Ian Rankin - Knots And Crosses

And, of course, thinking back, Rebus realised that he had known, but not consciously. That day, the day of the old man’s death, of visiting the rain-soaked graveyard, of visiting Mickey, he had smelled that toffee-apple smell in the living-room. He knew now what it had been. He had thought of it then, but had been distracted. Jesus Christ. Rebus felt his whole world sinking into the morass of a personal madness. He hoped the breakdown was not far off; he couldn’t keep going on like this for much longer.

Toffee-apples, fairy-tales, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Sometimes it was hard to hold onto reality when that reality was overpowering. The shield came to protect you. The shield of the breakdown, of forgetting. Laughter and forgetting.

‘This round’s on me,’ said Rebus, feeling calm again.

Gill Templer knew what she had always known: there was method in the killer’s choice of girls, so he must have had access to their names prior to the abductions. That meant that the four girls had to have something in common, some way that Reeve could have picked them all out. But what? They had checked up on everything. Certain hobbies the girls did have in common; netball, pop music, books.

Netball. Pop music. Books.

Netball. Pop music. Books.

That meant checking through netball-coaches (all women, so scratch that), record-shop workers and DJs, and bookshop-workers and librarians. Libraries.

Libraries.

Rebus had told stories to Reeve. Samantha used the city’s main lending library. So, occasionally, had the other girls. One of the girls had been seen heading up The Mound towards the library on the day she disappeared.

But Jack Morton had checked the library already. One of the men there had owned a blue Ford Escort. The suspect had been passed over. But had that initial interview been enough? She had to speak to Morton. Then she would conduct a second interview herself. She was about to look for Morton when her telephone rang.

‘Inspector Templer,’ she said to the beige mouthpiece.

‘The kid dies tonight,’ hissed a voice on the other end.

She sat bolt upright in her chair, almost causing it to topple.

‘Listen,’ she said, ‘if you’re a crank …’

‘Shut up, bitch. I’m no crank and you know it. I’m the real thing. Listen.’ There was a muffled cry from somewhere, the sob of a young girl. Then the hiss returned. ‘Tell Rebus tough luck. He can’t say I never gave him a chance.’

‘Listen, Reeve, I …’

She had not meant to say that, had not meant to let him know. But she had panicked on hearing Samantha’s cry. Now she heard another cry, the banshee cry of the madman who has been discovered. It sent the hairs on her neck climbing up each other. It froze the air around her. It was the cry of Death itself in one of its many guises. It was a lost soul’s final triumphant scream.

‘You know,’ he gasped, his voice a mixture of joy and terror, ‘you know, you know, you know. Aren’t you clever? And you’ve got a very sexy voice, too. Maybe I’ll come for you sometime. Was Rebus a good lay? Was he? Tell him that I’ve got his baby, and she dies tonight. Got that? Tonight.’

‘Listen, I …’

‘No, no, no. No more from me, Miss Templer. You’ve had nearly long enough to trace this. Bye.’

Click. Brrrr.

Time to trace it. She had been stupid. She should have thought of that first; indeed, she had not thought of it at all. Perhaps Superintendent Wallace had been right. Perhaps it was not only John who was too emotionally involved in the whole affair. She felt tired and old and spent. She felt as if all the case-work was suddenly an impossible burden, all the criminals invincible. Her eyes were irritating her. She thought of putting on her glasses, her personal shield from the world.

She had to find Rebus. Or should she seek out Jack Morton first? John would have to be told of this. They had a little time, but not much. The first guess had to be the right one. Who first? Rebus or Morton? She made the decision: John Rebus.

Unnerved by Stevens’ revelations, Rebus made his way back to his flat. He needed to find out about some things. Mickey could wait. He had drawn too many bad cards in the course of his afternoon’s foot-slogging. He had to get in touch with his old employers, the Army. He had to make them see that a life was at stake, they who prized life so strangely. A lot of phone-calls might be necessary. So be it.

But the first call he made was to the hospital. Rhona was fine. That was a relief. Still, however, she had not been told of Sammy’s abduction. Rebus swallowed hard. Had she been told of her lover’s death? She had not. Of course not. He arranged for some flowers to be sent to her. He was about to pluck up the courage to telephone the first of a long list of numbers when his own telephone rang. He let it ring for a while, but the caller was not about to let him go.

‘Hello?’

‘John! Thank God. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ It was Gill, sounding excited and nervous and yet trying to sound sympathetic, too. Her voice modulated wildly, and Rebus felt his heart — what was left of it for public consumption — go out to her.

‘What is it, Gill? Has anything happened?’

‘I’ve had a call from Reeve.’

Rebus’s heart pounded against the walls of its cell. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

‘Well, he just phoned up and said that he’s got Samantha.’

‘And?’

Gill swallowed hard. ‘And that he’s going to kill her tonight.’ There was a pause at Rebus’s end, strange distant sounds of movement. ‘John? Hello, John?’

Rebus stopped punching the telephone-stool. ‘Yes, I’m here. Jesus Christ. Did he say anything else?’

‘John, you really shouldn’t be on your own you know. I could — ’

‘Did he say anything else?’ He was shouting now, his breath short like a runner’s.

‘Well, I …’

‘Yes?’

‘I let slip that we know who he is.’

Rebus sucked in his breath, examining his knuckles, noting that he had torn one of them open. He sucked blood, staring from his window. ‘What was his reaction to that?’ he said at last.

‘He went wild.’

‘I’ll bet he did. Jesus, I hope he doesn’t take it out on … Oh, Jesus. Why do you suppose he phoned you specifically?’ He had stopped licking his wound, and now turned his attention on his dark fingernails, tearing at them with his teeth, spitting them out across the room.

‘Well, I am Liaison Officer on the case. He may have seen me on the television or read my name in the newspapers.’

‘Or maybe he’s seen us together. He may have been following me during this whole thing.’ He looked from his window as a shabbily-dressed man shuffled his way up the street, stopping to pick up a cigarette-end. Christ, he needed a cigarette. He looked around for an ashtray, source of a few reusable butts.

‘I never thought of that.’

‘How the hell could you? We didn’t know that any of this was to do with me until … it was yesterday, wasn’t it? It seems like days ago. But remember, Gill, his notes were delivered by hand in the beginning.’ He lit the remnants of a cigarette, sucking in the stinging smoke. ‘He’s been so close to me, and I didn’t feel a thing, not a tingle. So much for a policeman’s sixth sense.’

‘Speaking of sixth senses, John, I’ve had a hunch.’ Gill was relieved to hear how his voice had become calmer. She felt a little calmer, too, as though they were helping each other to hang on to a crowded lifeboat in a storm-torn sea.

‘What’s that?’ Rebus slumped himself into his chair, looking around his barren room, dusty and chaotic. He saw the glass used by Michael, a plate of toast crumbs, two empty cigarette packets, and two coffee cups. He would sell this place soon, no matter how low the price. He would move well away from here. He would.