10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (297 page)

‘Reckon he’s flown?’ Jack asked.

‘Let’s find out.’ Rebus undid his seat-belt and opened the door.

Grogan was sending men to the neighbouring houses, some to ask questions, some to nip out the back door and work their way round the back of the suspect’s house.

‘Hope this isn’t a wild goose chase,’ Grogan muttered. He saw Rebus, but still barely registered his presence.

‘Men in position, sir.’

People had come out of their houses, wondering what was going on. Rebus could hear the distant chimes of an ice-cream van.

‘Armed Response Unit standing by, sir.’

‘I don’t think we’ll need them.’

‘Right you are, sir.’

Grogan sniffed, ran a finger under his nose, then selected two men to go with him to the suspect’s door. He pressed the bell, and there was a collective holding of breath while they waited. Grogan rang again.

‘What can they see round the back?’

One of Grogan’s men radioed to ask. ‘Curtains are closed upstairs and down, no sign of life.’

Just like at the front.

‘Buzz a JP, say we need a warrant.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘And meantime, take a sledgehammer to that bloody door.’

The officer nodded, gave a signal, and a car boot was opened. Inside was like the back of a builder’s van. Out came the sledgehammer. Three blows and the door was open. Ten seconds later there were cries for an ambulance. Ten seconds after that, someone suggested a hearse instead.

Jack was a good copper: the boot of
his
car held scene of crime equipment, including overshoes and gloves, and the all-over plastic boilersuits which made you look like a walking condom. Officers were being kept out of the house so as not to contaminate the scene. They stood crammed in the doorway, trying to see what they could. When Rebus and Jack stepped forward, no one recognised them, so took them for forensics. The crowd parted for a moment, and both men were inside.

The rules on contamination didn’t seem to extend to senior officers and their flunkeys: Grogan stood in the living room, hands in pockets, examining the scene. The body of a young man lay on the black leather sofa. His fair hair was matted
over a deep cut. More blood had dried on his face and neck. There were signs of a struggle: the glass and chrome coffee table overturned, magazines crumpled underfoot. A black leather jacket had been thrown over the man’s chest, a gentle act after the bloodshed. Stepping closer, Rebus saw marks on the neck, visible below the blood-lines. On the floor in front of the body sat a large green holdall, the sort you took to the gym or for a weekend trip. Rebus peered inside, saw a backpack, a single shoe, Angie Riddell’s necklace . . . and a length of plastic-covered clothes-line.

‘I think we can rule out suicide,’ Grogan muttered.

‘Knocked unconscious, then strangled,’ Rebus guessed.

‘You reckon it’s him?’

‘That bag isn’t just sitting there for fun. Whoever did this, they knew who he was, and wanted us to know, too.’

‘An accomplice?’ Grogan asked. ‘A mate, someone he blabbed to?’

Rebus shrugged again. He was intent on the corpse’s face, felt cheated by it: the closed eyes, the repose.
I’ve come all this way, thanks to you, you bastard
... He stepped closer, lifted the jacket a couple of inches and peered beneath. A black slip-on shoe had been stuffed into Martin Davidson’s left armpit.

‘Oh, Christ,’ Rebus said, turning to Grogan and Jack. ‘Bible John did this.’ He saw disbelief mingled with horror in their faces. Rebus lifted the jacket a little higher so they could see the shoe. ‘He’s been here all the time,’ he said. ‘He never went away . . .’

The Scene of Crime team did their business, photographing and videoing, bagging and taping potential evidence. The pathologist examined the body, then said it could be removed and taken to the mortuary. There were reporters outside, kept at a distance by police cordons. Once the SOC team had finished upstairs, Grogan took Rebus and Jack up for a look. He didn’t seem to mind them being there, probably wouldn’t have minded if he’d had Jack the Ripper himself for an
audience: Grogan was the man who’d be on TV tonight, the man who tracked down Johnny Bible. Only he hadn’t, of course – someone had beaten them to it.

‘Tell me again,’ Grogan said, as they climbed the stairs.

‘Bible John took souvenirs – shoes, clothes, handbags. But he also placed a sanitary towel in the left armpit. Downstairs . . . that was him letting us know who did this.’

Grogan shook his head. He would take some convincing. Meantime, he had things to show them. The main bedroom was just that, but beneath the bed were boxes of magazines and videos – hard core S&M, similar to the stuff in Tony El’s bedroom, text in English and several other languages. Rebus wondered if one of the American gangs had brought it to Aberdeen.

