by Ian Rankin
There were a couple of panhandlers directly outside, but he brushed past them. They never really bothered him. They took one look at him—his height, his pallor—and decided there were better options. The driver was holding the rear door open for him. The cab was unmarked, that struck him as he got in. And something else struck him, just a little too late.
He hadn’t given the barmaid his name.
So how did the driver know it?
PART TWO
GHOSTS
FOUR
AS HE DROVE SOUTH, Gordon Reeve tried to remember his brother, but the phone call kept getting in the way.
He could hear the operator telling him he had a call from the San Diego Police Department, then the detective’s voice telling him it was about his brother.
“Very unfortunate circumstances, sir.” The voice had betrayed no emotion. “It appears he took his own life.”
There was a little more, but not much. The detective had wanted to know if he would be collecting the body and the effects. Gordon Reeve said yes, he would. Then he’d put the phone down and it rang again. He was slow to pick it up. Joan had been standing beside him. He remembered the look on her face, sudden shock and incomprehension mixed. Not that she’d known Jim well; they hadn’t seen much of him these past few years.
The second phone call was from the British Consulate repeating the news. When Reeve told them he already knew, the caller sounded aggrieved.
Gordon Reeve had hung up the phone and gone to pack. Joan had followed him around the house, trying to look into his eyes. Was she looking for shock? Tears? She asked him a few questions, but he barely took them in.
Then he’d got the key to the killing room and gone outside.
The killing room was a single locked room attached to the outbuildings. It was fitted out as a cramped living room. There were three dummies dressed in castoff clothes—they represented hostages. Reeve’s weekend soldiers, operating in teams of two, would have to storm the room and rescue the hostages by overpowering their captors—played by two more weekend soldiers. The hostages were to come to no harm.
Reeve had unlocked the killing room and switched on the light, then sat down on the sofa. He looked around him at the dummies, two seated, one propped upright. He remembered the living room of his parents’ home, the night he’d left—all too willingly!—to join the army. He’d known he would miss Jim, his older brother by a year and a half. He would not miss his parents.
From early on, Mother and Father had led their own lives and had expected Jim and Gordon to do the same. The brothers had been close in those days. As they grew, it became clear that Gordon was the “physical” one, while Jim lived in a world of his own—writing poetry, scribbling stories. Gordon went to judo classes; Jim was headed to university. Neither brother had ever really understood the other.
Reeve had stood up and faced the standing dummy. Then he punched it across the room and walked outside.
His bag packed, he’d got into the Land Rover. Joan had already called Grigor Mackenzie who, hearing the circumstances, had agreed to put his ferry to the mainland at Gordon’s disposal, though it was hours past the last sailing.
Reeve drove through the night, remembering the telephone call and trying to push past it to the brother he had once known. Jim had left university after a year to join an evening paper in Glasgow. Gordon had never known him as a serious drinker until he became a journalist. By that time, Gordon was busy himself: two tours of duty in Ulster, training in Germany and Scandinavia . . . and then the SAS.
When he saw Jim again, one Christmas when their father had just died and their mother was failing, they got into a fight about war and the role of the armed forces. It wasn’t a physical fight, just words. Jim had been good with words.
The following year, he’d moved to a London paper, bought a flat in Crouch End. Gordon had visited it only once, two years ago. By then Jim’s wife had walked out, and the flat was a shambles. Nobody had been invited to the wedding. It had been a ten-minute ceremony and a three-month marriage.
After which, in his career as in his life, Jim had gone freelance.
All the way to the final act of putting a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger.
Reeve had pressed the San Diego detective for that detail. He didn’t know why it was important to him. Almost more than the news of Jim’s death, or the fact that he had killed himself, he had been affected by the means. Anti-conflict, anti-army, Jim had used a gun.
Other than stopping for diesel, Gordon Reeve drove straight to Heathrow. He found a long-term parking lot and took the courtesy bus from there to the terminal building. He’d called Joan from a service station, and she’d told him he was booked on a flight to Los Angeles, where he could catch a connecting flight to San Diego.
