Dead Souls: An Inspector Rebus Novel (Inspector Rebus Novels) by Rankin Ian

Author:Rankin, Ian [Rankin, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780312617165
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2010-03-01T16:00:00+00:00

A COUPLE of uniforms were already on the scene when Rebus, the Farmer and Bill Pryde arrived at The Shore. The Rover was sitting in its usual spot, opposite the hotel.

“I don’t believe it,” Rebus said for the fifth or sixth time.

“This isn’t some joke of yours?” Bill Pryde asked.

The Farmer looked inside. “Where’s the log?”

“It was under the seat, sir.”

The Farmer reached in, pulled out the log and a set of car keys.

“Did you say anything to Rough about the surveillance?” he asked. Rebus shook his head. “So can we assume Rough did not take the car?” Rebus shrugged.

“Looks like it was someone who knew what we were up to,” Bill Pryde admitted.

“Or simply read about it in the log,” Rebus said. “Anyone finding the keys would have found the log.”

“True,” Pryde conceded.

“Which might put Rough back in the frame,” the Farmer said. “Thing is, it also means whoever stole the car read the surveillance notes.”

“Red faces all round, sir,” Pryde said.

“More than that if Fettes get to hear about it.”

“Who’s going to tell them?”

The Farmer had flipped through the notes, coming to Rebus’s final section—or what should have been the final section. He opened the book wide, held it out so Rebus and Pryde could see it.

“What’s this?”

Rebus looked. Written in big capitals, red felt pen. Someone had added a postscript to Rebus’s thoughts on the case:

NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY. WHERE’S MR. ARCHIBALD????

The Farmer was staring at him.

“Who’s Mr. Archibald?”

Pryde was shrugging. “Search me.”

But the Farmer had eyes only for John Rebus.

“Who’s Mr. Archibald?” he repeated, red rising to his cheeks. Rebus said nothing, crossed the street and looked in through the large windows of the restaurant. They were serving late breakfasts, tables half-hidden behind potted plants and hanging baskets. But there, at a window table and enjoying the show, sat Cary Oakes. He waved a fork at Rebus, sat beaming a grin as he lifted a glass of orange juice and toasted him. Rebus made for the hotel door, pushed it open, strode inside. Cooking smells were wafting from the restaurant. A waiter asked if he wanted a table for one. Rebus ignored him, walked straight up to the table where Cary Oakes was seated.

“Care to join me, Inspector?”

“Not even if you were coming apart at the seams.” Rebus pushed his knuckles into Oakes’s face. “Remember these?”

“Looks nasty,” Oakes said. “I’d get a doctor to look at them. Lucky you already know one.”

“You know where I live,” Rebus hissed. “Jim Stevens told you.”

“Did he?” Oakes started cutting up a sausage. Rebus noticed that he sliced it lengthwise first, as though dissecting it.

“You took the car.”

“Bit early for riddles.” Oakes lifted a morsel of meat to his lips. Rebus flung out a hand, sent fork and sausage flying. Then he hoisted Cary Oakes to his feet.

“What the fuck are you up to?”

“Shouldn’t that be my line?” Oakes said, grinning. There was a sudden explosion of light. Rebus half-turned his head. Jim Stevens was behind him. Next to him stood a photographer.

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