by Ian Rankin
It was slightly scary too that Jack Morton’s name had come up at this particular time. Another ghost from Rebus’s past. When they’d worked together six years ago, Rebus wouldn’t have given the younger Morton more than four or five years to live, such was his steady consumption of booze and cigarettes.
There was no contact phone number. It would have taken only a few minutes to find the number of Morton’s nick, but Rebus didn’t feel like it. He felt like getting back to the files on his desk. But first he phoned the Infirmary to check on Brian Holmes’ progress, only to be told that there wasn’t any, though there was also no decline.
‘That sounds cheery.’
‘It’s just an expression,’ the person on the phone said.
The test results wouldn’t be known until next morning. He thought for a moment, then made another call, this time to Patience Aitken’s group practice. But Patience was out on a call, so Rebus left a message. He got the receptionist to read it back so he could be sure it sounded right.
‘“Thought I’d call to let you know how Brian’s doing. Sorry you weren’t in. You can call me at Arden Street if you like. John.”’
Yes, that would do. She’d have to call him now, just to show she wasn’t uncaring about Brian’s condition. With a speck of hope in his heart, Rebus went back to work.
He got back to the flat at six, having done some shopping en route. Though he’d proposed taking the files home, he really couldn’t be bothered. He was tired, his head ached, and his nose was stuffy from the old dust which rose from their pages. He climbed the flights of stairs wearily, opened the door, and took the grocery bags into the kitchen, where one of the students was spreading peanut butter onto a thick slice of brown bread.
‘Hiya, Mr Rebus. You got a phone call.’
‘Oh?’
‘Some woman doctor.’
‘When?’
‘Ten minutes ago, something like that.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said if she wanted to find out about . . .’
‘Brian? Brian Holmes?’
‘Aye, that’s it. If she wanted to find out about him, she could call the hospital, and that’s exactly what she’d done twice today already.’ The student beamed, pleased at having remembered the whole message. So Patience had seen through his scheme. He should have known. Her intelligence, amongst other things, had attracted him to her. Also, they were very much alike in many ways. Rebus should have learned long ago, never try to put one over on someone who knows the way your mind works. He lifted a box of eggs, tin of beans, and packet of bacon out of the bag.
‘Oh my God,’ said the student in disgust. ‘Do you know just how intelligent pigs are, Mr Rebus?’
Rebus looked at the student’s sandwich. ‘A damned sight more intelligent than peanuts,’ he said. Then: ‘Where’s the frying-pan?’
Later, Rebus sat watching TV. He’d nipped over to the Infirmary to visit Brian Holmes. He reckoned it was quicker to walk rather than driving around The Meadows. So he’d walked, letting his head clear. But the visit itself had been depressing. Not a bit of progress.
‘How long can he stay conked out?’
‘It can take a while,’ a nurse had consoled.
‘It’s been a while.’
She touched his arm. ‘Patience, patience.’
Patience! He almost took a taxi to her flat, but dropped the idea. Instead, he walked back to Arden Street, climbed the same old weary stairs, and flopped onto the sofa. He had spent so many evenings deep in thought in this room, but that had been back when the flat was his, only his.
Michael came into the living room, fresh from a shave and a shower. He wore a towel tight around his flat stomach. He was in good shape; Rebus hadn’t noticed before. But Michael saw him noticing now, and patted his stomach.
‘One thing about Peterhead, plenty of exercise.’
‘I suppose you’ve got to get fit in there,’ Rebus drawled, ‘so you can fight back when someone’s after your arse.’
Michael shook off the remark like it was so much water. ‘Oh, there’s plenty of that too. Never interested me.’ Whistling, he went into the box room and started to dress.
‘Going out?’ Rebus called.
‘Why stay in?’
‘Seeing that wee girl again?’
Michael put his head around the door. ‘She’s a consenting adult.’
Rebus got to his feet. ‘She’s a wee girl.’ He walked over to the box room and stared at Michael, forcing him to stop what he was doing.
‘What, John? You want me to stop going out with women? If you don’t like it, tough.’
