Ian Rankin: Black and Blue

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?’

‘It’s a great party.’

‘So why the face like a thistle?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘It’s been a long day.’ And a long night before it, he could have added.

Grogan patted his back. ‘You’re welcome back here any time, any time at all.’ Grogan made towards the toilets, paused and turned. ‘Any sign of Ludo?’

‘He’s in the City Hospital, next bed along from a man called Hayden Fletcher.’

‘What?’

‘There’s a Crime Squad officer on the ward, too, waiting for them to wake up and give their statements. That’s how clean Lumsden is. About time you woke up to the fact.’

Rebus went downstairs to the interview rooms, opened the door of the one he’d been interviewed in. There were two more Squaddies inside. And smoking a cigarette at the table, Judd Fuller. Rebus had come down earlier, just for a look, and to explain to the officers what had happened, referring them back to Gill’s tapes and notes.

‘Evening, Judd,’ Rebus said now.

‘Do I know you?’

Rebus walked up to him. ‘You stupid bastard, you let me get away but you still went on using the cellar.’ He shook his head. ‘Erik will be disappointed.’

‘Screw Erik.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Every man for himself now, eh?’

‘Let’s get it over with.’

‘What?’

‘Why you’re here.’ Fuller looked up at him. ‘You want a free hit at me, this is the only chance you’re ever going to get. So make it good.’

‘I don’t need to hit you, Judd.’ Rebus grinned, showing the stunted tooth.

‘Then you’re yellow.’

Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘I used to be, but not any more.’

He turned his back and walked.

Back in CID, the party was in full swing. A cassette player had been wired up, accordion reels at distorted volume. Only two couples were dancing, and then not very well: there was barely room between the desks for professional ceilidh enthusiasts. Three or four bodies lay slumped at their desks, heads on arms. Someone else lay prone on the floor. Rebus counted nine empty whisky bottles, and someone had been sent out for more cases of beer. Jack was still talking with the secretary, his cheeks red from the heat in the room. The place was beginning to smell like a changing room at full-time.

Rebus walked around the room. The walls were still covered with material pertaining to Johnny Bible’s local victims: maps, diagrams, duty rosters, photographs. He studied the photos, as if memorising the smiling faces. He saw that the fax machine had just finished spewing something out. Car ownership details, metallic blue BMWs. Four in Aberdeen, but only one with the same sequence of letters the witness recalled. Registered to a company called Eugene Construction with a Peterhead address.

Eugene Construction? Eugene Construction?

Rebus emptied his pockets on to a desktop, finding petrol receipts, notebook, scraps of paper with telephone numbers, Rennies, a book of matches... there: business card. Given to him by the man he’d met at the convention. Rebus studied the card. Ryan Slocum, Sales Manager, Engineering Division. The parent company: Eugene Construction, with a Peterhead address. Trembling, Rebus lifted the Borneo photo and looked at it, remembering the man he’d met that day in the bar.

‘ No wonder Scotland’s down the pan. And we want independence .’

He’d handed over his business card, then Rebus had announced that he was a policeman.

‘ Did I say anything incriminating...? Is it Johnny Bible? ’

The face, the eyes, the height... close to the man in the photograph. Close. Ray Sloane... Ryan Slocum. Someone had broken into Rebus’s flat, looking for something, taking nothing. Looking for something that might incriminate them? He looked again at the business card, then reached for a phone, eventually tracked Siobhan down at home.

‘Siobhan, the guy you talked to at the National Library...?’

‘Yes?’

‘He gave you a description of the so-called journalist?’

‘Yes.’

‘Give it to me again.’

‘Hang on.’ She went to fetch her notebook. ‘What’s this about anyway?’

‘I’ll tell you later. Read it out.’

‘“Tall, fair-haired, early fifties, longish face, no distinguishing features.”’

‘Anything about the accent?’

‘Nothing down here.’ She paused. ‘Oh, yes, he did say something. He said it was twangy.’

‘Like American?’

‘But Scottish.’

‘It’s him.’

‘Who?’

‘Bible John, just like you said.’

‘ What? ’

‘Stalking his offspring...’ Rebus rubbed his forehead, pinched the bridge of his nose. He had his eyes screwed shut. Was it or wasn’t it? Was he obsessed? How different was Johnny Bible’s shrine from the scene in his own kitchen, the table covered in cuttings?

‘I don’t know,’ he said. But he did know. He did. ‘Talk to you later,’ he told Siobhan.

‘Wait!’

But that was the one thing he couldn’t do. He needed to know. He needed to know right now. He looked round the room, saw dissolution and reverie, nobody who could drive, no back-up.

Except Jack.

Who had one arm around the secretary now, and was whispering in her ear. She was smiling, holding her cup with a steady hand. Maybe she was drinking the same thing Jack was: cola. Would Jack give him the keys? Not without an explanation, and Rebus wanted to do this alone, needed to. His motive: confrontation, and maybe exorcism. Besides, Bible John had cheated him out of Johnny Bible.

Rebus called downstairs. ‘Any cars going begging?’

‘Not if you’ve been drinking.’