by Ian Rankin
Rebus pulled her to him again. ‘There there, pet. It’s not your fault.’
‘But it is! It is!’
‘No it isn’t.’ Rebus made his voice sound determined. ‘Now, tell me, where did Brian keep this wee black book of his?’
About his person, was the answer. Brian Holmes’ clothes and possessions had been removed when the ambulance delivered him to the Infirmary. But Rebus’s ID was enough to gain access to the hospital’s property department, even at this grim hour. He plucked the notebook out of an A4 envelope’s worth of belongings, and had a look at the other contents. Wallet, diary, ID. Watch, keys, small change. Stuff without personality, now that it had been separated from its owner, but strengthening Rebus’s conviction that this was no mere mugging.
Nell had gone home still crying, leaving no message to be passed along to Brian. All Rebus knew was that she suspected the beating was something to do with the notebook. And maybe she was right. He sat in the corridor outside Holmes’ ward, sipping water and skipping through the cheap leatherette book. Holmes had employed a kind of shorthand, but the code was not nearly complex enough to puzzle another copper. Much of the information had come from a single night and a single action: the night an animal rights group had broken into Fettes HQ’s records room. Amongst other things, they’d uncovered evidence of a rent-boy scandal among Edinburgh’s most respectable citizens. This didn’t come as news to John Rebus, but some other entries were intriguing, and especially the one referring to the Central Hotel.
The Central Hotel had been an Edinburgh institution until five years ago, when it had been razed to the ground. An insurance scam was rumoured, and £5,000 had been hoisted by the insurance company involved as a reward for proof that just such a scam had really taken place. But the reward had gone uncollected.
The hotel had once been a traveller’s paradise. It was sited on Princes Street, no distance at all from Waverley Station, and so had become a travelling businessman’s home-from-home. But in its latter years, the Central had seen business decline. And as genuine business declined, so disingenuous business took over. It was no real secret that the Central’s stuffy rooms could be hired by the hour or the afternoon. Room service would provide a bottle of champagne and as much talcum powder as any room’s tenants required.
In other words, the Central had become a knocking-shop, and by no means a subtle one. It also catered to the town’s shadier elements in all shapes and forms. Wedding parties and stag nights were held for a spread of the city’s villains, and underage drinkers could loll in the lounge bar for hours, safe in the knowledge that no honest copper would stray inside the doors. Familiarity bred further contempt, and the lounge bar started to be used for drug deals, and other even less savoury deals too, so that the Central Hotel became something more than a mere knocking-shop. It turned into a swamp.
A swamp with an eviction order over its head.
The police couldn’t turn a blind eye forever and a day, especially when complaints from the public were rising by the month. And the more trash was introduced to the Central, the more trash was produced by the place. Until almost no real drinkers went there at all. If you ventured into the Central, you were looking for a woman, cheap drugs, or a fight. And God help you if you weren’t.
Then, as had to happen, one night the Central burnt down. This came as no surprise to anyone; so much so that reporters on the local paper hardly bothered to cover the blaze. The police, of course, were delighted. The fire saved them having to raid the joint.
But the next morning there was a solitary surprise: for though all the hotel’s staff and customers had been accounted for, a body turned up amongst the charred ceilings and roofbeams. A body that had been burnt out of all recognition.
A body that had been dead when the fire started.
These scant details Rebus knew. He would not have been a City of Edinburgh detective if he hadn’t known. Yet here was Holmes’ black book, throwing up tantalising clues. Or what looked like tantalising clues. Rebus read the relevant section through again.
Central fire. El was there! Poker game on 1st floor. R. Brothers involved (so maybe Mork too??). Try finding.
He studied Holmes’ handwriting, trying to decide whether the journal said El or El; the letter 1 or the number 1. And if it was the letter 1, did he mean El to stand as the phonetic equivalent of a single letter 1? Why the exclamation mark? It seemed that the presence of El (or L or E-One) was some kind of revelation to Brian Holmes. And who the hell were the R. Brothers? Rebus thought at once of Michael and him, the Rebus brothers, but shook the picture from his mind. As for Mork, a bad TV show came to mind, nothing else.
