by Ian Rankin
‘How’s it going?’
‘Slow.’ This from Elsa-Beth Jardine, who didn’t look at all comfortable. There was an open magazine on her lap. ‘Thank God I’m relieved at one o’clock.’
‘Think yourself lucky, then,’ commented DC Petrie.
Ah, how Rebus liked to see a happy crew. ‘It’s not supposed to be fun,’ he told them. ‘It’s supposed to be work. If and when we nab Dougary and Co., that’s when the party begins.’ They had nothing to add to this, and neither did Rebus. He walked over to the window and peered out. The window itself was so grimy he doubted anyone could see them through it, and especially not from across the street. But a square had been cleaned off just a little, enough so that any photos would be recognisable. ‘Camera working okay?’
‘So far,’ said Petrie. ‘I don’t really trust these motorised jobs. If the motor goes, you’re buggered. You can’t wind on by hand.’
‘Got enough batteries?’
‘Two back-up sets. They’re not going to be a problem.’
Rebus nodded. He knew Petrie’s reputation as a solid detective who might climb a little higher up the ladder yet. ‘How about the phone?’
‘It’s connected, sir,’ said Siobhan Clarke.
Usually, there would be radio contact between any stake-out and headquarters, but not for Moneybags. The problem was the cab company. The cabs and their home base were equipped with two-way radios, so it was possible that communications from Moneybags to HQ could actually be picked up across the road. There was the added complication, too, that the cab radios might interfere with Moneybags’ transmissions.
To avoid these potential disasters, a telephone line had been installed early on Sunday morning. The telephone apparatus sat on the floor near the door. So far it had been used twice: once by Jardine to make a hairdresser’s appointment; and once by Petrie to make a bet after he’d checked the day’s horse-racing tips in his tabloid. Siobhan intended using it this afternoon to check on Brian’s condition. But now Rebus was actually using it to phone St Leonard’s.
‘Any messages for me?’ He waited. ‘Oh? That’s interesting. Anything else? What? Why the hell didn’t you tell me that first?’ He slammed the phone down. ‘Brian’s awake,’ he said. ‘He’s sitting up in bed eating chicken soup and watching daytime TV.’
‘Either of which could give him a relapse,’ said Siobhan. She was wondering what the other message had been.
‘Hello, Brian.’
‘Hello, sir.’ Holmes had been listening to a personal hi-fi. He switched it off and slipped the headphones down around his neck. ‘Patsy Cline,’ he said. ‘I’ve been listening to a lot of her since Nell booted me out.’
‘Where did the tape come from?’
‘My aunt brought it in, bless her. She knows what I like. It was waiting for me when I woke up.’
Rebus had a sudden thought. They played music to coma victims, didn’t they? Maybe they’d been playing Patsy Cline to Holmes. No wonder he’d been a long time waking up.
‘I’m finding it hard to take in, though,’ Holmes went on. ‘I mean, whole days of my life, just gone like that. I wouldn’t mind, I mean I like a good sleep. Only I can’t remember a bloody thing I dreamt about.’
Rebus sat down by the bedside. The chair was already in place. ‘Been having visitors?’
‘Just the one. Nell looked in.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘She spent the whole time crying. My face isn’t horribly scarred and no one’s telling me?’
‘Looks as ugly as ever. What about amnesia?’
Holmes smiled. ‘Oh no, I remember the whole thing, not that it’ll help.’
Holmes really did look fine. It was like the doctors said, the brain shuts all systems down, thinks what damage has been done, effects repairs, and then you wake up. Policeman heal thyself.
‘So?’
‘So,’ said Holmes, ‘I’d spent the evening in the Heartbreak Cafe. I can even tell you what I ate.’
‘Whatever it was, I’ll bet you finished with Blue Suede Choux.’ Holmes shook his head. ‘They’d none left. Like Eddie said, it’s the fastest mover since the King himself.’
‘So what happened after you ate?’
‘The usual, I sat at the bar drinking and chatting, wondering if any gorgeous young ladies were going to slip onto the stool beside mine and ask if I came there often. I talked with Pat for a while. He was on bar duty that night.’ Holmes paused. ‘I should explain, Pat is — ’
‘Eddie’s business partner, and maybe a sleeping partner too.’