There was a small guest bedroom with a padlock on it. Crowbarred open, it gave the lie to one area of speculation. A couple of the CID men had been wondering if Johnny Bible were tricking them – killing an innocent man and setting him up to look like the killer. The guest bedroom said Martin Davidson was Johnny Bible. It had been turned into a shrine to Bible John and other killers: dozens of scrapbooks, cuttings and photos pinned to the cork boards which lined the walls, videos of documentaries about serial killers, paperback books, heavily annotated, and at the centre of it all a blow-up of one of the Bible John flyers: the face almost smiling, a kindly face, and above it the same basic question: Have You Seen This Man?

Rebus almost answered yes; there was something about the shape of the face, he’d seen it before somewhere . . . somewhere recently. He took the Borneo photo from his pocket, looked at Ray Sloane, then back at the poster. They were very alike, but that wasn’t the similarity that was niggling Rebus. There was something else,
someone
else . . .

Then Jack asked him something from the doorway, and Rebus lost it.

They followed everyone back to Queen Street. Rebus and Jack had, by association, become part of the team. There was quiet jubilation, tempered with the knowledge that another murderer was in their midst. But as at least one officer put it, ‘If he did for that bastard, good luck to him.’

Which, Rebus guessed, would be the reaction Bible John would be hoping for. He’d be hoping they wouldn’t try too hard to find him.
If
he’d come out of retirement, then it had been to one end only – the killing of his impersonator. Johnny Bible had taken the glory, the achievement away from his predecessor; now there’d come the revenge.

Rebus sat in the CID office, staring into space, thinking. When someone handed him a cup, he raised it to his lips. But then Jack’s hand stopped him.

‘It’s whisky,’ he warned. Rebus looked down, saw sweet liquid the colour of honey, gazed at it for a moment, then put the cup down on the desk. There was laughter in the office, cheering and singing, like a football crowd after a result: same songs, same chants.

‘John,’ Jack said, ‘remember Lawson.’ It sounded like a warning.

‘What about him?’

‘He became obsessed.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘This is different. I
know
it was Bible John.’

‘What if it was?’

Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘Come on, Jack, after everything I told you? After Spaven and everything else? You know better than to ask that.’

Grogan was waving Rebus over to a telephone. Smiling, with whisky breath, he handed Rebus the receiver.

‘Someone wants a word.’

‘Hello?’

‘What in God’s name are
you
doing there?’

‘Oh, hello, Gill. Congratulations, looks like everything’s coming right for once.’

She melted a little. ‘Siobhan’s doing, not mine. I only passed the info along.’

‘Make sure that goes on record.’

‘I will.’

‘I’ll talk to you later.’

‘John . . . when are you coming back?’ Not what she’d wanted to ask.

‘Tonight, maybe tomorrow.’

‘OK.’ She paused. ‘See you then.’

‘Fancy doing something on Sunday?’

She sounded surprised by the question. ‘What sort of thing?’

‘I don’t know. A drive, a walk, somewhere down the coast?’

‘Yes, OK.’

‘I’ll call you. Bye, Gill.’

‘Bye.’

Grogan was refilling a cup. There were at least a couple of crates of whisky, and three of bottled beer.

‘Where do you get this stuff?’ Rebus asked.

Grogan smiled. ‘Oh, you know.’

‘Pubs? Clubs? Places you’re owed a favour?’

Grogan just winked. More officers were arriving all the time – uniforms, civilian staff, even people who looked to be off-duty: all had heard, and all wanted to be part of it. The top brass looked stiff but smiling, declining refills.

‘Maybe Ludovic Lumsden gets it for you?’

Grogan’s face creased. ‘I know you think he shafted you, but Ludo’s a good copper.’

‘Where is he?’

Grogan looked around. ‘No idea.’

In fact, no one knew where Lumsden was; he hadn’t been seen all day. Someone had called him at home, but only got an answering machine. His bleeper was turned on, but he wasn’t responding. A patrol car, detouring past his house, reported no sign of him, though his car was outside. Rebus got an idea, and went downstairs to the comms room. There were people
at work here – taking incoming calls, keeping communications open with patrol cars and beat officers. But they had a bottle of whisky of their own, and plastic cups to go round. Rebus asked if he could see the day’s sheets.

