10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (266 page)

John Rebus.

The librarian’s list had first thrown up the name, along with an address in Arden Street, Edinburgh EH9. With a short-term reader’s ticket, Rebus had consulted editions of
The Scotsman
from February 1968 to December 1969. Four others had consulted the same sets of microfilm during the previous six months. Two were known to Bible John as journalists, the third was an author – he’d written a chapter on the case for a book on Scottish murderers. As for the fourth . . . the fourth had given his name as Peter Manuel. It would have meant nothing to the librarian writing out another short-term reader’s ticket. But the real Peter Manuel had killed up to a dozen people in the 1950s, and been hanged for it at Barlinnie Prison. It became clear to Bible John: the Upstart
had been reading up on famous murderers, and in the course of his studies had come across both Manuel and Bible John. Narrowing his search, he’d decided to concentrate his research on Bible John, learning more about the case by reading newspapers from the period. ‘Peter Manuel’ had requested not only
Scotsmans
from 1968–70, but
Glasgow Heralds
too.

His was to be thorough research. And the address on his reader’s ticket was as fictitious as his name: Lanark Terrace, Aberdeen. The real Peter Manuel had carried out his killing spree in Lanarkshire.

But though the address be false, Bible John wondered about Aberdeen. His own investigations had already led him to site the Upstart in the Aberdeen area. This seemed a further connection. And now John Rebus was in Aberdeen, too . . . Bible John had been pondering John Rebus, even before he knew who he was. He was at first an enigma, and now a problem. Bible John had scanned some of the Upstart’s most recent cuttings into the computer, and browsed through them while he wondered what to do about the policeman. He read another policeman’s words: ‘This person needs help, and we would ask him to come forward so that we can help him.’ Followed by more speculation. They were whistling in the dark.

Except that one of them was in Aberdeen.

And Bible John had given him his business card.

He’d always known that it would be dangerous, tracking down the Upstart, but he could hardly have expected to bump into a policeman along the way. And not just any officer, but someone who’d been looking at the Bible John case. John Rebus, policeman, based in Edinburgh, address in Arden Street, currently in Aberdeen . . . He decided to open a new file on his computer, dedicated to Rebus. He had looked through some recent papers, and thought he’d found why Rebus was in Aberdeen: an oil-worker had fallen from a tenement window in Edinburgh, foul play suspected. Reasonable to conclude that Rebus was working that case rather than
any other. But there was still the fact that Rebus had been reading up on the Bible John case. Why? What business was it of his?

And a second fact, more problematical still: Rebus now had his business card. It wouldn’t mean anything to him, couldn’t, not yet. But there might come a time . . . the closer he came to the Upstart, the more risks he would face. The card might mean something to the policeman sometime down the road. Could Bible John risk that? He seemed to have two options: quicken his hunt for the Upstart.

Or take the policeman out of the game.

He would think it over. Meantime, he had to concentrate on the Upstart.

His contact at the National Library had informed him that a reader’s ticket required proof of identity: driver’s licence, something like that. Maybe the Upstart had forged himself a whole new identity as ‘Peter Manuel’, but Bible John doubted it. More likely he had managed to talk himself past proving his identity. He would be good at talking. He’d be ingratiating, wheedling. He wouldn’t look like a monster. His would be a face women – and men – could trust. He was able to walk out of night clubs with women he’d met only an hour or two before. Getting round a security check would have posed him few problems.

He stood up and examined his face in the mirror. The police had issued a series of photofits, computer generated, ageing the original photofit of Bible John. One of them wasn’t a bad likeness, but it was one amongst many. Nobody had so much as looked at him twice; none of his colleagues had remarked on any resemblance. Not even the policeman had seen anything. He rubbed his chin. The bristles showed through red where he hadn’t shaved. The house was silent. His wife was elsewhere. He’d married her because it had seemed expedient, one more lie to the profile. He unlocked the study door, walked to the front door and made sure it was locked. Then he climbed the stairs to the upstairs hall, and
pulled down the sliding ladder which led up into the attic. He liked it up here, a place only he visited. He looked at a trunk, on top of which sat a couple of old boxes – camouflage. They hadn’t been moved. He lifted them off now and took a key from his pocket, unlocked the trunk and snapped open the two heavy brass clasps. He listened again, hearing only silence past the dull beat of his own heart, then lifted the lid of the trunk.

