10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (293 page)

She swung around and slapped his face. Hard. Rebus rode it, but it still stung.

‘So much for non-violent protest,’ he said, rubbing the spot.

She slumped down on the magazines again, ran a hand over her head. It came to rest on one of her braids, which she twirled nervously. ‘You’re right,’ she said, so quietly Rebus almost didn’t hear.

‘Mitch?’

‘Mitch,’ she said, remembering him at last. Allowing herself that pain. Behind her, lighting flickered over the photographs. ‘He was so uptight when we met. Nobody could believe it when we started seeing one another – chalk and cheese they said. They were wrong. It took a while, but one night he opened up to me.’ She looked up. ‘You know his background?’

‘Orphaned,’ Rebus said.

She nodded. ‘Then institutionalised.’ She paused. ‘Then abused. He said there were times he’d thought of coming forward, telling people, but after all this time . . . he wondered what good it would do.’ She shook her head, tears forming. ‘He was the most unselfish person I’ve ever met. But inside, it was like he was eaten away, and Jesus, I know
that
feeling.’

Rebus got it. ‘Your father?’

She sniffed. ‘They call him “an institution” in the oil world. Me, I was institutionalised . . .’ A deep breath, nothing theatrical about it: a necessity. ‘And then abused.’

‘Christ,’ Jack said quietly. Rebus’s heart was racing; he had to fight to keep his voice level.

‘For how long, Jo?’

She looked up angrily. ‘You think I’d let the prick get away with it
twice
? I ran as soon as I could. Kept running for years, then thought: fuck it,
I’m
not to blame. I’m not the one who should be doing this.’

Rebus nodded understanding. ‘So you saw a bond between Mitch and you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you told him your own story?’

‘Quid pro quo.’

‘Including your father’s identity?’ She started to nod, but stopped, swallowed instead. ‘That’s what he was blackmailing your father with – the incest story?’

‘I don’t know. Mitch was dead before I could find out.’

‘But that was his intention?’

She shrugged. ‘I guess.’

‘Jo, I think we’ll need a statement from you. Not now, later. All right?’

‘I’ll think about it.’ She paused. ‘We can’t prove anything, can we?’

‘Not yet.’ Maybe not ever, he was thinking. He slid out of the seat, Jack following.

Outside, there were more songs around the camp-fire. Candles danced inside Chinese lanterns strung from the trees. Faces had turned shiny orange, like pumpkins. Joanna Bruce watched from her doorway, leaning against the bottom half of the door as before. Rebus turned to say goodbye.

‘Will you be camped here a while?’

She shrugged. ‘The way we live, who knows?’

‘You like what you’re doing?’

She gave the question serious thought. ‘It’s a life.’

Rebus smiled, moved away.

‘Inspector!’ she called. He turned back to her. Kohl was
dribbling down her cheeks. ‘If everything’s so wonderful, how come everything’s so fucked up?’

Rebus didn’t have an answer to that. ‘Don’t let the sun catch you crying,’ he told her instead.

On the drive back, he tried answering her question for himself, found he couldn’t. Maybe it all had to do with balance, cause and effect. Where there was light, there must needs be dark. It sounded like the start of a sermon, and he hated sermons. He tried out his own personal mantra instead: Miles Davis, ‘So What?’ Only, it didn’t sound so clever now.

It didn’t sound clever at all.

Jack was frowning. ‘Why didn’t she come forward with any of this?’ he asked.

‘Because as far as she’s concerned, it’s got nothing to do with us. It didn’t even have anything to do with Mitch, he just blundered in.’

‘Sounded more like he was invited.’

‘An invitation he should have refused.’

‘You think Major Weir did it?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m not even sure it matters. He’s not going anywhere.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He’s in this little private hell she’s constructed for the two of them. As long as he knows she’s out there, demonstrating against everything he holds dear . . . that’s his punishment and her revenge. No getting away from it for either of them.’

‘Fathers and daughters, eh?’

‘Fathers and daughters,’ Rebus agreed. And past misdemeanours. And the way they refused to go away . . .

They were beat when they got back to the hotel.

‘Round of golf?’ Jack suggested.

Rebus laughed. ‘I could just about manage coffee and a round of sarnies.’

‘Sounds good to me. My room in ten minutes.’

Their rooms had been made up, fresh chocolates on the pillows, clean bathrobes laid out. Rebus changed quickly, then phoned reception to ask if there were any messages. He hadn’t checked before – hadn’t wanted Jack to know he was expecting one.

