Ian Rankin: Black and Blue

The thing is, John, there was a murder — a prostitute near our camp. A native girl from the kampong . The villagers blamed it on us, and even the Gurkhas knew it was probably a British soldier. There was an investigation — civil and military. Funny really, I mean, there we were going hell for leather killing people — it was what we got paid for — and there they were looking into a single murder. Anyway, they never found anyone for it. Thing is though, that prozzy was strangled, and one of her sandals was never recovered.

Rebus turned a page.

Well, all that was behind me. I was a bobby, back in Scotland and happy with my lot. Then I got roped into the Bible John case. You’ve got to remember, we didn’t know him as ‘Bible John’ until very late on. It was after the third victim that we got the description of him quoting from the Bible. That’s when the papers came up with the name. Well, when I thought about someone quoting from the Bible, a strangler and rapist, I remembered Borneo. I went to my boss and told him all about it. He said it was a long shot of Olympic standards, but that I could chase it up in my own time if I liked. You know me, John, never one to resist a challenge. Besides, I had a shortcut planned — Lenny Spaven. I knew he was back in Scotland, and he’d have info on all the church-goers. So I got in touch with him, but he’d gone from bad to rotten, didn’t want anything to do with it. I’m the persistent type, and he complained about me to my boss. That got me a warning to ease off, but I wasn’t about to ease off. I knew what I wanted: I reckoned Lenny might have photos from his days in Borneo, maybe with him and the rest of the flock. I wanted to show them to the woman who’d shared the taxi with Bible John. I wanted to see if she recognised anyone. But bloody Spaven kept standing in my way. Eventually, I did manage to get some photos — going the long way round, talking to the army first, then tracking down the minister from the time. It took weeks.

Rebus looked at Jack. ‘The photos Ancram showed us.’ Jack nodded.

We showed the photos to the eye-witness. Mind, they were eight or nine years out of date, and not very good to start with, water damaged some of them. She said she couldn’t be sure, she thought one of them ‘was like him’ — her words. But as my boss said, there were hundreds of men out there in the big wide world who bore a physical resemblance to the killer: we’d interviewed most of them. That wasn’t good enough for me. I got the man’s name, he was called Ray Sloane — an unusual enough name, and it wasn’t hard to track him down. Only he’d cleared out. He’d been living in a bedsit in Ayr, working as a toolmaker. But he’d recently given notice and moved on, nobody knew where. I was convinced in my mind that he could be the man we were looking for, but I couldn’t convince my boss to go all-out on finding him.

See, John, that delay while I was dealing with the army, it was all down to Spaven. If he’d helped, I’d have been on to Sloane before he’d had a chance to pack up and ship out. I know it, I can feel it. I might have had him. Instead of which, I had nothing but my anger and frustration, both of which I vented too publicly. The boss kicked me off the inquiry, and that was that.

‘Your coffee’s getting cold,’ Jack said. Rebus took a gulp, turned another page.

Or at least it was until Spaven came back into my life, moving to Edinburgh much the same time I did. It was like he was haunting me, and I couldn’t forgive him for what he’d done. If anything, as time passed I grew to despise him even more. That’s why I wanted him for the Elsie Rhind killing. I admit it, to you and to anyone else reading this, I wanted him so badly it was like a hard ball in my stomach, something only surgery would remove. When I was told to ease off on him, I didn’t. When I was told to steer clear, I steered closer. I followed him — on my own time — I tracked him every day and every night. I went without sleep for the best part of three days. But it was worth it when I saw him make for that lock-up, somewhere we didn’t know about. I was elated, ecstatic. I didn’t know what we’d find inside, but I had the feeling we’d find something. That’s why I came rushing over to your house, why I dragged you back there with me. You asked me about a search warrant, and I told you not to be so stupid. I put a lot of pressure on you, using our long friendship as blackmail — I was feverish, I’d have done anything, and that surely included breaking rules I now saw as being there to punish the police and protect the villains. So in we went, and found the heaps of boxes, all that knock-off from the factory job in Queensferry. Plus the bag. Elsie Rhind’s, as it turned out. I nearly dropped to my knees to thank God for finding it.

I know what a lot of people thought — yourself included. They thought I’d planted it there. Well, I swear on my deathbed (except I’m writing this at the table) that I did not. I found it fair and square, even though I made us break the rules to accomplish it. But you see, that one crucial piece of evidence would have been ruled inadmissible because of the way we’d come to find it, which is why I persuaded you — against your better judgement — to stick to the story I invented. Am I sorry I did it? Yes and no. It can’t be very comfortable for you just now, John, and it can’t have been a nice thing to have lived with all these years. But we got the murderer, and in my mind — and I’ve spent God knows how long thinking about it, reliving it, running through the way I played it — that’s what really counts.

John, I hope all this fuss dies down. Spaven’s not worth it. Nobody’s giving much thought to Elsie Rhind, are they? The victim can never win. Chalk this one up to Elsie Rhind. Just because a villain can write doesn’t make him less of a villain. I read that the commandants at the concentration camps used to put their feet up at night and read the classics while listening to a bit of Beethoven. Monsters can do that. I know this now. I know because of Lenny Spaven.

Jack patted Rebus’s back. ‘He’s just cleared you, John. Wave this in Ancram’s face and that’s the end of that.’

Rebus nodded, wishing he could feel relief, or any other sensible emotion.

‘What’s wrong?’ Jack asked.

Rebus tapped the paper. ‘This is,’ he said. ‘I mean, most of it is probably right, but it’s still a lie.’

‘What?’

Rebus looked at him. ‘The stuff we found in the lock-up... I saw it in Elsie Rhind’s house the first time we went round there. Lawson must have lifted it later.’

Jack looked uncomprehending. ‘Are you sure?’

Rebus flew to his feet. ‘No, I’m not sure, and that’s the real bastard of it! I’ll never be sure.’

‘I mean, it was twenty years ago, your mind plays tricks.’

‘I know. Even at the time, I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure I’d seen them before — maybe I saw a different bag, different hat. I went round to her place, took another look. This was when we had Spaven in custody. I looked for the hat and the bag I’d seen there... and they were gone. Ah, shit, maybe I didn’t see them at all, only thought I did. It doesn’t change the fact that I think I saw them. I think Lenny Spaven was set up, and I’ve always thought it... and I’ve never done a thing about it.’ He sat down again. ‘Never even told anyone till now.’ He tried to pick up his mug but his hand was shaking. ‘DTs,’ he said, forcing a smile.

Jack was thoughtful. ‘Does it matter?’ he said at last.

‘You mean whether I’m right or not? Jesus, Jack, I don’t know.’ Rebus rubbed his eyes. ‘It was all so long ago. Does it matter if the killer got away? Even if I’d come forward at the time, it would have maybe cleared Spaven but it wouldn’t have got us the real killer, would it?’ He let out a breath. ‘I’ve been spinning it in my head all these years, the grooves are worn almost to nothing.’