The Black Book (20 page)

He made a phone call to check that the meeting he’d arranged yesterday was still on, then switched off the computer and headed out of the building, just as a bleary Chief Superintendent Watson was coming in.

He waited in the newspaper office’s public area, flipping through the past week’s editions. A few early punters came in with Spot the Ball coupons or the like, and a few more hopefuls were checking copy with the people on the classified ads desk.

‘Inspector Rebus.’ She’d come from behind the main desk, where a stern security man had been keeping a watchful eye on Rebus. She was already wearing her raincoat, so there was to be no tour of the premises today, though she’d been promising him for weeks.

Her name was Mairie Henderson and she was in her early twenties. Rebus had come up against her when she was compiling a postmortem feature on the Gregor Jack case. Rebus had just wanted to forget about the whole ugly episode, but she’d been persistent … and persuasive. She was just out of college, where she’d won awards for her student journalism and for pieces she’d contributed to the daily and weekly press. She hadn’t yet forgotten how to be hungry; Rebus liked that.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’m starving. I’ll buy you breakfast.’

So they went to a little cafe/bakery on South Bridge, where there were difficult choices to be made. Was it too early for pies and bridies? Too early for a fruit scone? Well then, they’d be like everyone else and settle for sliced sausage, black pudding and fried eggs.

‘No haggis or dumpling?’ Mairie was so imploring, the woman at the counter went off to ask the chef. Which made Rebus make a mental note to phone Pat Calder sometime today. But there was no haggis or dumpling, not even for ready money. So they took their trays to the cash till, where Mairie insisted on paying.

‘After all, you’re going to give me the story of the decade.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘One of these days you will, trust me.’

They squeezed into a booth and she reached for the brown sauce, then for the ketchup. ‘I can never decide between the two. Shame about the fried dumpling, that’s my favourite.’

She was about five feet five inches and had about as much fat on her as a rabbit in a butcher’s window. Rebus looked down at his fry-up and suddenly didn’t feel very hungry. He sipped the weak coffee.

‘So what’s it all about?’ she asked, having made a good start into the food on her plate.

‘You tell me.’

She waved a no-no with her knife. ‘Not till you tell me why you want to know.’

‘That’s not the way the game’s played.’

‘We’ll change the rules, then.’ She scooped up some egg-white with her fork. She had her coat wrapped tight around her, though it was steamy in the cafe. Good legs too; Rebus missed seeing her legs. He blew on the coffee, then sipped again. She’d be willing to wait all day for him to say something.

‘Remember the fire at the Central Hotel?’ he said at last.

‘I was still at school.’

‘A body turned up in the ruins.’ She nodded encouragement. ‘Well, maybe there’s new evidence … no, not new evidence. It’s just that some things have been happening, and I think they’ve got something to do with that fire and that shooting.’

‘This isn’t an official investigation, then?’

‘Not yet.’

‘And there’s no story?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Nothing that wouldn’t get you pasted in a libel court.’

‘I could live with that, if the story was good enough.’

‘It isn’t, not yet.’

She began mopping-up operations with a triangle of buttered bread. ‘So let me get this straight: you’re on your own looking into a fire from five years ago?’

A fire which turned one man to drink, he could have said, and led another to the path of self-righteousness. But all he did was nod.

‘And what’s Gibson got to do with it?’

‘Strictly between us, he was there that night. Yet he was kept off the list of the hotel’s customers.’

‘His father pulled some strings?’

‘Could be.’

‘Well, that’s already a story.’

‘I’ve nothing to back it up.’ This was a lie, there was always Vanderhyde; but he wasn’t going to tell her that. He didn’t want her getting ideas. The way she was staring, she was getting plenty of those anyway.

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing,’ he repeated.

‘Well, I don’t know that this will help.’ She opened her coat and pulled out the file which she’d been hiding, tucked down the front of her fashion-cut denims. He accepted the file from her, looking around the cafe. Nobody seemed to be paying attention.

‘A bit cloak and dagger,’ he told her. She shrugged.

‘So I’ve seen too many films.’

Rebus opened the file. It bore no title, but inside were cuttings and ‘spiked’ stories concerning Aengus Gibson.

‘Those are only from five years ago to the present. There isn’t much, mostly charity work, giving to good causes. A little bit about the brewery’s rising image and ditto profits.’

