Black and Blue: An Inspector Rebus Mystery (Inspector Rebus Novels)

Black and Blue: An Inspector Rebus Mystery (Inspector Rebus Novels)

Ian Rankin

Language: English

Pages: 480

ISBN: 0312586493

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Bible John killed three women, and took three souvenirs. Johnny Bible killed to steal his namesake's glory. Oilman Allan Mitchelson died for his principles. And convict Lenny Spaven died just to prove a point. "Bible John" terrorized Glasgow in the sixties and seventies, murdering three women he met in a local ballroom--and he was never caught. Now a copycat is at work. Nicknamed "Bible Johnny" by the media, he is a new menace with violent ambitions.

The Bible Johnny case would be perfect for Inspector John Rebus, but after a run-in with a crooked senior officer, he's been shunted aside to one of Edinburgh's toughest suburbs, where he investigates the murder of an off-duty oilman. His investigation takes him north to the oil rigs of Aberdeen, where he meets the Bible Johnny media circus head-on. Suddenly caught in the glare of the television cameras and in the middle of more than one investigation, Rebus must proceed with caution: One mistake could mean an unpleasant and not particularly speedy death, or, worse still, losing his job.

Written with Ian Rankin's signature wit, style and intricacy, Black and Blue is a novel of uncommon and unforgettable intrigue.

Money for Nothing

The Valley of Fear

Death of a Dustman (Hamish Macbeth, Book 16)

Dearly Devoted Dexter (Dexter, Book 2)

To Sleep Gently

Find Me (Kathleen Mallory, Book 9)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and there were letters to the editor concerning Home Rule. A Sales and Marketing Manager was wanted, salary of £2,500 p.a. A new house in Strathalmond cost £7,995. Frogmen were searching for clues in Glasgow, while Jim Clark was winning the Australian Grand Prix. Meantime, members of the Steve Miller Band were being arrested in London on drug charges, and car parking in Edinburgh had reached saturation point … 1968. Rebus had copies of the actual newspapers – purchased from a dealer for

hands on a silver-topped cane and wore a baggy linen suit. He looked like a character out of Tennessee Williams, his face chiselled and frowning, gait only slightly stooped despite his years. Rebus looked down and noticed the man was wearing a pair of well-worn trainers. The man brought a notepad out of his pocket, scribbled something on it while still holding his cane, tore the sheet off and handed it to the second man, who read it and nodded. The lift opened at the ground floor. Minchell

He imagined Johnny Bible standing quietly by the bar, ticking off possibles in his mind, narrowing the options down to one. Then asking Michelle Fifer for a dance … When Rebus suggested they move on, Lumsden didn’t disagree. So far, they’d paid for one round of drinks: the restaurant meal had been ‘taken care of, and the bouncer on the door of the club had nodded them through, bypassing the cash desk. As they left, a man escorted a young woman past them. Rebus half-turned his head. ‘Someone

still there, but only fragments of the actual window panes remained. The two men were busy with their tools. He stumbled between them and out of the window. They didn’t wait to watch him fall. They just gathered up the tools, folded the plastic sheet into an untidy bundle, put everything back in the Adidas bag, and zipped it shut. ‘Why me?’ Rebus had asked when he’d called in. ‘Because,’ his boss had said, ‘you’re new. You haven’t been around long enough to make enemies on the estate.’ And

one last collecting tin to be avoided, but he thought better of it, folded a fiver in through the slot. And decided to treat himself to dinner in his hotel: putting it on the room, of course. Insistent noise. Rebus folded it into his dream, then gave up. One eye open: chinks of light through the heavy curtains. What fucking time was it? Bedside lamp: on. He clawed at his watch, blinked. Six a.m. What? Did Lumsden want rid of him that badly? He swung out of bed, walked stiff-legged to the door,

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