Black Book ir-5

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Go on, Tam,’ said Cafferty quietly, ‘you’re the one with the luck tonight. Pay the man.’

  Grudgingly, Tam counted out some notes and handed them over.

  ‘And a tip,’ said Cafferty. Another note was handed over. The waiter left the room. ‘A very nice gesture,’ said Cafferty. It was his turn to deal. ‘How much are you down now, Black Aengus?’

  ‘I’m not bad,’ I said.

  ‘I asked how much.’

  ‘About forty.’ I’d been a hundred down at one stage, but two decent hands had repaired some of the damage. Plus-there could be no doubt about it-the best card players around the table, by which I mean the Robertson brothers, were finding it hard to concentrate. The room was not warm, but there was sweat trickling down from Eck’s sideburns. He kept rubbing the sweat away.

  ‘You’re letting them cheat you out of forty?’ Cafferty said conversationally.

  Tam Robertson leapt to his feet, his chair tipping over behind him. ‘I’ve heard just about enough!’

  But Eck righted the chair and pulled him down into it. Cafferty had finished dealing and was studying his cards, as though oblivious to the whole scene. The butcher got up suddenly, announcing that he was going to be sick. He walked quickly out of the room.

  ‘He won’t be back,’ Cafferty announced.

  I said something lame to the effect that I was thinking of an early night myself. When Cafferty turned to me, he looked and sounded unlike any of his many personalities, the many I’d encountered so far.

  ‘You wouldn’t know an early night if it kicked you in the cunt.’ He had started to gather up the cards for a redeal. I could feel blood tingling in my cheeks. He’d spoken with something close to revulsion. I told myself that he’d just drunk too much. People often said thing…etc. Look at me, I was one to be upset about the nasty things drunks could say!

  He dealt the hand again. When it came time for him to make his initial bet, he threw a note into the pot, then laid his cards face down on the table. He reached into the waistband of his trousers. He’d worn a suit throughout; he always looks smart. He says the police are warier of picking up people wearing good clothes, and certainly more wary about punching or kicking them.

  ‘They don’t like to see good material ruined,’ he told me. ‘Canny Scots, you see.’

  Now, when he withdrew his hand from the waistband, it was holding a pistol of some kind. The Robertsons started to object, while I just stared at the gun. I’d seen guns before, but never this close and in this kind of situation. Suddenly, the vodka, which had been having little or no effect all night, swam through me like waste through a sewer-pipe. I thought I was going to be sick, but swallowed it down. I even thought I might pass out. And all the time Cafferty was talking calm as you like about how Tam had been cheating him and where was the money.

  ‘And you’ve been cheating Black Aengus too,’ he said. I wanted to protest that this wasn’t true, but still thought I might be sick if I opened my mouth, so I just shook my head, after which I felt even dizzier. You can’t know the pain and frustration I’m feeling as I try to write this down candidly and exactly. Fourteen weeks have passed since that night, but every night it comes back to me, waking and sleeping. They’re giving me drugs here, and strictly no alcohol. During the day I can walk in the grounds. There are ‘encounter groups’ where I’m supposed to talk my way out of my problem. Christ, if it were only that easy! The first thing my father did was get me out of the way. I am tempted to say his way. His answer was to send me on holiday. Mother chaperoned me around New England, where an aunt has a house in Bar Harbor. I tried talking to mother, but didn’t seem to make much sense. She had that stupid sympathetic smile pasted onto her face.

  I digress, not that it matters. Back to the poker game. You’ve perhaps guessed what happened next. I felt Cafferty’s hand on mine, only this time he lifted my hand up in his. Then he placed the gun in my hand. I can feel it now, cold and hard. Half of me thought the gun was fake and he was just going to scare the Robertsons. The other half knew the gun was real, but didn’t think he would use it.

