10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (261 page)

‘Shit.’

Rebus drove past and kept going, watching in his rearview. There was nowhere to park anyway. He turned right at the junction, then next left, and ended up in a parking space outside Thirlestane Baths. He turned off the ignition and punched the steering-wheel a few times. He could always drive away, maybe head for the M90, race up to Dundee and back, but he didn’t feel like it. He took a few deep breaths, feeling the blood pound through him, a rushing noise in his ears.

‘Let’s do it,’ he said, getting out of the car. He walked down Marchmont Crescent to his chippie, then headed home, feeling the fried fat burning his palm through the layers of paper. He took his time walking up Arden Street itself. They weren’t expecting him to be on foot, and he was almost on them before someone recognised him.

There was a camera crew, too: Redgauntlet – cameraman, Kayleigh Burgess, and Eamonn Breen. Caught on the hop, Breen flicked a cigarette on to the road and grabbed his microphone. The videocam had a spot attached. Spotlights always made you squint, which in turn made you look guilty, so Rebus kept his eyes nice and wide.

A journalist got in the first question.

‘Inspector, any comment on the Spaven inquiry?’

‘Is it true the case is being reopened?’

‘How did you feel when you heard Lawson Geddes had killed himself?’

At that question, Rebus glanced towards Kayleigh Burgess, who had the grace to look down at the pavement. He was halfway up the path now, only feet from the tenement’s main door, but surrounded by reporters. It was like wading through broth. He stopped and turned to face them.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I have a short statement I’d like to make.’

They looked at each other, eyes registering surprise, then held out their tape recorders. A couple of older hacks near the back, who’d been here too often to raise any enthusiasm, were using pen and notepad.

The noise died down. Rebus held his wrapped package aloft.

‘On behalf of the chip-eaters of Scotland, I’d like to thank you for providing our nightly wrappings.’

He was inside the door before they could think of anything to say.

In the flat, he left the lights off and walked over to the living-room window, peering down on to the scene outside. A few of the reporters were shaking their heads, calling in on mobile phones to see if they’d be allowed home. One or two were already making for their cars. Eamonn Breen was talking to camera, looking full of himself as usual. One of the younger journalists raised two fingers above Breen’s head, turning them into rabbit’s ears.

Looking across the road, Rebus saw a man standing against a parked car, arms folded. He was gazing up at Rebus’s window, a smile on his face. He unfolded his arms long enough to give Rebus a silent round of applause, then got into his car and started the engine.

Jim Stevens.

Rebus turned back into the room, switched on an Anglepoise lamp, sat down in his chair to eat the chips. But he still didn’t have much of an appetite. He was wondering who had leaked the story to the vultures. The CC Rider had only told him this afternoon, and he’d told no one except Brian Holmes and Gill Templer. The answering machine was blinking furiously: four messages. He managed to work the machine without recourse to the manual, and was feeling pleased until he heard the Glaswegian accent.

‘Inspector Rebus, it’s CI Ancram here.’ Brisk and businesslike. ‘Just to let you know I’ll probably arrive in Edinburgh tomorrow to get the inquiry underway, sooner we start, sooner it’ll be over with. Best for all concerned, eh? I did leave a message at Craigmillar for you to phone me, but you don’t seem to have been around to act on it.’

‘Thank you and good night,’ Rebus growled.

Beep. Message two.

‘Inspector, it’s me again. It would be very useful to know your planned movements for the next week or so, just to maximise my time effectively. If you could type out as full a breakdown as possible, I’d appreciate it.’

‘I feel like I’m
having
a fucking breakdown.’

He went back to the window. They were clearing off. The Redgauntlet camera was being loaded into the estate car. Message three. At the sound of the voice, Rebus turned slack-jawed to watch the machine.

‘Inspector, the inquiry will be based at Fettes. I’ll probably bring one of my own men with me, but otherwise will utilise officers and civilian staff from Fettes. So as from tomorrow morning you can contact me there.’

Rebus walked over to the machine and stared down at it, daring it . . . daring it . . .

Beep. Message four.

‘Two tomorrow afternoon for our first meeting, Inspector. Let me know if this —’

Rebus snatched up the machine and flung it at the wall. The lid flew open, ejecting the tape.

His doorbell rang.

