10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (294 page)

‘I don’t know.’

‘You made Erik upset the night you talked to him.’

‘Does he know about this?’

‘He’ll
never
get to know about this. Erik’s happier not knowing. He has an ulcer, you know. He
worries
.’

‘Can’t think why that is.’ Rebus stared at Fuller. If you caught his face in the right kind of shadow, he resembled a young Leonard Cohen, the Travolta comparison
way
off.

‘You’re a nuisance, that’s all you are, an itch that needs to be scratched.’

‘You don’t get it, Judd. You’re not in America. You can’t just hide a body here and hope nobody stumbles across it.’

‘Why not?’ Fuller opened his arms wide. ‘Boats head out of Aberdeen all the time. Weight you down and tip you into the North Sea. Know how hungry the fish are out there?’

‘I know it’s
over
fished – do you want some trawler netting me?’

‘Option two,’ Fuller said, raising two fingers, ‘the mountains. Let the fucking sheep find you, nibble you clean to the bone. Plenty of options, don’t think we haven’t used them before.’ He paused. ‘Why did you come here tonight? What did you
ever
hope you were going to do?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘When Eve phoned . . . she couldn’t hide it, it was in her voice – I knew she was shitting me, setting me up. But I have to admit, I was expecting something a little more challenging.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘I’m glad it’s you, though, I’ve been wanting to see you again.’

‘Well, here I am.’

‘What did Eve tell you?’

‘Eve? She didn’t tell me anything.’

A roundhouse kick took time: Rebus did what he could, turned sideways on to it, caught it in the ribs. Fuller followed up with a punch to the face, his hand moving so slowly Rebus could see the scar on its back – a long ugly welt. A tooth split in half, one of his root-canal jobs. Rebus spat the tooth and some blood at Fuller, who backed off a little, impressed at the damage.

Rebus knew he was dealing with someone who at best could be termed unpredictable, at worst psychotic. Without Stemmons to keep him in check, Judd Fuller looked capable of anything.

‘All I did,’ Rebus lisped, ‘was do a deal with her. She set up the meeting with you, and I let her go.’

‘She must have told you
some
thing.’

‘She’s a hard nut to crack. I got even less from Stanley.’ Rebus tried to sound defeated: not difficult. He wanted Fuller to go for the whole story.

‘Stanley and her have gone off together?’ Fuller chuckled again. ‘Uncle Joe’s going to shit monkeys.’

‘Putting it mildly.’

‘So tell me, cop, how much do you know? Make it good, maybe we can work something out.’

‘I’m open to offers.’

Fuller shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Ludo already sniffed you out about that.’

‘He didn’t exactly have the cards you’ve got.’

‘Well, that’s true.’ Fuller took a swipe at Rebus’s face with the jagged neck of his bottle. Instead of connecting, Rebus felt air brush his cheek. ‘Next time,’ Fuller said, ‘I might get careless. You could lose your looks.’

As if the condemned man cared for beauty. But Rebus was shaking.

‘Do I look like martyr material? All I was doing was my job. It’s what they pay me for, I’m not married to it!’

‘But you’re persistent.’

‘Blame fucking Lumsden, he got right up my back!’ A memory came to him unbeckoned: closing time at the Ox, nights when they’d stumbled out into the cold, joking about getting locked in the cellar and drinking the place dry. Now all Rebus wanted was out.

‘How much do you know?’ The jagged glass was an inch from his nose. Fuller stretched his arm until the bottle was beneath Rebus’s nostrils. Lager fumes, the cold touch of glass, pressing upwards. ‘Remember the old joke?’ Fuller asked. ‘Ask yourself how you’d smell without a nose.’

Rebus sniffed. ‘I know the lot,’ he spat.

‘And how much is that?’

‘The dope comes up from Glasgow, straight to here. You sell it, and ship it out to the rigs. Eve and Stanley collected the cash, Tony El was Uncle Joe’s man on the spot.’

‘Proof?’

‘Almost non-existent, especially with Tony El dead and Eve and Stanley on the run. But —’ Rebus swallowed.

‘But what?’

Rebus kept his mouth shut. Fuller flicked the bottle up and pulled it away. Rebus’s nose dribbled fresh blood.

‘Maybe I’ll just bleed you dry! “But what?’”

‘But it doesn’t matter,’ Rebus said, trying to wipe his nose on his shirt. His eyes were watering. He blinked, tears streaking both cheeks.

‘Why not?’ Fuller interested.

