10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (283 page)

‘To my mind.’

‘And that’s as far as it’s got – your mind? I mean, there’s no evidence?’

‘Not a shred.’

His pizza arrived. Chorizo, mushroom and anchovy. Gill had to look away. The pizza was pre-cut into six fat slices. Rebus lifted one on to his plate.

‘I don’t know how you can face that.’

‘Me neither,’ said Rebus, sniffing the surface. ‘But it’ll make a hell of a doggie bag.’

There was a cigarette machine. If he looked over Gill’s right shoulder he could see it there on the wall. Five brands, any of which would suffice. There was a book of matches waiting in the ashtray. He’d ordered a glass of house white, Gill spring water. The wine – ‘delicately bouqueted’ as the
menu put it – arrived, and he gave it the nose test before sipping. It was chilled and sour.

‘How’s the bouquet?’ Gill asked.

‘Any more delicate and it’d need Prozac.’ The drinks card was in front of him, standing erect in its little holder, listing aperitifs and cocktails and digestifs, plus wines, beers, lagers, spirits. It was the most reading Rebus had done in a couple of days. As soon as he’d finished, he read it again. He wanted to shake the author’s hand.

One segment of pizza was enough.

‘Not hungry?’ Gill asked.

‘I’m dieting.’

‘You?’

‘I want to be fit for my walks along the beach.’

She wasn’t following him, shook her head clear of seeming non-sequiturs.

‘The thing is, Gill,’ he said after another sip of wine, ‘I think you were on to something big. And I think it can be salvaged. I just want to be sure it’s
your
collar.’

She looked at him. ‘Why?’

‘Because of all the Christmas presents I’ve never given you. Because you deserve it. Because it’ll be your
first
.’

‘It doesn’t count if you’ve done all the work.’

‘It’ll count all right, all I’m doing is reconnaissance.’

‘You mean you’re not finished?’

Rebus shook his head, asked the waiter to put the rest of the pizza in a box. He lifted the last piece of garlic bread.

‘I’m not nearly finished,’ he told her. ‘But I might need your help.’

‘Oh-oh. Here it comes.’

Rebus spoke quickly. ‘Chick Ancram’s got me set up for a series of grillings. I’ve already had one, and between ourselves he didn’t cook me more than medium rare. But they take up time, and I might want to head north again.’

‘John . . .’

‘All I need you to do . . .
might
need you to do, is telephone
Ancram some day and tell him I’m working for you on something urgent, so we’ll have to reschedule the interview. Just charm the socks off him and give me some time. That’s all I need. I’ll try to keep you out of it if I can.’

‘So, to recap, all you need is for me to lie to a fellow officer who is carrying out an internal investigation? And meantime, lacking any physical or verbal evidence, you’ll be solving the drug-running case?’

‘Nicely summarised. I can see why you’re the CI instead of me.’ He shot to his feet, ran to the payphone. He’d heard it ringing before anyone in the restaurant. It was Jack, checking on him. He reminded Rebus about the doggie bag.

‘Being brought to the table as I speak.’

When he got to the table, Gill was checking the bill.

‘This is on me,’ Rebus said.

‘At least let me leave the tip. I ate most of the bread. And besides, my water cost more than your wine.’

‘You got the better deal. What’s it to be, Gill?’

She nodded. ‘I’ll tell him anything you like.’

Jack still had the power to surprise his old friend: wolfed the pizza. His only comment: ‘You didn’t eat much.’

‘Bit bland for me, Jack.’

Rebus was itching now: for a cigarette and Aberdeen both. There was something up there he wanted; he just didn’t know quite what it was.

The truth maybe.

He should have been itching for a drink too, but the wine had put him off. It slopped in his stomach, liquid heartburn. He sat at a desk and read through Shankley’s statement. The big man was in a cell downstairs. Jack had worked fast; Rebus couldn’t see anything missing.

‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m back from parole. How did I do?’

‘Let’s not make it a regular date, my heart couldn’t take it.’

Rebus smiled, picked up a phone. He wanted to check his machine at home, see if Ancram had plans for him. He did: nine tomorrow morning. There was another message. It was from Kayleigh Burgess. She needed to talk with him.

‘I’m seeing someone in Morningside at three, so how about four at that big hotel in Bruntsfield? We can have afternoon tea.’ She said it was important. Rebus decided to go out there and wait. He’d have preferred to leave Jack behind . . .

‘Know what, Jack? You’re severely cramping my style.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘With women. There’s one I want to see, but I bet you’re going to tag along, aren’t you?’

