Knots And Crosses tirs-1

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Oh? Aren’t you confusing two entirely different arguments there, love?’

  She bristled, but was ready to argue. They always were.

  ‘The two are inextricable. Capitalism was built on slave labour and is maintained by slave labour.’

  ‘You don’t sound much like a slave, dear. Where did you get that accent? Cheltenham?’

  ‘My father was a slave to capitalist ideology. He didn’t know what he was doing.’

  ‘You mean you went to an expensive school?’

  She was bristling now all right. Rebus lit a cigarette. He offered her one, but she shook her head. A capitalist product, he supposed, the leaves picked by slaves in South America. She was quite pretty though. Eighteen, nineteen. Funny Victorian shoes on, tight pointed little things. A long, straight black skirt. Black, the colour of dissent. He was all for dissent.

  ‘You’re a student, I suppose?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, shuffling uncomfortably. She knew a buyer when she saw one. This was not a buyer.

  ‘Edinburgh University?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Studying what?’

  ‘English and politics.’

  ‘English? Have you heard of a guy called Eiser? He teaches there.’

  She nodded.

  ‘He’s an old fascist,’ she said. ‘His theory of reading is a piece of right-wing propaganda to pull the wool over the eyes of the proletariat.’

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘What was your party again?’

  ‘Workers Revolutionary.’

  ‘But you’re a student, eh? Not a worker, not one of the proletariat either by the sound of you.’ Her face was red, her eyes burning fire. Come the revolution, Rebus would be first against the wall. But he had not yet played his trump card. ‘So really, you’re contravening the Trades Description Act, aren’t you? And what about that tin? Do you have a licence from the proper authority to collect money in that tin?’

  The tin was old, its old job-description torn from it. It was a plain, red cylinder, the kind used on poppy-day. But this was no poppy-day.

  ‘Are you a cop?’

  ‘Got it in one, love. Have you got a licence? I may have to pull you in otherwise.’

  ‘Fucking pig!’

  Feeling this a fitting exit line, she turned from Rebus and walked to the door. Rebus, chuckling, finished his whisky. Poor girl. She would change. The idealism would vanish once she saw how hypocritical the whole game was, and what luxuries lay outside university. When she left, she’d want it all: the executive job in London, the flat, car, salary, wine-bar. She would chuck it all in for a slice of pie. But she wouldn’t understand that just now. Now was for the reaction against upbringing. That was what university was about. They all thought they could change the world once they got away from their parents. Rebus had thought that too. He had thought to return home from the Army with a row of medals and a list of commendations, just to show them. It had not been that way, though. Chastened, he was about to go when a voice called to him from three or four bar-stools away.

  ‘It disnae cure anything, dis it, son?’

  An aged crone offered him these few pearls of wisdom from her carious mouth. Rebus watched her tongue slopping around in that black cavern.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, paying the barman, who thanked him with green teeth. Rebus could hear the television, the jingle of the cash-register, the shouted conversations of the old men, but behind it all, behind the cacophony, lay another sound, low and pure but more real to him than any of the others.

  It was the sound of Gordon Reeve screaming.

  Let me out Let me out

  But Rebus did not go dizzy this time, nor did he panic and run for it. He stood up to the sound and allowed it to make its point, let it wash over him until it had had its say. He would never run away from that memory again.

  ‘Drink never cured anything, son,’ continued his personal witch. ‘Look at me. I wis as guid as anybody once upon a time, but when my husband died I just went tae pieces. D’ye ken whit I mean, son? The drink wis a great comfort tae me then, or so I thocht. But it tricks ye. It plays games wi ye. Ye jist sit aw day daein’ nothing but drinking. And life passes ye by.’

  She was right. How could he take the time to sit here guzzling whisky and sentiment when his daughter’s life was balanced so finely? He must be mad; he was losing reality again. He had to hang onto that at the very least. He could pray again, but that only seemed to take him further away from the brute facts, and it was facts that he was chasing now, not dreams. He was chasing the fact that a lunatic from his cupboard of bad dreams had sneaked into this world and carried off his daughter. Did it resemble a fairy tale? All the better: there was bound to be a happy ending.

