10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (138 page)

‘And you wanted to see me so you could tell me this?’

‘Partly, yes. But also, I wanted to give you something.’ She rose slowly from her chair, using the zimmer-frame for support, and leaned up towards the mantelpiece. Rebus half-rose to help her, but she didn’t need his help. She found the photograph and handed it down to him. He looked at it. In fading black and white, it showed two grinning schoolboys, not exactly dressed to the nines. They had their arms casually slung around one another’s necks, and their faces were close together. Best friends, but more than that: brothers.

‘He kept that, you see. He told me once that he’d thrown out all the photos of your faither. But when we were going through his things, we found that in the bottom of a shoebox. I wanted you to have it, Jock.’

‘It’s not Jock, it’s John,’ said Rebus, his eyes not entirely dry.

‘Of course it is,’ said his Auntie Ena. ‘Of course it is.’

Earlier that afternoon, Michael Rebus had lain along the couch asleep and unaware that he was missing one of his favourite films,
Double Indemnity
, on BBC2. He’d gone to the pub for a lunchtime drink: alone, as it turned out. The students weren’t into it. Instead, they’d gone shopping, or to the launderette, or home for the weekend to see parents and friends. So Michael drank only two lagers topped with lemonade and returned to the flat, where he promptly fell asleep in front of the TV.

He’d been thinking about John recently. He knew he was imposing on his big brother, but didn’t reckon on doing so much longer. He had spoken on the phone to Chrissie. She was still in Kirkcaldy with the kids. She’d wanted nothing to do with him after the bust, and was especially disgusted that his own brother had given evidence against him. But Michael didn’t blame John for that. John had principles. And besides, some of the evidence had worked – deliberately, he was sure – in Michael’s favour.

Now Chrissie was talking to him again. He’d written to her all through his incarceration, then had written from London too; not knowing whether she’d received any of his letters. But she had. She told him that when they spoke. And she didn’t have a boyfriend, and the kids were fine, and did he want to see them some time?

‘I want to see you,’ he’d told her. It sounded right.

He was dreaming about her when the doorbell went. Well . . . her and Gail the student, if truth be told. He staggered to his feet. The bell was insistent.

It took a second to turn the snib-lock, after which Michael’s world imploded.

With another Hibernian defeat behind her, Siobhan Clarke was quiet on the way home, which suited Rebus. He had some thinking to do, and not about work, for a change. He thought about the job too much as it was, gave himself to it the way he had never given himself to any
person
in his life. Not his ex-wife, not his daughter, not Patience, not Michael.

He’d come into the police prematurely weary and cynical. Then he watched recruits like Holmes and Clarke and saw their best intentions thwarted by the system and the public’s attitude. There were times you’d feel more welcome if you were painting plague markers on people’s doors.

‘A penny for them,’ said Siobhan Clarke.

‘Don’t waste your money.’

‘Why not? Look how much I’ve wasted already today.’

Rebus smiled at that. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘I keep forgetting, there’s always someone in the world worse off than yourself . . . Unless you’re a Hibs supporter.’

‘Ha bloody ha.’

Siobhan Clarke reached for the stereo and tried to find a station that didn’t run the day’s classified results.

Full of good intentions, Rebus opened the door of the flat, sensing immediately that nobody was home. Well, it was Saturday night, after all. But they might at least have turned the TV off.

He went into the box room and placed the old photograph on Michael’s unmade bed. The room smelt faintly of perfume, reminding Rebus of Patience. He missed her more than he liked to admit. When they’d first started seeing one another, they’d agreed that they were both too old for anything that could be called ‘love’. They’d also agreed that they were more than ready for lashings of sex. Then, when Rebus had moved in, they’d talked again. It didn’t really mean commitment, they were agreed on that; it was just handier for the moment. Ah, but when Rebus had rented out his own flat . . .
that
had meant commitment, commitment to sleeping on the sofa should Patience ever kick him out.

He lay along the sofa now, noticing that he had all but annexed what had been the flat’s main communal space. The students tended to sit around in the kitchen now, talking quietly with the door closed. Rebus didn’t blame them. It was all a mess in here, and all
his
mess. His suitcase lay wide open on the floor beside the window, ties and socks trickling from it. The holdall was tucked behind the sofa. His two suits hung limply from the picture-rail next to the box room, partially blocking out a psychedelic poster which had been making Rebus’s eyes hurt. The place had a feral smell from lack of fresh air. The smell suited it, though. After all, wasn’t this Rebus’s lair?

