Let It Bleed ir-7

by Ian Rankin

  Let It Bleed

  ( Inspector Rebus - 7 )

  Ian Rankin

  Detective Inspector John Rebus and Frank Lauderdale start the book with a car chase across Edinburgh, culminating with the two youths they are chasing throwing themselves off the Forth Road Bridge and in Rebus being injured in a car crash. Rebus' upset over this allows Rankin to show the character in a new light, revealing his isolation and potentially suicidal despair.

  After the unconnected suicide of a terminally ill con, Rebus pursues an investigation that implicates respected people at the highest levels of government, and due to the politically sensitive nature of what he is doing, faces losing his job, or worse. He is supported by his daughter Sammy, allowing their distant relationship to be built upon.

  The title refers to the Rolling Stones album Let it Bleed.

  Ian Rankin

  Let It Bleed

  INTRODUCTION

  I first heard the Rolling Stones album Let It Bleed when I was only ten or eleven years old. I didn’t like the music — at that age I was listening to Marc Bolan and not much else; it was my sister’s boyfriend who was the Stones fan. I did find the lyrics intriguing, however. Even though I barely understood the references, I could tell that there was something ‘dirty’ about them. They hinted at sex, debauchery, violence and drugs. There was even one song (‘Midnight Rambler’) which seemed to be about a real-life serial killer. I eventually had to buy the album for myself.

  By this time, however, I was in my twenties and had already written a couple of books. I was also working as a music journalist and hi-fi equipment reviewer in London. Let It Bleed, with its fantastic studio sound, soon became a constant on my Linn Sondek, and when the time came, in 1994, to write the seventh John Rebus novel, I felt emboldened to borrow the album’s title.

  Though the book is set in the depths of an Edinburgh winter, it was written at my house in south-west France, mostly in blazing summer heat. (I’d long since given up the hi-fi job, but still used the Linn record deck.) I’m not sure now if working on the book provided me with some sort of internal air-conditioning, but one thing I knew was that during any cold snap in Edinburgh you would want your central heating to be working. Hence the pun in the title — what Rebus really needs to bleed in the book is a radiator.

  For a little while in the 1990s, I became convinced that in order to make a decent amount of money I would have to transfer my skills to television. I had already made several attempts at scripts for the established cop show The Bill. At meetings with the production team, I learned that each Bill script had to contain three scenarios, and that none of the action could involve the cops’ private lives or show them off-duty Somehow I couldn’t stick to this formula. At around the same time, television had shown some interest in Rebus. I attended more meetings, this time with the BBC, and tried writing a few scripts (both adaptations and original stories), but seemed to hit a series of walls. Eventually I started pitching non-Rebus ideas at my TV contacts, but still to no avail. All of which, however, may go some way towards explaining the slam-bang action opening of Let It Bleed. It’s still something I’d love to see on the big screen, done Hollywood-style: a night-time car chase in a blizzard, with the Forth Road Bridge beckoning. Fantastic.

  Let It Bleed was a political novel, in that it used local and national politics for much of its plotting. By this time I had a real-life detective on my side, a fan of the books who had pointed out various procedural errors in previous stories. And with a few published novels under my belt, I was a known commodity in Edinburgh, so could approach complete strangers (council officials, for example) with a view to aiding my research. On my trips back to Edinburgh for Let It Bleed, I slept on a friend’s sofa, asked a lot of questions at the reception desks of various government agencies, and bought a few lunches and rounds of drinks. In some ways, the new book would be a return to the Edinburgh of my second novel, Hide Seek. Both stories are concerned with the changing face of Edinburgh, its attempts to embrace new employment opportunities (meaning new technologies) while still retaining a sense of identity Structural change to Scotland’s capital was already under way: there was a plan for one of the breweries to open a theme park near the Palace of Holyrood. Eventually the site would house Our Dynamic Earth and the Scottish Parliament instead, but at the time I was filled with a sense of glee: a theme park built on booze! Well, why not? Several city landmarks, including the Usher Hall, had been built with cash from brewing dynasties. The least we could do in the late twentieth century was celebrate our national relationship with alcohol: hence the use of a favourite Martin Amis line at the very start of the book: ‘Without women, life is a pub.’