  ‘You’re right, love,’ he said. Then, ready to leave, he pointed to her empty glass. ‘Want another of those?’

  She stared at him through rheumy eyes, then wagged her chin in a parody of compliance.

  ‘Another of what the lady’s drinking,’ Rebus said to the green-toothed barman. He handed over some coins. ‘And give her the change.’ Then he left the bar.

  ‘I need to talk. I think you do, too.’

  Stevens was lighting a cigarette, rather melodramatically to Rebus’s mind, directly outside the bar. Beneath the glare of the street-lighting, his skin seemed almost yellow, seemed hardly thick enough to cover his skull.

  ‘Well, can we talk?’ The reporter put his lighter back in his pocket. His fair hair looked greasy. He had not shaved for a day or so. He looked hungry and cold.

  But inside, he felt electric.

  ‘You’ve led me a merry dance, Mister Rebus. Can I call you John?’

  ‘Look, Stevens, you know the score here. I’ve got enough on my plate without all this.’

  Rebus made to move past the reporter, but Stevens caught his arm.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t know the score, not the final score. I seem to have been ejected from the park at half-time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know exactly who’s behind all this, don’t you? Of course you do, and so do your superiors. Or do they? Have you told them the whole truth and nothing but the truth, John? Have you told them about Michael?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Stevens started to shuffle his feet, looking around him at the high blocks of flats, the late-afternoon sky behind them. He chuckled, shivering. Rebus recalled seeing him make that curious shivery motion at the party. ‘Where can we talk?’ said the reporter now. ‘What about in the pub? Or is there someone in there you’d rather I didn’t see?’

  ‘Stevens, you’re off your bloody head. I’m serious. Go home, get some sleep, eat, have a bath, just get to hell away from me. Okay?’

  ‘Or you’ll do what exactly? Get your brother’s heavy friend to rough me up a little? Listen, Rebus, the game’s over. I know. But I don’t know all of it. You’d be wise to have me as a friend rather than as an enemy. Don’t take me for a monkey. I credit you with more sense than to do that. Don’t let me down.’

  Don’t let me down

  ‘After all, they’ve got your daughter. You need my help. I’ve got friends everywhere. We’ve got to fight this together.’

  Rebus, confused, shook his head.

  ‘I don’t have a bloody clue what you’re talking about, Stevens. Go home, will you?’

  Jim Stevens sighed, shaking his own head ruefully. He threw his cigarette onto the pavement and stubbed it out heavily, sending little flares of burning tobacco across the concrete.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, John. I really am. Michael’s going to be put behind bars for a very long time on the evidence I have against him.’

  ‘Evidence? Of what?’

  ‘His drug-pushing, of course.’

  Stevens didn’t see the blow coming. It wouldn’t have helped if he had. It was a vicious, curving swipe, sweeping up from Rebus’s side and catching him very low in the stomach. The reporter coughed out a lit
tle puff of wind, then fell to his knees.

  ‘Liar!’

  Stevens coughed and coughed. It was as if he had run a marathon. He gulped in air, staying on his knees, his arms folded in front of his belly.

  ‘If you say so, John, but it’s the truth anyway.’ He looked up at Rebus. ‘You mean you honestly don’t know anything about it? Nothing at all?’

  ‘You better have some good proof, Stevens, or I’m going to see you swing.’

  Stevens hadn’t expected this, he hadn’t expected this at all.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this puts a different complexion on everything. Christ, I need a drink. Will you join me? I think we should talk a little now, don’t you? I won’t keep you long, but I think you should know.’

  And, of course, thinking back, Rebus realised that he had known, but not consciously. That day, the day of the old man’s death, of visiting the rain-soaked graveyard, of visiting Mickey, he had smelled that toffee-apple smell in the living-room. He knew now what it had been. He had thought of it then, but had been distracted. Jesus Christ. Rebus felt his whole world sinking into the morass of a personal madness. He hoped the breakdown was not far off; he couldn’t keep going on like this for much longer.