Rebus thought of all the remarks he could make. This is my flat . . . I’m your big brother . . . you should know better . . . He knew Mickey would laugh – quite rightly – at any and all of them. So he thought of something else to say.
‘Fuck you, Mickey.’
Michael Rebus recommenced dressing. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment, but what’s the alternative? Sit here all night watching you stew or sulk or whatever it is you do inside your head? Thanks but no thanks.’
‘I thought you were going to look for a job.’
Michael Rebus grabbed a book from the bed and threw it at his brother. ‘I’m looking for a fucking job! What do you think I do all day? Just give it a rest, will you?’ He picked up his jacket and pushed past Rebus. ‘Don’t wait up for me, eh?’
That was a laugh: Rebus was asleep, and alone in the flat, before the ten o’clock news. But it wasn’t a sound sleep. It was a sleep filled with dreams. He was chasing Patience through some office block, always just losing her. He was eating in a restaurant with a teenage girl while the Rolling Stones entertained unnoticed on the small stage in the corner. He was watching a hotel burn to the ground, wondering if Brian Holmes, still unaccounted for, had gotten out alive . . .
And then he was awake and shivering, the room illuminated only by the street-lamp outside, burning through a chink in the curtains. He’d been reading the book Michael had thrown at him. It was about hypnotherapy and still lay in his lap, beneath the blanket someone had thrown over him. There were noises nearby, noises of pleasure. They were coming from the box room. Some therapy, no doubt. Rebus listened to them for what seemed like hours until the light outside grew pale.
5
Andrew McPhail sat beside his bedroom window. Across the road, the children were being lined up two by two outside the school doors. The boys had to hold hands with the girls, the whole thing supervised by two female staff members, looking hardly old enough to be parents, never mind teachers. McPhail sipped cold tea from his mug and watched. He paid very close attention to the children. Any one of the girls might have been Melanie. Except, of course, that Melanie would be older. Not much older, but older. He wasn’t kidding himself. He knew the odds were Melanie wouldn’t be at this school, probably wasn’t even in Edinburgh any more. But he watched all the same, and imagined her down there, her hand touching the cool wet hand of one of the boys. Small delicate fingers, the beginning of fine lines on the palm. One girl was really quite similar: short straight hair curling in towards her ears and the nape of her neck. The height was familiar, too, but the face, what he could see of the face, was nothing like Melanie. Really, nothing like her. And besides, what did it matter to McPhail?
They were marching into the building now, leaving him behind with his cold tea and his memories. He could hear Mrs MacKenzie downstairs, washing dishes and probably chipping and breaking as much crockery as she got clean. Not her fault, her eyesight was failing. Everything about the old woman was failing. The house was bound to be worth £40,000, as good as money in the bank. And what did he have? Only memories of the way things had been in Canada and before Canada.
A plate crashed onto the kitchen floor. It couldn’t go on like this, really it couldn’t. There’d be nothing left. He didn’t like to think about the budgie in the living-room . . .
McPhail drained the strong tea. The caffein
e made him slightly giddy, sweat breaking out on his forehead. The playground was empty, the school doors closed. He couldn’t see anything through the building’s few visible windows. There might be a late-arriving straggler, but he didn’t have time to waste. He had work to do. It was good to keep busy. Keeping busy kept you sane.
‘Big Ger,’ Rebus was saying, ‘real name Morris Gerald Cafferty.’
Dutifully, and despite her good memory, DC Siobhan Clarke wrote these words on her notepad. Rebus didn’t mind her taking notes. It was good exercise. When she lowered her head to write, Rebus had a view of the crown of her head, light-brown hair falling forward. She was good looking in a homely sort of way. Indeed, she reminded him a bit of Nell Stapleton.
‘He’s the prime mover, and if we’re offered him we’ll take him. But Operation Moneybags will actually be focusing on David Charles Dougary, known as Davey.’ Again, the words went onto the paper. ‘Dougary rents office space from a dodgy mini-cab service in Gorgie Road.’
‘Not far from the Heartbreak Cafe?’