He checked through the spyhole. Could
not
believe it. Opened the door wide.

Kayleigh Burgess took a step back. ‘Christ, you look fierce.’

‘I
feel
fierce. What the hell do you want?’

She brought a hand from behind her back, showing a bottle of Macallan. ‘Peace offering,’ she said.

Rebus looked at the bottle, then at her. ‘Is this your idea of entrapment?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Any microphones or cameras about your person?’

She shook her head. Strands of curling brown hair came to rest against her cheeks and the sides of her eyes. Rebus stepped back into the hall.

‘Lucky for you I’ve a drouth on me,’ he said.

She walked ahead of him into the living room, giving him the chance to study her body. It was every bit as tidy as Feardie Fergie’s house.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry about your tape machine. Send me the bill, I mean it.’

She shrugged, then saw the answering machine. ‘What is it with you and technology?’

‘Ten seconds, and already the questions have started. Wait here, I’ll get the glasses.’ He went into the kitchen and closed the door behind him, then gathered up the press cuttings and newspapers from the table, flinging them into a cupboard. He rinsed two glasses, and took his time drying them, staring at the wall above the sink. What was she after? Information, naturally. Gill’s face came into his mind. She’d asked him for a favour, and a man had died. As for Kayleigh Burgess . . . maybe
she’d
been responsible for Geddes’ suicide. He took the glasses through. She was crouched in front of the hi-fi, studying album spines.

‘I’ve never owned a record player,’ she said.

‘I hear they’re the next big thing.’ He opened the Macallan and poured. ‘I’ve no ice, though I could probably chip a block off the inside of the freezer.’

She stood up, took her glass from him. ‘Neat’s fine.’

She was wearing tight black denims, faded at bum and knees, and a denim jacket with fleece lining. Her eyes, he noticed, were slightly bulbous, her eyebrows arched – natural, he thought, not plucked. Sculpted cheekbones, too.

‘Sit down,’ he said.

She sat on the sofa, legs slightly apart, elbows on knees, holding the drink up to her face.

‘It’s not your first today, is it?’ she asked him.

He sipped, put the glass on the arm of his chair. ‘I can stop any time I want.’ He held his arms wide. ‘See?’

She smiled, drank, watching him above the rim of the glass. He tried to read the signals: coquette, minx, relaxed, sharp-eyed, calculating, amused . . .

‘Who tipped you off about the inquiry?’ he asked.

‘You mean who tipped the media in general, or me personally?’

‘Whichever.’

‘I don’t know who started the story, but one journalist told another and it spread from there. A friend of mine on
Scotland on Sunday
phoned me; she knew we were covering the Spaven case already.’

Rebus was thinking: Jim Stevens, standing on the sideline like the team manager. Stevens, Glasgow-based. Chick Ancram, Glasgow-based. Ancram knowing Rebus and Stevens went way back, spilling the story . . .

Bastard. No wonder he hadn’t invited Rebus to call him Chick.

‘I can almost hear the cogs turning.’

A thin smile. ‘Pieces falling into place.’ He reached for the bottle – had left it within grabbing distance. Kayleigh Burgess rested against the back of the sofa, sliding her legs under her, looking around.

‘Nice room. Big.’

‘It needs redecorating.’

She nodded. ‘Cornices for definite, maybe around the window. I’d turf that out though.’ She was referring to a painting above the fireplace: a fishing-boat in a harbour. ‘Where’s it supposed to be?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Somewhere that’s never existed.’ He didn’t like the painting either, but couldn’t conceive of throwing it out.

‘You could strip the door,’ she went on, ‘it’d come up well from the look of it.’ She saw his look. ‘I’ve just bought my own place in Glasgow.’

‘Nice for you.’

‘The ceilings are too high for my liking, but –’ His tone of voice caught her. She stopped.

‘Sorry,’ Rebus said, ‘I’m a bit rusty on chit-chat.’

‘But not on irony.’

‘I get plenty of practice. How’s the programme going?’

‘I thought you didn’t want to discuss it.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Got to be more interesting than DIY.’ He got up to refill her glass.

‘It’s going OK.’ She looked up at him; he kept his eyes on her glass. ‘Be better if you agreed to be interviewed.’

‘No.’ He went back to his chair.

