10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just watch.’

  And Rebus did watch, as Cal Brady unzipped his fly, took out his penis, and began to urinate off the edge of Radical Road. Standing well back from the performance, it seemed to Rebus that he was pissing on Holyrood and Greenfield and St Leonard’s, pissing in a giant arc over the whole city.

  And if Rebus had been able, at that exact moment he might have joined him.

  52

  Returning to St Leonard’s with Siobhan Clarke after a call-out, Rebus made a detour to the New Town. Clarke knew better than to ask why: he’d tell her in his own good time and not before.

  It was late afternoon, and he sat kerbside, indicators flashing, wondering about Nicky Petrie. To pay a visit, or not to pay a visit? Would the girlfriend be there? Would Petrie string together another series of lies and half-truths? Clarke was about to open her mouth to say something when she saw his hands tighten on the steering-wheel.

  A woman was coming down the steps from Petrie’s building. Rebus saw for the first time that a taxi was waiting. She stepped into it. He’d caught only a glimpse of her: tall, willowy. A blonde pageboy cut. Black dress and tights beneath a billowing black wool coat. Rebus switched off the indicators, made to follow the cab, started explaining the situation to Clarke.

  ‘Where do you think she’s going?’

  ‘Only one way to find out.’

  The taxi headed towards Princes Street, crossed it and crawled up The Mound. Through traffic lights at the top and took a right down Victoria Street. Grassmarket was the destination. Nicola paid the driver, got out. She looked around, somewhat uncertainly. Her face was like a mask.

  ‘Bit heavy on the make-up,’ Clarke commented. Rebus was trying to find a parking space. Finding none, he left the car on a single yellow line. If he got a ticket, it could join the others in the glove compartment.

  ‘Where did she go?’ he asked, getting out of the car.

  ‘Down Cowgate, I think,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Hell does she want down there?’

  While Grassmarket itself had been gentrified, the area immediately to the east was still Hostel City: a place the city’s dispossessed could, for the moment, call its own. Things would doubtless be different once the politicians moved in down the road.

  They stood on street corners, or sat on the steps of disused churches – baggy-trousered and grim-bearded, with too few teeth, and stooped backs. As Rebus and Clarke rounded the corner, they saw that the woman was walking with exaggerated slowness through a phalanx of admirers, only a smattering of whom bothered asking her for spare change and cigarettes.

  ‘Likes to show off,’ Clarke said.

  ‘And not too fussy with it.’

  ‘Just one thing bothering me, sir . . .’

  But Nicola had turned to acknowledge a wolf-whistle, and as she did so she saw them. She turned again quickly and upped her pace, keeping a tight hold of her zebra-skin shoulder-bag.

  ‘Not the world’s greatest surveillance,’ Clarke said.

  ‘She knows us,’ Rebus hissed. They broke into a trot, ran along the pavement below George IV Bridge. She wore flat-heeled shoes, ran well despite the tangle of her long coat. She found a gap in the traffic and darted across the road. Cowgate was horrible: a narrow canyon, with high-sided buildings. When traffic built up, the carbon monoxide had no place to go. The stitches in Rebus’s chest slowed him down.

  ‘Guthrie Street,’ Clarke said. That was where Nicola was headed. It would bring her up on to Chambers Street, where she could more easily lose her pursuers. But as she turned into the steep wynd, she bumped into someone. The collision sent her spinning. Something fell to the ground, but she kept running. Rebus paused to scoop it up. A short blonde wig.

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘That’s what I was trying to tell you, sir,’ Clarke said. Ahead of them, Nicola was tiring, holding the wall for support as she hauled herself up the incline. Limping, too, an ankle twisted in the collision. Eventually, just as she reached Chambers Street, her hair short and merely fair now rather than blonde, she gave up, stood with her back to the wall, panting noisily. Perspiration was streaking the make-up. Behind the mask, Rebus saw someone he knew only too well.

  Not Nicola, Nicky. Nicky Petrie.

  Petrie’s words: Straitlaced old town, how else are we going to get our thrills . . .?

