10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (45 page)

‘Is that what all the screaming was about?’

‘Oh, that.’ Rebus tried to shrug it off, but could feel the blood tingling in his cheeks. ‘No,’ he said, ‘that was just something . . . well, something else. . . .’

‘Not very convincing, Rebus, you bastard.’ Her words were tired. He wanted to buoy her up, tell her she was looking well or something. But it wouldn’t have been true and she would just scowl at him again. So he left it. She
was
looking drawn, not enough sleep and no fun left any more. She’d just had her world locked up in a cell somewhere in Fife. They would be photographing and fingerprinting it perhaps, ready to file it away. Her life, Calum McCallum.

Life was full of surprises.

‘So what can I do for you?’

She looked up at him, studying his face as though she wasn’t sure who he was or why she was here. Then she shook herself awake with a twitch of the shoulders.

‘It sounds corny, but I really was just passing. I dropped into the canteen for a coffee before going home, and then I heard –’ She shivered again; the twitch which wasn’t quite a twitch. Rebus could see how fragile she was. He hoped she wasn’t going to shake apart. ‘I heard about Calum. How could he do that to me, John? Keep a secret like that? I mean, where’s the fun in watching dogs ripping each other –’

‘That’s something you’ll have to ask him yourself, Gill. Can I get you some more coffee?’

‘Christ no, I’m going to find it hard enough getting to sleep as it is. Tell you what I would like though, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Name it.’

‘A lift home.’ Rebus was already nodding agreement. ‘And a hug.’

Rebus got up slowly, donned his jacket, put the pen and piece of paper in his pocket, and met her in the middle of the room. She had already risen from her chair, and, standing on reports to be read, paperwork to be signed, arrest statistics and the rest, they hugged, their arms strong. She buried her head in his shoulder. He rested his chin on her neck, staring at the closed door, rubbing her back with one hand, patting with the other. Eventually, she pulled away, head first, then chest, but still holding him with her arms. Her eyes were moist, but it was over now. She was looking a little better.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘I needed it as much as you did,’ said Rebus. ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’

Someone was knocking on his door. An authoritarian knock, using the old brass knocker that he never cleaned. Rebus opened his eyes. The sun was streaming into his living room, a record’s run-out track crackling. Another night spent in the chair, fully clothed. He’d be as well selling the mattress in the bedroom. Would anyone buy a mattress without a bed-frame?

Knockity knock knock again. Still patient. Still waiting for him to answer. His eyes were gummy, and he pushed his shirt back into his trousers as he walked from the living room to the door. He felt not too bad, considering. Not stiff, no tightness in the neck. A wash and a shave, and he might even feel human.

He opened the door, just as Holmes was about to knock again.

‘Brian.’ Rebus sounded genuinely pleased.

‘Morning. Mind if I come in?’

‘Not at all. Is Nell okay?’

‘I phoned this morning. They say she had a good night.’

They were walking in the direction of the kitchen, Rebus leading. Holmes had imagined the flat would smell of beer and cigarettes, a typical bachelor pad. In fact, it was tidier than he’d expected, furnished with a modicum of taste. There were a lot of books. Rebus had never struck him as a reader. Mind you, not all the books looked as though they’d been read: bought with a rainy, dead weekend in mind. The weekend that never came.

Rebus pointed vaguely in the direction of kettle and cupboards.

‘Make us some coffee, will you? I’ll just take a quick shower.’

‘Right.’ Holmes thought that his news could probably wait. At least until Rebus was fully awake. He sought in vain for instant coffee, but found, in one cupboard, a vacuum pack of ground coffee, several months past its sell-by date. He opened it and spooned some into the teapot while the kettle was boiling. Sounds of running water came from the bathroom, and above these the tinny sound of a transistor radio. Voices. Some talk show, Holmes supposed.

While Rebus was in the bathroom, he took the opportunity to wander through the flat. The living room was huge, with a high corniced ceiling. Holmes felt a pang of jealousy. He’d never be able to buy a place like this. He was looking around Easter Road and Gorgie, near the football grounds of Hibs and Hearts respectively. He could afford a flat in both these parts of the city, a decent-sized flat, too, three bedrooms. But the rooms were small, the areas mean. He was no snob. Hell, yes he was. He wanted to live in the New Town, in Dean Village, here in Marchmont, where students philosophised in pretty coffee shops.

