Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

‘He’ll leave the force, Nell. He’ll make them dump him. But for the rest of his life...’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t be the same. He won’t be the same.’

She nodded. ‘I can live with that.’

‘You don’t know for sure.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘You’ll take that risk, but you won’t risk him staying put?’ Her face hardened, but Rebus didn’t give her time for a comeback. ‘Here’s your bus. Just think about it, Nell.’

He turned and walked back towards the Meadows.

They’d made up a bed for Jack in the spare room — Sammy’s old bedroom, complete with Duran Duran and Michael Jackson posters. They’d washed themselves and shared a pot of tea — no alcohol, no ciggies. Rebus lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, knew sleep wouldn’t come for ages, and that when it did his dreams would be fierce. He got up and tiptoed through to the living room, keeping the lights off. The room was cool, they’d kept the windows open late, but the fresh paint and the old scorched paint from the door left a nice smell. Rebus uncovered his chair and dragged it over to the bay window. He sat down and pulled his blanket over him, felt himself relax. There were lights on across the way and he concentrated on them. I’m a peeper, he thought, a voyeur. All cops are. But he knew he was more than that: he liked to get involved in the lives around him. He had a need to know which went beyond voyeurism. It was a drug. And the thing was, when he had all this knowledge, he then had to use booze to blank it out. He saw his reflection in the window, two-dimensional, ghostly.

I’m almost not here at all, he thought.

Rebus woke up and knew something was wrong. He showered and dressed and still couldn’t put a name to it. Then Jack came slouching through to the kitchen and asked if he’d slept well.

And he had. That was what was different. He’d slept very well indeed, and he’d been sober.

‘Any word from Ancram?’ Jack asked, staring into the fridge.

‘No.’

‘Then you’re probably clear for today.’

‘He must be in training for the next bout.’

‘So do we crack on with the decorating, or actually go to work?’

‘Let’s do an hour’s painting,’ Rebus said. So that’s what they did, Rebus keeping half an eye on the street outside. No reporters, no Justice Programme . Maybe he’d scared them off; maybe they were biding their time. He hadn’t heard anything about an assault charge: Breen was probably too happy with the video footage to consider any further action. Plenty of time to file a complaint after the programme went out...

After the painting, they took Jack’s car to Fort Apache. Jack’s initial response did not disappoint Rebus.

‘What a shit-hole.’

Inside, the station was a frenzy of packing and moving. Vans were already taking crates and boxes to the new station. The desk sergeant had become a shirt-sleeved foreman, making sure the cases were labelled and the moving crew knew where they were to go once they reached their destination.

‘It’ll be a miracle if it goes to plan,’ he said. ‘And I notice CID aren’t giving a hand.’

Jack and Rebus gave him a round of applause: an old joke, but well intentioned. Then they went to the Shed.

Maclay and Bain were in situ.

‘The prodigal son!’ Bain exclaimed. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Helping CI Ancram with his inquiries.’

‘You should have called in. MacAskill wants a word, toot-sweet.’

‘I thought I told you never to call me that.’

Bain smirked. Rebus introduced Jack Morton. There were nods, handshakes, grunts: the usual procedure.

‘You better go see the Boss,’ Maclay said. ‘He’s been fretting.’

‘I’ve been missing him, too.’

‘Did you bring us back anything from Aberdeen?’

Rebus searched his pockets. ‘Must have slipped my mind.’

‘Well,’ Bain said, ‘you were probably busy.’

‘Busier than you two, but that wouldn’t be hard.’

‘Go see the Boss,’ Maclay told him.

Bain was wagging a finger. ‘And you should be nice to us, otherwise we might not tell you what our snitches came up with.’

‘What?’ Local snitches: word out for Tony El’s accomplice.

‘After you’ve talked to MacAskill.’

So Rebus went to see his boss, leaving Jack Morton outside the door.

‘John,’ Jim MacAskill said, ‘what have you been playing at?’

‘Different games, sir.’

‘So I hear, and you’ve not proved proficient at any of them, eh?’

MacAskill’s office was emptying, but there was some way to go. His filing cabinet stood with its drawers gutted, the files themselves spread across the floor.

‘Nightmare,’ he said, noticing Rebus’s look. ‘How’s your own packing coming?’

‘I travel light, sir.’

‘I forget, you’ve not been with us long. Sometimes it seems like for ever.’

‘I have that effect on people.’

MacAskill smiled. ‘Question one in my mind, this reopening of the Spaven case: is it going to go anywhere?’

‘Not if I have my way.’

‘Well, Chick Ancram’s pretty persistent... and thorough. Don’t depend on him overlooking something.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ve had a word with your boss at St Leonard’s. He tells me this is par for the course.’

‘I don’t know, sir, seems like I’m playing under a handicap.’

‘Well, anything I can do, John...’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I know the way Chick will play it: attrition. He’ll sweat the arse off you, run you in circles. He makes it easier for you to lie and say you’re guilty than to keep telling the truth. Watch out for that.’

‘Will do.’

‘Meantime, question one: how are you feeling?’

‘I’m all right, sir.’

‘Well, there’s not much happening around here that we can’t handle. So any time off you need, take it.’

‘I appreciate that.’

‘Chick’s west coast, John. He shouldn’t be over here.’ MacAskill shook his head, went to his drawer for a can of Irn-Bru. ‘Bugger,’ he said.

‘Problem, sir?’

‘I’ve gone and bought the diet stuff.’ He opened it anyway. Rebus left him to his packing.

Jack was right outside the door.

‘Did you catch any of that?’

‘I wasn’t listening.’

‘My boss just told me I can bunk off whenever I like.’

‘Which means we can finish doing up the living room.’

Rebus nodded, but he was thinking of finishing something else instead. He went into the Shed and stood in front of Bain’s desk.

‘Well?’

‘Well,’ Bain said, sitting back, ‘we did what you asked, put word out with our snitches. And they came up with a name.’

‘Hank Shankley,’ Maclay added.

‘He’s not got much of a record, but he’s game to make a few quid where he can, no scruples attached. And he gets around. Word is, he’s had a windfall and after a couple of drinks he was boasting about his “Glasgow connection”.’

‘Have you talked to him?’

Bain shook his head. ‘Bided our time.’

‘Waiting for you to turn up,’ Maclay added.

‘Have you been rehearsing this routine? Where can I find him?’

‘He’s a keen swimmer.’

‘Anywhere in particular?’

‘The Commie Pool.’

‘Description?’

‘Big building at the top of Dalkeith Road.’

‘I meant Shankley.’

‘You can’t miss him,’ Maclay said. ‘Late thirties, six feet tall and skinny as a pole, short fair hair. Nordic looking.’

‘The description we got,’ Bain corrected, ‘was albino.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I owe you for this, gents.’