10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (287 page)

More photos. There seemed no end to them. It was the onlookers who interested Rebus, the people who didn’t know they’d been snapped for posterity. A woman in high heels, good legs – all you could see of her were heels and legs, the rest hidden behind a WPC taking part in a reconstruction. Woolly suits searching the back courts off Mackeith Street, looking for the victim’s handbag. The courts looked like bomb-sites – drying-poles poking up out of stunted grass and rubble. Roadside motor cars: Zephyrs, Hillman Imps, Zodiacs. A world ago. A bundle of posters sat in one box, the rubber band long ago perished. Photofits of Bible John along with varying descriptions: ‘Speaks with a polite Glasgow accent and has an erect posture’. Very helpful. The phone number of the inquiry HQ. They’d received thousands of phone calls, boxes of them. Brief details of every one, with more detailed back-up notes if the call seemed worth checking.

Rebus’s eyes moved over the remaining boxes. He chose one at random – a big flat cardboard box, inside which were newspapers from the time, intact and unread for quarter of a century. He examined front pages, then turned to the back to look at the sports. A few of the crosswords had been half-done, probably by a bored detective. Slips of paper stapled to each banner-head gave page numbers with Bible John coverage. But Rebus wasn’t going to find anything there. He looked at the other stories instead and smiled at some of the adverts. Some seemed artless by today’s standards; others hadn’t aged at all. In the personal ads, people were selling lawnmowers, washing machines, and record players at knockdown prices. In a couple of papers, Rebus found the same ad, framed like a public notice: ‘Find a New Life and a Good Job in America – Booklet Tells You How’. You had to send off a
couple of stamps to an address in Manchester. Rebus sat back, wondering if Bible John had got that far.

In October ’69, Paddy Meehan had been sentenced at the High Court in Edinburgh and had shouted out, ‘You’ve made a terrible mistake – I’m innocent!’ That made Rebus think of Lenny Spaven; he shook the thought away and turned to a new paper. November 8: gales forced the evacuation of the Staflo oil rig; November 12: a report that the owners of the
Torrey Canyon
had paid out
£3
million in compensation after losing 5,000 tons of Kuwaiti crude into the English Channel. Elsewhere, Dunfermline had decided to allow
The Killing of Sister George
to be shown in the town, and a brand new Rover three-and-a-half litre would cost you £1,700. Rebus turned to late December. The SNP chairman was predicting that Scotland stood ‘on the threshold of a decade of destiny’. Nice one, sir. December 31: Hogmanay. The
Herald
wished its readers a happy and prosperous 1970, and led with the story of a shootout in Govanhill: one constable dead, three wounded. He put the paper down, the gust blowing some photos off the desk. He picked them up: the three victims, so full of life. Victims one and three shared some facial similarities. All three looked hopeful, like the future just might bring them everything they were dreaming of. It was good to have hope, and never to give up. But Rebus doubted many people managed that. They might smile for the camera, but if caught unawares they’d more likely look bedraggled and exhausted, like the bystanders in the photos.

How many victims were there? Not just Bible John or Johnny Bible, but all the killers, the punished and the never found. The World’s End murders, Cromwell Street, Nilsen, the Yorkshire Ripper . . . And Elsie Rhind . . . If Spaven hadn’t killed her, then the murderer must have been hooting with laughter all through the trial. And he was still out there, maybe with other scalps added to his tally, other unsolveds. Elsie Rhind lay in her grave unavenged, a forgotten victim. Spaven had committed suicide because he couldn’t bear the
weight of his innocence. And Lawson Geddes . . . had he killed himself over grief for his wife, or because of Spaven? Had cold realisation finally crept over him?

The bastards were all gone; only John Rebus was left. They wanted to shift their burdens on to him. But he was refusing, and he’d go on refusing, denying. He didn’t know what else he could do. Except drink. He wanted a drink, wanted one desperately. But he wasn’t going to have one, not yet. Maybe later, maybe sometime. People died and you couldn’t bring them back. Some of them died violently, cruelly young, without knowing why they’d been chosen. Rebus felt surrounded by loss. All the ghosts . . . yelling at him . . . begging him . . . shrieking . . .

‘John?’

He looked up from the desk. Jack was standing there with a mug in one hand and a roll in the other. Rebus blinked, his vision was going: it was like he was looking at Jack through a heat haze.

‘Christ, man, are you all right?’