No, he was too tired for this. Tomorrow would be time enough. Maybe by tomorrow Brian would be up and talking. Rebus decided he’d say a little prayer for him before he went to sleep.
3
A prayer which went unanswered. Brian Holmes had still not regained consciousness when Rebus phoned the Infirmary at seven o’clock.
‘Is he in a coma or something, then?’
The voice on the other end of the phone was cold and factual. ‘There will be tests this morning.’
‘What sorts of tests?’
‘Are you part of Mr Holmes’ immediate family?’
‘No, I’m bloody not. I’m …’ A police officer? His boss? Just a friend? ‘Never mind.’ He put down the receiver. One of the students put her head around the living-room door.
‘Want some herbal tea?’
‘No thanks.’
‘A bowl of muesli?’
Rebus shook his head. She smiled at him and disappeared. Herbal tea and muesli, great God almighty. What sort of way was that to start the day? The door of the box room opened from within, and Rebus was startled when a teenage girl dressed only in a man’s shirt came out into the daylight, rubbing at her eyes. She smiled at him as she passed, making for the living-room door. She walked on tiptoe, trying not to put too much bare foot on the cold linoleum.
Rebus stared at the living-room door for another ten seconds, then walked over to the box room. Michael was lying naked on the narrow single bed, the bed Rebus had bought secondhand at the weekend. He was rubbing a hand over his chest and staring at the ceiling. The air inside the box room was foetid.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Rebus asked.
‘She’s eighteen, John.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Oh? What did you mean?’
But Rebus wasn’t sure any more. There was just something plain ugly about his brother sharing a box room bed with some student while he slept on the sofa not eight feet away. It was all ugly, all of it. Michael would have to go. Rebus would have to move into a hotel or something. None of it could go on like this much longer. It wasn’t fair on the students.
‘You should come to the pub more often,’ Michael offered. ‘That’s what’s wrong you know.’
‘What?’
‘You just don’t see life, John. It’s time you started to live a little.’
Michael was still smiling when his brother slammed the door on him.
I’ve just heard about Brian.’
DC Siobhan Clarke looked in some distress. She had lost all colour from her face except for two dots of red high on her cheeks and the paler red of her lips. Rebus nodded for her to sit down. She pulled a chair over to his desk.
‘What happened?’
‘Somebody hit him over the head.’
‘What with?’
Now that was a good question, the sort of question a detective would ask. It was also a question Rebus had forgotten to ask last night. ‘We don’t know,’ he said. ‘Nor do we have any motive, not yet.’
‘It happened outside the Heartbreak Cafe?’
Rebus nodded. ‘In the car park out back.’
‘He kept saying he was going to take me there for a meal.’
‘Brian always keeps his word. Don’t worry, Siobhan, he’ll be all right.’
She n
odded, trying to believe this. ‘I’ll go see him later.’
‘If you like,’ said Rebus, not sure quite what his tone was supposed to mean. She looked at him again.
‘I like,’ she said.
After she’d gone, Rebus read through a message from Chief Inspector Lauderdale. It detailed the initial surveillance plans for the money lending operation. Rebus was asked for questions and ‘useful comments’. He smiled at that phrase, knowing Lauderdale had used it hoping to deter Rebus from his usual basic critique of anything put in front of him. Then someone delivered a hefty package, the package he had been waiting for. He lifted the flaps of the cardboard box and started to pull out bulging files. These were the notes referring to the Central Hotel, its history and final sorry end. He knew he had a morning’s reading ahead of him, so he found Lauderdale’s letter, penned a large OK on it, scrawled his signature beneath, and tossed it into his out tray. Lauderdale wouldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe Rebus had accepted the surveillance without so much as a murmur. It was bound to perplex the Chief Inspector.
Not a bad start to the working day.
