‘More my cup of tea altogether,’ Rebus acknowledged with a smile.

  They sipped the whisky in silence. It wasn’t a malt: maybe Teacher’s or Grant’s. Brian had added a dollop of water to his, but Rebus hadn’t bothered.

  ‘Where do you think he is?’ Brian asked at last, swirling the drink around the rim of his glass. ‘Just between us, like.’

  As if Janice couldn’t take it; as if he were stronger than her.

  ‘I don’t know, Brian. I wish I did.’

  ‘They normally go to London, though.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And most of them do OK for themselves?’

  Rebus nodded, not wanting any of this, wishing of a sudden that he was back in his flat with his own whisky, his music and books. But Brian had a need to talk.

  ‘I blame us, you know.’

  ‘I’d guess most parents do.’

  ‘I think he picked up on the atmosphere, and it drove him away.’ He sat on the edge of the sofa, hands squeezing his glass. He was looking at the floor as he spoke. ‘I got the feeling Janice was just waiting for Damon to go. You know, get a place of his own. That’s what she was waiting for.’

  ‘And then what?’

  Brian glanced up at him. ‘Then she’d have no reason to stay. Every time she goes to Edinburgh, I think that’s it: she won’t be back.’

  ‘But she always comes back.’

  He nodded. ‘But it’s different now. She comes back in case Damon’s here. Nothing to do with me.’ He coughed, cleared his throat, drained the whisky. ‘Want a refill?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘No, suppose not. Time for kip, eh?’ Brian got to his feet, managed a smile. ‘Schooldays, eh, Johnny?’

  ‘Schooldays, Brian,’ Rebus agreed. He watched something brighten behind Brian Mee’s eyes, then die again.

  Rebus brushed his teeth in the kitchen – didn’t want to intrude upstairs, not with Brian readying for bed. He laid the blankets out on the sofa. Sat there with the lights out, then got up and went to the window. Peered through the curtains. Outside, the street-lamps cast a faint orange glow. The street itself was empty. He crept into the hall, opened the front door quietly, leaving it on the latch. Five minutes outside told him Cary Oakes wasn’t in the vicinity. He headed back indoors, needed the toilet. The kitchen sink seemed inappropriate, so he listened at the foot of the stairs then headed up. He knew the bathroom door, went in and did his business. One bedroom door was closed, the other slightly open. The open door had a football scarf pinned to it, and half a dozen used concert tickets from a few years before. Rebus pushed his head around the door: saw the outlines of posters, a wardrobe and chest of drawers. Saw the window with the curtains drawn. Saw the single bed, and Janice sleeping in it, her breathing regular.

  Crept downstairs again feeling like a housebreaker.

  33

  Next morning after breakfast, he had a meeting with Damon’s friends.

  They came round to the house, while Janice and Brian were out shopping. Joey Haldane was tall and skinny with closely cropped bleached hair and dark bushy eyebrows. He wore all denim – jeans, shirt, jacket – with black Dr Marten shoes. Rebus noticed that his mouth hung open most of the time, as though he had trouble breathing through his nose.

  Pete Mathieson was as tall as Joey but a lot broader, the kind of son a farmer would be proud of (and probably exploit). He wore red jogging pants and a blue sweatshirt, Nike trainers with the soles almost rubbed away. They sat on the sofa. Rebus’s sheets and pillow had disappeared upstairs before breakfast, while he’d been soaking in the bath.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Rebus began. Instead of one of the overstuffed armchairs, he was seated on a straight-backed dining chair, planted in the middle of the room. Below him, the boys sank into the sofa. He’d turned his chair so he could straddle it, leaning his arms on its back.

  ‘I know we’ve talked before, Joey, but I’ve got a couple of back-up questions. So-called because when I think someone’s not playing straight with me, it tends to get my back up.’

  Joey wet his lips with his tongue, Pete twitched a shoulder, angled his head and tried to look bored.