He glanced through the stuff. It was worthless. ‘I was hoping to find out something about him from just after the fire.’

Mairie nodded. ‘So you said on the phone. That’s why I talked to a few people, including our chief sub. He says Gibson went into a psychiatric hospital. Nervous breakdown was the word.’

‘Were the words,’ corrected Rebus.

‘Depends,’ she said cryptically. Then: ‘He was there the best part of three months. There was never a story, the father kept it out of the papers. When Aengus reappeared,
that’s
when he started working in the business, and that’s when he started all the do-gooding.’

‘Shouldn’t that be good-doing?’

She smiled. ‘Depends,’ she said. Then, of the file, ‘It’s not much, is it?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘I thought not. Still, it’s all there was.’

‘What about your chief sub? Would he be able to say
exactly
when Gibson went into that hospital?’

‘I don’t know. No harm in asking. Do you want me to?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘All right then. And one more question.’

‘Yes?’

‘Aren’t you going to eat any of that?’

Rebus pushed his plate across to her and watched her take her fill.

When he got back to St Leonard’s, there was a call from the Chief Super’s office. Chief Superintendent Watson wanted to see him straight away, as in ten minutes ago. Rebus checked that there were no messages for him, and called Siobhan Clarke in Gorgie to make sure the new window had been fitted.

‘It’s perfect,’ she told him. ‘It’s got white gunk on it, window polish or something. We just didn’t bother wiping it off. We can take shots through it, but from the outside it just looks like a new window that’s waiting to be cleaned.’

‘Fine,’ said Rebus. He wanted to make sure he was up to date. If Watson intended to carpet him over yesterday, it would be considerably more than Lauderdale’s fireside rug.

But Rebus had got it way wrong.

‘What the hell are you up to?’ Watson looked like he’d run a half-marathon gobbling down chilli peppers all the way. His breathing was raspy, his cheeks a dark cherry colour. If he walked into a hospital, they’d have him whisked to emergency on a two-man stretcher.

No, better make that a four-man.

‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’

Watson fairly pounded the desk with his fist. A pencil dropped onto the floor. ‘You’re not sure what I mean!’

Rebus moved forward to pick up the pencil.

‘Leave it! Just sit down.’ Rebus went to sit. ‘No, better yet, keep standing.’ Rebus stood up. ‘Now, just tell me why.’ Rebus remembered a science teacher at his secondary school, a man with an evil temper who had spoken to the teenage Rebus just like this. ‘Just tell me why.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go on then.’

‘With respect, sir, why what?’

The words came out through gritted teeth. ‘Why you’ve seen fit to start pestering Broderick Gibson.’

‘With respect, sir –’

‘Stop all that “with respect” shite! Just give me an answer.’

‘I’m not pestering Broderick Gibson, sir.’

‘Then what
are
you doing, wooing him? The Chief Constable phoned me this morning in absolute fucking apoplexy!’ Watson, being a Christian of no mean persuasion, didn’t swear often. It was a bad sign.

Rebus saw it all. The bash for the SSPCC. Yes, and Broderick Gibson collaring his friend the Chief Constable. One of your minions has been on to me, what’s it all about? The Chief Constable not knowing anything about it, stuttering and spluttering and saying he’d get to the bottom of it. Just give me the officer’s name …

‘It’s his son I’m interested in, sir.’

‘But you looked both of them up on the computer this morning.’

Ah, so
some
one had taken notice of his early shift. ‘Yes, I did, but I was really only interested in Aengus.’

‘You still haven’t explained why.’

‘No, sir, well, it’s a bit … nebulous.’

Watson frowned. ‘
Nebulous?
When’s the graduation party?’ Rebus didn’t get it. ‘Since you’ve obviously,’ Watson was happy to explain, ‘just got your astronomy degree!’ He poured himself coffee from the machine on the floor, offering none to Rebus who could just use a cup.

‘It was the word that came to mind, sir,’ he said.

‘I can think of a few words too, Rebus. Your mother wouldn’t like to hear them.’

No, thought Rebus, and yours would wash your mouth out with soap.

The Chief Super slurped his coffee. They didn’t call him ‘Farmer’ for nothing; he had many ways and predilections that could only be described as agricultural.