  Rebus’s heart was on fire as he stopped in front of him. He could hardly get the words out.

  ‘It’s story time, Mr Petrie.’ He slapped the wig down on Nicky Petrie’s head. Petrie, with a show of disgust, removed the wig, held it to his face. It was hard to make out now what was sweat and what was tears.

  ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ he kept saying.

  ‘Where’s Damon Mee?’

  ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God.’

  ‘I don’t think He’s in a position to help you, Nicky.’

  Rebus looked at the clothes. They could belong to Ama Petrie: brother and sister were of similar build, Nicky slightly taller and broader. The black dress looked tight on him.

  ‘This is what you like to do, Nicky? Dress up as a woman?’

  ‘No harm in it,’ Clarke added quickly. ‘We’re all different.’

  Nicky looked at her, blinking to refocus his eyes.

  ‘You could do with a makeover, sweetheart,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Who does your make-up, Nicky?’ Rebus asked. ‘Ama?’

  He straightened up. ‘All my own work.’

  ‘And then you head for this side of town? Walk up and down and soak up the admiration?’

  ‘I don’t expect you to—’

  ‘Nobody’s asking what you expect, Mr Petrie.’ He turned to Clarke. ‘Go fetch the car.’ Handed her the keys. ‘We’ll need to take Mr Petrie here to the station.’

  Petrie’s eyes widened with fear. ‘Why?’

  ‘To answer a few questions about Damon Mee. And to explain why you’ve been lying to us all along.’

  Petrie made to say something, then bit his lip.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Rebus told him. Then, to Clarke: ‘Go get the car.’

  Rebus questioned Nicky Petrie for half an hour. He made sure that anyone who wanted to gawp had the chance to come into the interview room. Petrie sat there with his head in his hands, not looking up, while a parade of CID and uniforms commented on his shoes, tights and dress.

  ‘I can get you some trousers and a shirt,’ Rebus offered.

  ‘I know what you’re trying to do,’ Petrie said when they were alone. ‘Humiliate me all you like, this lady’s not for talking.’ He managed a small defiant smile.

  ‘I’m sure your dad will come riding to the rescue anyway,’ Rebus commented, pleased to see some of the colour leave the young man’s lips.

  ‘I don’t need my father.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but we’ll need to contact him. Best for us to do it rather than the papers.’

  ‘Papers?’

  Rebus barked a laugh. ‘Think they’ll let something like this pass them by? No, sir, you’re going to be cover-boy for a day, Nicky. Congratulations. Bit of pan-stick and a wig, they might even pay you for the privilege.’

  ‘They don’t need to know,’ Petrie said quietly.

  Rebus shrugged. ‘Cop-shops are like sieves, Nicky. All these people who’ve seen you here . . . I can’t promise they won’t talk.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘If you like, Nicky.’ Rebus leaned forward. ‘All I want to know is where I can find Damon Mee.’

  ‘Then I can’t help you,’ Nicky Petrie said, with all the defiance he could muster.

  Plan Two: Ama Petrie.

  She flew into the station like a whirlwind. Cal Brady was right: she had a soft spot for her little brother.

  ‘Where is he? What have you done with him?’

  Rebus looked at her with a façade of utter calm. ‘Shouldn’t those be my questions?’

  She didn’t s
eem to understand.

  ‘Damon Mee,’ Rebus explained. ‘Nicky met him at Gaitano’s, took him to the boat where you were having one of your parties. That’s the last time he was seen alive, Ms Petrie.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with Nicky.’

  They were seated in the same interview room, Nicky Petrie having been taken down to the cells. It was also the same interview room where Harold Ince had first been questioned. Ince had been sentenced to twelve years, Marshall to eight, the bulk of both sentences to be served at Peterhead. Had Rebus known anyone there, he might have put in a word for Ince. But he didn’t know a single damned soul . . .

  ‘What’s got nothing to do with Nicky?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s my fault, not his.’

