10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘What’s the owner’s name again?’

  ‘Eddie Ringan.’

  ‘Is he inside?’

  The detective nodded. ‘Propping up the bar.’

  That figured. ‘I’ll just go have a word,’ said Rebus.

  Eddie Ringan had nursed what was euphemistically called a drinking problem for several years, long before he’d opened the Heartbreak Cafe. For this reason, people reckoned the venture would fail, as other ventures of his had. But they reckoned wrong, for the sole reason that Eddie managed to find a manager, a manager who not only was some kind of financial guru but was also as straight and as strong as a construction girder. He didn’t rip Eddie off, and he kept Eddie where Eddie belonged during working hours – in the kitchen.

  Eddie still drank, but he could cook and drink; that wasn’t a problem. Especially when there were one or two apprentice chefs around to do the stuff which required focused eyes or rock steady hands. And so, according to Brian Holmes, the Heartbreak Cafe thrived. He still hadn’t managed to persuade Rebus to join him there for a meal of King Shrimp Creole or Love Me Tenderloin. Rebus wasn’t persuaded to walk through the front door . . . until tonight.

  The lights were still on. It was like walking into some teenager’s shrine to his idol. There were Elvis posters on the walls, Elvis record covers, a life-size cut-out figure of the performer, even an Elvis clock, with the King’s arms pointing to the time. The TV was on, an item on the late news. Some oversized charity cheque was being handed over in front of Gibson’s Brewery.

  There was no one in the place except Eddie Ringan slumped on a barstool, and another man behind the bar, pouring two shots of Jim Beam. Rebus introduced himself and was invited to take a seat. The bartender introduced himself as Pat Calder.

  ‘I’m Mr Ringan’s partner.’ The way he said it made Rebus wonder if the two young men were more than merely business partners. Holmes hadn’t mentioned Eddie was gay. He turned his attention to the chef.

  Eddie Ringan was probably in his late twenties, but looked ten years older. He had straight, thinning hair over a large oval-shaped head, all of which sat uneasily above the larger oval of his body. Rebus had seen fat chefs and fatter chefs, and Ringan surely was a living advertisement for somebody’s cooking. His doughy face was showing signs of wear from the drink; not just this evening’s scoop, but the weeks and months of steady, heavy consumption. Rebus watched him drain the inch of amber fire in a single savouring swallow.

  ‘Gimme another.’

  But Pat Calder shook his head. ‘Not if you’re driving.’ Then, in clear and precise tones: ‘This man is a police officer, Eddie. He’s come to talk about Brian.’

  Eddie Ringan nodded. ‘He fell down, hit his head.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ asked Rebus.

  ‘Not really.’ For the first time, Ringan looked up from the bartop and into Rebus’s eyes. ‘Maybe it was a mugger, or maybe it was a warning.’

  ‘What sort of a warning?’

  ‘Eddie’s had too many tonight, Inspector,’ said Pat Calder. ‘He starts imagining –’

  ‘I’m not bloody imagining.’ Ringan slapped his palm down on the bartop for emphasis. He was still looking at Rebus. ‘You know what it’s like. It’s either protection money – insurance, they like to call it – or it’s the other restaurants ganging up because they don’t like the business you’re doing and they’re not. You make a lot of enemies in this game.’

  Rebus was nodding. ‘So do you have anyone in mind, Eddie? Anyone in particular?’

  But Ringan shook his head in a slow swing. ‘Not really. No, not really.’

  ‘But you think maybe you were the intended victim?’

  Ringan signalled for another drink, and Calder poured. He drank before answering. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. They could be trying to scare off the customers. Times are hard.’

  Rebus turned to Calder, who was staring at Eddie Ringan with a fair amount of revulsion. ‘What about you, Mr Calder, any ideas?’

  ‘I think it was just a mugging.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like they took anything.’

  ‘Maybe they were interrupted.’

  ‘By someone coming up the alley? Then how did they escape? That car park’s a dead end.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Rebus kept watching Pat Calder. He was a few years older than Ringan, but looked younger. He’d drawn his dark hair back into what Rebus supposed was a fashionable ponytail, and had kept long straight sideburns reaching down past his ears. He was tall and thin. Indeed, he looked like he could use a good meal. Rebus had seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil. ‘Maybe,’ Calder was saying, ‘maybe he did fall after all. It’s pretty dark out there. We’ll get some lighting put in.’

  ‘Very commendable of you, sir.’ Rebus rose from the uncomfortable barstool. ‘Meantime, if anything does come to mind, and especially if any names come to mind, you can always call us.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Rebus paused in the doorway. ‘Oh, and Mr Calder?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you let Mr Ringan drive tonight, I’ll have him pulled over before he reaches Haymarket. Can’t you drive him home?’