The question surprised him. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not too far.’
‘And the restaurant owner hinted at a protection payoff?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Don’t get carried away, Clarke.’
‘And these men are involved in protection money too, aren’t they?’
‘There’s not much Big Ger Cafferty isn’t involved in: money laundering, prostitution. He’s a big bad bastard, but that isn’t the point. The point is, this operation will concentrate on loan-sharking, period.’
‘All I’m saying is maybe Sergeant Holmes was attacked by mistake instead of the Cafe’s owner.’
‘It’s a possibility,’ said Rebus. And if it’s true, he thought, I’m wasting a lot of time and effort on an old case. But as Nell said, Brian was frightened of something in his black book. And all because he’d started trying to track down the mysterious R. Brothers.
‘But to get back to business, we’ll be setting up a surveillance across the road from the taxi firm.’
‘Round the clock?’
‘We’ll start with working hours. Dougary has a fairly fixed routine by all accounts.’
‘What’s he supposed to be doing in that office?’
‘The way he tells it, everything from basic entrepreneurship to arranging food parcels for the Third World. Don’t get me wrong, Dougary’s clever. He’s lasted longer than most of Big Ger’s “associates”. He’s also a maniac, it’s worth bearing that in mind. We once arrested him after a pub brawl. He’d torn the ear off another man with his teeth. When we got there, Dougary was chomping away. The ear was never recovered.’
Rebus always expected some reaction from his favourite stories, but all Siobhan Clarke did was smile and say, ‘I love this city.’ Then: ‘Are there files on Mr Cafferty?’
‘Oh aye, there are files. By all means, plough through them. They’ll give you some idea what you’re up against.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll do that. And when do we start the surveillance, sir?’
‘First thing Monday morning. Everything will be set up on Sunday. I just hope they give us a decent camera.’ He noticed Clarke was looking relieved. Then the penny dropped. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t miss the Hibs game.’
She smiled. ‘They’re away to Aberdeen.’
‘And you’re still going?’
‘Absolutely.’ She tried never to miss a game.
Rebus was shaking his head. He didn’t know that many Hibs fans. ‘I wouldn’t travel that far for the Second Coming.’
‘Yes you would.’
Now Rebus smiled. ‘Who’s been talking? Right, what’s on the agenda for today?’
‘I’ve talked to the butcher. He was no help at all. I think I’d have more chance of getting a complete sentence out of the carcases in his deep freeze. But he does drive a Merc. That’s an expensive car. Butchers aren’t well known for high salaries, are they?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘The prices they charge, I wouldn’t be so sure.’
‘Anyway, I’m planning to drop in on him at home this morning, just to clear up a couple of points.’
‘But he’ll be at work.’
‘Unfortunately yes.’
Rebus caught on. ‘His wife will be home?’
‘That’s what I’m hoping. The offer of a cup of tea, a little chat in the living room. Wasn’t it terrible about Rory? That sort of thing.’
‘So you can size up his home life, and maybe get a talkative wife thrown in for good measure.’ Rebus was nodding slowly. It was so devious he should have thought of it himself.
‘Get tae it, lass,’ he said, and she did, leaving him to reach down onto the floor and lift one of the Central Hotel files onto his desk.
He started reading, but soon froze at a certain page. It listed the Hotel’s customers on the night it burnt down. One name fairly flew off the page.
‘Would you credit that?’ Rebus got up from the desk and put his jacket on. Another ghost. And another excuse to get out of the office.
The ghost was Matthew Vanderhyde.
6
The house next to Vanderhyde’s was as mad as ever. Owned by an ancient Nationalist, it sported the saltire flag on its gate and what looked like thirty-year-old tracts taped to its windows. The owner couldn’t get much light, but then the house Rebus was approaching had its curtains drawn closed.
He rang the doorbell and waited. It struck him that Vanderhyde might well be dead. He would be in his early-to mid-seventies, and though he’d seemed healthy enough the last time they’d met, well, that was over two years ago.
