10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (154 page)

Time now for some coffee. The living room was messy, but she didn’t mind. She usually set aside Sunday morning for all the chores. That was the nice thing about living by yourself: your mess was your own. There was no one to comment on it or be disturbed by it. Crisp bags, pizza boxes, three-quarters-empty bottles of wine, old newspapers and magazines, CD cases, items of clothing, opened and unopened mail, plates and cutlery and every mug in the flat – these could all be found in her fourteen-by-twelve living room. Somewhere under the debris there was a futon and a cordless telephone.

The telephone was ringing. She reached under a pizza carton, picked up the receiver, and yanked up the aerial.

‘Is that you, Clarke?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The last person she’d been expecting: John Rebus. She wandered through to the bathroom.

‘Terrible interference,’ said Rebus.

‘I was just turning off the bath.’

‘Christ, you’re in the –’

‘No, sir, not yet. Cordless phone.’

‘I hate those things. You’re talking for five minutes, then you hear the toilet flushing. Well, sorry to . . . what time is it?’

‘Just turned nine.’

‘Really?’ He sounded dead beat.

‘Sir, I heard about your suspension.’

‘That figures.’

‘I know it’s none of my business, but what were you doing with a gun in the first place?’

‘Psychic protection.’

‘Sorry?’

‘That’s what my brother calls it. He should know, he used to be a hypnotist.’

‘Sir, are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. Are you going to the game?’

‘Not if you need me for anything else.’

‘Well, I was wondering . . . do you still have the Cafferty flies?’

She had walked back into the living room. Oh, she still had the flies, all right. Their contents were spread across her coffee table, her desk, and half the breakfast bar.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Any chance you could bring them over to my flat? Only I’ve got the Central Hotel files here. Somewhere in them there’s a clue I’m missing.’

‘You want to cross-reference with the Cafferty files? That’s a big job.’

‘Not if two people are working on it.’

‘What time do you want me there?’

Saturday at Brian Holmes’ aunt’s house in Barnton was a bit like Sunday, except that on Saturday he didn’t have to deny her his company at the local presbyterian kirk. Was it any wonder that, having found the Heartbreak Cafe such a welcoming spot, he should have spent so long there? But those days were over. He tried to accept the fact that ‘Elvis’ was dead, but it was difficult. No more King Shrimp Creole or Blue Suede Choux or In the Gateau, no more Blue Hawaii cocktails. No more late nights of tequila slammers (with Jose Cuervo Gold, naturally) or Jim Beam (Eddie’s preferred bourbon).

‘“Keep on the Beam,” he used to say.’

‘There there, pet.’ Oh great, now his aunt had caught him talking to himself. She’d brought him a cup of Ovaltine.

‘This stuff’s for bedtime,’ he told her. ‘It’s not even noon.’

‘It’ll calm you down, Brian.’

He took a sip. Ach, it didn’t taste bad anyway. Pat had dropped round to ask if he’d be a pall-bearer on Monday.

‘It’d be an honour,’ Holmes had told him, meaning it. Pat hadn’t wanted to meet his eyes. Maybe he too was thinking of the nights they’d all spent slurring after-hours gossip at the bar. On one of those nights, when they’d been talking about great Scottish disasters, Eddie had suddenly announced that he’d been there when the Central Hotel caught fire.

‘I was filling in for a guy, cash in the hand and no questions. Dead on my feet after the day-shift at the Eyrie.’

‘I didn’t know you’d worked at the Eyrie.’

‘Assistant to the head man himself. If he doesn’t get a Michelin recommendation this year, he’d be as well giving up.’

‘So what happened at the Central?’ Holmes’ head hadn’t been entirely befuddled by spirits.

‘Some poker game was going on, up in one of the rooms on the first floor.’ He seemed to be losing it, drifting towards sleep. ‘Tam and Eck were looking for players . . .’

‘Tam and Eck?’

‘Tam and Eck Robertson . . .’

‘But what happened?’

‘It’s no good, Brian,’ said Pat Calder, ‘look at him.’

Though Eddie’s eyes were open, head resting on his arms, arms spread across the bar, he was asleep.

‘A cousin of mine was at Ibrox the day of the big crush,’ Pat revealed, cleaning a pint glass.

‘But do you remember where you were the night Jock Stein died?’ Holmes asked. More stories had followed, Eddie sleeping through all of them.