‘No,’ she echoed. ‘Well, with you or without you, the programme will go out. It’s already scheduled. Have you read Mr Spaven’s book?’

‘I’m not a great one for fiction.’

She turned to stare at the piles of books near the hi-fi. They called him a liar.

‘I’ve seldom met a prisoner who didn’t profess his or her innocence,’ Rebus went on. ‘It’s a survival mechanism.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across a miscarriage of justice either?’

‘I’ve seen plenty. But the thing is, usually the “miscarriage”
was that the criminal was getting away with it. The whole legal system is a miscarriage of justice.’

‘Can I quote you on that?’

‘This conversation is strictly
off
the record.’

‘You’re supposed to make that clear before you say anything.’

He wagged a finger at her. ‘Off the record.’

She nodded, raised her glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to off the record remarks.’

Rebus put his glass to his lips, but didn’t drink. The whisky was loosening him up, mixing with the exhaustion and a brain that seemed full to bursting. A dangerous cocktail. He knew he’d have to be more careful, starting straight away.

‘Want some music?’ he asked.

‘Is that a subtle change of subject?’

‘Questions, questions.’ He went over to the hi-fi, slotted in a tape of
Meddle
.

‘Who is it?’ she asked.

‘Pink Floyd.’

‘Oh, I like them. Is it a new album?’

‘Not exactly.’

He got her talking about her job, how she got into it, her life all the way back to childhood. Now and again she asked a question about
his
past, but he’d shake his head and lead her back into her own story.

She needs a break, he thought, as in a rest. But she was obsessed with her job, maybe this was as close as she could allow herself to come to a respite: she was with
him
, so it counted as work. It came down to guilt again, guilt and the work ethic. He thought of a story: World War One, Christmastime, the opposing sides emerging from their trenches to shake hands, play a game of football, then back into the trenches, picking up their guns again . . .

After an hour and four whiskies, she was lying on the sofa with one hand behind her head, the other resting on her stomach. She’d taken her jacket off, and was wearing a white
sweatshirt beneath. She’d rolled the sleeves up. The lamplight made golden filaments of the hairs on her arms.

‘Better get a taxi . . .’ she said quietly,
Tubular Bells
in the background. ‘Who’s this again?’

Rebus didn’t say anything. There was no need to: she was asleep. He could wake her, help her into a taxi. He could drive her home, Glasgow under an hour away at this time of night. But instead he covered her with his duvet, left the music on so low he could barely hear Viv Stanshall’s intros. He sat in his chair by the window, a coat covering him. The gas fire was on, warming the room. He’d wait till she woke up in her own time. Then he’d offer a taxi or his services as driver. Let her choose.

He had a lot of thinking to do, a lot of planning. He had an idea about tomorrow and Ancram and the inquiry. He was turning it, shaping it, adding layers. A lot of thinking to do . . .

He awoke to streetlamp sodium and the feeling that he hadn’t been asleep long, looked at the sofa and saw Kayleigh had gone. He was about to close his eyes again when he noticed her denim jacket still lying on the floor where she’d thrown it.

He got up from the chair, still groggy and suddenly not wanting to be. The hall light was on. The kitchen door was open. The light was on in there too . . .

She was standing by the table, paracetamol in one hand, a glass of water in the other. The newspaper clippings were spread in front of her. She started when she saw him, then looked at the table.

‘I was looking for coffee, thought it might sober me up. I found these instead.’

‘Casework,’ Rebus said simply.

‘I didn’t know you were attached to the Johnny Bible inquiry.’

‘I’m not.’ He gathered up the sheets and put them back in the cupboard. ‘There isn’t any coffee, I’ve run out.’

‘Water’s fine.’ She swallowed the tablets.

‘Hangover?’

She gulped water, shook her head. ‘I think maybe I can head it off.’ She looked at him. ‘I wasn’t snooping, it’s important to me that you believe that.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘If it finds its way into the programme, we’ll both know.’

‘Why the interest in Johnny Bible?’

‘No reason.’ He saw she couldn’t accept that. ‘It’s hard to explain.’

‘Try me.’

‘I don’t know . . . call it the end of innocence.’

He drank a couple of glasses of water, let her wander back into the living room by herself. She came out again with her jacket on, pulling her hair out from behind the collar.