Ian Rankin: Black and Blue

‘Try me with a breath test.’

‘There’s an Escort parked outside.’

Rebus searched desk drawers, found a phone book. Peterhead... Slocum R. No listing. He could try BT, but an unlisted check would take time. Another option: get on the road. It was what he wanted anyway.

The city streets were wild: another Friday night, young souls at play. Rebus was singing ‘All Right Now’. Segue into: ‘Been Down So Long’. Thirty miles north to Peterhead, deep-water port. Tankers and platforms went there for servicing. Rebus wound the motor up, not much traffic heading out of the city. Sky glowing dull pink. Simmer dim, as the Shetlanders called it. Rebus tried not to think about what he was doing. Breaking rules he’d advised others not to break. No back-up. No real authority up here, a long way from home.

He had the address for Eugene Construction, got it from Ryan Slocum’s business card. I stood next to Bible John in a bar. He bought me a drink . Rebus shook his head. Probably a lot of other people could say the same, if only they knew; Rebus wasn’t so special. The company’s phone number was on the card, but all he’d got was an answering machine. It didn’t mean no one was there: security wouldn’t necessarily answer the phones. The card also had a pager number for Slocum, but Rebus wasn’t about to use that.

The company was housed behind a tall mesh fence. It took twenty minutes of driving around and asking questions before he found it. It wasn’t dockside, which was where he’d expected it to be. There was a country business park on the edge of town, and Eugene Construction bordered that. Rebus drove up to the gates. They were locked. He sounded his horn. There was a gatehouse, its lights on, but nobody in. Past the gates were barriers, painted red and white. His headlamps picked them out, and then behind them, coming forwards, a sauntering figure in guard’s uniform. Rebus left the car running, walked up to the gate.

‘What is it?’ the guard asked.

He pressed his warrant card to the mesh. ‘Police. I need a home address for one of your employees.’

‘Can’t it wait till morning?’

Gritted teeth. ‘Afraid not.’

The guard — sixties, retirement age, low-slung paunch — rasped at his chin. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Look, who do you contact in an emergency?’

‘My office.’

‘And they contact someone from the company?’

‘I suppose so. Haven’t had to test it. Some kids tried to scale the fence a few months back, but they —’

‘Could you phone in?’

‘— heard me coming and ran away sharpish. What?’

‘Could you phone in?’

‘I suppose so, if it’s an emergency.’ The guard walked towards his hut.

‘And could you let me in while you’re at it? I’ll need to use your phone afterwards.’

The guard scratched his head, muttered something, but shook a chain of keys from his pocket and walked up to the gate.

‘Thanks,’ Rebus told him.

The hut was sparsely furnished. Kettle, mug, coffee and a little jar of milk sat on a rusted tray. There was a one-bar electric heater, two chairs, and a paperback novel on the desk: a western. Rebus took the telephone and explained the situation to the guard’s supervisor, who asked to speak to the guard again.

‘Yes, sir,’ the guard said, ‘ID and everything.’ Staring at Rebus like he might be leader of a heist gang. He put Rebus back on, and the supervisor handed him the name and phone number he needed. Rebus made the call, waited.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Mr Sturges?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. My name’s Detective Inspector John Rebus. I’m calling from your company’s gatehouse.’

‘Not a break-in or something?’ The man sighed. A break-in meant he’d have to get dressed and go down there.

‘No, sir, I just need some information on one of your employees.’

‘Can’t it wait till morning?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘Who is it anyway?’

‘Ryan Slocum.’

‘Ryan? What’s wrong?’

‘A serious illness, sir.’ Rebus had used the lie before. ‘An elderly relative. They need Mr Slocum’s permission to operate.’

‘Good God.’

‘That’s why it’s urgent.’

‘Yes, I see, I see.’ It always worked: grandmas in peril. ‘Well, it’s not every employee whose address I know off the top of my head.’

‘But you know Mr Slocum’s?’

‘Been to dinner there a few times.’

‘He’s married?’ Enter a spouse into the equation. Rebus hadn’t imagined Bible John married.

‘Wife’s name’s Una, lovely couple.’

‘And the address, sir?’

‘Well, it’s the phone number you’ll be wanting?’

‘Both actually. That way, if no one’s home, we can send someone round to wait.’

Rebus copied the details into his notebook, thanked the man and put down the phone.

‘Any idea how to get to Springview?’ he asked the guard.

Springview was a modern development on the coast road south of town. Rebus parked outside Three Rankeillor Close, shut off the engine, and took a good long look at the house. There was a landscaped garden to the front — clipped lawn, rockery, shrubs and flower beds. No fence or hedge separated the garden from the pavement in front. The other properties were the same.

The house itself was a newish two-storey with gabled roof. To the right of the house was an integral garage. There was an alarm box above one of the bedroom windows. A light was on behind the living-room curtains. The car parked on the gravel driveway was a white Peugeot 106.

‘Now or never, John,’ Rebus told himself, taking a deep breath as he got out of the car. He walked up to the front door and rang the bell, then stepped back off the doorstep. If Ryan Slocum himself answered, Rebus wanted a bit of distance. He remembered his army training — unarmed combat — and an old maxim: shoot first, ask questions later. Something he should have remembered when he’d gone to Burke’s Club.

A woman’s voice came through the door. ‘Yes? What is it?’

Rebus realised he was being watched through a spy-hole. He stepped back up on to the doorstep, so she could get a close look. ‘Mrs Slocum?’ Holding his warrant card up in front of him. ‘CID, madam.’

The door was flung open. A small, slender woman stood there, black cusps beneath her eyes, her hair short and dark and untidy.

‘Oh my God,’ she said, ‘what’s happened?’ Her accent was American.

‘Nothing, madam.’ Relief washed over her face. ‘Why should there be?’

‘Ryan,’ she said, sniffing back tears. ‘I don’t know where he is.’ She sought a handkerchief, realised the box was back in the living room, and told Rebus he’d better come in. He followed her into the large, well-furnished room, and while she was pulling out paper hankies took the opportunity to open the curtains a little. If a blue BMW turned up, he wanted to know about it.

‘Working late maybe?’ he said, already knowing the answer.

‘I tried his office.’

‘Yes, but he’s a sales manager, could he be entertaining a client?’

‘He always phones, he’s very dutiful that way.’

Dutiful: odd choice of word. The room looked the sort that got cleaned before it was ever dirty; Una Slocum looked like the cleaner. Her hands twitched with the bundle of tissues, her whole face drawn with tension.

‘Try to calm down, Mrs Slocum. Is there anything you could take?’ He’d bet she had a doctor’s prescription somewhere in the house.

‘In the bathroom, but I don’t want any. They make me dopey.’

Towards the far end of the room, a large mahogany dining table and six straight-backed chairs sat in front of a trio of wall units. China dolls behind glass, bathed by recessed lighting. Some silverware. No family photographs...