He picked up the telephone and rang Patience. Her taped voice spoke to him; the message was new.

‘I’m going with Susan and Jenny back to their mother’s. Any messages, leave them after the tone.’

Rebus’s first thought was how stupid Patience had been. The message let any caller –
any
caller – know she wasn’t home. He knew that burglars often telephoned first. They might even go through the phone book more or less at random, finding phones that rang and rang, or answering machines. You had to make your message vague.

He guessed that if she’d gone to her sister’s, she wouldn’t be back until tomorrow night at the earliest, and might even stay over on the Monday.

‘Hi, Patience,’ he said to the machine. ‘It’s me. I’m ready to talk when you are. I . . . miss you. Bye.’

So, the girls had gone. Maybe now things could get back to normal. No more smouldering Susan, no more gentle Jenny. They weren’t the cause of the rift between Rebus and Patience, but maybe they hadn’t helped. No, they definitely hadn’t helped.

He made himself a cup of ‘coffee substitute’, all the time thinking of wandering down to the late-opening shop at the corner of Marchmont Road. But their coffee was instant and expensive, and besides, maybe this stuff would taste okay.

It tasted awful, and was absolutely caffeine-free, which was probably why he fell asleep during a dreary mid-evening movie on the television.

And awoke to a ringing telephone. Someone had switched the TV off, and perhaps that same person had thrown the blanket over him. It was getting to be a regular thing. He was stiff as he sat up and reached for the receiver. His watch told him it was one-fifteen a.m.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Inspector Rebus?’

‘Speaking.’ Rebus rubbed at his hair.

‘Inspector, this is PC Hart. I’m in South Queensferry.’

‘Yes?’

‘There’s someone here claims he’s your brother.’

‘Michael?’

‘That’s the name he gave.’

‘What’s up? Is he guttered?’

‘Nothing like that, sir.’

‘What is it then?’

‘Well, sir, we’ve just found him . . .’

Rebus was very awake now. ‘Found him where?’

‘He was hanging from the Forth Rail Bridge.’

‘What?’ Rebus felt his hand squeezing the telephone receiver to death. ‘
Hanging?
’

‘I don’t mean like that, sir. Sorry if I . . .’ Rebus’s grip relaxed.

‘No, I mean he was hanging by his feet, sort of suspended, like. Just hanging in mid-air.’

‘We thought it was some sort of joke gone wrong at first. You know, bungee jumper, that kind of thing.’ PC Hart was leading Rebus to a hut on the quayside at South Queensferry. The Firth of Forth was dark and quiet in front of them, but Rebus could make out the rail bridge lowering far above them. ‘But that’s not the story he gave us. Besides, it was clear he hadn’t taken the dive on his own.’

‘How clear?’

‘His hands were tied together, sir. And his mouth had been taped shut.’

‘Christ.’

‘Doctor says he’ll be all right. If they’d tipped him over the side, his legs could’ve come out of the sockets, but the doc reckons they must have lowered him over.’

‘How did they get onto the bridge in the first place?’

‘It’s easy enough, if you’ve a head for heights.’

Rebus, who had no head for heights, had already declined the offer of a visit to the spot where Michael had been found, up on the ochre-coloured iron construction.

‘Looks like they waited till they knew there’d be no trains about. But a boat was going under the bridge, and the skipper thought he saw something, so he radioed in. Otherwise, well, he could have been up there all night.’ Hart shook his head. ‘A cold night, I can’t say I’d fancy it.’

They were at the hut now. There was only enough room inside for two men. One of these, seated with a blanket over his shoulders, was Michael. The other was a local doctor, called from his bed by the look of him. Other men stood around: police, the proprietor of a hotel on the waterfront, and the boat skipper who might just have saved Michael’s life, or at the very least his sanity.

‘John, thank Christ.’ Michael was trembling, and seemed to have no colour in him at all. The doctor was holding a hot cup of something, from which he was coaxing Michael to drink.

‘Drink up, Mickey,’ said Rebus. Michael looked pathetic, like the victim of some terrible tragedy. Rebus felt a tremendous sadness overwhelm him. Michael had spent years in jail, where God knows what had happened to him. Then, released, he’d had no luck at all until he’d come to Edinburgh. The bravado, the nights out with the students – Rebus suddenly saw it for what it really was, a front, an attempt to put behind him all that Michael had feared these past few years. And now this had happened, reducing him to the crouched shivering animal in the hut.

