They were chasing him up and down monkey-puzzle ladders, the tumorous sea raging beneath, buckling weakened metal. Rebus lost his grip, tumbled down steel steps, gashed his side and dabbed a hand there, finding oil instead of blood. They were twenty feet above him and laughing, taking their time: where was there for him to go? Maybe he could fly, flap his arms and leap into space. The only thing to fear was the drop.
Like landing on concrete.
Was that better or worse than landing on spikes? He had decisions to make; his pursuers weren’t far behind. They were never far behind, yet he always stayed in front of them, even wounded. I could get out of this, he thought.
I could get out of this!
A voice directly behind him: ‘In your dreams.’ Then a push out into space.
Rebus started awake so suddenly his head hit the car roof. His body surged with fear and adrenalin.
‘Christ,’ Ancram said from the driver’s seat, regaining control of the steering-wheel, ‘what happened?’
‘How long was I asleep?’
‘I didn’t realise you were.’
Rebus looked at his watch: maybe only a couple of minutes. He rubbed his face, told his heart it could stop hammering any time it liked. He could tell Ancram it was a bad dream; he could tell him it was a panic attack. But he didn’t want to tell him anything. Until proven otherwise, Ancram was the enemy as surely as any gun-toting thug.
‘What were you saying?’ he said instead.
‘I was outlining the deal.’
‘The deal, right.’ The Sunday papers had slid from Rebus’s lap. He picked them off the floor. Johnny Bible’s latest outrage had made only one front page; the others had been printed too early.
‘Right now, I’ve enough against you to have you suspended,’ Ancram said. ‘Not such an unusual situation for you, Inspector.’
‘I’ve been there before.’
‘Even if I overlook the Johnny Bible questions, there’s still the matter of your distinct lack of cooperation with my inquiries into the Spaven case.’
‘I had flu.’
Ancram ignored this. ‘We both know two things. First, a good cop is going to get into trouble from time to time. I’ve had complaints made against me in the past. Second, these TV programmes almost never uncover new evidence. It’s all speculation and maybes, whereas a police investigation is meticulous, and the gen we gather is passed to the Crown Office and pored over by what are supposed to be some of the finest criminal lawyers in the country.’
Rebus turned in his seat to study Ancram, wondering where this was leading. In the mirror, he could see his own car being driven with due care and attention by Ancram’s lackey. Ancram kept his eyes on the road.
‘See, John, what I’m saying is, why run when you’ve nothing to fear?’
‘Who says I’ve nothing to fear?’
Ancram smiled. The old pals routine was just that — a routine. Rebus trusted Ancram the way he’d trust a paedophile in a play-park. All the same, when Uncle Joe had lied about Tony El, it was Ancram who’d come up with the Aberdeen info... Whose side was the man on? Was he playing a double game? Or had he just thought Rebus wouldn’t get anywhere, info or no info? Was it a way of covering up that he was in Uncle Joe’s pocket?
‘If I’m hearing you right,’ Rebus said, ‘you’re saying I’ve nothing to fear from the Spaven case?’
‘This could be true.’
‘You’d make it true?’ Ancram shrugged. ‘In return for what?’
‘John, you’ve ruffled more feathers than a puma in a parrot-house, and you’ve been about as subtle.’
‘You want me to be more subtle?’
Ancram’s voice tightened. ‘I want you to sit on your arse for once.’
‘Drop the Mitchison inquiry?’ Ancram didn’t say anything. Rebus repeated the question.
‘You might find it does you the world of good.’
‘And you’d have done Uncle Joe Toal another good turn, eh, Ancram?’
‘Wake up to reality. This isn’t a linoleum floor, big squares of black and white.’
‘No, it’s grey silk suits and crisp green cash.’
‘It’s give and take. People like Uncle Joe don’t go away: you get rid of him and a young pretender starts making claims.’
‘Better the devil you know?’
‘Not a bad motto.’
John Martyn: ‘I’d Rather Be the Devil’.
‘Here’s another,’ Rebus said, ‘don’t rock the boat. Sounds like that’s what you’re telling me.’
‘I’m advising you for your own good.’
‘Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.’
‘Christ, Rebus, I begin to see why you’re always out on a limb: you’re not easy to like, are you?’
‘Mr Personality six years running.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I even cried on the catwalk.’ A pause. ‘Did you ask Jack Morton about me?’
‘Jack has a bizarrely high opinion of you, something I put down to sentiment.’
‘Big of you.’
‘This is getting us nowhere.’
‘No, but it’s passing the time.’ Rebus saw signs for a service area. ‘Are we stopping for lunch?’
Ancram shook his head.
‘You know, there’s one question you haven’t asked me.’
Ancram considered not asking, then caved in. ‘What?’
‘You haven’t asked what Stanley and Eve were doing in Aberdeen.’
Ancram signalled to pull into the service area, braking hard. The driver in Rebus’s Saab nearly missed the slip-road, tyres squealing on tarmac.
‘Trying to lose him?’ Rebus enjoyed seeing Ancram rattled.
‘Coffee break,’ Ancram snarled, opening his door.
Rebus sat with the tabloid on the table in front of him, reading about Johnny Bible. The victim this time was Vanessa Holden, twenty-seven and married — none of the others had been married. She was director of a company which put on ‘corporate presentations’: Rebus wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. The photo in the paper was the usual smile-for-the-camera job, taken by a friend. She had shoulder-length wavy hair, nice teeth, probably hadn’t thought about dying much short of her eightieth birthday.
‘We’ve got to catch this monster,’ Rebus said, echoing the last sentence of the story. Then he crumpled the paper and reached for his coffee. Glancing down at the table, he caught a sideways glimpse of Vanessa Holden, and got the feeling he’d seen her before somewhere, just a fleeting glance. He covered her hair with his hand. Old photo; maybe she’d changed hairstyle. He tried to see her face with a few more miles on its clock. Ancram wasn’t watching, was talking to the lackey, so he didn’t see the shock of recognition hit Rebus’s face.
‘I have to make a phone call,’ Rebus said, rising. The public phone was beside the front door; he’d be in view of the table. Ancram nodded.
‘What’s the problem?’ he said.
‘Today’s Sunday, I should’ve been at church. The minister will be worried.’
‘This bacon’s easier to swallow than that.’ Ancram stabbed his fork at the offending article. But he let Rebus go.
Rebus made the call, hoped he’d have enough change: Sunday, cheap rate. Someone at Grampian Police HQ picked up.
‘DCI Grogan, please,’ Rebus said, his eyes on Ancram. The restaurant was busy with Sunday drivers and their families; no chance of Ancram hearing him.
‘I’m afraid he’s busy at the moment.’
‘This is about Johnny Bible’s latest victim. I’m in a phone-box and money’s tight.’
‘Hold on, please.’
Thirty seconds. Ancram watching him, frowning. Then: ‘DCI Grogan speaking.’
‘It’s Rebus.’
Grogan sucked in breath. ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘I want to do you a favour.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘It could make your career.’
‘Is this your idea of a joke? Because let me tell you —’
‘No joke. Did you hear what I said about Eve and Stanley Toal?’
‘I heard.’
‘Are you going to do anything?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Make it a definite... as a favour to me.’
‘And then you’ll do me this premier-league favour of yours?’
‘That’s right.’
Grogan coughed, cleared his throat. ‘All right,’ he said.
‘For real?’
‘I keep my promises.’
‘Then listen. I’ve just seen a photo of Johnny’s latest victim.’
‘And?’
‘And I’ve seen her before.’
A moment’s silence. ‘Where?’
‘She was walking into Burke’s Club one night as Lumsden and I were leaving.’
‘So?’
‘So she was on the arm of someone I knew.’
‘You know a lot of people, Inspector.’
‘Which doesn’t mean I’m connected to Johnny Bible. But maybe the man on her arm is.’
‘Do you have a name for him?’
‘Hayden Fletcher, works for T-Bird Oil. Public relations.’
Grogan was writing it down. ‘I’ll look into it,’ he said.
‘Don’t forget your promise.’
‘Did I make a promise? I don’t recall.’ The line went dead. Rebus wanted to hammer the receiver, but Ancram was watching, and besides there were children nearby, drooling over a toy display and devising plans of attack on their parents’ pockets. So he replaced the receiver just like any other human being and walked back to the table. The driver got up and went outside, didn’t once look at Rebus, so Rebus knew he was under orders.
‘Everything OK?’ Ancram asked.
‘Hunky dory.’ Rebus sat down opposite Ancram. ‘So when does the inquisition begin?’
‘As soon as we can find a vacant torture chamber.’ They both ended up smiling. ‘Look, Rebus, personally I don’t give a midge’s IQ what happened twenty years ago between your pal Geddes and this Lenny Spaven. I’ve seen villains stitched up before: you can’t nail them for the thing you know they did, so you nail them for something else, something they didn’t do.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens.’
‘There were rumours it happened to Bible John.’
Ancram shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. But see, here’s the crux of the matter. If your chum Geddes became obsessed with Spaven, and stitched him up — with your help, wittingly or unwittingly... Well, you know what that means?’
Rebus nodded, but couldn’t say the words: they’d been choking him for weeks. They’d choked him back then for a few weeks, too.
‘It means,’ Ancram went on, ‘the real killer got away with it. Nobody’s ever tried looking for him, he’s scot free.’ He smiled at this last phrase, then sat back in his chair. ‘Now I’m going to tell you something about Uncle Joe.’ He had Rebus’s attention. ‘He’s probably involved in drug dealing. Big profits, unlikely he wouldn’t want some. But Glasgow was sewn up years ago, and rather than get into a war we think he’s been casting his net wider.’
‘As far as Aberdeen?’
Ancram nodded. ‘We’re compiling a file prior to setting up a surveillance op in conjunction with the Squaddies.’
‘And every surveillance you’ve tried in the past has failed.’
‘There’s a double loop to this one: if someone leaks word to Uncle Joe, we’ll know where the leak started.’
‘So you end up with either Uncle Joe or the grass? It might work... if you don’t go around telling everyone about it.’
‘I’m trusting you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you could fuck things up, pure and simple.’
‘You know, I’ve been here before, people telling me to lay off, leave everything to them.’
‘And?’
‘And they’ve usually had something to hide.’
Ancram shook his head. ‘Not this time. But I do have something to offer. Like I say, personally I’ve no interest in the Spaven case, but professionally I’m duty bound to do my job. Thing is, there are ways and ways of presenting a report. I could minimise your part in the whole thing, I could leave you out altogether. I’m not telling you to drop any investigation; I’m just asking you to freeze it for a week or so.’
‘And let the trail grow cold, maybe enough time for a few more suicides and accidental deaths?’
Ancram looked exasperated.
‘Just do your job, Chief Inspector,’ Rebus said. ‘And I’ll do mine.’ Rebus got to his feet, looked for the paper with the Johnny Bible story, stuffed it in his pocket.
‘Here’s the deal,’ Ancram said, smouldering. ‘I’m going to have a man with you at all times, reporting back to me. It’s either that or a suspension.’
Rebus jerked his thumb towards the window. ‘Him out there?’ The driver was enjoying a smoke in the sunshine. Ancram shook his head.
‘Someone who knows you better.’
Rebus came up with the answer a second before Ancram spoke.
‘Jack Morton.’
He was waiting for Rebus outside the flat. Water was dribbling down the dishels from where neighbours were cleaning their cars. Jack had been sitting in his own car, windows rolled down, his paper open at the crossword. Now he was out of the car and had his arms folded, head inclined to the sun’s rays. He was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and faded jeans, newish white trainers on his feet.
‘Sorry to muck up your weekend,’ Rebus told him, as he got out of Ancram’s car.
‘Remember,’ Ancram called to Jack, ‘don’t let him out of your sight. If he goes for a dump, I want you keeking through the key-hole. If he says he’s putting the rubbish out, I want you inside one of the bags. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jack said.
The police driver was asking Rebus where he should park the Saab. Rebus pointed to the double yellow line at the bottom of the street. The windscreen still boasted its Grampian Police Business sign. Rebus was in no hurry to tear it off. Ancram got out of his driving seat and opened the rear door. His driver handed Rebus the keys to the Saab and his suitcase out of the boot, and got into his boss’s car, adjusting the seat and the rearview. Rebus and Jack watched Ancram being driven away.
‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘I hear you’re with the Juice Church these days.’
Jack wrinkled his nose. ‘I can take or leave the holy roller stuff, but it’s helped me give up the hooch.’
‘That’s great.’
‘How come I never know when you’re being serious?’
‘Years of practice.’
‘Nice holiday?’
‘Nice doesn’t begin to describe it.’
‘I see your face took a dunt.’
Rebus touched his temple. The swelling was going down. ‘Some people get temperamental when you beat them to the sunbeds.’
They climbed the stairwell, Jack a couple of steps behind Rebus.
‘Are you seriously not going to let me out of your sight?’
‘That’s what the boss wants.’
‘And what he wants he gets?’
‘If I know what’s good for me. It’s taken me a lot of years to come to the conclusion that I do want what’s good for me.’
‘So speaks the philosopher.’ Rebus put his key in the lock, pushed the door open. There was some mail on the hall carpet, but not much. ‘You realise this is probably against a couple of dozen laws. I mean, you can’t just follow me around if I don’t want you to.’
‘So take it to the Court of Human Rights.’ Jack followed Rebus into the living room. The suitcase stayed out in the hall.
‘Fancy a drink?’ Rebus asked.
‘Ha ha.’
Rebus shrugged, found a clean glass and poured himself some of Kayleigh Burgess’s whisky. It went down without touching the sides. He exhaled noisily. ‘You must miss it though?’
‘All the time,’ Jack admitted, slumping on to the sofa.
Rebus poured another. ‘I know I would.’
‘That’s half the battle.’
‘What?’
‘Admitting you’d have a problem without it.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Jack shrugged, got to his feet again. ‘Mind if I make a phone call?’
‘My home is your home.’
Jack walked over to the telephone. ‘Looks like you’ve got some messages. Want to play them?’
‘They’ll all be from Ancram.’
Jack lifted the receiver, pressed seven digits. ‘It’s me,’ he said at last. ‘We’re here.’ Then he put the telephone down.
Rebus looked at him above the rim of the glass.
‘There’s a team on its way,’ Jack explained. ‘To look the place over. Chick said he’d tell you.’
‘He told me. No search warrant, I suppose?’
‘If you want it, we can get one. But if I were you, I’d just sit back and let it happen — quick and painless. Plus... if anything ever comes to court, you’ll have the prosecution on a technicality.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Are you on my side, Jack?’ Jack sat down again, but didn’t say anything. ‘You told Ancram I’d phoned you, didn’t you?’
Jack shook his head. ‘I kept my trap shut when maybe I shouldn’t.’ He sat forward. ‘Chick knows we go back, you and me, that’s why I’m here.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘It’s a loyalty thing, he’s testing my loyalty to him, pitting the past — that’s you and me — against my future.’
‘And how loyal are you, Jack?’
‘Don’t push it.’
Rebus drained his glass. ‘This is going to be an interesting few days. What happens if I get lucky winching? Are you going to want to hide beneath the bed, like a piss-pot or the fucking bogeyman?’
‘John, don’t get —’
But Rebus was on his feet. ‘This is my home, for Christ’s sake! The one place I can hide from all the shite flying around out there! Am I supposed to just sit here and take it? You standing guard, forensics sniffing around like mongrels at a lamp-post — am I supposed to sit here and let you get on with it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well fuck that, Jack, and fuck you, too.’ The doorbell rang. ‘You get it,’ Rebus said. ‘They’re your dogs.’
Jack looked hurt as he made for the door. Rebus went into the hall, grabbed his case and took it into his bedroom. He threw it on the bed and opened it. Whoever had packed it had just stuffed everything in, clean and dirty. The whole lot would have to go to the launderette. He lifted out his wash-bag. There was a note folded below it. It told him that ‘certain items of clothing’ had been held back by Grampian Police for forensic ‘exploration’. Rebus looked: his grass-stained trousers and torn shirt from the night he’d been attacked, they were missing. Grogan was having them tested, just in case Rebus had killed Vanessa Holden. Fuck him, fuck them all. Fuck the whole fucking lot of them. Rebus threw the open case across the room, just as Jack came to the doorway.
‘John, they say they won’t be long.’
‘Tell them to take as long as they like.’
‘And tomorrow morning there’ll be blood tests and a saliva sample.’
‘I’ll have no trouble with the latter. Just stand Ancram in front of me.’
‘He didn’t ask for this job, you know.’
‘Fuck off, Jack.’
‘I wish I could.’
Rebus pushed past him into the hall. He glanced into the living room. There were men in there, some of them he knew, all dressed in white boilersuits and polythene gloves. They were lifting the cushions from his sofa, ruffling the pages of his books. They didn’t look like they were enjoying it: small consolation. It made sense that Ancram would use local people: easier than hauling a consignment from weegie-land. The one crouching in front of the corner cupboard got up, turned. Their eyes met.
‘Et tu, Siobhan?’
‘Afternoon, sir,’ Siobhan Clarke said, ears and cheeks reddening. It was about all Rebus needed. He grabbed his jacket, headed for the door.
‘John?’ Jack Morton called after him.
‘Catch me if you can,’ Rebus said. Halfway down the stairs, Jack did just that.
‘Where are we going?’
‘We’re going to a pub,’ Rebus told him. ‘We’ll take my car. You won’t be drinking, so you can drive me home afterwards. That way we stay the right side of the law.’ Rebus pulled the door open. ‘Now let’s see just how strong your Juice Church really is.’
Outside, Rebus almost collided with a tall man with black curly hair, turning grey. He saw the microphone, heard the man rattle off a question. Eamonn Breen. Rebus ducked his head just enough to catch Breen on the bridge of his nose: no power in the ‘Glasgow kiss’, just enough to let Rebus past.
‘Bastard!’ Breen spluttered, dropping the mike and cupping both hands over his nose. ‘Did you catch that? Did you?’
Rebus glanced back, saw blood dripping between Breen’s fingers, saw the cameraman nodding, saw Kayleigh Burgess over to one side, a pen in her mouth, looking at Rebus with half a smile.
‘She probably thought you’d prefer to have a friendly face around,’ Jack Morton said.
They were standing in the Oxford Bar, and Rebus had just told him about Siobhan.
‘Given the circumstances, I know I would.’ Jack was halfway down a pint of fresh orange and lemonade. Ice rattled in the glass when he tipped it. Rebus was on his second pint of Belhaven Best, motoring in fifth: nice and smooth. Sunday evening in the Ox, only twenty minutes after opening time, the place was quiet. Three regulars stood beside them at the bar, heads angled up towards the television, some quiz programme. The quizmaster had topiary where his haircut should have been and teeth transplanted from a Steinway. His job was to hold a card up to just below his face, read out the question, stare at the camera, then repeat the question as though nuclear disarmament depended on the answer.
‘So, Barry,’ he intoned, ‘for two hundred points: which character plays the Wall in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream?’
‘Pink Floyd,’ said the first regular.
‘Snout,’ said the second.
‘Cheerio, Barry,’ said the third, waving his fingers at the television, where Barry was clearly in trouble. A buzzer sounded. The quizmaster opened the question to the other two contestants.
‘No?’ he said. ‘No takers?’ He seemed surprised, but had to refer to his card to find the answer. ‘Snout,’ he said, looking at the hapless trio, then repeating the name just so they’d remember next time. Another card. ‘Jasmine, for a hundred and fifty points: in which American state would you find the town of Akron?’
‘Ohio,’ said the second regular.
‘Isn’t he a character in Star Trek?’ asked the first.
‘Cheerio, Jasmine,’ said the third.
‘So,’ Jack asked, ‘are we talking?’
‘It takes more than my home being raided, my clothes confiscated, and a suspicion of multiple murder hanging over my head to put me in the huff. Of course we’re fucking talking.’
‘Well, that’s all-fucking-right then.’
Rebus snorted into his drink, then had to wipe foam off his nose. ‘I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed nutting that wanker.’
‘He probably enjoyed the fact that the whole thing was being filmed.’
Rebus shrugged, reached into his pocket for cigarettes and lighter.
‘Go on then,’ Jack said, ‘give me one.’
‘You’ve stopped, remember?’
‘Aye, but there’s no AA for smokers. Come on.’
But Rebus shook his head. ‘I appreciate the gesture, Jack, but you’re right.’
‘About what?’
‘About looking out for your future. You’re dead right. So don’t cave in, stick to it. No booze, no cigs, and report my doings back to Chick Ancram.’
Jack looked at him. ‘You mean that?’
‘Every word of it,’ Rebus drained his glass. ‘Except the bit about Ancram, of course.’
Then he ordered another round.
‘The answer’s Ohio,’ the quizmaster said, no surprise to anyone in the bar.
‘I think,’ Jack said a little later on, halfway down his second pint of juice, ‘we’re about to hit our first crisis of faith.’
‘You need a piss?’ Jack nodded. ‘Well forget it,’ Rebus said, ‘I’m not going in there with you.’
‘Give me your word you’ll stay put.’
‘Where would I go?’
‘John...’
‘OK, OK. Would I get you into trouble, Jack?’
‘I don’t know, would you?’
Rebus winked at him. ‘Off you go to the bog and find out.’
Jack stood his ground as long as he could, then turned and fled. Rebus leaned his elbows on the bar, smoking his cigarette. He was wondering what Jack would do if he ran out on him right now: would he report it to Ancram, or would he keep quiet? Would he be doing himself any favours by reporting it? After all, it showed him in a bad light, and he wouldn’t want that. So maybe he’d keep quiet. Rebus could go about his business without Ancram knowing.
Except that Ancram had ways of knowing. The man wasn’t solely dependent on Jack Morton. It was an interesting point, nevertheless: a point of faith, apt enough on a Sunday night. Maybe Rebus would drag Jack along to see Father Conor Leary later on. Jack used to be a real hun, a blue-nose, maybe still was. A drink with a Catholic priest might send him scurrying into the night. He looked round and saw Jack at the top of the steps, looking relieved — in both senses of the word.
Poor bastard, Rebus thought. Ancram wasn’t being fair on him. You could see the strain around Jack’s mouth. Rebus felt tired suddenly, remembered he’d been up since six, and had been on the rack ever since. He drained his glass and gestured towards the door. Jack seemed only too glad to be leaving.
