Black Book

by Ian Rankin

  ‘You don’t recall Sword and Shield?’

  ‘It must have been before my time.’

  ‘Now that I think of it, it probably was. This was in the 1950s, an offshoot of the National Party. I attended a couple of the meetings myself. There would be some furious call to arms, followed by tea and scones. It didn’t last long. Broderick Gibson was the president one year.’

  ‘Aengus’s father?’

  ‘Yes.’ Vanderhyde was remembering. ‘There used to be a pub near here, famous for politics and poetry. A few of us went there after the meetings.’

  ‘I thought you said you only went to two?’

  ‘Perhaps a few more than two.’

  Rebus grinned. If he looked into it, he knew he would probably find that a certain M. Vanderhyde had been president of Sword and Shield at some time.

  ‘It was a fine pub,’ Vanderhyde reminisced. ‘In its day,’ said Rebus.

  Vanderhyde sighed. ‘Edinburgh, Inspector. Turn your back and they change the name of a pub or the purpose of a shop.’ He pointed behind him with his stick, nearly tripping someone up in the process. ‘They can’t change that though. That’s Edinburgh too.’ The stick was wavering in the direction of the Castle Rock. It rapped someone against their leg. Rebus tried to smile an apology, the victim being a woman.

  ‘Maybe we should go sit across the road,’ he suggested. Vanderhyde nodded, so they crossed at the traffic lights to the quieter side of the street. There were benches here, their backs to the gardens, each dedicated to someone’s memory. Vanderhyde got Rebus to read the plaque on their bench.

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t recognise either of those names.’

  ‘Mr Vanderhyde,’ said Rebus, ‘I’m beginning to suspect you got me to bring you here for no other reason than the outing itself.’ Vanderhyde smiled but said nothing. ‘What time did you go to the bar that night?’

  ‘Seven sharp, that was the arrangement. Of course, Aengus being Aengus, he was late. I think he turned up at half past, by which time I was seated in a corner with a whisky and water. I think it was J and B whisky.’ He seemed pleased by this small feat of memory.

  ‘Anyone you knew in the bar?’

  ‘I can hear bagpipes,’ Vanderhyde said.

  Rebus could too,, though he couldn’t see the piper. ‘They play for the tourists,’ he explained. ‘It can be a big earner in the summer.’

  ‘He’s not very good. I should imagine he’s wearing a kilt but that the tartan isn’t correct.’

  ‘Anyone in the bar you knew?’ Rebus persisted.

  ‘Oh, let me thin…’

  ‘With respect, sir, you don’t need to think. You either know or you don’t.’

  ‘Well, I think Tom Hendry was in that night and stopped by the table to say hello. He used to work for the newspapers.’

  Yes, Rebus had seen the name on the list.

  ‘And there was someone els…I didn’t know them, and they didn’t speak. But I recall a scent of lemon. It was very vivid. I thought maybe it was a perfume, but when I mentioned it to Aengus he laughed and said it didn’t belong to a woman. He wouldn’t say any more, but I got the feeling it was a huge joke to him that I’d made the initial comment. I’m not sure any of this is relevant.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Rebus’s stomach was growling. There was a sudden explosion behind them. Vanderhyde slipped his watch from his waistcoat pocket, opened the glass, and felt with his fingers over the dial.

  ‘One o’clock sharp,’ he said. ‘As I said, Inspector, some things about our precipitous city remain immutable.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Such as the precipitation, for instance?’ It was beginning to drizzle, the morning sun having disappeared like a conjurer’s trick. ‘Anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘Aengus and I talked. I tried to persuade him that he was on a very dangerous path. His health was failing, and so was the family’s wealth. If anything, the latter argument was the more persuasive.’

  ‘So there and then he renounced the bawdy life?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far. The Edinburgh establishment has never bided too far from the stews. When we parted he was setting off to meet some woman.’ Vanderhyde was thoughtful. ‘But if I do say so myself, my words had an effect on him.’ He nodded. ‘I ate alone that evening in The Eyrie.’

  ‘I’ve been there myself,’ said Rebus. His stomach growled again. ‘Fancy a burger?’

