10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online Page B

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 oneway 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.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ said Rebus.
    ‘This must be a bit like working inside a shoebox, sir,’ said Morton examining the cramped interior.
    ‘Yes, son, I’m in the shoebox, but you lot are the shoes, so get bloody well moving.’
    This particular inspector, thought Rebus, pocketing his list, seemed a nice bloke, his tongue just sharp enough for Rebus’s taste.
    ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ he said now, ‘this won’t take us long.’
    He hoped that the inspector noted the irony in his voice.
    ‘Last one back’s a fairy,’ said Morton.
    They were doing this by the rule-book then, yet the case would seem to demand that new rules be drawn up. Anderson was sending them out to look for the usual suspects: family, acquaintances, people with records. Doubtless, back at HQ, groups such as the Paedophile Information Exchange were being investigated. Rebus hoped that there were plenty of crank calls for Anderson to sift through. There usually were: the callers who admitted to the crime, the callers who were psychic and could help by getting in touch with the deceased, the callers who pressed a red-herring to your nose so that you could have a sniff. They were all mastered by past guilt and present fantasies. Perhaps everyone was.
    At his first house, Rebus battered on the door and waited. It was opened by a rank old woman, her feet bare, a cardigan comprised of ninety-percent hole to ten-percent wool hanging around her scarp-like shoulders.
    ‘Whit is it?’
    ‘Police, madam. It’s about the murder.’
    ‘Eh? Whitever it is, I dinnae want it. Away ye get afore I ca’ for the coppers.’
    ‘The murders,’ shouted Rebus. ‘I’m a policeman. I’ve come to ask you a few questions.’
    ‘Eh?’ She stood back a little to peer at him, and Rebus could swear that he saw the faint glow of a past intelligence in the dulled black of her pupils.
    ‘Whit murders?’ she said.
    One of those days. To improve matters, the rain began again, heavy dollops of stinging water gripping to his neck and face, seeping into his shoes. Just like that day at the old man’s grave . . . Only yesterday? A lot could happen in twenty-four hours, all of it to him.
    By seven o’clock, Rebus had covered six of the fourteen individuals on his list. He walked back to the operations-shoebox, his feet sore, his stomach awash with tea and craving something stronger.
    At the boggy waste ground, Jack Morton stood and stared out over the acres of clay, strewn with bricks and detritus: a child’s heaven.
    ‘What a hellish place to die in.’
    ‘She didn’t die here, Jack. Remember what forensic said.’
    ‘Well, you know what I mean.’
    Yes, Rebus knew what he meant.
    ‘By the way,’ said Morton, ‘you’re the fairy.’
    ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Rebus.
    They drank in some of Edinburgh’s seedier bars, bars the tourist never sees. They tried to shut the