  While there is an abundance of action in Let It Bleed, it is also, to my mind, rather a soulful book. We are allowed access to Rebus’s thoughts as never before. We learn why he likes music, and why he turns so frequently to the bottle. Memories from his childhood are revealed, adding to our sense of him as a three-dimensional human being. The book contains some of my favourite scenes and images (for example, Rebus’s visit to a dry-stane dyker, or his invitation to a Perthshire shooting party), and ends with a few loose ends left straggling. Those loose ends seemed realistic to me, but irritated my American publishers to such an extent that they asked me to consider contributing an extra final chapter for US publication. This I eventually did, though I didn’t feel it added anything to the sum of the book (which is why it’s not being reprinted here). Between times, some old friends return to the series (Rebus’s daughter Sammy; his ex-lover Gill; the reporter Mairie Henderson). This, plus the fact that Rebus is back in his old flat, having jettisoned the students he’d been renting the place to, gives the book a solid, comfortable feel. By now I was confident in my ability to write a decent crime story and to recreate Rebus’s world … which probably explains why I would be at pains to make my next book so different, providing me with a fresh set of challenges.

  But for now, I was happy I knew the inside of Rebus’s head. And he was happy, too, happy with his booze, cigarettes and music:

  ‘After a drink he liked to listen to the Stones. Women, relationships and colleagues had come and gone, but the Stones had always been there. He put the album on and poured himself a last drink. The guitar riff, one of easily half a dozen in Keith’s tireless repertoire, kicked the album off. I don’t have much, Rebus thought, but I have this …’

  On the album Let It Bleed there’s a song about the Boston Strangler. Mick Jagger had written about a real-life crime. And what was good enough for Mick was surely good enough for me, as my next novel would demonstrate.

  May 2005

  Avarice, the spur of industry.

  (David Hume, ‘Of Civil Liberty’)

  The more sophisticated readers simply repeated the Italian proverb, ‘If it isn’t true, it’s to the point.’

  (Muriel Spark, The Public Image)

  Without women, life is a pub.

  (Martin Amis, Money)

  One BRIDGES

  1

  A winter night, screaming out of Edinburgh.

  The front car was being chased by three others. In the chasing cars were police officers. Sleet was falling through the darkness, blowing horizontally. In the second of the police cars, Inspector John Rebus had his teeth bared. He gripped the doorhandle with one hand, and the front edge of his passenger seat with the other. In the driver’s seat, Chief Inspector Frank Lauderdale seemed to have shed about thirty years. He was a youth again, enjoying the feeling of power which came from driving fast, driving a wee bit crazy. He sat well forward, peering through the windscreen.

  ‘We’ll get them!’ he yelled for the umpteenth time. ‘We’ll get the bastards!’

  Rebus couldn’t unlock his jaw long enou
gh to form a reply. It wasn’t that Lauderdale was a bad driver … Well OK, it wasn’t just that Lauderdale was a bad driver; the weather bothered Rebus too. When they’d taken the second roundabout at the Barnton Interchange, Rebus had felt the car’s back wheels losing all grip on the slick road surface. The tyres weren’t brand new to start with; probably retreads at that. The air temperature was near zero, the sleet lying treacherously in wait. They were out of the city now, leaving traffic lights and junctions behind. A car chase here should be safer. But Rebus didn’t feel safe.

  In the car in front were two young, keen uniforms, with a DS and a DC in the car behind. Rebus looked into the wing mirror and saw headlights. He looked out of the passenger-side window and saw nothing. Christ, it was dark out there.

  Rebus thought: I don’t want to die in the dark.

  A telephone conversation the previous day.

  ‘Ten grand and we let your daughter go.’

  The father licked his lips. ‘Ten? That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘Not to you.’

