10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (323 page)

She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I can promise that.’

‘And one last thing. The bill for September is missing. I’d like a copy of it. Let me give you the fax number here, speed things up.’

Rebus congratulated himself with another cup of coffee and a cigarette in the car park. She might or might not deliver later in the day, but he was confident she’d be trying her best. Wasn’t that all you could ask of anybody?

Another call: Special Branch in London. He asked for Abernethy.

‘I’ll just put you through.’

Someone picked up: a grunt in place of an acknowledgement.

‘Abernethy?’ Rebus asked. He heard liquid being swallowed. The voice became clearer.

‘He’s not here. Can I help?’

‘I really need to speak to him.’

‘I could have him paged, if it’s urgent.’

‘My name’s DI Rebus, Lothian and Borders Police.’

‘Oh, right. Have you lost him or something?’

Rebus’s expression turned quizzical. His voice carried a false note of humour. ‘You know what Abernethy’s like.’

A snort. ‘Don’t I just.’

‘So any help appreciated.’

‘Yeah, right. Look, give me your number. I’ll get him to call you.’

Have you lost him or something?
‘You’ve no idea where he is then?’

‘It’s your city, chum. Take your best shot.’

He’s up here
, Rebus thought.
He’s right here
.

‘I bet the office is quiet without him.’

Laughter on the line, then the sounds of a cigarette being lit. A long exhalation. ‘It’s like being on holiday. Keep him as long as you like.’

‘So how long have you been without him?’

A pause. As the silence lengthened, Rebus could feel the change of atmosphere.

‘What did you say your name was?’

‘DI Rebus. I was only asking when he left London.’

‘This morning, soon as he heard. So what have I won: the hatchback or the hostess trolley?’

Rebus’s turn to laugh. ‘Sorry, I’m just nosy.’

‘I’ll be sure to tell him that.’ A single click, then the sound of an open line.

Later that afternoon, Rebus chased up British Telecom, then tried Levy’s house again. This time he got through to a woman.

‘Hello, Mrs Levy? My name’s John Rebus. I was wondering if I could have a word with your husband?’

‘You mean my father.’

‘I’m sorry. Is your father there?’

‘No, he’s not.’

‘Any idea when . . . ?’

‘Absolutely none.’ She sounded peeved. ‘I’m just his cook and cleaner. Like I don’t have a life of my own.’ She caught herself. ‘Sorry, Mr . . . ?’

‘Rebus.’

‘It’s just that he never says how long he’s going to be away.’

‘He’s away just now?’

‘Has been for the best part of a fortnight. He rings two or three times a week, asks if there’ve been any calls or letters. If I’m lucky, he
might
remember to ask how
I’m
doing.’

‘And how are you doing?’

A smile in her voice. ‘I know, I know. I sound like I’m his mother or something.’

‘Well, you know, fathers . . .’ Rebus stared into the middle distance . . . ‘if you don’t tell them anything’s wrong, they’re happy to assume the best and hold their peace.’

‘You speak from experience?’

‘Too much experience.’

She was thoughtful. ‘Is it something important?’

‘Very.’

‘Well, give me your name and number, and next time he calls I’ll have him phone you.’

‘Thanks.’ Rebus reeled off two numbers: home and mobile.

‘Got that,’ she said. ‘Any other message?’

‘No, just have him call me.’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Has he had any other calls?’

‘You mean, people trying to reach him? Why do you ask?’

‘I just . . . no real reason.’ He didn’t want to say he was a policeman; didn’t want her spooked. ‘No reason,’ he repeated.

As he came off the phone, someone handed him another coffee. ‘That receiver must be red hot.’

He touched it with the tips of his fingers. It was pretty warm. Then it rang and he picked it up again.

‘DI Rebus,’ he said.

‘John, it’s Siobhan.’

‘Hiya, how’s tricks?’

‘John, you remember that guy?’ Her tone was warning him of something.

‘What guy?’ The humour was gone from his voice.

‘Danny Simpson.’ He of the flappy skull; Telford’s lackey.

‘What about him?’

‘I’ve just found out he’s HIV positive. His GP let the hospital know.’

Blood in Rebus’s eyes, his ears, dribbling down his neck . . .

‘Poor guy,’ he said quietly.

‘He should have said something at the time.’

‘When?’

‘When we got him to the hospital.’

‘Well, he had other things on his mind, and some of them were in danger of falling off.’