  Toffee-apples, fairy-tales, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Sometimes it was hard to hold onto reality when that reality was overpowering. The shield came to protect you. The shield of the breakdown, of forgetting. Laughter and forgetting.

  ‘This round’s on me,’ said Rebus, feeling calm again.

  Gill Templer knew what she had always known: there was method in the killer’s choice of girls, so he must have had access to their names prior to the abductions. That meant that the four girls had to have something in common, some way that Reeve could have picked them all out. But what? They had checked up on everything. Certain hobbies the girls did have in common; netball, pop music, books.

  Netball. Pop music. Books.

  Netball. Pop music. Books.

  That meant checking through netball-coaches (all women, so scratch that), record-shop workers and DJs, and bookshop-workers and librarians. Libraries.

  Libraries.

  Rebus had told stories to Reeve. Samantha used the city’s main lending library. So, occasionally, had the other girls. One of the girls had been seen heading up The Mound towards the library on the day she disappeared.

  But Jack Morton had checked the library already. One of the men there had owned a blue Ford Escort. The suspect had been passed over. But had that initial interview been enough? She had to speak to Morton. Then she would conduct a second interview herself. She was about to look for Morton when her telephone rang.

  ‘Inspector Templer,’ she said to the beige mouthpiece.

  ‘The kid dies tonight,’ hissed a voice on the other end.

  She sat bolt upright in her chair, almost causing it to topple.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘if you’re a crank …’

  ‘Shut up, bitch. I’m no crank and you know it. I’m the real thing. Listen.’ There was a muffled cry from somewhere, the sob of a young girl. Then the hiss returned. ‘Tell Rebus tough luck. He can’t say I never gave him a chance.’

  ‘Listen, Reeve, I …’

  She had not meant to say that, had not meant to let him know. But she had panicked on hearing Samantha’s cry. Now she heard another cry, the banshee cry of the madman who has been discovered. It sent the hairs on her neck climbing up each other. It froze the air around her. It was the cry of Death itself in one of its many guises. It was a lost soul’s final triumphant scream.

  ‘You know,’ he gasped, his voice a mixture of joy and terror, ‘you know, you know, you know. Aren’t you clever? And you’ve got a very sexy voice, too. Maybe I’ll come for you sometime. Was Rebus a good lay? Was he? Tell him that I’ve got his baby, and she dies tonight. Got that? Tonight.’

  ‘Listen, I …’

  ‘No, no, no. No more from me, Miss Templer. You’ve had nearly long enough to trace this. Bye.’

  Click. Brrrr.

  Time to trace it. She had been stupid. She should have thought of that first; indeed, she had not thought of it at all. Perhaps Superintendent Wallace had been right. Perhaps it was not only John who was too emotionally involved in the whole affair. She felt tired and old and spent. She felt as if all the case-work was suddenly an impossible burden, all the criminals invincible. Her eyes were irritating her. She thought of putting on her glasses, her personal shield from the world.

  She had to find Rebus. Or should she seek out Jack Morton first? John would have to be told of this. They had a little time, but not much. The first guess had to be the right one. Who first? Rebus or Morton? She made the decision: John Rebus.

  Unnerved by Stevens’ revelations, Rebus made his way back to his flat. He needed to find out about some things. Mickey could wait. He had drawn too many bad cards in the course of his afternoon’s foot-slogging. He had to get in touch with his old employers, the Army. He had to make them see that a life was at stake, they who prized life so strangely. A lot of phone-calls might be necessary. So be it.

  But the first call he made was to the hospital. Rhona was fine. That was a relief. Still, however, she had not been told of Sammy’s abduction. Rebus swallowed hard. Had she been told of her lover’s death? She had not. Of course not. He arranged for some flowers to be sent to her. He was about to pluck up the courage to telephone the first of a long list of numbers when his own telephone rang. He let it ring for a while, but the caller was not about to let him go.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘John! Thank God. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ It was Gill, sounding excited and nervous and yet trying to sound sympathetic, too. Her voice modulated wildly, and Rebus felt his heart — what was left of it for public consumption — go out to her.

  ‘What is it, Gill? Has anything happened?’