Rebus sat down with the first file from the box and started to read.
He was filling a second page with his own notes when the telephone rang. It was Nell Stapleton.
‘Nell, where are you?’ Rebus continued writing, finishing a sentence.
‘I’m at work. Just thought I’d call and see if you’d found anything.’
He finished the sentence. ‘Such as?’
‘Well, what happened to Brian.’
‘I’m not sure yet. Maybe he’ll tell us when he wakes up. Have you talked to the hospital?’
‘First thing.’
‘Me too.’ Rebus started writing again. There was a nervous silence on the other end of the line.
‘What about the black book?’
‘Oh, that. Yes, I had a wee read of it.’
‘Did you find whatever Brian was afraid of?’
‘Maybe and maybe not. Don’t worry, Nell, I’m working on it.’
‘That’s good.’ There was genuine relief in her voice. ‘Only, when Brian wakes up, don’t tell him I told you, will you?’
‘Why not? I think it’s … it shows you care about him.’
‘Of course I care!’
‘That didn’t stop you chucking him out.’ He wished he hadn’t said it, but he had. He could hear her anguish, and imagined her in the University library, trying not to let any of the other staff see her face.
‘John,’ she said at last, ‘you don’t know the whole story. You’ve only heard Brian’s side.’
‘That’s true. Want to tell me yours?’
She thought it over. ‘Not like this, on the telephone. Maybe some other time.’
‘Any time you like, Nell.’
‘I’d better get back to work. Are you going to see Brian today?’
‘Maybe tonight. They’re running tests all morning. What about you?’
‘Oh yes, I’ll drop by. It’s only two minutes away.’
So it was. Rebus thought of Siobhan Clarke. For some reason, he didn’t want the two women to meet at Brian’s bedside. ‘What time are you thinking of going?’
‘Lunchtime, I suppose.’
‘One last thing, Nell.’
‘Yes?’
‘Does Brian have any enemies?’
It took her a little while to answer. ‘No.’
Rebus waited to see if she had anything to add. ‘Well, take care, Nell.’
‘You too, John. Bye.’
After he’d put down the receiver, Rebus started back to his note-taking. But after half a sentence he stopped, tapping his pen thoughtfully against his mouth. He stayed that way for a considerable time, then made some phone calls to his contacts (he didn’t like the word ‘grasses’), telling them to keep ears open regarding an assault behind the Heartbreak Cafe.
‘A colleague of mine, which means it’s serious, okay?’
He’d ended up saying ‘colleague’ but had meant to say ‘friend’.
At lunchtime, he walked over to the University and paid his respects at the Department of Pathology. He had called ahead and Dr Curt was ready in his office, wearing a cream-coloured raincoat and humming some piece of classical music which Rebus annoyingly could recognise but not name.
‘Ah, Inspector, what a pleasant surprise.’
Rebus blinked. ‘Really?’
‘Of course. Usually when you’re pestering me, it’s because of some current and pressing case. But today …’ Curt opened his arms wide. ‘No case! And yet you phone me up and invite me to lunch. It can’t be very busy along at St Leonard’s.’
On the contrary, but Rebus knew the workload was in good hands. Before leaving, he’d loaded enough work onto Siobhan Clarke that she wouldn’t have time for a lunch-break, beyond a sandwich and a drink from the cafeteria. When she’d complained, he’d told her she could take time off later in the afternoon to visit Brian Holmes.
‘How have you settled in there, by the way?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter to me where they put me. Where do you want to eat?’
‘I’ve taken the liberty of reserving a table at the University Staff Club.’
‘What, some sort of canteen?’
Curt laughed, shaking his head. He had ushered Rebus out of his office and was locking the door. ‘No,’ said Curt. ‘There is a canteen, of course, but as you’re buying I thought we’d opt for something a little bit more refined.’
‘Then lead on to the refinery.’