Inside, it was filled with treasure: handbags, shoes, scarves, trinkets, watches and purses – nothing with any means of identifying the previous owner. The bags and purses had been emptied, checked thoroughly for telltale initials or even blemishes and distinguishing marks. Any letters, anything with a name or address, had been incinerated. He settled on the floor in front of the open trunk, not touching anything. He didn’t need to touch. He was remembering a girl who’d lived on his street when he’d been eight or nine – she’d been a year younger. They’d played a game. They would take it in turns to lie very still on the ground, eyes closed, while the other one tried to remove as much of their clothing as they could without the one being stripped feeling anything.

Bible John had been quick to feel the girl’s fingers on him – he’d played by the rules. But when the girl had lain there, and he’d started working at buttons and zips . . . her eyelids had fluttered, a smile on her lips . . . and she’d lain there uncomplaining, even though he knew she must be able to feel his clumsy fingers.

She’d been cheating, of course.

Now his grandmother came to him, with her constant warnings: beware women who wear too much perfume; don’t play cards with strangers on trains . . .

The police hadn’t said anything about the Upstart taking souvenirs. No doubt they wanted to keep it quiet; they’d have their reasons. But the Upstart
would
be taking souvenirs. Three so far. And he’d be hoarding them in Aberdeen. He’d
slipped just a little, giving Aberdeen as his address on the reader’s card . . . Bible John stood up suddenly. He saw it now, saw the transaction between the librarian and ‘Peter Manuel’. The Upstart claiming that he needed the use of a reference library. The librarian asking for details, for proof of identity . . . The Upstart flustered, saying he’d left all that sort of thing at home. Could he go and fetch it? Impossible, he’d come down from Aberdeen for the day. A long way to travel, so the librarian had relented, issued the ticket. But now the Upstart was obliged to give Aberdeen as his address.

He
was
in Aberdeen.

Revived, Bible John locked the trunk, replaced the boxes exactly as they had been, and went back downstairs. It grieved him that with John Rebus so close, he might have to move the trunk . . . and himself with it. In his study, he sat at his desk. Have the Upstart based in Aberdeen but mobile. Have him learn from his first mistakes. So now he plans each cull well in advance. Are the victims chosen at random, or is there some pattern there? Easier to choose prey that wasn’t random; but then easier, too, for the police to establish a pattern and eventually catch you. But the Upstart was young: maybe that was one lesson he
hadn’t
yet learned. His choice of ‘Peter Manuel’ showed a certain cockiness, teasing anyone who was able to track him that far. He either knew his victims or he didn’t. Two routes to follow. Route one: say he
did
know them, say there existed some pattern linking all three to the Upstart.

One profile: the Upstart was a travelling man – lorry driver, company rep, a job like that. Lots of travel throughout Scotland. Travelling men could be lonely men, sometimes they used the services of a prostitute. The Edinburgh victim had been a prostitute. Often they stayed in hotels. The Glasgow victim had worked as a chambermaid. The first victim – the Aberdeen cull – failed to fit that pattern.

Or did she? Was there something the police had missed,
something
he
might find? He picked up his telephone, called Directory Enquiries.

‘It’s a Glasgow number,’ he told the voice on the other end.

In the middle of the night, Stonehaven was only twenty minutes south of Aberdeen, especially with a maniac at the wheel.

‘He’ll still be dead when we get there, pal,’ Rebus told the driver.

And so he was, dead in a bed & breakfast bathroom, one arm over the side of the bath Marat-style. He’d slashed his wrists by the book – up and down rather than across. The water in the bath looked cold. Rebus didn’t get too close – the arm over the side had leaked blood all across the floor.

‘The landlady didn’t know who was in the bathroom,’ Lumsden explained. ‘She just knew whoever it was had been in there long enough. She got no answer, so went to fetch one of her “boys” – this place caters to oil-workers. She tells me she thought Mr Kane was an oil-worker. Anyway, one of her lodgers got the door open and they found this.’

‘Nobody saw or heard anything?’

‘Suicide tends to be a quiet affair. Follow me.’

