Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

‘Tell me again why you killed them.’

‘I’ve told you, it’s just this urge .’

Rebus looked back at his notes. ‘The word you used was “compulsion”.’

The slumped figure in the chair nodded. Bad smells came off him. ‘Urge, compulsion, same thing.’

‘Is it?’ Rebus stubbed out his cigarette. There were so many butts in the tin ashtray, a couple spilled over on to the metal table. ‘Let’s talk about the first victim.’

The man opposite him groaned. His name was William Crawford Shand, known as ‘Craw’. He was forty years old, single, and lived alone in a council block in Craigmillar. He had been unemployed six years. He ran twitching fingers through dark greasy hair, seeking out and covering a large bald spot at the crown of his head.

‘The first victim,’ Rebus said. ‘Tell us.’

‘Us’ because there was another CID man in the biscuit-tin. His name was Maclay, and Rebus didn’t know him very well. He didn’t know anyone at Craigmillar very well, not yet. Maclay was leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes reduced to slits. He looked like a piece of machinery at rest.

‘I strangled her.’

‘What with?’

‘A length of rope.’

‘Where did you get the rope?’

‘Bought it at some shop, I can’t remember where.’

Three-beat pause. ‘Then what did you do?’

‘After she was dead?’ Shand moved a little in the chair. ‘I took her clothes off and was intimate with her.’

‘With a dead body?’

‘She was still warm.’

Rebus got to his feet. The grating of his chair on the floor seemed to unnerve Shand. Not difficult.

‘Where did you kill her?’

‘A park.’

‘And where was this park?’

‘Near where she lived.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Polmuir Road, Aberdeen.’

‘And what were you doing in Aberdeen, Mr Shand?’

He shrugged, running his fingers now along the rim of the table, leaving traces of sweat and grease.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Rebus said. ‘The edges are sharp, you might get cut.’

Maclay snorted. Rebus walked over towards the wall and stared at him. Maclay nodded briefly. Rebus turned back to the table.

‘Describe the park.’ He rested against the edge of the table, got himself another cigarette and lit it.

‘It was just a park. You know, trees and grass, a play park for the kids.’

‘Were the gates locked?’

‘What?’

‘It was late at night, were the gates locked?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You don’t remember.’ Pause: two beats. ‘Where did you meet her?’

Quickly: ‘At a disco.’

‘You don’t seem the disco type, Mr Shand.’ Another snort from the machine. ‘Describe the place to me.’

Shand shrugged again. ‘Like any other disco: dark, flashing lights, a bar.’

‘What about victim number two?’

‘Same procedure.’ Shand’s eyes were dark, face gaunt. But for all that he was beginning to enjoy himself, easing into his story again. ‘Met her at a disco, offered to take her home, killed her and fucked her.’

‘No intimacy then. Did you take a souvenir?’

‘Eh?’

Rebus flicked ash on to the floor, flakes landed on his shoes. ‘Did you remove anything from the scene?’

Shand thought it over, shook his head.

‘And this was where exactly?’

‘Warriston Cemetery.’

‘Close to her home?’

‘She lived on Inverleith Row.’

‘What did you strangle her with?’

‘The bit of rope.’

‘The same piece?’ Shand nodded. ‘What did you do, keep it in your pocket?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you have it with you now?’

‘I chucked it.’

‘You’re not making it easy for us, are you?’ Shand squirmed with pleasure. Four beats. ‘And the third victim?’

‘Glasgow,’ Shand recited. ‘Kelvingrove Park. Her name was Judith Cairns. She told me to call her Ju-Ju. I did her same as the others.’ He sat back in the chair, drawing himself up and folding his arms. Rebus reached out a hand until it touched the man’s forehead, faith-healer style. Then he pushed, not very hard. But there was no resistance. Shand and the chair toppled backwards on to the floor. Rebus was kneeling in front of him, hauling him up by the front of his shirt.

‘You’re a liar!’ he hissed. ‘Everything you know you got straight from the papers, and what you had to make up was pure dross!’ He let go and got to his feet. His hands were damp where he’d been holding the shirt.

‘I’m not lying,’ Shand pleaded, still prone. ‘That’s gospel I’m telling you!’

Rebus stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette. The ashtray tipped more butts on to the table. Rebus picked one up and flicked it at Shand.

‘Are you not going to charge me?’

‘You’ll be charged all right: wasting police time. A spell in Saughton with an arse-bandit for a roomie.’

‘We usually just let him go,’ Maclay said.

‘Stick him in a cell,’ Rebus ordered, leaving the room.

‘But I’m him!’ Shand persisted, even as Maclay was picking him off the floor. ‘I’m Johnny Bible! I’m Johnny Bible!’

‘Not even close, Craw,’ Maclay said, quietening him with a punch.

Rebus needed to wash his hands, splash some water on his face. Two woolly suits were in the toilets, enjoying a story and a cigarette. They stopped laughing when Rebus came in.

‘Sir,’ one asked, ‘who did you have in the biscuit-tin?’

‘Another comedian,’ Rebus said.

‘This place is full of them,’ the second constable commented. Rebus didn’t know if he meant the station, Craigmillar itself, or the city as a whole. Not that there was much comedy in Craigmillar police station. It was Edinburgh’s hardest posting; a stint of duty lasted two years max, no one could function longer than that. Craigmillar was about as tough an area as you could find in Scotland’s capital city, and the station fully merited its nickname — Fort Apache, the Bronx. It lay up a cul-de-sac behind a row of shops, a low-built dour-faced building with even dourer-faced tenements behind. Being up an alley meant a mob could cut it off from civilisation with ease, and the place had been under siege numerous times. Yes, Craigmillar was a choice posting.

Rebus knew why he was there. He’d upset some people, people who mattered. They hadn’t been able to deal him a death blow, so had instead consigned him to purgatory. It couldn’t be hell because he knew it wasn’t for ever. Call it a penance. The letter telling him of his move had explained that he would be covering for a hospitalised colleague. It had also stated that he would help oversee the shutting down of the old Craigmillar station. Everything was being wound down, transferred to a brand new station nearby. The place was already a shambles of packing cases and pillaged cupboards. Staff weren’t exactly expending great energy solving ongoing cases. Nor had they put any energy into welcoming Detective Inspector John Rebus. The place felt more like a hospital ward than a cop-shop, and the patients were tranquillised to the hilt.