10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (152 page)

‘Well, they’re all copies. Don’t worry, I file off any identifiers myself. Yours is a Colt 45. It’ll take ten rounds.’

‘Eight millimetre?’

Deek nodded. ‘There are twenty in the box. It’s not the most lethal weapon around. I can get replica Uzis too.’

‘Christ.’ Rebus finished his pint. He suddenly wanted to be out of there.

‘It’s a living,’ said Deek Torrance.

‘Aye, right, a living,’ said Rebus, getting up to go.

Next morning Rebus forced himself into the usual routine. He checked to see if there had been any sign of Andrew McPhail. There had not. Maclean hadn’t been too badly hurt by the boiled water, most of which he’d deflected with his arms. Nobody was yet treating McPhail like a dangerous criminal. His description had been issued to bus and train stations, motorway service areas, and the like. If the manpower were available, Rebus knew
exactly
where he would start looking for him.

A shadow fell over his desk. It was the Little Weed.

‘So,’ Flower said, ‘you lose a DS to a blow on the napper, and a DC to a gas explosion. What’s for an encore?’

Rebus saw that they had an audience. Half the station had been waiting for a confrontation between the two inspectors. Now more detectives than usual seemed interested in the filing cabinets near Rebus’s desk.

‘It’s easier if you do a handstand,’ commented Rebus.

‘What is?’

‘Talking out of your arse.’

There were a few covering coughs from the filing cabinets. ‘I’ve got some throat pastilles if you want them,’ Rebus called. The cabinet doors slid shut. The audience moved away.

‘You think you’re God’s gift, don’t you?’ Flower said. ‘You think you’re all it takes.’

‘I’m better than some.’

‘And a lot worse than others.’

Rebus picked up the previous evening’s arrest sheet and started to read it. ‘If you’re finished . . .?’

Flower smiled. ‘Rebus, I thought your kind went out with the dinosaurs.’

‘Aye, but only because they turned
you
down when you asked them.’

Which made it two-nil as Alister Flower walked off the field. But Rebus knew there’d be another leg to the match, and another after that.

He looked again at the arrest sheet, checking he’d seen the name right, then sighed and went down to the cells. A cluster of young constables stood outside cell one, taking turns at the peephole.

‘It’s that guy with the tattoos,’ one of them explained to Rebus.

‘The Pincushion?’

The constable nodded. The Pincushion was tattooed from head to foot, not an inch unblemished. ‘He’s been brought in for questioning.’

Rebus nodded. Whenever they had reason to bring the Pincushion into a station, he always ended up naked.

‘It’s a good name, isn’t it, sir?’

‘What, Pincushion? It’s better than my name for him, I suppose.’

‘What’s that.’

‘Just another prick,’ said Rebus, unlocking cell number two. He closed the door behind him. A young man was sitting on the bunk, unshaven and sorry-eyed.

‘What happened to you, then?’

Andy Steele looked up at him, then away. The city of Edinburgh had not been kind to him during his visit. He ran a handful of fingers through his tousled hair.

‘Did you go see your Auntie Ena?’ he asked.

Rebus nodded. ‘I didn’t see your mum and dad, though.’

‘Ach well, at least I managed that, eh? I managed to track you down and put you in touch with her.’

‘So what have you been up to since?’

Flakes of scalp were being clawed to the surface of Andy Steele’s head. They floated down onto his trousers. ‘Well, I did a bit of sightseeing.’

‘They don’t arrest you for that these days, though.’

Steele sighed and stopped scratching. ‘Depends what sights you see. I told a man in a pub I was a private detective. He said he had a case for me.’

‘Oh aye?’ Rebus’s attention was momentarily drawn to a crude game of noughts and crosses on the cell wall.

‘His wife was cheating him. He told me where he thought I could find her, and he gave me a description. I got ten quid, with more when I reported back.’

‘Go on.’

Andy Steele stared up at the ceiling. He knew he wasn’t making himself look good, but it was a bit late for that anyway. ‘It was a ground floor flat. I watched all evening. I saw the woman, she was there, all right. But no man. So I went round the back to get a better look. Someone must have spotted me and phoned the police.’

‘You told them your story?’

Steele nodded. ‘They even took me back to the bar. He wasn’t there, of course, and nobody knew him. I didn’t even know his name.’

‘But his description of the woman was accurate?’

‘Oh aye.’

