Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

Raped, beaten, strangled.

It all reminded him of the World’s End killings, of other murders of young women, so many of them left unsolved. World’s End: October ’77, the year before Spaven, two teenagers drinking in the World’s End pub on the High Street. Their bodies turned up next morning. Beaten, hands tied, strangled, bags and jewellery missing. Rebus hadn’t worked the case, but knew men who had: they carried with them the frustration of a job left undone, and would carry it to the grave. The way a lot of them saw it, when you worked a murder investigation, your client was the deceased, mute and cold, but still screaming out for justice. It had to be true, because sometimes if you listened hard enough you could hear them screaming. Sitting in his chair by the window, Rebus had heard many a despairing cry. One night, he’d heard Angie Riddell and it had pierced his heart, because he’d known her, liked her. In that instant it became personal for him. He couldn’t not be interested in Johnny Bible. He just didn’t know what he could do to help. His curiosity about the original Bible John case was probably no help at all. It had sent him back in time, spending less and less time in the present. Sometimes it took all his strength to pull him back to the here and now.

Rebus had telephone calls to make. First: Pete Hewitt at Howdenhall.

‘Morning, Inspector, and isn’t she a beauty?’

Voice dripping irony. Rebus looked out at milky sunshine. ‘Rough night, Pete?’

‘Rough? You could shave a yak with it. I take it you got my message?’ Rebus had pen and paper ready. ‘I got a couple of decent prints off the whisky bottle: thumb and forefinger. Tried lifting from the polythene bag and the tape binding him to the chair, but only a few partials, nothing to build a case on.’

‘Come on, Pete, get to the ID.’

‘Well, all that money you complain we spend on computers... I got a match within quarter of an hour. The name is Anthony Ellis Kane. He has a police record for attempted murder, assault, reset. Ring any bells?’

‘Not a one.’

‘Well, he used to operate out of Glasgow. No convictions these past seven years.’

‘I’ll look him up when I get to the station. Thanks, Pete.’

Next call: the personnel office at T-Bird Oil. A long-distance call; he’d wait and make it from Fort Apache. A glance out of the window: no sign of the Redgauntlet crew. Rebus put his jacket on and made for the door.

He stopped in at the boss’s office. MacAskill was guzzling Irn-Bru.

‘We have a fingerprint ID, Anthony Ellis Kane, previous convictions for violence.’

MacAskill tossed the empty can into his waste-basket. His desk was stacked with old paperwork — drawer one of the filing cabinet. There was an empty packing case on the floor.

‘What about the decedent’s family, friends?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Deceased worked for T-Bird Oil. I’m going to call the personnel manager for details.’

‘Make that job one, John.’

‘Job one, sir.’

But when he got to the Shed and sat at his desk, he thought about phoning Gill Templer first, decided against it. Bain was at his desk; Rebus didn’t want an audience.

‘Dod,’ he said, ‘run a check on Anthony Ellis Kane. Howdenhall found his prints on the carry-out.’ Bain nodded and started typing. Rebus phoned Aberdeen, gave his name and asked to be put through to Stuart Minchell.

‘Good morning, Inspector.’

‘Thanks for leaving a message, Mr Minchell. Do you have Allan Mitchison’s employment details?’

‘Right in front of me. What do you want to know?’

‘A next of kin.’

Minchell shuffled paper. ‘There doesn’t appear to be one. Let me check his CV.’ A long pause, Rebus happy not to be making the call from home. ‘Inspector, it seems Allan Mitchison was an orphan. I have details of his education, and there’s a children’s home mentioned.’

‘No family?’

‘No mention of a family.’

Rebus had written Mitchison’s name on a sheet of paper. He underlined it now, the rest of the page a blank. ‘What was Mr Mitchison’s position within the company?’

‘He was... let’s see, he worked for Platform Maintenance, specifically as a painter. We have a base in Shetland, maybe he worked there.’ More paper shuffling. ‘No, Mr Mitchison worked on the platforms themselves.’

‘Painting them?’

‘And general maintenance. Steel corrodes, Inspector. You’ve no idea how fast the North Sea can strip paint from steel.’

‘Which rig did he work on?’

‘Not a rig, a production platform. I’d have to check that.’

‘Could you do that, please? And could you fax me through his personnel file?’

‘You say he’s dead?’

‘Last time I looked.’

‘Then there should be no problem. Give me your number there.’

Rebus did so, and terminated the call. Bain was waving him over. Rebus crossed the room and stood by Bain’s side, the better to see the computer screen.

‘This guy’s pure mental,’ Bain said. His phone rang. Bain picked up, started a conversation. Rebus read down the screen. Anthony Ellis Kane, known as ‘Tony El’, had a record going back to his youth. He was now forty-four years old, well known to Strathclyde police. The bulk of his adult life had been spent in the employ of Joseph Toal, a.k.a. ‘Uncle Joe’, who practically ran Glasgow with muscle provided by his son and by men like Tony El. Bain put down the receiver.

‘Uncle Joe,’ he mused. ‘If Tony El is still working for him, we could have a very different case.’

Rebus was remembering what the boss had said: it’s got a gang feel to it . Drugs or a default on a loan. Maybe MacAskill was right.

‘You know what this means?’ Bain said.

Rebus nodded. ‘A trip to weegie-land.’ Scotland’s two main cities, separated by a fifty-minute motorway trip, were wary neighbours, as though years back one had accused the other of something and the accusation, unfounded or not, still rankled. Rebus had a couple of contacts in Glasgow CID, so went to his desk and made the calls.

‘If you want info on Uncle Joe,’ he was told during the second call, ‘best talk to Chick Ancram. Wait, I’ll give you his number.’

Charles Ancram, it turned out, was a Chief Inspector based in Govan. Rebus spent a fruitless half hour trying to find him, then went for a walk. The shops in front of Fort Apache were the usual metal shutters and mesh grille affairs, Asian owners mostly, even if the shops were staffed with white faces. Men hung around on the street outside, T-shirted, sporting tattoos, smoking. Eyes as trustworthy as a weasel in a hen-house.

Eggs? Not me, pal, can’t stand them.

Rebus bought cigarettes and a newspaper. Walking out of the shop, a baby buggy caught his ankles, a woman told him to mind where he was fucking going. She bustled away, hauling a toddler behind her. Twenty, maybe twenty-one, hair dyed blonde, two front teeth missing. Her bared forearms showed tattoos, too. Across the road, an advertising hoarding told him to spend £20k on a new car. Behind it, the discount supermarket was doing no business, kids using its car park as a skateboard rink.

Back in the Shed, Maclay was on the telephone. He held the receiver out to Rebus.

‘Chief Inspector Ancram, returning your call.’ Rebus rested against the desk.

‘Hello?’

‘Inspector Rebus? Ancram here, I believe you want a word.’

‘Thanks for getting back to me, sir. Two words really: Joseph Toal.’

Ancram snorted. He had a west coast drawl, nasal, always managing to sound a little condescending. ‘Uncle Joe Corleone? Our own dear Godfather? Has he done something I don’t know about?’

‘Do you know one of his men, a guy called Anthony Kane?’