Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

‘We’re due at Fettes,’ Jack reminded Rebus.

‘I’m ready.’

Jack looked at him. ‘Maybe we’ll stop off somewhere first, get another coffee.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Afraid I’ll take a swing at Ancram?’

‘If you do, bear in mind he’s a southpaw.’

‘Inspector, do you have any objections to this interview being recorded?’

‘What happens to the recording?’

‘It’ll be dated and timed, copies made: one for you. Transcripts ditto.’

‘No objections.’

Ancram nodded to Jack Morton, who set the machine running. They were in an office on the third floor of Fettes. It was cramped, and looked like it had hastily been vacated by a disgruntled tenant. There was a wastepaper-bin by the desk, waiting to be emptied. Paper-clips littered the floor. The walls still bore marks where Sellotaped pictures had been yanked down. Ancram sat behind the scratched desk, the Spaven casenotes piled to one side. He was wearing a formal dark-blue pinstripe with pale blue shirt and tie, and looked like he’d been for a haircut first thing. There were two pens in front of him on the desk — a blue fine-nib Bic with yellow casing, and an expensive-looking lacquered rollerball. His buffed and filed nails tapped against a clean pad of A4 paper. A typed list of notes, queries and points to be raised sat to the right of the pad.

‘So, doctor,’ Rebus said, ‘what are my chances?’

Ancram merely smiled. When he spoke, it was for the benefit of the tape machine.

‘DCI Charles Ancram, Strathclyde CID. It’s —’ he consulted a thin wristwatch — ‘ten forty-five on Monday the twenty-fourth of June. Preliminary interview with Detective Inspector John Rebus, Lothian and Borders Police. This interview is taking place in office C25, Lothian Police Headquarters, Fettes Avenue, Edinburgh. Also present is —’

‘You forgot the postcode,’ Rebus said, folding his arms.

‘That was the voice of DI Rebus. Also present is DI Jack Morton, Falkirk CID, currently on secondment to Strathclyde Police, Glasgow.’

Ancram glanced at his notes, picked up the Bic and ran through the first couple of lines. Then he picked up a plastic beaker of water and sipped from it, watching Rebus over the rim.

‘Any time you’re ready,’ Rebus told him.

Ancram was ready. Jack sat by the table on which the tape machine sat. Two mikes ran from it to the desk, one pointing towards Ancram, one towards Rebus. From where he was sitting, Rebus couldn’t quite see Jack. It was just him and Ancram, the chessboard set for play.

‘Inspector,’ Ancram said, ‘you know why you’re here?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m here because I’ve refused to give up an investigation into possible links between Glaswegian gangster Joseph Toal, the Aberdeen drug market, and the murder of an oil-worker in Edinburgh.’

Ancram flicked through the casenotes, looking bored.

‘Inspector, you know that interest in the Leonard Spaven case has been revived?’

‘I know the TV sharks have been circling. They think they can smell blood.’

‘And can they?’

‘Just a leaky old ketchup bottle, sir.’

Ancram smiled; it wouldn’t come over on the recording.

‘CI Ancram smiles,’ Rebus said, for the record.

‘Inspector,’ referring to his notes, ‘what started this media interest?’

‘Leonard Spaven’s suicide, added to his public notoriety.’

‘Notoriety?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘The media get a vicarious thrill from reformed thugs and murderers, especially when they show some artistic leaning. The media often aspire to art themselves.’

Ancram seemed to expect more. They sat in silence for a moment. Cassette whirr; motor noise. Someone along the corridor sneezed. No sunshine today: iron-clad skies forecasting rain; a bitter wind off the North Sea.

Ancram sat back in his chair. His message to Rebus: I don’t need the notes, I know this case. ‘How did you feel when you heard Lawson Geddes had killed himself?’

‘Gutted. He was a good officer, and a good friend to me.’

‘You had your differences though?’

Rebus tried to hold the stare; ended up blinking first. Thought: of such accumulated setbacks were battles lost.

‘Did we?’ Old trick, answer a question with a question. Ancram’s look said it was a tired move.

‘I’ve had my men talk to some serving officers from the time.’ A glance towards Jack, not even lasting a second. Drawing Jack in. Good tactics, sowing doubt.

‘We had minor disagreements, same as everybody else.’

‘You still respected him?’

‘Present tense.’

Ancram bowed his head, acknowledging this. Fingered his notes, like stroking a woman’s arm. Possessive. But doing it for comfort too, for reassurance.

‘So, you worked well together?’

‘Pretty well. Mind if I smoke?’

‘We’ll have a break at...’ checking his watch, ‘eleven forty-five. Fair enough?’

‘I’ll try to survive.’

‘You’re a survivor, Inspector. Your record speaks for itself.’

‘So talk to my record.’

A quick smile. ‘When did you find out that Lawson Geddes had it in for Leonard Spaven?’

‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘I think you do.’

‘Think again.’

‘Do you know why Geddes was kicked off the Bible John inquiry?’

‘No.’ It was the one question that had power, real power: it could get to Rebus.

Because he wanted to know the answer.

‘You don’t? He never told you?’

‘Never.’

‘But he talked about Bible John?’

‘Yes.’

‘See, it’s all a bit vague...’ Ancram went into a drawer, hefted two more bulging files on to the desk. ‘I’ve got Geddes’s personnel file and reports here. Plus some stuff from the Bible John inquiry, bits and pieces he was involved in. Seems he grew obsessed.’ Ancram opened one file, turned pages idly, then looked at Rebus. ‘Does that sound familiar?’

‘You’re saying he was obsessed with Lenny Spaven?’

‘I know he was.’ Ancram let that sink in, nodding his head. ‘I know it from interviews with officers from the time, but more importantly I know it because of Bible John.’

The bastard had hooked Rebus. They were only twenty minutes into the interview. Rebus crossed his legs, tried to look unconcerned. His face was so taut, he knew the muscles were probably visible beneath the skin.

‘See,’ Ancram went on, ‘Geddes tried to tie Spaven to the Bible John case. Now, the notes aren’t complete. Either they were destroyed or lost, or else Geddes and his superior didn’t write down everything. But Geddes was going after Spaven, no doubt about that. Tucked away in one of the files I found some old photographs. Spaven’s in them.’ Ancram held the photos up. ‘They’re from the Borneo campaign. Geddes and Spaven were in the Scots Guards together. My feeling is that something happened out there, and from then on Geddes was out for Spaven’s blood. How am I doing so far?’

‘Filling the time nicely till the ciggie break. Can I see those photos?’

Ancram shrugged, handed them over. Rebus looked. Old black and whites with crimped edges, a couple of them no bigger than two inches by an inch and a half, the rest four by sixes. Rebus picked Spaven out straight away, the raptor grin hauling him into history. There was a minister in the photos, army uniform and dog collar. Other men posing, dressed in baggy shorts and long socks, faces sweat-shiny, eyes almost scared. Some of the faces were blurred; Rebus couldn’t make out Lawson Geddes in any of them. The photos were exteriors, bamboo huts in the background, an old jeep nosing into one shot. He turned them over, read an inscription — Borneo, 1965 — and some names.