10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (275 page)

‘Come on,’ Ancram said, ‘let’s get you out of here. My driver can take your car, we’ll take mine, maybe have a wee chat on the road.’

Rebus stood up, walked over to Grogan, who straightened his shoulders as if expecting physical assault. Lumsden clenched his fists, ready. Rebus stopped with his face inches from Grogan’s.

‘Are you on the take, sir?’ It was fun to watch the balloon fill with blood, highlighting burst veins and ageing lines.

‘John . . .’ Ancram warned.

‘It’s an honest question,’ Rebus went on. ‘See, if you’re not, you could do a lot worse than put a surveillance on two Glasgow hoods who seem to be holidaying up here – Eve and Stanley Toal, only his real name’s Malky. His dad’s called Joseph Toal, Uncle Joe, and he runs Glasgow, where CI Ancram works, lives, splashes out money and buys his suits. Eve and Stanley drink at Burke’s Club, where coke isn’t something in a long glass with ice. DS Lumsden took me there, looked like he’d been before. DS Lumsden reminded me that Johnny Bible had picked out his first victim there. DS Lumsden drove me down to the harbour that night, I didn’t
ask
to be taken there.’ Rebus looked over at Lumsden. ‘He’s a canny operator, DS Lumsden. The games he plays, no wonder he’s called Ludo.’

‘I won’t have malicious comments made about my men.’

‘Surveillance on Eve and Stanley,’ Rebus stressed. ‘And if it’s blown, you know where to look.’ Same place he was looking now.

Lumsden flew at him, hands at his throat. Rebus threw him off.

‘You’re as dirty as bilge-water, Lumsden, and don’t think I don’t know it!’

Lumsden swung a punch; it didn’t connect. Ancram and Grogan pulled the two of them apart. Grogan pointed to Rebus, but spoke to Ancram.

‘Maybe we’d better keep him here after all.’

‘I’m taking him back with me.’

‘I’m not so sure about that.’

‘I said I’m taking him back, Ted.’

‘Long time since I had two men fighting over me,’ Rebus said with a smile.

The two Aberdeen officers were looking ready to plough a field with him. Ancram slapped a proprietorial hand on to his shoulder.

‘Inspector Rebus,’ he said, ‘I think we’d best be going, don’t you?’

‘Do me one favour,’ Rebus said.

‘What?’ They were in the back of Ancram’s car, heading for Rebus’s hotel, where they’d pick up his car.

‘A quick detour down to the docks.’

Ancram glanced at him. ‘Why?’

‘I want to see where she died.’

Ancram looked at him again. ‘What for?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘To pay my respects,’ he said.

Ancram had only a vague idea where the body had been found, but it didn’t take long to find the runs of bright police tape which were there to secure the scene. The docks were quiet, no sign of the crate in which the body had been discovered. It would be in a police lab somewhere. Rebus kept
the right side of the cordon, looked around him. Huge white gulls strutted at a safe distance. The wind was fresh. He couldn’t tell how close this was to the spot where Lumsden had dropped him off.

‘What do you know about her?’ he asked Ancram, who stood, hands in pockets, studying him.

‘Name’s Holden, I think. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight.’

‘Did he take a souvenir?’

‘Just one of her shoes. Listen, Rebus . . . all this interest is because you once bought a prostitute a cup of tea?’

‘Her name was Angie Riddell.’ Rebus paused. ‘She had beautiful eyes.’ He gazed towards a rusting hulk chained dockside. ‘There’s a question I’ve been asking myself. Do we let it happen, or do we make it happen?’ He looked at Ancram. ‘Any idea?’

Ancram frowned. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Me neither,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Tell your driver to be careful with my car. The steering’s a bit loose.’

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.’