Free 10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) by Ian Rankin

fibre crumbling like a dry cheese-biscuit.
    In the taxi, they sat a little distance apart.
    ‘So, do you and this Stevens character go back a long way?’
    ‘Only in his memory.’ She stared past the driver at the sleek wet road beyond. ‘Jim’s memory can’t be what it was. Seriously, we went out together once, and I do mean once.’ She held up a finger. ‘A Friday night, I think it was. A big mistake, it certainly was.’
    Rebus was satisfied with that. He began to feel hungry again.
    By the time they reached the restaurant, however, it was closed – even to Rebus – so they stayed in the taxi and Rebus directed the driver towards his flat.
    ‘I’m a dab hand at bacon sandwiches,’ he said.
    ‘What a pity,’ she said. ‘I’m a vegetarian.’
    ‘Good God, you mean you eat no vegetables at all?’
    ‘Why is it,’ acid seeping into her voice, ‘that carnivores always have to make a joke out of it? It’s the same with men and women’s lib. Why is that?’
    ‘It’s because we’re afraid of them,’ said Rebus, quite sober now.
    Gill looked at him, but he was watching from his window as the city’s late-night drunks rolled their way up and down the obstacle-strewn hazard of Lothian Road, seeking alcohol, women, happiness. It was a never-ending search for some of them, staggering in and out of clubs and pubs and take-aways, gnawing on the packaged bones of existence. Lothian Roadwas Edinburgh’s dustbin. It was also home to the Sheraton Hotel and the Usher Hall. Rebus had visited the Usher Hall once, sitting with Rhona and the other smug souls listening to Mozart’s Requiem Mass. It was typical of Edinburgh to have a crumb of culture sited amidst the fast-food shops. A requiem mass and a bag of chips.
    ‘So how is the old Press Liaison these days?’
    They were seated in his rapidly tidied living-room. His pride and joy, a Nakamichi tape-deck, was tastefully broadcasting one of his collection of late-night-listening jazz tapes; Stan Getz or Coleman Hawkins.
    He had rustled up a round of tuna fish and tomato sandwiches, Gill having admitted that she ate fish occasionally. The bottle of wine was open, and he had prepared a pot of freshly ground coffee (a treat usually reserved for Sunday breakfasts). He now sat across from his guest, watching her eat. He thought with a small start that this was his first female guest since Rhona had left him, but then recalled, very vaguely, a couple of other one-nighters.
    ‘Press Liaison is fine. It’s not really a complete waste of time, you know. It serves a useful purpose in this day and age.’
    ‘Oh, I’m not knocking it.’
    She looked at him, trying to gauge how serious he was being.
    ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘it’s just that I know a lot of our colleagues who think that a job like mine is a complete waste of time and manpower. Believe me, in a case like this one it’s absolutely crucial that we keep the media on our side, and that we let them have the information that we want made public when it needs to be made public. It saves a lot of hassle.’
    ‘Hear, hear.’
    ‘Be serious, you rat.’
    Rebus laughed.
    ‘I’m never anything other than serious. A one-hundred percent policeman’s policeman, that’s me.’
    Gill Templer stared at him again. She had a real inspector’s eyes: they worked into your conscience, sniffing out guilt and guile and drive, seeking give.
    ‘And being a Liaison Officer,’ said Rebus, ‘means that you have to . . . liaise with the press quite closely, right?’
    ‘I know what you’re getting at, Sergeant Rebus, and as your superior, I’m telling you to stop it.’
    ‘Ma’am!’ Rebus gave her a short salute.
    He came back from the kitchen with another pot of coffee.
    ‘Wasn’t that a dreadful party?’ said Gill.
    ‘It was the finest party I have ever attended,’ said Rebus. ‘After all, without it, I might never have met you.’
    She roared with laughter this time, her mouth filled with a paste of tuna and