‘Christ, John, be serious for a minute!’ Her voice was loud enough to have people glance up from their desks. ‘You need to get a blood test.’

‘Fine, no problem. How is he, by the way?’

‘Back home but poorly. And sticking to his story.’

‘Do I detect the influence of Telford’s lawyer?’

‘Charles Groal? That one’s so slimy, he’s practically primordial.’

‘Saves you the cost of a valentine.’

‘Look, just phone the hospital. Talk to a Dr Jones. She’ll fix an appointment. They can do a test right away. Not that it’ll be the last word – there’s a three-month incubation.’

‘Thanks, Siobhan.’

Rebus put down the receiver, drummed his fingers against it. Wouldn’t
that
be a nice irony? Rebus out to get Telford, does the Good Samaritan bit for one of his men, gets AIDS and dies. Rebus stared at the ceiling.

Nice one, Big Man
.

The phone rang again. Rebus snatched it up.

‘Switchboard,’ he said.

‘Is that you, John?’ Patience Aitken.

‘The one and only.’

‘Just wanted to check we’re still on for tonight.’

‘To be honest, Patience, I’m not sure I’ll be at my most sparkling.’

‘You want to cancel?’

‘Absolutely not. But I have something to take care of. At the hospital.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘No, I don’t think you understand. It’s not Sammy this time, it’s me.’

‘What’s wrong?’

So he told her.

She went with him. Same hospital Sammy was in, different department. Last thing he wanted was to bump into Rhona, have to explain everything to her. Possibly HIV-infected: chances were, she’d red-card him from the bedside.

The waiting room was white, clean. Lots of information on the walls. Leaflets on every table, as if paperwork was the real virus.

‘I must say, it’s very pleasant for a leper colony.’

Patience didn’t say anything. They were alone in the room. Someone on reception had dealt with him first, then a nurse had come out and taken some details. Now another door opened.

‘Mr Rebus?’

A tall thin woman in a white coat, standing in the doorway: Dr Jones, he presumed. Patience took his arm as they walked towards her. Halfway across the floor, Rebus turned on his heels and bolted.

Patience caught up with him outside, asked what was wrong.

‘I don’t want to know,’ he told her.

‘But, John . . .’

‘Come on, Patience. All I got was a bit of blood splashed on me.’

She didn’t look convinced. ‘You need to take the test.’

He looked back towards the building. ‘Fine.’ Started walking away. ‘But some other time, eh?’

It was one in the morning when he drove back into Arden Street. No dinner date with Patience: instead, they’d visited the hospital, sat with Rhona. He’d made a silent pact with the Big Man: bring her back and I’ll keep off the booze. He’d driven Patience home. Her last words to him: ‘Take that test. Get it over and done with.’

As he locked his car, a figure appeared from nowhere.

‘Mr Rebus, long time no see.’

Rebus recognised the face. Pointy chin, misshapen teeth, the breathing a series of small gasps. The Weasel: one of Cafferty’s men. He was dressed like a down-and-out, perfect camouflage for his role in life. He was Cafferty’s eyes and ears on the street.

‘We need to talk, Mr Rebus.’ His hands were deep in the
pockets of a tweed coat meant for someone eight inches taller. He glanced towards the tenement door.

‘Not in my flat,’ Rebus stated. Some things were sacrosanct.

‘Cold out here.’

Rebus just shook his head, and the Weasel sniffed hard.

‘You think it was a hit?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Rebus answered.

‘She was meant to die?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘A pro wouldn’t fuck up.’

‘Then it was a warning.’

‘We could do with seeing your notes.’

‘Can’t do that.’

The Weasel shrugged. ‘Thought you wanted Mr Cafferty’s help?’

‘I can’t give you the notes. What about if I summarise?’

‘It’d be a start.’

‘Rover 600, stolen from George Street that afternoon. Abandoned on a street by Piershill Cemetery. Radio and some tapes lifted – not necessarily by the same person.’

‘Scavengers.’

‘Could be.’

The Weasel was thoughtful. ‘A warning . . . That would mean a professional driver.’

‘Yes,’ Rebus said.

‘And not one of ours . . . Doesn’t leave too many candidates. Rover 600 . . . what colour?’

‘Sherwood Green.’

‘Parked on George Street?’

Rebus nodded.

‘Thanks for that.’ The Weasel made to turn away, then paused. ‘Nice doing business with you again, Mr Rebus.’