Sitting in Departures, Gordon Reeve tried to feel something other than numb. He’d sometimes found an article written by Jim in one of the newspapers—but not often. They’d never kept in touch, except for a New Year’s phone call. Jim had been good with Allan, though, sending him the occasional surprise.
He bought a newspaper and a magazine and walked through duty-free without buying anything. It was Monday morning, which meant he’d no business to take care of at home, nothing pressing until Friday and the new intake. He knew he should be thinking of other things, but it was so hard. He was first in line when boarding time came. His seat on the plane was narrow. He discarded the pillow but draped the thin blanket over him, hoping he would sleep. Breakfast was served soon after takeoff; he was still awake. Above the clouds, the sun was a blazing orange. Then people started to pull down the shutters, and the cabin lights were dimmed. Headsets clamped on, the passengers started to watch the movie. Gordon Reeve closed his eyes again, and found that another kind of film was playing behind his eyelids: two young boys playing soldiers in the long grass . . . smoking cigarettes in the bathroom, blowing the smoke out of the window . . . passing comments on the girls at the school dance . . . patting arms as they went their separate ways.
Be the Superman, Gordon Reeve told himself. But then Nietzsche was never very convincing about personal loss and grief. Live dangerously, he said. Hate your friends. There is no God, no ordering principle. You must assume godhead yourself. Be the Superman.
Gordon Reeve, crying at thirty thousand feet over the sea. Then the wait in Los Angeles, and the connecting flight, forty-five minutes by Alaska Airlines. Reeve hadn’t been to the USA before, and didn’t particularly want to be here now. The man from the consulate had said they could ship the body home if he liked. As long as he paid, he wouldn’t have to come to the States. But he had to come, for all sorts of jumbled reasons that probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. They weren’t really making sense to him. It was just a pull, strong as gravity. He had to see where it happened, had to know why. The consulate man had said it might be better not to know, just remember him the way he was. But that was just so much crap, and Reeve had told the man so. “I didn’t know him at all,” he’d said.
The car-rental people tried to give him a vehicle called a GMC Jimmy, but he refused it point-blank, and eventually settled for a Chevy Blazer—a three-door rear-drive gloss-black wagon that looked built for off-roading. “A compact sport utility,” the clone at the desk called it; whatever it was, it had four wheels and a full tank of gas.
He’d booked into the Radisson in Mission Valley. Mr. Car Rental gave him a complimentary map of San Diego and circled the hotel district of Mission Valley.
“It’s about a ten-minute drive if you know where you’re going, twenty if you don’t. You can’t miss the hotel.”
Reeve put his one large holdall into the capacious trunk, then decided it looked stupid there and transferred it to the passenger seat. He spotted a minibus parked in front of the terminal with the hotel’s name on its side, so he locked the car and walked over to it. The driver had just seen a couple of tourists into the terminal and, when Reeve explained, said “sir” could follow him, no pro
blem.
So Reeve tucked the Blazer in behind the courtesy bus and followed it to the hotel. He unloaded his bag and told the valet he didn’t need any help with it, so the valet went to park his car instead. And then, standing at the reception desk, Reeve nearly fell apart. Nerves, shock, lack of sleep. Standing there, on the hotel’s plush carpet, waiting for the receptionist to finish a telephone call, was harder than any thirty-six-hour pursuit. It felt like one of the hardest things he’d ever done. There seemed to be fog at the edges of his vision. He knew it must be exhaustion, that was all. If only the phone call hadn’t come at the end of a weekend, when his defenses were down and he was already suffering from lack of sleep.
He reminded himself why he was here. Maybe it was pride that kept him upright until he’d filled in the registration form and accepted his key. He waited a minute for the elevator, took it to the tenth floor, finding his room, unlocking it, walking in, dumping the bag on the floor. He pulled open the curtains. His view was of a nearby hillside, and below him the hotel’s parking lot. He’d decided on this hotel because it was the right side of San Diego for La Jolla. Jim had been found in La Jolla.
