Knots And Crosses (2 page)

One other thing about Rebus: he dies at the end. Not in the final draft, obviously, but that was my original plan. If I’d stuck to it, I don’t know what I’d be doing now. The book climaxes in some tunnels beneath the Central Library on George IV Bridge. There may or may not be tunnels there. However, beneath the National Library (right across the street from the Central) there are certainly tunnels – I know because we postgraduate students were given a tour of them … and, as Muriel Spark says, nothing is ever lost to an author.

Since I had no idea how the police went about investigating a murder, I did what any good research student would have done: wrote to the Chief Constable. He took pity on me and directed me to Leith police station, where two wary detectives answered my questions, and added my name to their database, just in case I had some darker ulterior motive. In my duffel coat and Doc Marten boots, a Dr Who scarf wrapped around me, I probably wasn’t their idea of a novelist. Sometimes even now I look in the mirror and am forced to agree.

Knots
was finally published in London by The Bodley Head (now also defunct) on 19 March 1987, exactly two years to the day since I’d had the initial idea. The cover was a drawing of a game of noughts and crosses, played with knotted pieces of twine and crosses made from matchsticks. As for the author photo, the less said the better. By this time, I was married, living in London, and working at Middlesex Polytechnic. I went into work as usual, and saw no reviews of the book in any of the day’s newspapers. Forty-eight hours later, I headed to Edinburgh to spend some weeks at a writers’ retreat. There seemed no great fuss about the book. Sales would continue to be poor, with few reviews. I said as much in my diary: ‘
Knots
has had less publicity than
Flood
.’ So much for my fledgling career as a crime writer. I was by this time working on a London-based spy novel called
Watchman
, and had plans to be the next le Carré. Rebus was history, as far as I was concerned.

But that would change.

The girl screamed once, only the once.

Even that, however, was a minor slip on his part. That might have been the end of everything, almost before it had begun. Neighbours inquisitive, the police called in to investigate. No, that would not do at all. Next time he would tie the gag a little tighter, just a little tighter, just that little bit more secure.

Afterwards, he went to the drawer and took from it a ball of string. He used a pair of sharp nail-scissors, the kind girls always seem to use, to snip off a length of about six inches, then he put the ball of string and the scissors back into the drawer. A car revved up outside, and he went to the window, upsetting a pile of books on the floor as he did so. The car, however, had vanished, and he smiled to himself. He tied a knot in the string, not any special kind of knot, just a knot. There was an envelope lying ready on the sideboard.

It was 28th April. Wet, naturally, the grass percolating water as John Rebus walked to the grave of his father, dead five years to the day. He placed a wreath so that it lay, yellow and red, the colours of remembrance, against the still shining marble. He paused for a moment, trying to think of things to say, but there seemed nothing to say, nothing to think. He had been a good enough father and that was that. The old man wouldn’t have wanted him to waste his words in any case. So he stood there, hands respectfully behind his back, crows laughing on the walls around him, until the water seeping into his shoes told him that there was a warm car waiting for him at the cemetery gates.

He drove quietly, hating to be back here in Fife, back where the old days had never been ‘good old days,’ where ghosts rustled in the shells of empty houses and the shutters went up every evening on a handful of desultory shops, those metal shutters that gave the vandals somewhere to write their names. How Rebus hated it all, this singular lack of an environment. It stank the way it had always done: of misuse, of disuse, of the sheer wastage of life.

He drove the eight miles towards the open sea, to where his brother Michael still lived. The rain eased off as he approached the skull-grey coast, the car throwing up splashings of water from a thousand crevasses in the road. Why was it, he wondered, that they never seemed to fix the roads here,
while in Edinburgh they worked on the surfaces so often that things were made even worse? And why, above all, had he made the maniacal decision to come all the way through to Fife, just because it was the anniversary of the old man’s death? He tried to focus his mind on something else, and found himself fantasising about his next cigarette.