‘Because people are blabbing.’

‘Who?’

‘You know I can’t —’

The bottle flew to his right eye. Rebus screwed his eyes shut. ‘All right, all right!’ The bottle stayed where it was, so close he had to focus past it. He took a deep breath. Time to stir the shit. His big plan. ‘How many cops on your payroll?’

Fuller frowned. ‘Lumsden?’

‘He’s been talking . . . and someone’s been talking to him.’

Rebus could almost hear the cogs creaking inside Fuller’s head, but even he had to work it out eventually.

‘Mr H?’ Fuller’s eyes widened. ‘Mr H. talked to Lumsden, I heard about that. But it was supposed to be about the woman who got herself killed . . .’ Fuller busied himself thinking.

Mr H. – the man who’d paid Tony El. And now Rebus knew who Mr H. was – Hayden Fletcher, interviewed by Lumsden about Vanessa Holden. Fletcher had paid Tony El to take care of Allan Mitchison – the two men had probably met right here. Maybe Fuller himself had introduced them.

‘It’s not just you. They’ve been grassing up Eddie Segal, Moose Maloney . . .’ Rebus pulling out the names Stanley had mentioned.

‘Fletcher and Lumsden?’ Fuller said to himself. He shook his head, but Rebus could see he was halfway convinced. He
stared at Rebus, who tried to look as beaten as a man could be – no great acting required.

‘There’s a Scottish Crime Squad operation coming,’ Rebus said. ‘Lumsden and Fletcher are in their pockets.’

‘They’re dead men,’ Fuller said at last.

‘Why stop when you’re having fun?’

A cold, wicked smile. Fletcher and Lumsden were for the future: but Rebus was right here.

‘We’ll go for a little ride,’ Fuller said. ‘Don’t worry, you did all right. I’ll make it quick. One bullet to the back of the head. You won’t go out screaming.’ He let the bottle drop to the floor and crunched glass on his way to the stairs. Rebus looked around fast, no way of knowing how long he had. The hook looked pretty solid – it had held his weight so far, no problem. If he could stand on a box, get some height, then he could unhook the ropes. There was the empties’ crate, not three feet away. Rebus stretched, his arms in agony, felt with his shoe, just touched the rim of the crate and started to drag it. Fuller had climbed up through a trapdoor, but left it open. Rebus could hear a voice echoing in the bar. Maybe Fuller wanted a bouncer, someone to witness the policeman’s demise. The crate caught in a dip in the floor, wouldn’t budge. Rebus tried to lift it with the toe of his shoe, couldn’t. He was soaked: blood, booze and sweat. The box gave, and he hauled it beneath him, climbed on to it and pushed with his knees. He freed the rope from the hook and brought his arms down slowly, trying to enjoy the pain, feeling blood tingle its way back along them. His fingers stayed numb and cold. He chewed at the knots in the rope, couldn’t budge them. There was plenty of broken glass around, but sawing through would take too long. He bent down, picked up a broken bottle, then saw something even better.

A cheap pink plastic lighter. Fuller had probably used it to ignite the whisky on Rebus’s arms, dropped it afterwards. Rebus picked it up, looked around. There was a lot of booze down here. No way out except the ladder. He found a rag,
opened a bottle of whisky and stuffed it into the neck. Not quite a petrol bomb, but a weapon at any rate. One option: ignite it and toss it into the club, get the fire alarm going and wait for the cavalry. Supposing they came. Supposing that would stop Judd Fuller . . .

Option two: think again.

He looked around. CO
₂
cylinders; plastic crates; runs of rubber tubing. Hanging on the wall: a small fire extinguisher. He grabbed the fire extinguisher, primed it, got it under one arm so he could carry the whisky bottle up the steps.

The club looked dead, dimly lit. Someone had left a glitterball turning, throwing glass jewels across walls and ceiling. He was halfway across the dance floor when the door flew open, Fuller standing there, lit from behind by the foyer. He had a set of car keys between his teeth, dropped them as his mouth opened. He was reaching into his jacket pocket when Rebus got the rag lit, tossed the bottle two-handed. It turned in the air, shattered in front of Fuller. A pool of blue flame spread across the floor. Rebus was still coming, fire extinguisher ready. The gun was in Fuller’s hand as the spray caught him full in the face. Rebus followed it up with a head-butt to the bridge of Fuller’s nose and a knee hard into the groin. Not exactly textbook stuff, but powerfully effective. The American sank to his knees. Rebus kicked him in the face and ran, pulled open the door to the outside world and almost fell into Jack Morton.