Jack shrugged. ‘I’ll wait outside the door if you like.’

‘It’ll be a comfort to know you’re there.’

‘It could be worse,’ stuffing his face with the last of the pizza, ‘just think, how do Siamese twins arrange their love lives?’

‘Some questions are best left unanswered,’ Rebus said.

He thought: Good question though.

It was a nice hotel, quietly upmarket. Rebus worked out a possible dialogue in his head. Ancram knew about the clippings in his kitchen, and Kayleigh was the only possible source. He’d been furious at the time, less angry now. It was her job after all: information, and using that information to elicit other information. It still rankled. Then there was the Spaven-McLure connection: Ancram had picked up on it; Kayleigh knew about it. And finally, above all, there was the break-in.

They waited for her in the lounge. Jack flicked through
Scottish Field
and kept reading out descriptions of estates for sale: ‘seven thousand acres in Caithness, with hunting lodge, stabling, and working farm’. He looked up at Rebus.

‘Some country this, eh? Where else could you lay your hands on seven thousand acres at knockdown prices?’

‘There’s a theatre group called 7:84 – know what it means?’

‘What?’

‘Seven per cent of the population controls eighty-four per cent of the wealth.’

‘Are we in the seven?’

Rebus snorted. ‘Not even close, Jack.’

‘I wouldn’t mind a taste of the high life, though.’

‘At what cost?’

‘Eh?’

‘What would you be willing to trade?’

‘No, I mean like winning the lottery or something.’

‘So you wouldn’t take back-handers to drop a charge?’

Jack’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you getting at?’

‘Come on, Jack. I was in Glasgow, remember? I saw good suits and jewellery, I saw something approaching the smug.’

‘They just like to dress nice, makes them feel important.’

‘Uncle Joe’s not doling out freebies?’

‘I wouldn’t know if he was.’ Jack lifted the magazine to shield his face: matter closed. And then Kayleigh Burgess walked in through the door.

She saw Rebus immediately, and a blush started creeping up her neck. By the time she’d walked over to where he was rising from his chair, it had climbed as far as her cheeks.

‘Inspector, you got my message.’ Rebus nodded, eyes unblinking. ‘Well, thanks for coming.’ She turned to Jack Morton.

‘DI Morton,’ Jack said, shaking her hand.

‘Do you want some tea?’

Rebus shook his head, gestured towards the free chair. She sat down.

‘So?’ he said, determined to make nothing easy for her, not ever again.

She sat with her shoulder-bag in her lap, twisting the strap. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I owe you an apology.’ She glanced up at him, then away, took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t tell CI Ancram about those cuttings. Or about Fergus McLure knowing Spaven, come to that.’

‘But you know he knows?’

She nodded. ‘Eamonn told him.’

‘And who told Eamonn?’

‘I did. I didn’t know what to make of it . . . I wanted to bounce it off someone. We’re a team, so I told Eamonn. I made him promise it’d go no further.’

‘But it did.’

She nodded. ‘He was straight on the phone to Ancram. See, Eamonn . . . he’s got a thing about police brass. If we’re investigating someone at Inspector level, Eamonn always wants to go over their heads, talk to their superiors, see what
gets stirred up. Besides, you haven’t exactly made a favourable impression with my presenter.’

‘It was an accident,’ Rebus said. ‘I tripped.’

‘If that’s your story.’

‘What does the footage say?’

She thought about it. ‘We were shooting from behind Eamonn. Mostly, what we’ve got is his back.’

‘I’m off the hook then?’

‘I didn’t say that. Just stick to your story.’

Rebus nodded, getting her drift. ‘Thanks. But why did Breen go to Ancram? Why not
my
boss?’

‘Because Eamonn knew Ancram was to lead the inquiry.’

‘And how did he know
that
?’

‘The grapevine.’

A grapevine with few grapes attached. He saw Jim Stevens again, staring up at the window of his flat . . . Stirring it . . .

Rebus sighed. ‘One last thing. Do you know anything about a break-in at my flat?’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘Should I?’

‘Remember the Bible John stuff in the cupboard? Someone took a crowbar to my front door, and all they wanted was to rifle through it.’

She was shaking her head. ‘Not us.’

‘No?’

‘Housebreaking? We’re journalists, for Christ’s sake.’

Rebus had his hands up in a gesture of appeasement, but he wanted to push it a little further. ‘Any chance Breen would go out on a limb?’

