Black Book

by Ian Rankin

  Sharky ignored him. ‘Want me to chuck him out, Tommy?’

  Tommy Greenwood never got a chance to answer. Rebus pushed the handle of his cane hard up under Sharky’s nose and then whipped it harder still against his knees. The young man crumpled. Rebus stood up. ‘Handy thing, this,’ he said. He pointed it at Eck Robertson. ‘You can keep the picture as a reminder, Eck. Meantime, I’ll be back. I want you to testify against Cafferty. Not now, not yet. Sometime after I’ve got him firm on a charge. And if you won’t testify, I can always resurrect Eck Robertson. Think about it. One way or the other, Big Ger’ll know.’

  He was crossing the Forth Road Bridge when he heard the news on the radio.

  ‘Aw Christ,’ he said, stepping on the accelerator.

  31

  Rebus showed his ID as he drove through the brewery gates. There was only the one police car left at the scene, and no sign of an ambulance. Workers stood around in huddled, low-talking groups, passing round cigarettes and stories.

  Rebus knew the detective sergeant. He worked out of Edinburgh West, and his unfortunate name was Robert Burns. This Burns was tall and bulky and red-haired, with freckles on his face. On Sunday afternoons, he could sometimes be found at the foot of the Mound, where he would lambast the strolling heathens. Rebus was glad to see Burns. You might get fire and brimstone with him, but you’d never get waffle.

  Burns pointed to the huge aluminium tank. ‘He climbed to the top.’ Yes, Rebus could see all too clearly the metal stairwell which reached to the top of the tank, with walkways circling the tank every thirty feet or so. ‘And when he got to the top, he jumped. A lot of the workers saw him, and they all said the same thing. He just climbed steadily till there were no more stairs, and then he threw himself off, arms stretched out. One of them said the dive was better than anything he’d seen in the Olympics.’

  ‘That good, eh?’ They weren’t the only ones staring at the tank. Some of the workforce glanced up from time to time, then traced Aengus Gibson’s descent. He’d hit the tarmac and crumpled like a concertina. There was a dent in the ground as though a boulder had been lifted from the spot.

  ‘His father tried chasing after him,’ Burns was saying. ‘Didn’t get very far. Old boy like that, it’s a wonder his heart didn’t give out. They had to help him down from the third circle.’

  Rebus counted up three walkways. ‘A bit of Dante, eh?’ he said, winking at Burns.

  ‘The old boy’s saying it was an accident.’

  ‘Of course he is.’

  ‘It wasn’t, though.’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t.’

  ‘I’ve got a dozen witnesses who say he jumped.’

  ‘A dozen witnesses,’ Rebus corrected, ‘who’ll change their minds if their jobs are on the line.’

  ‘Aye, right enough.’

  Rebus breathed in. He’d always liked that smell of hops, but from now on he knew it would smell differently to him. It would smell like this moment, played over time and time again.

  ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,’ said Burns. ‘What happened to your leg, by the way?’

  ‘Ingrown toenails,’ said Rebus. ‘The Lord gave them, the Infirmary took them away.’

  Burns was shaking his head at this easy blasphemy when a window in the building behind them opened.

  ‘You!’ shouted Broderick Gibson. ‘You killed him! You did it!’ His crooked finger, a finger he seemed unable to straighten, was mostly pointed at Rebus. His eyes were like wet glass, his breathing strained. Someone was trying to coax him gently back into the office, hands on his shoulders. ‘There’ll be a reckoning!’ he called to Rebus. ‘Mark my words. There’ll come a reckoning!’

  The old man was finally pulled inside, the window falling shut after him. The workers were looking over towards the two policemen.

  ‘He must be one of yours,’ said Rebus, making for his car.

  That was that then. Aengus Gibson had shot and killed Tam Robertson, and now Aengus was dead. End of story. Rebus could think of one person not in Aengus’s family who was going to be very upset: Big Ger Cafferty. Cafferty had protected Black Aengus, maybe even blackmailed him, all the time waiting for the day when the young man would take over the brewery. With Aengus dead, the whole edifice fell, and good riddance to it.

  Still, there was no comeback for Cafferty, no punishment. Back at the flat, Michael had some news.