  ‘I’ve had a call from Reeve.’

  Rebus’s heart pounded against the walls of its cell. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  ‘Well, he just phoned up and said that he’s got Samantha.’

  ‘And?’

  Gill swallowed hard. ‘And that he’s going to kill her tonight.’ There was a pause at Rebus’s end, strange distant sounds of movement. ‘John? Hello, John?’

  Rebus stopped punching the telephone-stool. ‘Yes, I’m here. Jesus Christ. Did he say anything else?’

  ‘John, you really shouldn’t be on your own you know. I could — ’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’ He was shouting now, his breath short like a runner’s.

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I let slip that we know who he is.’

  Rebus sucked in his breath, examining his knuckles, noting that he had torn one of them open. He sucked blood, staring from his window. ‘What was his reaction to that?’ he said at last.

  ‘He went wild.’

  ‘I’ll bet he did. Jesus, I hope he doesn’t take it out on … Oh, Jesus. Why do you suppose he phoned you specifically?’ He had stopped licking his wound, and now turned his attention on his dark fingernails, tearing at them with his teeth, spitting them out across the room.

  ‘Well, I am Liaison Officer on the case. He may have seen me on the television or read my name in the newspapers.’

  ‘Or maybe he’s seen us together. He may have been following me during this whole thing.’ He looked from his window as a shabbily-dressed man shuffled his way up the street, stopping to pick up a cigarette-end. Christ, he needed a cigarette. He looked around for an ashtray, source of a few reusable butts.

  ‘I never thought of that.’

  ‘How the hell could you? We didn’t know that any of this was to do with me until … it was yesterday, wasn’t it? It seems like days ago. But remember, Gill, his notes were delivered by hand in the beginning.’ He lit the remnants of a cigarette, sucking in the stinging smoke. ‘He’s been so close to me, and I didn’t feel a thing, not a tingle. So much for a policeman’s sixth sense.’

&n
bsp; ‘Speaking of sixth senses, John, I’ve had a hunch.’ Gill was relieved to hear how his voice had become calmer. She felt a little calmer, too, as though they were helping each other to hang on to a crowded lifeboat in a storm-torn sea.

  ‘What’s that?’ Rebus slumped himself into his chair, looking around his barren room, dusty and chaotic. He saw the glass used by Michael, a plate of toast crumbs, two empty cigarette packets, and two coffee cups. He would sell this place soon, no matter how low the price. He would move well away from here. He would.

  ‘Libraries,’ Gill was saying, staring at her own office, the files and mounds of paperwork, the clutter of months and years, the electric buzz in the air. ‘The one thing that all the girls, Samantha included, have in common is that they used, if irregularly, the same library, the Central Library. Reeve might have worked there once and been able to find the names he needed to fit his puzzle.’

  ‘That’s certainly a thought,’ said Rebus, suddenly interested. It was too much of a coincidence, surely — or was it? How better to find out about John Rebus than to get a quiet job for a few months or a few years? How better to trap young girls than by posing as a librarian? Reeve had gone undercover all right, so well-camouflaged as to be invisible.

  ‘It just so happens,’ Gill continued, ‘that your friend Jack Morton has been to the Central Library already. He checked up on a suspect there who owned a blue Escort. He gave the man a clean bill of health.’

  ‘Yes, and they gave the Yorkshire Ripper a clean bill of health on more than one occasion, didn’t they? It’s worth rechecking. What was the suspect’s name?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve been trying to find Jack Morton, but he’s off somewhere. John, I’ve been worried about you. Where have you been? I’ve been trying to find you.’

  ‘I call that a waste of police time and effort, Inspector Templer. Get your nose back to the real grindstone. Find Jack. Find that name.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ll be here for a while if you need me. I’ve got a few phone calls of my own to make.’

  ‘I hear that Rhona is stable …’ But Rebus had already put down his receiver. Gill sighed, rubbing at her face, desperate for some rest. She decided to arrange for someone to be sent over to John Rebus’s flat. He could not be left to fester and, perhaps, explode. Then she had to find that name. She had to find Jack Morton.