‘I’ll be back in a second, Mickey.’ Rebus pulled Hart around the side of the hut. ‘What has he told you?’ He was trying to control the fury inside him.

‘He said he was in your flat, sir, on his own.’

‘When?’

‘This afternoon, about four. There was a ring at the doorbell, so he answered, and three men pushed their way in. The first thing they did was put a cloth bag over his head. Then they held him down and tied him up, took the bag off and taped shut his mouth, then put the bag back.’

‘He didn’t see them?’

‘They kept his face against the hall carpet. He just got the quick glimpse of them when he opened the door.’

‘Go on.’ Rebus was trying not to look up at the rail bridge. Instead, he focused on the flashing red lights on top of the more distant road bridge.

‘They seem to have wrapped something like a carpet around him and taken him downstairs and into a van. It was pretty cramped in there, according to your brother. Narrow, like. He reckoned there were boxes either side of him.’ Hart paused. He didn’t like the look of concentration on the Inspector’s face.

‘Well?’ Rebus snapped.

‘He says they drove around for hours, not saying anything. Then he was lifted out of the van and taken into something like a cellar or a storeroom. They never took the bag off his head, so he can’t be sure.’ Hart paused. ‘I didn’t want to question him too closely, sir, in his present condition.’

Rebus nodded.

‘Anyway, finally they brought him up here. Tied him to the side of the bridge, and lowered him over it. They still hadn’t said anything. But when they started to lower away, they finally took the bag off his head.’

‘Christ.’ Rebus screwed shut his eyes. It brought back the grimmest memories of his own SAS training, the way they’d tried to get him to hand over information. Taking him up in a helicopter with a bag over his head, then threatening to drop him out, and carrying out their threat . . . But only eight feet off the ground, not the hundreds of feet he’d visualised. Horrible, all of it. He pushed past Hart, pulled the doctor out of the way, and bent down to hug Michael, keeping him close against his chest as he heard Michael start to bawl. The crying lasted for many minutes, but Rebus wasn’t about to let go.

And then at last, it was over. Racking dry coughs, the breathing slowing, and a sort of calm. Michael’s face was a mess of tear tracks and mucus. Rebus handed him a handkerchief.

‘The ambulance is waiting,’ the doctor said quietly. Rebus nodded. Michael was obviously in shock; they’d keep him in the Infirmary overnight.

Two patients to visit, thought Rebus. What was more, he suspected similar motives behind the attacks. Very similar motives, if it came down to it. The rage began in him all over again, and his scalp prickled like hell. But he calmed a little as he helped Michael over to the ambulance.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ he asked.

‘Absolutely not,’ said Michael. ‘Just go home, eh?’

Part of the way to the ambulance, Michael’s legs gave way, his knees refusing to lock. They carried him instead, like taking an injured player off the field, closed the door on him, and took him away. Rebus thanked the doctor, the skipper, and Hart.

‘Hellish thing to happen,’ Hart said. ‘Any idea why it did?’

‘A few,’ said Rebus.

He went home to brood in his darkened living room. His whole life seemed shot to hell. Someone had been sending him a message tonight. They’d either decided to send it
via
Michael, or else they’d simply mistaken Michael for him. After all, people said they looked alike. Since the men had come to Arden Street, they were either working on very old information, or else they knew all about his separation from Patience, which meant they were very well-informed indeed. But Rebus suspected the former. The name on the doorbell still said Rebus, though it also listed on a scrap of paper four other names. That must have confused them for a minute. Yet they’d decided to attack anyway. Why? Did it mean they were desperate? Or was it just that any hostage would do to get the message across?

Message received.

And almost understood. Almost. This was serious, deadly serious. First Brian, now Michael. He had so few doubts that the two were connected. It felt like it was time to do something, not just wait for their next move. He knew what he wanted to do, too. That one phrase had brought it to mind:
shot to hell
. A part of him wanted to be holding a gun. A gun would even the odds very nicely indeed. He even knew where he could get one, didn’t he?
Anything from a shag to a shooter
. He found that he’d been pacing the floor in front of the window. He felt caged, unwilling to sleep and unable to act against his invisible foe. But he had to do
some
thing . . . so he went for a drive.