Permanently asleep now. And Holmes was to be pall-bearer number four. He’d asked Pat a few questions.

‘Funny,’ Pat had said, ‘your man Rebus asked me just the same.’

So Brian knew the case was in good hands.

Rebus drove around the lunchtime streets. On a Saturday, providing you steered clear of Princes Street, the city had a more relaxed feel. At least until about two-thirty, when either the east end or the west of the city (depending who was playing home) would fill with football fans. And on derby match days, best stay away from the centre altogether. But today wasn’t a derby match, and Hibs were at home, so the town was quiet.

‘You asked about him just the other week,’ a barman told Rebus.

‘And I’m asking again.’

He was again on the lookout for Deek Torrance; a seek and destroy mission. He doubted Deek would be around, but sometimes money and alcohol did terrible things to a man, boosting his confidence, making him unwary of danger and vengeance. Rebus’s hope was that Deek was still mingin’ somewhere on the money he’d paid for the gun. As hopes went, it was more forlorn than most. But he did stumble upon Chick Muir in a Leith social club, and was able to tell him the news.

‘That’s just awfy,’ Chick consoled. ‘I’ll keep my nose to the ground.’

Rebus appreciated the muddled sentiment. In Chick’s case, it wouldn’t be hard anyway. Informers were sometimes called snitches, and Chick’s snitch was about as big as they came.

One-thirty found him leaving a dingy betting shop. He’d seen more hope and smiles in a hospice, and fewer tears too. Ten minutes later he was sitting down to micro-waved haggis, neeps and tatties in the Sutherland Bar. Someone had left a newspaper on his chair, and he started to read it. By luck, it was open at a piece by Mairie Henderson.

‘You’re late,’ he said as Mairie herself sat down. She nearly stood up again in anger.

‘I was in here half an hour ago! Quarter past one, we arranged. I stayed till half past.’

‘I thought half past was the agreement,’ he said blithely.

‘You weren’t
here
at half past. You’re lucky I came back.’

‘Why did you?’

She tore the newspaper from him. ‘I left my paper.’

‘Not much in it anyway.’ He scooped more haggis into his mouth.

‘I thought you were buying me lunch.’

Rebus nodded towards the food counter. ‘Help yourself. They’ll add it to my tab.’

It took her a moment to decide that she was hungrier than she was angry. She came back from the food counter with a plate of quiche and bean salad, and grabbed her purse. ‘They don’t
have
tabs here!’ she informed him. Rebus winked.

‘Just my little joke.’ He tried to hand her some money, but she turned on her heels. Low heels, funny little shoes like children’s Doc Marten’s. And black tights. Rebus rolled the food around with his tongue. She sat down at last and took off her coat. It took her a moment to get comfortable.

‘Anything to drink?’ asked Rebus.

‘I suppose it’s my round?’ she snapped.

He shook his head, so she asked for a gin and fresh orange. Rebus got the drinks, a half of Guinness for himself. There was probably more nutrition in the Guinness than in the meal he’d just consumed.

‘So,’ said Mairie, ‘what’s the big secret?’

Rebus used his little finger to draw his initials on the thick head of his drink, knowing they’d still be there when he reached the bottom. ‘I’ve been shown the red card.’

That made her look up. ‘What? Suspended?’ She wasn’t angry with him any more. She was a reporter, sniffing a story. He nodded. ‘What happened?’ Excitedly she forked up a mouthful of kidney bean and chickpea. Rebus had had a crash-course in pulses from his tenants. Never mind red kids and chicks, he could tell a borlotti from a pinto at fifty yards downwind.

‘I came into possession of a handgun, a Colt 45. May or may not have been a copy.’

‘And?’ She nearly spattered him with pastry in her haste.

‘And it was the gun used in the Central Hotel shooting.’

‘No!’ Her screech caused several drinkers to pause before their next swallow. The Sutherland was that kind of place. Riots in the streets would have merited a single measured comment. Rebus could see Mairie’s head fairly filling to the brim with questions.

‘Do you still write for the Sunday edition?’ he asked her. She nodded, still busy trying to find an order for all the questions she had. ‘What about doing me a favour, then? I’ve always wanted to be on the front page . . .’

Not that he’d any intention of seeing his
own
name in the story. They went through it carefully together, back at the newspaper office. So Rebus got his tour of the building at last. It was a bit disappointing, all stairwell and open-plan and not much action. What action there was centred exclusively on Mairie’s desk and its up-to-date word processor.