‘Now now, no homophobia.’
‘Some of my best friends know gays,’ Rebus said. ‘You’ve mentioned Calder in the past. I can also tell you he doesn’t drive.’
‘That’s right, Eddie does.’
‘Even when he’s shit-faced.’
Holmes shrugged. ‘I’ve never made it my business.’
‘You will when he knocks some poor old lady down.’
Holmes smiled. ‘That car of his might look like a hot-rod, but it’s in terrible shape. It barely does forty on the open road. Besides, Eddie’s the most, if you will, pedestrian driver I know. He’s so slow I’ve seen him overtaken by a skateboard-and that was being carried under somebody’s arm at the time.’
‘So it was just you and Calder at the bar?’
‘Until Eddie joined us, after he’d finished cooking. I mean, there were other people in the place, but no obvious villains.’
‘Pray continue.’
‘Well, I went to go home. Someone must have been waiting behind the dustbins. Next thing I knew there was a draught up my kilt. I opened my eyes and saw these two nurses washing my tadger.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what woke me up, I swear.’
‘It’s a medical miracle.’
‘The magic sponge,’ said Holmes.
‘So who thumped you, any ideas?’
‘I’ve been mulling it over. Maybe they were after Eddie or Pat.’
‘And why would that be?’
Holmes shrugged.
‘Don’t keep secrets from old Uncle Rebus, Brian. You forget, I can read your mind.’
‘Well, you tell me then.’
‘Could be they’ve not been paying their dues.’
‘You mean protection?’
‘Insurance, as people like to call it.’
‘Well, maybe.’
‘The dynamic duo at the Heartbreak Cafe seem to think maybe it’s an unholy alliance of curry house owners disgruntled at the fall-off in trade.’
‘I can’t see that.’
‘Neither can I. Maybe it was nobody, Brian. Maybe nobody was after Eddie and Pat. Maybe they were after you. Now why would that be?’
The pink in Holmes’ cheeks grew slightly redder. ‘You’ve seen the Black Book?’
‘Of course I have. I was looking for clues, so I had a rifle through your stuff. And there it was, all in code, too. Or at least in shorthand, so nobody but another copper would know what you were on about. But I’m another copper, Brian. Now there were a lot of cases in there, but only one that stood out.’
‘The Central Hotel.’
‘Give the man a cigar. Yes, the Central. A poker game took place, and in attendance were Tam and Eck Robertson, neither of whom crop up in the list of punters at the Central that night. You’ve been trying to find them. No luck so far?’ Holmes shook his head. ‘But someone told you all this, didn’t they? There’s no mention in the files of any poker game. Now,’ Rebus leaned closer, ‘would I be right in thinking that the person who told you is the mysterious El?’ Holmes nodded. ‘Then that’s all you need to tell me, Brian. Who the hell is El?’
At that moment, a nurse pushed open the door and came in bearing medicine and a lunch tray for Holmes.
‘I’m starving,’ he explained to Rebus. ‘This is my second meal since I woke up.’ He lifted the metal cover from the plate. A pale pink slice of meat, watery mashed spuds, and sliced green bea
ns.
‘Yum yum,’ said Rebus. But Holmes looked keen enough. He scooped some mash and gravy into his mouth and swallowed it down.
‘I’d have thought,’ he said, ‘that since you’ve figured out the hard part, you wouldn’t have had any trouble with El.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you. Who is he?’
‘It’s Elvis,’ said Brian Holmes. ‘Elvis himself told me.’ He lifted another forkful of mush to his lips and started to slurp it down.
12
Rebus studied the menu, finding little to his liking beyond the often painful puns. The Heartbreak Cafe was open all day, but he’d arrived just in time for the special luncheon menu. A foot-long sausage on a roll was predictably if unappetisingly a ‘Hound Dog’. Rebus could only hope that there was no literal truth to the appelation. More obscure was the drinks list, with one wine called ‘Mama Liked the Rose’. Rebus decided that he wasn’t so hungry after all. Instead, he nursed his ‘Teddy’ beer at the bar and handed the menu back to the teenage barman.
