10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (249 page)

One: the incomplete third volume of autobiography had been published – ‘heart-breaking’ according to one critic, ‘a massive achievement’ for another. It was still on the bestseller list, Spaven’s face staring out from bookshop windows all along Princes Street. Rebus tried to avoid the route.

Two: a prisoner was released, and told reporters he was the last person to see or speak to Spaven alive. According to him, Spaven’s last words were: ‘God knows I’m innocent, but I’m so tired of saying it over and over.’ The story earned the ex-offender £750 from a newspaper; easy to see it as flannel waved at a gullible press.

Three: a new TV series was launched,
The Justice Programme
, a hard-hitting look at crime, the system, and miscarriages of justice. High ratings for its first series – attractive presenter Eamonn Breen scooping women viewers – so now a second series was on the blocks, and the Spaven case – severed head, accusations, and suicide of a media darling – was to be the showcase opener.

With Lawson Geddes out of the country, address unknown, leaving John Rebus to carry the film-can.

Alex Harvey: ‘Framed’. Segue to Jethro Tull: ‘Living in the Past’.

He went home by way of the Oxford Bar – a long detour, always worthwhile. The gantry and optics had a quietly hypnotic effect, the only possible explanation as to why the regulars could stand and stare at them for hours at a stretch. The barman waited for an order; Rebus did not have a ‘usual’ drink these days, variety the spice of life and all that.

‘Dark rum, and a half of Best.’

He hadn’t touched dark rum in years, didn’t think of it as a young man’s drink. Yet Allan Mitchison had drunk it. A seaman’s drink, another reason to think he worked offshore. Rebus handed over money, downed the short in one sour swallow, rinsed his mouth with the beer, found himself finishing it too quickly. The barman turned with his change.

‘Make it a pint this time, Jon.’

‘And another rum?’

‘Jesus, no.’ Rebus rubbed his eyes, bummed a cigarette from his drowsy neighbour. The Spaven case . . . it had dragged Rebus backwards through time, forcing him to confront memory, then to wonder if his memory was playing tricks. It remained unfinished business, twenty years on. Like Bible John. He shook his head, tried to clear it of history, and found himself thinking of Allan Mitchison, of falling headlong on to spiked rails, watching them rise towards you, arms held fast to a chair so there was only one choice left: did you confront doom open-eyed or closed? He walked around the bar to use the telephone, put money in and then couldn’t think who to call.

‘Forgotten the number?’ a drinker asked as Rebus got his coin back.

‘Aye,’ he said, ‘what’s the Samaritans’ again?’

The drinker surprised him, knew the number pat.

Four blinks from his answering machine meant four messages. He lifted the instruction manual. It was open at page six, the ‘Playback’ section boxed with red pen, paragraphs underlined. He followed the instructions. The machine decided to work.

‘It’s Brian.’ Brian Holmes. Rebus opened the Black Bush and poured, listening. ‘Just to say . . . well, thanks. Minto’s recanted, so I’m off the hook. Hope I can return the favour.’ No energy in the voice, a mouth tired of words. End message. Rebus savoured the whiskey.

Blip: message two.

‘I was working late and thought I’d give you a call, Inspector. We spoke earlier, Stuart Minchell, personnel manager at T-Bird Oil. I can confirm that Allan Mitchison was in our employ. I can fax through the details if you have a number. Call me at the office tomorrow. Bye.’

Goodbye and bingo. A relief to know something about the deceased other than his taste in music. Rebus’s ears were roaring: the concert and the alcohol, blood pounding.

Message three: ‘It’s Howdenhall here, thought you were in a hurry but I can’t find you. Typical CID.’ Rebus knew the voice: Pete Hewitt at the police lab, Howdenhall. Pete looked fifteen, but was probably early twenties, smart-mouthed with a brain to match. Fingerprints a speciality. ‘I got mostly partials, but a couple of beauties, and guess what? Their owner’s on the computer. Past convictions for violence. Phone me back if you want a name.’

Rebus checked his watch. Pete doing his usual tease. It was gone eleven, he’d be home or out on the ran-dan, and Rebus didn’t have a home number for him. He kicked the sofa, wished he’d stayed home: carting off bootleggers a pure waste of time. Still, he had the Black Bush and a bagful of CDs, T-shirts he’d never wear, a poster of four tykes with acne close-ups. He’d seen their faces before, couldn’t think where . . .