He lay down on the bed, which seemed solid and floating at the same time. He closed his eyes, just for a minute.
And woke up to late-afternoon sun and a headache.
He showered quickly, changed his clothes, and made a telephone call.
The police detective was very obliging. “I can come to the hotel if you like, or you can come down here.”
“I’d appreciate it if you could come here.”
“Sure, no problem.”
He took the elevator back down to the ground floor and had some coffee in the restaurant, then felt hungry and had a sandwich. It was supposed to be too early for food, but the waitress took pity on him.
“You on vacation?”
“No,” he told her, taking a second cup of coffee.
“Business?”
“Sort of.”
“Where you from?”
“Scotland.”
“Really?” She sounded thrilled. He examined her; a pretty, tanned face, round and full of life. She wasn’t very tall, but carried herself well, like she didn’t plan to make waitressing a career.
“Ever been there?” His mouth felt rusty. It had been a long time since he’d had to form conversations with strangers, social chitchat. He talked at the weekenders, and he had his family—and that was it. He had no friends to speak of; maybe a few old soldiers like him, but he saw them infrequently and didn’t keep in touch between times.
“No,” she said, like he’d said something humorous. “Never been outside South Cal, ’cept for a few trips across the border and a couple of times to the East Coast.”
“Which border?”
She laughed outright. “Which border? Mexican, of course.”
It struck him how ill-prepared he was for this trip. He hadn’t done any background. He thought of the seven P’s, how he drilled them into his weekenders. Planning and preparation. How much P&P did you need to pick up the body of your brother?
“What’s wrong?” she said.
He shook his head, not feeling like talking anymore. He got out the map the car-rental man had given him, plus another he’d picked up from a pile at reception, and spread them on the table. He studied a street plan of San Diego, then a map of the surrounding area. His eye moved up the coast: Ocean Beach, Mission Beach, Pacific Beach, and La Jolla.
“What were you doing here, Jim?”
He didn’t realize he’d spoken out loud until he saw the waitress looking at him. She smiled, but a little uncertainly this time. Then she pointed to the coffeepot, and he saw that he’d finished the second cup. He nodded. Caffeine could only help.
“Mr. Reeve?” The man put out his hand. “They told me at reception I’d find you here. I’m Detective Mike McCluskey.”
They shook hands, and McCluskey squeezed into the booth. He was a big fresh-faced man with a missing tooth which he seemed to be trying to conceal by speaking out of the other side of his mouth. There were shoots of stubble on his square chin where the razor hadn’t done its job, and a small rash-line where his shirt collar rubbed his throat. He touched his collar now, as though trying to stretch it.
“I’m hellish sorry, sir,” he said, eyes on the tablecloth. “Wish I could say welcome to San Diego, but I guess you aren’t going to be taking too many happy memories away with you.”
Reeve didn’t know what to say, so he said thanks. He knew McCluskey hadn’t been expecting someone like him. He’d probably been expecting someone like Jim—taller, skinnier, in less good all-around shape. And Reeve knew that if the eyes were the window on a man’s soul, then his eyes were blackly dangerous. Even Joan told him he had a killer’s stare sometimes.
But then McCluskey wasn’t what Reeve had been expecting either. From the deep growl on the telephone, he’d visualized an older, beefier man, someone a bit more rumpled.
“Hell of a thing,” McCluskey said, after turning down the waitress’s offer of coffee.
“Yes,” Reeve said. Then, to the waitress. “Can I have the bill?”
“We call it a check,” McCluskey told Reeve when they were in the detective’s car, heading out to La Jolla.
“What?”
“We don’t call it a bill, we call it a check.”
“Thanks for the advice. Can I see the police report on my brother’s suicide?”
McCluskey turned his gaze from the windshield. “I guess,” he said. “It’s on the backseat.”
