On Monday morning word went around St Leonard’s police station that Inspector John Rebus was in an impressively worse mood than usual. Some found this hard to believe, and were almost willing to get close enough to Rebus to find out for themselve…almost.
Others had no choice.
DS Brian Holmes and DC Siobhan Clarke, seated with Rebus in their sectioned-off chunk of the CID room, had the look of people who were resting their backsides on soft-boiled eggs.
‘So,’ Rebus was saying, ‘what about Rory Kintoul?’
‘He’s out of hospital, sir,’ said Siobhan Clarke.
Rebus nodded impatiently. He was waiting for her to put a foot wrong. It wasn’t because she was English, or a graduate, or had wealthy parents who’d bought her a flat in the New Town. It wasn’t because she was a she. It was just Rebus’s way of dealing with young officers.
‘And he’s still not talking,’ said Holmes. ‘He won’t say what happened, and he’s certainly not pressing any charges.’
Brian Holmes looked tired. Rebus noticed this from the corner of his eye. He didn’t want to make eye-contact with Holmes, didn’t want Holmes to realise that they now had something in common.
Both had been kicked out by their girlfriends.
It had happened to Holmes just over a month ago. As Holmes revealed later, once he’d moved in with an aunt in Barnton, it was all to do with children. He hadn’t realised how strongly Nell wanted a baby, and had started to joke about it. Then one day, she’d blown up-an awesome sight-and kicked him out, watched by most of the female neighbours in their mining village south of Edinburgh. Apparently the women neighbours had applauded as Holmes scurried off.
Now, he was working harder than ever. (This also had been a cause of strife between the couple: her hours were fairly regular, his anything but.) He reminded Rebus of a frayed and faded pair of work denims, not far from the end of their life.
‘What are you saying?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’m saying I think we should drop it, sir, with all respect.’
‘ “With all respect“, Brian? That’s what people say when they mean ‘you fucking idiot”.’ Rebus still wasn’t looking at Holmes, but he could feel the young man blushing. Clarke was looking down at her lap.
‘Listen,’ said Rebus, ‘this guy, he staggers a couple of hundred yards with a two-inch gash in his gut. Why?’ No answer was forthcoming. ‘Why,’ Rebus persisted, ‘does he walk past a dozen shops, only stopping at his cousin’s?’
‘Maybe he was making for a doctor’s, but had to stop,’ Clarke suggested.
‘Maybe,’ said Rebus dismissively. ‘Funny that he can make it into his cousin’s shop, though.’
‘You think it’s something to do with the cousin, sir?’
‘Let me ask the both of you something else.’ Rebus stood up and, took a few paces, then retraced his steps, catching Holmes and Clarke: exchanging a glance. It set Rebus wondering. At first, there had been sparks between them, sparks of antagonism. But now they were working well together. He just hoped the relationship didn’t go further than that. ‘Let me ask you this,’ he said. ‘What do we know about the victim?’
‘Not much,’ said Holmes.
‘He lives in Dalkeith,’ Clarke offered. ‘Works as a lab technician in the Infirmary. Married, one son.’ She shrugged.
‘That’s it?’ asked Rebus.
‘That’s it, sir.’
‘Exactly,’ said Rebus. ‘He’s nobody, a nothing. Not one person we’ve talked to has had a bad word to say about him. So tell me this: how did he end up getting stabbed? And in the middle of a Wednesday morning? If it had been a mugger, surely he’d tell us about it. As it is, he’s clammed up as tight as an Aberdonian’s purse at a church collection. He’s got something to hide. Christ knows what, but it involves a car.’
‘How do you work that out, sir?’
‘The blood starts at the kerb, Holmes. Looks to me like he got out of a car and at that point he was already wounded.’
‘He drives, sir, but doesn’t own a car at present.’
‘Smart girl, Clarke.’ She prickled at ‘girl’, but Rebus was talking again. ‘And he’d taken a half day off work without telling his wife.’ He sat down again. ‘Why, why, why? I want the two of you to have another go at him. Tell him we’re not happy with his lack of a story. If he can’t think of one, we’ll pester him till he does. Let him know we mean business.’ Rebus paused. ‘And after that, do a check on the butcher.’
‘Chop chop, sir,’ commented Holmes. He was saved by the phone ringing. Rebus picked up the receiver. Maybe it would be Patience.
‘DI Rebus.’
‘John, can you come to my office?’
It wasn’t Patience, it was the Chief Super. ‘Two Minutes, sir,’ said Rebus, putting down the phone. Then, to Holmes and Clarke: ‘Get onto it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You think I’m making too much of this, Brian?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, maybe I am. But I don’t like a mystery, no matter how small. So bugger off and satisfy my curiosity.’
As they rose, Holmes nodded towards the large suitcase which Rebus had placed behind his desk, supposedly out of view. ‘Something I should know about?’
‘Yes,’ said Rebus. ‘It’s where I keep all my graft payments. Yours still probably fit in your back pooch.’ Holmes didn’t look like budging, though Clarke had already retreated to her own desk. Rebus expelled air and lowered his voice. ‘I’ve just joined the ranks of the dispossessed.’ Holmes’ face became animated. ‘Not a bloody word, mind. This is between you and me.’
‘Understood.’ Holmes thought of something. ‘You know, most evenings I eat at the Heartbreak Caf…’
‘I’ll know where to find you then, if I ever need to hear any early Elvis.’