He wasn’t overcareful with the stylus when he lifted the arm off the record. The record itself was by some jazz combo. It looked old, and he sought in vain for its sleeve. The noises from the bathroom had stopped. He walked stealthily back to the kitchen and found a tea strainer in the cutlery drawer. So he was able to keep the grounds out of the coffee he now poured into two mugs. Rebus came in, wrapped in a bath-towel, rubbing at his head with another, smaller towel. He needed to lose weight, or to exercise what weight he had. His chest was beginning to hang, pale like a carcass.

He picked up a mug and sipped.

‘Mmm. The real McCoy.’

‘I found it in the cupboard. No milk though.’

‘Never mind. This is fine. You say you found it in the cupboard? We might make a detective of you yet. I’ll just put on some togs.’ And he was off again, for only two minutes this time. The clothes he came back wearing were clean, but unironed. Holmes noticed that though there was plumbing in the kitchen for a washing machine, there was no machine. Rebus seemed to read his mind.

‘My wife took it when she moved out. Took a lot of stuff. That’s why the place looks so bare.’

‘It doesn’t look bare. It looks planned.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Let’s go into the living room.’

Rebus motioned for Holmes to sit, then sat down himself. The chair was still warm from his night’s sleep. ‘I see you’ve already been in here.’

Holmes looked surprised. Caught. He remembered that he’d lifted the stylus off the record.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘That’s what I like to see,’ Rebus said. ‘Yes, we’ll make a detective of you yet, Brian.’

Holmes wasn’t sure whether Rebus was being flattering or condescending. He let it go.

‘Something I thought you might like to know,’ he began.

‘I already know,’ said Rebus. ‘Sorry to spoil the surprise, but I was at the station late last night, and somebody told me.’

‘Last night?’ Holmes was confused. ‘But they only found the body this morning.’

‘The body? You mean he’s dead?’

‘Yes. Suicide.’

‘Jesus, poor Gill.’

‘Gill?’

‘Gill Templer. She was going out with him.’

‘Inspector Templer?’ Holmes was shocked. ‘I thought she was living with that disc jockey?’

Now Rebus was confused. ‘Isn’t that who we’re talking about?’

‘No,’ said Holmes. The surprise was still intact. He felt real relief.

‘So who
are
we talking about?’ asked Rebus with a growing sense of dread. ‘Who’s committed suicide?’

‘James Carew.’

‘Carew?’

‘Yes. Found him in his flat this morning. Overdose apparently.’

‘Overdose of what?’

‘I don’t know. Some kind of pills.’

Rebus was stunned. He recalled the look on Carew’s face that night atop Calton Hill.

‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I wanted a word with him.’

‘I was wondering . . .’ said Holmes.

‘What?’

‘I don’t suppose you ever got round to asking him about getting me a flat?’

‘No,’ said Rebus. ‘I never got the chance.’

‘I was only joking,’ Holmes said, realising that Rebus had taken his comment literally. ‘Was he a friend? I mean, I know you met him for lunch, but I didn’t realise –’

‘Did he leave a note?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well who
would
know?’

Holmes thought for a second. ‘I think Inspector McCall was at the scene.’

‘Right, come on.’ Rebus was up on his feet.

‘What about your coffee?’

‘Sod the coffee. I want to see Tony McCall.’

‘What was all that about Calum McCallum?’ said Holmes, rising now.

‘You mean you haven’t heard?’ Holmes shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

And then Rebus was on the move, grabbing jacket, getting out his keys to lock the front door. Holmes wondered what the secret was. What had Calum McCallum done? God, he hated people who hung on to secrets.

Rebus read the note as he stood in Carew’s bedroom. It was elegantly written with a proper nib pen, but in one or two of the words fear could be clearly read, the letters trembling uncontrollably, scribbled out to be tried again. Good-quality writing paper too, thick and watermarked. The V12 was in a garage behind the flat. The flat itself was stunning, a museum for art deco pieces, modern art prints, and valuable first editions, locked behind glass.