His nose and lips were wet. He wiped at them. The photos on the desk were wet too. He knew he’d been crying and pulled out a handkerchief. Jack put the mug and roll down and rested an arm along his shoulders, squeezing gently.

‘Don’t know what’s up with me,’ Rebus said, blowing his nose.

‘Yes you do,’ Jack said quietly.

‘Yes, I do,’ Rebus acknowledged. He gathered up the photographs and newspapers and stuffed them all back into their boxes. ‘Stop looking at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘I wasn’t talking to you.’

Jack lifted his backside on to a desk. ‘Not many defences left, have you?’

‘Doesn’t look like it.’

‘Time to get your act together.’

‘Ach, Stanley and Eve won’t be here for a while yet.’

‘You know that’s not —’

‘I know, I know. And you’re right: time to get my act together. Where do I start? No, don’t tell me – the Juice Church?’

Jack just shrugged. ‘Your decision.’

Rebus picked up the roll and bit into it. A mistake: the block in his throat made it hard to swallow. He gulped at the coffee, managed to finish the roll – bland ham and wet tomato. Then remembered he had to make another call: a Shetland number.

‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he told Jack.

In the toilets he washed his face. Tiny red veins had burst in the whites of his eyes; he looked like he’d been on a bender.

‘Stone cold sober,’ he told himself, heading back to the telephone.

Briony, Jake Harley’s girlfriend, picked up.

‘Is Jake there?’ Rebus asked.

‘No, sorry.’

‘Briony, we met the other day, DI Rebus.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Has he been in touch?’

A long pause. ‘Sorry, I missed that. The line’s not great.’

It sounded just fine to Rebus. ‘I said, has he been in touch?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘That’s what I said.’ Edgy now.

‘OK, OK. Aren’t you a bit worried?’

‘What about?’

‘Jake.’

‘Why should I be?’

‘Well, he’s been off on his own longer than intended. Maybe something’s happened.’

‘He’s all right.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do!’ Almost shouting now.

‘Calm down. Look, why don’t I get —’

‘Just leave us alone!’ The phone died on him.

Us
. Leave
us
alone. Rebus stared at the receiver.

‘I could hear her from over here,’ Jack said. ‘Sounds like she’s cracking up.’

‘I think she is.’

‘Boyfriend trouble?’

‘Boyfriend
in
trouble.’ He put the receiver down. There was an incoming call.

‘DI Rebus.’

It was the front desk, telling him the first of his visitors had arrived.

Eve looked much as she had that night in the bar of Rebus’s hotel – dressed for business in a two-piece suit, conservative blue rather than vamp red, and with the gold jewellery on wrists, fingers and neck, and the same gold clasp pulling back her peroxide hair. She had a handbag with her, and tucked it under her arm as she clipped on her visitor’s pass.

‘Who’s Madeleine Smith?’ she asked as they climbed the stairs.

‘I got her name out of a book, I think she was a murderess.’

She gave Rebus a look which managed to be hard and amused at the same time.

‘This way,’ Rebus said. He led her to the Bible John room, where Jack was waiting. ‘Jack Morton,’ Rebus said, ‘Eve . . . I don’t know your last name. It’s not Toal, is it?’

‘Cudden,’ she said coldly.

‘Sit down, Ms Cudden.’

She sat down, reached into her bag for the black cigarettes. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Actually, there’s no smoking allowed,’ Jack said, sounding apologetic. ‘And neither Inspector Rebus nor myself are smokers.’

She looked at Rebus. ‘Since when?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Where’s Stanley?’

‘He’ll be here. We thought it wise to leave separately.’

‘Uncle Joe won’t suspect?’

‘Well, that’s
our
problem, not yours. As far as Joe knows, Malky’s going out on the ran-dan, and I’m visiting a friend. She’s a good friend, she’ll not let on.’

Her tone told Rebus she’d used the friend before – other times, other assignations.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m glad you arrived first. I wanted to have a private word.’ He rested against a desk, folded his arms to stop his hands shaking. ‘That night in the hotel, you were setting me up, yes?’

‘Tell me what you know.’

‘About you and Stanley?’

‘Malky.’ Her face creased. ‘I hate that nickname.’

‘OK then,
Malky
. What do I know? I know just about everything. The two of you head north every now and then on business for Uncle Joe. I’d guess you’re go-betweens. He needs people he can trust.’ He gave a twist to the last word. ‘People who won’t share their hotel bedroom, leaving the other one vacant. People who won’t rip him off.’