Now she laughed. ‘Not even for a story the size of Watergate. Eamonn fronts the programme, he doesn’t do any digging.’

‘You and your researchers do?’

‘Yes, and neither of them seems the crowbar type. Does that leave me in the frame?’

As she crossed one leg over the other, Jack studied them.
His eyes had been running all over her like a kid’s over a Scalextric set.

‘Consider the matter closed,’ Rebus said.

‘But it’s true? Your flat was broken into?’

‘Matter closed,’ he repeated.

She almost pouted. ‘How’s the inquiry going anyway?’ She held up a hand. ‘I’m not snooping, call it personal interest.’

‘Depends which inquiry you mean,’ Rebus said.

‘The Spaven case.’

‘Oh, that.’ Rebus sniffed, considering his response. ‘Well, CI Ancram is the trusting sort. He has real faith in his officers. If you plead innocent, he’ll take it at face value. It’s a comfort to have superiors like that. For instance, he trusts me so much he’s got a minder on me like a limpet on a rock.’ He nodded towards Jack. ‘Inspector Morton here is supposed to not let me out of his sight. He even sleeps at my flat.’ He held Kayleigh’s gaze. ‘How’s that sound?’

She could hardly form the words. ‘It’s scandalous.’

Rebus shrugged, but she was reaching into her bag, bringing out notebook and pen. Jack glowered at Rebus, who winked back. Kayleigh had to flick through a lot of pages to find a fresh sheet.

‘When did this start?’ she said.

‘Let’s see . . .’ Rebus pretended to be thinking. ‘Sunday afternoon, I think. After I’d been interrogated in Aberdeen and dragged back here.’

She looked up. ‘Interrogated?’

‘John . . .’ Jack Morton warned.

‘Didn’t you know?’ Rebus’s eyes widened. ‘I’m a suspect in the Johnny Bible case.’

On the drive back to the flat, Jack was furious.

‘What did you think you were up to?’

‘Keeping her mind off Spaven.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘She’s trying to make a programme about Spaven, Jack.
She’s not doing one on policemen being nasty to other policemen, and she’s not doing one on Johnny Bible.’

‘So?’

‘So now her head’s swimming with everything I told her – and not a jot of it has to do with Spaven. It’ll keep her . . . what’s the word?’

‘Preoccupied?’

‘Good enough.’ Rebus nodded, looked at his watch. Five-twenty. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Those pictures!’

Traffic was at a crawl as they detoured into the centre of town. Rush-hour Edinburgh was a nightmare these days. Red lights and chugging exhausts, frayed nerves and drumming fingers. By the time they reached the shop it had closed for the night. Rebus checked the opening hours: nine tomorrow. He could pick up the photos on his way to Fettes and only be a little late for Ancram. Ancram: the very thought of the man was like voltage passing through him.

‘Let’s go home,’ he told Jack. Then he remembered the traffic. ‘No, second thoughts: we’ll stop off at the Ox.’ Jack smiled. ‘Did you think you’d cured me?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘I sometimes come off for a couple of days at a stretch, it’s no big thing.’

‘It could be though.’

‘Another sermon, Jack?’

Jack shook his head. ‘What about the ciggies?’

‘I’ll buy a packet from the machine.’

He stood at the bar, resting one shoe on the foot-rail, one elbow on the polished wood. In front of him sat four objects: a packet of cigarettes with seal unbroken; a box of Scottish Bluebell matches; a thirty-five millilitre measure of Teacher’s whisky; and a pint of Belhaven Best. He was staring at them with the concentration of a psychic willing them to move.

‘Three minutes dead,’ a regular commented from along the bar, like he’d been timing Rebus’s resistance. A profound
question was running through Rebus’s mind: did he want them, or did
they
want
him
? He wondered how David Hume would have got on with that. He picked the beer up. No wonder you called it ‘heavy’: that’s just what it was. He sniffed it. It didn’t smell too enticing; he knew it would taste OK, but other things tasted better. The aroma of the whisky was fine though – smoky, filling nostrils and lungs. It would sear his mouth, burn going down, and melt through him, the effect lasting not long.

And the nicotine? He knew himself that when he took a few days off the ciggies, he could sense how bad they made you smell – your skin, clothes, hair. Disgusting habit really: if you didn’t give yourself cancer, chances were you were giving it to some poor bastard whose only misfortune was in getting too close to you. Harry the barman was waiting for Rebus to act. The whole bar was. They knew something was happening; it was written on Rebus’s face – there was almost pain there. Jack stood beside him, holding his breath.