This is the flipside of Vanderhyde’s home, Rebus had thought as he moved through the flat. Then McCall had handed him the suicide note.

‘If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also.’ Was that a quote from somewhere? Certainly, it was a bit prolix for a suicide note. But then Carew would have gone through draft upon draft until satisfied. It had to be exact, had to stand as his monument. ‘Some day you may perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this.’ Not that Rebus needed to seek too hard. He had the queasy feeling, reading the note, that Carew’s words were directed straight at him, that he was saying things only Rebus could fully understand.

‘Funny sort of note to leave behind,’ said McCall.

‘Yes,’ said Rebus.

‘You met him recently, didn’t you?’ said McCall. ‘I remember you saying. Did he seem okay then? I mean, he wasn’t depressed or anything?’

‘I’ve seen him since then.’

‘Oh?’

‘I was sniffing around Calton Hill a couple of nights back. He was there in his car.’

‘Ah-ha.’ McCall nodded. Everything was starting to make a little bit of sense.

Rebus handed back the note and went over to the bed. The sheets were rumpled. Three empty pill bottles stood in a neat line on the bedside table. On the floor lay an empty cognac bottle.

‘The man went out in style,’ McCall said, pocketing the note. ‘He’d gone through a couple of bottles of wine before that.’

‘Yes, I saw them in the living room. Lafite sixty-one. The stuff of a very special occasion.’

‘They don’t come more special, John.’

Both men turned as a third presence became evident in the room. It was Farmer Watson, breathing heavily from the effort of the stairs.

‘This is bloody awkward,’ he said. ‘One of the linchpins of our campaign tops himself, and by taking a bloody overdose. How’s that going to look, eh?’

‘Awkward, sir,’ replied Rebus, ‘just as you say.’

‘I do say. I do say.’ Watson thrust a finger out towards Rebus. ‘It’s up to you, John, to make sure the media don’t make a meal of this, or of us.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Watson looked over towards the bed. ‘Waste of a bloody decent man. What makes someone do it? I mean, look at this place. And there’s an estate somewhere on one of the islands. Own business. Expensive car. Things we can only dream about. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right.’ Watson took a last glance towards the bed, then slapped a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. ‘I’m depending on you, John.’

‘Yes, sir.’

McCall and Rebus watched their superior go.

‘Bloody hell!’ whispered McCall. ‘He didn’t look at me, not once. I might as well have not been there.’

‘You should thank your lucky stars, Tony. I wish I had your gift of invisibility.’

Both men smiled. ‘Seen enough?’ McCall asked.

‘Just one more circuit,’ said Rebus. ‘Then I’ll get out of your hair.’

‘Whatever you say, John. Just one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘What the hell were you doing up Calton Hill in the middle of the night?’

‘Don’t ask,’ said Rebus, blowing a kiss as he headed for the living area.

It
would
be big news locally, of course. There was no getting away from the fact. The radio stations and newspapers would have trouble deciding which headline deserved most prominence: Disc Jockey Arrested at Illegal Dog Fight or Suicide Shock of Estate Agent Giant. Well, something along those lines. Jim Stevens would have loved it, but then Jim Stevens was in London and married, by all accounts, to some girl half his age.

Rebus admired that kind of dangerous move. He had no admiration for James Carew: none. Watson was right in at least one respect: Carew had everything going for him, and Rebus was finding it difficult to believe that he would commit suicide solely because he had been spotted by a police officer on Calton Hill. No, that might have been the trigger, but there
had
to be something more. Something, perhaps, in the flat, or in the offices of Bowyer Carew on George Street.

James Carew owned a lot of books. A quick examination showed that they were for the most part expensive, impressive titles, but unread, their spines crackling as they were opened by Rebus for the first time. The top right hand section of the bookcase held several titles which
interested him more than the others. Books by Genet and Alexander Trocchi, copies of Forster’s
Maurice
and even
Last Exit to Brooklyn
. Poems by Walt Whitman, the text of
Torchlight Trilogy
. A mixed bag of predominantly gay reading. Nothing wrong in that. But their positioning in the bookshelves – right at the top and separated from the other titles – suggested to Rebus that here was a man ashamed of himself. There was no reason for this, not these days. . . .