10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (153 page)

Rebus didn’t spend long at Gorgie Road. They weren’t getting anywhere. The photos taken so far had been developed, and some of the faces identified. Those identified were all small-timers, old cons, or up-and-comers. They weren’t so much small fish as spawn in a corner of the pond. It wasn’t as if Flower was having better luck, which was just as well for Rebus. He couldn’t wait for the Little Weed to put in his reimbursement claim. All those rounds of drinks . . .

He felt revived by his talk with the priest, whose name he now realised he didn’t even know. But then that was part of the deal, wasn’t it? Sinners Anonymous. He might even grant the priest’s wish and go back sometime. And tonight he’d drive out to the coast and get rid of the gun. It had been madness all along. In a sense, buying it had been enough. He’d never have used it, would he?

He parked at St Leonard’s and went inside. There was a package for him at the front desk – the reservations book for the Heartbreak Cafe. Calder had put a note in with it.

‘Well, Elvis ate pizza, didn’t he?’ So it looked like the Heartbreak was about to go Italian.

While he’d been reading the note, the desk officer had been phoning upstairs, keeping his voice low.

‘What’s all that about?’ Rebus asked. He thought he’d overheard the distinct words ‘He’s here’.

‘Nothing, sir,’ said the desk officer. Rebus tried to stare an answer out of him, then turned away, just as the inner doors were pushed open in businesslike fashion by the Uglybug Sisters, Lauderdale and Flower.

‘Can I have your car-keys?’ Lauderdale demanded.

‘What’s going on?’ Rebus looked to Flower, who resembled a preacher at a burning.

‘The keys, please.’ Lauderdale’s hand was so steady, Rebus thought if he walked away and left the two men standing there, it would stay stretched out for hours. He handed over his keys.

‘It’s a pile of junk. If you don’t kick it in the right place, you won’t even get it to start.’ He was following the two men through the doors and into the car park.

‘I don’t want to drive it,’ Lauderdale said. He sounded threatening, but it was Flower’s serene silence that most worried Rebus. Then it hit him: the gun! They knew about the gun. And yes, it was still under his driver’s seat. Where else was he going to hide it – in the flat, where Michael might find it? In his trousers, where it would raise eyebrows? No, he’d left it in the car.

The door of which Lauderdale was now opening. Lauderdale turned towards him, his hand out again. ‘The gun, Inspector Rebus.’ And when Rebus didn’t move: ‘Give me the gun.’

He raised the gun and fired it – one, two, three shots. Then lowered it again.

They all took off their ear-protectors. The forensics man had fired the gun into what looked like a simple wooden crate. The bullets would be retrieved from its interior and could then be analysed. The scientist had been holding the gun’s butt with a polythene glove over his hand. He dropped the gun into a polythene bag of its own before slipping off the glove.

‘We’ll let you know as soon as we can,’ he told Chief Superintendent Watson, who nodded the man’s dismissal. After he’d left the room, Watson turned to Lauderdale.

‘Give it to me again, Frank.’

Lauderdale took a deep breath. This was the third time he’d told Watson the story, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all. ‘Inspector Flower came to me late this morning and told me he’d received information –’

‘What sort of information?’

‘A phone call.’

‘Anonymous, naturally.’

‘Naturally.’ Lauderdale took another breath. ‘The caller told him the gun that had been used in the Central Hotel shooting five years ago was in Inspector Rebus’s possession. Then he rang off.’

‘And we’re supposed to believe Rebus shot that man five years ago?’

Lauderdale didn’t know. ‘All I know is, there
was
a gun in Rebus’s car. And he says himself, it’ll have his prints all over it. Whether it’s the same gun or not, we’ll know by the end of play today.’

‘Don’t sound so fucking cheerful! We both know this is a stitch-up.’

‘What we know, sir,’ said Lauderdale, ignoring Watson’s outburst, ‘is that Inspector Rebus has been carrying on a little private investigation of his own into the Central Hotel. The files are by the side of his desk. He wouldn’t tell anyone why.’

‘So he found something out and now somebody’s worried. That’s why they’ve planted the –’

‘With respect, sir,’ Lauderdale paused, ‘nobody planted anything. Rebus has admitted he bought the gun from someone he calls “a stranger”. He specifically
asked
this “stranger” to get a gun for him.’