There was even a discussion with the editor of the Sunday. They needed to be sure of a few things. It was always like this with unattributed stories. In Scots law, there was no place for uncorroborated evidence. The press seemed to be following suit. But Rebus had a staunch defender in the woman whose byline would appear with the story. After a conference call with the paper’s well-remunerated lawyer, the nod was given and Mairie started to hammer the keyboard into submission.

‘I can’t promise front page,’ the editor warned. ‘Beware the breaking story! As it is, you’ve just knocked a car crash and its three victims to the inside.’

Rebus stayed to watch the whole process. A series of commands on Mairie’s computer sent the text to typesetting, which was done elsewhere in the building. Soon a laser printer was delivering a rough copy of how the front page might look tomorrow morning. And there along the bottom was the headline: GUN RECOVERED IN FIVE-YEAR-OLD MURDER MYSTERY.

‘That’ll change,’ said Mairie. ‘The sub will have a go at it once he’s read the story.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, for one thing, it looks like the murder victim is a five-year-old.’

So it did. Rebus hadn’t noticed. Mairie was staring at him.

‘Isn’t this going to get you in even
more
trouble?’

‘Who’s going to know it was me gave you the story?’

She smiled. ‘Well, let’s start with everyone in the City of Edinburgh Police.’

Rebus smiled too. He’d bought some caffeine pills this morning to keep him moving. They were working fine. ‘If anyone asks,’ he said, ‘I’ll just have to tell them the truth.’

‘Which is what exactly?’

‘That it wisnae me.’

Rebus dished out yet more money to the students that afternoon to get them out of the flat until midnight. He wondered if it were unique in Scottish social history for a landlord to be paying his own tenants. There were only two of them there, the other two (he’d now established that he had four permanent tenants, whose names he still had trouble with so never tried using) having headed home for purposes of cosseting and feeding-up.

Michael, however, stayed put. Rebus knew he wouldn’t be any bother. He’d either be dozing in the box room or else watching the TV. He didn’t seem to mind if the sound were turned off, just so long as there was a picture to stare at.

Rebus bought a bag of provisions: real coffee, milk, beer, soft drinks, and snacks. Back in the flat he remembered Siobhan was a vegetarian, and cursed himself for buying smoky bacon crisps. Bound to be artificial flavourings though, so maybe it didn’t matter. She arrived at five-thirty.

‘Come in, come in.’ Rebus led her through the long dark hallway to the living room. ‘This is my brother Michael.’

‘Hello, Michael.’

‘Mickey, this is DC Siobhan Clarke.’ Michael nodded his head, blinking slowly. ‘Here, let me take your jacket. How was the game, by the way?’

‘Goalless.’ Siobhan put down her two carrier-bags and slipped off her black leather jacket. Rebus took the jacket into the hall and hung it up. When he came back, he noticed her studying the living room doubtfully.

‘Bit of a tip,’ he said, though he’d spent quarter of an hour tidying it.

‘Big, though.’ She didn’t deny it was a tip. You could hardly see out of the huge sash window. And the carpet looked like it had moulted from a buffalo’s back. As for the wallpaper . . . she could well understand why the students had tried covering every inch with kd lang and Jesus & Mary Chain posters.

‘Something to drink?’

She shook her head. ‘Let’s get on with it.’ This wasn’t quite what she’d imagined. The zombie brother didn’t help, of course. But he wasn’t much of a distraction either. They got down to work.

An hour later, they had scraped the surface of the files. Siobhan was lying on her side on the floor, legs curled up, one arm supporting her head. She was on her second can of cola. The file was on the floor in front of her. Rebus sat near her on the sofa, files on his lap and in a heap beside him. He had a pen behind his ear, just like a butcher or a turf accountant. Siobhan held her pen in her mouth, tapping it against her teeth when she was thinking. Some bad quiz show was playing to silent hysterics on the TV. For all the reaction on his face, Michael could have been watching a war trial.

He pulled himself out of the chair. ‘I’m going to take forty winks,’ he informed them. Siobhan tried not to look surprised when he made not for the living-room door but for the box room. He closed the door behind him.

‘I’d like two things,’ said Rebus. ‘To identify the murder victim, once and for all.’

‘And to identify the killer?’ Siobhan guessed.

But Rebus shook his head. ‘To place Big Ger at the scene.’