10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (201 page)

Abernethy just smiled.

‘You sent me that stuff about Clyde Moncur, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You could have warned me what I was getting into.’

‘You were more effective the way you were.’

‘I’ve been a walking punch-bag.’

‘But you’re still here.’

‘I bet you’d lose a lot of sleep if I wasn’t.’

The sun had finally given up. The street lights were on. There were a lot of people on the streets tonight. Hogmanay apart, it was the city’s biggest night of the year. The traffic was all headed into town, where most of the parking spaces had been grabbed hours ago.

‘Families,’ Rebus explained, ‘on their way to the fireworks.’

‘I thought
we
were on our way to the fireworks,’ Abernethy said, smiling again.

‘We are,’ said Rebus quietly.

There were never signposts to places like the Gar-B, the inference being that if you wanted to go there, you must already know the place. People didn’t just visit on a whim. Rebus took the slip-road past the gable end – ENJOY YOUR VISIT TO THE GAR-B – and turned into the access road.

‘Nine o’clock, he said.’

Abernethy checked his watch. ‘Nine it is.’

But Rebus wasn’t listening. He was watching a van roaring towards them. The road was barely wide enough for two vehicles, and the van driver didn’t seem to be paying much attention. He was crouched down, eyes on his wing mirror. Rebus slammed on the brakes and the horn and whipped the steering wheel around. The rust bucket slew sideways like it was on ice. That was the problem with bald tyres.

‘Out!’ Rebus called. Abernethy didn’t need telling twice. The driver had finally seen them. The van was skidding to an uncertain stop. It hit the driver’s side door, shuddered, and was still. Rebus pulled open the van door and hauled out Jim Hay. He’d heard of people looking white as a sheet, white as a ghost, but Jim Hay looked whiter than that. Rebus held him upright.

‘He’s gone off his fucking head!’ Hay yelled.

‘Who has?’

‘Soutar.’ Hay was looking behind him, back down the road which curled snake-like into the Gar-B. ‘I’m only the delivery man, not this . . . not this.’

Dusting himself off, Abernethy joined them. He’d lost the knees out of his denims.

‘You deliver the stuff,’ Rebus was saying to Hay, ‘the explosives, the arms?’

Hay nodded.

Yes, the perfect delivery man, in his little theatre van, all boxes and props, costumes and sets, guns and grenades. Delivered east coast to west, where another connection would be made, another switch.

‘Hold him,’ Rebus ordered. Abernethy looked like he didn’t understand. ‘Hold him!’

Then Rebus let Jim Hay go, got into the van, and reversed it out of his car’s bodywork and back into the Gar-B. When he reached the car park, he turned the van and bumped it at speed onto the grass, heading for the youth centre.

There was nobody about, not a soul. The door-to-door had been wound up for the day, having yielded nothing. The Gar-B simply didn’t speak to the ‘polis’. It was a rule of life, like remembering to breathe. Rebus was breathing hard. The garages he passed had been searched and declared safe, though one of them had contained a suspicious number of TV sets, videos, and camcorders, and another showed evidence of sniffed glue and smoked crack.

No neighbours were out discussing the day’s events. There was even silence at the community centre. He doubted the Gar-B tribe were the kind to be attracted to a firework display . . . not normally.

The doors were open, so Rebus walked in. A bright trail of blood led in an arc across the floor from the stage to the far wall. Kilpatrick was slumped against the wall, almost but not quite sitting up. He’d removed his necktie halfway across the room, maybe to help him breathe. He was still alive, but he’d lost maybe a pint of blood already. When Rebus crouched down beside him, Kilpatrick clutched at him with wet red fingers, leaving a bloody handprint on Rebus’s shirt. His other hand was protecting his own stomach, source of the wound.

‘I tried to stop him,’ he whispered.

Rebus looked around him. ‘Was the stuff hidden here?’

‘Under the stage.’

Rebus looked at the small stage, a stage he’d sat on and stood on.

‘Hay’s gone to fetch an ambulance,’ Kilpatrick said.

‘He was running like a rabbit,’ Rebus said.

Kilpatrick forced a smile. ‘I thought he might.’ He licked his lips. They were cracked, edged with white like missed toothpaste. ‘They’ve gone with him.’

‘Who? His gang?’

‘They’ll follow Davey Soutar to hell. He made those phone calls. He told me so. Just before he did this.’ Kilpatrick tried to look down at his stomach. The effort was almost too much for him.

