Ian Rankin: A Good Hanging and other stories

But not this time. This time there was an important difference. The apparent target escaped, by dint of leaving his car for a couple of minutes to nip into a shop. But while he was in the shop someone had tried to steal his car, and that person was now drying into the tarmac beneath the knees of the crawling policemen. This much Rebus learned before Superintendent Watson caught sight of him, caught sight of him smiling wryly at the car thief’s luck. It wasn’t every day you got the chance to steal a Jaguar XJS... but what a day to pick.

‘Inspector!’ Farmer Watson beckoned for Rebus to join him, which Rebus, ironing out his smile, did.

Before Watson could start filling him in on what he already knew, Rebus himself spoke.

‘Who was the target, sir?’

‘A man called Dean.’ Meaningful pause. ‘Brigadier-General Dean, retired.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I thought there were a lot of Tommies about.’

‘We’ll be working with the Army on this one, John. That’s how it’s done, apparently. And then there’s Scotland Yard, too. Their anti-terrorist people.’

‘Too many cooks if you ask me, sir.’

Watson nodded. ‘Still, these buggers are supposed to be specialised.’

‘And we’re only good for solving the odd drunk driving or domestic, eh, sir?’

The two men shared a smile at this. Rebus nodded towards the wreck of the car. ‘Any idea who was behind the wheel?’

Watson shook his head. ‘Not yet. And not much to go on either. We may have to wait till a mum or girlfriend reports him missing.’

‘Not even a description?’

‘None of the passers-by is fit to be questioned. Not yet anyway.’

‘So what about Brigadier-General Whassisname?’

‘Dean.’

‘Yes. Where is he?’

‘He’s at home. A doctor’s been to take a look at him, but he seems all right. A bit shocked.’

‘A bit? Someone rips the arse out of his car and he’s a bit shocked?’ Rebus sounded doubtful. Watson’s eyes were fixed on the advancing line of debris collectors.

‘I get the feeling he’s seen worse.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘Why don’t you have a word with him, John? See what you think.’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Aye, why not,’ he said. ‘Anything for a laugh, eh, sir?’

Watson seemed stuck for a reply, and by the time he’d formed one Rebus had wandered back through the cordon, hands in trouser pockets, looking for all the world like a man out for a stroll on a balmy summer’s evening. Only then did the Superintendent remember that this was Rebus’s day off. He wondered if it had been such a bright idea to send him off to talk to Brigadier-General Dean. Then he smiled, recalling that he had brought John Rebus out here precisely because something didn’t quite feel right. If he could feel it, Rebus would feel it too, and would burrow deep to find its source - as deep as necessary and, perhaps, deeper than was seemly for a Superintendent to go.

Yes, there were times when even Detective Inspector John Rebus came in useful.

It was a big house. Rebus would go further. It was bigger than the last hotel he’d stayed in, though of a similar style: closer to Hammer Films than House and Garden. A hotel in Scarborough it had been; three days of lust with a divorced school-dinner lady. School-dinner ladies hadn’t been like that in Rebus’s day... or maybe he just hadn’t been paying attention.

He paid attention now. Paid attention as an Army uniform opened the door of West Lodge to him. He’d already had to talk his way past a mixed guard on the gate - an apologetic PC and two uncompromising squaddies. That was why he’d started thinking back to Scarborough - to stop himself punching those squaddies in their square-chinned faces. The closer he came to Brigadier-General Dean, the more aggressive and unlovely the soldiers seemed. The two on the gate were like lambs compared to the one on the main door of the house, yet he in his turn was meekness itself compared to the one who led Rebus into a well-appointed living-room and told him to wait.

Rebus hated the Army - with good reason. He had seen the soldier’s lot from the inside and it had left him with a resentment so huge that to call it a ‘chip on the shoulder’ was to do it an injustice. Chip? Right now it felt like a whole transport café! There was only one thing for it. Rebus made for the sideboard, sniffed the contents of the decanter sitting there and poured himself an inch of whisky. He was draining the contents of the glass into his mouth when the door opened.

Rebus had brought too many preconceptions with him today. Brigadier-Generals were squat, ruddy-faced men, with stiff moustaches and VSOP noses, a few silvered wisps of Brylcreemed hair and maybe even a walking stick. They retired in their seventies and babbled of campaigns over dinner.

Not so Brigadier-General Dean. He looked to be in his mid- to late-fifties. He stood over six feet tall, had a youthful face and vigorous dark hair. He was slim too, with no sign of a retirement gut or a port drinker’s red-veined cheeks. He looked twice as fit as Rebus felt and for a moment the policeman actually caught himself straightening his back and squaring his shoulders.

‘Good idea,’ said Dean, joining Rebus at the sideboard. ‘Mind if I join you?’ His voice was soft, blurred at the edges, the voice of an educated man, a civilised man. Rebus tried hard to imagine Dean giving orders to a troop of hairy-fisted Tommies. Tried, but failed.

‘Detective Inspector Rebus,’ he said by way of introduction. ‘Sorry to bother you like this, sir, but there are a few questions—’

Dean nodded, finishing his own drink and offering to replenish Rebus’s.

‘Why not?’ agreed Rebus. Funny thing though: he could swear this whisky wasn’t whisky at all but whiskey - Irish whiskey. Softer than the Scottish stuff, lacking an edge.

Rebus sat on the sofa, Dean on a well-used armchair. The Brigadier-General offered a toast of slainte before starting on his second drink, then exhaled noisily.

‘Had to happen sooner or later, I suppose,’ he said.

‘Oh?’

Dean nodded slowly. ‘I worked in Ulster for a time. Quite a long time. I suppose I was fairly high up in the tree there. I always knew I was a target. The Army knew, too, of course, but what can you do? You can’t put bodyguards on every soldier who’s been involved in the conflict, can you?’

‘I suppose not, sir. But I assume you took precautions?’

Dean shrugged. ‘I’m not in Who’s Who and I’ve got an unlisted telephone number. I don’t even use my rank much, to be honest.’

‘But some of your mail might be addressed to Brigadier-General Dean?’

A wry smile. ‘Who gave you that impression?’

‘What impression, sir?’

‘The impression of rank. I’m not a Brigadier-General. I retired with the rank of Major.’

‘But the—’

‘The what? The locals? Yes, I can see how gossip might lead to exaggeration. You know how it is in a place like this, Inspector. An incomer who keeps himself to himself. A military air. They put two and two together then multiply it by ten.’

Rebus nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see.’ Trust Watson to be wrong even in the fundamentals. ‘But the point I was trying to make about your mail still stands, sir. What I’m wondering, you see, is how they found you.’

Dean smiled quietly. ‘The IRA are quite sophisticated these days, Inspector. For all I know, they could have hacked into a computer, bribed someone in the know, or maybe it was just a fluke, sheer chance.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose we’ll have to think of moving somewhere else now, starting all over again. Poor Jacqueline.’

‘Jacqueline being?’

‘My daughter. She’s upstairs, terribly upset. She’s due to start university in October. It’s her I feel sorry for.’