Ian Rankin: Black and Blue

‘Tell me again,’ Grogan said, as they climbed the stairs.

‘Bible John took souvenirs — shoes, clothes, handbags. But he also placed a sanitary towel in the left armpit. Downstairs... that was him letting us know who did this.’

Grogan shook his head. He would take some convincing. Meantime, he had things to show them. The main bedroom was just that, but beneath the bed were boxes of magazines and videos — hard core S&M, similar to the stuff in Tony El’s bedroom, text in English and several other languages. Rebus wondered if one of the American gangs had brought it to Aberdeen.

There was a small guest bedroom with a padlock on it. Crowbarred open, it gave the lie to one area of speculation. A couple of the CID men had been wondering if Johnny Bible were tricking them — killing an innocent man and setting him up to look like the killer. The guest bedroom said Martin Davidson was Johnny Bible. It had been turned into a shrine to Bible John and other killers: dozens of scrapbooks, cuttings and photos pinned to the cork boards which lined the walls, videos of documentaries about serial killers, paperback books, heavily annotated, and at the centre of it all a blow-up of one of the Bible John flyers: the face almost smiling, a kindly face, and above it the same basic question: Have You Seen This Man?

Rebus almost answered yes; there was something about the shape of the face, he’d seen it before somewhere... somewhere recently. He took the Borneo photo from his pocket, looked at Ray Sloane, then back at the poster. They were very alike, but that wasn’t the similarity that was niggling Rebus. There was something else, someone else...

Then Jack asked him something from the doorway, and Rebus lost it.

They followed everyone back to Queen Street. Rebus and Jack had, by association, become part of the team. There was quiet jubilation, tempered with the knowledge that another murderer was in their midst. But as at least one officer put it, ‘If he did for that bastard, good luck to him.’

Which, Rebus guessed, would be the reaction Bible John would be hoping for. He’d be hoping they wouldn’t try too hard to find him. If he’d come out of retirement, then it had been to one end only — the killing of his impersonator. Johnny Bible had taken the glory, the achievement away from his predecessor; now there’d come the revenge.

Rebus sat in the CID office, staring into space, thinking. When someone handed him a cup, he raised it to his lips. But then Jack’s hand stopped him.

‘It’s whisky,’ he warned. Rebus looked down, saw sweet liquid the colour of honey, gazed at it for a moment, then put the cup down on the desk. There was laughter in the office, cheering and singing, like a football crowd after a result: same songs, same chants.

‘John,’ Jack said, ‘remember Lawson.’ It sounded like a warning.

‘What about him?’

‘He became obsessed.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘This is different. I know it was Bible John.’

‘What if it was?’

Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘Come on, Jack, after everything I told you? After Spaven and everything else? You know better than to ask that.’

Grogan was waving Rebus over to a telephone. Smiling, with whisky breath, he handed Rebus the receiver.

‘Someone wants a word.’

‘Hello?’

‘What in God’s name are you doing there?’

‘Oh, hello, Gill. Congratulations, looks like everything’s coming right for once.’

She melted a little. ‘Siobhan’s doing, not mine. I only passed the info along.’

‘Make sure that goes on record.’

‘I will.’

‘I’ll talk to you later.’

‘John... when are you coming back?’ Not what she’d wanted to ask.

‘Tonight, maybe tomorrow.’

‘OK.’ She paused. ‘See you then.’

‘Fancy doing something on Sunday?’

She sounded surprised by the question. ‘What sort of thing?’

‘I don’t know. A drive, a walk, somewhere down the coast?’

‘Yes, OK.’

‘I’ll call you. Bye, Gill.’

‘Bye.’

Grogan was refilling a cup. There were at least a couple of crates of whisky, and three of bottled beer.

‘Where do you get this stuff?’ Rebus asked.

Grogan smiled. ‘Oh, you know.’

‘Pubs? Clubs? Places you’re owed a favour?’

Grogan just winked. More officers were arriving all the time — uniforms, civilian staff, even people who looked to be off-duty: all had heard, and all wanted to be part of it. The top brass looked stiff but smiling, declining refills.

‘Maybe Ludovic Lumsden gets it for you?’

Grogan’s face creased. ‘I know you think he shafted you, but Ludo’s a good copper.’

‘Where is he?’

Grogan looked around. ‘No idea.’

In fact, no one knew where Lumsden was; he hadn’t been seen all day. Someone had called him at home, but only got an answering machine. His bleeper was turned on, but he wasn’t responding. A patrol car, detouring past his house, reported no sign of him, though his car was outside. Rebus got an idea, and went downstairs to the comms room. There were people at work here — taking incoming calls, keeping communications open with patrol cars and beat officers. But they had a bottle of whisky of their own, and plastic cups to go round. Rebus asked if he could see the day’s sheets.

He only had to look back an hour. A call from a Mrs Fletcher, reporting her husband missing. He’d gone to work that morning as usual, but hadn’t arrived, and hadn’t come home since. The sheet listed details of his car and a brief description. Patrols had been requested to keep a look-out. In another twelve hours or so, they’d start to deal with it more seriously.

Christian name of missing spouse: Hayden.

Rebus recalled Judd Fuller talking about dumping bodies at sea, or inland, places they’d never be found because no one ever went there. He wondered if that would be the fate of Lumsden and Fletcher... No, he couldn’t do it. He wrote a message on the back of one of the sheets and handed it to the duty officer, who read it silently before reaching for the mike.

‘Any patrol in the vicinity of the city centre, to College Street, Burke’s Club. Apprehend Judd Fuller, co-owner, and bring to Queen Street for questioning.’ The comms officer turned to Rebus, who nodded. ‘And check the cellar,’ he continued, ‘persons possibly being held there against their will.’

‘Please repeat,’ one patrol car said. The message was repeated. Rebus went back upstairs.

In spite of the party, some work was still being done. Rebus saw Jack manoeuvring one of the secretaries into a corner, chatting her up twenty to the dozen. Near them, a couple of desk-bound officers were making phone calls. Rebus picked up a spare receiver, called Gill.

‘It’s me.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing. Listen, you passed all the stuff about Toal and Aberdeen on to the Scottish Crime Squad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s your contact there?’

‘Why?’

‘Because whoever it is, I’ve a message for them. I think Judd Fuller has picked up DS Ludovic Lumsden and a man called ‘Hayden Fletcher, and intends to make sure they’re not seen again.’

‘What?’

‘A patrol car’s gone out to the club, God knows what they’ll find, but the Squaddies should keep an eye on it. If they’re found, they’ll be brought back to Queen Street. The Squaddies might want someone on the scene.’

‘I’ll get on it. Thanks, John.’

‘Any time.’

I’m getting soft in my old age, he thought. Or maybe I’ve just relocated my conscience.

He went walkabout, asked a few drinkers the same question, and eventually had the Oil Liaison officer, DI Jenkins, pointed out to him. Rebus just wanted to look at him. His name was mentioned in Stanley’s confession, along with Lumsden. The Squaddies would be wanting a word with him. He was smiling, looking unconcerned, tanned and rested after his holiday. It gave Rebus a warm glow to realise the man would soon be sweating under an internal inquiry.