Rebus stood up. Blood flushed around his system, making him dizzy. ‘The Fireworks? He’s going to blow up the Fireworks?’ He ran out of the hall and into the nearest tower block. The first front door he came to, he kicked it in. It took him three good hits. Then he marched into the living room, where two terrified pensioners were watching TV.

‘Where’s your phone?’

‘We dinnae have one,’ the man eventually said.

Rebus walked back out and kicked in the next door. Same procedure. This time the single mother with the two shrieking kids did have a phone. She hurled abuse at Rebus as he pressed the buttons.

‘I’m the police,’ he told her. It made her angrier still. She quietened, though, when she heard Rebus order an ambulance. She was shushing the kids as he made his second call.

‘It’s DI Rebus here,’ he said. ‘Davey Soutar and his gang are on their way to Princes Street with a load of high explosives. We need that area
sealed
.’

He half-smiled an apology as he left the flat and half-ran back to the van. Still nobody had come to investigate, to see what all the noise and the fuss were. Like Edinburghers of old, they could become invisible to trouble. In olden times, they’d hidden in the catacombs below the Castle and the High Street. Now they just shut their windows and turned up the TV. They were Rebus’s employers, whose taxes paid his salary. They were the people he was paid to protect. He felt like telling them all to go to hell.

When he got back to his car, Abernethy was standing there with Jim Hay, not a clue what to do with him. Rebus yanked the steering wheel and pulled the van onto the grass.

‘An ambulance is on its way,’ he said, trying to pull open his car door. It groaned like something in a scrapyard crusher, but eventually gave, and he squeezed through the gap into his seat, brushing aside the glass chippings.

‘Where are you going?’ Abernethy asked.

‘Stay here with him,’ Rebus said, starting the car and reversing back up the access road.

The Glenlivet Fireworks: every year there was a firework display from the Castle ramparts, accompanied by a chamber orchestra in Princes Street Gardens’ bandstand and watched by crowds in the Gardens and packed into Princes Street itself. The concert usually started around ten-fifteen, ten-thirty. It was now ten o’clock on a balmy dry evening. The area would be full to bursting.

Wild Davey Soutar. He and his kind detested the Festival. It took away from them
their
Edinburgh and propped something else in its place, a façade of culture which they didn’t need and couldn’t understand. There was no underclass in Edinburgh, they’d all been pushed out into schemes on the city boundaries. Isolated, exiled, they had every right to resent the city centre with its tourist traps and temporary playtime.

Not that that’s why Soutar was doing it. Rebus thought Soutar had some simpler reasons. He was showing off, he was showing even his elders in The Shield that they couldn’t control him, that
he
was the boss. He was, in fact, quite mad.

‘Make a run for it, Davey,’ Rebus said to himself. ‘Get a grip. Use your sense. Just . . .’ But he couldn’t think of the words.

He didn’t often drive fast; dangerously . . . almost never. It was car smashes that did it, being on the scene at car smashes. You saw heads so messed up you didn’t know which side was the face until it opened its mouth to scream.

Nevertheless, Rebus drove back into town like he was attempting the land-speed record.

His car seemed to sense the absolute urgency, the necessity, and for once didn’t black out or choke up. It whined its own argument, but kept moving.

Princes Street and the three main streets leading down to it from George Street had been cordoned off as a matter of course, stopping traffic from coming anywhere near the thousands of spectators. On a night like this, there’d be quarter of a million souls watching the display, the majority of them in and around Princes Street. Rebus took his car as far as he could, then simply stopped in the middle of the road, got out, and ran. Police were setting up new barriers. Lauderdale and Flower were there. He made straight for them.

‘Any news?’ he spat.

Lauderdale nodded. ‘There was a convoy of cars on West Coates, running red lights, travelling at speed.’

‘That’s them.’

‘We’ve put up a diversion to bring them here.’

Rebus looked around, wiping sweat from his eyes. The street was lined with shops at street level, offices above. Uniformed officers were moving civilians out of the area. An Army vehicle sat roadside.

‘Bomb disposal,’ Lauderdale explained. ‘Remember, we’ve been ready for this.’

More barriers were being erected, and Rebus saw van doors open and half a dozen police marksmen appear, their chests covered by black body armour.

‘Is Kilpatrick okay?’ Lauderdale asked.

