The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Stories (Rebus Collection) by Ian Rankin

past. Dean hadn’t just been a good soldier. At one time he’d been lethal.
    ‘Do you have any thoughts on how they might have found you, sir?’
    ‘Not really.’ Dean closed his eyes for a second. There was resignation in his voice. ‘What matters is that they did find me.’ His eyes met Rebus’s. ‘And they can find me again.’
    Rebus shifted in his seat. Christ, what a thought. What a, well, time-bomb. To always be watching, always expecting, always fearing. And not just for yourself.
    ‘I’d like to talk to Jacqueline, sir. It may be that she’ll have some inkling as to how they were able to—’
    But Dean was shaking his head. ‘Not just now, Inspector. Not yet. I don’t want her – well, you understand. Besides, I’d imagine that this will all be out of your hands by tomorrow. I believe some people from the Anti-Terrorist Branch are on their way up here. Between them and the Army … well, as I say, it’ll be out of your hands.’
    Rebus felt himself prickling anew. But Dean was right, wasn’t he? Why strain yourself when tomorrow it would be someone else’s weight? Rebus pursed his lips, nodded, and stood up.
    ‘I’ll see you to the door,’ said the Major, taking the empty glass from Rebus’s hand.
    As they passed into the hallway, Rebus caught a glimpse of a young woman – Jacqueline Dean presumably. She had been hovering by the telephone-table at the foot of the staircase, but was now starting up the stairs themselves, her hand thin and white on the bannister. Dean, too, watched her go. He half-smiled, half-shrugged at Rebus.
    ‘She’s upset,’ he explained unnecessarily. But she hadn’t looked upset to Rebus. She had looked like she was moping.
     
     
    The next morning, Rebus went back to Barnton. Wooden boards had been placed over some of the shop windows, but otherwise there were few signs of yesterday’s drama. The guards on the gate to West Lodge had been replaced by beefy plainclothes men with London accents. They carried portable radios, but otherwise might have been bouncers, debt collectors or bailiffs. They radioed the house. Rebus couldn’t help thinking that a shout might have done the job for them, but they were in love with technology; you could see that by the way they held their radio-sets. He’d seen soldiers holding a new gun the same way.
    ‘The guvnor’s coming down to see you,’ one of the men said at last. Rebus kicked his heels for a full minute before the man arrived.
    ‘What do you want?’
    ‘Detective Inspector Rebus. I talked with Major Dean yesterday and—’
    The man snapped. ‘Who told you his rank?’
    ‘Major Dean himself. I just wondered if I might—’
    ‘Yes, well there’s no need for that, Inspector. We’re in charge now. Of course you’ll be kept informed.’
    The man turned and walked back through the gates with a steady, determined stride. The guards were smirking as they closed the gates behind their ‘guvnor’. Rebus felt like a snubbed schoolboy, left out of the football game. Sides had been chosen and there he stood, unwanted. He could smell London on these men, that cocky superiority of a self-chosen elite. What did they call themselves? C13 or somesuch, the Anti-Terrorist Branch. Closely linked to Special Branch, and everyone knew the trade name for Special Branch – Smug Bastards.
    The man had been a little younger than Rebus, well-groomed and accountant-like. More intelligent, for sure, than the gorillas on the gate, but probably well able to handle himself. A neat pistol might well have been hidden under the arm of his close-fitting suit. None of that mattered. What mattered was that the captain was leaving Rebus out of his team. It rankled; and when something rankled, it rankled hard.
    Rebus had walked half a dozen paces away from the gates when he half-turned and stuck his tongue out at the guards. Then, satisfied with this conclusion to his morning’s labours, he decided to make his own inquiries. It was