by Ian Rankin
Lauderdale nodded, still seeming affable. Flower had crossed his legs, at ease with the world. When Lauderdale next spoke, he held up a finger to accompany each point.
‘Two schoolkids barge in on you. Then DC Petrie gets into a punch-up with a complete stranger. A window is smashed, and so is Petrie’s nose. DC Clarke’s down at street level trying to brush away broken glass and curious passers-by.’ He looked up from his full hand. ‘Any possibility, John, that Operation Moneybags has been placed in jeopardy?’
‘No possibility, sir.’ Rebus held up one finger. ‘The man won’t talk, because if he does we’ll charge him with assault.’ A second finger. ‘And the boys won’t talk because the father will warn them not to.’ He held his two fingers in the air, then lowered his hand.
‘With all due respect, sir,’ the Little Weed was saying, ‘we’ve got a fight and a broken window in what was supposed to be a deserted building. People are nosy, it’s human nature. They’ll be looking up at that window tomorrow, and they’ll be wondering. Any movement behind the window will be noticed.’
Lauderdale turned to Rebus. ‘John?’
‘What Inspector Flower says is true, sir, as far as it goes. But people are quick to forget. What they’ll see tomorrow is a new window, end of story. Nobody saw anything from the taxi offices, and even if they heard the glass, it’s not like it doesn’t happen every day along Gorgie.’
‘Even so, Joh…’
‘Even so, sir, it was a mistake. I’ve already made that clear to DC Clarke.’ He could have told them that it was all the fault of the woman from Trading Standards, but making excuses made you seem weak. Rebus could take this on the chin. He’d even take it on the back of his scalp if it would get him out of the office any faster. The aromas of whisky and body odour were making him slightly queasy.
‘Alister?’
‘Well, sir, you know my view on the subject.’
Lauderdale nodded. ‘John,’ he said, ‘a lot of planning has gone into Operation Moneybags, and there’s a lot at stake. If you’re going to let a couple of kids wander into the middle of the surveillance, maybe it’s time you rethought your priorities. For example, those files beside your desk. That stuff’s five years old. Get your brain back to the here and now, understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We know you must have been affected by the attack on DS Holmes. What I’m asking is, are you up to helping run Operation Moneybags?’
Ah, here it was. The Little Weed wanted the surveillance for himself. He wanted to be the one to bring in Dougary.
‘I’m up to it, sir.’
‘No more fuck-ups then, understood?’
‘Understood, sir.’
Rebus would have said anything to shorten the meeting; well, just about anything. But he was damned if he was going to hand anything to Flower, least of all a case like this, even if he did think it a waste of time. Get back to the here and now, Lauderdale had said. But when Rebus left the office, he knew exactly where his brain was heading: back to the there and then.
By late afternoon, he decided that he had only two options regarding the Central Hotel, only two people left who might help. He telephoned one, and after a little persuasion was able to arrange an immediate interview.
‘There may be interruptions,’ the secretary warned. ‘We’re very busy just now.’
‘I can put up with interruptions.’
Twenty minutes later, he was ushered into a small wood-panelled office in a well-maintained old stone building. The windows looked out onto uglier new constructions of corrugated metal and shining steel. Steam billowed from pipes, but indoors you miraculously lost that strong brewery smell.
The door opened and a thirtyish man ambled into the room. ‘Inspector Rebus?’
They shook hands. ‘Good of you to see me at such short notice, sir.’
‘Your call was intriguing. I still like a bit of intrigue.’
Close up, Rebus saw that Aengus Gibson was probably still in his twenties. The sober suit, the spectacles and short sleek hair made him seem older. He went to his desk, slipped off his jacket, and placed it carefully over the back of a large padded chair. Then he sat down and began rolling up his shirtsleeves.
‘Sit yourself down, Inspector, please. Now, something to do with the Central Hotel, you said?’
There were papers laid out on the desk, and Gibson appeared to be browsing through them as Rebus spoke, but Rebus knew the man was taking in every word.
‘As you know, Mr Gibson, the Central burnt down five years ago. The cause of the fire was never satisfactorily explained, but more disturbing still was the finding of a body, a body with a bullet-hole through the heart. The body has never been identified.’