  ‘The doe’s been trying to get you.’

  ‘Which one? I’ve seen so many recently.’

  ‘Dr Patience Aitken. She seems to think you’re avoiding her. Sounds like the ploy’s working, too.’

  ‘It’s not a ploy. I’ve just had a lot on my plate.’

  ‘And if you don’t finish it, you won’t get afters.’ Michael smiled. ‘She sounds nice, by the way.’

  ‘She is nice. I’m the arsehole.’

  ‘So go see her.’

  Rebus flopped onto the sofa. ‘Maybe I will. What are you reading?’ Michael showed him the cover. ‘Another book on hypnotherapy. You must have exhausted the field.’

  ‘I’ve just been scratching the surface.’ Michael paused. ‘I’m going to take a course.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m going to become a hypnotherapist. I mean, I know I can hypnotise people.’

  ‘You can certainly get them to take their trousers off and bark like dogs.’

  ‘Exactly, it’s about time I put it to better use.’

  ‘They say laughter is the best medicine.’

  ‘Shut up, John, I’m trying to be serious. And I’m moving back in with Chrissie and the kids.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve talked with her. We’ve decided to try again.’

  ‘Sounds romantic.’

  ‘Well, one of us has got to have some romance in his soul.’ Michael picked up the telephone and handed it to Rebus. ‘Now phone the doctor.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Rebus.

  Broderick Gibson had clout, there was no denying it. On Wednesday morning the newspapers reported the ‘tragic accident’ at the Gibson Brewery near Fountainbridge, Edinburgh. There were photos of Aengus, some in his Black Aengus days, others showing the later model at charity events. There wasn’t a whisper of suicide. It was another cover-up by Aengus’s father, another distortion of the truth. It had become just something Broderick Gibson did, a part of the routine.

  At ten-fifteen, Rebus received a phone call. It was Chief Superintendent Watson.

  ‘There’s someone here to see you,’ he said. ‘I told him you’re under suspension, but he’s bloody insistent.’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Rebus.

  ‘Some blind old duffer called Vanderhyde.’

  Vanderhyde was still waiting when Rebus arrived. He looked quite at ease, concentrating on the sounds around him. Chatter and phone calls and the clacking of keyboards. He was seated on a chair facing Rebus’s desk. Rebus tiptoed painfully around him and sat down. He watched Matthew Vanderhyde for a couple of minutes. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and black tie: mourning clothes. He carried a blue cardboard folder, which he rested on his thighs. His walking-stick rested against the side of his chair.

  ‘Well, Inspector,’ said Vanderhyde suddenly, ‘seen enough?’

  Rebus gave a wry smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Vanderhyde. What gave me away?’

  ‘You’re carrying a cane of some kind. It hit the corner of your desk.’ Rebus nodded. ‘I was sorry to hear.’

  ‘No sorrier than his parents. They’ve worked hard over the years with Aengus. He has been hard work. Devilish hard at times. Now it’s all gone to waste.’ Vanderhyde leaned forward in his chair. Had he been sighted, his eyes would have been boring into Rebus’s. As it was, Rebus could see his own face reflected in the double mirror of Vanderhyde’s glasses. ‘Did he deserve to die, Inspector?’

  ‘He had a choice.’

  ‘Did he?’

  Rebus was remembering the priest’s words. Can you live the rest of your life with the me
mories and the guilt? Vanderhyde knew Rebus wasn’t about to answer. He nodded slowly, and sat back a little in his chair.

  ‘You were there that night, weren’t you?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the card game.’

  ‘Blind men make poor card-players, Inspector.’

  ‘A sighted person could help them.’ Rebus waited. Vanderhyde sat stiff and straight like the wax figure of a Victorian. ‘Maybe someone like Broderick Gibson.’

  Vanderhyde’s fingers played over the blue folder, gripped it, and passed it over the desk.

  ‘Broderick wanted you to have this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say. All he did say was, he hoped you’ll think it was worth it, though he himself doubts it.’ Vanderhyde paused. ‘Of course, I was curious enough to study it in my own particular way. It’s a book of some kind.’ Rebus accepted the heavy folder, and Vanderhyde took his own hand away, finding his walking-stick and resting the hand there. ‘Some keys were found on Aengus. They didn’t seem to match any known lock. Last night, Broderick found some bank statements detailing monthly payments to an estate office. He knows the head of the office, so he phoned him. Aengus, it seems, had been leasing a flat in Blair Street.’

