Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

Not that he thought them adversaries, not really. Rebus’s flat had not thrown up much, but it had revealed that Rebus’s interest in Bible John was connected to the Upstart. Which went some way towards explaining it. He hadn’t stayed as long in the flat as he would have liked. Being unable to pick the lock, he’d been forced to break the door. He couldn’t know how long it would take for neighbours to spot something. So he had been swift, but then there’d been so little in the flat worth his attention. It told him something about the policeman. He felt now that he knew Rebus, at least to a degree — he felt the loneliness of his life, the gaps where sentiment and warmth and love should have been. There was music, and there were books, but neither in great quantity nor of great quality. The clothes were utilitarian, one jacket much like another. No shoes. He found that bizarre in the extreme. Did the man possess only one pair?

And the kitchen: lacking in utensils and produce. And the bathroom: needing redecorating.

But back in the kitchen, a small surprise. Newspapers and cuttings hastily hidden, easily found. Bible John, Johnny Bible. And evidence that Rebus had gone to some trouble: the original papers must have been bought from a dealer. An investigation within the official investigation, that was what it looked like. Which made Rebus more interesting in Bible John’s eyes.

Paperwork in the bedroom: boxes of old correspondence, bank statements, very few photographs — but enough to show that Rebus had once been married, and had a daughter. Nothing recent though: no photos of the daughter grown-up, no recent photos at all.

But the one thing he’d come here for... his business card... no sign of it at all. Which meant either that Rebus had thrown it away, or that he carried it with him still, in a jacket pocket or wallet.

In the living room, he noted Rebus’s telephone number, then closed his eyes, making sure he had committed the flat’s layout to memory. Yes, easy. He could come back here at dead of night and walk through the place without disturbing anything or anyone. He could take John Rebus any time he wanted to. Any time at all.

He wondered about Rebus’s friend though. The policeman didn’t seem the gregarious type. They’d been painting the living room together. He couldn’t know if it was connected to the break-in; probably not. A man Rebus’s age, maybe a little younger, quite a tough-looking individual. Another police man? Perhaps. The man’s face had lacked Rebus’s intensity. There was something in Rebus — he had noticed it during their first meeting, and it had been reinforced this evening — a singleness of purpose, a sense of determination. Physically, Rebus’s friend seemed the superior, but that wouldn’t make Rebus a pushover. Physical strength could take a person only so far.

After that, it was down to attitude.

They were waiting outside the photo shop when it opened next morning. Jack looked at his watch for only the fifteenth time.

‘He’ll kill us,’ he said for the ninth or tenth. ‘No, I mean it, really he will.’

‘Relax.’

Jack looked about as relaxed as a headless chicken. When the manager started unlocking the shop, they sprinted from the car. Rebus had the stub ready in his hand.

‘Give me a minute,’ the manager said.

‘We’re late for something.’

Coat still on, the manager browsed through a box of photograph packets. Rebus imagined family days out, holidays abroad, red-eyed birthdays and blurred wedding receptions. There was something faintly desperate and yet touching about collections of photographs. He’d looked through a lot of photo albums in his time — usually seeking clues to a murder, a victim’s acquaintances.

‘You’ll have to wait anyway while I unlock the till.’ The manager handed over the packet. Jack glanced at the price, slapped down more than enough to cover it, and dragged Rebus out of the shop.

He drove to Fettes like there was a murder scene waiting there. Traffic honked and squealed as he did his stunt-driver routine. They were still twenty minutes late for the meeting. But Rebus didn’t mind. He had his reprints, the missing photos from Allan Mitchison’s cabin. They were similar to the other pictures: group shots, but with fewer figures. And in all of them, braid-hair, standing right next to Mitchison. In one, she had an arm around him; in another, they were kissing, grinning as their lips met.

Rebus wasn’t surprised, not now.

‘I hope they were bloody well worth it,’ Jack said.

‘Every penny, Jack.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

Chick Ancram sat with hands clasped, his face the colour of rhubarb crumble. The files were in front of him, as though they hadn’t been moved since the previous meeting. His voice had a slight vibrato. He was in control, but only just.

‘I had a phone call,’ he said, ‘from someone called Kayleigh Burgess.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘She wanted to ask me a few questions.’ He paused. ‘About you. About the role DI Morton is currently playing in your life.’

‘It’s gossip, sir. Jack and myself are just good friends.’

Ancram slapped both hands down on the desk. ‘I thought we had a deal.’

‘Can’t say I remember.’

‘Well, let’s hope your long-term memory’s better.’ He opened a file. ‘Because now the fun really begins.’ He nodded for a sheepish Jack to switch on the tape recorder, then started off by giving date and time, officers present... Rebus felt as if he’d explode. He really thought if he sat there a second longer, his eyeballs would fly from their sockets like those jokeshop glasses with spring-loaded eyes. He’d felt like this before, just before a panic attack. But he wasn’t panicking now; he was just charged . He stood up. Ancram broke off what he’d been saying.

‘Something the matter, Inspector?’

‘Look,’ Rebus rubbed at his forehead, ‘I can’t think straight... not about Spaven. Not today.’

‘That’s for me to decide, not you. If you’re feeling ill, we can call for a doctor, but otherwise...’

‘I’m not ill. I just...’

‘Then sit down.’ Rebus sat down, and Ancram went back to his notes. ‘Now, Inspector, on the night referred to, your report states that you were at Inspector Geddes’ house, and there was a telephone call?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t actually hear the conversation?’

‘No.’ Braid-hair and Mitchison... Mitch the organiser, protester. Mitch the oil-worker. Killed by Tony El, henchman to Uncle Joe. Eve and Stanley, working Aberdeen, sharing a room...

‘But DI Geddes told you it was to do with Mr Spaven? A tip-off?’

‘Yes.’ Burke’s Club, police hang-out, maybe an oil-workers’ hang-out too. Hayden Fletcher drinking there. Ludovic Lumsden drinking there. Michelle Strachan meets Johnny Bible there...

‘And Geddes didn’t say who the call was from?’

‘Yes.’ Ancram looked up, and Rebus knew he’d given the wrong answer. ‘I mean, no.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

Ancram stared at him, sniffed, concentrated on his notes again. There were pages and pages of them, specially prepared for this session: questions to be asked, ‘facts’ double-checked, the whole case stripped down and rebuilt.

‘Anonymous tip-offs are pretty rare in my experience,’ Ancram said.

‘Yes.’

‘And they’re almost always made to a police station’s general desk. Would you agree?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Was Aberdeen the key then, or did the answers lie further north? What did Jake Harley have to do with it? And Mike Sutcliffe — Mr Sheepskin — hadn’t Major Weir warned him off? What was it Sutcliffe had said? He’d said something on the plane, then stopped suddenly... Something about a boat...