One message to go.

‘John?’

A woman’s voice, one he recognised.

‘If you’re home, pick up, please. I hate these things.’ Pause, waiting. A sigh. ‘OK then, look, now that we’re not . . . I mean, now I’m not your boss, how about some socialising? Dinner or something. Give me a call at home or office, OK? While there’s time. I mean, you won’t be at Fort Apache for ever. Take care.’

Rebus sat down, staring at the machine as it clicked off. Gill Templer, Chief Inspector, one-time ‘significant other’. She’d become his boss only recently, frost on the surface, no sign of anything but iceberg beneath. Rebus took another drink, toasted the machine. A woman had just asked him for a date: when had
that
last happened? He got up and went to the bathroom, examined his reflection in the cabinet mirror, rubbed his chin and laughed. Twilit eyes, lank hair, hands that trembled when he lifted them level.

‘Looking good, John.’ Yes, and he could fib for Scotland. Gill Templer, looking as good these days as when they’d first met,
asking him out
? He shook his head, still laughing. No, there had to be something . . . A hidden agenda.

Back in the living room, he emptied his lucky-bag, found that the poster of the four tykes matched the cover of one of the CDs. He recognised it: The Dancing Pigs. One of Mitchison’s tapes, their latest recording. He recalled a couple of the faces from the hospitality tent:
We fucking killed them out there!
Mitchison had owned at least two of their albums.

Funny he hadn’t had a ticket to the gig . . .

His front door bell: short, two rings. He walked back down the hall, checking the time. Eleven twenty-five. Put his eye to the spy-hole, didn’t believe what he saw, opened the door wide.

‘Where’s the rest of the crew?’

Kayleigh Burgess stood there, heavy bag hanging from her shoulder, hair tucked up under an oversized green beret, strands curling down past both ears. Cute and cynical at the same time: Don’t-Muck-Me-About-Unless-I-Want-You-To. Rebus had seen the model and year before.

‘In their beds, most likely.’

‘You mean Eamonn Breen
doesn’t
sleep in a coffin?’

A guarded smile; she adjusted the weight of the bag on her shoulder. ‘You know,’ not looking at him, fussing with the bag instead, ‘you’re doing yourself no favours refusing to even discuss this with us. It doesn’t make you look good.’

‘I was no pin-up to start with.’

‘We’re not taking sides, that’s not what
The Justice Programme
’s about.’

‘Really? Well, much as I enjoy a blether on the doorstep last thing at night . . .’

‘You haven’t heard, have you?’ Now she looked at him. ‘No, I didn’t think so. Too soon. We’ve had a unit out in Lanzarote, trying to interview Lawson Geddes. I got a phone call this evening . . .’

Rebus knew the face and tone of voice; he’d used them himself on many grim occasions, trying to break the news to family, to friends . . .

‘What happened?’

‘He committed suicide. Apparently he’d been suffering from depression since his wife died. He shot himself.’

‘Aw, Christ.’ Rebus swivelled from the door, legs heavy as he made for the living room, the whiskey bottle. She followed him, placed her bag on the coffee table. He motioned with the bottle and she nodded. They chinked glasses.

‘When did Etta die?’

‘About a year ago. Heart attack, I think. There’s a daughter, lives in London.’

Rebus remembered her: a cheeky-faced pre-teen with braces. Her name was Aileen.

‘Did you hound Geddes the way you’ve hounded me?’

‘We don’t “hound”, Inspector. We just want everyone to have their say. It’s important to the programme.’

‘The programme.’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Well, you’ve not got a programme now, have you?’

The drink had brought colour to her face. ‘On the contrary,
Mr Geddes’ suicide could be construed as an admission of guilt. It makes a hell of a punch-line.’ She’d recovered well; Rebus wondered how much of her earlier timidity had been an act. He realised she was standing in his living room: records, CDs, empty bottles, books piled high on the floor. He couldn’t let her see the kitchen: Johnny Bible and Bible John spread across the table, evidence of an obsession. ‘That’s why I’m here . . . partly. I could have given you the news over the telephone, but I thought it was the sort of thing best done face to face. And now that you’re alone, the only living witness so to speak . . .’ She reached into the bag, produced a professional-looking tape deck and microphone. Rebus put down his glass and walked over to her, hands out.

‘May I?’