  Rebus knew it, a narrow passage between the High Street and the Cowgate, balanced precariously between respectability and low living. ‘Nobody knew about it?’

  Vanderhyde shook his head. ‘It was his little den, Inspector. A real rat’s nest, according to Broderick. Mouldering food and empty bottles, pornographic video…’

  ‘A regular bachelor pad.’

  Vanderhyde ignored his levity. ‘This book was found there.’

  Rebus had already opened the folder. Inside was a large ring-bound notebook. It bore no title, but its narrow lines were filled with writing. A few sentences told Rebus what it was: Aengus Gibson’s journal.

  32

  Rebus sat at his desk reading. Nobody bothered him, despite the fact that he was supposed to be suspended. The day grew sunless, and the office emptied slowly. He might as well have been in solitary confinement for all the notice he took. His phone was off its hook and his head, bowed over the journal, was hidden by his hands; a clear sign that he did not want to be disturbed.

  He read the journal quickly first time through. After all, only some of the pages were germane. The early entries were full of wild parties, illicit coitus in country mansions with married women who were still ‘names’ even today, and more often with the daughters of those women. Arguments with father and mother, usually over money. Money. There was a lot of money in these early entries, money spent on travel, cars, champagne, clothes. However, the journal itself opened quite strangely:

  Sometimes, mostly when I’m alone, but occasionally in company, I catch a glimpse of someone from the corner of my eye. Or think I do. When I look properly, there’s nobody there. There may be some shape there, some interesting, unconscious arrangement of the edge of an open door and the window frame beyond it, or whatever, which gives the hint of a human shape. I mention the door and the window frame because it is the most recent example.

  I am becoming convinced, however, that I really am seeing things. And what I am seeing—being shown, to be more accurate—is myself. That other part of me. I went to church when I was a child, and believed in ghosts. I still believe in ghosts …

  Rebus skipped to the start of the next entry:

  I can write this journal safe in the knowledge that whoever is reading it—yes you, dear reader—does so after my death. Nobody knows it is here, and since I have no friends, no confidants or confidantes, it is unlikely that anyone will sneak a look at it. A burglar may carry it off, of course. If so, shame on you: it is the least valuable thing in this flat, though it may become more valuable the longer I write …

  There were huge gaps in the chronology. A single year might garner half a dozen dated entries. Black Aengus, it seemed, was no more regular in keeping a diary than he was in anything else. Five years ago, though, there had been a spate of entries. The accidental break-in at Mo Johnson’s flat; Aengus becoming friendly with Mo and being introduced by her to a certain Morris Cafferty. After a while, Cafferty became simply ‘Big Ger’ as Aengus and he met at parties and in pubs and clubs.

  By far the longest entry, however, belonged to the one day Rebus was really interested in:

  This isn’t a bad place really. The nursing staff are understanding and ready with jokes and stories. They carry me with all gentleness back to my room when I find I’ve wandered from it. The corridors are long and mazey. I thought I saw a tree once in one corridor, but it was a painting on the window. A nurse placed my hand on the cold glass so I could be sure in my mind.

  Like the rest of them, she refused to smuggle in any vodka.

  From my window I can see a squirrel—a red squirrel, I think—leaping between trees, and beyond that hills covered with stunted foliage, like a bad school haircut.

  But I’m not really seeing this pastoral scene. I’m looking into a room, a room where I think I’ll be spending a great deal of my time, even after I’ve left this hospital.

  Why did I ever try to talk my father into going to the poker game? I know the answer now. Because Cafferty wanted him there. And father was keen enough—there’s still a spark in him, a spark of the wildness that has been his legacy to me. But he couldn’t come. Had he been there, I wonder if things would have turned out differently.

  I met Uncle Matthew in the bar. God, what a bore. He thinks that because he has dabbled with demons and the hobgoblins of nationalism he has some import in the world. I could have told him, men like Cafferty have import. They are the hidden movers and shakers, the deal-makers. Simply, they get things done. And God, what things!