Rebus paused. Gibson took off his glasses and laid them on top of the papers. ‘I knew the Central quite well, Inspector. I’m sure my reputation precedes you into this office.’
‘Past and present reputations, sir.’
Gibson made no show of hearing this. ‘I was a bit wild in my youth, and a wilder crowd you’d be hard pressed to find than that congregating in the Central Hotel in those days.’
‘You’d be in your early twenties, sir, hardly a “youth”.’
‘Some of us take longer to grow up than others.’
‘Why did you arrange to meet Matthew Vanderhyde there?’
Gibson sat back in his chair. ‘Ah, now I see why you’re here. Well, I thought Uncle Matthew might appreciate the seedy glory of the Central. He was wild himself in years past.’
‘And maybe also you thought it might shock him?’
‘Nobody could shock Matthew Vanderhyde, Inspector.’ He smiled. ‘But perhaps you’re right. Yes, I’m sure there was an element of that. I knew damned fine that my father had asked him to talk to me. So I arranged to meet in the worst place I could think of.’
‘I could probably have helped find a few worse places than the Central.’
‘Me too, really. But the Central wa…well, central.’
‘And the two of you talked?’
‘He talked. I was supposed to listen. But when you’re with a blind man, Inspector, you don’t need to put up any pretence. No need for glazed eyes and all that. I think I read the paper, tried the crossword, watched the TV. It didn’t seem to matter to him. He was doing my father a favour, that was all.’
‘But pretty soon afterwards you put your “Black Aengus” days behind you.’
‘That’s true, yes. Maybe Uncle Matthew’s words had an effect after all.’
‘And after the meeting?’
‘We thought of having dinner together—not, I might add, in the Central. Filthiest kitchens I’ve ever seen. But I think I had a prior appointment with a young lady. Well, not that young, actually. Married, I seem to recall. Sometimes I miss those days. The media call me a reformed character. It’s an easy cliché, but damned hard to live up to.’
‘Your name never appeared on the official list of the Central’s customers that night.’
‘An oversight.’
‘One you could have corrected by coming forward.’
‘Giving yet more fuel to the newspapers.’
‘What if they found out now that you were there?’
‘Well, Inspector, that wouldn’t be fuel.’ Aengus Gibson’s eyes were warm and clear. ‘That would be an incendiary.’
‘Is there anything you can tell me about that night, sir?’
‘You seem to know all of it. I was in the bar with Matthew Vanderhyde. We left hours before the place caught fire.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Have you ever been on the hotel’s first floor, sir?’
‘What an extraordinary question. It was five years ago.’
‘A long time, certainly.’
‘And now the case is being reopened?’
‘In a way, sir, yes. We can’t give too many details.’
‘That’s all right, I’ll get my father to ask the Chief Constable. They’re good friends, you know.’
Rebu
s kept silent. There was no case. Nothing he could present to his superiors would cause them to reopen it. He knew he was in this all on his own, and for not very good reasons. There was a brisk tap at the door, and an older man came into the office. His face strongly resembled Aengus Gibson’s, but both face and body were much leaner. Ascetic was the word that came to mind. Broderick Gibson would rarely loosen his tight-knotted tie or undo the top button of his shirt. He wore a woollen V-neck below his suit jacket. Rebus had seen church elders like him. Their faces persuaded more guilt-money into the collection.
‘Sorry to butt in,’ Broderick Gibson said. ‘These need a look-over before tomorrow morning.’ He placed a folder on the desk.
‘Father, this is Inspector Rebus. Inspector, Broderick Gibson, my father.’
And the man who had started Gibson’s Brewing from his garden shed back in the 1950s. Rebus shook the firm hand.
‘No trouble I hope, Inspector?’
‘None at all, sir,’ replied Rebus.
Broderick Gibson turned to his son. ‘You haven’t forgotten that do tonight for the SSPCC?’
‘No, father. Eight o’clock?’
‘Damned if I can remember.’
‘I think it’s eight o’clock.’
‘You’re right, sir,’ said Rebus.
‘Oh?’ Aengus Gibson looked surprised. ‘Will you be there yourself?’