She hesitated, then handed over the equipment. Rebus walked down the hall with it. The front door was still open. He stepped into the stairwell, reached a hand over the guard-rail, and let go the recorder. It fell two flights, case splintering on impact with the stone floor. She was right behind him.

‘You’ll pay for that!’

‘Send me the bill and we’ll see.’

He walked back inside and closed the door after him, put the chain on as a hint, and watched through the spy-hole till she’d gone.

He sat in his chair by the window, thinking of Lawson Geddes. Typical Scot, he couldn’t cry about it. Crying was for football defeats, animal bravery stories, ‘Flower of Scotland’ after closing time. He cried about stupid things, but tonight his eyes remained stubbornly dry.

He knew he was in shit. They only had
him
now, and they’d redouble their efforts to salvage a programme. Besides, Burgess was right: prisoner suicide, policeman suicide – it was a hell of a punch-line. But Rebus didn’t want to be the man to feed them it. Like them, he wanted to know the truth – but not for the same reasons. He couldn’t even say
why
he wanted to know. One course of action: start his own investigation.
The only problem was, the further he dug, the more he might be creating a pit for his own reputation – what was left of it – and, more importantly, that of his one-time mentor, partner, friend. Problem connected to the first: he wasn’t objective enough; he
couldn’t
investigate himself. He needed a stand-in, an understudy.

He picked up the telephone, pressed seven numbers. A sleepy response.

‘Yeah, hello?’

‘Brian, it’s John. Sorry to phone so late, I need that favour repaid.’

They met in the car park at Newcraighall. Lights were on in the UCI cinema complex, some late showing. The Mega Bowl was closed; so was McDonald’s. Holmes and Nell Stapleton had moved into a house just off Duddingston Park, looking across Portobello Golf Course and the Freightliner Terminal. Holmes said the freight traffic didn’t keep him awake through the night. They could have met at the golf course, but it was too close to Nell for Rebus’s liking. He hadn’t seen her in a couple of years, not even at social functions – each had a gift for knowing when the other would or wouldn’t be in attendance. Old scrapes; Nell picking at the scabs, obsessive.

So they met a couple of miles away, in a gully, surrounded by closed shops – DIY store, shoe emporium, Toys R Us – still cops, even off duty.

Especially
off duty.

Their eyes darted, using wing mirrors and rearview, looking for shadows. Nobody in sight, they still talked in an undertone. Rebus explained exactly what he wanted.

‘This TV programme, I need some ammo before I talk to them. But it’s too personal with me. I need you to go back over the Spaven case – case notes, trial proceedings. Just read through them, see what you think.’

Holmes sat in the passenger seat of Rebus’s Saab. He
looked what he was: a man who’d got undressed and gone to bed, only to have to get up too shortly thereafter and put dayshift clothes on again. His hair was ruffled, shirt open two buttons, shoes but no socks. He stifled a yawn, shaking his head.

‘I don’t get it. What am I looking for?’

‘Just see if anything jars. Just . . . I don’t know.’

‘You’re taking this seriously then?’

‘Lawson Geddes just killed himself.’

‘Christ.’ But Holmes didn’t even blink; beyond compassion for men he didn’t know, figures from history. He had too much on his own mind.

‘Something else,’ Rebus said. ‘You might track down an ex-con who says he was the last person to talk to Spaven. I forget the name, but it was reported in all the papers at the time.’

‘One question: do
you
think Geddes framed Lenny Spaven?’

Rebus made a show of thinking it over, then shrugged. ‘Let me tell you the story. Not the story you’ll find in my written notes on the case.’

Rebus began to talk: Geddes turning up at his door, the too-easy finding of the bag, Geddes frantic before, unnaturally calm after. The story they manufactured, anonymous tip-off. Holmes listened in silence. The cinema began to empty, young couples hugging, air-hopping towards their cars, walking like they’d rather be lying down. A gathering of engine-noise, exhaust fumes and headlights, tall shadows on the canyon walls, the car park emptying. Rebus finished his version.

‘Another question.’

Rebus waited, but Holmes was having trouble forming the words. He gave up finally and shook his head. Rebus knew what he was thinking. He knew Rebus had put the squeeze on Minto, while believing Minto to have a case against Holmes. And now he knew that Rebus had lied to protect Lawson Geddes and to secure the conviction. The question in his
mind a double strand – was Rebus’s version the truth? How dirty was the copper sitting behind the steering wheel?

How dirty would Holmes allow
himself
to get before he left the force?