Free A Good Hanging and other Stories by Ian Rankin

again.
    ‘War,’ Frank whispered. ‘I heard two men talking about it.’
    Rebus sighed. Talking to Frank was like reading one of the Sunday rags - except sometimes the stories he told were more believable. Today didn’t sound like one of those days.
    ‘Talking about war? Which war?’
    ‘Terrorism, Mr Rebus. Has to be. They’ve had a council of war at Rhodes. That’s in Greece.’
    ‘They were Greek, were they?’
    Frank wrinkled his face. ‘I don’t think so. I can give you a description of them though. They were both wearing suits. One was short and bald, the other one was young, taller, with black hair.’
    ‘You don’t often see international terrorists wearing suits these days, do you?’ Rebus commented. Actually, he thought to himself, that’s a lie: they’re becoming more smartly dressed all the time.
    In any case, Frank had an answer ready. ‘Need a disguise though, don’t they? I followed them.’
    ‘Did you?’ A kickabout was starting nearby. Rebus concentrated on the kick-off. He liked Frank, but there were times...
    ‘They went to a bed and breakfast near the Links.’
    ‘Did they now?’ Rebus nodded slowly.
    ‘And they said it was starting today. Today, Mr Rebus.’
    ‘They don’t hang about, do they? Anything else?’
    Frank frowned, thinking. ‘Something about lavatories, or laboratories. Must have been laboratories, mustn’t it? And money, they talked about that. Money they needed to set it up. That’s about it.’
    ‘Well, thanks for letting me know, Frank. I’ll keep my ears open, see if I can hear any whispers. But listen, don’t go following people in future. It could be dangerous, understand?’
    Frank appeared to consider this. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said at last, ‘but I’m tougher than I look, Mr Rebus.’
    Rebus was standing now. ‘Well, I’d better be getting along.’ He slipped his hands into his pockets. The right hand emerged again holding a pound note. ‘Here you go, Frank.’ He began to hand the money over, then withdrew it again. Frank knew what was coming and grinned.
    ‘Just one question,’ Rebus said, as he always did. ‘Where do you go in the winter?’
    It was a question a lot of his cronies asked him. ‘Thought you were dead,’ they’d say each spring as he came walking back into their lives. His reply to Rebus was the same as ever: ‘Ah, that would be telling, Mr Rebus. That’s my secret.’
    The money passed from one hand to the other and Rebus sauntered off towards Jawbone Walk, kicking a stone in front of him. Jawbone because of the whale’s jawbone which made an arch at one end of the path. Frank knew that. Frank knew lots of things. But he knew, too, that Rebus hadn’t believed him. Well, more fool him. For over a year now they’d played this little game: where did Frank go in the winter? Frank wasn’t sure himself why he didn’t just say, I go to my sister’s place in Dunbar. Maybe because it was the truth. Maybe because it was a secret.
    Rebus looked to him like a man with secrets, too. Maybe one day Rebus would set out for a walk and never return home, would just keep on walking the way Frank himself had done. What was it the girl student had said?
    ‘Sometimes I think we’re all gentlemen of the road. It’s just that most of us haven’t got the courage to take that first step.’
    Nonsense: that first step was the easiest. It was the hundredth, the thousandth, the millionth that was hard. But not as hard as going back, never as hard as that.
     
    Rebus had counted the steps up to his second-floor flat many, many times. It always added up to the same number. So how come with the passing years there seemed to be more? Maybe it was the height of each step that was changing. Own up, John. For once, own up: it’s you that’s changing. You’re growing older and stiffer. You never used to pause on the first-floor landing, never used to linger outside Mrs Cochrane’s door, breathing in that smell unique to blackcurrant