But Rebus shook his head. ‘I read a piece about it in the paper.’ He was so far below these people on the social ladder, he wondered if they could see him at all. As they’d climbed, they’d sawn off the rungs behind them. Rebus could only peer up into the clouds, catching a glimpse every now and then. But they all liked to be liked by the police. Which was probably why Broderick Gibson insisted on shaking Rebus’s hand again before leaving.
With his father gone, Aengus Gibson seemed to relax. ‘I’m sorry, I should have asked you before—would you like tea or coffee? I know you’re on duty, so I won’t ask if you’d like to try a beer.’
‘Actually, sir,’ said Rebus, glancing at the clock on the wall, ‘I finished work five minutes ago.’
Aengus Gibson laughed and went to a large cupboard which, when opened, revealed three bar-pumps and a gathering of sparkling pint and half-pint glasses. ‘The Dark is very good today,’ he said.
‘Dark’s fine, but just a half.’
‘A half of Dark it is.’
In fact, Rebus managed another half, this time of the pale ale. But it was the taste of the Dark that stayed with him as he drove back out through the brewery’s wrought-iron gates. Gibson’s Dark. The Gibsons, father and son, were dark, all right. You had to look beneath the surface to see it, but it was there. To the outside world, Aengus Gibson might be a changed man, but Rebus could see the young man was just barely in control of himself. He even wondered if Gibson might be on mood control drugs of some kind. He had spent some time in a private ‘nursing’ home—euphemism for psychiatric care. At least, that was the story Rebus had heard. He thought maybe he’d do a bit of digging, just to satisfy his curiosity. He was curious about one small detail in particular, one thing Aengus Gibson had said. He not only knew the kitchens of the Central Hotel were filthy—he’d seen them.
John Rebus found that very interesting indeed.
He returned to St Leonard’s and was relieved to find no sign of Lauderdale or Little Weed. He’d forgotten to visit Holmes, so telephoned the hospital instead. He knew how it went at the Infirmary; they could wheel a payphone to your bed.
‘Brian?’
‘Hello there. I’ve just had a visit from Nell.’ He sounded bright. Rebus hoped he wasn’t just getting her sympathy vote.
‘How is she?’
‘She’s okay. Any progress?’
Rebus thought about the past twenty-four hours. A lot of work. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no progress.’ He decided not to tell Holmes that Eddie Ringan was missing: he might worry himself back into relapse.
‘Are you thinking of giving up?’
‘I’ve got a lot on my plate, Brian, but no, I’m not giving up.’
‘Thanks.’
Rebus almost blurted out, It’s not just for you now, it’s for my brother too. Instead, he told Holmes to take care, and promised him a visit soon.
‘Better make it very soon, they’re letting me out tomorrow or the day after.’
‘That’s good.’
‘I don’t kno…there’s this nurse in her…’
‘Ach, away with ye!’ But Rebus remembered a nurse who had treated his scalp, a nurse he’d become too friendly with. That had been the start of the trouble with Patience. ‘Be careful,’ he ordered, putting down the phone.
His next call was to the local newspaper. He spoke to someone there for a few minutes, after which he tried calling Siobhan Clarke in Gorgie. But there was no answer. Obviously Dougary had clocked off for the day, and with him her surveillance. Well, it was time for Inspector Rebus to clock off too. On his way out, he heard the unmistakable brag of Alister Flower’s voice heading towards him. Rebus dodged into another office and waited for Flower and his underlings to pass. They hadn’t been talking about him, which was something. He felt only a little ashamed at hiding. Every good soldier knew when to hide.
17
Michael was up and about that evening, doing a fair imitation of a telly addict. He held the remote control like it was a pacemaker, and stared deeply at anything on the screen. Rebus began to wonder about the dosages he’d been taking. But there still seemed to be a fair number of tablets in the bottle.
He went out and bought fish suppers from the local chip shop. It wasn’t the best of stuff, but Rebus didn’t feel like driving the distance to anywhere better. He remembered the chip shop in their home town, where the fryer would spit into the fat to check how hot it was. Michael smiled at the story, but his eyes never left the TV. He pushed chips into his mouth, chewing slowly, picking batter off the fish and eating that before attacking the fatty white flesh.