  After he’d dropped Vanderhyde home he drove back to St Leonard’s —not a lot wiser for the whole exercise. Siobhan sprang from her desk when she saw him. She looked pleased with herself.

  ‘I take it the butcher’s wife was a talker,’ Rebus said, dropping into his chair. There was another note on his desk telling him Jack Morton had called. But this time there was also a number where Rebus could reach him.

  ‘A right little gossip, sir. I had trouble getting away.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Something and nothing.’

  ‘So give me the something.’ Rebus rubbed his stomach. He’d enjoyed the burger, but it hadn’t quite filled him up. There was always the canteen, but he was a bit worried about getting a ‘dough-ring’, as he termed the gut policemen specialised in.

  ‘The something is this.’ Siobhan Clarke sat down. ‘Bone won the Mere in a bet.’

  ‘A bet?’ Clarke nodded. ‘He put his share of the butcher’s business up against it. But he won the bet.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘His wife actually sounded quite proud. Anyway, she told me he’s a great one for betting. Maybe he is, but it doesn’t look like he’s got a winning formula.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  She was warming to her subject. Rebus liked to see it, the gleam of successful detection. ‘There were a few things not quite right in the living room. For instance, they’d videotapes but no video, though you could see where the machine used to sit. And though they had a large unit for storing the TV and video, the TV itself was one of those portable types.’

  ‘So they’ve got rid of their video and their big television.’

  ‘I’d guess to pay off a debt or debts.’

  ‘And your money would be on gambling dues?’

  ‘If I were the betting kind, which I’m not.’

  He smiled. ‘Maybe they had the stuff on tick and couldn’t keep up the payments.’

  Siobhan sounded doubtful. ‘Maybe,’ she conceded.

  ‘Okay, well, it’s interesting so far as it goes, but it doesn’t go very far not yet. And it doesn’t tell us anything about Rory Kintoul, does it?’ She was frowning. ‘Remember him, Clarke? He’s the one who was stabbed in the street then wouldn’t talk about it. He’s the one we’re interested in.’

  ‘So what do you suggest, sir?’ There was a tinge of ire to that ‘sir’. She didn’t like it that her good detection had not been better rewarded. ‘We’ve already spoken to him.’

  ‘And you’re going to speak to him again.’ She looked ready to protest. ‘Only this time,’ Rebus went on, ‘you’re going to be asking about his cousin, Mr Bone the butcher. I’m not sure what we’re looking for exactly, so you’ll have to feel your way. Just see whether anything hits the marrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She stood up. ‘Oh, by the way, I got the files on Cafferty.’

  ‘Plenty of reading in there, most of it x-rated.’

  ‘I know, I’ve already started. And there’s no x-rating nowadays. It’s called “eighteen” instead.’

  Rebus blinked. ‘It’s just an expression.’ As she was turning away, he stopped her. ‘Look, take some notes, will you? On Cafferty and his gang, I mean. Then when you’re finished you can refresh my memory. I’ve spent a long time shutting that monster out of my thoughts; it’s about time I opened the door again.’

  ‘No problem.’

  And with that she was off. Rebus wondered if he should have told her she’d done well at Bone’s house. Ach, too late now. Besides, if she thought she were pleasing him, maybe she’d stop
trying so hard. He picked up his phone and called Jack Morton.

  ‘Jack? Long time no hear. It’s John Rebus.’

  ‘John, how are you?’

  ‘No’ bad, how’s yourself?’

  ‘Fine. I made Inspector.’

  ‘Aye, me too.’

  ‘So I heard.’ Jack Morton choked off his words as he gave a huge hacking cough.

  ‘Still on the fags, eh, Jack?’

  ‘I’ve cut down.’

  ‘Remind me to sell my tobacco shares. So listen, what’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s your problem, not mine. Only I saw something from Scotland Yard about Andrew McPhail.’

  Rebus tried the name out in his head. ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘you’ve got me there.’

  ‘We had him on file as a sex offender. He’d had a go at the daughter of the woman he was living with. This was about eight years back. But we never got the charge to stick.’

  Rebus was remembering a little of it. ‘We interviewed him when those wee girls started to disappear?’ Rebus shivered at the memory: his own daughter had been one of the ‘wee girls’.