Through the rain, falling as drizzle now, Rebus saw a girl about his daughter’s age walking along the grass verge. He slowed the car, examined her in his mirror as he passed her, and stopped. He motioned for her to come to his window.

Her short breaths were visible in the cool, still air, and her dark hair fell in rats-tails down her forehead. She looked at him apprehensively.

‘Where are you going, love?’

‘Kirkcaldy.’

‘Do you want a lift?’

She shook her head, drops of water flying from her coiled hair.

‘My mum said I should never accept lifts from strangers.’

‘Well,’ said Rebus, smiling, ‘your mum is quite right. I’ve got a daughter about your age and I tell her the same thing. But it is raining, and I
am
a policeman, so you can trust me. You’ve still got a fair way to go, you know.’

She looked up and down the silent road, then shook her head again.

‘Okay,’ said Rebus, ‘but take care. Your mum was quite right.’

He wound his window up again and drove off, watching her in his mirror as she watched him. Clever kid. It was good to know that parents still had a little sense of responsibility left. If only the same could be said of his ex-wife. The way she had brought up their daughter was a disgrace. Michael, too, had given his daughter too long a leash. Who was to blame?

Rebus’s brother owned a respectable house. He had
followed in the old man’s footsteps and become a stage hypnotist. He seemed to be quite good at it, too, from all accounts. Rebus had never asked Michael how it was done, just as he had never shown any interest or curiosity in the old man’s act. He had observed that this still puzzled Michael, who would drop hints and red herrings as to the authenticity of his own stage act for him to chase up if he so wished.

But then John Rebus had too many things to chase up, and that had been the position during all of his fifteen years on the force. Fifteen years, and all he had to show were an amount of self-pity and a busted marriage with an innocent daughter hanging between them. It was more disgusting than sad. And meantime Michael was happily married with two kids and a larger house than Rebus could ever afford. He headlined at hotels, clubs, and even theatres as far away as Newcastle and Wick. Occasionally he would make six-hundred quid from a single show. Outrageous. He drove an expensive car, wore good clothes, and would never have been caught dead standing in the pissing rain in a graveyard in Fife on the dullest April day for many a year. No, Michael was too clever for that. And too stupid.

‘John! Christ, what’s up? I mean, it’s great to see you. Why didn’t you phone to warn me you were coming? Come on inside.’

It was the welcome Rebus had expected: embarrassed surprise, as though it were painful to be reminded that one still had some family left alive. And Rebus had noted the use of the word ‘warn’ where ‘tell’ would have sufficed. He was a policeman. He noticed such things.

Michael Rebus bounded through to the living-room and turned down the wailing stereo.

‘Come on in, John,’ he called. ‘Do you want a drink? Coffee perhaps? Or something stronger? What brings you here?’

Rebus sat down as though he were in a stranger’s house, his back straight and professional. He examined the panelled walls of the room – a new feature – and the framed photographs of his niece and nephew.

‘I was just in the neighbourhood,’ he said.

Michael, turning from the drinks cabinet with the glasses ready, suddenly remembered, or did a good impersonation of just having remembered.

‘Oh, John, I forgot all about it. Why didn’t you tell me? Shit, I hate forgetting about Dad.’

‘Just as well you’re a hypnotist then and not Mickey the Memory Man, isn’t it? Give me that drink, or are you two getting engaged?’

Michael, smiling, absolved, handed over the glass of whisky.

‘Is that your car outside?’ asked Rebus, taking the glass. ‘I mean the big BMW?’

Michael, still smiling, nodded.

‘Christ,’ said Rebus. ‘You treat yourself well.’

‘As well as I treat Chrissie and the kids. We’re building an extension onto the back of the house. Somewhere to put a jacuzzi or a sauna. They’re the in thing just now, and Chrissie’s desperate to keep ahead of the field.’