‘Not bad chips,’ Rebus commented, pouring Irn-Bru for both of them. He was waiting for Patience’s phone call, giving the time and place for their meet. But whenever the phone did ring, it was for the students.
It rang for a fifth or sixth time, and Rebus picked up the receiver. ‘Edinburgh University answering service?’
‘It’s me,’ said Siobhan Clarke.
‘Oh, hello there.’
‘Don’t sound too excited.’
‘What can I do for you, Clarke?’
‘I wanted to apologise for this morning.’
‘Not entirely your fault.’
‘I should have told those boys who we really were. I’ve been going over it again and again in my head, what I should have done.’
‘Well, you won’t do it again.’
‘No, sir.’ She paused. ‘I heard you were carpeted.’
‘You mean by the Chief Inspector?’ Rebus smiled. ‘More like a fireside rug than a length of Wilton. How’s the window?’
‘Boarded up. The glass’ll be replaced overnight.’
‘Anything of interest today?’
‘You were there for it, sir. Petrie came back in the afternoon.’
‘Oh yes, how was he?’
‘Bandaged up like the Elephant Man.’
Rebus knew that if anyone had talked about the morning’s incident—and someone had—it must be Petrie. He’d little sympathy. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir. Goodnight.’
‘What was all that about?’ asked Michael.
‘Nothing.’
‘I thought that’s what you’d say. Is there any more Irn-Bru?’ Rebus passed him the bottle.
When Patience hadn’t phoned by ten, he gave up and started to concentrate on the TV. He had half a mind to leave the receiver off its cradle. The next call came ten minutes later. There was tremendous background noise, a party or a pub. A bad song was being badly sung nearby.
‘Turn that down a bit, Mickey.’ Michael hit the mute button, si
lencing a politician on the news. ‘Hello?’
‘Is that you, Mr Rebus?’
‘It’s me.’
‘Chick Muir here.’ Chick was one of Rebus’s contacts.
‘What is it, Chick?’ The song had come to an end, and Rebus heard clapping, laughter, and whistles.
‘That fellow you were wanting to see, he’s about twenty feet away from me with a treble whisky up at his nose.’
‘Thanks, Chick. I’ll be right there.’
‘Wait a second, don’t you want to know where I am?’
‘Don’t be stupid, Chick. I know where you are.’
Rebus put the receiver down and looked over at Mickey, who seemed to have fallen asleep. He switched off the television, and went to get his jacket.
It was a nap Chick Muir had been calling from the Bowery, a late-opening dive near the bottom of Easter Road. The pub had been called Finnegan’s until a year ago, when a new owner had come up with the ‘inspired’ change of name, because, as he explained, he wanted to see loads of bums on seats.
He got bums all right, some of whom wouldn’t have looked amiss in the original Bowery. He also got some students and perennial hard drinkers, partly because of the pub’s location but mostly because of the late licence. There had never been any trouble though, well, none to speak of. Half the drinkers in the Bowery feared the other half, who meantime were busy fearing them. Besides which, it was rumoured Big Ger gave round-the-clock insurance—for a price.
Chick Muir often drank there, though he managed not to participate in what was reckoned to be Edinburgh’s least musical karaoke. Eddie Ringan for one would have died on the spot at the various awful deaths suffered by ‘Hound Dog’ and ‘Wooden Heart’. Off-key and out of condition, the singers could transform a simple word like ‘crying’ into a multi-syllabled meaningless drawl. Huh-kuh-rye-a-yeng was an approximation of the sound that greeted Rebus as he pulled at the double doors to the pub and slitted his eyes against the cigarette fug.
As ‘Crying in the Chapel’ came to its tearful end, Rebus felt a hand squeeze his arm.
‘You made it then.’
‘Hullo, Chick. What are you having?’
‘A double Grouse would hit the spot, not that I believe they keep real Grouse in their Grouse bottles.’ Chick Muir grinned, showing two rows of dull gold teeth. He was a foot and a half shorter than Rebus, and looked in this crowd like a wee boy lost in the woods. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘it might not be Grouse, but it’s a quarter gill.’