‘Are we ripping him off?’ Disregarding Jack, she’d lit up. There were no ashtrays in sight, so Rebus placed a wastepaper-bin beside her, inhaling the smoke as he did so. Wonderful smoke. Almost a contact high.

‘Yes,’ he said, retreating to the desk. They’d placed Eve’s chair in the middle of the floor, Rebus to one side of her, Jack the other. She looked comfortable enough with the arrangement. ‘I don’t see Uncle Joe as a bank account kind of villain. I mean, he probably wouldn’t trust the banks in Glasgow, never mind Aberdeen. Yet there you are, you and Malky, dumping wads of cash into several accounts. I have dates, times, bank details.’ An exaggeration, but he reckoned he could wing it. ‘I’ve got statements from hotel employees, including maids who never need to clean Malky’s room. Funny, he doesn’t strike me as the tidy sort.’

Eve exhaled smoke down her nostrils, managed a smile. ‘All right,’ she said.

‘Now,’ Rebus went on, wanting to rid her of the confident smile, ‘what would Uncle Joe say to all this? I mean, Malky’s blood, but you’re not, Eve. I’d say you were expendable.’ Pause. ‘And I’d say you know it, have done for a while.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I don’t see you and Malky as an item, not long-term. He’s too thick for you, and he’ll never be rich enough to make up for that. I can see what he sees in
you
: you’re an accomplished seducer.’

‘Not that accomplished.’ Her eyes found his.

‘Pretty good though. Good enough to hook Malky. Good enough to talk him into skimming from the Aberdeen money. Let me guess: your story was that the two of you would bugger off together when there was enough set by?’

‘My language may not have matched yours.’ Her eyes were calculating slits, but the smile had gone. She knew Rebus was going to deal; she wouldn’t be here otherwise. She was wondering what she could get away with.

‘But you wouldn’t, right? Just between us, you were planning to clear off by yourself.’

‘Was I?’

‘I’m banking on it.’ He stood up, walked towards her. ‘I don’t want you, Eve. Good fucking luck to you, I say. Take the money and run.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But I want Malky. I want him for Tony El. And I want the answers to some questions. When he gets here, you’re going to talk to him. You’re going to persuade him to cooperate. Then we’ll talk, and it’ll go down on tape.’ Her eyes widened. ‘The story is, it’s my insurance in case you decide to stick around.’

‘But in reality?’

‘It’ll take Malky down, and Uncle Joe with him.’

‘And I walk away?’

‘Promise.’

‘How do I know I can trust you?’

‘I’m a gentleman, remember? You said as much in the bar.’

She smiled again, her eyes not moving from his. She looked
like a cat: same morals, same instinct. Then she nodded her head.

Malcolm Toal arrived at the station fifteen minutes later, and Rebus left him with Eve in an interview room. The station was evening quiet, not yet late enough for pub rowdies, knife fights, blow-ups before bed. Jack asked Rebus how he wanted to play it.

‘Just sit there and look like everything I say is the word of God, that’ll be good enough for me.’

‘And if Stanley makes a move?’

‘We can handle him.’ He’d already told Eve to find out if Malky was carrying. If he was, Rebus wanted the weaponry on the table by the time he returned. He went into the toilets again, just to steady his breathing and look at himself in the mirror. He tried to relax his jaw muscles. In the past, he’d have been reaching for the quarter-bottle of whisky in his pocket. But tonight there was no quarter-bottle, no Dutch courage. Which meant for once he’d be relying on the real thing.

Back in the interview room, Malky looked at him with eyes like lasers, proof that Eve had said her piece. Two Stanley knives lay on the table. Rebus nodded, satisfied. Jack was busy setting up the recorder and breaking the seals on a couple of tapes.

‘Has Ms Cudden explained the situation, Mr Toal?’ Malky nodded. ‘I’m not interested in the pair of you, but I
am
interested in everything else. You slipped up, but you can still get out of this, same as you’ve been planning all along.’ Rebus tried not to look at Eve, who was looking anywhere but at lovelorn Stanley. Christ, she was a tough one. Rebus really had taken a liking to her; he almost liked her better now than he had that night in the bar. Jack nodded that the recorder was running.

‘OK, now we’re recording I’d like to make it clear that this is for my own personal insurance, and won’t be used against
the pair of you at any time, so long as you clear off afterwards. I’d like you to introduce yourselves.’ They did, Jack checking the levels and adjusting them.