looking for?’
‘Just see if anything jars. Just … I don’t know.’
‘You’re taking this seriously then?’
‘Lawson Geddes just killed himself.’
‘Christ.’ But Holmes didn’t even blink; beyond compassion for men he didn’t know, figures from history. He had too much on his own mind.
‘Something else,’ Rebus said. ‘You might track down an ex-con who says he was the last person to talk to Spaven. I forget the name, but it was reported in all the papers at the time.’
‘One question: do you think Geddes framed Lenny Spaven?’
Rebus made a show of thinking it over, then shrugged. ‘Let me tell you the story. Not the story you’ll find in my written notes on the case.’
Rebus began to talk: Geddes turning up at his door, the too-easy finding of the bag, Geddes frantic before, unnaturally calm after. The story they manufactured, anonymous tip-off. Holmes listened in silence. The cinema began to empty, young couples hugging, air-hopping towards their cars, walking like they’d rather be lying down. A gathering of engine-noise, exhaust fumes and headlights, tall shadows on the canyon walls, the car park emptying. Rebus finished his version.
‘Another question.’
Rebus waited, but Holmes was having trouble forming the words. He gave up finally and shook his head. Rebus knew what he was thinking. He knew Rebus had put the squeeze on Minto, while believing Minto to have a case against Holmes. And now he knew that Rebus had lied to protect Lawson Geddes and to secure the conviction. The question in hismind a double strand – was Rebus’s version the truth? How dirty was the copper sitting behind the steering wheel?
How dirty would Holmes allow himself to get before he left the force?
Rebus knew Nell nagged him every day, quiet persuasion. He was young enough for another career, any career, something clean and risk-free. There was still time for him to get out. But maybe not much time.
‘OK,’ Holmes said, opening the car door. ‘I’ll start a.s.a.p.’ He paused. ‘But if I find any dirt, anything concealed in the margins …’
Rebus turned on his lights, high-beam. He started the car and drove off.
4
Rebus woke up early. There was a book open on his lap. He looked at the last paragraph he’d read before falling asleep, didn’t recall any of it. Mail lying inside the door: who’d be a postman in Edinburgh, all those tenement stairs? His credit-card bill: two supermarkets, three off-licences, and Bob’s Rare Vinyl. Impulse buys one Saturday afternoon, after a lunchtime sesh in the Ox – Freak Out on single vinyl, mint; The Velvet Underground , peel-off banana intact; Sergeant Pepper in mono with the sheet of cut-outs. He’d yet to play any of them, already had scratchy copies of the Velvets and Beatles.
He shopped on Marchmont Road, ate breakfast at the kitchen table with the Bible John/Johnny Bible material for a cloth. Johnny Bible headlines: ‘Catch This Monster!’; ‘Baby-Faced Killer Claims Third Victim’; ‘Public Warned: Be Vigilant’. Much the same banners Bible John was earning a quarter century before.
Johnny Bible’s first victim: Duthie Park, Aberdeen. Michelle Strachan came from Pittenweem in Fife, so of course all her Furry Boot pals called her Michelle Fifer. She didn’t look like her near-namesake: short and skinny, mousy shoulder-length hair, front teeth prominent. She was a student at Robert Gordon University. Raped, strangled, one shoe missing.
Victim two, six weeks later: Angela Riddell, Angie to her friends. In her time she’d worked at an escort agency, been arrested in a slapper sweep near Leith docks, and fronted a blues band, husky-voiced but trying too hard. A recordcompany had now released the band’s only demo as a CD single, making money from ghouls and the curious. Edinburgh CID had spent a lot of hours – thousands of man hours – trawling through Angie Riddell’s past, seeking out old clients, friends, fans of the band, looking
‘Just see if anything jars. Just … I don’t know.’
‘You’re taking this seriously then?’
‘Lawson Geddes just killed himself.’
‘Christ.’ But Holmes didn’t even blink; beyond compassion for men he didn’t know, figures from history. He had too much on his own mind.
‘Something else,’ Rebus said. ‘You might track down an ex-con who says he was the last person to talk to Spaven. I forget the name, but it was reported in all the papers at the time.’
‘One question: do you think Geddes framed Lenny Spaven?’
Rebus made a show of thinking it over, then shrugged. ‘Let me tell you the story. Not the story you’ll find in my written notes on the case.’
Rebus began to talk: Geddes turning up at his door, the too-easy finding of the bag, Geddes frantic before, unnaturally calm after. The story they manufactured, anonymous tip-off. Holmes listened in silence. The cinema began to empty, young couples hugging, air-hopping towards their cars, walking like they’d rather be lying down. A gathering of engine-noise, exhaust fumes and headlights, tall shadows on the canyon walls, the car park emptying. Rebus finished his version.
‘Another question.’
Rebus waited, but Holmes was having trouble forming the words. He gave up finally and shook his head. Rebus knew what he was thinking. He knew Rebus had put the squeeze on Minto, while believing Minto to have a case against Holmes. And now he knew that Rebus had lied to protect Lawson Geddes and to secure the conviction. The question in hismind a double strand – was Rebus’s version the truth? How dirty was the copper sitting behind the steering wheel?
How dirty would Holmes allow himself to get before he left the force?
Rebus knew Nell nagged him every day, quiet persuasion. He was young enough for another career, any career, something clean and risk-free. There was still time for him to get out. But maybe not much time.
‘OK,’ Holmes said, opening the car door. ‘I’ll start a.s.a.p.’ He paused. ‘But if I find any dirt, anything concealed in the margins …’
Rebus turned on his lights, high-beam. He started the car and drove off.
4
Rebus woke up early. There was a book open on his lap. He looked at the last paragraph he’d read before falling asleep, didn’t recall any of it. Mail lying inside the door: who’d be a postman in Edinburgh, all those tenement stairs? His credit-card bill: two supermarkets, three off-licences, and Bob’s Rare Vinyl. Impulse buys one Saturday afternoon, after a lunchtime sesh in the Ox – Freak Out on single vinyl, mint; The Velvet Underground , peel-off banana intact; Sergeant Pepper in mono with the sheet of cut-outs. He’d yet to play any of them, already had scratchy copies of the Velvets and Beatles.
He shopped on Marchmont Road, ate breakfast at the kitchen table with the Bible John/Johnny Bible material for a cloth. Johnny Bible headlines: ‘Catch This Monster!’; ‘Baby-Faced Killer Claims Third Victim’; ‘Public Warned: Be Vigilant’. Much the same banners Bible John was earning a quarter century before.
Johnny Bible’s first victim: Duthie Park, Aberdeen. Michelle Strachan came from Pittenweem in Fife, so of course all her Furry Boot pals called her Michelle Fifer. She didn’t look like her near-namesake: short and skinny, mousy shoulder-length hair, front teeth prominent. She was a student at Robert Gordon University. Raped, strangled, one shoe missing.
Victim two, six weeks later: Angela Riddell, Angie to her friends. In her time she’d worked at an escort agency, been arrested in a slapper sweep near Leith docks, and fronted a blues band, husky-voiced but trying too hard. A recordcompany had now released the band’s only demo as a CD single, making money from ghouls and the curious. Edinburgh CID had spent a lot of hours – thousands of man hours – trawling through Angie Riddell’s past, seeking out old clients, friends, fans of the band, looking
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