  Rebus understood: she thought Nicky had talked, had somehow incriminated himself. She was underestimating him. The chink in her armour which Cal Brady had detected: she loved her brother too much.

  Rebus sat back, knew how to play this. He asked her if she wanted anything to drink. She shook her head violently.

  ‘I want to make a statement,’ she blurted out.

  ‘You’ll probably want a solicitor, Ms Petrie.’

  ‘Bugger that.’ She stopped suddenly. ‘Is Nicky here? In this station?’

  ‘Safely in the cells.’

  ‘Safely?’ Her voice trembled. ‘Poor Nicky . . .’ She was dry-eyed but her face was tense.

  ‘Did Damon Mee know Nicky wasn’t really a woman?’

  ‘How could he not?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘Your brother’s pretty convincing.’

  She allowed herself a brief smile. ‘He always said he should have been the girl and I the boy.’

  Rebus knew Nicky had run away from home aged twelve. He’d been running ever since . . .

  ‘So what happened on the boat?’

  ‘We’d all been drinking.’ She looked at him. ‘You know what parties are like.’

  She was trying to win him round to her side. Too late for that, but he nodded anyway.

  ‘Then Nicky brought this piece of rough below decks.’

  ‘Piece of rough?’

  ‘As in rough and ready. I’m not being a snob, Inspector.’

  ‘Of course not. I take it all of you knew Nicky’s . . . preferences?’

  ‘The gang of us, yes. A few couples were up dancing. Nicky and this Damon joined them.’ Her eyes went unfocused; she was picturing the scene. ‘Nicky had his head on Damon’s shoulder, and just for a moment our eyes met . . . and he looked so happy.’ She screwed shut her eyes.

  ‘Then what happened?’

  She opened her eyes again, staring at the desk. ‘Alfie and Cherie were one of the other couples. Alfie was as drunk as I’ve ever seen him. For a joke, he leaned over and snatched Nicky’s wig. Nicky chased him round the room. And Damon just stood there, like he was thunderstruck. He looked . . . it really seemed hilarious at the time. His face was a picture. Then he ran for the stairs. Nicky saw what was happening and went after him . . .’

  ‘They had a fight?’

  She looked at him. ‘Is that what he told you?’ She smiled. ‘Dear Nicky . . . You’ve seen him, Inspector. He couldn’t hurt a fly. No, by the time I came up on deck, this Damon person had Nicky down on the ground. He was strangling the life out of him, at the same time thumping his head against the deck. Lifting it . . . thudding it back down. I grabbed an empty wine bottle, swung it at the side of his head. It didn’t knock him cold or anything. The bottle didn’t even break, not like in the films. But he let go of Nicky, staggered to his feet.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And seemed to lose his balance. He fell over the side and into the water. It’s funny . . . the deck’s not that high above the water line . . . he hardly made a sound as he fell.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I had to make sure Nicky was all right. I took him back down below. His throat hurt, but I got a brandy down him.’

  ‘I meant, what did you do about Damon?’

  ‘Oh, him . . .’ She thought it over. ‘Well, by the time I went back up, there was no sign of him. I assumed he’d swum ashore.’

  Rebus stared at her. ‘Are you quite sure that’s what you assumed?’

  ‘To be honest . . . I’m not sure I thought anything at all. He was gone, and he couldn’t hurt Nicky, that was all that mattered. That’s all that ever matters to me. So you see, whatever Nicky’s told you, he only did in order to protect me. I’m the one you should put in the cell. Nicky should go home.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  ‘You will let him go, won’t you?’

  He stood up, leaned across the desk towards her. ‘I know Damon’s family. I’ve seen the way they’ve been suffering. Your precious brother doesn’t know the half of it.’

  She glowered at him. ‘And why should he?’

  He thought of a thousand answers, knew she’d rebut every one of them. Instead, he told her he’d need a written statement. He’d send someone in to take it. He made for the door.

  ‘And then you’ll let Nicky out, won’t you, Inspector?’

  His one little victory: he left without saying a word.

