Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

‘Oh yes, close links. We cooperate on half a dozen projects. A couple of our staff are partly based there.’

Bible John underlined the name Martin Davidson. Twice.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Goodbye.’

Two M. Davidsons in the phone book. One might be a woman. He could telephone, but that would be to give the Upstart advance warning... What would he do with him? What did he want to do with him? He had begun his task in anger, but was now composed... and more than a little curious. He could call the police, an anonymous tip-off, that’s what they were waiting for. But he knew now that he wasn’t going to do that. At one point, he’d assumed he could simply dispatch the wretch and resume his life as before, but that just wasn’t possible. The Upstart had changed everything. His fingers went to his tie, checked the knot. He ripped the sheet from his notepad and tore it into tiny pieces, letting them flutter into the waste-bin.

He wondered if he should have stayed in the States. No, there would always have been the craving for home. He remembered one of the early theories about him — that he had been a member of the ‘Exclusive Brethren’. And in a sense, he had been and still was. And intended to remain a member.

Good understanding giveth favour, but the way of transgressors is hard.

Hard it was, hard would always be. He wondered if he had ‘good understanding’ of the Upstart? He doubted it, and wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.

The truth was, now he was here, he didn’t know what he wanted.

But he knew what he needed.

They crash-landed in Arden Street at breakfast time, neither of them feeling much like breakfast. Rebus had taken over the driving at Dundee, so Jack could crawl into the back seat for an hour. It was like driving back after one of his all-nighters, the roads quiet, rabbits and pheasant in the fields. The cleanest time of day, before everyone got busy messing it up again.

There was mail behind the door of the flat, and so many messages on his machine the red indicator was almost solid.

‘Don’t you dare leave,’ Jack said, before shuffling into the guest room, leaving the door open. Rebus made a mug of coffee, then slumped into his chair by the window. The blisters on his wrists looked like nettle-rash. His nostrils were crusted with blood.

‘Well,’ he said to the waking world, ‘that went as well as could be expected.’ He closed his eyes for five minutes. The coffee was cold when he opened them again.

His phone was ringing. He got to it before the machine.

‘Hello?’

‘CID awakes. It’s like a Ray Harryhausen film.’ Pete Hewitt from Howdenhall. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be doing this, but strictly off the record...’

‘What?’

‘All those forensic checks we ran on you — nothing. I expect they’ll get round to telling you officially, but I thought I’d put your mind at rest.’

‘If only you could, Pete.’

‘Hard night?’

‘Another one for the record books. Thanks, Pete.’

‘Bye, Inspector.’

Rebus didn’t put down the receiver; called Siobhan instead. Got her answering machine. Told her he was at home. Another home number, this time answered.

‘What?’ The voice groggy.

‘Morning, Gill.’

‘John?’

‘Alive and kicking. How did it go?’

‘I talked with Malcolm Toal, I think he’s good as gold — that is, when he’s not hitting his head against the cell wall — but...’

‘But?’

‘But I’ve passed everything on to the Squaddies. They’re the experts, after all.’ Silence. ‘John? Look, I’m sorry if you think I bottled out...’

‘You can’t see me smiling. You played it just right, Gill. You’ll get your share of the glory, but let them do the dirty work. You’ve learned.’

‘Maybe I had a good teacher.’

He laughed quietly. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘John... thanks... for everything.’

‘Want to know a secret?’

‘What?’

‘I’m on the wagon.’

‘Good for you. I’m really impressed. What happened?’

Jack slouched into the room, yawning and scratching his head.

‘I had a good teacher,’ Rebus said, replacing the receiver.

‘I heard the phone,’ Jack said. ‘Any coffee on the go?’

‘In the kettle.’

‘Want one?’

‘Go on then.’ Rebus went into the hall and picked up his mail. One envelope was fatter than the others. London postmark. He tore it open as he walked through to the kitchen. There was another envelope inside, fat, with his name and address printed on it. There was also a single sheet of notepaper. Rebus sat down at the table to read it.

It was from Lawson Geddes’ daughter.

My father left the enclosed envelope with instructions that it should be sent on to you. I’m just back from Lanzarote, having had to arrange not only the funeral but the sale of my parents’ house and the sorting out and removal of all their things. As you may remember, Dad was a bit of a magpie. Apologies for the slight delay in sending this on, which I trust you will understand. Hoping all is well with you and your family.

She’d signed it Aileen Jarrold ( née Geddes).

‘What is it?’ Jack asked as Rebus tore open the second envelope. He read the first couple of lines, then looked up at Jack.

‘It’s a very long suicide note,’ he said. ‘From Lawson Geddes.’

Jack sat down and they read it together.

John, I’m sitting here writing this in the full and certain knowledge that I’m about to top myself: we always called it the coward’s way out, remember? I’m not so sure about that now, but I get the feeling I’m maybe being more selfish than cowardly exactly, selfish because I know the telly are looking at Spaven again — they’ve even sent a team to the island. This isn’t about Spaven, it’s about Etta. I miss her, and I want to be with her, even if all the afterlife consists of is my bones lying next to hers somewhere.

As Rebus read, the years melted away again. He could hear Lawson’s voice, and see him swaggering into the station, or marching into a pub like he was the landlord, a word for everybody whether he knew them or not... Jack got up for a minute and returned with two mugs of coffee. They read on.

With Spaven dead and me out of the way, there’ll only be you left for the telly people to hassle. I don’t like to think of that — I know you’d nothing to do with any of it. So here’s this letter, after all these years, and maybe it’ll explain things. Shorn it to whoever you need to. They say dying men tell no lies, and maybe they’ll accept that the following is the truth as I know it.

I knew Lenny Spaven back in the Scots Guards. He was always getting into trouble, finding himself consigned to jankers or even on occasion the glass-house. He was a skiver, too, and that’s how he came to be involved with the minister. Spaven used to attend the Sunday church service (I say ‘church’ — in Borneo it was a tent, back home it was a Nissen hut). But I suppose a lot of places can be churches in the sight of God. Maybe I’ll ask him when I see him. It’s ninety-odd degrees outside, and I’m drinking firewater — the old usquebaugh . It tastes better than ever.

Rebus caught the sudden tang of whisky at the back of his mouth: memory playing tricks. Lawson used to drink Cutty Sark.

Spaven helped the minister out, laying hymnaries on the chairs, then counting them back in at the end. You know yourself there are some buggers in the army would steal a hymnary as soon as anything else. There weren’t many regular attenders. If things got hairy, a few more souls would turn up, praying it wouldn’t be them being nailed into a box at the end of play. Well, like I say, Spaven had it cushy. I didn‘t have much to do with him, or with any of the church types.