Ian Rankin - Knots And Crosses

He fell asleep soon enough, the lamp still burning, as cars began to pass by his window.

His alarm did the trick for a change, pulling him off the mattress as a magnet attracts filings. He had kicked off the duvet, and was drenched in sweat. He felt suffocated, and remembered suddenly that the central heating was still boiling away like a steamship. On his way to switching off the thermostat, he stooped at the front door to pick up the day’s mail. One of the letters was unstamped and unfranked. It bore only his name in typescript across the front. Rebus’s stomach squeezed hard on the paste of rolls and butter. He ripped the envelope open, pulling out the single sheet of paper.

FOR THOSE WHO READ BETWEEN THE TIMES.

So now the lunatic knew where he lived. Checking in the envelope, laconic now and expecting to find the knotted string, he found instead two matchsticks, tied together with thread into the shape of a cross.

Organized chaos: that summed up the newspaper office. Organized chaos on the grandest of scales. Stevens rummaged amongst the sheaf of paper in his tray, looking for a needle. Had he perhaps filed it somewhere else? He opened one of the large, heavy drawers of his desk, then shut it quickly, afraid that some of the mess in there might escape. Controlling himself, he took a deep breath and opened it again. He plunged a hand into the jumble of paper inside the drawer, as if something in there would bite. A huge dog-clip, springing loose from one particular file, did bite. It nicked his thumb and he slammed the drawer shut, the cigarette wobbling in his mouth as he cursed the office, the journalistic profession, and trees, begetters of paper. Sod it. He sat back and squeezed his eyes shut as the smoke began to sting. It was eleven in the morning, and already the office was a blue haze, as though everything were happening on the set of a Brigadoon marsh-scene. He grabbed a sheet of typescript, turned it over, and began to scribble with a nub of pencil which he had lifted from a betting shop.

‘X (Mr Big?) delivers to Rebus, M. How does the policeman fit in? Answer — perhaps everywhere, perhaps nowhere.’

He paused, taking the cigarette from his mouth, replacing it with a fresh one, and using the butt to light its successor.

‘Now — anonymous letters. Threats? A code?’

Stevens found it unlikely that John Rebus could not know about his brother’s involvement in the Scottish drug-pushing world, and knowing, the chances were that he was involved in it too, perhaps leading the whole investigation the wrong way to protect his flesh and blood. It would make a cracking good story when it broke, but he knew that he would be treading on eggs from here on in. No one would go out of their way to help him nail a policeman, and if anyone found out what he was up to, he would be in very serious trouble indeed. He needed to do two things: check his life insurance policy, and tell nobody about this.

‘Jim!’

The editor gestured for him to step into the torture chamber. He rose from his seat, as though tearing himself up from something organic, straightened his mauve and pink striped tie, and headed towards a presumed bawling-out.

‘Yes, Tom?’

‘Aren’t you supposed to be at a press conference?’

‘Plenty of time, Tom.’

‘Which photographer are you taking?’

‘Does it matter? I’d be better off taking my bloody instamatic. These young boys don’t know the ropes, Tom. What about Andy Fleming? Can’t I have him?’

‘No chance, Jim. He’s covering the royal tour.’

‘What royal tour?’

Tom Jameson seemed about to rise again from his chair, which would have been an unprecedented move. He only straightened his back and shoulders however, and eyed his ‘star’ crime reporter suspiciously.

‘You are a journalist, Jim, aren’t you? I mean, you’ve not gone into early retirement, or become a recluse? No history of senile dementia in the family?’

‘Listen, Tom, when the Royal Family commits a crime, I’ll be the first on the scene. Otherwise, as far as I’m concerned, they don’t exist. Not outside of my nightmares, anyway.’

Jameson pointedly examined his wristwatch.

‘Okay, okay, I’m going.’

With that, Stevens turned on his heels with amazing speed and left the office, ignoring the cries of his boss at his back, asking which of the available photographers he wanted.

It wouldn’t matter. He had yet to meet a policeman who was photogenic. Then, leaving the building, he remembered who was Liaison Officer on this particular case, and he changed his mind, smiling.

‘ “There are clues everywhere, for those who read between the times.” It’s pure gobbledygook, isn’t it, John?’

Morton was driving the car towards the Haymarket district of the city. It was another afternoon of consistent, wind-driven rain, the rain itself fine and cold, the kind that seeped into bones and marrow. The city had been dull all day, to a point where motorists were using their headlamps at noon. A great day for some outside work.

‘I’m not so sure, Jack. The second part leads on from the first as if there was a logical connection.’

‘Well, let’s hope he sends you some more notes. Maybe that would make things clearer.’

‘Maybe. I’d rather he’d just stop this shit altogether. It’s not very nice knowing that a crank knows where you work and where you live.’

‘Is your phone number in the telephone book?’

‘No, unlisted.’

‘That rules out that idea then. So how does he know your home address?’

‘He or she,’ said Rebus, tucking the notes back into his pocket. ‘How should I know?’

He lit two cigarettes and passed one to Morton, breaking the filter off for him.

‘Ta,’ said Morton, placing the tiny cigarette in the corner of his mouth. The rain was easing. ‘Floods in Glasgow,’ he said, expecting no reply.

Both men were bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, but the case had taken possession of them, so they drove, minds numbed, towards the bleak heart of the inquiry. A portakabin had been set up on waste ground next to the spot where the girl’s body had been found. From there, a door-to-door operation was being co-ordinated. Friends and family were also to be interviewed. Rebus foresaw much tedium in the day ahead.

‘What worries me,’ Morton had said, ‘is that if the two murders are linked, then we’re dealing with someone who probably didn’t know either of the girls. That makes for a bastard of a job.’

Rebus had nodded. There was still the chance, however, either that both girls had known their murderer, or that the murderer had been someone in a position of trust. Otherwise, the girls being nearly twelve-years old and not daft, they would surely have struggled when abducted. Yet no one had come forward to say that they had witnessed any such thing. It was bloody strange.

The rain had stopped by the time they reached the cramped operations-room. The inspector in charge of outdoor operations was there to hand them lists of names and addresses. Rebus rejoiced to be away from the HQ, away from Anderson and his thirst for paperwork results. This was where the work really took place, where the contacts were made, where one slip by a suspect could tip a case one way or the other.

‘Do you mind me asking, sir, who it was that suggested my colleague and me for this particular job?’

The DI, his eyes twinkling, studied Rebus for a second.

‘Yes, I bloody well do mind, Rebus. It doesn’t matter one way or the other, does it? Every single task in this case is as vital and as important as every other. Let’s not forget that.’