‘Christ Almighty, man, what have they done to you?’

‘He’s got a gun, Jack, let’s get the fuck out of here.’

They sprinted for the car. Jack got the keys from Rebus’s pocket. Into the car and accelerating away, Rebus feeling a bewildering mix of emotions, chief among them elation.

‘You smell like a brewery,’ Jack said.

‘Jesus, Jack, how did you get here?’

‘Took a taxi.’

‘No, I mean . . .’

‘You can thank Shetland.’ Jack sniffed. ‘That wind up
there, I’ve got a cold coming. Went to get the hankie out of my trouser pocket . . . no car keys. No car in the car park, and no John Rebus tucked up in bed.’

‘And?’

‘And reception repeated the message they gave you, so I phoned for a taxi. What the hell happened?’

‘I took a beating.’

‘I’d say that was an understatement. Who’s got the gun?’

‘Judd Fuller, the American.’

‘We’ll stop at the nearest phone, get an armed response unit over there.’

‘No.’

Jack turned. ‘No?’ Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Why not?’

‘I was taking a calculated risk, Jack.’

‘Time to buy a new calculator.’

‘I think it worked. Now all we need to do is give it a bit of time.’

Jack thought about it. ‘You want them turning on each other?’ He nodded. ‘Never were one to play by the book, were you? The note was from Eve?’ Rebus nodded. ‘And you thought you’d leave me out. Know something? When I saw the keys were gone, I was so angry, I almost said “Stuff it, let him do what he wants, it’s his neck”.’

‘It almost was.’

‘You’re a stupid bastard.’

‘Years of dedicated practice, Jack. Can you stop and untie me?’

‘I like you better tied up. Casualty or a doctor call-out?’

‘I’ll be fine.’ The nosebleed had already stopped; there was no pain from the dead tooth.

‘So what
did
you do there?’

‘I fed Fuller a line, and I found out Hayden Fletcher hired Allan Mitchison’s killer.’

‘And you’re telling me there wasn’t an easier way?’ Jack shook his head slowly. ‘If I live to be a hundred, I swear I’ll never understand you.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ Rebus said, leaning his head back against the seat.

Back at the hotel, they decided it was time to leave Aberdeen. Rebus had a bath first, and Jack checked his injuries.

‘Strictly an amateur sadist, our Mr Fuller.’

‘He did apologise at the start.’ Rebus checked his gap-toothed smile in the mirror.

Every bit of his body ached, but he’d live, and he didn’t need a doctor to agree with him. They loaded the car, signed out without fuss, and got back on the road.

‘What an end to our holidays,’ Jack commented. But his audience of one was already asleep.

When he had narrowed the list to four individuals, four companies, it was time to use the ‘key’ – Vanessa Holden herself.

More of the suspects had turned out to be too old, or not right in some other way: one, first name Alex, had turned out to be a woman.

Bible John made the call from his own office, door closed. He had his notepad in front of him. Four companies, four individuals.

The call was to Vanessa Holden’s company. A receptionist answered.

‘Hello,’ he told her, ‘Queen Street CID here, Detective Sergeant Collier. General question: I was wondering if you’d ever undertaken any work for Eskflo Fabrication?’

‘Eskflo?’ The receptionist sounded dubious. ‘Let me put you through to Mr Westerman.’

Bible John wrote the name on his notepad, circled it. When Westerman answered, he repeated his question.

‘Is this to do with Vanessa?’ the man asked.

‘No, sir, though I was sorry to hear about Ms Holden. You have my deepest sympathies – same goes for everyone here.’ He looked around the walls of his office. ‘And I’m sorry to have to call at such a distressing time.’

‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant. It’s been a great shock.’

‘Of course, and rest assured, we’re following up several lines of inquiry concerning Ms Holden. But my present request concerns a suspected fraud.’

‘Fraud?’

‘Nothing to do with yourselves, Mr Westerman, but we’re investigating several companies.’

‘Including Eskflo?’

‘Indeed.’ Bible John paused. ‘You’ll appreciate that I’m telling you this in the strictest confidence?’

‘Oh, of course.’

‘Now, the companies I’m concerned with are . . .’ He made show of shuffling some papers, eyes on the notepad. ‘Here we are: Eskflo, LancerTech, Gribbin’s, and Yetland.’

‘Yetland,’ said Westerman, ‘we did some work for them recently. No, wait . . . We pitched for a contract, didn’t get it.’