  ‘That’s it, just routine. We started with convicted and suspected child offenders and went on from there.’

  ‘Stocky guy with wiry hair?’

  ‘You’ve got him.’

  ‘So what’s the point, Jack?’

  ‘The point is, you really have got him. He’s in Edinburgh.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Christ, John, I thought you’d know. He buggered off to Canada after that last time we hassled him. Set himself up as a photographer, doing shots for fashion catalogues. He’d approach the parents of kids he fancied. He had business cards, camera equipment, the works, rented a studio and used to take shots of the children, promising they’d be in some catalogue or other. They’d get to dress up in fancy dresses, or sometimes maybe just in underwea…’

  ‘I get the picture, Jack.’

  ‘Well, they nabbed him. He’d been touching the girls, that was all. A lot of girls, so they put him inside.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And now they’ve let him out. But they’ve also deported him.’

  ‘He’s in Edinburgh?’

  ‘I started checking. I wanted to find out where he’d ended up, because I knew if it was anywhere near my patch I’d pay him a visit some dark night. But he’s on your patch instead. I’ve got an address.’

  ‘Wait a second.’ Rebus found a pen and copied it down.

  ‘How did you get his address anyway? The DSS?’

  ‘No, the files said he had a sister in Ayr. She told me he’d had her get a phone number for him, a boarding house. Know what else she said? She said we should lock him in a cellar and forget about the key.’

  ‘Sounds like a lovely lass.’

  ‘She’s my kind of woman, all right. Of course, he’s probably been rehabilitated.’

  That word—rehabilitated. A word Vanderhyde had used about Aengus Gibson. ‘Probably,’ said Rebus, believing it about as much as Morton himself. They were professional disbelievers, after all. It was a policeman’s lot.

  ‘Still, it’s good to know about. Thanks, Jack.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Any chance we’ll be seeing you in Falkirk some day? It’d be good to have a drink.’

  ‘Yes, it would. Tell you what, I might be over that way soon.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Dropping McPhail off in the town centre.’

  Morton laughed. ‘Ya shite, ye.’ And with that he put down the phone.

  Jack Morton stared at the phone for the best part of a minute, still grinning. Then the grin melted away. He unwrapped a stick of chewing gum and started gnawing it. It’s better than a cigarette, he kept telling himself. He looked at the scribbled sheet of notes in front of him on the desk. The girl McPhail had assaulted was called Melanie Maclean these days. Her mother had married, and Melanie lived with the couple in Haddington, far enough from Edinburgh so that she probably wouldn’t bump into McPhail. Nor, in all probability, would McPhail be able to find her. He’d have to know the stepfather’s name, and that wouldn’t be easy for him. It hadn’t been that easy for Jack Morton. But the name was here. Alex Maclean. Jack Morton had a home address, home phone number, and work number. He wondere…

  He knew too that Alex Maclean was a carpenter, and Haddington police were able to inform him that Maclean had a temper on him, and had twice (long before his marriage) been arrested after some flare-up or other. He wondered, but he knew he was going to do it. He picked up the receiver and punched in the numbers. Then waited.

  ‘Hello, can I speak to Mr Maclean please? Mr Maclean? You don’t know me, but I have some information I’d like to share with you. It concerns a man called Andrew McPhai…’

  Matthew Vanderhyde too made a telephone call that afternoon, but only after long thought in his favourite armchair. He held the cordless phone in his hand, tapping it with a long fingernail. He could hear a dog outside, the one from down the street with the nasal whine. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked, the tick seeming to slow as he concentrated on it. Time’s heartbeat. At last he made the call. There was no preamble.

  ‘I’ve just had a policeman here,’ he said. ‘He was asking about the night the Central Hotel caught fire.’ He hesitated slightly. ‘I told him about Aengus.’ He could pause now, listening with a weary smile to the fury on the other end of the line, a fury he knew so well. ‘Broderick,’ he interrupted, ‘if any skeletons are being uncloseted, I don’t want to be the only one shivering.’

  When the fury began afresh, Matthew Vanderhyde terminated the call.