  Then I felt his fingers pushing mine until my index finger was around the trigger. His hand now fully enclosed mine, and aimed the gun. He squeezed his finger against mine, and there was an explosion in the room, and wisps of acrid powder. Blood freckled us all. It was warm for a moment, then cold against my skin. Eck was leaning over his brother, speaking to him. The gun clattered onto the table. Though I didn’t take it in at the time, Cafferty proceeded to wrap the gun in a polythene bag. I know that any prints on it must be mine.

  I flew up from the table, panicking, hysterical. Cafferty was seated still, and looking pacified. His calm had the opposite effect on me. I threw the vodka bottle against the wall, where it smashed, dousing wallpaper and curtains in alcohol. Seeing an idea, I grabbed a lighter from the table and ignited the vodka. Only now did Cafferty get up. He was swearing at me, and tried to douse the flames, but they were licking up the curtains out of our reach, scudding across the fabric wallcovering on the ceiling. He saw the fire was moving quicker than we could. I think Eck had already forsaken his brother and fled before I ran out of the room. I took the stairs three at a time and burst into the kitchens, demanding that all the gas be turned on. If the Central was going to burn, let it take the evidence with it.

  I must have looked crazy enough, for the chef followed my instructions. I think he was the same person who served us the sandwiches, only he’d changed jackets. It was late, and he was alone in the kitchen, writing something down in a book. I told him to get out. He left by the back way, and I followed, keeping my head low as I jogged back to Blair Street.

  I think that’s everything. It doesn’t feel any better for the writing down. There’s no exorcism or catharsis. Maybe there never will be. You see, they’ve found the body. More than that, they know the man was shot. I don’t see how the devil they can know, but they do. Maybe someone told them. Eck Robertson would have reason to. He’s the only one who could tell. It’s all my fault. I know that Cafferty started swearing at me because I’d mucked things up by setting fire to the room. If I hadn’t, he would have seen to it that Tam Robertson’s body disappeared in the usual way. No one would have known. We would have gotten away with murder.

  But ‘getting away with it’ isn’t always getting away with it. The corpse haunts me. Last night I dreamt it came back to me, charred, smouldering. Pointing a finger towards me and squeezing the trigger. Oh Christ, this is agony. And they think I’m here for alcoholism. I still haven’t told father all of it, not yet. He knows, though. He knows I was there. But he’s not saying anything. Sometimes I wish he’d hit me more as a child and not let me misbehave. He liked me to misbehave! ‘We’ll make a man of you,’ he used to say. Father, I am made.

  That was that. Rebus sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Eddie Ringan knew a little more than he’d been telling. He’d been a witness at the card game and could place Cafferty there. No wonder he’d been running scared. Cafferty probably hadn’t known him back then, hadn’t paid attention to a waiter who was moonlighting anyway and not one of the regular staff.

  Rebus rubbed his eyes and returned to the journal. There was a bit about a holiday, then about the hospital again. And then a few months later:

  I saw Cafferty today (Sunday). Not my idea. He must have been following me. He caught up on Blackford Hill. I’d come through the Hermitage, climbing the steep face of the hill. He must have thought I was trying to get away from him. He pulled on my arm, swinging me around. I think I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  He told me I had to keep my nose clean from now on. He said it was a good idea, going into that hospital. I think he was trying to let me know that he knew everything I’d been up to. I think I know what he’s doing. He’s biding his time. Watching me as I take instructions in the business. Waiting for the day when I take over from my father. I think he wants it all, body and soul.

  Yes, body and soul.
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br />   There was a lot more, the style and substance of the entries changing as Aengus too tried to change. He’d found it hard work. The public face, the charity face, masked a yearning for some of that wild past. Rebus flipped to the final entry, undated:

