Authors: Ian Rankin
‘Trust you? The guy who tried to lay me out two nights back? With friends like you …’
‘… you’ll never be short of enemies.’
‘There’s still time.’
‘Not really, you just think there is.’
‘You’re talking out your arse.’
‘Maybe you’re just not listening.’ Rebus felt calmer now they were on the road. To Jack, he looked like someone had pulled the plug on him: no more sparks. He almost preferred the model with the faulty wiring. The lack of emotion in his friend’s voice was chilling, even in the overheated car. Jack slid his window down a little further. The speedometer was steady on forty, and that was them in the outside lane. Traffic to their left was
really
crawling. If he could find a space, he’d move to the inside – anything to delay their arrival.
He’d oftentimes admired John Rebus – and heard him praised by other officers – for his tenacity, the way he worried at a case terrier-style, more often than not tearing it open, spilling out secret motives and hidden bodies. But that same tenacity could also be a weakness, blinding him to danger, making him impatient and reckless. Jack knew why they were headed for Glasgow, thought he knew pretty well what Rebus would want to do there. And, as ordered by Ancram, Jack would be close by when the crap came tumbling down.
It was a long time since Rebus and Jack had worked together. They’d been an effective team, but Jack had been glad enough of the posting out of Edinburgh. Too claustrophobic – the town and his partner both. Rebus had seemed even then to spend more time living in his own head than in the company of others. Even the pub he chose to haunt was one with fewer than usual distractions: TV, one fruit machine, one cigarette machine. And when group activities were arranged – fishing trips, golf competitions, bus runs – Rebus never signed up. He was an irregular regular, a loner even in company, his brain and heart only fully engaged when he was working a case. Jack knew the score only too well. Work had a way of wrapping itself around you, so you were cut off from the rest of the world. People you met socially tended to treat you with suspicion or outright hostility – so you ended up mixing only with other cops, which bored your wife or girlfriend.
They
began to feel isolated too. It was a bastard.
There were plenty of people on the force who coped, of course. They had understanding partners; or they could shut work out whenever they went home; or it was just a job to them, a way of keeping up with the mortgage. Jack would guess CID was split fifty-fifty between those for whom it was a vocation, and those who could fit into any other type of office life, anywhere, any time.
He didn’t know what else John Rebus could do. If they kicked him off the force … he’d probably drink his pension
dry, become just another old ex-cop hanging on to a fund of stories, telling them too often to the same people, trading one form of isolation for another.
It was important that John should stay on the force. It was therefore important to keep him off Shit Street. Jack wondered why nothing in life was ever easy. When he’d been told by Chick Ancram that he’d be ‘keeping an eye’ on Rebus, he’d been pleased. He’d seen them going out together, reminiscing about cases and characters, haunts and high points. He should have known better.
He
might have changed – become a ‘yes man’, a pencil-pusher, a careerist – but John was the same as always … only worse. Time had seasoned his cynicism. He wasn’t a terrier now: he was a fighting dog with locking jaws. You just knew that no matter how bloody he got, how much pain there was behind the eyes, the grip was there to the death …
‘Traffic’s beginning to shift,’ Rebus said.
It was true; whatever the problem had been, it was clearing. The speedo was up to fifty-five. They’d be in Glasgow in no time at all. Jack glanced over at Rebus, who winked without moving his eyes from the road ahead. Jack had a sudden image of himself propping up a bar, dipping into his pension for another drink. Fuck that. For his friend’s sake, he’d go the ninety minutes, but no more: no extra time, no penalties. Definitely no penalties.