  7

  Rebus noticed the man for the first time that evening. He thought he’d seen him outside St Leonard’s in the afternoon. A young man, tall and broad-shouldered. He was standing outside the entrance to Rebus’s communal stairwell in Arden Street. Rebus parked his car across the street, so that he could watch the man in his rearview mirror. The man looked agitated, pumped up about something. Maybe he was only waiting for his date. Maybe.

  Rebus wasn’t scared, but he started the car again and drove off anyway. He’d give it an hour and see if the man was still there. If he was, then he wasn’t waiting on any date, no matter how bonny the girl. He drove along the Meadows to Tollcross, then took a right down Lothian Road. It was slow going, as per. The number of vehicles needing to get through the city of an evening seemed to grow every week. Edinburgh in the twilight looked much the same as any other place: shops and offices and crowded pavements. Nobody looked particularly happy.

  He crossed Princes Street, cut into Charlotte Square, and began the crawl along Queensferry Street and Queensferry Road until he could take a merciful (if awkward) right turn into Oxford Terrace. But Patience wasn’t home. He knew Patience’s sister was expected this week, staying a few days then taking the girls home. Patience’s cat, Lucky, sat outside, demanding entry, and Rebus for once was almost sympathetic.

  ‘Nae luck,’ he told it, before starting back up the steps.

  When he got back to Arden Street, there was no sign of the skulking hulk. But Rebus would recognise him if he saw him again. Oh yes, he’d know him, all right.

  Indoors, he had another argument with Michael, the two of them in the living room, everyone else in the kitchen. That was another thing: how many tenants did he have? There seemed to be a shifting population of about a dozen, where he’d rented to three with a possible fourth. He could swear he saw different faces every morning, and as a result could never remember anyone’s name.

  So there was another row about that, this time with the students in the kitchen while Michael sat in the box room, at the end of which Rebus said, ‘Away to hell,’ and proceeded to follow his own instructions by getting back in his car and making for one of the city’s least respectable quarters, there to dine on pies and pints while staring at a soundless TV. He spoke with a few of his contacts, who had nothing to report regarding the assault on Brian Holmes.

  So it was just an
other evening, really.

  He got back purposely. late, hoping everyone else would have gone to bed. He fumbled with the door-catch of the tenement and let the door swing shut loudly behind him, searching in his pockets for the flat key, eyes to the ground. So he didn’t see the man, who must have been sitting on the bottom step of the stairs.

  ‘Hello there.’

  Rebus looked up, startled, recognised the figure, and sent small change and keys scattering as he threw a punch. He wasn’t that drunk, but then his target was stone cold sober and twenty years younger. The man palmed the punch easily. He looked surprised at the attack, but also somehow excited by it. Rebus cut short the thrill of it all by sharply raising his knee into unprotected groin. The man expelled air noisily, and started to double over, which gave Rebus the opportunity to punch down onto the back of his neck. He felt his knuckles crackle with the force of the blow.

  ‘Jesus,’ the man gasped. ‘Stop it.’

  Rebus stopped it and wagged his aching hand. But he wasn’t about to offer help. He kept his distance, and asked ‘Who are you?’

  The man managed to stop retching for a moment. ‘Andy Steele.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Andy. What the fuck do you want?’

  The man looked up at Rebus with tears in his eyes. It took him a while to catch his breath. When he spoke, Rebus either couldn’t understand the accent or else just didn’t believe what he was saying. He asked Steele to repeat himself.

  ‘Your auntie sent me,’ said Steele. ‘She’s got a message for you.’

  Rebus sat Andy Steele down on the sofa with a cup of tea, including the four sugars Steele himself had requested.

  ‘Can’t be good for your teeth.’

  ‘They’re not my own,’ Steele replied, huddled over the hot mug. ‘Then whose are they?’ asked Rebus. Steele gave the flicker of a smile. ‘You’ve been following me all day.’

  ‘Not exactly. Maybe if I had a car, but I don’t.’

  ‘You don’t have a car?’ Steele shook his head. ‘Some private detective.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was a private detective exactly. I mean, I want to be one.’

  ‘A sort of trainee, then?’