Ian Rankin - The Black Book (Inspector Rebus)

The Black Book

An Inspector Rebus Novel

Ian Rankin

An Orion paperback
First published in Great Britain by Orion in 1993
This paperback edition published in 1994 by Orion Books Ltd,
Orion House, 5 Upper St Martins Lane, London WC2H 9EA

Nineteenth impression 2004

Copyright 1993 Ian Rankin

The right of Ian Rankin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright. Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 1 85797 413 1

Typeset by Selwood Systems, Midsomer Norton

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

Biography

Born in the Kingdom of Fife in 1960, Ian Rankin graduated from the University of Edinburgh and has since been employed as grape-picker, swineherd, taxman, alcohol researcher, hi-fi journalist and punk musician. His first Rebus novel, Knots & Crosses, was published in 1987 and the Rebus books have now been translated into over twenty languages and are increasingly popular in the USA. Ian Rankin has been elected a Hawthornden Fellow, and is a past winner of the prestigious Chandler-Fulbright Award, as well as two CWA short-story Daggers and the 1997 CWA Macallan Gold Dagger for Fiction for Black & Blue, which was also shortlisted for the Mystery Writers of America Edgar award for best novel. Black & Blue, The Hanging Garden, Dead Souls and Mortal Causes have been televised on ITV, starring John Hannah as Inspector Rebus. Dead Souls, the tenth novel in the series, was shortlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger Award in 1999. An Alumnus of the Year at Edinburgh University, he has also been awarded two honorary doctorates, one from the University of Abertay Dundee in 1999, and another, more recently, from the University of St Andrews. In 2002 Ian Rankin was awarded an OBE for services to literature. He lives in Edinburgh with his wife and two sons. Ians website address is www.ianrankin.net .

To the wicked, all things are wicked: but to the just, all things are just and right.

James Hogg. The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner

Acknowledgements

The author wishes to acknowledge the assistance of the Chandler-Fulbright Award in the writing of this book.

Contents

Prologue

There were two of them in the van that early morning, lights on to combat the haar which blew in from the North Sea. It was thick and white like smoke. They drove carefully, being under strict instructions.

Why does it have to be us? said the driver, stifling a yawn. Whats wrong with the other two?

The passenger was much larger than his companion. Though in his forties, he kept his hair long, cut in the shape of a German military helmet. He kept pulling at the hair on the left side of his head, straightening it out. At the moment, however, he was gripping the sides of his seat. He didnt like the way the driver screwed shut his eyes for the duration of each too-frequent yawn. The passenger was not a conversationalist, but maybe talk would keep the driver awake.

Its just temporary. he said. Besides, its not as if its a daily chore.

Thank God for that. The driver shut his eyes again and yawned. The van glided in towards the grass verge.

Do you want me to drive? asked the passenger. Then he smiled. You could always kip in the back.

Very funny. Thats another thing, Jimmy, the stink!

Meat always smells after a while.

Got an answer for everything, eh?

Yes.

Are we nearly there?

I thought you knew the way.

On the main roads I do. But with this mist.

If were hugging the coast it cant be far. The passenger was also thinking: if were hugging the coast, then two wheels past the verge and were over a cliff face. It wasnt just this that made him nervous. Theyd never used the east coast before, but there was too much attention on the west coast now. So it was an untried run. and that made him nervous.

Heres a road sign. They braked to peer through the haar. Next right. The driver jolted forwards again. He signalled and pulled in through a low iron gate which was padlocked open. What if it had been locked? he offered.

Ive got cutters in the back.

A bloody answer for everything.

They drove into a small gravelled car park. Though they could not see them, there were wooden tables and benches to one side, where Sunday families could picnic and do battle with the midges. The spot was popular for its view, an uninterrupted spread of sea and sky. When they opened their doors, they could smell and hear the sea. Gulls were already shrieking overhead.

Must be later than we thought if the birds are up. They readied themselves for opening the back of the van, then did so. The smell really was foul. Even the stoical passenger wrinkled his nose and tried hard not to breathe.

Quicker the better, he said in a rush. The body had been placed in two thick plastic fertiliser sacks, one pulled over the feet and one over the head, so that they overlapped in the middle. Tape and string had been used to join them. Inside the bags were also a number of breeze blocks, making for a heavy and awkward load. They carried the grotesque parcel low, brushing the wet grass. Their shoes were squelching by the time they passed the sign warning about the cliff face ahead. Even more difficult was the climb over the fence, though it was rickety enough to start with.

Wouldnt stop a bloody kid. the driver commented. He was peching, the saliva like glue in his mouth.

Ca canny, said the passenger. They shuffled forwards two inches at a time, until they could all too clearly make out the edge. There was no more land after that, just a vertical fall to the agitated sea. Right, he said. Without ceremony, they heaved the thing out into space, glad immediately to be rid of it. Lets go.

Man. but that air smells good. The driver reached into his pocket for a quarter-bottle of whisky. They were halfway back to the van when they heard a car on the road, and the crunch of tyres on gravel.

Aw, hells bells.

The headlights caught them as they reached the van.

The fuckin polis! choked the driver.

Keep the held, warned the passenger. His voice was quiet, but his eyes burned ahead of him. They heard a handbrake being engaged, and the car door opened. A uniformed officer appeared. He was carrying a torch. The headlights and engine had been left on. There was no one else in the car.

The passenger knew the score. This wasnt a set-up. Probably the copper came here towards the end of his night shift. Thered be a flask or a blanket in the car. Coffee or a snooze before signing off for the day.

Morning. the uniform said. He wasnt young, and he wasnt used to trouble. A Saturday night punch-up maybe, or disputes between neighbouring farmers. It had been another long boring night for him, another night nearer his pension.

Morning. the passenger said. He knew they could bluff this one, if the driver stayed calm. But then he thought, Im the conspicuous one.

A right pea-souper, eh? said the policeman.

The passenger nodded.

Thats why we stopped. explained the driver. Thought wed wait it out.

Very sensible.

The driver watched as the passenger turned to the van and started inspecting its rear driver-side tyre, giving it a kick. He then walked to the rear passenger-side and did the same, before getting down on his knees to peer beneath the vehicle. The policeman watched the performance too.