Ian Rankin - Black Book

There were two of them in the van that early morning, lights on to combat the haar which blew in from the North Sea. It was thick and white like smoke. They drove carefully, being under strict instructions.

‘Why does it have to be us?’ said the driver, stifling a yawn. ‘What’s wrong with the other two?’

The passenger was much larger than his companion. Though in his forties, he kept his hair long, cut in the shape of a German military helmet. He kept pulling at the hair on the left side of his head, straightening it out. At the moment, however, he was gripping the sides of his seat. He didn’t like the way the driver screwed shut his eyes for the duration of each too-frequent yawn. The passenger was not a conversationalist, but maybe talk would keep the driver awake.

‘It’s just temporary.’ he said. ‘Besides, it’s not as if it’s a daily chore.’

‘Thank God for that.’ The driver shut his eyes again and yawned. The van glided in towards the grass verge.

‘Do you want me to drive?’ asked the passenger. Then he smiled. ‘You could always kip in the back.’

‘Very funny. That’s another thing, Jimmy, the stink !’

‘Meat always smells after a while.’

‘Got an answer for everything, eh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are we nearly there?’

‘I thought you knew the way.’

‘On the main roads I do. But with this mist.’

‘If we’re hugging the coast it can’t be far.’ The passenger was also thinking: if we’re hugging the coast, then two wheels past the verge and we’re over a cliff face. It wasn’t just this that made him nervous. They’d never used the east coast before, but there was too much attention on the west coast now. So it was an untried run. and that made him nervous.

‘Here’s a road sign.’ They braked to peer through the haar. ‘Next right.’ The driver jolted forwards again. He signalled and pulled in through a low iron gate which was padlocked open. ‘What if it had been locked?’ he offered.

‘I’ve got cutters in the back.’

‘A bloody answer for everything.’

They drove into a small gravelled car park. Though they could not see them, there were wooden tables and benches to one side, where Sunday families could picnic and do battle with the midges. The spot was popular for its view, an uninterrupted spread of sea and sky. When they opened their doors, they could smell and hear the sea. Gulls were already shrieking overhead.

‘Must be later than we thought if the birds are up.’ They readied themselves for opening the back of the van, then did so. The smell really was foul. Even the stoical passenger wrinkled his nose and tried hard not to breathe.

‘Quicker the better,’ he said in a rush. The body had been placed in two thick plastic fertiliser sacks, one pulled over the feet and one over the head, so that they overlapped in the middle. Tape and string had been used to join them. Inside the bags were also a number of breeze blocks, making for a heavy and awkward load. They carried the grotesque parcel low, brushing the wet grass. Their shoes were squelching by the time they passed the sign warning about the cliff face ahead. Even more difficult was the climb over the fence, though it was rickety enough to start with.

‘Wouldn’t stop a bloody kid.’ the driver commented. He was peching, the saliva like glue in his mouth.

‘Ca’ canny,’ said the passenger. They shuffled forwards two inches at a time, until they could all too clearly make out the edge. There was no more land after that, just a vertical fall to the agitated sea. ‘Right,’ he said. Without ceremony, they heaved the thing out into space, glad immediately to be rid of it. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Man. but that air smells good.’ The driver reached into his pocket for a quarter-bottle of whisky. They were halfway back to the van when they heard a car on the road, and the crunch of tyres on gravel.

‘Aw, hell’s bells.’

The headlights caught them as they reached the van.

‘The fuckin’ polis!’ choked the driver.

‘Keep the held,’ warned the passenger. His voice was quiet, but his eyes burned ahead of him. They heard a handbrake being engaged, and the car door opened. A uniformed officer appeared. He was carrying a torch. The headlights and engine had been left on. There was no one else in the car.

The passenger knew the score. This wasn’t a set-up. Probably the copper came here towards the end of his night shift. There’d be a flask or a blanket in the car. Coffee or a snooze before signing off for the day.

‘Morning.’ the uniform said. He wasn’t young, and he wasn’t used to trouble. A Saturday night punch-up maybe, or disputes between neighbouring farmers. It had been another long boring night for him, another night nearer his pension.

‘Morning.’ the passenger said. He knew they could bluff this one, if the driver stayed calm. But then he thought, I’m the conspicuous one.

‘A right pea-souper, eh?’ said the policeman.

The passenger nodded.

‘That’s why we stopped.’ explained the driver. ‘Thought we’d wait it out.’

‘Very sensible.’

The driver watched as the passenger turned to the van and started inspecting its rear driver-side tyre, giving it a kick. He then walked to the rear passenger-side and did the same, before getting down on his knees to peer beneath the vehicle. The policeman watched the performance too.

‘Got a bit of trouble?’

‘Not really.’ the driver said nervously. ‘But it’s best to be safe.’

‘I see you’ve come a ways.’

The driver nodded. ‘Off up to Dundee.’

The policeman frowned. ‘From Edinburgh? Why didn’t you just stick to the motorway or the A914?’

The driver thought quickly. ‘We’ve a drop-off in Tayport first.’

‘Even so.’ the policeman started. The driver watched as the passenger rose from his inspection, now sited behind the policeman. He was holding a rock in his hand. The driver kept his eyes glued to the policeman’s as the rock rose, then fell. The monologue finished mid-sentence as the body slumped to the ground.

‘That’s just beautiful.’

‘What else could we do?’ The passenger was already making for his door. ‘Come on, vamoose!’

‘Aye,’ said the driver, another minute and he’d have spotted your … er …’

The passenger glowered at him. ‘What you mean is, another minute and he‘d’ve smelt the booze on your breath.’ He didn’t stop glowering until the driver shrugged his agreement.

They turned the van and drove out of the car park. The gulls were still noisy in the distance. The police car’s engine was turning over. The headlights picked out the prone unconscious figure. But the torch had broken in the fall.

It all happened because John Rebus was in his favourite massage parlour reading the Bible.

It all happened because a man walked in through the door in the mistaken belief that any massage parlour sited so close to a brewery and half a dozen good pubs had to be catering to Friday night pay packets and anytime drunks; and therefore had to be bent as a paper-clip.

But the Organ Grinder, God-fearing tenant of the set-up, ran a clean shop, a place where tired muscles were beaten mellow. Rebus was tired: tired of arguments with Patience Aitken, tired of the fact that his brother had turned up seeking shelter in a flat filled to the gunwales with students, and most of all tired of his job.