Reeve reached around and picked up the brown cardboard file. While he was reading, a message came over McCluskey’s radio.
“No can do,” McCluskey said into the radio at the end of a short conversation.
“Sorry if I’m taking you away from anything,” Reeve said, not meaning it. “I could probably have done this on my own.”
“No problem,” McCluskey told him.
The report was blunt, cold, factual. Male Caucasian, discovered Sunday morning by two joggers heading for the oceanfront. Body found in a locked rental car, keys in the ignition, Browning pistol still gripped in the decedent’s right hand . . .
“Where did he get the gun?”
“It’s not hard to get a gun around here. We haven’t found a receipt, so I guess he didn’t buy it at a store. Still leaves plenty of sellers.”
Decedent’s wallet, passport, driver’s license, and so forth were still in his jacket pocket, along with the car rental agreement. Rental company confirmed that male answering the de-scription of James Mark Reeve hired the car on a weekend rate at 7:30 P.M. Saturday night, paying cash up front.
“Jim always used plastic if he could,” Reeve said.
“Well, you know, suicides . . . they often like to tie up the loose ends before they . . . uh, you know, they like to make a clean break . . .” His voice trailed off. Suicides; the next of kin. McCluskey was used to dealing with howling uncontrollable grief, or a preternatural icy calm. But Gordon Reeve was being . . . the word that sprang to mind was methodical. Or businesslike.
“Maybe,” Reeve said.
Decedent’s motel room was located and searched. No note was found. Nothing out of the ordinary was found, save small amounts of substances which tested positive as amphetamine and cocaine.
“We’ve had the autopsy done since that report was typed,” McCluskey said. “Your brother had some booze in his system, but no drugs. I don’t know if that makes you feel any better.”
“You didn’t find a note,” Reeve stated.
“No, sir, but fewer suicides than you might think actually bother to leave a note. It looked like there’d been a message of some kind left on the mirror of the motel bathroom. He, uh . . . looks like it was written with toothpaste, but then wiped off. Might indicate the state of mind he was in.”
“Any obvious reason why he would commit suicide?”
“No, sir, I have to admit I can’t see one. Maybe his career?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, I was only his brother.”
“You weren’t close?”
Reeve shook his head, saying nothing. Soon enough they arrived in La Jolla, passing pleasant bungalow-type houses and then larger, richer residences as they neared the oceanfront. La Jolla’s main shopping street had parking on both sides of the road, trees sprouting from the sidewalk, and benches for people to sit on. The shops looked exclusive; the pedestrians wore tans, sunglasses, and smiles. McCluskey pulled the car into a parking bay.
“Where?” Reeve asked quietly.
“Two bays along.” McCluskey nodded with his head.
Reeve undid his seat belt and opened the car door. “I’ll be fine on my own,” he told the detective.
There was a car in the second space along. It was a family model, with two kids playing in the back. They were boys, broth-ers. Each held a plastic spaceman; the spacemen were supposed to be battling each other, the boys providing sound effects. They looked at him suspiciously as he stared in at them, so he went and stood on the sidewalk and looked up and down the street. Jim’s body had been found at six o’clock Sunday morning, which meant two o’clock Sunday afternoon in the UK. He’d been on the moor, chased by a group of weekend soldiers. Playing sol-diers: that’s how Jim had summed up his brother’s life. At 2:00 P.M. it had been raining, and Gordon Reeve had been naked again, clothes bundled into his rucksack—naked except for boots and socks, crossing the wetland. And he hadn’t felt a thing; no twinge of forewarning, no sympathetic gut-stab at his broth-er’s agony, no fire in the brain.
McCluskey was standing beside him. Reeve turned his back and rubbed at dry, stinging eyes. The boys in the car had stopped playing and were looking at him, too. And now their mother was coming back with a young sibling, and she wanted to know what was happening. Reeve walked quietly back to McCluskey’s unmarked car.
