Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

‘Bastard,’ he was saying. ‘You won’t be saying a word against me.’

‘Nic, man, you’ve lost it!’

‘It wasn’t enough, Cat leaving me, you had to rub my nose in it. Well, pal, it’s you that’s the rapist here. I just drove the van. That’s what I’ll tell them.’ There was a sick grin on his face. ‘We got into a fight, it was self-defence. That’s what I’ll say. See, I’m the one with the brains here, Jerry-fucking-nobody. The job, the mortgage, the car. And I’m the one they’ll believe.’ He raised the knife, and Jerry lunged. Nic sort of wheezed, and froze for a second, mouth agape, then angling his chin to stare down at where the scissors protruded from his chest.

‘What were you saying about brains, man?’ Jerry said, rising to his feet as Nic slumped face forwards on to the floor.

He sat back down on the couch, Nic’s body twitching once or twice and then falling still. Jerry ran his hands through his hair. He examined his cut. It was a deep wound, and about three inches long. Hospital job, stitches. He knelt down, searched Nic’s pockets and came up with the keys to the Cosworth. Nic had never let him drive it, never once offered.

Now, at last, he had a choice. Sit here and wait it out? Get his story straight for the cops? Self-defence was the truth of it. Maybe the neighbours would tell what they’d heard. But the cops... the cops knew Nic was the rapist. And they also knew there were two men involved.

Stood to reason it was him: Nic’s pal from way back, the underachiever, Nic’s killer. They’d get witnesses who’d identify him from the nightclubs. Maybe there were clues in the van.

Not such a difficult choice then, in the end. He tossed the keys, caught them, and headed out of the flat. Left the door wide open. Pigs would only kick it in otherwise.

He wondered if Nic would have thought of that.

Rebus was renewing his old acquaintance with the rougher end of the Leith pub scene. Not for him the charming, rejuvenated taverns of The Shore or the gleaming Victorian hostelries to be found on Great Junction Street and Bernard Street. For the nameless howffs, the spit ’n’ sawdusts, you had to look slightly further afield, charting streets which few Scottish Office brogues from the HQ down the road ever trod. He had drawn up a shortlist of four — drew a blank with the first two. But at the third, saw Linford’s BMW parked eighty yards away, under a busted street light: smart enough to park where he wouldn’t easily be spotted. Then again, every second street light was busted.

Rebus tucked his Saab behind the BMW. He flashed his lights: no response. Got out of his car and lit a cigarette. That’s all he was: a local lighting a cigarette. But his eyes were busy. The street was quiet. There was light in the high windows of Bellman’s Bar — its name from years back. What it was called now was anybody’s guess. Probably nobody who drank there knew, or cared.

He walked past the BMW, glancing inside. Something on the passenger seat: mobile phone. Linford couldn’t be far. Taking that piss maybe, the one he’d said he wouldn’t need. Rebus smiled and shook his head, then saw that the BMW’s doors weren’t locked. He tried the driver’s side. By the interior light he could see Linford’s notebook. He reached for it, started reading, but the light went off. So he slipped into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and flipped the light back on again. Meticulous in every detail, but that didn’t count for anything if you were spotted. Rebus went back outside, inspected the few parked cars. They were ageing and ordinary, the kind that passed each MOT with a backhander to a friendly mechanic. He wouldn’t place Barry Hutton as the owner of any of them. Yet Hutton had driven here. Did that mean he’d left?

Did that mean Linford had missed him?

Suddenly, this began to seem like the best-case scenario. Rebus started to think of others, not half as appealing. He walked back to the Saab and called in, got St Leonard’s to check any activity in Leith. They got back to him pronto: quiet night so far. He sat there, smoking three or four cigarettes, killing the packet. Then he walked over to Bellman’s and pushed open the door.

Smoky inside. No music or TV. Just half a dozen men, all standing at the bar, all staring at him. No Barry Hutton; no Linford. Rebus was taking coins from his pocket as he approached.

‘Cigarette machine?’ he asked.

‘Havenae got one.’ The man behind the bar was practising a scowl. Rebus blinked sleepily.

‘Any packs behind the bar?’

‘Naw.’

He turned to look at the drinkers. ‘Any of you guys sell me some?’

‘A pound each,’ came the lightning response. Rebus snorted.

‘That’s criminal,’ he said.

‘Then fuck off and buy them somewhere else.’

Rebus took his time studying the faces, then the bar’s blunt décor: three tables, a linoleum floor the colour of ox blood, wood panelling on the walls. Pictures of yester-year’s page three girls. A dartboard gathering cobwebs. He couldn’t see any toilets. There were only four optics behind the bar, and two taps: lager or export.

‘Must do a roaring trade,’ he commented.

‘I didn’t know you’d booked a floor show tonight, Shug,’ one drinker said to the barman.

‘The floor’s where he’ll end up,’ the barman said.

‘Easy, boys, easy.’ Rebus held up his hands in appeasement, started backing away. ‘I’ll be sure to tell Barry that this is what you call hospitality.’

They weren’t falling for it, stayed silent until Shug the barman spoke. ‘Barry who?’ he said.

Rebus shrugged, turned and walked out.

It was another five minutes before he got the call. Derek Linford: already on his way to the Infirmary.

Rebus paced the corridor: didn’t like hospitals; liked this one less than most. This was where they’d brought Sammy after the hit and run.

At just after eleven, Ormiston appeared. Police officer attacked, Fettes and Crime Squad always took an interest.

‘How is he?’ Rebus asked. He wasn’t alone: Siobhan was seated with a can of Fanta, looking shell-shocked. More officers had looked in — including the Farmer and Linford’s boss from Fettes, the latter pointedly ignoring Rebus and Siobhan.

‘Not good,’ Ormiston said, searching in his pockets for change for the coffee machine. Siobhan asked him what he needed, handed over some coins.

‘Did he say what happened?’

‘Doctors didn’t want him talking.’

‘But did he tell you?’

Ormiston straightened up, plastic cup in hand. ‘He got whacked from the back, and a few kicks for good measure. Best part of a broken jaw, I’d say.’

‘So he probably wasn’t in a chatty mood,’ Siobhan said, looking at Rebus.

‘They’ve pumped him full of drugs anyway,’ Ormiston said, blowing on the liquid in his cup and eyeing it speculatively. ‘Is this coffee or soup, would you say?’

Siobhan shrugged.

‘He did write something down,’ Ormiston said at last. ‘Bugger seemed keen enough about that.’

‘What did it say?’ Siobhan asked.

Ormiston glanced towards Rebus. ‘I might be paraphrasing, but it was along the lines of: Rebus knew I was there.’

‘What?’ Rebus’s face was like stone. Ormiston repeated the words for him.

Siobhan looked from one man to the other. ‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning,’ Rebus said, slumping into a chair, ‘he thinks I did it. Nobody else knew where he was.’

‘But it had to be whoever he was following,’ Siobhan argued. ‘Stands to reason.’

‘Not Derek Linford’s reason.’ Rebus looked up at her. ‘I phoned him, said I was on my way down. Could be I set him up, grassed him to whoever was in the bar. Or could be I was the one who whacked him.’ He looked to Ormiston for confirmation. ‘That how you see it, Ormie?’