Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

‘Did you ask the hotel if they’re regulars?’

‘We did and they are. They started using it about six months ago.’

‘How many rooms?’

‘They always book two.’ There was a smile in Grogan’s voice. ‘But the story is, the maids only ever had to clean one of them. Seems they were sharing one room, and leaving the other untouched.’

Bingo, Rebus thought. Housey-housey and fucking click-ety-click.

‘Thanks, sir.’

‘Does this help you in something?’

‘It might help a lot, I’ll be in touch. Oh, something I meant to ask...’

‘Yes?’

‘Hayden Fletcher: did he say how he came to know the victim?’

‘A business acquaintance. She organised the stand for T-Bird Oil at the North Sea Convention.’

‘Is that what “corporate presentations” means?’

‘Apparently. Ms Holden designed a lot of the stands, then her company did the actual construction and setting-up. Fletcher met her as part of that process.’

‘Sir, I appreciate all of this.’

‘Inspector... if you’re coming north again any time, call to let me know, understood?’

Rebus understood that it wasn’t an invitation to afternoon tea.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, ‘good night.’

He put the phone down. Aberdeen beckoned, and he was damned if he’d give anyone prior notice. But Aberdeen could wait another day. Vanessa Holden connected to the oil industry...

‘What is it, John?’

Rebus looked up at his friend. ‘It’s Johnny Bible, Jack. I just got a strange feeling about him.’

‘What?’

‘That he’s an oilman...’

They tidied everything away and washed up, then made mugs of coffee and decided to go back to the decorating. Jack wanted to know more about Johnny Bible, and about Eve and Stanley, but Rebus didn’t know where to start. His head felt clogged. He kept filling it with new information, and nothing drained away. Johnny Bible’s first victim had been a geology student at a university with close ties to the oil industry. Now his fourth victim made stands for conventions, and working in Aberdeen, he could guess who her best clients had been. If there was a connection between victims one and four, was there something he was missing, something linking two and three? A prostitute and a barmaid, one in Edinburgh, the other Glasgow...

When the telephone rang, he put down his sandpaper — the door was looking good — and picked it up. Jack was using a ladder to reach the cornices.

‘Hello?’

‘John? It’s Mairie.’

‘I’ve been trying to reach you.’

‘Sorry, another assignment — a paying one.’

‘Did you find out anything about Major Weir?’

‘A fair bit. How was Aberdeen?’

‘Bracing.’

‘It’ll do that to you. These notes... probably too much to read over the phone.’

‘So let’s meet.’

‘Which pub?’

‘Not a pub.’

‘There must be something wrong with the line. Did you just say “not a pub”?’

‘How about Duddingston Village? That’s about halfway. I’ll park by the loch.’

‘When?’

‘Half an hour?’

‘Half an hour it is.’

‘We’ll never get this room finished,’ Jack said, stepping down off the ladder. He had traces of white paint in his hair.

‘Grey suits you,’ Rebus told him.

Jack rubbed at his head. ‘Is it another woman?’ Rebus nodded. ‘How do you manage to keep them apart?’

‘The flat has a lot of doors.’

Mairie was waiting when they got there. Jack hadn’t been around Arthur’s Seat in years, so they took the scenic route; not that there was much to see at night. The huge hump of a hill, looking like nothing so much as — even kids could see it — a crouched elephant, was a great place to blow off the cobwebs — and anything else you might have on you. At night, though, it was poorly lit and a long way from anywhere. Edinburgh had lots of these glorious empty spaces. They were fine and private places right up until the moment you met your first junkie, mugger, rapist or gay-basher.

Duddingston Village was just that — a village in the midst of a city, sheltering beneath Arthur’s Seat. Duddingston Loch — more outsize pond than true loch — looked down on to a bird sanctuary and a path known as the Innocent Railway: Rebus wished he knew where it got the name.

Jack stopped the car and flashed his lights. Mairie switched hers off, unlocked her door, and came loping towards them. Rebus leaned into the back to open the door, and she got in. He introduced her to Jack Morton.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you worked the Knots and Crosses case with John.’

Rebus blinked. ‘How do you know that? It was before your time.’

She winked at him. ‘I’ve done my research.’

He wondered what else she might know, but hadn’t time to speculate. She handed him a brown A4 envelope.

‘Thank God for e-mail. I’ve a contact on the Washington Post and he got me most of what’s there.’

Rebus switched on the interior light. There was a spot-lamp specially for reading by.

‘Usually he wants to meet me in pubs,’ Mairie told Jack, ‘right seedy ones at that.’

Jack smiled at her, turned in his seat with his arm hanging down over the headrest. Rebus knew Jack liked her. Everyone liked Mairie from the off. He wished he knew her secret.

‘Seedy pubs suit his personality,’ Jack said.

‘Look,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘will you two bugger off and go look at the ducks or something?’

Jack shrugged, checked it was OK with Mairie, and opened his door. Alone, Rebus settled deeper into his seat and started to read.

Number one: Major Weir was not a Major. It was a nickname, earned in adolescence. Two, his parents had handed on to him their love of all things Scottish — up to and including a craving for national independence. There were a lot of facts about his early years in industry, latterly the oil industry, and reports of Thom Bird’s demise — nothing suspicious about it. A journalist in the States had started writing an unauthorised biography of Weir, but had given up — rumour had it he was paid not to finish the book. A couple of stories, unsubstantiated: Weir left his wife amid much acrimony — and later, much alimony. Then something about Weir’s son, either deceased or disinherited. Maybe off in some ashram or feeding the African hungry, maybe working in a burger parlour or Wall Street futures. Rebus turned to the next sheet, only to find there wasn’t one. The story had finished mid-sentence. He got out of the car, walked to where Mairie and Jack were in huddled conversation.

‘It’s not all here,’ he said, waving what sheets he had.

‘Oh, yes.’ Mairie reached into her jacket, brought out a single folded sheet and handed it over. Rebus stared at her, demanding an explanation. She shrugged. ‘Call me a tease.’

Jack started laughing.

Rebus stood in the glare of the headlights and read. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He read it again, then for a third time, and had to run a hand through his hair to make sure the top of his head hadn’t just blown off.

‘Everything all right?’ Mairie asked him.

He stared at her for a moment, not really seeing anything, then pulled her to him and planted a kiss on her cheek.

‘Mairie, you’re perfect.’

She turned to Jack Morton.

‘I second that,’ he said.

Sitting in his car, Bible John had watched Rebus and friend drive out of Arden Street. His business had kept him an extra day in Edinburgh. Frustrating, but at least he’d been able to take another look at the policeman. It was hard to tell from a distance, but Rebus seemed to sport bruises on his face, and his clothes were dishevelled. Bible John couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed: he’d been hoping for a more worthy adversary. The man looked dead done in.