He only had to look back an hour. A call from a Mrs Fletcher, reporting her husband missing. He’d gone to work that morning as usual, but hadn’t arrived, and hadn’t come home since. The sheet listed details of his car and a brief description. Patrols had been requested to keep a look-out. In another twelve hours or so, they’d start to deal with it more seriously.

Christian name of missing spouse: Hayden.

Rebus recalled Judd Fuller talking about dumping bodies at sea, or inland, places they’d never be found because no one ever went there. He wondered if that would be the fate of Lumsden and Fletcher . . . No, he couldn’t do it. He wrote a message on the back of one of the sheets and handed it to the duty officer, who read it silently before reaching for the mike.

‘Any patrol in the vicinity of the city centre, to College Street, Burke’s Club. Apprehend Judd Fuller, co-owner, and bring to Queen Street for questioning.’ The comms officer turned to Rebus, who nodded. ‘And check the cellar,’ he continued, ‘persons possibly being held there against their will.’

‘Please repeat,’ one patrol car said. The message was repeated. Rebus went back upstairs.

In spite of the party, some work was still being done. Rebus saw Jack manoeuvring one of the secretaries into a corner, chatting her up twenty to the dozen. Near them, a couple of desk-bound officers were making phone calls. Rebus picked up a spare receiver, called Gill.

‘It’s me.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing. Listen, you passed all the stuff about Toal and Aberdeen on to the Scottish Crime Squad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s your contact there?’

‘Why?’

‘Because whoever it is, I’ve a message for them. I think Judd Fuller has picked up DS Ludovic Lumsden and a man called ‘Hayden Fletcher, and intends to make sure they’re not seen again.’

‘What?’

‘A patrol car’s gone out to the club, God knows what they’ll find, but the Squaddies should keep an eye on it. If they’re found, they’ll be brought back to Queen Street. The Squaddies might want someone on the scene.’

‘I’ll get on it. Thanks, John.’

‘Any time.’

I’m getting soft in my old age, he thought. Or maybe I’ve just relocated my conscience.

He went walkabout, asked a few drinkers the same question, and eventually had the Oil Liaison officer, DI Jenkins, pointed out to him. Rebus just wanted to look at him. His name was mentioned in Stanley’s confession, along with Lumsden. The Squaddies would be wanting a word with him. He was smiling, looking unconcerned, tanned and rested after his holiday. It gave Rebus a warm glow to realise the man would soon be sweating under an internal inquiry.

Maybe he wasn’t getting so soft after all.

He walked over to the working officers, looked down over their shoulders. They were doing the preliminary work on the murder of Martin Davidson, collating information from neighbours and employer, trying to track down a next of kin, and all the time keeping the media at bay.

One of them slammed his phone down and suddenly had a big grin on his face. He reached for his mug of whisky and drained it.

‘Something?’ Rebus asked.

A balled-up piece of paper hit the officer on the head. Laughing, he threw it back.

‘Neighbour came off the night shift,’ he said, ‘found a car
blocking his drive. Had to park on the street. Says he hadn’t seen the car before, and took a good look so he’d know it again. Woke up around lunchtime, and it was gone. Metallic blue BMW, 5 Series. He even got part of the licence plate.’

‘Hell’s bells.’

The officer was reaching for his phone. ‘Shouldn’t take too long.’

‘It better not,’ Rebus replied, ‘or DCI Grogan may not be sober enough to take it in.’

Grogan caught Rebus in the hallway, slapped an arm around him. He was missing his tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt were open, showing tufts of wiry grey hair. He’d danced a jig with a couple of WPCs and was sweating profusely. The shift had changed; or rather, a new shift had come on, while the old shift stayed put, not wanting to break the spell. There was occasional talk of pubs and restaurants, nightclubs and bowling alleys, but nobody seemed to leave, and there was communal applause when an Indian restaurant nearby delivered boxes and bags full of food – courtesy of the brass, who by then actually
had
left the scene. Rebus had helped himself to pakora, keema nan, and chicken tikka, while one CID officer tried to explain to another why his saying ‘Bhajis, we don’ need no steenking bhajis’ was a joke.

Judging by Grogan’s breath, he hadn’t taken a meal break. ‘My wee Lowland laddie,’ he said. ‘How are you doing? Enjoying our Highland hospitality?’