Ian Rankin - The Beat Goes On

‘Yes?’ His voice was non-committal.

‘DI Rebus?’ It was work then. Rebus grunted a response. ‘DC Coupar here, sir. The Chief thought you’d be interested.’ There was a pause for effect. ‘A bomb’s just gone off in Barnton.’

Rebus stared at the sheets of print lying all around him. He asked the Detective Constable to repeat the message.

‘A bomb, sir. In Barnton.’

‘What? A World War Two leftover you mean?’

‘No, sir. Nothing like that. Nothing like that at all.’

There was a line of poetry in Rebus’s head as he drove out towards one of Edinburgh’s many quiet middle-class districts, the sort of place where nothing happened, the sort of place where crime was measured in a yearly attempted break-in or the theft of a bicycle. That was Barnton. The line of poetry hadn’t been written about Barnton. It had been written about Slough.

It’s my own fault, Rebus was thinking, for being disgusted at how far-fetched that Hammett book was. Entertaining, yes, but you could strain credulity only so far, and Dashiell Hammett had taken that strain like the anchor-man on a tug-o’-war team, pulling with all his might. Coincidence after coincidence, plot after plot, corpse following corpse like something off an assembly line.

Far-fetched, definitely. But then what was Rebus to make of his telephone call? He’d checked: it wasn’t 1st April. But then he wouldn’t put it past Brian Holmes or one of his other colleagues to pull a stunt on him just because he was having a day off, just because he’d carped on about it for the previous few days. Yes, this had Holmes’ fingerprints all over it. Except for one thing.

The radio reports. The police frequency was full of it; and when Rebus switched on his car radio to the local commercial channel, the news was there, too. Reports of an explosion in Barnton, not far from the roundabout. It is thought a car has exploded. No further details, though there are thought to be many casualties. Rebus shook his head and drove, thinking of the poem again, thinking of anything that would stop him focussing on the truth of the news. A car bomb? A car bomb? In Belfast, yes, maybe even on occasion in London. But here in Edinburgh? Rebus blamed himself. If only he hadn’t cursed Dashiell Hammett, if only he hadn’t sneered at his book, at its exaggerations and its melodramas, if only... Then none of this would have happened.

But of course it would. It had.

The road had been blocked off. The ambulances had left with their cargo. Onlookers stood four deep behind the orange and white tape of the hastily erected cordon. There was just the one question: how many dead? The answer seemed to be: just the one. The driver of the car. An Army bomb disposal unit had materialised from somewhere and, for want of anything else to do, was checking the shops either side of the street. A line of policemen, aided so far as Rebus could judge by more Army personnel, was moving slowly up the road, mostly on hands and knees, in what an outsider might regard as some bizarre slow-motion race. They carried with them polythene bags, into which they dropped anything they found. The whole scene was one of brilliantly organised confusion and it didn’t take Rebus longer than a couple of minutes to detect the mastermind behind it all — Superintendent ‘Farmer’ Watson. ‘Farmer’ only behind his back, of course, and a nickname which matched both his north-of-Scotland background and his at times agricultural methods. Rebus decided to skirt around his superior officer and glean what he could from the various less senior officers present.

He had come to Barnton with a set of preconceptions and it took time for these to be corrected. For example, he’d premised that the person in the car, the as-yet-unidentified deceased, would be the car’s owner and that this person would have been the target of the bomb attack (the evidence all around most certainly pointed to a bomb, rather than spontaneous combustion, say, or any other more likely explanation). Either that or the car might be stolen or borrowed, and the driver some sort of terrorist, blown apart by his own device before he could leave it at its intended destination. There were certainly Army installations around Edinburgh: barracks, armouries, listening posts. Across the Forth lay what was left of Rosyth naval dockyard, as well as the underground installation at Pitreavie. There were targets. Bomb meant terrorist meant target. That was how it always was.

But not this time. This time there was an important difference. The apparent target escaped, by dint of leaving his car for a couple of minutes to nip into a shop. But while he was in the shop someone had tried to steal his car, and that person was now drying into the tarmac beneath the knees of the crawling policemen. This much Rebus learned before Superintendent Watson caught sight of him, caught sight of him smiling wryly at the car thief’s luck. It wasn’t every day you got the chance to steal a Jaguar XJS... but what a day to pick.

‘Inspector!’ Farmer Watson beckoned for Rebus to join him, which Rebus, ironing out his smile, did.

Before Watson could start filling him in on what he already knew, Rebus himself spoke.

‘Who was the target, sir?’

‘A man called Dean.’ Meaningful pause. ‘Brigadier-General Dean, retired.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I thought there were a lot of Tommies about.’

‘We’ll be working with the Army on this one, John. That’s how it’s done, apparently. And then there’s Scotland Yard, too. Their anti-terrorist people.’

‘Too many cooks if you ask me, sir.’

Watson nodded. ‘Still, these buggers are supposed to be specialised.’

‘And we’re only good for solving the odd drunk driving or domestic, eh, sir?’

The two men shared a smile at this. Rebus nodded towards the wreck of the car. ‘Any idea who was behind the wheel?’

Watson shook his head. ‘Not yet. And not much to go on either. We may have to wait till a mum or girlfriend reports him missing.’

‘Not even a description?’

‘None of the passers-by is fit to be questioned. Not yet anyway.’

‘So what about Brigadier-General Whassisname?’

‘Dean.’

‘Yes. Where is he?’

‘He’s at home. A doctor’s been to take a look at him, but he seems all right. A bit shocked.’

‘A bit? Someone rips the arse out of his car and he’s a bit shocked?’ Rebus sounded doubtful. Watson’s eyes were fixed on the advancing line of debris collectors.

‘I get the feeling he’s seen worse.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘Why don’t you have a word with him, John? See what you think.’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Aye, why not,’ he said. ‘Anything for a laugh, eh, sir?’

Watson seemed stuck for a reply, and by the time he’d formed one Rebus had wandered back through the cordon, hands in trouser pockets, looking for all the world like a man out for a stroll on a balmy summer’s evening. Only then did the Superintendent remember that this was Rebus’s day off. He wondered if it had been such a bright idea to send him off to talk to Brigadier-General Dean. Then he smiled, recalling that he had brought John Rebus out here precisely because something didn’t quite feel right. If he could feel it, Rebus would feel it too, and would burrow deep to find its source — as deep as necessary and, perhaps, deeper than was seemly for a Superintendent to go.

Yes, there were times when even Detective Inspector John Rebus came in useful.

It was a big house. Rebus would go further. It was bigger than the last hotel he’d stayed in, though of a similar style: closer to Hammer Films than House and Garden . A hotel in Scarborough it had been; three days of lust with a divorced school-dinner lady. School-dinner ladies hadn’t been like that in Rebus’s day... or maybe he just hadn’t been paying attention.