‘What for?’

‘He says he was being threatened. Of course, he could be lying.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Maybe the gun was the clue he found, the one that started him back into the Central files. Now he’s spinning this story because at least then we can’t accuse him of withholding evidence.’

Watson took this in. ‘What do you think?’

‘Without prejudice, sir –’

‘Come on, Frank, we all know you hate Rebus’s guts. When he saw you and Flower coming for him, he must have thought the lynch-mob had arrived.’

Lauderdale tried an easy laugh. ‘Personalities aside, sir, even if we stick to the bare
facts
, Inspector Rebus is in serious trouble. Even supposing he did buy the gun, it’s obviously a nasty piece of goods – it’s had a file taken to it in the past.’

‘He’s worse than ever,’ Watson mused, ‘now that his girlfriend’s kicked him out. I had high hopes there.’

‘Sir?’

‘She’d got him wearing decent clothes. Rebus was beginning to look . . . promotable.’

Lauderdale nearly swallowed his tongue.

‘Stupid bugger,’ Watson went on. Lauderdale decided he was talking about Rebus. ‘I suppose I’d better talk to him.’

‘Do you want me to . . .?’

‘I want you to stay here and wait for those results. Where’s Flower?’

‘Back on duty, sir.’

‘You mean back in the pub. I’ll want to talk to him too. Funny how this anonymous Deep Throat just manages to talk to the one person in St Leonard’s who loves Rebus as much as you do.’

‘Loves, sir?’

‘I said “loathes”.’

But actually, as Rebus already knew, the call had been taken not by Flower himself but by a DC who just happened to know how Flower felt about Inspector John Rebus. He’d called Flower at the pub, and Flower had raced Jackie Stewart-style back to St Leonard’s to tell Lauderdale.

Rebus knew this because he had time to kill at St Leonard’s while everyone else was up at the forensic lab in Fettes. And he knew he had to be quick, because Watson would suspend him as soon as he came back. He found some carrier bags and put the Central Hotel files in them, along with the reservations book from the Heartbreak Cafe. Then he took the whole lot down to his car and threw them in the boot . . . probably the first place Watson would want to look.

Christ, he’d been planning to get rid of that gun tonight.

Lauderdale had said it was ‘suspected’ of being the gun used in the Central Hotel murder. Well, that would be easy enough to prove or disprove. They still had the original bullet. Rebus wished he’d given the gun closer scrutiny. It had looked shiny new, but then maybe it had only ever been fired that one fatal time.

He didn’t doubt that it
was
the gun. He just wondered how the hell they’d managed to set him up. The only answer was to work backwards. Deek had handed him the gun. So somehow they’d gotten to Deek. Well, Rebus himself had put word out that he was looking for Deek Torrance. And word got around. Someone had heard and been interested enough to track down Deek too. They’d asked him what his connection was with John Rebus. And when Rebus had then asked Deek for a gun, Deek had reported back to them.

Oh yes, that was it, all right. Rebus had set
himself
up by asking for the gun in the first place. Because then they’d known exactly what to do with him. Planting the gun was a bit
too
obvious, wasn’t it? No one was going to be taken in. But it would have to be investigated, and investigations like that could take months, during which time he’d be suspended. They wanted him out of the way, that was all. Because he was getting close.

Rebus smiled to himself. He was no closer than Alaska . . . unless he’d stumbled upon something without realising it. He needed to go over everything again, down to the last detail. But this would take time: time he was sure Watson would unwittingly be about to offer him.

So, when he walked into the Chief Superintendent’s office, he surprised even Watson with his ease.

‘John,’ said Watson, after motioning for Rebus to sit, ‘how come you always seem to have a banana skin up your sleeve?’

‘Because I say the magic word, sir?’ Rebus offered.

‘And what is the magic word?’

Rebus looked surprised Watson didn’t know. ‘Abracadabra, sir.’

‘John,’ said Watson, ‘I’m suspending you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Rebus.

He spent that evening on the trail of Deek Torrance, even driving out to South Queensferry – the most forlorn hope of a forlorn night. Deek would have been paid plenty to get well away from the city. By now, he might not even be in the western hemisphere. Then again, maybe they’d have silenced him in some other more permanent way.