‘Pat’s not in then?’ he asked casually.
‘Doing some shopping. He’ll be back later.’
Rebus nodded. ‘But Eddie’s around?’
‘In the kitchen, yeah.’ The barman glanced towards the restaurant area. He wore three gold studs in his left ear. ‘He won’t be much longer, unless he’s making something special for tonight.’
‘Right,’ said Rebus. A few minutes later, he picked up his beer glass and wandered over to a huge jukebox near the toilets. Finding it to be ornamental only, he studied some of the Presley mementoes on the walls, including a signed photograph of the Vegas Elvis and what looked like a rare Sun Records pressing. Both were protected by thick framed glass, and both were picked out by spotlights from the surrounding gloom. Finding himself, as if by chance, at the door to the kitchen, Rebus pushed it open with his shoulder and let it swing shut behind him.
Eddie Ringan was creating. Sweat glistened on his face, thin strands of hair sticking to his brow, as he shook a small frying pan over a gas flame. The set-up was impressive: cleaner than Rebus had expected, with many more cookers and pots and work surfaces. A lot of money had been spent; the Cafe wasn’t just a designer facade. Amusingly, it seemed to Rebus, there was different music here from the constant diet of Presley served at the bar. Eddie Ringan was listening to Miles Davis.
The chef hadn’t noticed Rebus yet, and Rebus hadn’t noticed a trainee chef who’d been fetching something from one of several fridges at the back of the kitchen.
Rebus watched as Eddie, pausing from his work, grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam by its neck and upended it into his mouth, taking it away again with a satisfied exhalation.
‘Hey,’ said the trainee chef, ‘no one’s allowed in here.’ Eddie looked up from the pan and gave a whoop.
‘You’re just the man!’ he cried. ‘The very man! Come over here.’
If anything, he sounded drunker than at their first meeting. But then, at their first meeting there had been the civilising (or at least restricting) presence of Pat Calder, as well as the sobering fact of Brian Holmes’ attack.
Rebus walked over to the cooker. He too was starting to sweat in the heat.
‘This,’ said Eddie Ringan, nodding towards the pan, ‘is my latest dish. Pieces of Roquefort cheese imprisoned in breadcrumb and spice and fried. Either pan-fried or deep-fried, that’s what I’m deciding.’
‘Jailhouse Roquefort’ Rebus guessed. Ringan whooped again, losing his balance slightly and sliding back with one foot.
‘Your idea, Inspector Rabies.’
‘I’m flattered, but the name’s Rebus.’
‘Aye, well, you should be flattered. Maybe we’ll gie you a wee mention on the menu. How about that, eh?’ He studied the golden nuggets, turning them expertly with a fork. ‘I’m giving this lot six minutes. Willie!’
‘I’m right here.’
‘How long’s that been?’
The protege checked his watch. ‘Three and a half. I’ve put the butter down there next to the eggs.’
‘Willie’s my assistant, Inspector.’
The exasperation in Willie’s voice and expressions made Rebus doubt he would be assisting for much longer. Though younger than Ringan, Willie was about the same size. You wouldn’t call him slender. Rebus reckoned chefs were partial to too much R & D. ‘Can we talk for a minute?’
‘Two and a half minutes if you like.’
‘I’d like to know about the Central Hotel.’ Ringan didn’t seem to hear this, his attention on the contents of the frying-pan. ‘You were there the night it burned down.’
El was short for Elvis, and Elvis was code for Eddie Ringan. Holmes hadn’t wanted the wrong people getting hold of the Black Book and being able to identify the person who’d been talking. That’s why he’d gone an extra step in disguising Ringan’s identity.
He’d also made Rebus promise that he wouldn’t tell the chef Holmes had shared their secret. It was to have been a secret, a little tale spilt from a bottle of bourbon. But Ringan hadn’t poured out nearly enough, he’d just given Holmes a taste.
‘Did you hear me, Eddie?’
‘A minute left, Inspector.’
