Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

‘You haven’t heard who it was spilled the beans.’

‘Who?’

Bain grinned. ‘Remember Craw Shand?’

‘Claimed to be Johnny Bible?’ Bain and Maclay nodded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was a snitch of yours?’

Bain shrugged. ‘Didn’t want it broadcast. But Craw’s a big fan of yours. See, he likes it rough now and then...’

Outside, Jack made for the car, but Rebus had other plans. He went into a shop and came out with six cans of Irn-Bru, not diet, then marched back into the station. The desk sergeant was sweating. Rebus handed him the carrier bag.

‘You shouldn’t have,’ the sergeant said.

‘They’re for Jim MacAskill,’ Rebus said. ‘I want at least five to reach him.’

Now he was ready to go.

The Commonwealth Pool, which had been built for the Commonwealth Games in 1970, was sited at the top of Dalkeith Road, at the foot of Arthur’s Seat, and just over quarter of a mile from St Leonard’s police station. In the days when he swam, Rebus used the Commie Pool at lunchtimes. You found yourself a lane — never an empty lane, it was like easing out of a slip-road on to a motorway — and you swam, pacing yourself so you didn’t catch up with the person in front, or let the person behind gain on you. It was OK, but a bit too regimented. The other option was to swim breadths in the open pool, but then you were in with the kids and their parents. There was a separate pool for infants, plus three flumes Rebus had never been down, and elsewhere in the building were saunas, gym, and a café.

They found a space in the overflow car park and went in by the main entrance. Rebus showed ID at the kiosk and gave a description of Shankley.

‘He’s a regular,’ the woman told him.

‘Is he here just now?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve only just come on.’ She turned to ask the other woman in the booth, who was counting coins into polythene bank-bags. Jack Morton tapped Rebus’s arm and nodded.

Beyond the kiosk there was a wide open space, with windows looking down on to the main pool. And standing there, glugging Coke from the can, stood a very tall, very thin man with damp, bleached hair. He had a rolled-up towel under one arm. When he turned, Rebus saw that his eyebrows and lashes were fair. Shankley saw two men examining him, placed them immediately. When Rebus and Morton started towards him, he ran.

He turned a corner into the open-plan café, but couldn’t see an exit from there, so kept running, ended up beside the children’s play area. This was a large netted enclosure totalling three storeys, with slides and walkways and other challenges — a toddler assault course. Rebus liked sometimes to sit with a post-swim coffee watching the kids playing, wondering which would make the best soldier.

Shankley was cornered and knew it. He turned to face them: Rebus and Jack were smiling. The impulse to flee was still too strong: Shankley pushed past the attendant, opened the door to the play area, ducked and went in. Two huge padded rollers stood directly in front of him, like a giant mangle. He was thin enough to squeeze between them.

Jack Morton laughed. ‘Where’s he going to go from there?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Let’s grab a cup of tea and wait for him to get fed up.’

Rebus shook his head. He’d heard a noise from the top storey. ‘There’s a kid in there.’ He turned to the attendant. ‘Isn’t there?’

She nodded. Rebus turned to Jack. ‘Possible hostage. I’m going in. Stay out here, tell me where Shankley is.’

Rebus took off his jacket and went in.

The rollers were the first obstacle. He was too big to squeeze through, but managed to push his way through the gap between them and the side netting. He remembered his SAS training: assault courses you wouldn’t believe. Kept going. A pool of coloured plastic balls to wade through, and then a tube curving upwards, leading to the first floor. A slide nearby — he climbed that. Through the netting he could see Jack, pointing up and towards the far corner. Rebus stayed in a crouch, looked around. Punch-bags, a net across a yawning gap, a cylinder to crawl through... more slides and climbing-ropes. There: far corner, wondering what to do next. Hank Shankley. People in the café were watching, no longer interested in swimming. One floor further up was the kid. Rebus had to get there before Shankley; either that or grab Shankley first. Shankley didn’t know anyone was in here with him. Jack was shouting up, distracting him.

‘Hey, Hank, we can wait here all day! All night too if we have to! Come on out, we only want a chat! Hank, you look ridiculous in there. Maybe we’ll just padlock it shut and keep you for an exhibit.’

‘Shut up!’ Flecks of foam from Shankley’s mouth. Skinny, gaunt... Rebus knew it was crazy to worry about HIV, but found himself worrying anyway. Edinburgh was still HIV city. He was about fifteen feet from Shankley when he heard a swooshing sound coming towards him fast. He was passing the exit to one of the tubes when a pair of feet hit him, toppling him on to his side. A boy about eight years old stared at him.

‘You’re too big for in here, mister.’

Rebus got up, saw Shankley coming for them, and started dragging the kid by the scruff of his neck. He backed up to the slide, then dropped the boy down it. He was turning to confront Shankley when another foot hit him — the albino’s. He bounced off the mesh wall and tumbled down the padded slide. The boy was making his way to the entrance, where the attendant gestured for him to hurry. Shankley slid down, both fists out, and clubbed Rebus on the neck. He was sprinting for the kid, but the boy was already through the rollers. Rebus dived at Shankley, brought him down into the plastic balls, caught him with a decent punch. Shankley’s arms were tired from swimming; he pummelled Rebus’s sides, but it was like being hit by a rag doll. Rebus grabbed a ball, stuffed it into Shankley’s mouth, where it wedged, the lips taut and bloodless. Then he hit Shankley in the groin, twice, and that just about did it.

Jack came to help him drag the unresisting figure out. ‘You all right?’ he asked.

‘The kid hurt me more than he did.’

The boy’s mother was hugging her son, checking he was all right. She gave Rebus a dirty look. The boy was complaining he still had ten minutes left. The attendant came after Rebus.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘could I have our ball back?’

St Leonard’s being so close, they took Shankley there, asked for and were given an empty biscuit-tin, only recently vacated by the smell of it.

‘Sit there,’ Rebus told Shankley. Then he took Jack outside, spoke in an undertone.

‘To fill you in, Tony El killed Allan Mitchison — I still don’t know why exactly. Tony had local help.’ He tilted his head towards the door. ‘I want to know what Hank knows.’

Jack nodded. ‘Do I stay dumb, or is there a part for me?’

‘You’re the good guy, Jack.’ Rebus patted his shoulder. ‘Always have been.’

They went back into the room as a team, like in the old days.

‘Well, Mr Shankley,’ Rebus opened, ‘so far we’ve got resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. Plenty of witnesses, too.’

‘I haven’t done nothing.’

‘Double negative.’

‘Eh?’

‘If you haven’t done nothing, you must have done some thing.’

Shankley just looked glum. Rebus had him pegged already: Bain’s ‘no scruples attached’ had given him the clue. Shankley lived to no code whatsoever, except perhaps ‘Look after number one’. He didn’t give a toss for anything or anyone. There was no intelligence other than a root instinct to survive. Rebus knew he could play on that.

‘You don’t owe Tony El anything, Hank. Who do you think grassed you up?’