  You know, dear friend or foe, I liked the feel of that gun in my hand. And when Cafferty put my finger on the trigge…he did squeeze it. I’m certain of that. But supposing he hadn’t? Would I still have fired, with his strong unfailing hand on mine? After all these years, all the bad dreams, the cold sweats and sudden surges, something has happened. The case is being reopened. I’ve spoken with Cafferty who tells me not to worry. He says I should concentrate my energies on the brewery. He seems to know more about our finances than I do. Father is talking of retiring next year. The business will be all mine, and all Cafferty’s. I’ve seen him at charity functions, accompanied by Mo, and at various public occasions. We’ve talked, but never since that night have we enjoyed one another’s company. I lost my usefulness that night. Perhaps I just showed my weakness by smashing the bottle. Or perhaps that had been the plan all along. He always gives me a wink when he sees me. But then he winks at just about everyone. But when he winks at me, when he closes his eye for that second, it’s as if he’s taking aim, setting me in his sights. Christ, is there no end in sight? If I weren’t so scared, I’d be praying the police would find me. But Cafferty won’t let them. He never will let them, never.

  Rebus closed the journal. His heart was beating fast, hands trembling. You poor bugger, Aengus. When you read we’d got the gun, you thought we’d fingerprint it and then we’d come looking for you.

  But instead, Cafferty had blown his trump trying to incriminate Rebus, just to keep him out of the picture for a while. And the irony of it all was, with the prints messed up, Black Aengus was in the clear-in the clear for a murder he didn’t really commit.

  Again, though, it was all uncorroborated. Rebus imagined the field day the defence would have if he walked into the Royal Mile courts with nothing more than the journal of a recovering dipsomaniac. The Edinburgh law courts were notoriously tough at the best of times. With the sort of advocate Cafferty could afford, it was a definite loser from the word go.

  Yet Rebus knew he had to do something about Cafferty. The man deserved punishment, a million punishments. Let the punishment fit the crime, he thought. But he shook the notion away. No more guns.

  He didn’t go home, not right away. He walked out of the now-empty office and got into his car. And sat there, in the car park. The key was in the ignition, but he let it sit there. His hands rested lightly on the steering-wheel. After almost an hour, he started the engine, mostly because he was getting cold. He didn’t go anywhere, except inside his head, and slowly but surely, with backtracking and rerouting along the way, the idea came to him. Let the punishment fit the crime. Yes, but not Cafferty’s punishment. No, not Cafferty’s.

  Andrew McPhail’s.

  33

  Rebus didn’t go near St Leonard’s for a couple of days, though he did get a message from Farmer Watson that Broderick Gibson was considering bringing an action against him, for harrying his son.

  ‘He’s been harrying himself for years,’ was Rebus’s only comment.

  But he was waiting in his car when they released Andy Steele. The fisherman cum private eye blinked into the sun. Rebus sounded his horn, and Steele approached warily. Rebus wound down his window.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Steele. There was disappointment in his voice. Rebus had said he’d see what he could do for the young man, then had left him to languish, never coming near.

  ‘They let you out, then,’ said Rebus.

  ‘Aye, on bail.’

  ‘That’s because someone put up the money for you.’

  Steele nodded, then started. ‘You?’

  ‘Me,’ said Rebus. ‘Now get in, I’ve got a job for you.’

  ‘What sort of job?’

  ‘Get in and I’ll tell you.’

  There was a bit more life in Steele as he walked round to the passenger side and opened the door.

  ‘You want to be a private eye,’ stated Rebus. ‘Fair enough. I’ve got a job for you.’

  Steele seemed unable to take it in for a moment, then cleared his head by shaking it briskly, rubbing his hands through his hair.

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘So long as it’s not against the law.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing illicit. All I want you to do is talk to a few folk. They’re good listeners too, shouldn’t be any problem.’

  ‘What am I going to tell them?’

  Rebus started the car. ‘That there’s a contract out on a certain individual.’

  ‘A contract?’

  ‘Come on, Andy, you’ve seen the films. A contract.’

  ‘A contract,’ Andy Steele mouthed, as Rebus pulled into the traffic.

  There was still no sign of Andrew McPhail. Alex Maclean, Rebus discovered, was back in circulation though not yet back at work. When Rebus visited Mrs Mackenzie, she said she hadn’t seen a man with bandaged hands and face hanging around. But one of the neighbours had. Well, it didn’t matter, McPhail wouldn’t be coming back here again. He would probably write or telephone with a forwarding address, asking his landlady to send on his stuff. Rebus looked towards the school as he got back into his car. The children were in their own little worl…and safe.