‘You never cropped up on the list of staff because you were moonlighting, working there some nights without the other place you worked at knowing anything about it. So you were able to give a false name, and nobody ever found out it was you there that night, the night of the poker game.’
‘Nearly done.’ There was more sweat on Eddie Ringan’s face now, and his mouth seemed stiff with suppressed anger.
‘I’m nearly done too, Eddie. When did you start on the booze, eh? Just after that night, wasn’t it? Because something happened in that hotel. I wonder what it was. Whatever it was, you saw it, and if you don’t tell me about it, I’m going to find out anyway, and then I’m going to come back here for you.’ To emphasise this, Rebus pushed a finger against the chef’s arm.
Ringan snatched the frying-pan and swung it at Rebus, sending bits of Jailhouse Roquefort flying in arcs across the kitchen.
‘Get the fuck away from me!’
Rebus dodged the frying-pan, but Ringan was still holding it in front of him, ready to lunge.
‘Just you get the fuck out of here! Who told you, anyway?’
‘Nobody needed to tell me, Eddie. I worked it out for myself.’
Willie meantime was down on one knee. A hot cube of cheese had caught him smack in the eye.
‘I’m dying!’ he called. ‘Get an ambulance, get a lawyer! This is an industrial injury.’
Eddie Ringan glanced towards the trainee chef, then back at the frying-pan in his hand, then at Rebus, and he began to laugh, the laughter becoming uproarious, hysterical. But at least he put down the pan. He even picked up one of the cheese cubes and took a bite out of it.
‘Tastes like shite,’ he said, still laughing and spluttering bits of bread-crumb at Rebus.
‘Are you going to tell me, Eddie?’ Rebus asked calmly.
‘I’m going to tell you this: get the fuck out.’
Rebus stood his ground, though Eddie had already turned his back. ‘Tell me where I can find the Bru-Head Brothers.’
This brought more laughter.
‘Just give me a start, Eddie. Then it’ll be off your conscience.’
‘I lost my conscience a long time ago, Inspector. Willie, let’s get a fresh batch going.’
The young man was still checking for damage. He held one hand across his good eye like a patch. ‘I cannae see a thing,’ he complained. ‘I think the retina’s cracked.’
‘And the cornea’s melted,’ added Ringan. ‘Come on, I’m hoping to have this on the menu tonight.’ He turned to Rebus, making a show of astonishment. ‘Still here? A definite case of too many cooks.’
Rebus looked at him with sad, steady eyes. ‘Just a start, Eddie.’
‘Away tae fuck.’
Slowly, Rebus turned around and pushed open the door.
‘I
nspector!’ He turned his head towards the chef. ‘There’s a pub in Cowdenbeath called The Midtown. The locals call it the Midden. I wouldn’t eat the food there.’
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘It’s you that’s supposed to give me the tip!’ he heard Ringan roar as he exited from the kitchen. He placed his empty glass on the bartop. ‘Kitchen’s off limits,’ the barman informed him.
‘More like the outer bloody limits.’
But no, he knew that only now would he be going to the outer limits, back to the haunts of his youth.
13
He had only dropped into St Leonard’s to pick up a few things from his desk, but the duty sergeant stopped him short.
‘Gentleman here has been waiting to see you. He seems a bit anxious.’ The ‘gentleman’ in question had been standing in a corner, but was now directly in front of Rebus. ‘You don’t recognise me?’
Rebus studied the man for a moment longer, and felt an old loathing. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘I recognise you all right.’
‘Didn’t you get my message?’
This had been the other message relayed to him when he’d called in from Gorgie Road. He nodded.
‘Well, what are you going to do?’
‘What would you like me to do, Mr McPhail?’
‘You’ve got to stop him!’
‘Stop who exactly? And from what?’
‘You said you got the message.’
‘All I was told was that someone called Andrew McPhail had phoned wanting to speak to me.’
‘What I want is bloody protection!’
‘Calm down now.’ Rebus saw that the desk sergeant was getting ready for action, but he didn’t think there would be any need for that.
‘What have I got to do?’ McPhail was saying. ‘You want me to hit you? That’d get me a night in the cells, wouldn’t it? I’d be safe there.’