Rebus was about to say something, then remembered he needed the Weasel more than the Weasel needed him. He
wondered how much crap he’d take from Cafferty . . . how long he’d have to take it. All his life? Had he made a contract with the devil?

For Sammy, he’d have done much, much worse . . .

In his flat, he stuck on the CD of
Rock ’n’ Roll Circus
, skipping to the actual Stones tracks. His answering machine was flashing. Three messages. The first: Hogan.

‘Hello, John. Just thought I’d check, see if there’s been any word from BT.’

Not by the time Rebus had left the office. Message two: Abernethy.

‘Me again, bad penny and all that. Heard you’ve been trying to catch me. I’ll call you tomorrow. Cheers.’

Rebus stared at the machine, willing Abernethy to say more, to give some hint of a location. But the machine was on to the final message. Bill Pryde.

‘John, tried you at the office, left a message. But I thought you’d want to know, we’ve had final word on those prints. If you want to try me at home, I’m on . . .’

Rebus took down the number. Two in the morning, but Bill would understand.

After a minute or so, a woman picked up. She sounded groggy.

‘Sorry,’ Rebus said. ‘Is Bill there?’

‘I’ll get him.’

He heard background dialogue, then the receiver being hoisted.

‘So what’s this about prints?’ he asked.

‘Christ, John, when I said you could call, I didn’t mean the middle of the night!’

‘It’s important.’

‘Yes, I know. How’s she doing anyway?’

‘Still out cold.’

Pryde yawned. ‘Well, most of the prints inside the car
belong to the owner and his wife. But we found one other set. Problem is, looks like they belong to a kid.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘The size.’

‘Plenty of adults around with small hands.’

‘I suppose so . . .’

‘You sound sceptical.’

‘More likely to be one of two scenarios. One, Sammy was hit by a joyrider. I know what you think, but it does happen. Two, the prints belong to whoever rifled the car after it was left at the cemetery.’

‘The kid who took the cassette player and tapes?’

‘Exactly.’

‘No other prints? Not even partials?’

‘The car was clean, John.’

‘Exterior?’

‘Same three sets on the doors, plus Sammy’s on the bonnet.’ Pryde yawned again. ‘So what about your grudge theory?’

‘Still holds. A pro would be wearing gloves.’

‘That’s what I was thinking. Not too many pros out there though.’

‘No.’ Rebus was thinking of the Weasel:
I’m dealing with slime to catch a slug
. Nothing he hadn’t done before, only this time there were personal reasons.

And he didn’t think there’d be a trial.

Breakfast was on Hogan: bacon rolls in a brown paper bag. They ate them in the CID room at St Leonard’s. A Murder Room had been established in Leith, and that’s where Hogan should have been.

Only he wanted Rebus’s files, and he knew better than to trust Rebus to deliver them.

‘Thought I’d save you the hassle,’ was what he said.

‘You’re a gentleman,’ Rebus answered, examining the interior of his roll. ‘Tell me, are pigs an endangered species?’

‘I lifted half a slice from you.’ Hogan pulled a string of fat from his mouth, tossed it into a bin. ‘Thought I was doing you a favour: cholesterol and all that.’

Rebus put the roll to one side, took a swig from the can of Irn-Bru – Hogan’s idea of a morning beverage – and swallowed. What was sugar consumption compared to HIV? ‘What did you get from the cleaning lady?’

‘Grief. Soon as she heard her employer was dead, the taps were on.’ Hogan brushed flour from his fingers: mealtime over. ‘She never met any of his friends, never had occasion to answer his telephone, hadn’t noticed any change in him recently, and doesn’t think he was a mass murderer. Quote: “If he’d killed that many people, I’d have known”.’

‘What is she, psychic or something?’

Hogan shrugged. ‘About all I got from her was a glowing character reference and the fact that as she was paid in
advance, she owes his estate a partial refund.’

‘There’s your motive.’

Hogan smiled. ‘Speaking of motives . . .’

‘You’ve got something?’

‘Lintz’s lawyer has come up with a letter from the deceased’s bank.’ He handed Rebus a photocopy. ‘Seems our man made a cash withdrawal of five grand ten days ago.’

‘
Cash?
’

‘We found ten quid on his person, and about another thirty bar in the house. No five grand. I’m beginning to think blackmail.’

Rebus nodded. ‘What about his address book?’