When they got outside, Rebus asked him, ‘How close were you in there?’
‘To what?’
‘Ordering a real drink.’
‘As close as I ever get.’
Rebus leaned on the roof of the car, waiting for Jack to unlock it. ‘Sorry I did that to you,’ he said quietly.
‘What?’
‘Brought you here.’
‘I should have the willpower to go into a pub without drinking.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
And he had a little smile to himself. Jack would be OK. Jack wouldn’t shop him. The man had lost too much self-respect already.
‘There’s a spare room,’ Rebus said, getting into the car, ‘but no sheets or anything. We’ll make up the sofa if that’s OK.’
‘That’ll be fine,’ Jack said.
Fine for Jack, yes, but not so fine for Rebus. It meant he’d have to sleep in his bed. No more nights half-dressed on the chair by the window. No more Stones at two a.m. He knew he had to get busy, had to finish this as fast as he could, one way or another.
Beginning tomorrow.
As they left the Ox, Rebus decided on a detour, directed Jack down towards Leith, let him drive them around for a bit, then pointed to a darkened shop doorway.
‘That was her pitch,’ he said.
‘Whose?’ Jack stopped the car. The street was lifeless, the working girls busy elsewhere.
‘Angie Riddell’s. I knew her, Jack. I mean, I’d met her a couple of times. First time, it was business, I was pulling her in. But then I came down here looking for her.’ He looked at Jack, expecting a jokey comment, but Jack’s face was serious. He was listening. ‘We sat and talked. Next thing I knew, she was dead. It’s different when you know someone. You remember their eyes. I don’t mean the colour or anything, I mean all the things their eyes told you about them.’ He sat in silence for a moment. ‘Whoever killed her, he couldn’t have been looking at her eyes.’
‘John, we’re not priests, you know. I mean, this is a job, right? You have to be able to lay it aside sometimes.’
‘Is that what you do, Jack? Home after a shift, and suddenly everything’s OK? Doesn’t matter what you’ve seen out there, your home is your castle, eh?’
Jack shrugged, hands rubbing the steering-wheel. ‘It’s not my life, John.’
‘Good for you, pal.’ He looked towards the doorway again, expecting to see something of her there, the trace of a shadow, something left behind. But all he saw was darkness.
‘Get me home,’ he told Jack, closing his eyes with both thumbs.
The Fairmount Hotel was situated in Glasgow’s west end, just off the main traffic routes. From the outside, it was an unassuming slab of concrete. Inside, it was a middle-management sort of place, its main business taking place during the week. Bible John booked for the Sunday night only.
News of the Upstart’s latest victim had broken on Sunday morning, too late for coverage in the quality press. Instead, he caught the hourly news bulletins on the radio in his room, tuning between half a dozen stations, and watched what TV news he could, making notes between times. The Teletext flashes were brief paragraphs. Almost all he knew was that the victim, a married woman in her late twenties, had been found near the harbour in Aberdeen.
Aberdeen again. It was all fitting together. At the same time, if it was the Upstart, he was breaking his pattern — his first married victim, and perhaps his oldest. Which might mean that the pattern had never been there in the first place. It didn’t of necessity negate an existing pattern; it just meant that that pattern had yet to be established.
Which was what Bible John was counting on.
Meantime, he opened the UPSTART file on his laptop and read the notes on the third victim. Judith Cairns, known to her friends as Ju-Ju. Twenty-one years old, shared a rented flat in Hillhead, just across Kelvingrove Park — he could almost see Hillhead from his window. Although she was registered unemployed, Judith Cairns had worked the black economy — some bar work at lunchtimes; a chip shop in the evenings; and weekend mornings as a chambermaid at the Fairmount Hotel. Which was, Bible John was guessing, how the Upstart had come to meet her. A travelling man frequented hotels: he should know. He wondered how close he was to the Upstart — not physically, but mentally. He didn’t want to feel close in any way to this brash pretender, this usurper. He wanted to feel unique.
He paced his room, wanting to be back in Aberdeen while the latest inquiry unfolded, but he had work here in Glasgow, work he could not accomplish until the middle of the night. He stared out of the window, imagining Judith Cairns crossing Kelvingrove Park: she must have done it dozens of times. And one time she did it with the Upstart. Once was all he needed.
During the course of the afternoon and evening, more news filtered down of the latest victim. She was now being described as a ‘successful twenty-seven-year-old company director’. The word businessman was like a shriek in Bible John’s head. Not a lorry driver or any other profession; a simple businessman. The Upstart. He sat down at his computer and scrolled back to his notes on the first victim, the student at Robert Gordon’s University, studying geology. He needed to know more about her, but couldn’t think which route to take. And now there was a fourth victim to occupy him. Perhaps study of number four would mean he wouldn’t need the first cull to complete his picture. Tonight might point the way.
He went out late for a walk. It was very pleasant, balmy night air, not much traffic about. Glasgow wasn’t such a bad place: he’d been to cities in the States that could eat it for brunch. He remembered the city of his youth, stories of razor gangs and bare-knuckle bouts. Glasgow had a violent history, but that didn’t tell the full story. It could be a beautiful city, too, a city for photographers and artists. A place for lovers...
I didn’t want to kill them. He would like to be able to tell Glasgow that, but of course it would be a lie. At the time... at the last moment... all he’d wanted in the world was their death. He had read interviews with killers, sat through trial testimony a couple of times, too, wanting someone to explain his feelings to him. No one came close. It was impossible either to describe or to understand.
There were many who especially didn’t understand his choice of third victim. It felt pre-ordained, he could have told them. It didn’t matter about the witness in the taxi. Nothing mattered, it had all been decided by some higher power.
Or some lower one.
Or merely by some collision of chemicals in his brain, by a genetic mismatch.
And afterwards, there’d been his uncle’s offer of a job in the States, so he could afford to leave Glasgow. Leave the whole life behind him and create a new one, a new identity... as if marriage and a career could ever take the place of what he’d left behind...
He bought the next morning’s edition of the Herald at a street corner and retired to a bar to devour it. He drank orange juice and sat in a corner. No one paid him any attention. There were more details about the Upstart’s latest victim. She worked in corporate presentations, which meant putting together packages for industry: videos, displays, speech-writing, trade stands... He studied the photo again. She’d worked in Aberdeen, and there was really only one industry in Aberdeen. Oil. He didn’t recognise her, felt sure they’d never met. All the same, he wondered why the Upstart had chosen her: could he be sending Bible John a message? Impossible: it would mean he knew who Bible John was. Nobody knew. Nobody.
It was midnight when he returned to the hotel. Reception was deserted. He went up to his room, dozed for a couple of hours, and had the alarm wake him at half past two. He took the carpeted stairs down to reception, which was still deserted. Breaking into the office took thirty seconds. He closed the door after him and sat down in darkness at the computer. It was switched on and in screen saver mode. He nudged the mouse to activate the screen, then got to work. He searched back six weeks from the date of Judith Cairns’s murder, checking room registrations and payment methods. He was looking for accounts charged to companies based in or near Aberdeen. His feeling was that the Upstart hadn’t come to this hotel looking for a victim, but had been here on business, and had found her by chance. He was looking for the elusive pattern to start emerging.
Fifteen minutes later, he had a list of twenty companies, and of the individuals who had paid with a company credit card. For now, that was all he needed, but he was left with a dilemma: delete the files from the computer, or leave them? With the information deleted, he would have every chance of beating the police to the Upstart. Yes, but someone from the hotel staff would notice, and would be curious. They might contact the police. There would probably be back-ups on floppy. He would actually be helping the police, alerting them to his presence... No, leave well alone. Do no more than is necessary. The maxim had served him well in the past.
Back in his room, he pored over the list in his notebook. It would be easy to check where each company was based, what it did — work for later. He had a meeting in Edinburgh tomorrow, and would use the trip to do something about John Rebus. He checked Teletext one last time before retiring for the night. After turning off the lights, he opened the curtains, then lay down on the bed. There were stars in the sky, a few of them bright enough to be visible through the streetlight. Dead, a lot of them, or so the astronomers said. So many dead things around, what difference would another one make?
None at all. Not one jot.
They took Jack’s car to Howdenhall, Rebus sitting in the back, calling Jack his ‘chauffeur’. It was a gloss-black Peugeot 405, three years old, turbo version; Rebus disregarded the No Smoking sticker and lit up, but kept the window open beside him. Jack didn’t say anything, didn’t even look in the rearview. Rebus hadn’t slept well in the bed; night sweats, the sheets like a straitjacket. Chase dreams waking him every hour or so, sending him shooting out of bed to stand naked and trembling in the middle of the floor.
Jack for his part had complained first thing of a stiff neck. His second complaint: the kitchen, bare fridge and all. He couldn’t go out to the shops, not without Rebus, so they’d made straight for the car.
‘I’m gutting,’ he complained.
‘So stop and we’ll eat something.’
They stopped at a bakery in Liberton: sausage rolls, beakers of coffee, a couple of macaroon cakes. Sat eating them in the car, parked double yellow by a bus stop. Buses rattled them as they passed, hinting they should shift. There were messages on the backs of some of them: Please Give Way to This Bus.
‘I don’t mind the buses,’ Jack said. ‘It’s their drivers I object to. Half of them couldn’t pass the time of day, never mind a PSV test.’
Rebus’s comment: ‘It’s not buses that have the choke-hold on this place.’
‘You’re cheery this morning.’
‘Jack, just shut your gub and drive.’
They were ready for him at Howdenhall. The team last night at his flat had taken away all his shoes, so the forensic bods could check for footprints and fail to match them against any left at the scene of Johnny Bible’s murders. First thing Rebus had to do this morning was remove the shoes he was wearing. They gave him plastic overshoes to wear, and said his own would be returned to him before he left. The overshoes were too big, uncomfortable — his feet slid around inside them, and he had to curl his toes to keep them from slipping off.
They decided against a saliva test — it was the least reliable — but plucked hairs from his head.
‘Could you graft them on to my temples when you’re finished?’
The woman with the tweezers smiled, went about her business. She explained that she had to get the roots — PCR analysis wouldn’t work on shed hair. There was a test available in some places, but...
‘But?’
She didn’t answer, but Rebus knew what she’d meant: but they were just going through the motions with him. Neither Ancram nor anyone else was expecting the expensive tests to yield any positive result. The only result would be a nettled, unsettled Rebus. That’s what the whole thing was about. Forensics knew it; Rebus knew it.
Blood sample — the need for a warrant had been waived — and fingerprints next, plus they wanted some strands and threads from his clothes. I’m going on the computer, Rebus thought. For all that I’m not guilty, I’ll still be a suspect in the eyes of history. Anyone digging the files out in twenty years’ time will see that a policeman was interviewed, and gave samples... It was a grim feeling. And once they had his DNA on record... well, that was him on the register. The Scottish DNA database was just beginning to be compiled. Rebus started to wish he’d insisted on a warrant.
Throughout each process Jack Morton stood by, averting his face. And afterwards, Rebus got his shoes back. It felt like the forensic science staff were staring at him; maybe they were, maybe they weren’t. Pete Hewitt wandered past — he hadn’t been present at the fingerprinting — and made a crack about the biter bit. Jack grabbed Rebus’s arm, stopped him from swinging. Hewitt shuffled off double quick.
‘We’re due at Fettes,’ Jack reminded Rebus.
‘I’m ready.’
Jack looked at him. ‘Maybe we’ll stop off somewhere first, get another coffee.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Afraid I’ll take a swing at Ancram?’
‘If you do, bear in mind he’s a southpaw.’
‘Inspector, do you have any objections to this interview being recorded?’
‘What happens to the recording?’
‘It’ll be dated and timed, copies made: one for you. Transcripts ditto.’
‘No objections.’
Ancram nodded to Jack Morton, who set the machine running. They were in an office on the third floor of Fettes. It was cramped, and looked like it had hastily been vacated by a disgruntled tenant. There was a wastepaper-bin by the desk, waiting to be emptied. Paper-clips littered the floor. The walls still bore marks where Sellotaped pictures had been yanked down. Ancram sat behind the scratched desk, the Spaven casenotes piled to one side. He was wearing a formal dark-blue pinstripe with pale blue shirt and tie, and looked like he’d been for a haircut first thing. There were two pens in front of him on the desk — a blue fine-nib Bic with yellow casing, and an expensive-looking lacquered rollerball. His buffed and filed nails tapped against a clean pad of A4 paper. A typed list of notes, queries and points to be raised sat to the right of the pad.
‘So, doctor,’ Rebus said, ‘what are my chances?’
Ancram merely smiled. When he spoke, it was for the benefit of the tape machine.
‘DCI Charles Ancram, Strathclyde CID. It’s —’ he consulted a thin wristwatch — ‘ten forty-five on Monday the twenty-fourth of June. Preliminary interview with Detective Inspector John Rebus, Lothian and Borders Police. This interview is taking place in office C25, Lothian Police Headquarters, Fettes Avenue, Edinburgh. Also present is —’
‘You forgot the postcode,’ Rebus said, folding his arms.
‘That was the voice of DI Rebus. Also present is DI Jack Morton, Falkirk CID, currently on secondment to Strathclyde Police, Glasgow.’
Ancram glanced at his notes, picked up the Bic and ran through the first couple of lines. Then he picked up a plastic beaker of water and sipped from it, watching Rebus over the rim.
‘Any time you’re ready,’ Rebus told him.
Ancram was ready. Jack sat by the table on which the tape machine sat. Two mikes ran from it to the desk, one pointing towards Ancram, one towards Rebus. From where he was sitting, Rebus couldn’t quite see Jack. It was just him and Ancram, the chessboard set for play.
‘Inspector,’ Ancram said, ‘you know why you’re here?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m here because I’ve refused to give up an investigation into possible links between Glaswegian gangster Joseph Toal, the Aberdeen drug market, and the murder of an oil-worker in Edinburgh.’
Ancram flicked through the casenotes, looking bored.
‘Inspector, you know that interest in the Leonard Spaven case has been revived?’
‘I know the TV sharks have been circling. They think they can smell blood.’
‘And can they?’
‘Just a leaky old ketchup bottle, sir.’
Ancram smiled; it wouldn’t come over on the recording.
‘CI Ancram smiles,’ Rebus said, for the record.
‘Inspector,’ referring to his notes, ‘what started this media interest?’
‘Leonard Spaven’s suicide, added to his public notoriety.’
‘Notoriety?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘The media get a vicarious thrill from reformed thugs and murderers, especially when they show some artistic leaning. The media often aspire to art themselves.’
Ancram seemed to expect more. They sat in silence for a moment. Cassette whirr; motor noise. Someone along the corridor sneezed. No sunshine today: iron-clad skies forecasting rain; a bitter wind off the North Sea.
Ancram sat back in his chair. His message to Rebus: I don’t need the notes, I know this case. ‘How did you feel when you heard Lawson Geddes had killed himself?’
‘Gutted. He was a good officer, and a good friend to me.’
‘You had your differences though?’
Rebus tried to hold the stare; ended up blinking first. Thought: of such accumulated setbacks were battles lost.
‘Did we?’ Old trick, answer a question with a question. Ancram’s look said it was a tired move.
‘I’ve had my men talk to some serving officers from the time.’ A glance towards Jack, not even lasting a second. Drawing Jack in. Good tactics, sowing doubt.
‘We had minor disagreements, same as everybody else.’
‘You still respected him?’
‘Present tense.’
Ancram bowed his head, acknowledging this. Fingered his notes, like stroking a woman’s arm. Possessive. But doing it for comfort too, for reassurance.
‘So, you worked well together?’
‘Pretty well. Mind if I smoke?’
‘We’ll have a break at...’ checking his watch, ‘eleven forty-five. Fair enough?’
‘I’ll try to survive.’
‘You’re a survivor, Inspector. Your record speaks for itself.’
‘So talk to my record.’
A quick smile. ‘When did you find out that Lawson Geddes had it in for Leonard Spaven?’
‘I don’t understand the question.’
‘I think you do.’
‘Think again.’
‘Do you know why Geddes was kicked off the Bible John inquiry?’
‘No.’ It was the one question that had power, real power: it could get to Rebus.
Because he wanted to know the answer.
‘You don’t? He never told you?’
‘Never.’
‘But he talked about Bible John?’
‘Yes.’
‘See, it’s all a bit vague...’ Ancram went into a drawer, hefted two more bulging files on to the desk. ‘I’ve got Geddes’s personnel file and reports here. Plus some stuff from the Bible John inquiry, bits and pieces he was involved in. Seems he grew obsessed.’ Ancram opened one file, turned pages idly, then looked at Rebus. ‘Does that sound familiar?’
‘You’re saying he was obsessed with Lenny Spaven?’
‘I know he was.’ Ancram let that sink in, nodding his head. ‘I know it from interviews with officers from the time, but more importantly I know it because of Bible John.’
The bastard had hooked Rebus. They were only twenty minutes into the interview. Rebus crossed his legs, tried to look unconcerned. His face was so taut, he knew the muscles were probably visible beneath the skin.
‘See,’ Ancram went on, ‘Geddes tried to tie Spaven to the Bible John case. Now, the notes aren’t complete. Either they were destroyed or lost, or else Geddes and his superior didn’t write down everything. But Geddes was going after Spaven, no doubt about that. Tucked away in one of the files I found some old photographs. Spaven’s in them.’ Ancram held the photos up. ‘They’re from the Borneo campaign. Geddes and Spaven were in the Scots Guards together. My feeling is that something happened out there, and from then on Geddes was out for Spaven’s blood. How am I doing so far?’
‘Filling the time nicely till the ciggie break. Can I see those photos?’
Ancram shrugged, handed them over. Rebus looked. Old black and whites with crimped edges, a couple of them no bigger than two inches by an inch and a half, the rest four by sixes. Rebus picked Spaven out straight away, the raptor grin hauling him into history. There was a minister in the photos, army uniform and dog collar. Other men posing, dressed in baggy shorts and long socks, faces sweat-shiny, eyes almost scared. Some of the faces were blurred; Rebus couldn’t make out Lawson Geddes in any of them. The photos were exteriors, bamboo huts in the background, an old jeep nosing into one shot. He turned them over, read an inscription — Borneo, 1965 — and some names.
‘Did these come from Lawson Geddes?’ Rebus asked, handing them back.
‘I’ve no idea. They were just in with all the other Bible John junk.’ Ancram slipped them back into the file, counting them as he did so.
‘They’re all there,’ Rebus said. Jack Morton’s chair scraped the floor: he was checking how long till the tape had to be switched.
‘So,’ Ancram said, ‘we’ve got Geddes and Spaven serving together in the Scots Guards; we’ve got Geddes chasing Spaven during the Bible John inquiry — and getting booted off the case; then we wind forwards a few years and what do we have? Geddes still chasing Spaven, but this time for the murder of Elizabeth Rhind. And getting booted off the case again.’
‘Spaven definitely knew the victim.’
‘No argument there, Inspector.’ Pause: four beats. ‘You knew one of the Johnny Bible victims — does it mean you killed her?’
‘Come up with her necklace in my flat and ask me again.’
‘Ah, well this is where it gets interesting, isn’t it?’
‘Oh good.’
‘You know the word serendipity?’
‘I pepper my speech with it.’
‘Dictionary definition: the ability to make happy chance finds. Useful word.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And Lawson Geddes had the gift, didn’t he? I mean, you get an anonymous tip-off about a consignment of stolen clock-radios. So you hoof it over to a garage, no search warrant, no nothing, and what do you find? Leonard Spaven, the clock-radios, and a hat and shoulder-bag — both belonging to the murder victim. I’d call that a very happy chance find. Except it wasn’t chance, was it?’
‘We had a warrant.’
‘Signed retrospectively by a tame JP.’ Ancram smiled again. ‘You think you’re doing all right, don’t you? You think I’m doing all the talking, which means you’re saying nothing incriminating. Well listen, I’m talking because I want you to know where we stand. Afterwards, you’ll have every opportunity for rebuttal.’
‘I’ll look forward to that.’
Ancram referred to his notes. Rebus’s mind was still half on Borneo and those photographs: what the hell could they have to do with Bible John? He wished he’d looked at them a bit harder.
‘I’ve been reading your own version of events, Inspector,’ Ancram went on, ‘and I begin to see why you had your pal Holmes take a good look at them.’ He looked up. ‘That was the idea, wasn’t it?’
Rebus said nothing.
‘See, you weren’t quite a seasoned officer back then, for all Geddes had taught you. You wrote a good report, but you were too conscious of the lies you were telling and the gaps you were having to create. I’m good at reading between the lines, practical criticism if you like.’
Rebus had a picture in his mind: Lawson Geddes shivering and wild-eyed on his doorstep.
‘So here’s how I think it went. Geddes was following Spaven — out on a limb by this time; he’d been ordered off the case. He tracked him to the lock-up one day, waited until Spaven was gone and then broke in. Liked the look of what he saw, and decided to plant some evidence.’
‘No.’
‘So he breaks in again, only this time he has some of the victim’s stuff with him. Now, he didn’t get it from an evidence locker, because according to the records nobody removed a hat or a bag from the victim’s abode. So how did he get it? Two possibilities. One, he waltzed back into her home and took it. Two, he already had it on him, because right from the start he had the idea of fitting up Spaven.’
‘No.’
‘To the first or to the second?’
‘To both.’
‘You’ll stand by that?’
‘Yes.’
Ancram had been leaning further over the desk as he’d made each point. Slowly he sat back again, glanced at his watch.
‘Cigarette break?’ Rebus asked.
Ancram shook his head. ‘No, I think that’s enough for today. You made so many cock-ups in the course of that false report, it’s going to take me time to list them all. We’ll go through them next meeting.’
‘I’m excited already.’ Rebus got up and reached into a pocket for his cigarettes. Jack had switched off the recorder and ejected the tape. He handed it to Ancram.
‘I’ll have a copy made immediately and sent to you for verification,’ Ancram told Rebus.
‘Thanks.’ Rebus inhaled, wished he could hold his breath for ever. Some people, when they exhaled no smoke came out. He wasn’t that selfish. ‘One question.’
‘Yes?’
‘What am I supposed to tell my colleagues when I drag Jack here into the office with me?’
‘You’ll think of something. You’re a more practised liar these days.’
‘I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, but thanks anyway.’ He made to leave.
‘A little birdie tells me you put the nut on a TV reporter.’