They made for Partick police station, since their faces were known there. Govan had been another possibility, but Govan was Ancram’s HQ and not a place they could do business on the q.t. The Johnny Bible investigation had picked up some momentum from the most recent murder, but all the Glasgow squad were really doing was reading through and filing material sent from Aberdeen. It made Rebus shiver to think he’d walked past Vanessa Holden in Burke’s Club. For all that Lumsden had been trying to stitch him up, Aberdeen CID had one thing right: quite a string of coincidences tied Rebus
to the Johnny Bible inquiry. So much so that Rebus was beginning to doubt coincidence had much to do with it. Somehow, he couldn’t yet say how exactly, Johnny was connected to one of Rebus’s other investigations. At present it was no more than a hunch, nothing he could do anything about. But it was there, niggling him. It made him wonder if he knew more about Johnny Bible than he thought …
Partick, new and bright and comfortable – basically your state of the art cop-shop – was still enemy territory. Rebus couldn’t know how many friendly ears Uncle Joe might have on-site, but he thought he might know a quiet spot, a place they could make their own. As they wandered through the building, a few officers nodded or greeted Jack by name.
‘Base camp,’ Rebus said at last, turning into the deserted office which was temporary home to Bible John. Here he was, spread out across tables and the floor, pinned and taped to the walls. It was like standing in the middle of an exhibition. The last photofit of Bible John, the one compiled by his third victim’s sister, was repeated around the room, along with her description of him. It was as if by repetition, by piling image upon image, they could will him into physical being, turn wood pulp and ink into flesh and blood.
‘I hate this room,’ Jack said as Rebus closed the door.
‘So does everyone else by the look of things. Long tea-breaks and other business to attend to.’
‘Half the force weren’t alive when Bible John was on the go. He’s lost any sort of meaning.’
‘They’ll be telling their grandkids about Johnny Bible though.’
‘True enough.’ Jack paused. ‘Are you going to do it?’
Rebus saw mat his hand was lying on the receiver. He picked it up, punched in the numbers. ‘Did you doubt me?’ he asked.
‘Not for a minute.’
The voice that answered was gruff, unwelcoming. Not
Uncle Joe, not Stanley. One of the body-builders. Rebus gave as good as he got.
‘Malky there?’
Hesitation: only his close friends called him Malky. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘Tell him it’s Johnny.’ Rebus paused. ‘From Aberdeen.’
‘Haud on.’ Clatter as the receiver was dropped on to a hard surface. Rebus listened closely, heard television voices, game-show applause. Watching: Uncle Joe maybe, or Eve. Stanley wouldn’t like game-shows; he’d never get a question right.
‘Phone!’ the body-builder called.
A long wait. Then a distant voice: ‘Who is it?’
‘Johnny.’
‘Johnny? Johnny who?’ The voice closer.
‘From Aberdeen.’
The receiver was picked up. ‘Hello?’
Rebus took a deep breath. ‘For your own sake you better sound natural. I know about you and Eve, know what you’ve been up to in Aberdeen. So if you want to keep it quiet, sound natural. Don’t want Muscle Man to get even the slightest suspicion.’
A rustling sound, Stanley turning away for privacy, tucking the phone into his chin.
‘So what’s the story?’
‘You’ve got a nice scam going, and I don’t want to fuck it up unless I have to, so don’t do anything that would make me do that. Understood?’
‘No bother.’ The voice was not used to attempting levity when its brain demanded bloody restitution.
‘You’re doing all right, Stanley. Eve’ll be proud of you. Now we need to talk, not just you and me, the three of us.’
‘My dad?’
‘Eve.’
‘Oh, right.’ Calming again. ‘Eh … no problem with that.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Eh … OK.’
‘Partick police station.’
‘Wait a minute …’
‘That’s the deal. Just to talk. You’re not walking into anything. If you’re worried, keep your gob shut until you hear the deal. If you don’t like it, you can walk. You won’t have said anything, so there’s nothing to fear. No charges, no tricks. It’s not you I’m interested in. Are we still on?’
‘I’m not sure. Can I call you back?’
‘I need a yes or no right now. If it’s no, you might as well pass me across to your dad.’
Condemned men laughed with more humour. ‘Look, for myself, there’s no problem. But there are other parties involved.’
