Ian Rankin: Black and Blue

‘He used to collect this sort of stuff.’ She looked around, her face creasing into a frown. ‘That’s odd.’

Rebus swallowed. ‘What?’

‘The trunk’s gone.’ She pointed to a space on the floor. ‘Ryan must have moved it.’ She looked around, but it obviously wasn’t anywhere in the attic.

‘Trunk?’

‘A big old thing, he’s had it for ever. Why would he move it? Come to that, how would he move it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It was heavy. He kept it locked, said it was full of old stuff, mementoes of his life before we met. He promised he’d show me some day... Do you think he took it with him?’

Rebus swallowed again. ‘A possibility,’ he said, making for the stairs. Johnny Bible had a holdall, but Bible John needed a whole trunk. Rebus began to feel queasy.

‘There’s more tea in the pot,’ Mrs Slocum said as they went back down to the living room.

‘Thanks, but I really must be going.’ He saw her try to hide a look of disappointment. It was a cruel life when the only company you had was a policeman chasing your husband.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘about Ryan.’ Then he glanced out of the window one last time.

And there was a blue BMW parked by the kerb.

Rebus’s heart kicked at his chest. He couldn’t see anyone in the car, no one moving towards the house...

Then the doorbell rang.

‘Ryan?’ Mrs Slocum was making for the door. Rebus caught her and pulled her back. She squealed.

He put a finger to his lips, motioned for her to stay where she was. His gorge was rising, as if he might bring up the curry from earlier. His whole body felt electric. The bell went again. Rebus took a deep breath, ran to the door and hauled it open.

A young man stood there, denim jacket and jeans, spiky gelled hair, acne. He was holding out a set of car keys.

‘Where did you get it?’ Rebus roared. The youth took a step back, stumbled off the step. ‘Where did you get the car?’ Rebus was out of the door now and looming over him.

‘Work,’ the youth said. ‘P-part of the s-service.’

‘What is?’

‘Returning your c-car. From the airport.’ Rebus stared at him, demanding more. ‘We do valet cleaning, all that. And if you drop your car off and want it taking back to your house, we do that, too. Sinclair Car Rentals... you can check!’

Rebus held out a hand, pulled the youth to his feet.

‘I was only going to ask if you wanted it put away,’ the youth said, ashen-faced.

‘Leave it where it is.’ Rebus tried to control his trembling. Another car had drawn up, a horn sounded.

‘My lift,’ the youth explained, the terror still not completely gone from his face.

‘Where was Mr Slocum headed?’

‘Who?’

‘The car’s owner.’

The youth shrugged. ‘How should I know?’ He put the keys in Rebus’s hand, headed back down the drive. ‘We’re not the gestapo,’ his parting shot.

Rebus handed the keys to Mrs Slocum, who was staring at him like she had questions, like she wanted to start again from the beginning. Rebus shook his head, marched off. She looked at the keys in her hand.

‘What am I going to do with two cars?’

But Rebus was gone.

He told his story to Grogan.

The Chief Inspector was almost sober — and very ready to go home. He’d already been talked to by the Crime Squad. They’d said they’d have more questions for him tomorrow, all to do with Ludovic Lumsden. Grogan listened with growing impatience, then asked what evidence there was. Rebus shrugged. They could place Slocum’s car near the scene of the murder, and at a curious hour of the morning. But they couldn’t do more than that. Maybe forensics would throw up some connection, but they both guessed Bible John was too smart to allow that to happen. Then there was the story outlined in Lawson Geddes’ letter — a dead man’s tale — and the photo from Borneo. But that meant nothing without a confession from Ryan Slocum that he’d once been Ray Sloane, had lived in Glasgow in the late sixties and had been — and still was — Bible John.

But Ryan Slocum had disappeared.

They contacted Dyce Airport, but there was no record of his having taken a plane out of there, and no taxi or car rental company would admit seeing him. Had he already left the country? What had he done with the trunk? Was he lying low in some hotel nearby, waiting for the fuss to die?

Grogan said they’d make enquiries, put out an alert to ports and airports. He didn’t see what else they could do. They’d send someone out to talk with Mrs Slocum, maybe go through the house with a fine-toothed comb... Tomorrow maybe, or the day after. Grogan didn’t sound too enthusiastic. He’d found his serial killer for today, and had little inclination to go chasing ghosts.

Rebus found Jack in the canteen, drinking tea and eating chips and beans.

‘Where did you get to?’

Rebus sat down beside him. ‘Thought maybe I was cramping your style.’

Jack shook his head. ‘Tell you what though, I nearly asked her back to that hotel.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

Jack shrugged. ‘She told me she could never trust a man who didn’t drink. Do you feel like heading back?’

‘Why not?’

‘John, where did you get to?’

‘I’ll tell you on the way back. It might help keep you awake...’

Next morning, after a few hours’ sleep on the chair, Rebus telephoned Brian Holmes. He wanted to know how he was doing, and whether Ancram’s threats had evaporated in the light of Lawson Geddes’ letter. The call was answered quickly.

‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice: Nell’s. Softly, Rebus put the receiver down. So she was back. Did that mean she’d come to terms with Brian’s work? Or had he promised to give it up? Rebus was sure to find out later.

Jack wandered through. He reckoned his job of ‘minder’ was finished, but had stayed the night anyway — too tired to contemplate the miles home to Falkirk.

‘Thank God it’s the weekend,’ he said, rubbing both hands through his hair. ‘Any plans?’

‘I thought I might nip down to Fettes, see what the score is with Ancram.’

‘Good idea, I’ll come with you.’

‘You don’t need to.’

‘But I want to.’

They took Rebus’s car for a change. But when they got to Fettes, Ancram’s office was bare, no sign of it ever having been occupied. Rebus telephoned Govan, and was put through.

‘Is that it finished?’ he asked.

‘I’ll write up my report,’ Ancram said. ‘No doubt your boss will want to discuss it with you.’

‘What about Brian Holmes?’

‘It’ll all be in the report.’

Rebus waited. ‘All of it?’

‘Tell me something, Rebus, are you clever or just spawny?’

‘Is there a difference?’

‘You’ve really mucked things up. If we’d gone ahead against Uncle Joe, we could have had the mole.’

‘You’ll have Uncle Joe instead.’ Ancram grunted a response. ‘You know who the mole is?’

‘I have a hunch. Lennox, you met him that day in The Lobby.’ DS Andy Lennox: freckles and ginger curls. ‘Thing is, I’ve no hard evidence.’

Same old problem. In law, knowing was not enough. Scots law was stricter still: there must needs be corroboration.

‘Maybe next time, eh?’ Rebus offered, putting down the phone.

They drove back to the flat so Jack could pick up his car, but then he had to climb the stairs with Rebus, having forgotten some of his kit.

‘Are you ever going to leave me alone?’ Rebus asked.

Jack laughed. ‘Starting any minute.’

‘Well, while you’re here you can help me shift the stuff back into the living room.’