Ian Rankin: Knots And Crosses

‘You’re on. Tom, give me a pint over here, please. Do you want one yourself, Mac?’

‘Same again, thanks.’

They sat in silence for a while, supping the beer and watching the fight. A few muffled roars went up occasionally from behind them as a punch landed or was dodged.

‘It’s looking good for your man if it goes the distance,’ said Campbell, ordering more drinks.

‘Aye. But let’s wait and see, eh? How’s work, by the way?’

‘Fine, how’s yours?’

‘A pure bloody slog at the moment, if you must ask.’ Some ash dropped onto his tie as he talked, the cigarette never leaving his mouth, though it wobbled precariously from time to time. ‘A pure slog.’

‘Are you still chasing up that drugs story?’

‘Not really. I’ve landed on this kidnapping thing.’

‘Oh? So has Rebus. You’d better not get into his hair.’

‘Newspapermen get in everybody’s hair, Mac. It goes with the etcetera.’

Mac Campbell, though wary of Jim Stevens, was grateful for a friendship, however tenuous and strained it had sometimes been, which had given him some information useful to his career. Stevens kept much of the juiciest tidbits to himself, of course. That’s what ‘exclusives’ were made of. But he was always willing to trade, and it seemed to Campbell that the most innocuous pieces of gossip and information often seemed adequate for Stevens’ needs. He was a kind of magpie, collecting everything without prejudice, storing much more of it than, surely, he would ever use. But with reporters you never could tell. Certainly, Campbell was happier with Stevens as a friend than as an enemy.

‘So what’s happening about your drugs dossier?’

Jim Stevens shrugged his creased shoulders.

‘There’s nothing in there just now that could be of much use to you boys anyway. I’m not about to let the whole thing drop though, if that’s what you mean. No, that’s too big a nest of vipers to be allowed to go free. I’ll still be keeping my eyes open.’

A bell rang for the last round of the fight. Two sweating, dog-tired bodies converged on one another, becoming a single knot of limbs.

‘Still looks good for Mailer,’ said Campbell, an uneasy feeling coming over him. It couldn’t be true. Rebus wouldn’t have done that to him. Suddenly, Maxwell, the heavier and slower-moving of the two fighters, was hit by a blow to the face and staggered back. The bar erupted, sensing blood and victory. Campbell stared into his glass. Maxwell was taking a standing count. It was all over. A sensation in the final seconds of the contest, according to the commentator.

Jim Stevens held out his hand.

I’ll kill bloody Rebus, thought Campbell. So help me, I’ll kill him.

Later, over drinks bought with Campbell’s money, Jim Stevens asked about Rebus.

‘So it looks as if I’ll be meeting him at last?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. He’s not exactly friendly with Anderson, so he may well get the shitty end of the stick, sitting at a desk all day. But then John Rebus isn’t exactly friendly with anybody.’

‘Oh?’

‘Ach, he’s not that bad, I suppose, but he’s not the easiest of men to like.’ Campbell, ducking from his friend’s interrogative eyes, studied the reporter’s tie. The recent layer of cigarette-ash had merely formed a veil over much older stains. Egg, perhaps, fat, alcohol. The scruffiest reporters were always the sharp ones, and Stevens was sharp, as sharp as ten years on the local newspaper could make a man. It was said that he had turned down jobs with London papers, just because he liked to live in Edinburgh. And what he liked best about his job was the opportunity it gave him to uncover the city’s murkier depths, the crime, the corruption, the gangs and the drugs. He was a better detective than anyone Campbell knew, and, because of that very fact perhaps, the high-ups in the police both disliked and distrusted him. That seemed proof enough that he was doing his job well. Campbell watched as a little beer escaped from Stevens’ glass and dripped onto his trousers.

‘This Rebus,’ said Stevens, wiping his mouth, ‘he’s the brother of the hypnotist, isn’t he?’

‘Must be. I’ve never asked him, but there can’t be too many people about with a name like that, can there?’

‘That’s what I was thinking.’ He nodded to himself as though confirming something of great importance.

‘So what?’

‘Oh, nothing. Just something. And he’s not a popular man, you say?’

‘I didn’t say that exactly. I feel sorry for him really. The poor bugger has a lot on his plate. He’s even started getting crank letters.’

‘Crank letters?’ Smoke enveloped Stevens for a moment as he puffed on another cigarette. Between the two men lay a thin blue pub-haze.

‘I shouldn’t have told you that. That was strictly off the record.’

Stevens nodded.

‘Absolutely. No, it’s just that I was interested. That sort of thing does happen though, doesn’t it?’

‘Not often. And not nearly as queer as the ones he’s getting. I mean, they’re not abusive or anything. They’re just … queer.’

‘Go on. How so?’

‘Well, there’s a bit of string in each one, tied into a knot, and there’s a message that reads something like “clues are everywhere”.’

‘Bloody hell. That is strange. They’re a strange family. One a bloody hypnotist and the other getting anonymous notes. He was in the Army, wasn’t he?’

‘John was, yes. How did you know?’

‘I know everything, Mac. That’s the job.’

‘Another funny thing is that he won’t speak about it.’

The reporter looked interested again. When he was interested in something, his shoulders shivered slightly. He stared at the television.

‘Won’t speak about the Army?’

‘Not a word. I’ve asked him about it a couple of times.’

‘Like I said, Mac, it’s a funny family that one. Drink up, I’ve got lots of your money left to spend.’

‘You’re a bastard, Jim.’

‘Born and bred,’ said the reporter, smiling for only the second time that evening.

‘Gentlemen, and, of course, ladies, thank you for being so quick to gather here. This will remain the centre of operations during the inquiry. Now, as you all know …’

Detective Chief Superintendent Wallace froze in mid-speech as the Inquiry Room door pushed itself open abruptly and John Rebus, all eyes turned towards him, entered the room. He looked about in embarrassment, smiled a hopeful but wasted apology towards the senior officer, and sat himself down on a chair nearest to the door.

‘As I was saying,’ continued the superintendent.

Rebus, rubbing at his forehead, studied the roomful of officers. He knew what the old boy would be saying, and right now the last thing he needed was a pep-talk of the old school. The room was packed. Many of them looked tired, as if they’d been on the case for a while. The fresher, more attentive faces belonged to the new boys, some of them brought in from stations outwith the city. Two or three had notebooks and pencils at the ready, almost as if they were back in the school classroom. And at the front of the group, legs crossed, sat two women, peering up at Wallace, who was in full flight now, parading before the blackboard like some Shakespearean hero in a bad school play.

‘Two deaths, then. Yes, deaths I’m afraid.’ The room shivered expectantly. ‘The body of Sandra Adams, aged eleven, was found on a piece of waste ground adjacent to Haymarket Station at six o’clock this evening, and that of Mary Andrews at six-fifty on an allotment in the Oxgangs district. There are officers at both locations, and at the end of this briefing more of you will be selected to join them.’