‘I tripped, fell into him.’
Ancram almost smiled. ‘Tripped?’ Waited till Rebus had nodded. ‘Well, it’s going to look good, isn’t it? They got the whole thing on video.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘This little birdie of yours... anyone in particular?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, you have your sources, don’t you? In the press, I mean. Jim Stevens for one. Nice little friendship the two of you have got.’
‘No comment, Inspector.’ Rebus laughed, turned away. ‘One more thing,’ Ancram said.
‘What?’
‘When Geddes was trying to pin the murder on Spaven, you interviewed some of Spaven’s friends and associates, including...’ Ancram made show of looking for the name in his notes. ‘Fergus McLure.’
‘What of it?’
‘Mr McLure’s recently deceased. I believe you went to see him the morning he died?’
Who’d been talking?
‘So?’
Ancram shrugged, looked satisfied. ‘Just another... coincidence. By the way, DCI Grogan called me this morning.’
‘It must be love.’
‘Do you know a pub in Aberdeen called the Yardarm?’
‘It’s down by the docks.’
‘Yes, it is. Ever been inside?’
‘Maybe.’
‘A drinker in there says definitely. You bought him a drink, talked about the rigs.’
The wee man with the heavy cranium. ‘So?’
‘So it shows you were at the docks the night before Vanessa Holden was murdered. Two nights in a row, Inspector. Grogan’s beginning to sound very edgy. I think he wants you back in his custody.’
‘Are you going to hand me over?’ Ancram shook his head. ‘No, you wouldn’t want that, would you?’
Rebus almost blew some smoke in Ancram’s face. Almost. Maybe he was more selfish than he thought...
‘That went as well as could be expected,’ Jack Morton said. He was in the driver’s seat, Rebus electing to sit in the front with him.
‘Only because you thought there’d be a bloodbath.’
‘I was trying to remember my first aid training.’
Rebus laughed, releasing tension. He had a headache.
‘Aspirin in the glove compartment,’ Jack told him. Rebus opened it. There was a little plastic bottle of Vittel there, too. He washed down three tablets.
‘Were you ever in the Scouts, Jack?’
‘I was a sixer in the Cubs, never made the transfer to Scouts. I had other hobbies by then. Are the Scouts still going?’
‘Last I heard.’
‘Remember Bob-a-Job week? You had to go round the neighbours, washing windows, digging their gardens. Then at the end, you handed all the cash over to Akela.’
‘Who promptly stuck half in his pocket.’
Jack looked at him. ‘There’s a touch of the cynic in you, isn’t there?’
‘Maybe just a touch.’
‘So where to now? Fort Apache?’
‘After what I’ve just been through?’
‘The Ox?’
‘You’re learning.’
Jack opted for tomato juice — watching his weight, he said — while Rebus had a half-pint and, after a moment’s thought, a nip. The lunchtime trade wasn’t in yet, but the pies and bridies were heating in preparation. Maybe the barmaid had been in the Girl Guides. They took their drinks through to the back room, settled at a corner table.
‘It’s funny being back in Edinburgh,’ Jack said. ‘Never used to drink here, did we? What was the name of the local along Great London Road?’
‘I don’t remember.’ It was true; he couldn’t even recall the pub’s interior, yet must have been in there two or three hundred times. It was just a place for drink and discussion; what life it had the drinkers brought with them.
‘Jesus, the money we wasted in there.’
‘There speaks the reformed drinker.’
Jack forced a smile, lifted his glass. ‘John, tell me though, why do you drink?’
‘It kills my dreams.’
‘It’ll kill you in the end, too.’
‘Something’s got to.’
‘Know what someone said to me? They said you were the world’s longest surviving suicide victim.’
‘Who said that?’
‘Never mind.’
Rebus was laughing. ‘Maybe I should apply to the Guinness Book of Records.’
Jack drained his glass. ‘So what’s the itinerary?’
‘There’s someone I’m supposed to call, a journalist.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I suppose she might be home. I’m going back to the bar to use the phone. Are you coming?’
‘No, I’ll trust you.’
‘You sure?’
‘Fairly.’
So Rebus went to call Mairie, but all he got was her answering machine. He left a brief message, and asked the barmaid if there was a photographer’s within walking distance. She nodded, gave him directions, then went back to wiping glasses. Rebus summoned Jack, and they drifted out of the pub into a day that was growing warmer. There was still a blanket of cloud overhead, oppressive, almost thundery. But you just knew the sun was pummelling it, like a child with its pillow. Rebus took his jacket off, slung it over his shoulder. The photographer’s was one street further along, so they cut through Hill Street.
The shop carried a window display of portraits — wedding couples seeming to radiate light, young children beaming smiles. Frozen moments of happiness — the great deception — to frame and put in pride of place in your cabinet or on top of the television.
‘Holiday snaps, is it?’ Jack asked.
‘Just don’t ask how I got them,’ Rebus warned. He explained to the assistant that he wanted reprints made of each negative. She jotted down the instructions and told him it would be next day.
‘No chance of one-hour?’
‘Not with reprints, sorry.’
Rebus took the receipt from her and folded it into his pocket. Outside again, the sun had given up. It was raining. Rebus kept his jacket off, sweating enough as it was.
‘Look,’ Jack said, ‘you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but I wouldn’t mind knowing a bit about all this.’
‘All what?’
‘Your trip to Aberdeen, all the little coded messages between Chick and you, just, well, everything.’
‘Probably best you don’t know.’
‘Why? Because I’m working for Ancram?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Come on, John.’
But Rebus wasn’t listening. Two shops down from the photographer’s was a small DIY store: paint and brushes and wallpaper rolls. It gave Rebus an idea. Back at the car, he gave directions, telling Jack they were on a mystery tour — remembering Lumsden saying the same thing to him his first night in Furry Boot Town. Near St Leonard’s Rebus told Jack to make a left.
‘Here?’
‘Here.’
It was a do-it-yourself superstore. The car park was almost empty, so they parked close to the doors. Then Rebus hopped out and found a trolley with four working wheels.
‘You’d think in a place like this they’d have someone who could fix them.’
‘What are we doing here?’
‘I need a few things.’
‘You need provisions, not bags of plaster.’
Rebus turned to him. ‘That’s just where you’re wrong.’
He bought paint, rollers and brushes, turps, a couple of ground-sheets, plaster, a hot-air gun, sandpaper (coarse and fine), and varnish, sticking it all on his credit card. Then he treated Jack to lunch at a nearby café, a haunt of his from St Leonard’s days.
And afterwards: home. Jack helped him carry everything upstairs.
‘Brought any old clothes with you?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’ve a boilersuit in the boot.’
‘Better bring it up.’ Rebus stopped, stared at his open door, dropped the paint and ran into the flat. A quick check told him there was no one there. Jack was examining the jamb.
‘Looks like someone took a crowbar to it,’ he said. ‘What’s missing?’
‘The hi-fi and telly are still there.’
Jack walked in, checked the rooms. ‘Looks much the same as when we left it. Want to call it in?’
‘Why? We both know this is Ancram trying to rattle me.’
‘I don’t see that.’
‘No? Funny I get a break-in when I’m being interrogated by him.’
‘We should call it in, that way the insurance will cover you for a new door-frame.’ Jack looked around him. ‘Surprised nobody heard it.’
‘Deaf neighbours,’ Rebus said. ‘Edinburgh’s famous for them. All right, we’ll call it in. You go back to the store and fetch another lock or something.’
‘And what will you be doing?’
‘Sitting here, minding the fort. I promise.’
The minute Jack was out of the door, Rebus headed for the telephone. He asked to be put through to DCI Ancram. Then he waited, looking around the room. Somebody breaks in, then leaves without taking the hi-fi. It was almost an insult.
‘Ancram.’
‘It’s me.’
‘Something on your mind, Inspector?’
‘My flat’s been broken into.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. What did they take?’
‘Nothing. That’s where they slipped up. I thought you should tell them.’
Ancram laughed. ‘You think I had something to do with it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I was hoping you’d tell me. The word “harassment” springs to mind.’ As soon as he said it, he thought of The Justice Programme: how desperate were they? Desperate enough for a spot of housebreaking? He couldn’t see it, not Kayleigh Burgess. Eamonn Breen, however, was another matter entirely...
‘Look, this is a pretty serious allegation. I’m not sure I want to listen to it. Why not calm down and think it over?’
Rebus was doing just that. He hung up on Ancram, got his wallet out of his jacket pocket. It was full of scraps of paper, receipts, business cards. He plucked out Kayleigh Burgess’s, phoned her office.
‘I’m afraid she’s not here this afternoon,’ a secretary told him. ‘Can I take a message?’
‘What about Eamonn?’ Trying to sound like a friend. ‘Is he in by any chance?’
‘I’ll just check. What’s the name?’
‘John Rebus.’
‘Hold the line.’ Rebus held. ‘No, sorry, Eamonn’s out as well. Shall I tell him you called?’
‘No, it’s all right, I’ll catch up with him later. Thanks anyway.’
Rebus went through the flat again, more carefully this time. His first thought had been a straight break-in; his second some sort of ruse to wind him up. But now he was thinking of other things someone could have been looking for. It wasn’t easy to tell: Siobhan and her friends hadn’t exactly left the place as they’d found it. But nor had they been particularly thorough. For instance, they hadn’t spent time in the kitchen, hadn’t opened the cupboard where he kept all his cuttings and newspapers.
But someone had. Rebus knew which cutting he’d last read, and it was no longer on top of the pile. Instead, it had migrated south three or four layers. Maybe Jack... no, he didn’t think Jack had been snooping.
But someone had. Someone most definitely had.
By the time Jack got back, Rebus had changed into jeans and a gaudy T-shirt bearing the legend DANCING PIGS. A couple of woolly suits had been round to inspect the damage and scribble some notes. They gave Rebus a reference number. His insurers would want it.
Rebus had already moved some of the furniture out of the living room into the hall, and placed a ground-sheet over everything else. The other sheet went on the carpet. He lifted the fishing-boat painting off the wall.
‘I like that,’ Jack said.
‘Rhona gave it to me, the first birthday I had after we were married. Bought it at a craft fair, thought it’d remind me of Fife.’ He was studying the painting and shaking his head.
‘I take it it didn’t?’
‘I come from west Fife — mining villages, rough — not the East Neuk.’ All fishing creels, tourists and retirement homes. ‘I don’t think she ever understood.’ He took the painting through to the hall.
‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ Jack said.
‘And on police time. Which would you rather do, paint the walls, strip the door, or fit the lock?’
‘Paint.’ With his blue boilersuit on, Jack looked the part. Rebus handed him the roller, then reached under the sheet to put the hi-fi on. Stones, Exile on Main Street. Just right. The two of them got to work.
They took a break and walked up Marchmont Road, buying groceries. Jack kept his boilersuit on, said he felt like he was undercover. He had a smudge of paint on his face, but didn’t bother wiping it off. He was enjoying himself. He’d sung along to the music, even though he didn’t always know the words. They bought junk food mostly, carbohydrate, but added four apples and a couple of bananas. Jack asked if Rebus was going to buy any beer. Rebus shook his head, chose Irn-Bru and bricks of orange juice instead.
‘What’s all this in aid of?’ Jack asked as they sauntered home.
‘Clearing the mind,’ Rebus answered, ‘giving me time to think... I don’t know. Maybe I’m thinking of selling.’
‘Selling the flat?’
Rebus nodded.
‘And doing what exactly?’
‘Well, I could buy a round-the-world ticket, couldn’t I? Take off for six months. Or stick the money in the bank and live off the interest.’ He paused. ‘Or maybe buy myself a place outside town.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Somewhere by the sea.’
‘That’d be nice.’
‘Nice?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I just fancy a change.’
‘Right next to the beach?’
‘Could be a cliff-top, who knows?’
‘What’s brought this on?’
Rebus thought about it. ‘My home doesn’t feel like my castle any longer.’
‘Yes, but we bought all the painting stuff before the break-in.’
Rebus didn’t have an answer to that.
They worked the rest of the afternoon, windows open to let out the paint fumes.
‘Am I supposed to sleep in here tonight?’ Jack asked.
‘The spare room,’ Rebus told him.
The phone rang at half past five. Rebus got to it just as the answering machine cut in.
‘Hello?’
‘John, it’s Brian. Siobhan told me you were back.’
‘Well, she should know. How are you?’
‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Me, too.’
‘You’re not pick of the week with DCI Ancram.’
Jack Morton started to take an interest in the call.
‘Maybe not, but he’s not my boss.’
‘He has pull, though.’
‘So let him pull.’
‘Brian, I know what you’re up to. I want to talk to you about it. Can we come round there?’
‘We?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Maybe I could come see you.’
‘This place is a building site. We’ll be there in about an hour, all right?’
Holmes hesitated, then said that would be fine.
‘Brian, this is Jack Morton, an old friend of mine. He’s with Falkirk CID, currently seconded to DI John Rebus.’
Jack winked at Brian. He’d washed the paint off his face and hands. ‘What he means is, I’m supposed to keep him out of trouble.’
‘UN Peacekeeper, eh? Well, come in.’
Brian Holmes had spent the hour tidying the living room. He saw Rebus’s appraisal.
‘Just don’t go into the kitchen — looks like an Apache raiding party’s ridden through.’
Rebus smiled and sat on the sofa, Jack next to him. Brian asked if they wanted anything to drink. Rebus shook his head.
‘Brian, I’ve told Jack a wee bit about what’s happened. He’s a good man, we can speak in front of him. OK?’
Rebus was taking a calculated risk, hoping the afternoon’s bonding had worked. If not, at least they’d made progress on the room: three walls with first coats, and half of one side of the door stripped. Plus a new lock on the door.
Brian Holmes nodded and sat down on a chair. There were photos of Nell on top of the gas fire. It looked like they’d been newly framed and placed there: a makeshift shrine.
‘Is she at her mum’s?’ Rebus asked.
Brian nodded. ‘But mostly working late shifts at the library.’
‘Any chance she’s coming back?’
‘I don’t know.’ Brian made to bite a fingernail, discovered there was nothing there to bite.
‘I’m not sure this is the answer.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t make yourself resign, so you’re going to let Ancram kick you out: not cooperating, acting the mule.’
‘I had a good teacher.’
Rebus smiled. It was true, after all. He’d had Lawson Geddes; and Brian had had him.
‘This happened to me once before,’ Brian went on. ‘At school, I had this really good friend, and we were going to go to university together, only he’d decided to go to Stirling, so I said I’d go there, too. But my first choice had been Edinburgh, and to knock Edinburgh’s offer on the head I had to fail Higher German.’
‘And?’
‘And I sat in the exam hall... knowing if I just sat there and didn’t answer any of the questions, that would be it.’
‘But you answered them?’
Brian smiled. ‘Couldn’t help myself. I got a C pass.’
‘Same problem now,’ Rebus said. ‘If you go this way, you’ll always regret it, because in your heart you don’t want to leave. You like what you’re doing. And beating yourself up about it...’
‘What about beating other people up?’ Brian looked straight at him as he asked the question. Mental Minto, sporting bruises.
‘You lost the head once.’ Rebus held up a finger for emphasis. ‘It was once too often, but you got away with it. I don’t think you’ll do that to anyone ever again.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ Holmes turned to Jack Morton. ‘I had this suspect in the biscuit-tin, I gave him a smack.’
Jack nodded: Rebus had told him all about it. ‘I’ve been there myself, Brian,’ Jack said. ‘I mean, it’s never come to blows, but I’ve been close. I’ve skinned my knuckles on a few walls.’
Holmes held up ten fingers: scrapes all across them.
‘See,’ Rebus said, ‘like I say, you’re beating yourself up. Mental’s got a few marks, but they’ll fade.’ He tapped his head. ‘But when the bruises are in here...’
‘I want Nell back.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘But I want to be a copper.’
‘You’ve got to make both those clear to her.’
‘Christ.’ Brian rubbed his face. ‘I’ve tried explaining it...’
‘You’ve always written a good, clear report, Brian.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If the words aren’t coming out right, try writing them down.’
‘Send her a letter?’
‘Call it that if you like. Just put down what it is you want to say, maybe try explaining why you feel that way.’
‘Have you been reading Cosmopolitan or something?’
‘Only the problem page.’
They had a laugh at that, though it didn’t really merit one. Brian stretched in his chair. ‘I need a sleep,’ he said.
‘Get an early night, write the letter first thing tomorrow.’
‘Maybe I will, aye.’
Rebus started to get to his feet. Brian watched him rise.
‘Don’t you want to hear about Mick Hine?’
‘Who he?’
‘Ex-con, the last man to speak to Lenny Spaven.’
Rebus sat down again.
‘I had a job tracking him down. Turns out he was here in town all the time, sleeping rough.’
‘And?’
‘And I had a word with him.’ Brian paused. ‘And I think you should, too. You’ll get a very different picture of Lenny Spaven, believe me.’
Rebus believed him, whatever he meant. He didn’t want to, but he did.
Jack was utterly opposed to the idea.
‘Look, John, my boss is going to want to talk to this guy Hine, right?’
‘Right.’
‘How’s it going to look when he finds out not just that your pal Brian’s been there first, but that you’ve followed up?’
‘It’s going to look bad, but he hasn’t told me not to.’
Jack growled his frustration. They’d dropped his car back at the flat, and were now walking down on to Melville Drive. One side of the road was Bruntsfield Links, the other the Meadows, a flat grassy stretch which could be wonderful on a hot summer’s afternoon — a place to relax, to play football or cricket — but scary at night. The paths were lamp-lit, but it was like the wattage had been turned down. Some nights, the walk was positively Victorian. But this was summer, the sky still pink. There were squares of light shining from the Royal Infirmary and a couple of the tall university buildings huddled around George Square. Female students crossed the Meadows in packs, a lesson learned from the animal world. Maybe there were no predators out there tonight, but the fear was just as real. The government had pledged to combat ‘the fear of crime’. It was reported on the TV news just before the latest Hollywood shoot-’em-up.
Rebus turned to Jack. ‘You going to grass me up?’
‘I should.’
‘Yes, you should. But will you?’
‘I don’t know, John.’
‘Well, don’t let our friendship stand in your way.’
‘That helps me a lot.’
‘Look, Jack, the water I’m in is so deep, I’d probably die of the bends coming back up. So I might just as well stay down here.’
‘Ever heard of the Marianas Trench? Ancram probably has one just like it waiting for you.’
‘You’re slipping.’
‘What?’
‘He was Chick before, now he’s “Ancram”. You better watch yourself.’
‘You’re sober, aren’t you?’
‘As a judge.’
‘Can’t be Dutch courage then, which means it’s plain insanity.’
‘Welcome to my world, Jack.’
They were headed for the back of the Infirmary. There were benches provided just this side of the perimeter wall. Dossers, travellers, down-and-outs... whatever you wanted to call them... they used these benches as beds in the summer. There used to be one old guy, Frank, Rebus saw him every summer, and at the end of every summer he disappeared like a migrating bird, only to reappear the next year. But this year... this year Frank hadn’t appeared. The homeless people Rebus saw were a lot younger than Frank, his spiritual children, if not grandchildren; only they were different — tougher and more frightened, wired and tired. Different game, different rules. Edinburgh’s ‘gentlemen of the road’: twenty years ago you could have measured them in mere dozens. But not these days. Not these days...
They woke up a couple of sleepers, who denied being Mick Hine and said they didn’t know who he was, and then hit lucky with the third bench. He was sitting upright, a pile of newspapers beside him. He had a tiny transistor radio, which he held hard to his ear.
‘Are you deaf or does it just need new batteries?’ Rebus asked.
‘Not deaf, not dumb, not blind. He said another copper might want to talk to me. Do you want a seat?’
Rebus sat down on the bench. Jack Morton rested against the wall behind it, like he’d rather be somewhere out of earshot. Rebus drew out a fiver.
‘Here, get some batteries.’
Mick Hine took the money. ‘So you’re Rebus?’ He gave Rebus a long look. Hine was early forties, balding, with a slight squint. He wore a decent enough suit, only it had holes in both knees. Beneath the jacket was a baggy red T-shirt. Two supermarket carrier bags sat on the ground beside him, bulging with worldly goods. ‘Lenny talked about you. I thought you’d be different.’
‘Different?’
‘Younger.’
‘I was younger when Lenny knew me.’
‘Aye, that’s true. Only film stars get younger, have you noticed that? The rest of us get wrinkled and grey.’ Not that Hine was either. His face was lightly tanned, like polished brass, and what hair he had was jet black and worn long. He had grazes on his cheeks and chin, forehead, knuckles. Either a stumble or a beating.
‘Did you fall over, Mick?’
‘I get dizzy sometimes.’
‘What does the doctor say?’
‘Eh?’
No doctor consulted. ‘You know there are hostels, you don’t need to be out here.’
‘Full up. I hate queueing, so I’m always at the back. Your concern has been noted by Michael Edward Hine. Now, do you want to hear the story?’
‘In your own time.’
‘I knew Lenny in prison, we shared a cell for maybe four months. He was the quiet type, thoughtful. I know he’d been in trouble before, and yet he didn’t fit with prison life. He taught me how to do crosswords, sort out all the jumbled letters. He was patient with me.’ Hine seemed to be drifting off, but pulled himself back. ‘The man he wrote about is the man he was. He told me himself, he’d done wickedness and never been punished for it. But that didn’t make it any easier on his soul, being punished for a crime he didn’t commit. Time and again he told me, “I didn’t do it, Mick, I swear to God and anybody else who’s up there.” It was an obsession with him. I think if he hadn’t had his writing, he might have done away with himself sooner.’
‘You don’t think he was got at?’
Hine thought it over before shaking his head firmly. ‘I believe he took his own life. That last day, it was like he’d come to a decision, made peace with himself. He was calmer, almost serene. But his eyes... he wouldn’t look at me. It was like he couldn’t deal with people any more. He talked, but he was conversing with himself. I liked him such a lot. And his writing was beautiful...’
‘The last day?’ Rebus prompted. Jack was peering through the railings at the hospital.
‘The last day,’ Hine repeated. ‘That last day was the most spiritual of my life. I really felt touched by... grace.’
‘Lovely girl,’ Jack muttered. Hine didn’t hear him.
‘You know what his last words were?’ Hine closed his eyes, remembering. ‘ “God knows I’m innocent, Mick, but I’m so tired of saying it over and over.”’