‘Should be, depends on the ambulance.’

‘How much stuff does Soutar have?’

Rebus tried to remember. ‘It’s not just explosives, he’s probably toting AK 47s, pistols and ammo, maybe grenades . . .’

‘Christ almighty.’ Lauderdale spoke into his radio. ‘Where are they?’

The radio crackled to life. ‘Can’t you see them yet?’

‘No.’

‘They’re right in front of you.’

Rebus looked up. Yes, here they came. Maybe they were expecting a trap, maybe not. Whichever, it was still a suicide mission. They might get in, but they weren’t going to get out.

‘Ready!’ Lauderdale called. The marksmen checked their guns and pointed them ahead. There were police cars behind the barriers. The uniforms had stopped moving people away. They wanted to watch. More onlookers were arriving all the time, keen for this preliminary event.

In the lead car, Davey Soutar was alone. He seemed to think about ramming the barricade, then braked hard instead, bringing his car to a stop. Behind him, four other cars slowed and halted. Davey sat frozen in his seat. Lauderdale lifted a megaphone.

‘Bring your hands where we can see them.’

The car doors behind Davey were opening. Metal clattered to the ground as guns were thrown down. Some of the Gar-B started to run for it, others, seeing the armed police, got out slowly with hands held high. Others were awaiting instructions. One of them, a young kid, no older than fourteen, lost his nerve and ran straight for the police lines.

Overhead, the first fireworks burst into brief life with a noise like old-fashioned gunfire and mortar. The sky sizzled, the glow lighting the scene.

At the first noise, most people flinched instinctively. The armed police dropped to a crouch, others spread themselves on the ground. The kid who’d been running towards the barriers started screaming in fright, then fell to his hands and knees.

Behind him, Davey Soutar’s car was empty.

He’d shuffled into the passenger seat, opened the door, and made a dash to the pavement. Running low, it took him only seconds to disappear into the mass of pedestrians.

‘Did anyone see? Did he have a gun?’

The Army personnel moved in warily on the lead car, while police started rounding up the Gar-B. More weapons were jettisoned. Lauderdale moved in to supervise his men.

And John Rebus was after Soutar.

The one place there wasn’t much of a crowd was George Street: you couldn’t see the fireworks from there. So Rebus had little trouble following Soutar. The sky turned from red to green to blue, with small pops and the occasional huge explosion. Each explosion had Rebus squirming, thinking of the bomb disposal unit busy back at Soutar’s car. When the wind changed, it carried with it wafts of musical accompaniment from the orchestra in the Gardens. Chase music it wasn’t.

Soutar ran with loose energy, almost bouncing. He covered a lot of ground, but it wasn’t a straight line. He did a lot of weaving from side to side, covering most of the width of the pavement. Rebus concentrated on closing the gap, moving forwards like he was on rails. His eyes were on Soutar’s hands. As long as he could see those hands, see they weren’t carrying anything, he was content.

For all Soutar’s crazy progress, Rebus was losing ground on the younger man, except when Soutar turned to look back at his pursuer. That’s what he was doing when he ran out into the road and bounced off a taxi cab. The cab was on St Andrew’s Square. The driver stuck his head out the window, then pulled it in again fast when Soutar drew his gun.

It looked like a service revolver to Rebus. Soutar fired a shot through the cab window, then started running again. He was slower now, with a slouch announcing a damaged right leg.

Rebus glanced in at the cab driver. He’d thrown up all over his knees, but was unhurt.

Give it up, Rebus thought, his lungs on fire. Give it up.

But Soutar kept moving. He ran through the bus station, dodging the single-deckers as they moved in and out of their ranks. The few waiting passengers could see he was armed, and stared in horror as he flew past them, jacket flapping, for all the world like a scarecrow come to life.

Rebus followed him up James Craig Walk, across the top of Leith Street, and into Waterloo Place. Soutar stopped for a moment, as though trying to come to a decision. His right hand still gripped the revolver. He saw Rebus moving steadily in his direction, and dropped to one knee, taking two-handed aim with the revolver. Rebus stepped into a doorway and waited for a shot that didn’t come. When he peered out again, Soutar had vanished.

Rebus walked slowly towards where Soutar had been. He was nowhere on the street, but a couple of yards further on was a gateway, and beyond it some steps. The steps led to the top of Calton Hill. Rebus took a final deep breath and accepted the challenge.