‘Yes, sir,’ the receptionist trilled. ‘I’ve a phone message for you here.’ Rebus’s heart rose: she hadn’t just upped and run. ‘Shall I read it to you?’

‘Please.’

‘It says, “Burke’s, half an hour after closing. Tried another time, another place, but he wasn’t having any.” There’s no name.’

‘That’s fine, thanks.’

‘You’re welcome, sir.’

Of course he was welcome: business account. The whole world sucked up to you if you were corporate. He got the outside line, tried Siobhan at home, got her machine again. Tried St Leonard’s, was told she wasn’t there. Tried her at home again, deciding this time to leave his telephone number on her machine. Halfway through, she picked up.

‘What’s the use of an answering machine when you’re home?’ he asked.

‘Call filtering,’ she said. ‘I get to check if you’re a heavy breather or not before I talk to you.’

‘My breathing’s under control, so talk to me.’

‘First victim,’ she said. ‘I spoke to someone at Robert Gordon’s. Deceased was studying geology, and it included time spent offshore. People who study geology up there almost always get a job in the oil industry, the whole course is geared towards it. Because she spent time offshore, deceased did a survival module.’

Rebus was thinking: chopper simulator, ducked in a swimming pool.

‘So,’ Siobhan went on, ‘she spent time at OSC.’

‘The Offshore Survival Centre.’

‘Which deals with nothing but oil people. I got them to fax
me staff and student rolls. So much for the first victim.’ She paused. ‘Victim two seemed completely different: older, different set of friends, different city. But she was a prostitute, and we know that a lot of businessmen use that sort of service when they’re away from home.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Victim four worked closely with the oil industry, which left Judith Cairns, the Glasgow victim. Variously employed, including part-time cleaning at a city-centre hotel.’

‘Businessmen again.’

‘So tomorrow they begin faxing me names. They weren’t keen, client confidentiality and all that.’

‘But you can be persuasive.’

‘Yes.’

‘So what are we hoping for? A guest at the Fairmount who’s got a connection with Robert Gordon’s?’

‘It’ll be in my prayers.’

‘How soon tomorrow will you know?’

‘That’s down to the hotel. I may have to drive over there and gee them up.’

‘I’ll phone you.’

‘If you get the machine, leave a number where I can reach you.’

‘Will do. Cheers, Siobhan.’ He put the telephone down, went along to Jack’s room. Jack was wearing his robe.

‘I might have to splash out on one of these,’ he said. ‘Sarnies are on their way up, ditto a big pot of coffee. I’m just going to take a shower.’

‘Fine. Listen, Siobhan might be on to something.’ He filled Jack in.

‘Sounds promising. Then again . . .’ Jack shrugged.

‘Christ, and I thought I was cynical.’

Jack winked, went into the bathroom. Rebus waited till he could hear the shower running, and Jack humming what sounded like ‘Puppy Love’. Jack’s clothes were on a chair.
Rebus fished in the jacket pockets, came up with car keys, pocketed them for himself.

He wondered what time Burke’s closed on a Thursday night. He wondered what he was going to say to Judd Fuller. He wondered how badly Fuller would take it, whatever it was.

The shower stopped. ‘Puppy Love’ segued into ‘What Made Milwaukee Famous’. Rebus liked a man with catholic tastes. Jack emerged, wrapped in his robe and doing prize-fighter impressions.

‘Back to Edinburgh tomorrow?’

‘First thing,’ Rebus agreed.

‘To face the music.’

Rebus didn’t say he might well be facing the music long before that. But when the sandwiches arrived, he found he’d lost his appetite. Thirsty though: four cups of coffee. He needed to stay awake. Long night coming, no moon in the sky.

Darkness on the short drive in, thin rain falling. Rebus felt jolted by coffee, loose wires sparking where his nerves should be. One-fifteen in the morning: he’d rung Burke’s, the bar-side payphone, asked a punter what time the place shut.

‘Party’s nearly finished, ya radge!’ Phone slammed home. Background music: ‘Albatross’, so it was moon-dance time. Two or three slows, your last chance to grab a breakfast partner. Desperate times on the dance floor; as desperate in your forties as in your teens.

Albatross.

Rebus tried the radio – vacuous pop, pounding disco, telephone chat. Then jazz. Jazz was OK. Jazz was fine, even on Radio Two. He parked near Burke’s, watched a dumb-show as two bouncers took on three farm-boys whose girlfriends were trying to pull them away.