Rebus was fidgeting. He wanted to be flippant, ironic, his usual self — but now he found he could identify all too easily with Spaven’s epitaph; even perhaps — just a little — with the man himself. Had Lawson Geddes really blinded him? Rebus hardly knew Spaven at all, yet had helped put him in jail for murder, breaching rules and regulations in the process, aiding a man who was feverish with hatred, spellbound by revenge.
But revenge for what?
‘When I heard he’d cut his throat, it didn’t surprise me. He’d been stroking his neck all day.’ Hine leaned forward suddenly, his voice rising. ‘And to his dying day he insisted you set him up! You and your friend!’
Jack turned towards the bench, ready for trouble. But Rebus wasn’t worried.
‘Look at me and tell me you didn’t!’ Hine spat. ‘He was the best friend I ever had, the kindest, gentlest man. All gone now, all gone...’ Hine held his head in his hands and wept.
Of all the options open to him, Rebus knew which he favoured — flight. And that’s exactly the option he took, Jack working hard to keep up with him as he fled across the grass, back towards Melville Drive.
‘Wait up!’ Jack called. ‘Hold on there!’ They were halfway across the playing-field, in the twilit centre of a triangle bordered by footpaths. Jack tugged at Rebus’s arm, tried to slow him. Rebus turned and threw the arm off, then swung a punch. It caught Jack on the cheek, spinning him. There was shock on his face, but he was ready for the second blow, blocked it with a forearm, then threw a right of his own — no southpaw. He feinted, made Rebus think he was aiming for the head, then landed one hard into yielding gut. Rebus grunted, felt the pain but rode with it, took two steps back before launching himself. The two men hit the ground in a roll, their blows lacking force, wrestling for supremacy. Rebus could hear Jack saying his name, over and over. He pushed him off, and came up into a crouch. A couple of cyclists had stopped on one of the paths and were watching.
‘John, what the fuck are you doing?’
Teeth bared, Rebus swung again, even more wildly, giving his friend plenty of time to dodge and launch a punch of his own. Rebus almost defended himself, but thought better of it. Instead, he waited for the impact. Jack hit him low, the sort of blow that could wind a man without doing damage. Rebus doubled over, fell to hands and knees, and spewed on to the ground, spitting out mostly liquid. He went on trying to cough everything out, even when there was nothing left to expel. And then he started crying. Crying for himself and for Lawson Geddes, and maybe even for Lenny Spaven. And most of all for Elsie Rhind and all her sisters, all the victims he couldn’t help and would never ever be able to help.
Jack was sitting a yard or so away, forearms resting on his knees. He was breathing hard and sweating, pulling off his jacket. The crying seemed to take for ever, bubbles of snot escaping from Rebus’s nose, fine lines of saliva from his mouth. Then he felt the shuddering lessen, stop altogether. He rolled on to his back, his chest rising and falling, an arm across his brow.
‘Christ,’ he said, ‘I needed that.’
‘I haven’t had a fight like that since I was a teenager,’ Jack said. ‘Feel better?’
‘Much.’ Rebus got a handkerchief out, wiped eyes and mouth, then blew his nose. ‘Sorry it had to be you.’
‘Rather me than some innocent bystander.’
‘That’s pretty accurate.’
‘Is that why you drink? To stop this happening?’
‘Christ, Jack, I don’t know. I drink because I’ve always done it. I like it; I like the taste and the sensation, I like standing in pubs.’
‘And you like sleep without dreams?’
Rebus nodded. ‘That most of all.’
‘There are other ways, John.’
‘Is this where you try to sell me the Juice Church?’
‘You’re a big boy, make up your own mind.’ Jack got to his feet, pulled Rebus to his.
‘I bet we look like a couple of dossers.’
‘Well, you do. I don’t know about me.’
‘Elegant, Jack, you look cool and elegant.’
Jack touched a hand to Rebus’s shoulder. ‘OK now?’
Rebus nodded. ‘It’s daft, but I feel better than for ages. Come on, let’s go for a walk.’
They turned and headed back towards the Infirmary. Jack didn’t ask where they were going. But Rebus had a destination in mind: the university library in George Square. It was just closing as they walked in, the departing students, folders huddled to chests, giving them plenty of room as they walked up to the main desk.
‘Can I help you?’ a man asked, looking them up and down. But Rebus was walking around the desk to where a young woman was bowed over a pile of books.
‘Hello, Nell.’
She looked up, couldn’t place him at first. Then the blood left her face.
‘What’s happened?’
Rebus held up a hand. ‘Brian’s fine. Jack here and me... well, we...’
‘Tripped and fell,’ Jack said.
‘You shouldn’t drink in pubs with stairs.’ Now she knew Brian was all right, she was regaining her composure fast, and with it her wariness. ‘What do you want?’
‘A word,’ Rebus said. ‘Maybe outside?’
‘I’ll be finished here in five minutes.’
Rebus nodded. ‘We’ll wait.’
They went outside. Rebus went to light a cigarette but found the packet crushed, its contents useless.
‘Christ, just when I could do with one.’
‘Now you know how it feels to give up.’
They sat on the steps and stared at George Square Gardens and the buildings surrounding it, a mishmash of old and new.
‘You can almost feel all that brain power in the air,’ Jack commented.
‘Half the force has been to university these days.’
‘And I bet they don’t go swinging punches at their friends.’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry.’
‘Did Sammy ever go to uni?’
‘College. I think she did something secretarial. She works for a charity now.’
‘Which one?’
‘SWEEP.’
‘Working with ex-cons?’
‘That’s it’
‘Did she do it to have a dig at you?’
Rebus had asked himself the same question many times. He shrugged.
‘Fathers and daughters, eh?’
The door swung open behind them. It was Nell Stapleton. She was tall, with short dark hair and a defiant face. No earrings or jewellery.
‘You can walk me to the bus stop,’ she told them.
‘Look, Nell,’ Rebus started, realising that he should have thought this through, should have rehearsed, ‘all I want to say is, I’m sorry about you and Brian.’
‘Thanks.’ She was walking quickly. Rebus’s knee hurt as he kept up.
‘I know I’m unlikely material as marriage guidance, but there’s something you have to know: Brian’s a born copper. He doesn’t want to lose you — it’s killing him — but leaving the force would be a slow death in itself. He can’t make himself leave, so instead he’s trying to get into trouble, so the high hiedyins will have no alternative but to boot him out. That’s no way to sort a problem.’
Nell didn’t say anything for a while. They headed for Potterrow, crossed the road at the lights. They were headed for Greyfriars, plenty of bus stops there.
‘I know what you’re saying,’ she said at last. ‘You’re saying it’s a no-win situation.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Please, just listen to me.’ Her eyes were glistening in the sodium light. ‘I don’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting for the phone call, the one that tells me there’s bad news. I don’t want to plan weekends off and holidays away only to have them cancelled because some case or court appearance takes precedence. That’s asking too much.’
‘It’s asking a hell of a lot,’ Rebus conceded. ‘It’s a high-wire act without the safety net. But all the same...’
‘What?’
‘You can make it work. A lot of people do. Maybe you can’t plan things too far in advance, maybe there’ll be cancellations and tears. When the chances come, you take them.’
‘Have I wandered into a Dr Ruth show by mistake?’ Rebus sighed, and she stopped walking, took his hand. ‘Look, John, I know why you’re doing this. Brian’s hurting, and you don’t like to see it. I don’t like it either.’ A distant siren wailed, down towards the High Street, and Nell shivered. Rebus saw it, looked into her eyes, and found himself nodding. He knew she was right; his own wife had said the same things. And the way Jack was standing, the look on his face, he’d been here before, too. Nell started walking again.
‘He’ll leave the force, Nell. He’ll make them dump him. But for the rest of his life...’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t be the same. He won’t be the same.’
She nodded. ‘I can live with that.’
‘You don’t know for sure.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘You’ll take that risk, but you won’t risk him staying put?’ Her face hardened, but Rebus didn’t give her time for a comeback. ‘Here’s your bus. Just think about it, Nell.’
He turned and walked back towards the Meadows.
They’d made up a bed for Jack in the spare room — Sammy’s old bedroom, complete with Duran Duran and Michael Jackson posters. They’d washed themselves and shared a pot of tea — no alcohol, no ciggies. Rebus lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, knew sleep wouldn’t come for ages, and that when it did his dreams would be fierce. He got up and tiptoed through to the living room, keeping the lights off. The room was cool, they’d kept the windows open late, but the fresh paint and the old scorched paint from the door left a nice smell. Rebus uncovered his chair and dragged it over to the bay window. He sat down and pulled his blanket over him, felt himself relax. There were lights on across the way and he concentrated on them. I’m a peeper, he thought, a voyeur. All cops are. But he knew he was more than that: he liked to get involved in the lives around him. He had a need to know which went beyond voyeurism. It was a drug. And the thing was, when he had all this knowledge, he then had to use booze to blank it out. He saw his reflection in the window, two-dimensional, ghostly.
I’m almost not here at all, he thought.
Rebus woke up and knew something was wrong. He showered and dressed and still couldn’t put a name to it. Then Jack came slouching through to the kitchen and asked if he’d slept well.
And he had. That was what was different. He’d slept very well indeed, and he’d been sober.
‘Any word from Ancram?’ Jack asked, staring into the fridge.
‘No.’
‘Then you’re probably clear for today.’
‘He must be in training for the next bout.’
‘So do we crack on with the decorating, or actually go to work?’
‘Let’s do an hour’s painting,’ Rebus said. So that’s what they did, Rebus keeping half an eye on the street outside. No reporters, no Justice Programme. Maybe he’d scared them off; maybe they were biding their time. He hadn’t heard anything about an assault charge: Breen was probably too happy with the video footage to consider any further action. Plenty of time to file a complaint after the programme went out...
After the painting, they took Jack’s car to Fort Apache. Jack’s initial response did not disappoint Rebus.
‘What a shit-hole.’
Inside, the station was a frenzy of packing and moving. Vans were already taking crates and boxes to the new station. The desk sergeant had become a shirt-sleeved foreman, making sure the cases were labelled and the moving crew knew where they were to go once they reached their destination.
‘It’ll be a miracle if it goes to plan,’ he said. ‘And I notice CID aren’t giving a hand.’
Jack and Rebus gave him a round of applause: an old joke, but well intentioned. Then they went to the Shed.
Maclay and Bain were in situ.
‘The prodigal son!’ Bain exclaimed. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Helping CI Ancram with his inquiries.’
‘You should have called in. MacAskill wants a word, toot-sweet.’
‘I thought I told you never to call me that.’
Bain smirked. Rebus introduced Jack Morton. There were nods, handshakes, grunts: the usual procedure.
‘You better go see the Boss,’ Maclay said. ‘He’s been fretting.’
‘I’ve been missing him, too.’
‘Did you bring us back anything from Aberdeen?’
Rebus searched his pockets. ‘Must have slipped my mind.’
‘Well,’ Bain said, ‘you were probably busy.’
‘Busier than you two, but that wouldn’t be hard.’
‘Go see the Boss,’ Maclay told him.
Bain was wagging a finger. ‘And you should be nice to us, otherwise we might not tell you what our snitches came up with.’
‘What?’ Local snitches: word out for Tony El’s accomplice.
‘After you’ve talked to MacAskill.’
So Rebus went to see his boss, leaving Jack Morton outside the door.
‘John,’ Jim MacAskill said, ‘what have you been playing at?’
‘Different games, sir.’
‘So I hear, and you’ve not proved proficient at any of them, eh?’
MacAskill’s office was emptying, but there was some way to go. His filing cabinet stood with its drawers gutted, the files themselves spread across the floor.
‘Nightmare,’ he said, noticing Rebus’s look. ‘How’s your own packing coming?’
‘I travel light, sir.’
‘I forget, you’ve not been with us long. Sometimes it seems like for ever.’
‘I have that effect on people.’
MacAskill smiled. ‘Question one in my mind, this reopening of the Spaven case: is it going to go anywhere?’
‘Not if I have my way.’
‘Well, Chick Ancram’s pretty persistent... and thorough. Don’t depend on him overlooking something.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve had a word with your boss at St Leonard’s. He tells me this is par for the course.’
‘I don’t know, sir, seems like I’m playing under a handicap.’
‘Well, anything I can do, John...’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I know the way Chick will play it: attrition. He’ll sweat the arse off you, run you in circles. He makes it easier for you to lie and say you’re guilty than to keep telling the truth. Watch out for that.’
‘Will do.’
‘Meantime, question one: how are you feeling?’
‘I’m all right, sir.’
‘Well, there’s not much happening around here that we can’t handle. So any time off you need, take it.’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘Chick’s west coast, John. He shouldn’t be over here.’ MacAskill shook his head, went to his drawer for a can of Irn-Bru. ‘Bugger,’ he said.
‘Problem, sir?’
‘I’ve gone and bought the diet stuff.’ He opened it anyway. Rebus left him to his packing.
Jack was right outside the door.
‘Did you catch any of that?’
‘I wasn’t listening.’
‘My boss just told me I can bunk off whenever I like.’
‘Which means we can finish doing up the living room.’
Rebus nodded, but he was thinking of finishing something else instead. He went into the Shed and stood in front of Bain’s desk.
‘Well?’
‘Well,’ Bain said, sitting back, ‘we did what you asked, put word out with our snitches. And they came up with a name.’
‘Hank Shankley,’ Maclay added.
‘He’s not got much of a record, but he’s game to make a few quid where he can, no scruples attached. And he gets around. Word is, he’s had a windfall and after a couple of drinks he was boasting about his “Glasgow connection”.’
‘Have you talked to him?’
Bain shook his head. ‘Bided our time.’
‘Waiting for you to turn up,’ Maclay added.
‘Have you been rehearsing this routine? Where can I find him?’
‘He’s a keen swimmer.’
‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘The Commie Pool.’
‘Description?’
‘Big building at the top of Dalkeith Road.’
‘I meant Shankley.’
‘You can’t miss him,’ Maclay said. ‘Late thirties, six feet tall and skinny as a pole, short fair hair. Nordic looking.’
‘The description we got,’ Bain corrected, ‘was albino.’
Rebus nodded. ‘I owe you for this, gents.’
‘You haven’t heard who it was spilled the beans.’
‘Who?’
Bain grinned. ‘Remember Craw Shand?’
‘Claimed to be Johnny Bible?’ Bain and Maclay nodded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was a snitch of yours?’
Bain shrugged. ‘Didn’t want it broadcast. But Craw’s a big fan of yours. See, he likes it rough now and then...’
Outside, Jack made for the car, but Rebus had other plans. He went into a shop and came out with six cans of Irn-Bru, not diet, then marched back into the station. The desk sergeant was sweating. Rebus handed him the carrier bag.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ the sergeant said.
‘They’re for Jim MacAskill,’ Rebus said. ‘I want at least five to reach him.’
Now he was ready to go.
The Commonwealth Pool, which had been built for the Commonwealth Games in 1970, was sited at the top of Dalkeith Road, at the foot of Arthur’s Seat, and just over quarter of a mile from St Leonard’s police station. In the days when he swam, Rebus used the Commie Pool at lunchtimes. You found yourself a lane — never an empty lane, it was like easing out of a slip-road on to a motorway — and you swam, pacing yourself so you didn’t catch up with the person in front, or let the person behind gain on you. It was OK, but a bit too regimented. The other option was to swim breadths in the open pool, but then you were in with the kids and their parents. There was a separate pool for infants, plus three flumes Rebus had never been down, and elsewhere in the building were saunas, gym, and a café.
They found a space in the overflow car park and went in by the main entrance. Rebus showed ID at the kiosk and gave a description of Shankley.
‘He’s a regular,’ the woman told him.
‘Is he here just now?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve only just come on.’ She turned to ask the other woman in the booth, who was counting coins into polythene bank-bags. Jack Morton tapped Rebus’s arm and nodded.
Beyond the kiosk there was a wide open space, with windows looking down on to the main pool. And standing there, glugging Coke from the can, stood a very tall, very thin man with damp, bleached hair. He had a rolled-up towel under one arm. When he turned, Rebus saw that his eyebrows and lashes were fair. Shankley saw two men examining him, placed them immediately. When Rebus and Morton started towards him, he ran.
He turned a corner into the open-plan café, but couldn’t see an exit from there, so kept running, ended up beside the children’s play area. This was a large netted enclosure totalling three storeys, with slides and walkways and other challenges — a toddler assault course. Rebus liked sometimes to sit with a post-swim coffee watching the kids playing, wondering which would make the best soldier.
Shankley was cornered and knew it. He turned to face them: Rebus and Jack were smiling. The impulse to flee was still too strong: Shankley pushed past the attendant, opened the door to the play area, ducked and went in. Two huge padded rollers stood directly in front of him, like a giant mangle. He was thin enough to squeeze between them.
Jack Morton laughed. ‘Where’s he going to go from there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Let’s grab a cup of tea and wait for him to get fed up.’
Rebus shook his head. He’d heard a noise from the top storey. ‘There’s a kid in there.’ He turned to the attendant. ‘Isn’t there?’
She nodded. Rebus turned to Jack. ‘Possible hostage. I’m going in. Stay out here, tell me where Shankley is.’
Rebus took off his jacket and went in.
The rollers were the first obstacle. He was too big to squeeze through, but managed to push his way through the gap between them and the side netting. He remembered his SAS training: assault courses you wouldn’t believe. Kept going. A pool of coloured plastic balls to wade through, and then a tube curving upwards, leading to the first floor. A slide nearby — he climbed that. Through the netting he could see Jack, pointing up and towards the far corner. Rebus stayed in a crouch, looked around. Punch-bags, a net across a yawning gap, a cylinder to crawl through... more slides and climbing-ropes. There: far corner, wondering what to do next. Hank Shankley. People in the café were watching, no longer interested in swimming. One floor further up was the kid. Rebus had to get there before Shankley; either that or grab Shankley first. Shankley didn’t know anyone was in here with him. Jack was shouting up, distracting him.
‘Hey, Hank, we can wait here all day! All night too if we have to! Come on out, we only want a chat! Hank, you look ridiculous in there. Maybe we’ll just padlock it shut and keep you for an exhibit.’
‘Shut up!’ Flecks of foam from Shankley’s mouth. Skinny, gaunt... Rebus knew it was crazy to worry about HIV, but found himself worrying anyway. Edinburgh was still HIV city. He was about fifteen feet from Shankley when he heard a swooshing sound coming towards him fast. He was passing the exit to one of the tubes when a pair of feet hit him, toppling him on to his side. A boy about eight years old stared at him.
‘You’re too big for in here, mister.’
Rebus got up, saw Shankley coming for them, and started dragging the kid by the scruff of his neck. He backed up to the slide, then dropped the boy down it. He was turning to confront Shankley when another foot hit him — the albino’s. He bounced off the mesh wall and tumbled down the padded slide. The boy was making his way to the entrance, where the attendant gestured for him to hurry. Shankley slid down, both fists out, and clubbed Rebus on the neck. He was sprinting for the kid, but the boy was already through the rollers. Rebus dived at Shankley, brought him down into the plastic balls, caught him with a decent punch. Shankley’s arms were tired from swimming; he pummelled Rebus’s sides, but it was like being hit by a rag doll. Rebus grabbed a ball, stuffed it into Shankley’s mouth, where it wedged, the lips taut and bloodless. Then he hit Shankley in the groin, twice, and that just about did it.
Jack came to help him drag the unresisting figure out. ‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘The kid hurt me more than he did.’
The boy’s mother was hugging her son, checking he was all right. She gave Rebus a dirty look. The boy was complaining he still had ten minutes left. The attendant came after Rebus.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘could I have our ball back?’
St Leonard’s being so close, they took Shankley there, asked for and were given an empty biscuit-tin, only recently vacated by the smell of it.
‘Sit there,’ Rebus told Shankley. Then he took Jack outside, spoke in an undertone.
‘To fill you in, Tony El killed Allan Mitchison — I still don’t know why exactly. Tony had local help.’ He tilted his head towards the door. ‘I want to know what Hank knows.’
Jack nodded. ‘Do I stay dumb, or is there a part for me?’
‘You’re the good guy, Jack.’ Rebus patted his shoulder. ‘Always have been.’
They went back into the room as a team, like in the old days.
‘Well, Mr Shankley,’ Rebus opened, ‘so far we’ve got resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. Plenty of witnesses, too.’
‘I haven’t done nothing.’
‘Double negative.’
‘Eh?’
‘If you haven’t done nothing, you must have done something.’
Shankley just looked glum. Rebus had him pegged already: Bain’s ‘no scruples attached’ had given him the clue. Shankley lived to no code whatsoever, except perhaps ‘Look after number one’. He didn’t give a toss for anything or anyone. There was no intelligence other than a root instinct to survive. Rebus knew he could play on that.
‘You don’t owe Tony El anything, Hank. Who do you think grassed you up?’
‘Tony who?’
‘Anthony Ellis Kane. Glasgow hardman relocated to Aberdeen. He was down here to do a job. He needed an associate. Somehow he ended up with you.’
‘Not your fault,’ Jack chipped in, hands in pockets, ‘you’re an accessory. We’re not doing you for murder.’
‘Murder?’
‘That young guy Tony El was after,’ Rebus explained. ‘You scouted out somewhere to take him. That was about the sum of your part, wasn’t it? The rest was down to Tony.’
Shankley bit his top lip, showing a bottom row of narrow uneven teeth. His eyes were pale blue with dark flecks in them, his pupils contracted to pencil dots.
‘Of course,’ Rebus said, ‘there’s another way we can play it. We could say you tossed him out that window.’
‘I don’t know nothing.’
‘Don’t know anything,’ Rebus reminded him. Shankley folded his arms, spread his long legs.
‘I want a lawyer.’
‘Been watching the Kojak repeats, Hank?’ Jack asked. He looked to Rebus, who nodded: no more Mr Nice Guy.
‘I’m bored with this, Hank. Know what? We’re going to take you for fingerprinting now. You left prints all over that squat. You even left behind the carry-out. Prints all over it. You remember touching the bottles? The cans? The bag they were in?’ Shankley was trying hard to remember. Rebus’s voice grew quieter. ‘We’ve got you, Hank. You’re fucked. I’ll give you ten seconds to start talking, and that’s it — promise. Don’t think you can talk to us later, we won’t be listening. The judge will have his hearing-aid switched off. You’ll be on your own. Know why?’ He waited till he had Shankley’s attention. ‘Because Tony El croaked. Someone sliced him open in a bathtub. Could be you next.’ Rebus nodded. ‘You need friends, Hank.’