  ‘I don’t drive.’

  ‘Then I suggest you put your hand in the till for cab fare. Otherwise Mr Ringan’s next creation might be Jailhouse Roquefort.’

  As Rebus left the restaurant, he could actually hear Eddie Ringan starting to laugh.

  He didn’t laugh for long. Drink was demanding his attention. ‘Gimme another,’ he ordered. Pat Calder silently poured to the level of the shot-glass. They’d bought the glasses on a trip to Miami, along with a lot of other stuff. Much of the money had come out of Pat Calder’s own pockets, as well as those of his parents. He held the glass in front of Ringan, then toasted him before draining the contents himself. When Ringan started to complain, Calder slapped him across the face.

  Ringan looked neither surprised nor hurt. Calder slapped him again.

  ‘You stupid bugger!’ he hissed. ‘You stupid, stupid bugger!’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ said Ringan, proffering his empty glass. ‘I’m all shook up. Now give me a drink before I do something really stupid.’

  Pat Calder thought about it for a moment. Then he gave Eddie Ringan the drink.

  The ambulance took Brian Holmes to the Royal Infirmary.

  Rebus had never been persuaded by this hospital. It seemed full of good intentions and unfilled staff rosters. So he stood close by Brian Holmes’ bed, as close as they’d let him stand. And as the night wore on, he didn’t flinch; he just slid a little lower down the wall. He was crouching with his head resting against his knees, arms cold against the floor, when he sensed someone towering over him. It was Nell Stapleton. Rebus recognised her by her very height, long before his eyes had reached her tear-stained face.

  ‘Hello there, Nell.’

  ‘Christ, John.’ And the tears started again. He pulled himself upright, embracing her quickly. She was throwing words into his ear. ‘We talked only this evening. I was horrible. And now this happens . . .’

  ‘Hush, Nell. It’s not your fault. This sort of thing can happen anytime.’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t help remembering, the last time we spoke it was an argument. If we hadn’t argued . . .’

  ‘Sshh, pet. Calm down now.’ He held her tight. Christ, it felt good. He didn’t like to think about how good it felt. It felt good all the same. Her perfume, her shape, the way she moulded against him.

  ‘We argued, and he went to that bar, and then . . .’

  ‘Sshh, Nell. It’s not your fault.’

  He believed it, too, though he wasn’t sure whose fault it was: protection racketeers? Jealous restaurant owners? Simple neds? A difficult one to call.

  ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘By all means.’ Rebus gestured with his arm towards Holmes’ bed. He turned away as Nell Stapleton approached it, giving the couple some privacy. Not that the gesture meant anything; Holmes was still
unconscious, hooked up to some monitor and with his head heavily bandaged. But he could almost make out the words Nell used when she spoke to her estranged lover. The tone she used made him think of Dr Patience Aitken, made him half-wish he were lying unconscious. It was nice to think people were saying nice things about you.

  After five minutes, she came tiredly back. ‘Hard work?’ Rebus offered.

  Nell Stapleton nodded. ‘You know,’ she said quietly, ‘I think I’ve an idea why this happened.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She was speaking in a near-whisper, though the ward was quiet. They were the only two souls about on two legs. She sighed loudly. Rebus wondered if she’d ever taken drama classes.

  ‘The black book,’ she said. Rebus nodded as though understanding her, then frowned.

  ‘What black book?’ he asked.

  ‘I probably shouldn’t be telling you, but you’re not just someone he works with, are you? You’re a friend.’ She let out another whistle of air. ‘It was Brian’s notebook. Nothing official, this was stuff he was looking into on his own.’

  Rebus, wary of waking anyone, led her out of the ward. ‘A diary?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really. It was just that sometimes he used to hear rumours, bits of pub gossip. He’d write them down in the black book. Then he might take things further. It was sort of a hobby with him, but maybe he thought it was also a way to an early promotion. I don’t know. We used to argue about that, too. I was hardly seeing him, he was so busy.’

  Rebus was staring at the wall of the corridor. The overhead lighting stung his eyes. He’d never heard Holmes mention any kind of notebook.

  ‘What about it?’

  Nell was shaking her head. ‘It was just something he said, something before we . . .’ Her hand went to her mouth, as though she were about to cry. ‘Before we split up.’

  ‘What was it, Nell?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly.’ Her eyes met Rebus’s. ‘I just know Brian was scared, and I’d never seen him scared before.’

  ‘Scared of what?’

  She shrugged. ‘Something in the book.’ Then she shook her head again. ‘I’m not sure what. I can’t help feeling . . . feeling I’m somehow responsible. If we’d never . . .’

  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.’