Black And Blue by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online Page A

six years on. Identification from clothing initially, a member of the public coming forward to say the description sounded like a neighbour who hadn’t been seen for a couple of weeks. The milkman had kept on delivering until he decided no one was home, that she had gone away for Christmas without telling him.
    Police forced the front door. Unopened Christmas cards onthe hall carpet; a pot of soup on the stove, speckled with mould; a radio playing quietly. Relatives were found, identified the body – Elizabeth Rhind, Elsie to her friends. Thirty-five years old, divorced from a sailor in the merchant navy. She’d worked for a brewery, shorthand and typing. She’d been well liked, the outgoing type. The ex-husband, suspect one, had a steel-toecapped alibi: his ship was in Gib at the time. Lists of the victim’s friends, especially boyfriends, and a name came up: Lenny. No surname, someone Elsie had gone out with for a few weeks. Drinking companions provided a description, and Lawson Geddes recognised it: Lenny Spaven. Geddes formed his theory quickly: Lenny had zeroed in on Elsie when he learned she worked at the brewery. He was probably looking for inside gen, maybe thinking of a truck hijack or a simple break-in. Elsie refused to help, he got angry, and he killed her.
    It sounded good to Geddes, but he found it hard to convince anyone else. There was no evidence either. They couldn’t determine a time of death, leaving a twenty-four-hour margin of error, so Spaven didn’t need to provide an alibi. A search of his home and those of his friends showed no bloodstains, nothing. There were other strands they should have been following, but Geddes couldn’t stop thinking about Spaven. It nearly drove John Rebus demented. They argued loudly, more than once, stopped going for drinks together. The brass had a word with Geddes, told him he was becoming obsessed to the detriment of the inquiry. He was told to take a holiday. They even had a collection for him in the Murder Room.
    Then one night he’d come to Rebus’s door, begging a favour. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, or changed his clothes over that time. He said he’d been following Spaven, and had tracked him to a lock-up in Stockbridge. He was probably still there if they hurried. Rebus knew it was wrong; there were procedures. But Geddes was shivering,wild-eyed. All idea of search warrants and the like evaporated. Rebus insisted on driving, Geddes giving directions.
    Spaven was still in the garage. So were brown cardboard boxes, piled high: the proceeds from a South Queensferry warehouse break-in back in November. Digital clock-radios: Spaven was fitting plugs to them, preparing to hawk them around the pubs and clubs. Behind one pile of boxes, Geddes discovered a plastic carrier bag. Inside were a woman’s hat and a cream shoulder-bag, both later identified as having belonged to Elsie Rhind.
    Spaven protested his innocence from the moment Geddes lifted up the carrier bag and asked what was inside. He protested all the way through the rest of the investigation, the trial, and as he was being hauled back to the cells after being handed down a life sentence. Geddes and Rebus were in court, Geddes back to normal, beaming satisfaction, Rebus just a little uneasy. They’d had to concoct a story: an anonymous tip-off on a consignment of stolen goods, a chance find … It felt right and wrong at the same time. Lawson Geddes hadn’t wanted to talk about it afterwards, which was strange: usually they dissected their cases – successful or not – over a drink. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Geddes had resigned from the force, with promotion only a year or two away. Instead, he’d gone to work in his father’s off-sales business – there was always a discount waiting for serving officers – made some money, and retired at a youthful fifty-five. For the past ten years, he’d been living with his wife Etta in Lanzarote.
    Ten years ago Rebus had received a