‘Listen...’ The Tony El story had woken Shankley up. He sat forward in his chair. ‘Look, I’m... I...’
‘Take your time, Hank.’
Jack asked him if he wanted something to drink. Shankley nodded. ‘Cola or something.’
‘Fetch me one, too, Jack,’ Rebus said. Jack went down the hall to the machine. Rebus bided his time, pacing the room, giving Shankley time to decide how much he was going to tell and with how much gloss. Jack came back, tossed one can at Shankley, handed the other to Rebus, who pulled it open and drank. It wasn’t a real drink. It was cold and way too sweet, and the only kick it would give him was from caffeine rather than alcohol. He saw Jack watching him, screwed up his face in reply. He wanted a cigarette, too. Jack read the look, shrugged.
‘Now then,’ Rebus said. ‘Do you have a story for us, Hank?’
Shankley burped, nodded. ‘It’s like you said. He told me he was here to do a job. Said he had Glasgow connections.’
‘What did he mean by that?’
Shankley shrugged. ‘Never asked.’
‘Did he mention Aberdeen at all?’
Shankley shook his head. ‘Glasgow was what he said.’
‘Continue.’
‘He offered me fifty notes to find him a place where he could take someone. I asked him what he was going to do, and he said ask a few questions, maybe give them a doing. That was all. We waited outside this block of flats, quite posh.’
‘The Financial District?’
Another shrug. ‘Between Lothian Road and Haymarket.’ That was it. ‘Saw this young guy come out, and we followed him. For a while, we just watched, then Tony said it was time to strike up his acquaintance.’
‘And?’
‘Well, we got chatting to him, like. I got to enjoying myself, forgot what was happening. Tony looked like he’d forgotten, too. I thought maybe he was going to call it off. Then we went outside for a taxi, and when the young guy couldn’t see us, he gave me a look, and I knew it was still on. But I swear, I only thought the kid was for a kicking.’
‘Not so.’
‘No.’ Shankley’s voice dropped. ‘Tony had a bag with him. When we got to the flat, he brought out tape and stuff. Tied the kid to the chair. He had a plastic sheet, put a bag over the kid’s head.’ Shankley’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, took another swallow of cola. ‘Then he started taking stuff out of the bag, tools, you know, like a joiner would use. Saws and screwdrivers and that.’
Rebus looked to Jack Morton.
‘And that’s when I realised the plastic sheet was to catch the blood, the kid wasn’t just getting a kicking.’
‘Tony planned to torture him?’
‘I suppose so. I don’t know... maybe I’d’ve tried to stop him. I’ve never done anything like that before. I mean, I’ve doled it out in my time, but never...’
The next question used to be the one that counted; Rebus wasn’t so sure any more. ‘Did Allan Mitchison jump, or what?’
Shankley nodded. ‘We had our backs turned. Tony was taking the tools out, and I was just staring at them. The kid had a bag over his head, but I think he saw them. He got between us and went out the window. Must’ve been scared to death.’
Looking at Shankley, and remembering Anthony Kane, Rebus sensed again how bland monstrosity could be. Faces and voices didn’t give any clue; no one sported horns and fangs, dripping blood and all slouching malevolence. Evil was almost... it was almost child-like: naive, simplistic. A game you played and then woke up from, only to find it wasn’t pretend. The real-life monsters weren’t grotesques: they were quiet men and women, people you passed on the street and didn’t notice. Rebus was glad he couldn’t read people’s minds. It would be pure hell.
‘What did you do?’ he asked.
‘Packed up and shipped out. We went back to my place first, had a couple of drinks. I was shaking. Tony kept saying it was a mess, but he didn’t seem worried. We realised we’d left the hooch — couldn’t remember if our dabs were on it. I thought they were. That’s when Tony took off. He left me my share, I’ll give him that.’
‘How far do you live from the flat, Hank?’
‘About two minutes’ walk. I’m not there much; the kids call me names.’
Life can be cruel, Rebus thought. Two minutes: when he’d arrived at the scene, Tony El might have been only two minutes away. But they’d ended up meeting in Stonehaven...
‘Didn’t Tony give you any idea why he was after Allan Mitchison?’ Shankley shook his head. ‘And when did he first approach you?’
‘Couple of days before.’
Therefore premeditated. Well, of course it was premeditated, but more than that it meant Tony El had been in Edinburgh, preparing the scheme, while Allan Mitchison had still been in Aberdeen. The night of his death had been his first day of leave. So Tony El hadn’t followed him south from Aberdeen... yet he knew what Allan Mitchison looked like, knew where he lived — there was a telephone in the flat, but unlisted.
Allan Mitchison had been set up by someone who’d known him.
It was Jack Morton’s turn. ‘Hank, think carefully now, didn’t Tony say anything about the job, about who was paying him?’
Shankley thought, then nodded slowly. He looked pleased with himself: he’d remembered something.
‘Mr H.,’ he said. ‘Tony said something about Mr H. He clammed up afterwards, like he hadn’t meant to.’ Shankley almost danced in his seat. He wanted Rebus and Morton to like him. Their smiles told him they did. But Rebus was thinking furiously; the only Mr H. he came up with was Jake Harley. It didn’t fit.
‘Good man,’ Jack cajoled. ‘Now think again, tell us something else.’
But Rebus had a question. ‘Did you see Tony El jacking up?’
‘No, but I knew he was doing it. When we were following the kid, first bar we went in, Tony went to the bog. He came out, and I knew he was on something. Living where I do, it gets so you can tell.’
Tony El a shooter. It didn’t mean he wasn’t killed. All it meant was, maybe he’d made Stanley’s job easier. Tony El sky-high easier to murder than Tony El with defences up. Drugs to Aberdeen... Burke’s Club a magnet for them... Tony El using — and selling? He wished he’d asked Erik Stemmons about Tony El.
‘I need the toilet,’ Shankley said.
‘We’ll get a uniform to take you. Stay here.’ Rebus and Morton left the room.
‘Jack, I want you to trust me.’
‘How far?’
‘I want you to stay here and take Shankley’s statement.’
‘While you do what?’
‘Take someone to lunch.’ Rebus checked his watch. ‘I’ll be back here by three.’
‘Look, John...’
‘Call it parole. I go to lunch, I come back. Two hours.’ Rebus held up two fingers. ‘Two hours, Jack.’
‘Which restaurant?’
‘What?’
‘Tell me where you’re going. I’ll phone every quarter of an hour, you better be there.’ Rebus looked disgusted. ‘And I want to know who your guest is.’
‘It’s a woman.’
‘Name?’
Rebus sighed. ‘I’ve heard of driving a hard bargain, but you’ve got your HGV.’
‘Name?’ Jack was smiling.
‘Gill Templer. Chief Inspector Gill Templer. OK?’
‘OK. Now the restaurant.’
‘I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I get there.’
‘Phone me. If you don’t, Chick gets to know, OK?’
‘It’s back to “Chick”, is it?’
‘He gets to know.’
‘All right, I’ll phone.’
‘With the restaurant’s number?’
‘With the number. Know what, Jack? You’ve put me right off eating.’
‘Order plenty and bring me a doggie bag.’
Rebus went in search of Gill, found her in her office. She told him she’d already eaten.
‘So come and watch me.’
‘An offer I can’t refuse.’
There was an Italian restaurant on Clerk Street. Rebus ordered a pizza: he could take anything he couldn’t eat back to Jack. Then he phoned St Leonard’s and left the pizzeria’s number, told them to pass it on.
‘So,’ Gill said when he was seated again, ‘been busy?’
‘Plenty busy. I went to Aberdeen.’
‘What for?’
‘That phone number on Feardie Fergie’s pad. Plus a few other things.’
‘What other things?’
‘Not necessarily connected.’
‘Tell me, did the trip pass without incident?’ She picked up a piece of the garlic bread which had just arrived.
‘Not exactly.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘They say it keeps a relationship on its toes.’
Gill took a bite of bread. ‘So what did you find out?’
‘Burke’s Club is dirty. It’s also where Johnny Bible’s first victim was last seen alive. The place is run by two Yanks; I only spoke with one of them. I think probably his partner’s the grubbier of the two.’
‘And?’
‘And, also in Burke’s I saw a couple of members of a Glaswegian crime family. You know Uncle Joe Toal?’
‘I’ve heard of him.’
‘I think he’s delivering dope to Aberdeen. From there, I’d guess some of it goes to the rigs — a captive market; a lot of boredom on a rig.’
‘You’d know, of course?’ she joked. Then she saw the look on his face, and her eyes narrowed. ‘You went on a rig?’
‘Most terrifying experience of my life, but cathartic with it.’
‘Cathartic?’
‘An old girlfriend used to use words like that; they rub off on you after a while. The club’s owner, Erik Stemmons, denied knowing Fergie McLure. I almost believe him.’
‘Which puts his partner in the frame?’
‘To my mind.’
‘And that’s as far as it’s got — your mind? I mean, there’s no evidence?’
‘Not a shred.’
His pizza arrived. Chorizo, mushroom and anchovy. Gill had to look away. The pizza was pre-cut into six fat slices. Rebus lifted one on to his plate.
‘I don’t know how you can face that.’
‘Me neither,’ said Rebus, sniffing the surface. ‘But it’ll make a hell of a doggie bag.’
There was a cigarette machine. If he looked over Gill’s right shoulder he could see it there on the wall. Five brands, any of which would suffice. There was a book of matches waiting in the ashtray. He’d ordered a glass of house white, Gill spring water. The wine — ‘delicately bouqueted’ as the menu put it — arrived, and he gave it the nose test before sipping. It was chilled and sour.
‘How’s the bouquet?’ Gill asked.
‘Any more delicate and it’d need Prozac.’ The drinks card was in front of him, standing erect in its little holder, listing aperitifs and cocktails and digestifs, plus wines, beers, lagers, spirits. It was the most reading Rebus had done in a couple of days. As soon as he’d finished, he read it again. He wanted to shake the author’s hand.
One segment of pizza was enough.
‘Not hungry?’ Gill asked.
‘I’m dieting.’
‘You?’
‘I want to be fit for my walks along the beach.’
She wasn’t following him, shook her head clear of seeming non-sequiturs.
‘The thing is, Gill,’ he said after another sip of wine, ‘I think you were on to something big. And I think it can be salvaged. I just want to be sure it’s your collar.’
She looked at him. ‘Why?’
‘Because of all the Christmas presents I’ve never given you. Because you deserve it. Because it’ll be your first.’
‘It doesn’t count if you’ve done all the work.’
‘It’ll count all right, all I’m doing is reconnaissance.’
‘You mean you’re not finished?’
Rebus shook his head, asked the waiter to put the rest of the pizza in a box. He lifted the last piece of garlic bread.
‘I’m not nearly finished,’ he told her. ‘But I might need your help.’
‘Oh-oh. Here it comes.’
Rebus spoke quickly. ‘Chick Ancram’s got me set up for a series of grillings. I’ve already had one, and between ourselves he didn’t cook me more than medium rare. But they take up time, and I might want to head north again.’
‘John...’
‘All I need you to do... might need you to do, is telephone Ancram some day and tell him I’m working for you on something urgent, so we’ll have to reschedule the interview. Just charm the socks off him and give me some time. That’s all I need. I’ll try to keep you out of it if I can.’
‘So, to recap, all you need is for me to lie to a fellow officer who is carrying out an internal investigation? And meantime, lacking any physical or verbal evidence, you’ll be solving the drug-running case?’
‘Nicely summarised. I can see why you’re the CI instead of me.’ He shot to his feet, ran to the payphone. He’d heard it ringing before anyone in the restaurant. It was Jack, checking on him. He reminded Rebus about the doggie bag.
‘Being brought to the table as I speak.’
When he got to the table, Gill was checking the bill.
‘This is on me,’ Rebus said.
‘At least let me leave the tip. I ate most of the bread. And besides, my water cost more than your wine.’
‘You got the better deal. What’s it to be, Gill?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll tell him anything you like.’
Jack still had the power to surprise his old friend: wolfed the pizza. His only comment: ‘You didn’t eat much.’
‘Bit bland for me, Jack.’
Rebus was itching now: for a cigarette and Aberdeen both. There was something up there he wanted; he just didn’t know quite what it was.
The truth maybe.
He should have been itching for a drink too, but the wine had put him off. It slopped in his stomach, liquid heartburn. He sat at a desk and read through Shankley’s statement. The big man was in a cell downstairs. Jack had worked fast; Rebus couldn’t see anything missing.
‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m back from parole. How did I do?’
‘Let’s not make it a regular date, my heart couldn’t take it.’
Rebus smiled, picked up a phone. He wanted to check his machine at home, see if Ancram had plans for him. He did: nine tomorrow morning. There was another message. It was from Kayleigh Burgess. She needed to talk with him.
‘I’m seeing someone in Morningside at three, so how about four at that big hotel in Bruntsfield? We can have afternoon tea.’ She said it was important. Rebus decided to go out there and wait. He’d have preferred to leave Jack behind...
‘Know what, Jack? You’re severely cramping my style.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘With women. There’s one I want to see, but I bet you’re going to tag along, aren’t you?’
Jack shrugged. ‘I’ll wait outside the door if you like.’
‘It’ll be a comfort to know you’re there.’
‘It could be worse,’ stuffing his face with the last of the pizza, ‘just think, how do Siamese twins arrange their love lives?’
‘Some questions are best left unanswered,’ Rebus said.
He thought: Good question though.
It was a nice hotel, quietly upmarket. Rebus worked out a possible dialogue in his head. Ancram knew about the clippings in his kitchen, and Kayleigh was the only possible source. He’d been furious at the time, less angry now. It was her job after all: information, and using that information to elicit other information. It still rankled. Then there was the Spaven-McLure connection: Ancram had picked up on it; Kayleigh knew about it. And finally, above all, there was the break-in.
They waited for her in the lounge. Jack flicked through Scottish Field and kept reading out descriptions of estates for sale: ‘seven thousand acres in Caithness, with hunting lodge, stabling, and working farm’. He looked up at Rebus.
‘Some country this, eh? Where else could you lay your hands on seven thousand acres at knockdown prices?’
‘There’s a theatre group called 7:84 — know what it means?’
‘What?’
‘Seven per cent of the population controls eighty-four per cent of the wealth.’
‘Are we in the seven?’
Rebus snorted. ‘Not even close, Jack.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a taste of the high life, though.’
‘At what cost?’
‘Eh?’
‘What would you be willing to trade?’
‘No, I mean like winning the lottery or something.’
‘So you wouldn’t take back-handers to drop a charge?’
Jack’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘Come on, Jack. I was in Glasgow, remember? I saw good suits and jewellery, I saw something approaching the smug.’
‘They just like to dress nice, makes them feel important.’
‘Uncle Joe’s not doling out freebies?’
‘I wouldn’t know if he was.’ Jack lifted the magazine to shield his face: matter closed. And then Kayleigh Burgess walked in through the door.
She saw Rebus immediately, and a blush started creeping up her neck. By the time she’d walked over to where he was rising from his chair, it had climbed as far as her cheeks.
‘Inspector, you got my message.’ Rebus nodded, eyes unblinking. ‘Well, thanks for coming.’ She turned to Jack Morton.
‘DI Morton,’ Jack said, shaking her hand.
‘Do you want some tea?’
Rebus shook his head, gestured towards the free chair. She sat down.
‘So?’ he said, determined to make nothing easy for her, not ever again.
She sat with her shoulder-bag in her lap, twisting the strap. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I owe you an apology.’ She glanced up at him, then away, took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t tell CI Ancram about those cuttings. Or about Fergus McLure knowing Spaven, come to that.’
‘But you know he knows?’
She nodded. ‘Eamonn told him.’
‘And who told Eamonn?’
‘I did. I didn’t know what to make of it... I wanted to bounce it off someone. We’re a team, so I told Eamonn. I made him promise it’d go no further.’
‘But it did.’
She nodded. ‘He was straight on the phone to Ancram. See, Eamonn... he’s got a thing about police brass. If we’re investigating someone at Inspector level, Eamonn always wants to go over their heads, talk to their superiors, see what gets stirred up. Besides, you haven’t exactly made a favourable impression with my presenter.’
‘It was an accident,’ Rebus said. ‘I tripped.’
‘If that’s your story.’
‘What does the footage say?’
She thought about it. ‘We were shooting from behind Eamonn. Mostly, what we’ve got is his back.’
‘I’m off the hook then?’
‘I didn’t say that. Just stick to your story.’
Rebus nodded, getting her drift. ‘Thanks. But why did Breen go to Ancram? Why not my boss?’
‘Because Eamonn knew Ancram was to lead the inquiry.’
‘And how did he know that?’
‘The grapevine.’
A grapevine with few grapes attached. He saw Jim Stevens again, staring up at the window of his flat... Stirring it...
Rebus sighed. ‘One last thing. Do you know anything about a break-in at my flat?’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Should I?’
‘Remember the Bible John stuff in the cupboard? Someone took a crowbar to my front door, and all they wanted was to rifle through it.’
She was shaking her head. ‘Not us.’
‘No?’
‘Housebreaking? We’re journalists, for Christ’s sake.’
Rebus had his hands up in a gesture of appeasement, but he wanted to push it a little further. ‘Any chance Breen would go out on a limb?’
Now she laughed. ‘Not even for a story the size of Watergate. Eamonn fronts the programme, he doesn’t do any digging.’
‘You and your researchers do?’
‘Yes, and neither of them seems the crowbar type. Does that leave me in the frame?’
As she crossed one leg over the other, Jack studied them. His eyes had been running all over her like a kid’s over a Scalextric set.
‘Consider the matter closed,’ Rebus said.
‘But it’s true? Your flat was broken into?’
‘Matter closed,’ he repeated.
She almost pouted. ‘How’s the inquiry going anyway?’ She held up a hand. ‘I’m not snooping, call it personal interest.’
‘Depends which inquiry you mean,’ Rebus said.
‘The Spaven case.’
‘Oh, that.’ Rebus sniffed, considering his response. ‘Well, CI Ancram is the trusting sort. He has real faith in his officers. If you plead innocent, he’ll take it at face value. It’s a comfort to have superiors like that. For instance, he trusts me so much he’s got a minder on me like a limpet on a rock.’ He nodded towards Jack. ‘Inspector Morton here is supposed to not let me out of his sight. He even sleeps at my flat.’ He held Kayleigh’s gaze. ‘How’s that sound?’
She could hardly form the words. ‘It’s scandalous.’
Rebus shrugged, but she was reaching into her bag, bringing out notebook and pen. Jack glowered at Rebus, who winked back. Kayleigh had to flick through a lot of pages to find a fresh sheet.
‘When did this start?’ she said.
‘Let’s see...’ Rebus pretended to be thinking. ‘Sunday afternoon, I think. After I’d been interrogated in Aberdeen and dragged back here.’
She looked up. ‘Interrogated?’
‘John...’ Jack Morton warned.
‘Didn’t you know?’ Rebus’s eyes widened. ‘I’m a suspect in the Johnny Bible case.’
On the drive back to the flat, Jack was furious.
‘What did you think you were up to?’
‘Keeping her mind off Spaven.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘She’s trying to make a programme about Spaven, Jack. She’s not doing one on policemen being nasty to other policemen, and she’s not doing one on Johnny Bible.’
‘So?’
‘So now her head’s swimming with everything I told her — and not a jot of it has to do with Spaven. It’ll keep her... what’s the word?’
‘Preoccupied?’
‘Good enough.’ Rebus nodded, looked at his watch. Five-twenty. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Those pictures!’
Traffic was at a crawl as they detoured into the centre of town. Rush-hour Edinburgh was a nightmare these days. Red lights and chugging exhausts, frayed nerves and drumming fingers. By the time they reached the shop it had closed for the night. Rebus checked the opening hours: nine tomorrow. He could pick up the photos on his way to Fettes and only be a little late for Ancram. Ancram: the very thought of the man was like voltage passing through him.
‘Let’s go home,’ he told Jack. Then he remembered the traffic. ‘No, second thoughts: we’ll stop off at the Ox.’ Jack smiled. ‘Did you think you’d cured me?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘I sometimes come off for a couple of days at a stretch, it’s no big thing.’
‘It could be though.’
‘Another sermon, Jack?’
Jack shook his head. ‘What about the ciggies?’
‘I’ll buy a packet from the machine.’
He stood at the bar, resting one shoe on the foot-rail, one elbow on the polished wood. In front of him sat four objects: a packet of cigarettes with seal unbroken; a box of Scottish Bluebell matches; a thirty-five millilitre measure of Teacher’s whisky; and a pint of Belhaven Best. He was staring at them with the concentration of a psychic willing them to move.
‘Three minutes dead,’ a regular commented from along the bar, like he’d been timing Rebus’s resistance. A profound question was running through Rebus’s mind: did he want them, or did they want him? He wondered how David Hume would have got on with that. He picked the beer up. No wonder you called it ‘heavy’: that’s just what it was. He sniffed it. It didn’t smell too enticing; he knew it would taste OK, but other things tasted better. The aroma of the whisky was fine though — smoky, filling nostrils and lungs. It would sear his mouth, burn going down, and melt through him, the effect lasting not long.
And the nicotine? He knew himself that when he took a few days off the ciggies, he could sense how bad they made you smell — your skin, clothes, hair. Disgusting habit really: if you didn’t give yourself cancer, chances were you were giving it to some poor bastard whose only misfortune was in getting too close to you. Harry the barman was waiting for Rebus to act. The whole bar was. They knew something was happening; it was written on Rebus’s face — there was almost pain there. Jack stood beside him, holding his breath.
‘Harry,’ Rebus said, ‘take those away.’ Harry lifted the two drinks, shaking his head.
‘I wish we could get a picture of this,’ he said.
Rebus slid the cigarettes along the bar towards the smoker. ‘Here, take them. And don’t leave them lying too close to me, I might change my mind.’
The smoker lifted the packet, amazed. ‘Payback for the singles you’ve nicked off me in the past.’
‘With interest,’ Rebus said, watching Harry pour the beer down the sink.