‘Just tell Eve what I’ve told you. If she won’t come, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. I’ll get some visitors’ passes for you. False names.’ Rebus looked down at a book open in front of him, found two straight off. ‘William Pritchard and Madeleine Smith. Can you remember that?’
‘I think so.’
‘Repeat them.’
‘William … something.’
‘Pritchard.’
‘And Maggie Smith.’
‘Close enough. I know you can’t just sneak off, so we’ll leave the time open. Get here when you can. And if you start thinking of bottling it, just remember all those bank accounts and how lonely they’ll be without you.’
Rebus put down the phone. His hand was hardly trembling.
They notified the front desk and got visitors’ passes made up, and after that there was nothing to do but wait. Jack said the room felt cold and musty at the same time; he had to get out. He suggested the canteen or a corridor or anywhere, but Rebus shook his head.
‘You go. I think I’ll stay here, see if I can decide what to say to Bonnie and Clyde. Bring me back a coffee and maybe a filled roll.’ Jack nodded. ‘Oh, and a bottle of whisky.’ Jack looked at him. Rebus smiled.
He tried to remember his last drink. He recalled standing in the Ox with two glasses and a packet of cigs. But before that … Wine with Gill?
Jack had said the room was cold; it felt stifling to Rebus. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Then he wandered around the office, peering into desk drawers and grey cardboard boxes.
He saw: interview transcripts, their covers faded and curling at the edges; hand-written reports; typed reports; evidence summaries; maps, mostly hand-drawn; duty logs; ream after ream of witness statements – descriptions of the man seen in the Barrowland Ballroom. Then there were the photographs, matt black and whites, ten by eight and smaller. The Ballroom itself, interior and exterior. It looked more modern than the word ‘ballroom’ conjured up, reminded Rebus a bit of his old school – flat building panels with the occasional window. Three spots sat atop a concrete canopy, pointing up towards the windows and the sky. And on the
canopy itself – a useful shelter from the rain while you were waiting either to be admitted or, afterwards, for your lift – the words ‘Barrowland Ballroom’ and ‘Dancing’. Most of the exterior pictures had been taken on a wet afternoon, women caught on the periphery with plastic rain-mates, men in bunnets and long coats. More photographs: police frogmen searching the river; the loci, CID in their trademark pork-pie hats and raincoats – a back lane, the back court of a tenement, another back court. Typical locations for a cuddle and a feel-up, maybe going a wee bit further. Too far for the victims. There was a photo of Superintendent Joe Beattie, holding out an artist’s impression of Bible John. Looking between the portrait and Beattie, the men’s expressions seemed similar. Several members of the public had commented on it. Mackeith Street and Earl Street – victims two and three were killed on the streets where they lived. He’d taken them so close to their homes: why? So they’d relax their defences? Or had he been vacillating, putting off the attacks? Nervous to ask for a kiss and a cuddle, or just plain scared and with his conscience battling his deep desire? The files were full of such aimless speculation, and more structured theories from professional psychologists and psychiatrists. In the end they’d been as helpful as Croiset the psychic detective.
Rebus thought of meeting Aldous Zane in this very room. Zane had been in the papers again – he’d inspected the latest locus, given the same rambling spiel, and been flown home. Rebus wondered what Jim Stevens was up to now. He remembered Zane’s handshake, the way it had tingled. And Zane’s impressions of Bible John – though Stevens had been present, the paper hadn’t bothered printing them. A trunk in the attic of a modern house. Well, Rebus could have come up with better than that himself, if some paper had put him up in a posh hotel.
Lumsden had put him up in a posh hotel, probably thinking CID would never know. Lumsden had tried to get pally with him, telling him they were alike, showing Rebus
that he had stature in the city – free meals and drinks, free entrance to Burke’s Club. He’d been testing Rebus, seeing how open he’d be to a bung. But at whose behest? The club’s owners? Or Uncle Joe himself …?
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.