‘Probably an ex-wife or some old flame. He wanted to give them a scare, and it was worth ten notes to do it.’

‘Except now the woman’s pressing charges. Not a very good start to my career, is it, Inspector?’

‘Depends,’ said Rebus. ‘Your career as a private dick may not be much cop, but as a peeping-tom your star is definitely in the ascendant.’ Seeing Steele’s misery, Rebus winked. ‘Cheer up, I’ll see what I can do.’

In fact, before he could do anything, Siobhan Clarke was on the telephone from Gorgie to tell him about her meeting with Rory Kintoul.

‘I asked him if he knew anything about his cousin’s heavy betting. He wouldn’t say, but I get the feeling they’re a close-knit family. There were hundreds of photos in the living room: aunties and uncles, brothers and sisters, nieces, cousins, grannies . . .’

‘I get the idea. Did you mention the broken window?’

‘Oh yes. He was so interested, he had to clamp himself to the chair to stop from jumping out of it. Not a great talker, though. He reckoned it must have been a drunk.’

‘The same drunk who took a knife to his gut?’

‘I didn’t put it quite like that, and neither did he. I don’t know whether it’s relevant or not, but he did say he’d driven the butcher’s van for his cousin.’

‘What, full time?’

‘Yes. Up until about a year ago.’

‘I didn’t know Bone’s had a van. That’ll be the next to go.’

‘Sir?’

‘The van. Smash the shop window, and if that doesn’t work, torch the van.’

‘You’re saying it’s all about protection?’

‘Maybe protection, more likely money owing on bad bets. What do you think?’

‘Well, I did raise that possibility with Kintoul.’

‘And?’

‘He laughed.’

‘That’s strong language coming from him.’

‘Agreed, he’s not exactly the emotional type.’

‘So it’s not betting money. I’ll have another think.’

‘His son came in while we were talking.’

‘Refresh my memory.’

‘Seventeen and unemployed, name’s Jason. When Kintoul told him I was CID, the son looked worried.’

‘A natural reaction in a teenager on the dole. They think we’re press-ganging these days.’

‘There was more to it than that.’

‘How much more?’

‘I don’t know. Could be the usual, drugs and gangs.’

‘We’ll see if he’s got a record. How’s Moneybags?’

‘Frankly, I’d rather be sewing mailbags.’

Rebus smiled. ‘All part of the learning curve, Clarke,’ he said, putting down the phone.

Somehow yesterday he’d forgotten to ask Pat Calder about the message on the inside of the recipe book. He didn’t like to think it had been jostled from his mind by Mairie’s legs or the sight of all those Elvises. Rebus had checked before leaving the station. Jason Kintoul was not on the flies. Somehow the gun beneath the driver’s seat helped keep Rebus’s mind sharp. The drive to the Colonies didn’t take long.

Pat Calder seemed quite shocked to see him.

‘Morning,’ said Rebus. ‘Thought I’d find you at home.’

‘Come in, Inspector.’

Rebus went in. The living room was much less tidy than on his previous visit, and he began to wonder which of the couple had been the tidier. Certainly, Eddie Ringan looked and acted like a slob, but you couldn’t always tell.

‘Sorry for the mess.’

‘Well, you’ve got a lot on your mind just now.’ The place was stuffy, with that heavy male smell you got sometimes in shared flats and locker-rooms. But usually it took more than one person to create it. Rebus began to wonder about the lean young bartender who’d accompanied Calder to the mortuary . . .

‘I’ve just been arranging the funeral,’ Pat Calder was saying. ‘It’s on Monday. They asked if it would be family and friends. I had to tell them Eddie didn’t have any family.’

‘He had good friends, though.’

Calder smiled. ‘Thank you, Inspector. Thank you for that. Was there something in particular . . .?’

‘It was just something we found at the scene.’

‘Oh?’

‘A sort of a message. It said, “I only turned on the gas”.’

Calder froze. ‘Christ, it
was
suicide, then?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘It wasn’t that kind of note. We found it on the inside of a school jotter.’

‘Eddie’s recipe book?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wondered where that had got to.’

‘The message had been heavily scored out. I took it away for analysis.’

‘Maybe it’s something to do with the nightmares.’

‘That’s just what I was thinking. Depends what he was dreaming
about
, though, doesn’t it? Nightmares can be about things you fear,
or
things you’ve done.’

‘I’m no psychologist.’