‘Does it go straight back into the barrel, Harry?’
‘So, do you want anything else, or did you just come in for a seat?’
‘Coke and crisps.’ He turned to Jack. ‘I’m allowed crisps, right?’
Jack was resting a hand on his back, patting him softly. And he was smiling.
They stopped in at a shop on the way to the flat, came out again with the makings of a meal.
‘Can you remember the last time you cooked?’ Jack asked.
‘I’m not that cack-handed.’ The answer to the question was ‘no’.
Jack, it turned out, enjoyed cooking, but he found Rebus’s kitchen lacking the finer tools of his craft. No lemon zester, no garlic crusher.
‘Give the garlic here,’ Rebus offered, ‘I’ll stamp on it.’
‘I used to be lazy,’ Jack said. ‘When Audrey left, I tried cooking bacon in the toaster. But cooking’s a doddle once you get your head round it.’
‘What’s it going to be anyway?’
‘Low-fat spagbog, with salad if you’ll get your arse in gear.’
Rebus got his arse in gear, but found he had to nip out to the deli for the makings of the dressing. He didn’t bother with a jacket: it was mild out.
‘Sure you can trust me?’ he said.
Jack tasted the sauce, nodded. So Rebus went out on his own, and thought about not going back. There was a pub on the next corner, its doors open. But of course he was going back: he hadn’t eaten yet. The way Jack slept, if Rebus ever wanted to high-tail it that would be the time.
They set the table in the living room — the first time it had been used for a meal since Rebus’s wife had left. Could that be true? Rebus paused, a fork and spoon in his hand. Yes, it was true. His flat, his refuge, suddenly seemed emptier than ever.
Maudlin again: another reason he drank.
They shared a bottle of Highland spring water, chinked glasses.
‘Shame it’s not fresh pasta,’ Jack said.
‘It’s fresh food,’ Rebus replied, filling his mouth. ‘Rare enough in this flat.’
They ate the salad afterwards — French-style, Jack said. Rebus was reaching for seconds when the phone rang. He picked it up.
‘John Rebus.’
‘Rebus, it’s CI Grogan here.’
‘CI Grogan,’ Rebus looked to Jack, ‘what can I do for you, sir?’ Jack came to the phone to listen.
‘We’ve run preliminary tests on your shoes and clothing. Thought you’d like to know you’re in the clear.’
‘Was there ever any doubt?’
‘You’re a copper, Rebus, you know there are procedures.’
‘Of course, sir. I appreciate you phoning.’
‘Something else. I had a word with Mr Fletcher.’ Hayden Fletcher: PR at T-Bird. ‘He admitted knowing the latest victim. Gave us a detailed breakdown of his movements the night she was killed. He even offered blood for DNA analysis if we thought it would help.’
‘He sounds cocky.’
‘That just about sums him up. I took an instant dislike to the man, something I don’t often do.’
‘Not even with me?’ Rebus smiled at Jack. Jack mouthed the words ‘Go easy’.
‘Not even with you,’ Grogan said.
‘So that’s two suspects eliminated. Doesn’t get you much further, does it?’
‘No.’ Grogan sighed. Rebus could imagine him wiping tired eyes.
‘What about Eve and Stanley, sir? Did you heed my advice?’
‘I did. Mindful of your mistrust of DS Lumsden — an excellent officer, by the way — 1 set two men on it off my own bat, reporting directly to me.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Grogan coughed. ‘They were staying in a hotel near the airport. Five-star, usually an oil company hang-out. Driving a BMW.’ The one from Uncle Joe’s cul-de-sac no doubt. ‘I’ve a description of the car and licence details.’
‘Not needed, sir.’
‘Well, my men followed them to a couple of nightclubs.’
‘During business hours?’
‘Daylight hours, Inspector. They went in carrying nothing, and came out the same way. However, they also paid visits to several banks in the city centre. One of my men got close enough in one bank to see that they were making a cash deposit.’
‘In a bank?’ Rebus frowned. Was Uncle Joe the type to trust to banks? Would he let strangers get within a mile of his ill-gained assets?
‘That’s about it, Inspector. They ate a few meals together, went for a drive down to the docks, then left town.’
‘They’ve gone?’
‘Left tonight. My men followed them as far as Banchory. I’d say they were headed for Perth.’ And after that, Glasgow. ‘The hotel confirms they’ve checked out.’
‘Did you ask the hotel if they’re regulars?’
‘We did and they are. They started using it about six months ago.’
‘How many rooms?’
‘They always book two.’ There was a smile in Grogan’s voice. ‘But the story is, the maids only ever had to clean one of them. Seems they were sharing one room, and leaving the other untouched.’
Bingo, Rebus thought. Housey-housey and fucking click-ety-click.
‘Thanks, sir.’
‘Does this help you in something?’
‘It might help a lot, I’ll be in touch. Oh, something I meant to ask...’
‘Yes?’
‘Hayden Fletcher: did he say how he came to know the victim?’
‘A business acquaintance. She organised the stand for T-Bird Oil at the North Sea Convention.’
‘Is that what “corporate presentations” means?’
‘Apparently. Ms Holden designed a lot of the stands, then her company did the actual construction and setting-up. Fletcher met her as part of that process.’
‘Sir, I appreciate all of this.’
‘Inspector... if you’re coming north again any time, call to let me know, understood?’
Rebus understood that it wasn’t an invitation to afternoon tea.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, ‘good night.’
He put the phone down. Aberdeen beckoned, and he was damned if he’d give anyone prior notice. But Aberdeen could wait another day. Vanessa Holden connected to the oil industry...
‘What is it, John?’
Rebus looked up at his friend. ‘It’s Johnny Bible, Jack. I just got a strange feeling about him.’
‘What?’
‘That he’s an oilman...’
They tidied everything away and washed up, then made mugs of coffee and decided to go back to the decorating. Jack wanted to know more about Johnny Bible, and about Eve and Stanley, but Rebus didn’t know where to start. His head felt clogged. He kept filling it with new information, and nothing drained away. Johnny Bible’s first victim had been a geology student at a university with close ties to the oil industry. Now his fourth victim made stands for conventions, and working in Aberdeen, he could guess who her best clients had been. If there was a connection between victims one and four, was there something he was missing, something linking two and three? A prostitute and a barmaid, one in Edinburgh, the other Glasgow...
When the telephone rang, he put down his sandpaper — the door was looking good — and picked it up. Jack was using a ladder to reach the cornices.
‘Hello?’
‘John? It’s Mairie.’
‘I’ve been trying to reach you.’
‘Sorry, another assignment — a paying one.’
‘Did you find out anything about Major Weir?’
‘A fair bit. How was Aberdeen?’
‘Bracing.’
‘It’ll do that to you. These notes... probably too much to read over the phone.’
‘So let’s meet.’
‘Which pub?’
‘Not a pub.’
‘There must be something wrong with the line. Did you just say “not a pub”?’
‘How about Duddingston Village? That’s about halfway. I’ll park by the loch.’
‘When?’
‘Half an hour?’
‘Half an hour it is.’
‘We’ll never get this room finished,’ Jack said, stepping down off the ladder. He had traces of white paint in his hair.
‘Grey suits you,’ Rebus told him.
Jack rubbed at his head. ‘Is it another woman?’ Rebus nodded. ‘How do you manage to keep them apart?’
‘The flat has a lot of doors.’
Mairie was waiting when they got there. Jack hadn’t been around Arthur’s Seat in years, so they took the scenic route; not that there was much to see at night. The huge hump of a hill, looking like nothing so much as — even kids could see it — a crouched elephant, was a great place to blow off the cobwebs — and anything else you might have on you. At night, though, it was poorly lit and a long way from anywhere. Edinburgh had lots of these glorious empty spaces. They were fine and private places right up until the moment you met your first junkie, mugger, rapist or gay-basher.
Duddingston Village was just that — a village in the midst of a city, sheltering beneath Arthur’s Seat. Duddingston Loch — more outsize pond than true loch — looked down on to a bird sanctuary and a path known as the Innocent Railway: Rebus wished he knew where it got the name.
Jack stopped the car and flashed his lights. Mairie switched hers off, unlocked her door, and came loping towards them. Rebus leaned into the back to open the door, and she got in. He introduced her to Jack Morton.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you worked the Knots and Crosses case with John.’
Rebus blinked. ‘How do you know that? It was before your time.’
She winked at him. ‘I’ve done my research.’
He wondered what else she might know, but hadn’t time to speculate. She handed him a brown A4 envelope.
‘Thank God for e-mail. I’ve a contact on the Washington Post and he got me most of what’s there.’
Rebus switched on the interior light. There was a spot-lamp specially for reading by.
‘Usually he wants to meet me in pubs,’ Mairie told Jack, ‘right seedy ones at that.’
Jack smiled at her, turned in his seat with his arm hanging down over the headrest. Rebus knew Jack liked her. Everyone liked Mairie from the off. He wished he knew her secret.
‘Seedy pubs suit his personality,’ Jack said.
‘Look,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘will you two bugger off and go look at the ducks or something?’
Jack shrugged, checked it was OK with Mairie, and opened his door. Alone, Rebus settled deeper into his seat and started to read.
Number one: Major Weir was not a Major. It was a nickname, earned in adolescence. Two, his parents had handed on to him their love of all things Scottish — up to and including a craving for national independence. There were a lot of facts about his early years in industry, latterly the oil industry, and reports of Thom Bird’s demise — nothing suspicious about it. A journalist in the States had started writing an unauthorised biography of Weir, but had given up — rumour had it he was paid not to finish the book. A couple of stories, unsubstantiated: Weir left his wife amid much acrimony — and later, much alimony. Then something about Weir’s son, either deceased or disinherited. Maybe off in some ashram or feeding the African hungry, maybe working in a burger parlour or Wall Street futures. Rebus turned to the next sheet, only to find there wasn’t one. The story had finished mid-sentence. He got out of the car, walked to where Mairie and Jack were in huddled conversation.
‘It’s not all here,’ he said, waving what sheets he had.
‘Oh, yes.’ Mairie reached into her jacket, brought out a single folded sheet and handed it over. Rebus stared at her, demanding an explanation. She shrugged. ‘Call me a tease.’
Jack started laughing.
Rebus stood in the glare of the headlights and read. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He read it again, then for a third time, and had to run a hand through his hair to make sure the top of his head hadn’t just blown off.
‘Everything all right?’ Mairie asked him.
He stared at her for a moment, not really seeing anything, then pulled her to him and planted a kiss on her cheek.
‘Mairie, you’re perfect.’
She turned to Jack Morton.
‘I second that,’ he said.
Sitting in his car, Bible John had watched Rebus and friend drive out of Arden Street. His business had kept him an extra day in Edinburgh. Frustrating, but at least he’d been able to take another look at the policeman. It was hard to tell from a distance, but Rebus seemed to sport bruises on his face, and his clothes were dishevelled. Bible John couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed: he’d been hoping for a more worthy adversary. The man looked dead done in.
Not that he thought them adversaries, not really. Rebus’s flat had not thrown up much, but it had revealed that Rebus’s interest in Bible John was connected to the Upstart. Which went some way towards explaining it. He hadn’t stayed as long in the flat as he would have liked. Being unable to pick the lock, he’d been forced to break the door. He couldn’t know how long it would take for neighbours to spot something. So he had been swift, but then there’d been so little in the flat worth his attention. It told him something about the policeman. He felt now that he knew Rebus, at least to a degree — he felt the loneliness of his life, the gaps where sentiment and warmth and love should have been. There was music, and there were books, but neither in great quantity nor of great quality. The clothes were utilitarian, one jacket much like another. No shoes. He found that bizarre in the extreme. Did the man possess only one pair?
And the kitchen: lacking in utensils and produce. And the bathroom: needing redecorating.
But back in the kitchen, a small surprise. Newspapers and cuttings hastily hidden, easily found. Bible John, Johnny Bible. And evidence that Rebus had gone to some trouble: the original papers must have been bought from a dealer. An investigation within the official investigation, that was what it looked like. Which made Rebus more interesting in Bible John’s eyes.
Paperwork in the bedroom: boxes of old correspondence, bank statements, very few photographs — but enough to show that Rebus had once been married, and had a daughter. Nothing recent though: no photos of the daughter grown-up, no recent photos at all.
But the one thing he’d come here for... his business card... no sign of it at all. Which meant either that Rebus had thrown it away, or that he carried it with him still, in a jacket pocket or wallet.
In the living room, he noted Rebus’s telephone number, then closed his eyes, making sure he had committed the flat’s layout to memory. Yes, easy. He could come back here at dead of night and walk through the place without disturbing anything or anyone. He could take John Rebus any time he wanted to. Any time at all.
He wondered about Rebus’s friend though. The policeman didn’t seem the gregarious type. They’d been painting the living room together. He couldn’t know if it was connected to the break-in; probably not. A man Rebus’s age, maybe a little younger, quite a tough-looking individual. Another police man? Perhaps. The man’s face had lacked Rebus’s intensity. There was something in Rebus — he had noticed it during their first meeting, and it had been reinforced this evening — a singleness of purpose, a sense of determination. Physically, Rebus’s friend seemed the superior, but that wouldn’t make Rebus a pushover. Physical strength could take a person only so far.
After that, it was down to attitude.
They were waiting outside the photo shop when it opened next morning. Jack looked at his watch for only the fifteenth time.
‘He’ll kill us,’ he said for the ninth or tenth. ‘No, I mean it, really he will.’
‘Relax.’
Jack looked about as relaxed as a headless chicken. When the manager started unlocking the shop, they sprinted from the car. Rebus had the stub ready in his hand.
‘Give me a minute,’ the manager said.
‘We’re late for something.’
Coat still on, the manager browsed through a box of photograph packets. Rebus imagined family days out, holidays abroad, red-eyed birthdays and blurred wedding receptions. There was something faintly desperate and yet touching about collections of photographs. He’d looked through a lot of photo albums in his time — usually seeking clues to a murder, a victim’s acquaintances.
‘You’ll have to wait anyway while I unlock the till.’ The manager handed over the packet. Jack glanced at the price, slapped down more than enough to cover it, and dragged Rebus out of the shop.
He drove to Fettes like there was a murder scene waiting there. Traffic honked and squealed as he did his stunt-driver routine. They were still twenty minutes late for the meeting. But Rebus didn’t mind. He had his reprints, the missing photos from Allan Mitchison’s cabin. They were similar to the other pictures: group shots, but with fewer figures. And in all of them, braid-hair, standing right next to Mitchison. In one, she had an arm around him; in another, they were kissing, grinning as their lips met.
Rebus wasn’t surprised, not now.
‘I hope they were bloody well worth it,’ Jack said.
‘Every penny, Jack.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
Chick Ancram sat with hands clasped, his face the colour of rhubarb crumble. The files were in front of him, as though they hadn’t been moved since the previous meeting. His voice had a slight vibrato. He was in control, but only just.
‘I had a phone call,’ he said, ‘from someone called Kayleigh Burgess.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘She wanted to ask me a few questions.’ He paused. ‘About you. About the role DI Morton is currently playing in your life.’
‘It’s gossip, sir. Jack and myself are just good friends.’
Ancram slapped both hands down on the desk. ‘I thought we had a deal.’
‘Can’t say I remember.’
‘Well, let’s hope your long-term memory’s better.’ He opened a file. ‘Because now the fun really begins.’ He nodded for a sheepish Jack to switch on the tape recorder, then started off by giving date and time, officers present... Rebus felt as if he’d explode. He really thought if he sat there a second longer, his eyeballs would fly from their sockets like those jokeshop glasses with spring-loaded eyes. He’d felt like this before, just before a panic attack. But he wasn’t panicking now; he was just charged. He stood up. Ancram broke off what he’d been saying.
‘Something the matter, Inspector?’
‘Look,’ Rebus rubbed at his forehead, ‘I can’t think straight... not about Spaven. Not today.’
‘That’s for me to decide, not you. If you’re feeling ill, we can call for a doctor, but otherwise...’
‘I’m not ill. I just...’
‘Then sit down.’ Rebus sat down, and Ancram went back to his notes. ‘Now, Inspector, on the night referred to, your report states that you were at Inspector Geddes’ house, and there was a telephone call?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t actually hear the conversation?’
‘No.’ Braid-hair and Mitchison... Mitch the organiser, protester. Mitch the oil-worker. Killed by Tony El, henchman to Uncle Joe. Eve and Stanley, working Aberdeen, sharing a room...
‘But DI Geddes told you it was to do with Mr Spaven? A tip-off?’
‘Yes.’ Burke’s Club, police hang-out, maybe an oil-workers’ hang-out too. Hayden Fletcher drinking there. Ludovic Lumsden drinking there. Michelle Strachan meets Johnny Bible there...
‘And Geddes didn’t say who the call was from?’
‘Yes.’ Ancram looked up, and Rebus knew he’d given the wrong answer. ‘I mean, no.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
Ancram stared at him, sniffed, concentrated on his notes again. There were pages and pages of them, specially prepared for this session: questions to be asked, ‘facts’ double-checked, the whole case stripped down and rebuilt.
‘Anonymous tip-offs are pretty rare in my experience,’ Ancram said.
‘Yes.’
‘And they’re almost always made to a police station’s general desk. Would you agree?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Was Aberdeen the key then, or did the answers lie further north? What did Jake Harley have to do with it? And Mike Sutcliffe — Mr Sheepskin — hadn’t Major Weir warned him off? What was it Sutcliffe had said? He’d said something on the plane, then stopped suddenly... Something about a boat...
And did any of it connect to Johnny Bible? Was Johnny Bible an oilman?
‘So it would be rational to deduce that DI Geddes knew the caller, wouldn’t it?’
‘Or they knew him.’
Ancram shrugged this aside. ‘And this tip-off just happened to concern Mr Spaven. Didn’t that strike you at the time as a bit of a coincidence, Inspector? Seeing as Geddes had been warned off Spaven already? I mean, it must have been clear to you that your boss was obsessed with Spaven?’
Rebus got up again and started pacing the small room as best he could.
‘Sit down!’
‘With respect, sir, I can’t. If I sit there any longer, I’m going to stick my fist in your face.’
Jack Morton covered his eyes with one hand.
‘What did you say?’
‘Wind the tape back and take a listen. And that’s why I’m up and walking: crisis management if you like.’
‘Inspector, I’d caution you —’
Rebus laughed. ‘Would you? That’s big of you, sir.’ Ancram was rising to his feet. Rebus turned away and walked to the far wall, turned round again and stopped.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘a simple question: do you want to see Uncle Joe fucked?’
‘We’re not here to —’
‘We’re here to put on a show — you know that as well as I do. The brass are sweaty about the media; they want the force to look good if that programme ever gets made. This way, everyone sits back and says there was an inquiry. TV seems to be about the only thing brass are afraid of. Villains don’t scare them, but ten minutes of negative coverage, dearie me, no. Can’t have that. All for a programme which will be stared at by a few million, half of them with the sound down, the other half not taking it in, then forgotten about the very next day. So,’ he took a deep breath, ‘simple yes or no.’ Ancram didn’t say anything, so Rebus repeated the question.
Ancram signalled for Jack to turn off the machine. Then he sat back down.
‘Yes,’ he said quietly.
‘I can see that it happens.’ Rebus kept his voice level. ‘But I don’t want you getting sole credit. If it’s anyone’s, the collar belongs to CI Templer.’ Rebus went back to his chair, propped himself on the edge of it. ‘Now I have a couple of questions.’
‘Was there a phone call?’ Ancram asked, surprising Rebus. They stared at one another. ‘Tape’s off, this is between the three of us. Was there ever a phone call?’
‘I answer yours and you answer mine?’ Ancram nodded. ‘Of course there was a phone call.’
Ancram almost smiled. ‘You liar. He came to your house, didn’t he? What did he tell you? Did he say you wouldn’t need a search warrant? You must’ve known he was lying.’
‘He was a good cop.’
‘Every time you come out with that line, it sounds thinner. What’s the matter: stopped finding it convincing?’
‘He was.’
‘But he had a problem, a little personal demon called Lenny Spaven. You were his friend, Rebus, you should have stopped him.’
‘Stopped him?’
Ancram nodded, eyes gleaming like moons. ‘You should have helped him.’
‘I tried,’ Rebus said, his voice a whisper. It was another lie: Lawson by that time had been a junkie with a craving, and only one thing would help — the taste itself.
Ancram sat back, trying not to look satisfied. He thought Rebus was cracking. The inner doubts had been sown — not for the first time. Ancram could now water them with sympathy.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘I’m not blaming you. I think I know what you were going through. But there was a cover-up. There was that one central lie: the tip-off.’ He lifted his notes an inch off the desk. ‘It’s written all over these, and it throws everything else into the pot, because if Geddes had been following Spaven, what was to stop him planting a little evidence along the way?’
‘It wasn’t his style.’
‘Not even when pushed to the limit? Had you seen him there before?’
Rebus couldn’t think of a thing to say. Ancram had been leaning forward in his seat again, palms against the desk. He sat back. ‘What did you want to ask?’
When Rebus was a child, they’d lived in a semi-detached with a close separating it from the next house along. The close had led to both back gardens. Rebus played football there with his dad. Sometimes he placed a foot against either wall and pushed his way up towards the roof of the close. And sometimes he’d just stand in the middle and throw a small hard rubber ball as hard as he could against the stone floor. The ball would bounce like anything, zipping back and forth, floor to roof to wall to floor to roof...
His head felt like that now.
‘What?’ he said.
‘You said you had a couple of questions.’
Slowly, Rebus’s head came back to the here and now. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘First off, Eve and Stanley.’
‘What about them?’
‘Are they close?’
‘You mean how do they get on? All right.’
‘Just all right?’
‘No flare-ups to report.’
‘I was thinking more of jealousy.’
Ancram cottoned on. ‘Uncle Joe and Stanley?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Is she clever enough to play one off against the other?’ He’d met her, thought he already knew the answer. Ancram just shrugged. The conversation had obviously taken an unexpected turn.
‘Only,’ Rebus said, ‘in Aberdeen they were sharing a hotel room.’
Ancram narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re sure of this?’ Rebus nodded. ‘They must be mad. Uncle Joe’ll kill them both.’
‘Maybe they don’t think he can.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Maybe they think they’re stronger than him. Maybe they reckon in a war the muscle-men would change sides. Stanley’s the one people are scared of these days, you said as much yourself. Especially with Tony El gone.’