‘Some pal you turned out to be,’ Rebus muttered to himself more than once. And to complete the circle, he headed out to his favourite massage parlour. He always seemed to be the only customer, and had wondered how the Organ Grinder made his money. But now of course he knew: the Organ Grinder would come to your home. Always supposing you were wealthy enough . . . or had reputation enough.

‘How long have you been going out there?’ Rebus asked. Prone on the table, he was aware that the Organ Grinder could break his neck or his back with consummate ease. But he didn’t think he would. He hoped his instincts weren’t wrong in this at least.

‘Just a couple of months. Someone at a health club told his wife about me.’

‘Know her, do you?’

‘Not really. She thinks I’m too rough.’

‘That’s droll, coming from the wife of Big Ger Cafferty.’

‘He’s a villain, then?’

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘You forget, I’ve not been up here that long.’

True, Rebus had forgotten the Organ Grinder’s north London pedigree. When in the mood, he told wonderful stories of that city.

‘Anything about him you want to tell me?’ Rebus ventured, despite the thick hands on his neck.

‘Nothing to tell,’ said the Organ Grinder. ‘Silence is a virtue, Inspector.’

‘And there’s too much of it around. You ever seen anyone out at his house?’

‘Just his wife and the chauffeur.’

‘Chauffeur? You mean the man mountain with the knob of gristle for a left ear?’

‘That explains the haircut,’ mused the Organ Grinder.

‘Precious little else would,’ said Rebus.

After the Organ Grinder had finished with him, Rebus went back to the flat. Michael was watching a late film, the glow from the TV set flicking across his rapt face. Rebus went over to the TV and switched it off. Michael still stared at the screen, not blinking. There was a cup of cold tea in his hand. Gently, Rebus took it from him.

‘Mickey,’ he said. ‘I need someone to talk to.’

Michael blinked and looked up at him. ‘You can always talk to me,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

‘I know that,’ said Rebus. ‘We’ve got something else in common now.’

‘What’s that?’

Rebus sat down. ‘We’ve both been recently suspended.’

Chief Superintendent Watson dreaded these Saturday mornings, when his wife would try to entice him to go shopping with her. Dreary hours in department stores and clothes shops, not to mention the supermarket, where he’d be guinea-pig for the latest microwavable Malaysian meal or some rude looking unpronounceable fruit. Worst of all, of course, he saw other men in exactly the same predicament. It was a wonder one of them didn’t lose the rag and start screaming about how they used to be the hunters, fierce and proud.

But this morning he had the excuse of work. He always tried to have an excuse either for nipping into St Leonard’s or else bringing work home with him. He sat in his study, listening to Radio Scotland and reading the newspaper, the house quiet and still around him. Then the telephone rang, annoying him until he remembered he was waiting for just this call. It was Ballistics at Fettes. After he took the call, he looked up a number in his card index and made another.

‘I want you in my office Monday morning,’ he told Rebus, ‘for formal questioning.’

‘From which I take it,’ said Rebus, ‘that I bought a lulu of a gun.’

‘Lulu
and
her backing band.’

‘They were called the Luvvers, sir. The bullets matched up?’

‘Yes.’

‘You knew they would,’ said Rebus. ‘And so did I.’

‘It’s awkward, John.’

‘It’s supposed to be.’

‘For you as well as me.’

‘With all respect, sir, I wasn’t thinking of you . . .’

When Siobhan Clarke woke up that morning, she glanced at the clock then shot out of bed. Christ, it was nearly nine! She had just run water for a bath, and was looking for clean underwear in the bathroom, when it hit her. It was the weekend! Nothing to rush for. In fact, quite the opposite. The relief team had taken over Moneybags, just for this first weekend, to see if there was any sign of life at Dougary’s office. According to Trading Standards, Dougary’s weekends were sacrosanct. He wouldn’t go anywhere near Gorgie. But they had to be sure, so for this weekend only Operation Moneybags had a relief retinue, keeping an eye on the place. If nothing happened, next weekend they wouldn’t bother. Dougary was blessedly fixed in his ways. She hadn’t had to hang about too often on the surveillance past five-thirty, more often a bit earlier. Which suited Siobhan fine. It meant she’d managed a couple of useful trips to Dundee out of hours.

She’d arranged another trip for this morning, but didn’t need to leave Edinburgh for an hour or so yet. And she was sure to be home before the Hibees kicked off.