‘Listen to the ladies,’ Rebus muttered. ‘You’ve proved yourselves for tonight.’

The fight dissolved into pointed fingers and swearing, the
bouncers, arms not touching their sides, waddling back inside. A final kick at the doors, saliva hitting the porthole-styled windows, then hauled away and up the road. Opening curtain on another north-east weekend. Rebus got out and locked the car, breathed the city air. Shouts and sirens up on Union Street. He crossed the road and headed for Burke’s.

The doors were locked. He kicked at them, but nobody answered: probably thinking the farm-boys were back. Rebus kept kicking. Someone poked a head round the interior doors, saw he didn’t look like a punter, shouted something back into the club. Now a bouncer came out, jangling a chain of keys. He looked like he wanted to go to bed, day’s work done. The door rattled, and he opened it an inch.

‘What?’ he growled.

‘I’ve an appointment with Mr Fuller.’

The bouncer stared at him, pulled the door wide. The lights were on in the main bar, staff emptying ashtrays and wiping down tables, collecting an enormous number of glasses. With the lights up, the interior looked as bleak as any moorland vista. Two men who looked like DJs – ponytails, black sleeveless T-shirts – sat smoking at the bar, sinking bottles of beer. Rebus turned to the bouncer.

‘Mr Stemmons around?’

‘I thought your appointment was with Mr Fuller.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Just wondered if Mr Stemmons was available.’ Talk to him first – the sane member of the cast; businessman, therefore a listener.

‘He might be upstairs.’ They went back into the foyer, climbed to where Stemmons and Fuller had their offices. The bouncer opened a door. ‘In you go.’

In Rebus went, ducking too late. The hand hit his neck like a side of beef, flooring him. Fingers sought his throat, probing for the carotid artery, applying pressure. No brain damage, Rebus thought, as the edges of his vision darkened. Please, God, let there be no damage . . .

He woke up drowning.

Sucking foam and water in through his nose, his mouth. Fizzing taste – not water, beer. He shook his head wildly, opened his eyes. Lager trickled down his throat. He tried coughing it out. Someone was standing behind him, holding the now-empty bottle, chuckling. Rebus tried turning and found his arms were on fire. Literally. He could smell whisky, see a shattered bottle on the floor. His arms had been doused in the stuff and set alight. He cried out, wriggled. A bar towel flapped at the flames and they died. The smouldering towel fell with a slap on to the floor. Laughter echoing around the walls.

The place reeked of alcohol. It was a cellar. Bare lightbulbs and aluminium kegs, boxes of bottles and glasses. Half a dozen brick pillars supporting the ceiling. They hadn’t tied Rebus to one of these. Instead, he hung suspended from a hook, the rope fraying his wrists, arms readying to pop from sockets. Rebus shifted more weight on to his feet. The figure from behind tossed the beer-bottle into a crate and came round to stand in front of him. Slick black hair with a kiss-curl at the front, and a large hooked nose in the centre of a face lush with corruption. A diamond glinted in one of the teeth. Dark suit, white T-shirt. Rebus took a wild guess – Judd Fuller – but reckoned the time for introductions was past.

‘Sorry I don’t have Tony El’s ingenuity with power tools,’ Fuller said. ‘But I do what I can.’

‘From where I’m standing, you’re doing fine.’

‘Thanks.’

Rebus looked around. They were alone in the cellar, and nobody’d thought to tie his legs together. He could kick Fuller in the balls and . . .

The punch came low, hitting him just above the groin. It would have doubled him up, if his arms had been free. As it was, he instinctively raised his knees, lifting his feet off the floor. His shoulder-joints told him this was not the brightest move.

Fuller was walking away, flexing the fingers of his right hand. ‘So, cop,’ he said, his back to Rebus, ‘how do you like it so far?’

‘I’m ready for a break if you are.’

‘Only break you’re going to get is your goddamn neck.’ Fuller turned to him, grinned, then picked up another beer-bottle, smacked it open against a wall and gulped half the contents.

The smell of the alcohol was overpowering, and the few mouthfuls Rebus had swallowed seemed already to be having an effect. His eyes stung; so did his hands where the flames had licked them. His wrists were already blistering.

‘We have a nice club here,’ Fuller was saying. ‘Everybody has fun. You can ask around, it’s a popular spot. What gives you the right to spoil the party?’