10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (236 page)

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Davidson.’

‘Still at the station?’

‘That I am. Gerry’s still not talking.’

‘Have you offered him a deal?’

‘Not yet. We’re holding him on a charge of assault, naming you as the injured party.’

‘I’ll never get the grease off that jacket. What about the search warrant?’

‘We got it. I’m just waiting for Burns to get back. Hold on, here he comes.’ Davidson put his hand over the mouthpiece. Rebus unscrewed the bottle with his free hand, but couldn’t find a glass. Davidson came back on the line. ‘It’s a result. Two credit cards, Access and Visa, in the name of Thomas Gillespie, hidden under the mattress.’

‘So now will you go for a deal?’

‘I’ll talk to his solicitor.’

‘We don’t just want Dip, remember. We want whoever ordered the hit.’

‘Sure, John.’ There wasn’t what Rebus would call fervour in Davidson’s voice. ‘Now the bad news.’

‘Listen, I’m serious – we want the paymaster!’

‘And
I’m
serious about it being bad news.’

Rebus quietened. ‘OK, what is it?’

‘You told me to check if Charters had had any visitors since you saw him Sunday night. Well, he had one the next morning, and then again today. She’s a regular apparently.’

‘Yes?’

‘Her name’s Samantha Rebus. Now, John, it may be nothing at all. I mean, she’s visited other prisoners too, and we know she works for SWEEP. It could just be that she –’

But John Rebus was already on his way.

‘I don’t see what the big deal is,’ Sammy said.

‘What?’

‘I don’t see what’s the big deal.’

He’d been so steamed up, he’d rung Patience’s doorbell twice before remembering the unpleasantness surrounding his last visit. But Sammy opened the door.

‘Grab your coat,’ he hissed, ‘tell Patience it’s a friend and you’re going out.’

They’d gone to a hotel just around the corner from the flat. The bar was almost deserted, just the barmaid and one regular at the corner of the bar, the hatch open so there was no barrier between them. Rebus and Sammy took their drinks to the furthest corner.

‘The big deal is,’ he said, ‘you smuggled something out of jail for him.’

‘Just a letter.’

She calmly sipped her tequila and orange. Fathers and daughters, Rebus thought. He pictured the Lord Provost and Kirstie. You knew they had to make choices, and nobody in life made the right choices all the time. Daughters never grew up; in their fathers’ eyes, all they did was become women.

‘I’ve done it before,’ Sammy was saying. ‘You know the warders read all the mail before it goes out? They censor it and leer over it and . . . and I think it’s revolting.’ She paused. ‘They can get very sniffy about gay love letters.’

‘Charters told you he was gay?’

‘He hinted at it: “a very special friend”, he said.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Gerry Dip’s special, all right. He’s absolutely choice. Did you take the note to his flat?’

‘The only address Derwood had was the chip shop.’

‘And did you read the note?’

‘Of course not.’

‘A sealed envelope?’ She nodded. ‘Quite a fat envelope?’

She thought about it. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘That’s because it was full of money.’

‘What have I done?’ Her face was reddening, her voice rising. ‘Broken some lousy prison rule, that’s all.’

‘I wish it were,’ Rebus said quietly.

She quietened. ‘What then?’

He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t do
that
to her . . . But it would all come out eventually, wouldn’t it?

‘Sammy,’ he said, ‘I think Charters paid Gerry Dip to kill a man. That envelope you delivered contained instructions and payment.’

Her face lost all its lovely colour. ‘
What?
’ The way she said it turned Rebus’s gut liquid. She tried picking up her drink, but spilt it, then retched into her cupped hands. Rebus got a handerkerchief out of his pocket and handed it over.

‘You’re trying to scare me,’ she said, ‘that’s all. You don’t like my job and you’re trying to scare me off!’

‘Sammy, please . . .’

She got to her feet, spilling the rest of her drink over his trousers. He followed her to the door, watched by barmaid and customer, and called after her. But she was running: down the steps on to the pavement, and then along to the corner and around it, back into Oxford Terrace.

‘Sammy!’

He watched her run, watched her until she’d disappeared.

‘Shite!’

A drunk, walking past, wished him a belated happy new year. Rebus told the man where he could stick it.

As arranged, Rebus drove to South Gyle next morning. He parked his car around the corner from the Lord Provost’s house, then went and rang the doorbell. The Lord Provost himself opened the door, and looked to left and right as if expecting her to be there.

‘We’ll have to go for a little drive,’ Rebus informed him.

Then a figure came storming along the passage behind Cameron Kennedy and brushed him aside.

