Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

‘You’re the first. After all, you gave me the tip.’

‘I gave you a hunch, that’s all. It might not have paid off. This is down to you. Now take it to Gill Templer — she’s your boss — tell her what you’ve just told me, let her pass it on to the Johnny Bible team. Stick to procedure.’

‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

‘Pass the news along, and make sure you get the credit. Then we’ll wait and see. All right?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He put down the receiver, told Jack what she’d just told him. Then they just stood there, drinking their drinks, staring at the mirror behind the bar. Calmly at first, then with more agitation. Rebus was the first to say what they both knew.

‘We need to be there, Jack. I need to be there.’

Jack looked at him, nodded. ‘Your turn to drive or mine?’

British Telecom had listings for two Martin Davidsons in Aberdeen. But Friday afternoon, he was most likely still at work.

‘Doesn’t mean we’ll find him at Altens,’ Jack said.

‘Let’s go there anyway.’ Practically Rebus’s only thought the whole drive: he needed to see Martin Davidson, not necessarily speak to him, just clap eyes on him. Eye contact: Rebus wanted that memory.

‘He could be working at OSC, or anywhere else for that matter,’ Jack went on. ‘He might not even be in Aberdeen.’

‘Let’s go there anyway,’ Rebus repeated.

Altens Industrial Estate was south of the city, signposted off the A92. They found a map at the entrance to the estate, and used it to wind their way in towards LTS — Lancer Technical Support. There was what looked like a jam at one point, cars blocking the road, nobody going anywhere. Rebus got out to take a look, and almost wished he hadn’t. They were police cars, unmarked but with tell-tale static coming from their radios. Siobhan had passed on the info, and someone had been fast to act.

A man was bearing down on Rebus. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Rebus shrugged, hands in pockets. ‘Informal observer?’

DCI Grogan narrowed his eyes. But his mind was elsewhere; he’d no time or inclination for argument.

‘Is he inside?’ Rebus asked, nodding towards the LTS building, a typical industrial unit of windowless white corrugation.

Grogan shook his head. ‘We came steaming down here, now it seems he hasn’t come in today.’

Rebus frowned. ‘Day off?’

‘Not officially. The switchboard tried his home, no answer.’

‘Is that where you’re headed?’

Grogan nodded.

Rebus didn’t ask if they could tag along; Grogan would only say no. But once the convoy was moving, no one would notice an extra car at the tail.

He got back into the Peugeot and told Jack about it, while Jack reversed and found a parking spot out of the way. They watched the police cars execute three-point turns and head back out of the estate, then eased their way in behind the last of them.

They headed north over the Dee and along Anderson Drive, passing more buildings belonging to Robert Gordon’s University, and several oil company HQs. At last they headed off Anderson Drive, past Summerhill Academy, and into a tight maze of suburban streets with green-field sites beyond.

A couple of the cars left the convoy, probably to circle around and come at Davidson’s house from the other direction, blocking him in. Brake lights came on, the cars stopping in the middle of the road. Doors opened, officers appearing. Quick confabs, Grogan issuing orders, pointing to left and right. Most eyes were on a single house, its curtains closed.

‘Reckon he’s flown?’ Jack asked.

‘Let’s find out.’ Rebus undid his seat-belt and opened the door.

Grogan was sending men to the neighbouring houses, some to ask questions, some to nip out the back door and work their way round the back of the suspect’s house.

‘Hope this isn’t a wild goose chase,’ Grogan muttered. He saw Rebus, but still barely registered his presence.

‘Men in position, sir.’

People had come out of their houses, wondering what was going on. Rebus could hear the distant chimes of an ice-cream van.

‘Armed Response Unit standing by, sir.’

‘I don’t think we’ll need them.’

‘Right you are, sir.’

Grogan sniffed, ran a finger under his nose, then selected two men to go with him to the suspect’s door. He pressed the bell, and there was a collective holding of breath while they waited. Grogan rang again.

‘What can they see round the back?’

One of Grogan’s men radioed to ask. ‘Curtains are closed upstairs and down, no sign of life.’

Just like at the front.

‘Buzz a JP, say we need a warrant.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘And meantime, take a sledgehammer to that bloody door.’

The officer nodded, gave a signal, and a car boot was opened. Inside was like the back of a builder’s van. Out came the sledgehammer. Three blows and the door was open. Ten seconds later there were cries for an ambulance. Ten seconds after that, someone suggested a hearse instead.

Jack was a good copper: the boot of his car held scene of crime equipment, including overshoes and gloves, and the all-over plastic boilersuits which made you look like a walking condom. Officers were being kept out of the house so as not to contaminate the scene. They stood crammed in the doorway, trying to see what they could. When Rebus and Jack stepped forward, no one recognised them, so took them for forensics. The crowd parted for a moment, and both men were inside.

The rules on contamination didn’t seem to extend to senior officers and their flunkeys: Grogan stood in the living room, hands in pockets, examining the scene. The body of a young man lay on the black leather sofa. His fair hair was matted over a deep cut. More blood had dried on his face and neck. There were signs of a struggle: the glass and chrome coffee table overturned, magazines crumpled underfoot. A black leather jacket had been thrown over the man’s chest, a gentle act after the bloodshed. Stepping closer, Rebus saw marks on the neck, visible below the blood-lines. On the floor in front of the body sat a large green holdall, the sort you took to the gym or for a weekend trip. Rebus peered inside, saw a backpack, a single shoe, Angie Riddell’s necklace... and a length of plastic-covered clothes-line.

‘I think we can rule out suicide,’ Grogan muttered.

‘Knocked unconscious, then strangled,’ Rebus guessed.

‘You reckon it’s him?’

‘That bag isn’t just sitting there for fun. Whoever did this, they knew who he was, and wanted us to know, too.’

‘An accomplice?’ Grogan asked. ‘A mate, someone he blabbed to?’

Rebus shrugged again. He was intent on the corpse’s face, felt cheated by it: the closed eyes, the repose. I’ve come all this way, thanks to you, you bastard ... He stepped closer, lifted the jacket a couple of inches and peered beneath. A black slip-on shoe had been stuffed into Martin Davidson’s left armpit.

‘Oh, Christ,’ Rebus said, turning to Grogan and Jack. ‘Bible John did this.’ He saw disbelief mingled with horror in their faces. Rebus lifted the jacket a little higher so they could see the shoe. ‘He’s been here all the time,’ he said. ‘He never went away...’

The Scene of Crime team did their business, photographing and videoing, bagging and taping potential evidence. The pathologist examined the body, then said it could be removed and taken to the mortuary. There were reporters outside, kept at a distance by police cordons. Once the SOC team had finished upstairs, Grogan took Rebus and Jack up for a look. He didn’t seem to mind them being there, probably wouldn’t have minded if he’d had Jack the Ripper himself for an audience: Grogan was the man who’d be on TV tonight, the man who tracked down Johnny Bible. Only he hadn’t, of course — someone had beaten them to it.