  He did a lot of driving, visiting schools and playparks. He knew McPhail must be sleeping rough. Maybe he was well away from Edinburgh by now. Rebus had a vision of him climbing up onto a coal train headed slowly south. A hand reached out and helped McPhail into the wagon. It was Deek Torrance. The opening credits began to roll …

  It didn’t matter if he couldn’t find McPhail; it would just be a nice touch. A nicely cruel touch.

  Wester Hailes was a good place to get lost, meaning it was an easy place to get lost. Sited to the far west of the city, visible from the bypass which gave Edinburgh such a wide berth, Wester Hailes was somewhere the city put people so it could forget about them. The architecture was unenthusiastic, the walls of the flat-blocks finished off with damp and cracks.

  People might leave Wester Hailes, or stay there all their lives, surrounded by roads and industrial estates and empty green spaces. It had never before struck Rebus that it would make a good hiding place. You could walk the streets, or the Kingsknowe golf course, or the roads around Sighthill, and as long as you didn’t look out of place you would be safe. There were places you could sleep without being discovered. And if you were of a mind, there was a school. A school and quite a few play-parks.

  This was where, on the second day, he found Andrew McPhail. Never mind watching the bus and railway stations, Rebus had known where to look. He followed McPhail for three-quarters of an hour, at first in the car and then, when McPhail took a pedestrian shortcut, awkwardly on foot. McPhail kept moving, his gait brisk. A man out for a walk, that was all. A bit shabby maybe, but these days with unemployment what it was, you lost the will to shave every morning, didn’t you?

  McPhail was careful not to draw attention to himself. He didn’t pause to stare at any children he saw. He just smiled towards them and went on his way. When Rebus had seen enough, he gained quickly and tapped him on the shoulder. He might as well have used a cattle-prod.

  ‘Jesus, it’s you!’ McPhail’s hand went to his chest. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘That would have saved Alex Maclean a job.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Minor burns. He’s up and about and on the warpath.’

  ‘Christ’s sake! We’re talking about something that happened years ago!’

  ‘And it’s not going to happen again?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘And it was an accident you ended up living across from a primary school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I was wrong to think I’d find you somewhere near a school or a playgroun…?’

  McPhail opened his mouth, then close
d it again. He shook his head. ‘No, you weren’t wrong. I still like kids. But I neve…I’d never do anything to them. I won’t even speak to them these days.’ He looked up at Rebus. ‘I’m flying, Inspector.’

  Everyone wanted a second chance: Michael, McPhail, even Black Aengus. Sometimes, Rebus could help. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘There are programmes for past offenders. You could go into one of them, not in Edinburgh, somewhere else. You could sign on for social security and look for a job.’ McPhail looked ready to say something. ‘I know it takes money, a wee bit of cash to get you on your feet. But I can help with that too.’

  McPhail blinked, one eye staying half closed. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to. And afterwards, you’ll be left alone, I promise. I won’t tell anyone where you are or what’s happened to you. Is it a deal?’

  McPhail thought about it-for two seconds. ‘A deal,’ he said.

  ‘Fine then.’ Rebus put his hand on McPhail’s shoulder again, drawing him a little closer. ‘There’s just one small thing I’d like you to do for me firs…’

  It had been quiet in the social club, and Chick Muir was thinking of heading home when the young chap at the bar asked if he could buy him a drink. Chick readily agreed.

  ‘I don’t like drinking on my own,’ the young man explained.

  ‘Who can blame you?’ said Chick agreeably, handing his empty glass to the barman. ‘Not from round here?’

  ‘Aberdeen,’ said the young man.

  ‘A long way from home. Is it still like Dallas up there?’

  Chick meant the oil-boom, which had actually disappeared almost as quickly as it had begun, except in the mythology of those people not living in Aberdeen.