‘Tony was history anyway.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘Explain.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I need to talk to a couple of people first. Have you heard of Eve and Stanley working together in the past?’
‘No.’
‘So this Aberdeen jaunt...?’
‘I’d say it’s a newish excursion.’
‘Hotel records say the past six months.’
‘So the question is, what’s Uncle Joe setting up?’
Rebus smiled. ‘I think you know the answer to that: drugs. He’s lost the market in Glasgow, it’s already been divvied up. So he can fight for a piece, or he can play away from home. Burke’s will take the stuff and sell it on, especially with someone from CID in their pocket. Aberdeen’s still a nice market, not the hotbed of fifteen or twenty years ago, but a market nonetheless.’
‘So tell me, what are you going to do that the rest of us can’t?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I still don’t know if you’re on the level; I mean, you might be see-sawing.’
This time Ancram really did smile. ‘I could say the same about you and the Spaven case.’
‘Probably.’
‘I won’t be satisfied until I know. I think maybe that makes us similar.’
‘Look, Ancram, we walked into that lock-up and the bag was there. Does it matter how we came to be there?’
‘It could have been planted.’
‘Not with my knowledge.’
‘Geddes never confided? I thought the two of you were close?’
Rebus was on his feet. ‘I may not be around for a day or two. All right?’
‘No, it’s not all right. I’ll expect you here tomorrow, same time.’
‘For Christ’s sake...’
‘Or we can turn the machine back on right now and you can tell me what you know. That way, you’ll have all the time in the world. And I think you’ll find it easier to live with yourself, too.’
‘Living with myself has never been the problem. Breathing the same air as people like you — that’s my problem.’
‘I’ve already told you, Strathclyde Police and the Squaddies are planning an operation...’
‘One that’ll get nowhere, because for all we know half the Glasgow force is in Uncle Joe’s pocket.’
‘I’m not the one who goes visiting him at home, with a word put in by a certain Morris Cafferty.’
There was a sudden tightening around Rebus’s chest. Coronary, he thought. But it was only Jack Morton, arms holding him, stopping him moving in on Ancram.
‘Tomorrow morning, gentlemen,’ Ancram said, like they’d had a useful session.
‘Yes, sir,’ Jack said, hustling Rebus out of the room.
Rebus told his friend to get them on to the M8.
‘No way, José.’
‘Then park near Waverley, we’ll take the train.’
Jack didn’t like the way Rebus looked: like his wiring was shorting out. You could almost see the sparks behind his eyes.
‘What are you going to do in Glasgow? Walk up to Uncle Joe and say, “Oh, by the way, your woman’s shagging your son”? Even you can’t be that stupid.’
‘Of course I’m not that stupid.’
‘Glasgow, John,’ Jack pleaded. ‘It’s not our territory. I’ll be back in Falkirk in a few weeks, and you...’
Rebus smiled. ‘Where’ll I be, Jack?’
‘God and the Devil know.’
Rebus was still smiling; thought to himself: I’d rather be the devil.
‘You’ve always got to be the hero, haven’t you?’ Jack asked.
‘Time loves a hero, Jack,’ Rebus told him.
On the M8, halfway between Edinburgh and Glasgow, slowed by syrupy traffic, Jack tried again.
‘This is crazy. I mean really crazy.’
‘Trust me, Jack.’
‘Trust you? The guy who tried to lay me out two nights back? With friends like you...’
‘... you’ll never be short of enemies.’
‘There’s still time.’
‘Not really, you just think there is.’
‘You’re talking out your arse.’
‘Maybe you’re just not listening.’ Rebus felt calmer now they were on the road. To Jack, he looked like someone had pulled the plug on him: no more sparks. He almost preferred the model with the faulty wiring. The lack of emotion in his friend’s voice was chilling, even in the overheated car. Jack slid his window down a little further. The speedometer was steady on forty, and that was them in the outside lane. Traffic to their left was really crawling. If he could find a space, he’d move to the inside — anything to delay their arrival.
He’d oftentimes admired John Rebus — and heard him praised by other officers — for his tenacity, the way he worried at a case terrier-style, more often than not tearing it open, spilling out secret motives and hidden bodies. But that same tenacity could also be a weakness, blinding him to danger, making him impatient and reckless. Jack knew why they were headed for Glasgow, thought he knew pretty well what Rebus would want to do there. And, as ordered by Ancram, Jack would be close by when the crap came tumbling down.
It was a long time since Rebus and Jack had worked together. They’d been an effective team, but Jack had been glad enough of the posting out of Edinburgh. Too claustrophobic — the town and his partner both. Rebus had seemed even then to spend more time living in his own head than in the company of others. Even the pub he chose to haunt was one with fewer than usual distractions: TV, one fruit machine, one cigarette machine. And when group activities were arranged — fishing trips, golf competitions, bus runs — Rebus never signed up. He was an irregular regular, a loner even in company, his brain and heart only fully engaged when he was working a case. Jack knew the score only too well. Work had a way of wrapping itself around you, so you were cut off from the rest of the world. People you met socially tended to treat you with suspicion or outright hostility — so you ended up mixing only with other cops, which bored your wife or girlfriend. They began to feel isolated too. It was a bastard.
There were plenty of people on the force who coped, of course. They had understanding partners; or they could shut work out whenever they went home; or it was just a job to them, a way of keeping up with the mortgage. Jack would guess CID was split fifty-fifty between those for whom it was a vocation, and those who could fit into any other type of office life, anywhere, any time.
He didn’t know what else John Rebus could do. If they kicked him off the force... he’d probably drink his pension dry, become just another old ex-cop hanging on to a fund of stories, telling them too often to the same people, trading one form of isolation for another.
It was important that John should stay on the force. It was therefore important to keep him off Shit Street. Jack wondered why nothing in life was ever easy. When he’d been told by Chick Ancram that he’d be ‘keeping an eye’ on Rebus, he’d been pleased. He’d seen them going out together, reminiscing about cases and characters, haunts and high points. He should have known better. He might have changed — become a ‘yes man’, a pencil-pusher, a careerist — but John was the same as always... only worse. Time had seasoned his cynicism. He wasn’t a terrier now: he was a fighting dog with locking jaws. You just knew that no matter how bloody he got, how much pain there was behind the eyes, the grip was there to the death...
‘Traffic’s beginning to shift,’ Rebus said.
It was true; whatever the problem had been, it was clearing. The speedo was up to fifty-five. They’d be in Glasgow in no time at all. Jack glanced over at Rebus, who winked without moving his eyes from the road ahead. Jack had a sudden image of himself propping up a bar, dipping into his pension for another drink. Fuck that. For his friend’s sake, he’d go the ninety minutes, but no more: no extra time, no penalties. Definitely no penalties.
They made for Partick police station, since their faces were known there. Govan had been another possibility, but Govan was Ancram’s HQ and not a place they could do business on the q.t. The Johnny Bible investigation had picked up some momentum from the most recent murder, but all the Glasgow squad were really doing was reading through and filing material sent from Aberdeen. It made Rebus shiver to think he’d walked past Vanessa Holden in Burke’s Club. For all that Lumsden had been trying to stitch him up, Aberdeen CID had one thing right: quite a string of coincidences tied Rebus to the Johnny Bible inquiry. So much so that Rebus was beginning to doubt coincidence had much to do with it. Somehow, he couldn’t yet say how exactly, Johnny was connected to one of Rebus’s other investigations. At present it was no more than a hunch, nothing he could do anything about. But it was there, niggling him. It made him wonder if he knew more about Johnny Bible than he thought...
Partick, new and bright and comfortable — basically your state of the art cop-shop — was still enemy territory. Rebus couldn’t know how many friendly ears Uncle Joe might have on-site, but he thought he might know a quiet spot, a place they could make their own. As they wandered through the building, a few officers nodded or greeted Jack by name.
‘Base camp,’ Rebus said at last, turning into the deserted office which was temporary home to Bible John. Here he was, spread out across tables and the floor, pinned and taped to the walls. It was like standing in the middle of an exhibition. The last photofit of Bible John, the one compiled by his third victim’s sister, was repeated around the room, along with her description of him. It was as if by repetition, by piling image upon image, they could will him into physical being, turn wood pulp and ink into flesh and blood.
‘I hate this room,’ Jack said as Rebus closed the door.
‘So does everyone else by the look of things. Long tea-breaks and other business to attend to.’
‘Half the force weren’t alive when Bible John was on the go. He’s lost any sort of meaning.’
‘They’ll be telling their grandkids about Johnny Bible though.’
‘True enough.’ Jack paused. ‘Are you going to do it?’
Rebus saw mat his hand was lying on the receiver. He picked it up, punched in the numbers. ‘Did you doubt me?’ he asked.
‘Not for a minute.’
The voice that answered was gruff, unwelcoming. Not Uncle Joe, not Stanley. One of the body-builders. Rebus gave as good as he got.
‘Malky there?’
Hesitation: only his close friends called him Malky. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘Tell him it’s Johnny.’ Rebus paused. ‘From Aberdeen.’
‘Haud on.’ Clatter as the receiver was dropped on to a hard surface. Rebus listened closely, heard television voices, game-show applause. Watching: Uncle Joe maybe, or Eve. Stanley wouldn’t like game-shows; he’d never get a question right.
‘Phone!’ the body-builder called.
A long wait. Then a distant voice: ‘Who is it?’
‘Johnny.’
‘Johnny? Johnny who?’ The voice closer.
‘From Aberdeen.’
The receiver was picked up. ‘Hello?’
Rebus took a deep breath. ‘For your own sake you better sound natural. I know about you and Eve, know what you’ve been up to in Aberdeen. So if you want to keep it quiet, sound natural. Don’t want Muscle Man to get even the slightest suspicion.’
A rustling sound, Stanley turning away for privacy, tucking the phone into his chin.
‘So what’s the story?’
‘You’ve got a nice scam going, and I don’t want to fuck it up unless I have to, so don’t do anything that would make me do that. Understood?’
‘No bother.’ The voice was not used to attempting levity when its brain demanded bloody restitution.
‘You’re doing all right, Stanley. Eve’ll be proud of you. Now we need to talk, not just you and me, the three of us.’
‘My dad?’
‘Eve.’
‘Oh, right.’ Calming again. ‘Eh... no problem with that.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Eh... OK.’
‘Partick police station.’
‘Wait a minute...’
‘That’s the deal. Just to talk. You’re not walking into anything. If you’re worried, keep your gob shut until you hear the deal. If you don’t like it, you can walk. You won’t have said anything, so there’s nothing to fear. No charges, no tricks. It’s not you I’m interested in. Are we still on?’
‘I’m not sure. Can I call you back?’
‘I need a yes or no right now. If it’s no, you might as well pass me across to your dad.’
Condemned men laughed with more humour. ‘Look, for myself, there’s no problem. But there are other parties involved.’
‘Just tell Eve what I’ve told you. If she won’t come, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. I’ll get some visitors’ passes for you. False names.’ Rebus looked down at a book open in front of him, found two straight off. ‘William Pritchard and Madeleine Smith. Can you remember that?’
‘I think so.’
‘Repeat them.’
‘William... something.’
‘Pritchard.’
‘And Maggie Smith.’
‘Close enough. I know you can’t just sneak off, so we’ll leave the time open. Get here when you can. And if you start thinking of bottling it, just remember all those bank accounts and how lonely they’ll be without you.’
Rebus put down the phone. His hand was hardly trembling.
They notified the front desk and got visitors’ passes made up, and after that there was nothing to do but wait. Jack said the room felt cold and musty at the same time; he had to get out. He suggested the canteen or a corridor or anywhere, but Rebus shook his head.
‘You go. I think I’ll stay here, see if I can decide what to say to Bonnie and Clyde. Bring me back a coffee and maybe a filled roll.’ Jack nodded. ‘Oh, and a bottle of whisky.’ Jack looked at him. Rebus smiled.
He tried to remember his last drink. He recalled standing in the Ox with two glasses and a packet of cigs. But before that... Wine with Gill?
Jack had said the room was cold; it felt stifling to Rebus. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Then he wandered around the office, peering into desk drawers and grey cardboard boxes.
He saw: interview transcripts, their covers faded and curling at the edges; hand-written reports; typed reports; evidence summaries; maps, mostly hand-drawn; duty logs; ream after ream of witness statements — descriptions of the man seen in the Barrowland Ballroom. Then there were the photographs, matt black and whites, ten by eight and smaller. The Ballroom itself, interior and exterior. It looked more modern than the word ‘ballroom’ conjured up, reminded Rebus a bit of his old school — flat building panels with the occasional window. Three spots sat atop a concrete canopy, pointing up towards the windows and the sky. And on the canopy itself — a useful shelter from the rain while you were waiting either to be admitted or, afterwards, for your lift — the words ‘Barrowland Ballroom’ and ‘Dancing’. Most of the exterior pictures had been taken on a wet afternoon, women caught on the periphery with plastic rain-mates, men in bunnets and long coats. More photographs: police frogmen searching the river; the loci, CID in their trademark pork-pie hats and raincoats — a back lane, the back court of a tenement, another back court. Typical locations for a cuddle and a feel-up, maybe going a wee bit further. Too far for the victims. There was a photo of Superintendent Joe Beattie, holding out an artist’s impression of Bible John. Looking between the portrait and Beattie, the men’s expressions seemed similar. Several members of the public had commented on it. Mackeith Street and Earl Street — victims two and three were killed on the streets where they lived. He’d taken them so close to their homes: why? So they’d relax their defences? Or had he been vacillating, putting off the attacks? Nervous to ask for a kiss and a cuddle, or just plain scared and with his conscience battling his deep desire? The files were full of such aimless speculation, and more structured theories from professional psychologists and psychiatrists. In the end they’d been as helpful as Croiset the psychic detective.
Rebus thought of meeting Aldous Zane in this very room. Zane had been in the papers again — he’d inspected the latest locus, given the same rambling spiel, and been flown home. Rebus wondered what Jim Stevens was up to now. He remembered Zane’s handshake, the way it had tingled. And Zane’s impressions of Bible John — though Stevens had been present, the paper hadn’t bothered printing them. A trunk in the attic of a modern house. Well, Rebus could have come up with better than that himself, if some paper had put him up in a posh hotel.
Lumsden had put him up in a posh hotel, probably thinking CID would never know. Lumsden had tried to get pally with him, telling him they were alike, showing Rebus that he had stature in the city — free meals and drinks, free entrance to Burke’s Club. He’d been testing Rebus, seeing how open he’d be to a bung. But at whose behest? The club’s owners? Or Uncle Joe himself...?
More photos. There seemed no end to them. It was the onlookers who interested Rebus, the people who didn’t know they’d been snapped for posterity. A woman in high heels, good legs — all you could see of her were heels and legs, the rest hidden behind a WPC taking part in a reconstruction. Woolly suits searching the back courts off Mackeith Street, looking for the victim’s handbag. The courts looked like bomb-sites — drying-poles poking up out of stunted grass and rubble. Roadside motor cars: Zephyrs, Hillman Imps, Zodiacs. A world ago. A bundle of posters sat in one box, the rubber band long ago perished. Photofits of Bible John along with varying descriptions: ‘Speaks with a polite Glasgow accent and has an erect posture’. Very helpful. The phone number of the inquiry HQ. They’d received thousands of phone calls, boxes of them. Brief details of every one, with more detailed back-up notes if the call seemed worth checking.
Rebus’s eyes moved over the remaining boxes. He chose one at random — a big flat cardboard box, inside which were newspapers from the time, intact and unread for quarter of a century. He examined front pages, then turned to the back to look at the sports. A few of the crosswords had been half-done, probably by a bored detective. Slips of paper stapled to each banner-head gave page numbers with Bible John coverage. But Rebus wasn’t going to find anything there. He looked at the other stories instead and smiled at some of the adverts. Some seemed artless by today’s standards; others hadn’t aged at all. In the personal ads, people were selling lawnmowers, washing machines, and record players at knockdown prices. In a couple of papers, Rebus found the same ad, framed like a public notice: ‘Find a New Life and a Good Job in America — Booklet Tells You How’. You had to send off a couple of stamps to an address in Manchester. Rebus sat back, wondering if Bible John had got that far.
In October ’69, Paddy Meehan had been sentenced at the High Court in Edinburgh and had shouted out, ‘You’ve made a terrible mistake — I’m innocent!’ That made Rebus think of Lenny Spaven; he shook the thought away and turned to a new paper. November 8: gales forced the evacuation of the Staflo oil rig; November 12: a report that the owners of the Torrey Canyon had paid out £3 million in compensation after losing 5,000 tons of Kuwaiti crude into the English Channel. Elsewhere, Dunfermline had decided to allow The Killing of Sister George to be shown in the town, and a brand new Rover three-and-a-half litre would cost you £1,700. Rebus turned to late December. The SNP chairman was predicting that Scotland stood ‘on the threshold of a decade of destiny’. Nice one, sir. December 31: Hogmanay. The Herald wished its readers a happy and prosperous 1970, and led with the story of a shootout in Govanhill: one constable dead, three wounded. He put the paper down, the gust blowing some photos off the desk. He picked them up: the three victims, so full of life. Victims one and three shared some facial similarities. All three looked hopeful, like the future just might bring them everything they were dreaming of. It was good to have hope, and never to give up. But Rebus doubted many people managed that. They might smile for the camera, but if caught unawares they’d more likely look bedraggled and exhausted, like the bystanders in the photos.
How many victims were there? Not just Bible John or Johnny Bible, but all the killers, the punished and the never found. The World’s End murders, Cromwell Street, Nilsen, the Yorkshire Ripper... And Elsie Rhind... If Spaven hadn’t killed her, then the murderer must have been hooting with laughter all through the trial. And he was still out there, maybe with other scalps added to his tally, other unsolveds. Elsie Rhind lay in her grave unavenged, a forgotten victim. Spaven had committed suicide because he couldn’t bear the weight of his innocence. And Lawson Geddes... had he killed himself over grief for his wife, or because of Spaven? Had cold realisation finally crept over him?
The bastards were all gone; only John Rebus was left. They wanted to shift their burdens on to him. But he was refusing, and he’d go on refusing, denying. He didn’t know what else he could do. Except drink. He wanted a drink, wanted one desperately. But he wasn’t going to have one, not yet. Maybe later, maybe sometime. People died and you couldn’t bring them back. Some of them died violently, cruelly young, without knowing why they’d been chosen. Rebus felt surrounded by loss. All the ghosts... yelling at him... begging him... shrieking...
‘John?’
He looked up from the desk. Jack was standing there with a mug in one hand and a roll in the other. Rebus blinked, his vision was going: it was like he was looking at Jack through a heat haze.
‘Christ, man, are you all right?’
His nose and lips were wet. He wiped at them. The photos on the desk were wet too. He knew he’d been crying and pulled out a handkerchief. Jack put the mug and roll down and rested an arm along his shoulders, squeezing gently.
‘Don’t know what’s up with me,’ Rebus said, blowing his nose.
‘Yes you do,’ Jack said quietly.
‘Yes, I do,’ Rebus acknowledged. He gathered up the photographs and newspapers and stuffed them all back into their boxes. ‘Stop looking at me like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘I wasn’t talking to you.’
Jack lifted his backside on to a desk. ‘Not many defences left, have you?’
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
‘Time to get your act together.’
‘Ach, Stanley and Eve won’t be here for a while yet.’
‘You know that’s not —’
‘I know, I know. And you’re right: time to get my act together. Where do I start? No, don’t tell me — the Juice Church?’
Jack just shrugged. ‘Your decision.’
Rebus picked up the roll and bit into it. A mistake: the block in his throat made it hard to swallow. He gulped at the coffee, managed to finish the roll — bland ham and wet tomato. Then remembered he had to make another call: a Shetland number.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he told Jack.
In the toilets he washed his face. Tiny red veins had burst in the whites of his eyes; he looked like he’d been on a bender.
‘Stone cold sober,’ he told himself, heading back to the telephone.
Briony, Jake Harley’s girlfriend, picked up.
‘Is Jake there?’ Rebus asked.
‘No, sorry.’
‘Briony, we met the other day, DI Rebus.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Has he been in touch?’
A long pause. ‘Sorry, I missed that. The line’s not great.’
It sounded just fine to Rebus. ‘I said, has he been in touch?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘That’s what I said.’ Edgy now.
‘OK, OK. Aren’t you a bit worried?’
‘What about?’
‘Jake.’
‘Why should I be?’
‘Well, he’s been off on his own longer than intended. Maybe something’s happened.’
‘He’s all right.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just do!’ Almost shouting now.
‘Calm down. Look, why don’t I get —’
‘Just leave us alone!’ The phone died on him.
Us. Leave us alone. Rebus stared at the receiver.
‘I could hear her from over here,’ Jack said. ‘Sounds like she’s cracking up.’
‘I think she is.’
‘Boyfriend trouble?’
‘Boyfriend in trouble.’ He put the receiver down. There was an incoming call.
‘DI Rebus.’
It was the front desk, telling him the first of his visitors had arrived.
Eve looked much as she had that night in the bar of Rebus’s hotel — dressed for business in a two-piece suit, conservative blue rather than vamp red, and with the gold jewellery on wrists, fingers and neck, and the same gold clasp pulling back her peroxide hair. She had a handbag with her, and tucked it under her arm as she clipped on her visitor’s pass.
‘Who’s Madeleine Smith?’ she asked as they climbed the stairs.
‘I got her name out of a book, I think she was a murderess.’
She gave Rebus a look which managed to be hard and amused at the same time.
‘This way,’ Rebus said. He led her to the Bible John room, where Jack was waiting. ‘Jack Morton,’ Rebus said, ‘Eve... I don’t know your last name. It’s not Toal, is it?’
‘Cudden,’ she said coldly.
‘Sit down, Ms Cudden.’
She sat down, reached into her bag for the black cigarettes. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Actually, there’s no smoking allowed,’ Jack said, sounding apologetic. ‘And neither Inspector Rebus nor myself are smokers.’
She looked at Rebus. ‘Since when?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Where’s Stanley?’
‘He’ll be here. We thought it wise to leave separately.’
‘Uncle Joe won’t suspect?’