  Tam Robertson suggested that I join the poker game which was happening upstairs. The stake money required was not high, and I knew I could always nip over to Blair Street for more cash if needed. Of course, I knew Tam Robertson’s reputation. He dealt cards in a strange manner, elbow jutting out and up. Though I couldn’t fathom how, some people reckoned he was able to see the underside of the cards as he dealt. His brother, Eck, explained it away by saying Tam had broken his arm as a young man. Well, I’m no card sharp, and I expected to lose a few quid, but I was sure I’d know if anyone tried to cheat me.

  But then the other two players arrived, and I knew I would not be cheated. One was Cafferty. He was with a man called Jimmy Bone, a butcher by trade. He looked like a butcher, too—puffy-faced, red-cheeked, with fingers as fat as link sausages. He had a just-scrubbed look too. You often get that with butchers, surgeons, workers in the slaughterhouse. They like to look cleaner than clean.

  Now that I think of it, Cafferty looked like that too. And Eck. And Tam. Tam was always rubbing his hands, giving off an aroma of lemon soap. Or he would examine his fingernails and pick beneath them. To look at his clothes, you would never guess, but he was pathologically hygienic. I realise now—blessed hindsight!—that the Robertson brothers were not pleased to see Cafferty. Nor did the butcher look happy at having been cajoled into playing. He kept complaining that he owed too much as it was, but Cafferty wouldn’t hear of it.

  The butcher was a dreadful poker player. He mimed dejection whenever he had a bad hand, and fidgeted, shuffling his feet, when he had a good one. As the game wore on, it was obvious there was an undercurrent between Cafferty and the Robertsons. Cafferty kept complaining about business. It was slow, money wasn’t what it was. Then he turned to me abruptly and slapped his palm against the back of my hand.

  ‘How many dead men have you seen?’

  In Cafferty’s company, I affected more bravado even than usual, an effect achieved in most part by seeming preternaturally relaxed.

  ‘Not many,’ I said (or something offhand like that).

  ‘Any at all?’ he persisted. He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’ve seen dozens. Yes, dozens. What’s more, Black Aengus, I’ve killed my fair
share of them.’

  He lifted his hand away, sat back and said nothing. The next hand was dealt in silence. I wished Mo were around. She had a way of calming him down. He was drinking whisky from the bottle, sloshing it around in his mouth before swallowing noisily. Sober, he is unpredictable; drunk, he is dangerous. That’s why I like him. I even admire him, in a strange sort of way. He gets what he wants by any means necessary. There is something magnetic about that singularity of mind. And of course, in his company I am someone to be respected, respected by people who would normally call me a stuck-up snob and, as one person did, ‘a pissed-up piece of shite’. Cafferty took exception when I told him I’d been called this. He paid the man responsible a visit.

  What makes him want to spend time with me? Before that night, I’d thought maybe we saw fire in one another’s eyes. But now I know differently. He spent time with me because I was going to be another means to an end. A final, bitter end.

  I was drinking vodka, at first with orange, later neat—but always from a glass and always with ice. The Robertsons drank beer. They had a crate of bottles on the floor between them. The butcher drank whisky, whenever Cafferty deigned to pour him some, which wasn’t often enough for the poor butcher. I was twenty quid down within a matter of minutes, and sixty quid down after a quarter of an hour. Cafferty placed his hand on mine again.

  ‘If I’d not strayed along,’ he said, ‘they’d have had the shirt off your back and the breeks off your arse.’

  ‘I never cheat,’ said Tam Robertson. I got the feeling Cafferty had been wanting him to say something all along. Robertson acknowledged this by biting his lip.

  Cafferty asked him if he was sure he didn’t cheat. Robertson said nothing. His brother tried to calm things down, putting our minds back onto the game. But Cafferty grinned at Tam Robertson as he picked up his cards. Later, he started again.

  ‘I’ve killed a lot of men,’ he said, directing his eyes at me but his voice at the Robertsons; ‘But not one of those killings wasn’t justified. People who owed me, people who’d done me wrong, people who’d cheated. The way I look at it, everybody knows what he’s getting into. Doesn’t he?’