  ‘Wait, let me think.’ The father looked at the pad, where John Rebus had just scribbled something. ‘It’s short notice,’ he told the caller. Rebus was listening on an earpiece, staring at the tape recorder’s silently turning spools.

  ‘That attitude could get her hurt.’

  ‘No … please.’

  ‘Then you’d better get the money.’

  ‘You’ll bring her with you?’

  ‘We’re not cheats, mister. She’ll be there if the money is.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We’ll phone tonight with details. One last thing, no police, understand? Any sign, even a distant siren, and next time you see her’ll be the Co-op funeral parlour.’

  ‘We’ll get them!’ Lauderdale shouted.

  Rebus felt his jaw unlock. ‘All right, we’ll get them. So why not ease off?’

  Lauderdale glanced at him and grinned. ‘Lost your bottle, John?’ Then he jerked the wheel and pulled out to overtake a transit van.

  The phone caller had sounded young, working-class. In his mouth, ‘understand’ had become unnerstaun. He’d spoken of the Co-op. He’d used the word ‘mister’. Young working class, maybe a bit naive. Rebus just wasn’t sure.

  ‘Fife Police are waiting the other side of the bridge, right?’ he persisted, shouting above the engine whine. Lauderdale had the poor gearbox pounding away in third.

  ‘Right,’ Lauderdale agreed.

  ‘Then what’s our hurry?’

  ‘Don’t be soft, John. They’re ours.’

  Rebus knew what his superior meant. If the front car made it over the Forth Road Bridge, then it was in Fife, and Fife Constabulary were waiting, a roadblock erected. It would be a Fife collar.

  Lauderdale was on the radio, talking to the car ahead. His one-handed driving was only a little worse than his two-handed, shaking Rebus from side to side. Lauderdale put the radio down again.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ he said. ‘Will they come off at Queensferry?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Well, those two L-plates in front think we’ll catch them at the toll booths if they decide to go all the way.’

  They probably would go all the way, too, driven by fear and adrenaline. The combination tended to put blinkers on your survival mechanism. You ran straight ahead, without thought or deviation. All you knew was flight.

  ‘You could at least put on your seatbelt,’ Rebus said.

  ‘I could,’ said Lauderdale. But he didn’t. Boy racers didn’t wear seatbelts.

  The final slip-road was coming up. The front car sped past it. There was nowhere to go now but the bridge. The roadlighting high overhead grew thick again as they neared the toll booths. Rebus had a crazy notion of the fugitives stopping to pay their toll, just like everyone else. Winding down the window, fumbling for the coins …

  ‘They’re slowing.’

  The road was spreading out, suddenly half a dozen lanes wide. Ahead of them stood the row of toll booths, and beyond that the bridge itself, curving up towards its midpoint as the steel coils held its carriageway in suspension, so that even on a clear, bright day you couldn’t see the far end when you drove on to it.

  ‘They’re definitely slowing.’

  Only yards separated the four cars now, and Rebus could see, for the first time in a while, the back of the car they were chasing. It was a Y-registration Ford Cortina. The overhead lighting allowed him to make out two heads, driver and passenger, both male.

  ‘Maybe she’s in the boot,’ he said dubiously.

  ‘Maybe,’ Lauderdale agreed.

  ‘If she’s not in the car with them, they can’t harm her.’

  Lauderdale nodded, not really listening, then reached for the radio again. There was a lot of interference. ‘If they go on to the bridge,’ he said, ‘that’s it, dead end. There’s no way off for them, unless the Fifers fuck up.’

  ‘So we stay here?’ Rebus suggested. Lauderdale just laughed. ‘Thought not,’ said Rebus.

  But now something was happening. The suspects’ car … red tail-lights. Were they braking? No, reversing, and at speed. They hit the front police car with force, sending it shunting into Lauderdale’s.

  ‘Bastards!’

  Then the front car was off again, veering crazily. It headed for one of the closed booths, hitting the barrier, not snapping it off but bending it enough to squeeze through. The sound of metal sparking against metal, and then they were gone. Rebus couldn’t believe it.