‘Well, that’s our problem, not yours. As far as Joe knows, Malky’s going out on the ran-dan, and I’m visiting a friend. She’s a good friend, she’ll not let on.’
Her tone told Rebus she’d used the friend before — other times, other assignations.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m glad you arrived first. I wanted to have a private word.’ He rested against a desk, folded his arms to stop his hands shaking. ‘That night in the hotel, you were setting me up, yes?’
‘Tell me what you know.’
‘About you and Stanley?’
‘Malky.’ Her face creased. ‘I hate that nickname.’
‘OK then, Malky. What do I know? I know just about everything. The two of you head north every now and then on business for Uncle Joe. I’d guess you’re go-betweens. He needs people he can trust.’ He gave a twist to the last word. ‘People who won’t share their hotel bedroom, leaving the other one vacant. People who won’t rip him off.’
‘Are we ripping him off?’ Disregarding Jack, she’d lit up. There were no ashtrays in sight, so Rebus placed a wastepaper-bin beside her, inhaling the smoke as he did so. Wonderful smoke. Almost a contact high.
‘Yes,’ he said, retreating to the desk. They’d placed Eve’s chair in the middle of the floor, Rebus to one side of her, Jack the other. She looked comfortable enough with the arrangement. ‘I don’t see Uncle Joe as a bank account kind of villain. I mean, he probably wouldn’t trust the banks in Glasgow, never mind Aberdeen. Yet there you are, you and Malky, dumping wads of cash into several accounts. I have dates, times, bank details.’ An exaggeration, but he reckoned he could wing it. ‘I’ve got statements from hotel employees, including maids who never need to clean Malky’s room. Funny, he doesn’t strike me as the tidy sort.’
Eve exhaled smoke down her nostrils, managed a smile. ‘All right,’ she said.
‘Now,’ Rebus went on, wanting to rid her of the confident smile, ‘what would Uncle Joe say to all this? I mean, Malky’s blood, but you’re not, Eve. I’d say you were expendable.’ Pause. ‘And I’d say you know it, have done for a while.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning I don’t see you and Malky as an item, not long-term. He’s too thick for you, and he’ll never be rich enough to make up for that. I can see what he sees in you: you’re an accomplished seducer.’
‘Not that accomplished.’ Her eyes found his.
‘Pretty good though. Good enough to hook Malky. Good enough to talk him into skimming from the Aberdeen money. Let me guess: your story was that the two of you would bugger off together when there was enough set by?’
‘My language may not have matched yours.’ Her eyes were calculating slits, but the smile had gone. She knew Rebus was going to deal; she wouldn’t be here otherwise. She was wondering what she could get away with.
‘But you wouldn’t, right? Just between us, you were planning to clear off by yourself.’
‘Was I?’
‘I’m banking on it.’ He stood up, walked towards her. ‘I don’t want you, Eve. Good fucking luck to you, I say. Take the money and run.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But I want Malky. I want him for Tony El. And I want the answers to some questions. When he gets here, you’re going to talk to him. You’re going to persuade him to cooperate. Then we’ll talk, and it’ll go down on tape.’ Her eyes widened. ‘The story is, it’s my insurance in case you decide to stick around.’
‘But in reality?’
‘It’ll take Malky down, and Uncle Joe with him.’
‘And I walk away?’
‘Promise.’
‘How do I know I can trust you?’
‘I’m a gentleman, remember? You said as much in the bar.’
She smiled again, her eyes not moving from his. She looked like a cat: same morals, same instinct. Then she nodded her head.
Malcolm Toal arrived at the station fifteen minutes later, and Rebus left him with Eve in an interview room. The station was evening quiet, not yet late enough for pub rowdies, knife fights, blow-ups before bed. Jack asked Rebus how he wanted to play it.
‘Just sit there and look like everything I say is the word of God, that’ll be good enough for me.’
‘And if Stanley makes a move?’
‘We can handle him.’ He’d already told Eve to find out if Malky was carrying. If he was, Rebus wanted the weaponry on the table by the time he returned. He went into the toilets again, just to steady his breathing and look at himself in the mirror. He tried to relax his jaw muscles. In the past, he’d have been reaching for the quarter-bottle of whisky in his pocket. But tonight there was no quarter-bottle, no Dutch courage. Which meant for once he’d be relying on the real thing.
Back in the interview room, Malky looked at him with eyes like lasers, proof that Eve had said her piece. Two Stanley knives lay on the table. Rebus nodded, satisfied. Jack was busy setting up the recorder and breaking the seals on a couple of tapes.
‘Has Ms Cudden explained the situation, Mr Toal?’ Malky nodded. ‘I’m not interested in the pair of you, but I am interested in everything else. You slipped up, but you can still get out of this, same as you’ve been planning all along.’ Rebus tried not to look at Eve, who was looking anywhere but at lovelorn Stanley. Christ, she was a tough one. Rebus really had taken a liking to her; he almost liked her better now than he had that night in the bar. Jack nodded that the recorder was running.
‘OK, now we’re recording I’d like to make it clear that this is for my own personal insurance, and won’t be used against the pair of you at any time, so long as you clear off afterwards. I’d like you to introduce yourselves.’ They did, Jack checking the levels and adjusting them.
‘I’m Detective Inspector John Rebus,’ Rebus said, ‘and with me is Detective Inspector Jack Morton.’ He paused, pulled out the third chair at the table and sat down, Eve to his right, Toal to his left. ‘Let’s start with that night in the hotel bar, Ms Cudden. I’m not a great believer in coincidence.’
Eve blinked. She’d expected the questions to relate to Malky alone. Now she saw that Rebus really was going to have some insurance.
‘It wasn’t coincidence,’ she said, fumbling for another Sobranie. The packet slipped, and Toal picked it up, taking out a cigarette, lighting it for her, then handing it over. She could hardly bear to take it — or else wanted Rebus to think that. But Rebus was looking at Toal, surprised by the gesture. There was unexpected affection in ‘Mad Malky’, a real joy at being close to his lover, even in the present situation. He seemed very different from the scowling complainer Rebus had met at the Ponderosa: younger now, face shining, eyes wide. Hard to believe he could kill in cold blood — but not impossible. He was dressed in the same awful non-style of their previous meeting — the trousers from a shell-suit with an orange leather jacket and a blue patterned shirt, set off with scuffed black slip-on shoes. His mouth moved like he was chewing gum, even though he wasn’t. He sat low in the chair, legs open, hands resting between his thighs, high up near the crotch.
‘It was planned,’ Eve went on. ‘Well, sort of. I thought there was a good chance you’d hit the bar before you went to bed.’
‘How come?’
‘The word is, you like to drink.’
‘Says who?’
She shrugged.
‘How did you know which hotel I’d be in?’
‘I was told.’
‘Who by?’
‘The Yanks.’
‘Tell me their names.’ By the book, John.
‘Judd Fuller, Erik Stemmons.’
‘They both told you?’
‘Stemmons specifically.’ She smiled. ‘Coward that he is.’
‘Go on.’
‘I think he thought handing you to us was a better option than putting Fuller on to you.’
‘Because Fuller would have been harder on me?’
She shook her head. ‘He was thinking of himself. If we went after you, the two of them were in the clear. Judd’s difficult to control sometimes.’ Toal snorted at that. ‘Erik would rather he didn’t get worked up.’
Probably Stemmons had reined in Fuller, so all Fuller’s men had done was pistol-whip Rebus rather than put him out of the game. One yellow card: he couldn’t see Fuller giving a second. Rebus wanted to ask her more. He wanted to know how far she’d have gone to find out what he knew... But somehow he thought that line of questioning might blow all Malky’s fuses.
‘Who told the Yanks where I was staying?’
He already knew the answer — Ludovic Lumsden — but wanted it on tape if possible. But Eve shrugged, and Toal shook his head.
‘Tell me what you were doing in Aberdeen.’
Eve busied herself with her cigarette, so Toal cleared his throat.
‘Working for my dad.’
‘Doing what specifically?’
‘Selling an’ that.’
‘Selling?’
‘Dope — speed, skag, anything and everything.’
‘You sound very relaxed, Mr Toal.’
‘Mibbe resigned would be nearer the mark.’ Toal sat up in his chair. ‘Eve says we can trust you. I wouldn’t know about that, but I know what my dad’ll do when he finds out we’ve been skimming.’
‘So I’m the lesser of two evils?’
‘You said it, not me.’
‘All right, let’s get back to Aberdeen. You were supplying drugs?’
‘Aye.’
‘Who to?’
‘Burke’s Club.’
‘The individuals’ names?’
‘Erik Stemmons and Judd Fuller. Specifically Judd, though Erik knows the score, too.’ He smiled at Eve. ‘Score,’ he repeated. She nodded, letting him know she got the joke.
‘Why specifically Judd Fuller?’
‘Erik runs the club, does the business side of things. Doesnae’ like getting his hands dirty, you know, pretends everything’s above board.’
Rebus remembered Stemmons’ office — paperwork everywhere. Mr Businessman.
‘Can you give me a description of Fuller?’
‘You’ve met him: he gave you that beating.’ Toal grinned. The man with the pistol: had he sounded American? Had Rebus been listening that hard?
‘I didn’t see him though.’
‘Well, he’s six feet, black hair, it always looks wet. Brylcreem or something. Back-combs it, long, like that Saturday Night Fever guy.’
‘Travolta?’
‘Aye, in that other film. You know.’ Toal made like he was spraying the room with bullets.
‘Pulp Fiction?’
Toal clicked his fingers.
‘Except Judd’s face is thinner,’ Eve added. ‘In fact, he’s thinner all round. He does like wearing dark suits though. And there’s a scar on the back of one of his hands, looks like it was sewn together too tight.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Does Fuller deal only drugs?’
Toal shook his head. ‘Naw, he’s got fingers in every pie: prozzies, porn, casinos, a bit of reset, fake designer stuff — watches and shirts an’ that.’
‘All-round entrepreneur,’ Eve added, flicking ash into the waste-bin. She was being careful to say nothing that would incriminate her.
‘And Judd and Erik aren’t the only ones. There are some Yanks in Aberdeen worse than they are: Eddie Segal, Moose Maloney...’ Toal saw the look on Eve’s face and ground to a halt.
‘Malcolm,’ she said sweetly, ‘we do want to get out of this alive, don’t we?’
Toal’s face reddened. ‘Forget I said that,’ he told Rebus. Rebus nodded, but the machine wouldn’t forget.
‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘why did you kill Tony El?’
‘Me?’ Toal said, going into his act. Rebus sighed and looked at the tips of his shoes.
‘I think,’ Eve prodded, ‘that means the Inspector wants everything. We don’t talk to him, he has a word with your dad.’
Toal stared at her, but she held it; he broke off first. His hands went back to his crotch. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘well, I was under orders.’
‘Who from?’
‘Dad, of course. See, Tony was still working for us. He was day-to-day running of the Aberdeen end. All that stuff about him leaving, that was just a story. But after you came and spoke to Dad... he went through the fucking roof, because Tony had been doing outside hits, endangering the operation. And now you were on to him, so...’
‘So Tony had to go?’ Rebus was remembering that Tony El had bragged to Hank Shankley about his ‘Glasgow connections’ — he hadn’t been lying.
‘That’s right.’
‘And I don’t suppose you were too upset to see the back of him?’
Eve smiled. ‘Not particularly upset, no.’
‘Because to save his own neck, Tony might have grassed the two of you?’
‘He didn’t know we were skimming, but he found out about the hotel arrangements.’
‘Biggest mistake he ever made,’ Toal said, grinning again. He was getting cockier by the minute, enjoying telling the story, basking in the knowledge that everything was going to be fine. As he grew cockier, so Eve seemed to regard him with less and less good grace. She’d be relieved to be free of him, Rebus could see that. The poor little bastard.
‘You had CID fooled, they thought it was suicide.’
‘Well, when you’ve a cop or two in your pocket...’
Rebus looked at Toal. ‘Say that again.’
‘A cop or two on the payroll.’
‘Names?’
‘Lumsden,’ Toal said. ‘Jenkins.’
‘Jenkins?’
‘He’s something to do with the oil industry,’ Eve explained.
‘Oil Liaison Officer?’
She nodded.
Who’d been on holiday when Rebus had arrived, Lumsden standing in for him. With those two on your side, you’d have no trouble supplying the production platforms with whatever they needed — a real captive market. And when the workers came ashore, you had further delights for them: clubs, prozzies, booze and gambling. The legit and the illicit working side by side, each feeding the other. No wonder Lumsden had tagged along on the trip out to Bannock; he was protecting his investment.
‘What do you know about Fergus McLure?’
Toal looked to Eve, ready to talk but seeking permission. She nodded, keeping her own mouth shut.
‘He had a little accident, got too close to Judd.’
‘Fuller killed him?’
‘Hands on, that’s what Judd said.’ There was a hint of hero worship in Toal’s voice. ‘Told McLure they had to talk somewhere private, said walls had ears. Moseyed down to the canal with him, a dunt to the head with his gun, and into the water.’ Toal shrugged. ‘He was back in Aberdeen in time for a late breakfast.’ He smiled at Eve. ‘Late.’ Presumably another joke, but she was beyond smiling back. She just wanted out of there.
Rebus had other questions, but he was beginning to tire. He decided to leave it at that. He got up and nodded for Jack to switch off the machine, then told Eve she could go.
‘What about me?’ Toal asked.
‘You don’t leave together,’ Rebus reminded him. Toal seemed to accept this. Rebus saw Eve along the corridor and down the stairs. Neither of them said a word, not even goodbye. But he watched her leave before asking the desk officer for a couple of uniforms, a.s.a.p. at the interview room.
When he got back, Jack had just finished rewinding the tapes, and Toal was on his feet, doing some stretching exercises. There was a knock, and the two uniforms came in. Toal stood up straight, sensing something was wrong.
‘Malcolm Toal,’ Rebus said, ‘I am charging you with the murder of Anthony Ellis Kane on the night of —’
With a roar, Mad Malky flew at Rebus, hands scrabbling at his neck.
The woolly suits eventually got him into a cell, and Rebus sat on a chair in the interview room, watching his hands shaking.
‘You OK?’ Jack asked.
‘Know what, Jack? You’re like a broken record.’
‘Know what, John? You’re always needing it asked.’
Rebus smiled and rubbed his neck. ‘I’m fine.’
As Toal had run at him, Rebus had kneed the young man in the groin with enough force to lift him off his feet. After that, the uniforms had found him just about manageable, especially with a Vulcan death grip to his carotid.
‘What do you want to do?’ Jack asked.
‘One copy of the tape goes to CID here. It’ll give them enough to go on until we get back.’
‘From Aberdeen?’ Jack guessed.
‘And points north.’ Rebus pointed to the machine. ‘Stick the copy back in and turn it on.’ Jack did so. ‘Gill, here’s a little present for you. I hope you’ll know what to do with it.’ He nodded, and Jack stopped recording and ejected the tape.
‘We’ll drop it off at St Leonard’s.’
‘So we are going back to Edinburgh?’ Jack was thinking of tomorrow’s meeting with Ancram.
‘Only long enough for a change of clothes and a doctor’s line.’
Outside in the car park, a solitary figure was waiting: Eve.
‘Going my way?’ she asked.
‘How did you know?’
She smiled her most feline smile. ‘Because you’re like me — you’ve got unfinished business in Aberdeen. I’m only going to be there as long as it takes to visit a few banks and close a few accounts, but there are those two hotel rooms...’
A good point: they’d need a base, preferably one Lumsden didn’t know about.
‘He’s in a cell?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘How many men did you need?’
‘Just the two.’
‘I’m surprised.’
‘We all surprise ourselves some time,’ Rebus said, opening the back door of Jack’s car for her.
Rebus wasn’t surprised to find Gill Templer’s office locked up for the night. He looked around the night shift and saw Siobhan Clarke trying to make herself inconspicuous, dreading their first meeting since she’d been part of the search team at his flat. He walked up to her, the yellow padded envelope in his hand.
‘It’s OK,’ he said, ‘I know why you were there. I think I should thank you.’
‘I just thought...’
He nodded. The relief on her face made him wonder what she’d been going through.
‘Working on anything?’ he asked, figuring she was owed a minute’s conversation. Jack and Eve were downstairs in the car, getting to know one another.
‘I’ve been on Johnny Bible background: deadly dull.’ She perked up. ‘One thing though. I was going through the old newspapers in the National.’
‘Yes?’ Rebus had been there, too: he wondered if that were her story.
‘One of the librarians told me someone was looking at recent newspapers and asking about people calling up ones from 1968 to ’70. I thought the combination was a bit odd. The recent papers were all from just before the first Johnny Bible murder.’
‘And the others were the years Bible John was operating?’
‘Yes.’
‘A journalist?’
‘That’s what the librarian says. Only, the card he handed over was a fake. He contacted the librarian by telephone.’
‘Did the librarian have anything?’
‘A few names. I took them down, on the off chance. A couple of them are journalists. One is you. The others, God knows.’
Yes, Rebus had spent a long day poring over the old stories, arranging for photocopies to be made of the relevant pages... building his collection.
‘And the mysterious journalist?’
‘No idea. I got a physical description, but it doesn’t help much. Early fifties, tall, fair-haired...’
‘Doesn’t rule too many people out, does it? Why the interest in recent papers? No, wait... Looking for cock-ups.’
Siobhan nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. And at the same time asking about people who’d shown an interest in the original Bible John case. It might sound crazy, but maybe Bible John’s out there looking for his offspring. Thing is, whoever he was... he’s got your name now, and your address.’
‘Nice to have a fan.’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Those other names... can I see?’
She found the relevant page in her notebook. One name leapt out: Peter Manuel.
‘Something?’ she asked.
Rebus pointed. ‘Not his real name. Manuel was a killer back in the fifties.’
‘Then who...?’
Reading up on Bible John, using a killer’s name as an alias. ‘Johnny Bible,’ Rebus said quietly.
‘I’d better have another word with that librarian.’
‘First thing in the morning,’ Rebus advised. ‘Speaking of which...’ He handed her the envelope. ‘Can you see to it that Gill Templer gets this?’
‘Sure.’ She shook it. The cassette rattled. ‘Anything I should know about?’
‘Definitely not.’
She smiled. ‘Now you’ve whetted my curiosity.’
‘Then unwhet it.’ He turned to leave. He didn’t want her to see how shaken he was. Someone else was hunting Johnny Bible, someone who now had Rebus’s name and address. Siobhan’s words: Bible John... looking for his offspring. Description: tall, fair-haired, early fifties. The age was right for Bible John. Whoever it was knew Rebus’s address... and his flat had been broken into, nothing stolen, but his newspapers and cuttings disturbed.
Bible John... looking for his offspring.
‘How’s the inquiry?’ Siobhan called.
‘Which one?’
‘Spaven.’
‘A doddle.’ He stopped, turned back to her. ‘By the way, if you’re really bored...?’
‘Yes?’
‘Johnny Bible: there could just be an oil connection. The last victim worked for oil companies and drank with oilmen. First victim studied at RGIT, geology, I think. Find out if there’s any connection to oil, see if there’s something we can link to victims two and three.’
‘You think he lives in Aberdeen?’
‘Right now, I think I’d lay money on it.’
Then he was gone. One more stop to make before the long haul north.
Bible John was driving through the streets of Aberdeen.
The town was quiet. He liked it that way. The trip to Glasgow had been useful, but the fourth victim had proved more useful still.
From the hotel computer, he had his list of twenty companies. Twenty guests of the Fairmount Hotel who had paid by corporate credit card in the weeks before Judith Cairns’s murder. Twenty companies based in the north-east. Twenty individuals he needed to check, any one of whom could be the Upstart.
He’d played with the connection between the victims, and numbers one and four had given him his answer: oil. Oil was at the heart of it. Victim one had studied geology at Robert Gordon’s, and in the north-east the study of geology was in so many ways connected to the subject of oil exploration. Victim four’s company numbered oil companies and their ancillaries among its best clients. He was looking for someone connected to the oil industry, someone so very like himself. The realisation had shaken him. On the one hand, it made it even more imperative he track down the Upstart; on the other, it made the game that much more dangerous. It wasn’t physical danger — he had long since conquered that particular fear. It was the danger of losing his hard-fought-for identity as Ryan Slocum. He almost felt he was Ryan Slocum. But Ryan Slocum was just a dead man, a newspaper obituary he’d come across. So he’d applied for a duplicate birth certificate, pleading the original’s loss in a house fire. This had been in pre-computer days, easy to get away with.
So his own past ceased to exist... for a time, at least. The trunk in the attic told a different story, of course. It gave the lie to his change of identity: you couldn’t change the man you were. His trunk full of souvenirs, most of them American... He had made arrangements for the trunk to be moved soon, when his wife was out of the house. A moving company would send a Transit. The trunk would be taken to a self-storage warehouse. It made sense as a precaution, but he still regretted it; it was like saying the Upstart had won.
No matter what the outcome.
Twenty companies to check. So far he had dismissed four possible suspects as being too old. A further seven companies were not involved in the oil industry in any way that he could see — they went to the bottom of the list. Leaving nine names. It was a slow business. He’d used guile during telephone calls to the companies’ offices, but guile would only go so far. He’d also had recourse to the telephone book, finding addresses for the names, watching their homes, waiting for a glimpse of a face. Would he know the Upstart when he saw him? He felt he would; at least, he’d recognise the type. But then Joe Beattie had said the same about Bible John — that he’d recognise him in a crowded room. As if a man’s heart showed in the creases and contours of his face, a sort of phrenology of sin.
He parked the car outside another house, called his office to check for messages. In his line of work, they expected him to be out of the office for long periods of the day, if not for days and weeks at a time. It was the perfect career, really. No messages, nothing for him to think about but the Upstart... and himself.
In the early days, he had lacked patience. This was no longer the case. This slow stalking of the Upstart would only make the final confrontation sweeter. But this thought was tempered with another: that the police could be closing in, too. After all, the information was there for them to find: it was just a matter of making the connections. So far only the Edinburgh prostitute failed to fit the pattern, but if he could connect three out of four, he’d be satisfied. He could bet, too, that once he knew the Upstart’s identity he could place him in Edinburgh at the time she was killed: hotel records maybe; or a receipt for petrol from an Edinburgh filling station... Four victims. One more already than the Bible John of the sixties. It was galling, he had to say it. It rankled.
And someone would pay for it. Very soon.