They went along narrow passages and up two short flights of stairs to Tony El’s bedroom. It was fairly tidy. ‘The landlady vacuums and dusts twice a week, sheets and towels are changed twice a week too.’ There was a bottle of cheap whisky with the top unscrewed, about a fifth of the bottle left. An empty glass stood beside it. ‘Look over here.’

Rebus looked. On the dressing table sat a full set of works: syringe, spoon, cotton wool, lighter, and a tiny polythene bag of brown powder.

‘I hear heroin’s back in a big way,’ Lumsden said.

‘I didn’t see marks on his arms,’ Rebus said. Lumsden nodded that they were there, but Rebus went back to the bathroom to make sure. Yes, a couple of pinpricks on the inside left forearm. He went back to the bedroom. Lumsden was seated on the bed, flicking through a magazine.

‘He hadn’t been using long,’ Rebus said. ‘His arms are pretty clean. I didn’t see the knife.’

‘Look at this stuff,’ Lumsden said. He wanted to show Rebus the magazine. A woman with a plastic bag over her head was being entered from behind. ‘Some people have sick minds.’

Rebus took the magazine from him. It was called
Snuff Babes
. On the front inside page it stated that it was printed ‘with pride’ in the USA. It wasn’t just illegal; it was the hardest core Rebus had ever seen. Pages and pages of mock-up deaths with sex attached.

Lumsden had reached into his pocket, drew out an evidence bag. Inside was a blood-stained knife. But no ordinary knife: a Stanley.

‘I’m not so sure this was suicide,’ Rebus said quietly.

So then he had to explain his reasons: the visit to Uncle Joe, how Uncle Joe’s son came by his nickname, and the fact that Tony El used to be one of Uncle Joe’s henchmen.

‘The door was locked from the inside,’ Lumsden said.

‘And it hadn’t been forced when I got here.’

‘So?’

‘So how did the landlady’s “boy” get in?’ He took Lumsden back to the bathroom and they examined the door: with the turn of a screwdriver, it could be locked and unlocked from the outside.

‘You want us to treat this as murder?’ Lumsden said. ‘You think this guy Stanley walked in here, spiked Mr Kane, dragged him along to the bathroom, and sliced his wrists open? We just passed half a dozen bedroom doors and came
up two flights of stairs – don’t you think somebody might have noticed?’

‘Have you asked them?’

‘I’m telling you, John, no one saw anything.’

‘And I’m telling you this has Joseph Toal written all over it.’

Lumsden was shaking his head. He’d rolled up the magazine. It was sticking out of his jacket pocket. ‘All I see here is a suicide. And from what you’ve told me, I’m glad to see the back of the fucker, end of story.’

The same patrol car took Rebus back into the city, still keeping the wrong side of the speed limit.

Rebus felt wide awake. He paced his room, smoked three cigarettes. The city outside his cathedral windows was finally asleep. The adult pay-movie channel was still available. The only other thing on offer was beach volleyball from California. For want of any other distraction he got out the flyers from the demo. They made depressing reading. Mackerel and other species of fish were now ‘commercially extinct’ in the North Sea, while others, including haddock – staple of the fish supper – wouldn’t survive the millennium. Meantime, there were 400 oil installations out there which would one day become redundant, and if they were simply dumped along with their heavy metals and chemicals . . . bye-bye fishies.

Of course, it might be that the fish were for the crow road anyway: nitrates and phosphates from sewage, plus agricultural fertilisers . . . all drained into the seas. Rebus felt worse than ever, tossed the flyers into the bin. One of them didn’t make it, and he picked it up. It told him there was going to be a march and rally on Saturday, with a benefit concert headlined by the Dancing Pigs. Rebus binned it and decided to check his answering machine at home. There were two calls from Ancram, agitated verging on furious, and one from Gill, telling him to call her whatever the hour. So he did.

‘Hello?’ She sounded like someone had gummed up her mouth.

‘Sorry it’s so late.’

‘John.’ She paused to check the time. ‘It’s so late it’s practically early.’

‘Your message said . . .’

‘I know.’ She sounded like she was struggling to sit up in bed, yawned mightily. ‘Howdenhall worked on that message pad, used ESDA on it, electrostatics.’

‘And?’

‘Came up with a phone number.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Aberdeen code.’