‘Where is she?’ Mrs Kennedy’s voice trembled with emotion, her nostrils flaring. ‘Where’s the lost lamb?’ She turned to her husband. ‘You said he’d bring her!’

The Lord Provost looked at Rebus, who said nothing. ‘I have to go with Inspector Rebus, Beth.’

‘I’ll fetch my coat,’ Mrs Kennedy said.

‘No, Beth.’ The Lord Provost laid a hand on her arm. ‘Best I go alone.’

An argument started. Rebus turned and walked back towards the gate. The Lord Provost came after him.

‘Don’t you want a coat?’ Rebus asked.

‘I’ll be fine.’

His wife was calling to them from the door. ‘“Thy will be blyther in heiven owre ae sinner at repents nor owre ninetie-nine saunts at need nae repentance.”’

‘She’s learned the New Testament in Scots,’ the Lord Provost explained. ‘She knows it backwards.’ It didn’t sound like a boast.

Kirstie was sitting in the back seat of Rebus’s car. Beside
her was Paul Duggan. She’d had a bath, and her hair had been washed and rearranged. She was wearing clothes Mrs Duggan had bought for her – styles parents thought teenagers liked. You’d take her for a normal, sulky, shoulder-bechipped teenager, nothing more – if it wasn’t for the vomiting fits and the muscle spasms, the bolts of lightning through her bones.

Kennedy gasped when he saw her.

‘I said I’d bring her,’ Rebus told him. ‘Now get in.’

The Lord Provost’s face was like chiselled stone as they drove towards the Forth Bridges, the same route Rebus had taken that night with Lauderdale. He told himself he’d chosen the meeting place because it was nearby, open and private. But he thought maybe he had a deeper motive.

They came off the A90 and went three-quarters round the roundabout, then headed towards the Moat House Hotel, whose huge, desolate car park overlooked the Forth. At this time of day, this time of year, the car park was deserted save for a Ford Capri which looked as if it had been abandoned after a joyride. Rebus stopped the car and turned off the ignition.

‘This is where we get out,’ he told Paul Duggan.

Duggan squeezed Kirstie’s hand. ‘Will you be all right?’ he asked her.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said coolly, watching her father in the rearview mirror, just as he was watching her.

So Rebus and Duggan got out.

Rebus walked across the tarmac and stood at the furthest edge. You got a great view of both bridges, and of the Fife coast beyond. You also took a beating from the wind, which blew from all directions. Rebus rode with it, swaying a little from the ankles. With his head tucked into his overcoat, he managed to light a cigarette at the sixth attempt. The smell of butane caused momentary nausea.

Paul Duggan was a little way off, resting one arm on a
dull metal pay-view telescope. Rebus left him alone and just stared at the scenery. The clouds crawled past, looking as if they’d been hurt in too many bar room brawls. Beneath them, Fife was a slab of grey-green pavement.

Paul Duggan had finally arrived beside him. ‘Thinking about Willie and Dixie?’ he suggested. Rebus glanced at him but said nothing.

‘I’m not just a pretty face, Inspector.’

‘I was thinking that they got me into this. Their suicide. They got me thinking about things . . . asking myself questions. When McAnally killed himself, I was interested enough to want to know why.’ He smiled. ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about.’

Duggan just shrugged. ‘I’m listening though.’ There was silence between them for a while. Duggan scuffed his toes against the kerb. ‘See this trouble I’m in, with the police and council and that . . .?’

‘You think I can help?’

‘I don’t know.’

It was strange that Kirstie should have run away from one smothering household only to end up in another, but Rebus thought he knew the reason why. After the deaths of Willie and Dixie, she’d disintegrated. To her, they had represented ‘real life’, a life well away from her father and his political conspiracies. Willie and Dixie had been the other side of the coin, a side she’d come to like, maybe even admire. And she’d killed them, after which she’d spiralled downwards until she realised she needed shelter and comfort, or she too might die. Paul Duggan had been there for her, and so had his parents.

‘You know,’ Rebus said, thinking aloud, ‘I think I know why she scrawled “Dalgety” on that document. If her father had paid the ransom – maybe even if he hadn’t – she was planning to send the LABarum plan back to him. It was a warning, a message that she knew something, and
that he should leave her alone if he didn’t want her to reveal it to the world.’

‘Never mind Kirstie for the moment, what about me?’

‘Everybody’s got to pay, Paul,’ Rebus said, not looking at him. ‘That’s the way it works.’