Rebus took a swallow of whisky. It turned out to be a malt. Nothing in the room was cheap, but none of it was exactly desirable either. Glass ornaments, a crystal decanter on a silver salver, the TV and video, the inscrutably miniature hi-fi system, the onyx lamp. Rebus felt a little guilty about that lamp. Rhona and he had given it to Michael and Chrissie as a wedding present. Chrissie no longer spoke to him. Who could blame her?

‘Where is Chrissie, by the way?’

‘Oh, she’s out doing some shopping. She has her own car
now. The kids will still be at school. She’ll pick them up on the way home. Are you staying for something to eat?’

Rebus shrugged his shoulders.

‘You’d be welcome to stay,’ said Michael, meaning that Rebus wouldn’t. ‘So how’s the cop-shop? Still muddling along?’

‘We lose a few, but they don’t get the publicity. We catch a few, and they do. It’s the same as always, I suppose.’

The room, Rebus was noticing, smelled of toffee-apples, of penny arcades.

Michael was speaking:

‘This is a terrible business about those girls being kidnapped.’

Rebus nodded.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes, it is. But we can’t strictly call it kidnapping, not yet. There hasn’t been a demand note or anything. It’s more likely to be a straightforward case of sexual assault.’

Michael started up from his chair.

‘Straightforward? What’s straightforward about that?’

‘It’s just the terminology we use, Mickey, that’s all.’ Rebus shrugged again and finished his drink.

‘Well, John,’ said Michael, sitting, ‘I mean, we’ve both got daughters, too. You’re so casual about the whole thing. I mean, it’s frightening to think of it.’ He shook his head slowly in the world-wide expression of shared grief, and relief, too, that the horror was someone else’s for the moment. ‘It’s frightening,’ he repeated. ‘And in Edinburgh of all places. I mean, you never think of that sort of thing happening in Edinburgh, do you?’

‘There’s more happening in Edinburgh than anyone knows.’

‘Yes.’ Michael paused. ‘I was across there just last week playing at one of the hotels.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

It was Michael’s turn to shrug his shoulders.

‘Would you have been interested?’ he said.

‘Maybe not,’ said Rebus, smiling, ‘but I would have come along anyway.’

Michael laughed. It was the laughter of birthdays, of money found in an old pocket.

‘Another whisky, sir?’ he said.

‘I thought you were never going to ask.’

Rebus returned to his study of the room while Michael went to the cabinet.

‘How’s the act going?’ he asked. ‘And I really
am
interested.’

‘It’s going fine,’ said Michael. ‘In fact, it’s going very well indeed. There’s talk of a television spot, but I’ll believe that when I see it.’

‘Great.’

Another drink reached Rebus’s willing hand.

‘Yes, and I’m working on a new slot. It’s a bit scary though.’ An inch of gold flashed on Michael’s wrist as he tipped the glass to his lips. The watch was expensive: it had no numbers on its face. It seemed to Rebus that the more expensive something was, the less of it there always seemed to be: tiny little hi-fi systems, watches without numbers, the translucent Dior ankle-socks on Michael’s feet.

‘Tell me about it,’ he said, taking his brother’s bait.

‘Well,’ said Michael, sitting forward in his chair, ‘I take members of the audience back into their past lives.’

‘Past lives?’

Rebus was staring at the floor as if admiring the design of the dark and light green carpet.

‘Yes,’ Michael continued, ‘Reincarnation, born again, that sort of thing. Well, I shouldn’t have to spell it out to you, John. After all,
you’re
the Christian.’

‘Christians don’t believe in past lives, Mickey. Only future ones.’

Michael stared at Rebus, demanding silence.

‘Sorry,’ said Rebus.

‘As I was saying, I tried the act out in public for the first time last week, though I’ve been practising it for a while with my private consultees.’

‘Private consultees?’

‘Yes. They pay me money for private hypnotherapy. I stop them smoking, or make them more confident, or stop them from wetting the bed. Some are convinced that they have past lives, and they ask me to put them under so that they can prove it. Don’t worry though. Financially, it’s all above board. The tax-man gets his cut.’