  Epilogue

  Later that night, he found himself in Cowgate again, further to the east this time, past the mothballed mortuary, walking towards the building site on Holyrood. Behind it, he could make out a couple of the Greenfield tower-blocks, and behind those Salisbury Crags. The sun had set, but it wasn’t quite dark. The twilight could last an age at this time of year. Demolition work had stopped for the day. He couldn’t be sure where everything would go, but he knew there’d be a newspaper building, a theme park, and the Parliament building. They’d all be ready for the twenty-first century, or so the predictions went. Taking Scotland into the new millennium. Rebus tried to raise within himself a tiny cheer of hope, but found it stifled by his old cynicism.

  No longer twilight now. Darkness had fallen. Shadows seemed to rise all around him as a bell tolled in the distance. The blood that had seeped into stone, the bones that lay twisting in their eternity, the stories and horrors of the city’s past and present . . . he knew they’d all come rising in the digger’s steel jaws, bubbling to the surface as the city began its slow ascent towards being a nation’s capital once again.

  Forget it, John, he told himself. It’s the Old Town, that’s all.

  Cary Oakes sat in the visitors’ room at Saughton Prison. They hadn’t put any cuffs on him, and there was just the one guard. One guard was almost demeaning. Then the door opened and his solicitor walked in. That’s what they were called here – solicitors. Cary smiled, bowed his head in greeting. The lawyer was young, looked eager but flustered. First time, probably, but that was OK. Youngsters, working hard to make the grade . . . they’d put in the hours for you, go the extra yard. Cary had nothing against fresh blood.

  He waited till the guy was seated and ready, notepad out, pen held in his right hand. Then he began his spiel.

  ‘I’m innocent, man, so help me. And you’ve got to do that: you’ve got to help me. Between us, we can prove I didn’t do anything.’ He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table. ‘It’ll make your career. You’re my man, I can sense it.’

  Gave a big open smile.

  Discussion points for Dead Souls

  The musical commentary is very obvious in the narrative of Dead Souls. Discuss its subtext.

  Unexpected connections abound between the characters – between the criminals themselves, and also between Rebus and old friends, or Rebus and ‘ghosts’ from the past – how does Ian Rankin keep them all to the forefront of the reader’s mind?

  Is it fair to say that with the retirement of the Farmer, Rebus will lose a valiant comic opponent?

  Consider the manner in which Ian Rankin builds the menace surrounding Cary Oakes. Is the role of journalist Jim Stevens integral to this? What is one supposed to make of Oakes’s behaviour in the Catholic church he visits? Why does he make his baiting of Rebu
s so ‘personal’?

  Oakes says, ‘That Rebus. He’s not exactly what you’d call a slow burner, now is he?’ Is this a valid comment?

  How is Rebus’s relationship with Dr Patience Aitken progressing?

  ‘That was the trouble with monsters. They could be every bit as ordinary as anyone else.’ This comment is made about Harold Ince, but does it encapsulate a theme that Ian Rankin keeps returning to in his series of Rebus books? There is a theme of ‘stepping away from the world’: consider the various ways that Ian Rankin explores this.

  When Rebus asks himself, ‘What in God’s name have I done?’, what has he done? Would he see his actions as justified? And what about the consequences?

  Where is Rebus now positioned on questions of religious belief?

  Rebus returns to his childhood stomping-ground of Fife. Is it because he’s out of his Edinburgh environs that he can flirt with Janice Mee?

  What does Rebus believe history is made of? How does Ian Rankin explore this concept?

  What does Rebus claim that obsession can do to one? Is he speaking from personal experience?

  How does Rebus’s inability to separate work from his private life manifest itself in his treatment of Darren Rough?

  What is it about this case that, in part at least, restores some of Rebus’s lost faith in policing?

  This is the most personal portrayal so far of Ian Rankin’s own background; would a reader who doesn’t know this be able to guess?

  Ian Rankin claims he wanted to change Rebus’s mind about issues connected with paedophilia – does he succeed, and, if so, how does he manage this?

  Reading Group Notes