  ‘They’re on the wrong carriageway!’

  And so they were, whether by accident or design. Picking up speed, the car was racing north along the southbound lanes, its headlights switched to full beam. The front police car hesitated, then followed. Lauderdale looked ready to do the same thing, but Rebus reached out a hand and tugged with all his might on the steering-wheel, bringing them back into the northbound lane.

  ‘Stupid bastard!’ Lauderdale spat, slamming the accelerator hard.

  It was late night, not much traffic about. Even so, the driver of the front car was taking some risk.

  ‘They’ll only have this carriageway blocked, won’t they?’ Rebus pointed out. ‘If those lunatics make it to the other side, they could get away.’

  Lauderdale didn’t say anything. He was looking across the central reservation, keeping the other two cars in sight. When he reached out for the radio, he all but lost control. The car jolted right, then harder to the left, slamming the metal side-rails. Rebus didn’t want to think about the Firth of Forth, hundreds of feet below. But he thought of it anyway. He’d walked across the bridge a couple of times, using the footpaths either side of the roadways. That had been scary enough, the ever-present wind threatening to gust you over the side. He felt a charge in his toes: a fear of heights.

  On the other carriageway, the inevitable was happening, the incredible just about to begin. An articulated lorry, up to speed after a crawl to the top of the rise, saw headlights ahead of it where no headlights should be. The suspects’ car had already squeezed past two oncoming cars, and would have slipped into the outside lane to pass the artic, but the artic’s driver panicked. He pulled into the outside lane and his hands froze, foot still hard on the accelerator. The truck hit metal and started to rise. It went up into the air, hanging over the central reservation, which was itself a network of steel lines. The trailer snagged and the cab snapped forward, breaking free of its container and sailing into the northbound lanes, sliding on sparks and a spray of water, directly into the path of the car in which Lauderdale and Rebus were travelling.

  Lauderdale did his best to hit the brakes, but there was nowhere to go. The cab was sliding diagonally, taking up both lanes. Nowhere to go. Rebus had a couple of seconds to take it in. He felt his whole being contract, everything trying to be where his scrotum was. He pulled his knees up, feet and hands against the dashboard, tucking his head against his legs …

  Whump.

  With his eyes
screwed shut, all Rebus had to go on were noises and feeling. Something punched him in the cheekbone, then was gone. There was a shattering of glass, like ice cracking, and the sound of metal being tortured. His gut told him the car was travelling backwards. There were other sounds too, further away. More metal, more glass.

  The artic cab had lost a lot of its momentum, and contact with the car stopped it dead. Rebus thought his spine would crack. Whiplash, did they call it? More like brick-lash, slab-lash. The car stopped, and the first thing he realised was that his jaw hurt. He looked over to the driver’s seat, reckoning Lauderdale had landed one on him for some unspecified reason, and saw that his superior wasn’t there any more.

  Well, his arse was there, staring Rebus in the face from its unpromising position where the windscreen used to be. Lauderdale’s feet were tucked beneath the steering-wheel. One of his shoes had come off. His legs were draped over the steering-wheel itself. As for the rest of him, that was lying on what was left of the bonnet.

  ‘Frank!’ Rebus cried. ‘Frank!’ He knew better than to pull Lauderdale back into the car; knew better than to touch him at all. He tried opening his door, but it wasn’t a door any more. So he undid his seatbelt and squeezed out through the windscreen. His hand touched metal, and he felt a sizzling sensation. Cursing and drawing his hand away, he saw he’d placed it on a section of uncovered engine-block.

  Cars were pulling to a stop behind him. The DS and DC were running forwards.

  ‘Frank,’ Rebus said quietly. He looked at Lauderdale’s face, bloody but still alive. Yes, he was sure Lauderdale was alive. There was just something … He wasn’t moving, you couldn’t even be sure he was breathing. But there was something, some unseen energy which hadn’t departed. Not yet at any rate.