‘But before I say any of them,’ he went on, ‘I’m a generous enough man to say that I’ll listen to your explanation. Just make it bloody convincing.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Rebus. How could he make
any
of it sound convincing? He supposed he’d have to try.

So he tried, and halfway through Watson even told him he could sit if he liked. At the end of fifteen minutes, Rebus placed his hands out in front of him, palms up, as if to say: that’s all, folks.

Watson poured another cup of coffee and placed it on the desk in front of Rebus.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Rebus gulped it down black.

‘John, have you ever thought you might be paranoid?’

‘All the time, sir. Show me two men shaking hands and I’ll show you a Masonic conspiracy.’

Watson almost smiled, before recalling that this was no joking matter. ‘Look, let me put it like this. What you’ve got so far is … well, it’s …’

‘Nebulous, sir?’

‘Piss and wind,’ corrected Watson. ‘Somebody died five years ago. Was it anyone important? Obviously not, or we’d know who they were by now. So we assume it was somebody the world had hardly known and was happy to forget. No grieving widow or weans, no family asking questions.’

‘You’re saying let it die, sir? Let somebody get away with murder?’

Watson looked exasperated. ‘I’m saying we’re stretched as it is.’

‘All Brian Holmes did was ask a few questions. Somebody brained him for it. I take over, my flat’s invaded and my brother half scared to death.’

‘My point exactly, it’s all become
personal
. You can’t allow that to happen. Look at the other stuff on your plate. Operation Moneybags for a start, and I’m sure there’s more besides.’

‘You’re asking me to drop it, sir? Might I ask if you’re under any personal pressure?’

There was personal pressure aplenty as Watson’s blood rose, his face purpling. ‘Now wait just one second, that’s not the sort of comment I can tolerate.’

‘No, sir. Sorry, sir.’ But Rebus had made his point. The clever soldier knows when to duck. Rebus had taken his shot, and now he was ducking.

‘I should think so,’ said Watson, wriggling in his chair as though his trousers were lined with scouring-pads. ‘Now here’s what I think. I think that if you can bring me something concrete, the dead man’s identity perhaps, within twenty-four hours, then we’ll reopen the case. Otherwise, I want the whole thing dropped until such time as new evidence
does
come forward.’

‘Fair enough, sir,’ said Rebus. It wasn’t much good arguing the point. Maybe twenty-four hours would be enough. And maybe Charlie Chan had a clan tartan. ‘Thanks for the coffee, much appreciated.’

When Watson started to make his joke about feeling ‘full of beans’, Rebus made his excuses and left.

He was seated at his desk, glumly examining all the dead ends in the case, when he happened to catch word of an ‘altercation’ at a house in Broughton. He caught the address, but it took a few seconds for it to register with him. Minutes later, he was in his car heading into the east end of town. The traffic was its usual self, with agonisingly slow pockets at the major junctions. Rebus blamed the traffic lights. Why couldn’t they just do away with them and let the pedestrians take their chances? No, there’d only be more hold-ups, what with all the ambulances they’d need to ferry away the injured and the dead.

Still, why was he hurrying? He thought he knew what he was going to find. He was wrong. (It was turning out to be one of those weeks.) A police car and an ambulance sat outside Mrs MacKenzie’s two-storey house, and the neighbours were out in a show of conspicuous curiosity. Even the kids across the road were interested. It must be a break-time, and some of them pushed their heads between the vertical iron bars and stared open-mouthed at the brightly marked vehicles.

Rebus thought about those railings. Their intention was to keep the kids
in
, keep them safe. But could they keep anybody
out
?

Rebus flashed his ID at the constable on door duty and entered Mrs MacKenzie’s house. She was wailing loudly, so that Rebus started to think of murder. A WPC comforted her, while trying to have a conversation with her own over-amplified shoulder radio. The WPC saw Rebus.

‘Make her some tea, will you?’ she pleaded.

‘Sorry, hen, I’m only CID. Needs someone a bit more senior to mash a pot of Brooke Bond.’ Rebus had his hands in his pockets, the casually informed observer, distanced from the mayhem into which he walked. He wandered over to the bird cage and peered in. On the sand floor, amidst feathers and husks and droppings, lay a mummified budgie.