He had consulted Vanderhyde in an earlier case. After the case was closed, Rebus used to drop in on Vanderhyde from time to time, just casually. They only lived six streets apart, after all. But then he’d started to get serious with Dr Patience Aitken, and hadn’t found time for a visit since.
The door opened, and there stood Matthew Vanderhyde, looking just the same as ever. His sightless eyes were hidden behind dark green spectacles, above which sat a high shiny forehead and long swept-back yellow hair. He was wearing a suit of beige cord with a brown waistcoat, from the pocket of which hung a watch-chain. He leaned lightly on his silver-topped cane, waiting for the caller to speak.
‘Hello there, Mr Vanderhyde.’
‘Ah, Inspector Rebus. I was wondering when I’d see you. Come in, come in.’
From Vanderhyde’s tone, it sounded like they’d last met two weeks before. He led Rebus through the dark hallway and into the darker living room. Rebus took in the shapes of bookshelves, paintings, the large mantelpiece covered in mementoes from trips abroad.
‘As you can see, Inspector, nothing has changed in your absence.’
‘I’m glad to see you looking so well, sir.’
Vanderhyde shrugged aside the remark. ‘Some tea?’
‘No thanks.’
‘I’m really quite thrilled that you’ve come. It must mean there’s something I can do for you.’
Rebus smiled. ‘I’m sorry I stopped visiting.’
‘It’s a free country, I didn’t pine away.’
‘I can see that.’
‘So what sort of thing is it? Witchcraft? Devilment in the city streets?’
Rebus was still smiling. In his day, Matthew Vanderhyde had been an active white witch. At least, Rebus hoped he’d been white. It had never been discussed between them.
‘I don’t think this is anything to do with magic,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s about the Central Hotel.’
‘The Central? Ah, happy memories, Inspector. I used to go there as a young man. Tea dances, a very acceptable luncheon – they had an excellent kitchen in those days, you know – even once or twice to an evening ball.’
‘I’m thinking of more recent times. You were at the hotel the night it was torched.’
‘I don’t recall arson was proven.’
As usual, Vanderhyde’s memory was sharp enough when it suited him. ‘That’s true. All the same, you w
ere there.’
‘Yes, I was. But I left several hours before the fire started. Not guilty, your honour.’
‘Why were you there in the first place?’
‘To meet a friend for a drink.’
‘A seedy place for a drink.’
‘Was it? You’ll have to remember, Inspector, I couldn’t see anything. It certainly didn’t smell or feel particularly disreputable.’
‘Point taken.’
‘I had my memories. To me, it was the same old Central Hotel I’d lunched in and danced in. I quite enjoyed the evening.’
‘Was the Central your choice, then?’
‘No, my friend’s.’
‘Your friend being . . .?’
Vanderhyde considered. ‘No secret, I suppose. Aengus Gibson.’
Rebus sifted through the name’s connotations. ‘You don’t mean Black Aengus?’
Vanderhyde laughed, showing small blackened teeth. ‘You’d better not let him hear you calling him that these days.’
Yes, Aengus Gibson was a reformed character, that much was public knowledge. He was also, so Rebus presumed, still one of Scotland’s most eligible young men, if thirty-two could be considered young in these times. Black Aengus, after all, was sole heir to the Gibson Brewery and all that came with it.
‘Aengus Gibson,’ said Rebus.
‘The same.’
‘And this was five years ago, when he was still . . .’
‘High spirited?’ Vanderhyde gave a low chuckle. ‘Oh, he deserved the name Black Aengus then, all right. The newspapers got it just right when they came up with that nickname.’
Rebus was thinking. ‘I didn’t see his name in the records. Your name was there, but his wasn’t.’
‘I’m sure his family saw to it that his name never appeared in any records, Inspector. It would have given the media even more fuel than they needed at the time.’
Yes, Christ, Black Aengus had been a wild one all right, so wild even the London papers took an interest. He’d looked to be spiralling out of control on ever-new excesses, but then suddenly all that stopped. He’d been rehabilitated, and was now as respectable as could be, involved in the brewing business and several prominent charities besides.