  ‘See,’ Rebus went on, ‘I was told the three of you had gone just that once to Edinburgh for your night out. But now I think I know differently. I think you’d been there before. I think maybe it was a regular thing, which makes me wonder why you’d lie. What is it you’re trying to hide? Remember, this is a missing person investigation. No way you’re not going to be found out.’

  ‘We haven’t done nothing.’ This from Joey, his voice a hoarse local accent, the sound of carpentry work.

  ‘Know what a double negative is, Joey?’

  ‘Should I?’ Holding Rebus’s stare for the briefest of moments.

  ‘If you say you haven’t done nothing, it means you’ve done something.’

  ‘I’ve told you, we haven’t done nothing.’

  ‘You haven’t lied about that night? You hadn’t been to Edinburgh for a night out before . . .?’

  ‘We’d been before,’ Pete Mathieson said.

  ‘Hello there, Pete,’ Rebus said. ‘Thought you’d lost the power of speech for a minute there.’

  ‘Pete,’ Joey spat, ‘for fuck’s—’

  Mathieson gave his friend a look, but when he spoke it was for Rebus’s benefit.

  ‘We’d been before.’

  ‘To Guiser’s?’

  ‘And other places – pubs, clubs.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘Four, five nights.’

  ‘Without telling your girlfriends?’

  ‘They thought we were down Kirkcaldy, same as always.’

  ‘Why not tell them?’

  ‘That would have spoiled it,’ Joey said, folding his arms. Rebus thought he knew what he meant. It was only an adventure if it was furtive. Men liked to have their little secrets and tell their little lies. They liked a sense of the illicit. All the same, he got the feeling it went further. It was the way Joey was leaning back in the sofa, crossing one ankle over the other. He was thinking of something, something about the nights out, and the thought was making him feel good . . .

  ‘Was it just you that was cheating, Joey, or was it all of you?’

  Joey’s face grew darker. He turned to his friend.

  ‘I never said nothing!’ Pete blurted out.

  ‘He didn’t need to, Joey,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s written on your face.’

  Joey wriggled in his seat, less comfortable by the second. Eve
ntually he sat forward, arms on knees. ‘If Alice finds out she’ll kill me.’

  So much for the thrill of the illicit.

  ‘Your secret’s safe with me, Joey. I just need to know what happened that night.’

  Joey glanced towards Pete, as though giving him permission to do the talking.

  ‘Joey met a girl,’ Pete began. ‘Three weeks before. So every time we went across, he hooked up with her.’

  ‘You weren’t in Guiser’s?’

  Joey shook his head. ‘Went back to her flat for an hour.’

  ‘The plan was,’ Pete explained, ‘we’d all meet up later at Guiser’s.’

  ‘You weren’t there either?’

  Pete shook his head. ‘We were in a pub beforehand, I got chatting to this lassie. I think Damon was a bit bored.’

  ‘More likely jealous,’ Joey added.

  ‘So he headed off to Guiser’s on his own?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘By the time I got there,’ Pete said, ‘there was no sign of him.’

  ‘So he wasn’t at the bar for a round of drinks? You made that up so nobody would know you were busy elsewhere?’ He was looking at Joey.

  ‘That’s about it,’ Pete answered. ‘Didn’t think it made any difference.’

  Rebus was thoughtful. ‘What about Damon? Did he ever hook up with anyone?’

  ‘Never seemed to get lucky.’

  ‘It wasn’t because he was thinking of Helen?’

  Joey shook his head. ‘He was just useless with birds.’

  And he’d gone off to Guiser’s on his own . . . thinking what? Thinking about how of the three, he was the only one who couldn’t pick up a girl for the night. Thinking he was ‘useless’. Yet somehow he’d ended up sharing a taxi with the mystery blonde . . .

  ‘Does it matter?’ Pete asked.

  ‘It might. I’ll have to think about it.’ It mattered because Damon had been there alone. It mattered because now Rebus had no idea what had happened to him between leaving Pete in the pub and standing at the bar in Guiser’s waiting to be served, with a blonde at his shoulder. They might have met en route. Something might have happened. And Rebus couldn’t know. Just when the picture should have been becoming clearer, it had been torn apart.