‘Me neither,’ Rebus admitted. ‘I take it Eddie had keys to the restaurant?’

‘Yes.’

‘We didn’t find any on his body. Did you come across them when you were packing things up?’

‘I don’t think so. But how did he get in without keys?’

‘You should be in CID, Mr Calder. That’s what I’ve been wondering.’ Rebus got up from the sofa. ‘Well, sorry I had to come by.’

‘Oh, that’s all right. Can you tell Brian about the funeral arrangements? Warriston Cemetery at two o’clock.’

‘Monday at two, I’ll tell him. Oh, one last thing. You keep a record of table bookings, don’t you?’

Calder seemed puzzled. ‘Of course.’

‘Only, I’d like to take a look. There might be some names there that don’t mean anything to you but might mean something to a policeman.’

Calder nodded. ‘I see what you’re getting at. I’ll drop it into the station. I’m going to the Heartbreak at lunchtime, I’ll pick it up then.’

‘Still clearing stuff away?’

‘No, it’s a potential buyer. One of the pizza restaurants is looking to expand . . .’

Whatever it was Pat Calder was hiding, he was doing only a fair job. But Rebus really didn’t have the heart to start digging. There was way too much for him to worry about as it was. Starting with the gun. He’d sat with it in his car last night, his finger on the trigger. Just the way his instructor had taught him back in the Army: firm, but not tense. Like it was an erection, one you wanted to sustain.

He had been thinking too of goodies and baddies. If you thought bad things – dreams of cruelty and lust – that didn’t make you bad. But if your head was full of civilised thoughts and you spent all day as a torturer . . . It came down to the fact that you were judged by your actions in society, not by the inside of your head. So he’d no reason to feel bad about thinking grim and bloody thoughts. Not unless he turned thoughts into deeds. Yet going beyond thought would feel so good. More than that, it would feel
right
.

He stopped his car at the first church he came to. He hadn’t attended any kind of worship for several months, always managing to make excuses and promises to himself that he’d try harder. It was just that Patience had made Sunday mornings so good.

Someone had been busy with a marker-pen on the wooden signboard in the churchyard, turning ‘Our Lady of Perpetual Help’ into ‘Our Lady of Perpetual Hell’. Not the greatest of omens, but Rebus went inside anyway. He sat in a pew for a while. There weren’t many souls in there with him. He had picked up a prayer book on the way in, and stared long and hard at its unjudgmental black cover, wondering why it made him feel so guilty. Eventually, a woman left the confessional, pulling up her headscarf. Rebus stood up and made himself enter the small box. He sat there in silence for a minute, trying to think what it was you were supposed to say.

‘Forgive me, father, I’m about to sin.’

‘We’ll see about that, son,’ came a gruff Irish voice from the other side of the grille. There was such assurance in the voice, Rebus almost smiled.

Instead he said, ‘I’m not even a Catholic.’

‘I’m sure that’s true. But you’re a Christian?’

‘I suppose so. I used to go to church.’

‘Do you believe?’

‘I can’t not believe.’ He didn’t add how hard he’d tried.

‘Then tell me your problem.’

‘Someone’s been threatening me, my friends and family.’

‘Have you gone to the police?’

‘I am the police.’

‘Ah. And now you’re thinking of taking the law into your own hands, as they say in the films.’

‘How did you know?’

‘You’re not the first bobby I’ve had in this confessional. There are a
few
Catholics in the police force.’ This time Rebus did smile. ‘So what is it you’re going to do?’

‘I’ve got a gun.’

There was an intake of breath. ‘Now that’s serious. Oh yes, that’s serious. But you must see that if you use a gun, you turn into that which you despise so much. You turn into
them
.’ The priest managed to hiss this last word.

‘So what?’ Rebus asked.

‘So, ask yourself this. Can you live the rest of your life with the memories and the guilt?’ The voice paused. ‘I know what you Calvinists think. You think you’re doomed from the start, so why not raise some hell before you get there? But I’m talking about
this
life, not the next. Do you want to live in Purgatory
before
you die?’

‘No.’

‘You’d be a bloody eejit to say anything else. Tie that gun to a rock and chuck it in the Forth, that’s where it belongs.’

‘Thank you, father.’

‘You’re more than welcome. And son?’

‘Yes, father?’

‘Come back and talk to me again. I like to know what madness you Prods are thinking. It gives me something to chew on when there’s nothing good on the telly.’