The dining-room was on the ground floor, near the main door of the Staff Club on Chambers Street. They’d walked the short walk, talking about nothing in particular when they could hear one another above the traffic noise. Curt always walked as though he were late for some engagement. Well, he was a busy man: a full teaching load, plus the extra duties heaped on him at one time or another by most of the police forces in Scotland, and most onerously by the City of Edinburgh Police.
The dining-room was small but with plenty of space between the tables. Rebus was pleased to see that the prices were reasonable, though the tally was upped when Curt ordered a bottle of wine.
‘My treat,’ he said. But Rebus shook his head.
‘The Chief Constable’s treat,’ he corrected. After all, he had every intention of claiming it as a legitimate expense. The wine arrived before the soup. As the waitress poured, Rebus wondered when would be the right moment to open the real conversation.
‘Slainte!’ said Curt, raising his glass. Then: ‘So what’s this all about? You’re not the kind for lunch with a friend, not unless there’s something you want, and can’t get by buying pints and bridies in some smoky saloon.’
Rebus smiled at this. ‘Do you remember the Central Hotel?’
‘A dive of a place on Princes Street. It burnt down six or seven years ago.’
‘Five years ago actually.’
Curt took another sip of wine. ‘There was a smouldering body as I recall. “Crispy batter” we call those.’
‘But when you examined the corpse, he hadn’t died in the fire, had he?’
‘Some new evidence has come to light?’
‘Not exactly. I just wanted to ask what you remember about the case.’
‘Well, let’s see.’ Curt broke off as the soup arrived. He took three or four mouthfuls, then wiped a napkin around his lips. ‘The body was never identified. I know that we tried dental checks, but to no avail. There was no external evidence, of course, but people stupidly believe that a burned body tells no tales. I cut the deceased open and found, as I’d known I would, that the internal organs were in pretty good shape. Cooked on the outside, raw within, like a good French steak.’
A couple at a nearby table were soundlessly chewing their food, and staring hard at their tabletop. Curt seemed either not to notice or not to mind.
‘DNA fingerprinting had been around for four years, but though we got some blood from the heart, we were n
ever given anything to match it against. Of course, the heart was the clincher.’
‘Because of the bullet wound.’
‘Two wounds, Inspector, entrance and exit. That set you lot scurrying back to the scene, didn’t it?’
Rebus nodded. They’d searched the immediate vicinity of the body, then widened the search until a cadet found the bullet. Its calibre was eight millimetre, matching the wound to the heart, but it offered no other clues.
‘You also found,’ said Rebus, ‘that the deceased had suffered a broken arm at some time in the past.’
‘Did I?’
‘But again it didn’t get us any further forward.’
‘Especially,’ said Curt, mopping his bowl with bread, ‘bearing in mind the reputation of the Central. Probably every second person in the place had been in a fight and suffered some breakages.’
Rebus was nodding. ‘Agreed, yet he was never identified. If he’d been a regular, or one of the staff, surely someone would have come forward. But nobody ever did.’
‘Well, it was a long time ago. Are you about to start dusting off some ghosts?’
‘There was nothing ghostly about whoever brained Brian Holmes.’
‘Sergeant Holmes? What happened?’
Rebus was hoping to spend some of the afternoon reading through more of the case-notes. He’d thought it would take half a day; but this had been optimistic from the start. He was now thinking in terms of half a week, including some evening reading in the flat. There was so much stuff. Lengthy reports from the fire department, the council’s building department, news clippings, police reports, interview statements …
But when he got back to St Leonard’s, Lauderdale was waiting. He had received Rebus’s hasty comment on the money-lending surveillance, and now wanted to push things on. Which meant that Rebus was trapped in the Chief Inspector’s office for the best part of two hours, an hour of it head-to-head stuff. For the other hour, they were joined by Detective Inspector Alister Flower, who had worked out of St Leonard’s since its opening day back in September 1989 and bragged continually that when he had shaken hands with the main dignitary at the occasion, they had both turned out to be Masons, with Flower’s being the older clan.