‘Aye, right,’ Duggan said dismissively. ‘And if I was some rich bastard that had been to Fettes, I’d have to pay too, is that right? I’d be treated the same as an Oxgangs drop-out? Come
on
, Inspector, Kirstie’s told me the way it works, the whole system.’

He turned and shuffled away.

He had a point, one Rebus would happily concede, only he had other things to think about right now. The wind had finished his cigarette in double-quick time, so he lit another. Duggan was over at the abandoned car, peering in. He tried a door, opened it, and got in. Shelter accomplished. Some people said the weather made the Scots: long drear periods punctuated by short bursts of enlightenment and cheer. There was almost certainly something to the theory. It was hard to believe this winter would end, yet he knew that it would: knew, but almost didn’t believe. A matter of faith, as the old priest would say, or maybe the reverse of faith. Rebus hadn’t been to church in a while, and missed his conversations with Father Leary. But he didn’t miss the church, or even the Church. Leary would have no problem with suicide, in either concept or practice: it was a great sin, full stop. Assisted suicide, too, was a sin, every bit as heinous.

But when Rebus’s mother had been ill that last time, she’d begged his father for release. And one day, young John had walked in and had seen his father on the edge of her bed. She was asleep, her chest making awful, liquid sounds, and his father sat there with a pillow in his hands . . . looking at that pillow, then up at his son, asking to be told what to do.

Rebus knew if he hadn’t walked in, his father might have done it, might have put her out of her misery.

Instead of which, she lingered for weeks.

He turned away from the Forth and found his vision blurred. He angled his head upwards, swallowing back the tears, and walked over to the abandoned car. Inside, Paul Duggan was crying.

‘They were my friends, too,’ he bawled. ‘And her stupid plan killed them! And yet I can’t hate her for it . . . can’t even get angry with her.’

Rebus put a hand on Duggan’s shoulder.

‘Nobody killed them,’ he said quietly. ‘They chose for themselves.’

The two of them sat there for a while, out of the wind, in shelter that wasn’t theirs.

Afterwards, Rebus drove them back into town. The teenagers in the back were both pink-eyed from crying; the two men in the front were not. He didn’t feel proud of the fact. He drove past the turn-off to Kennedy’s estate, and the Lord Provost still said nothing. Eventually, Rebus pulled the car on to the kerb outside Duggan’s Abbeyhill home.

‘Where are we?’ Kennedy asked.

‘Kirstie’s staying with some nice people,’ Rebus explained.

The Lord Provost turned to his daughter. ‘You’re not coming home?’

‘Not yet,’ she said, as if each word was costing her something.

‘You said you’d bring her back.’

‘I didn’t say she’d stay,’ Rebus said. ‘Kirstie’s got to decide if and when.’

She was already getting out of the car, as was Duggan.
On the pavement, she doubled over and dry-heaved, spitting up foamy saliva.

‘Something’s wrong with her,’ Kennedy said. He made to open his door, but Rebus pulled the car abruptly off the kerb and into traffic.

‘You know what’s wrong with her,’ he said. ‘Now she’s coming off, and I think she’ll be all right.’

‘You infer,’ Kennedy said coldly, ‘that she wouldn’t be “all right” at home.’

‘What do you think?’ Rebus said, and he left it at that.

‘Where are we going?’

‘One good thing about Edinburgh, Lord Provost – there’s always a quiet spot nearby. You and me are going to have a talk. At least,
you’ll
be talking, I’ll be listening.’

He directed them around the base of Salisbury Crags and up to a car park near the summit of Arthur’s Seat. There were a few cars already there, parents and children out braving the gale. They would probably call it ‘blowing away the cobwebs’.

But Rebus and the Lord Provost stayed in the car, and the Lord Provost did the talking – that had been their bargain, after all. And afterwards, with the silence between them like an extra seat, Rebus drove the Lord Provost home.

There was a man at the top of the hill. He was mending a wall.

Rebus followed the line of the dry-stane dyke, climbing slowly. He was between Edinburgh and Carlops, in the foothills of the Pentland range. There was no escape from the wind and the cold up here, but Rebus was sweating as he neared the top. The man saw him coming, but didn’t stop working. He had three piles of stones close to him, varying in sizes and shapes. He would pick one up, feel it, study it, then either put it back in the pile or else add it to
the wall. And with a fresh stone placed in the wall, a new challenge presented itself, and he had to study his mounds of stones all over again. Rebus stopped to catch his breath, and watched the man. It was the most painstaking work imaginable, and at the end of it the wall would be held together by nothing more than the artful arrangement of its constituent parts.