Holmes nodded. ‘And Vegas Elvis too. All I mean is, if there’s anything I can d…’
‘You could start by disguising yourself as me and trotting along to see Farmer Watson.’
But Holmes was shaking his head. ‘I meant anything within reason.’
Within reason. Rebus wondered if it was within reason to be asking the students to put up with him sleeping on the sofa while his brother slept in the box room. Maybe he should offer to lower the rent. When he’d arrived at the flat unannounced on Friday night, three of the students and Michael had been sitting cross-legged on the floor rolling joints and listening to mid-period Rolling Stones. Rebus stared in horror at the cigarette papers in Michael’s hand.
‘For fuck’s sake, Mickey!’ So at last Michael Rebus had elicited a reaction from his big brother. The students at least had the grace to look like the criminals they were. ‘You’re lucky,’ Rebus told them all, ‘that at this exact second I don’t give a shit.’
‘Go on, John,’ said Michael, offering a half-smoked cigarette. ‘It can’t do any harm.’
‘That’s what I mean.’ Rebus drew a bottle of whisky out of the carrier-bag he was holding. ‘But this can.’
He had proceeded to spend the final hours of the evening sprawled across the sofa supping whisky and singing along to any old record that was put on the turntable. He’d spent much of the weekend in the same spot, too. The students hadn’t seemed to mind, though he’d made them put away the drugs for the duration. They cleaned the flat around him, with Michael pitching in, and everyone trooped out to the pub on Saturday night leaving Rebus with the TV and some cans of beer. it didn’t look as though Michael had told the students about his prison record; Rebus hoped he’d keep it that way. Michael had offered to move out, or at least give his brother the box room, but Rebus refused. He wasn’t sure why.
On Sunday he went to Oxford Terrace, but there didn’t seem to be anyone home, and his key still wouldn’t open the door. So either the lock had been changed or Patience was hiding in there somewhere, going through her own version of cold turkey with the kids for company.
Now he stood outside Farmer Watson’s door and looked down at himself. Sure enough, when he’d gone to Oxford Terrace this morning Patience had left a suitcase of stuff for him outside the door. No note, just the case. He’d changed into the clean suit in the police station toilets. It was a bit crumpled but no more so than anything he usually wore. He hadn’t a tie to match, though: Patience had included two horrible brown ties (were they really his?) along with the dark blue suit. Brown ties don’t make it. He knocked once on the door before opening it.
‘Come in, John, come in.’ It seemed to Rebus that the Farmer too was having trouble making St Leonard’s fit his ways. The place just didn’t feel right. ‘Take a seat.’ Rebus looked around for a chair. There was one beside the wall, loaded high with files. He lifted these off and tried to find space for them on the floor. If anything, the Chief Super had less space in his office than Rebus himself. ‘Still waiting for those bloody filing cabinets,’ he admitted. Rebus swung the chair over to the desk and sat down.
‘What’s up, sir?’
‘How are things?’
‘Things?’
‘Yes.’
‘Things are fine, sir.’ Rebus wondered if the Farmer knew about Patience. Surely not.
‘DC Clarke getting on all right, is she?’
‘I’ve no complaints.’
‘Good. We’ve got a bit of a job coming up, joint operation with Trading Standards.’
‘Oh?’
‘Chief Inspector Lauderdale will fill in the details, but I wanted to sound you out first, check how things are going.’
‘What sort of joint operation?’
‘Money lending,’ said Watson. ‘I forgot to ask, do you want coffee?’ Rebus shook his head and watched as Watson bent over in his chair. There being so little space in the room, he’d taken to keeping his coffee-maker on the floor behind his desk, where twice so far to Rebus’s knowledge he’d spilt it all across the new beige carpet. When Watson sat up again, he held in his meaty fist a cup of the devil’s own drink. The Chief Super’s coffee was a minor legend in Edinburgh.
‘Money lending with some protection on the side,’ Watson corrected. ‘But mostly money lending.’
The same old sad story, in other words. People who wouldn’t stand a chance in any bank, and with nothing worth pawning, could still borrow money, no matter how bad a risk. The problem was, of course, that the interest ran into the hundreds per cent and arrears could soon mount, bringing more prohibitive interest. It was the most vicious circle of all, vicious because at the end of it all lay intimidation, beatings and worse.
Suddenly, Rebus knew why the Chief Super had wanted this little chat. ‘It’s not Big Ger, is it?’ he asked.
Watson nodded. ‘In a way,’ he said.
Rebus sprang to his feet. ‘This’ll be the fourth time in as many years! He always gets off. You know that, I know that!’ Normally, he would have recited this on the move, but there was no floorspace worth the name, so he just stood there like a Sunday ranter at the foot of The Mound. ‘It’s a waste of time trying to pin him on money lending. I thought we’d been through all this a dozen times and decided it was useless going after him without trying another tack.’
‘I know, John, I know, but the Trading Standards people are worried. The problem seems bigger than they thought.’
‘Bloody Trading Standards.’
‘Now, Joh…’
‘But,’ Rebus paused, ‘with respect, sir, it’s a complete waste of time and manpower. There’ll be a surveillance, we’ll take a few photos, we’ll arrest a couple of the poor saps who act as runners, and nobody’ll testify. If the Procurator Fiscal wants Big Ger nailed, then they should give us the resources so we can mount a decent size of operation.’
The problem, of course, was that nobody wanted to nail Morris Gerald Cafferty (known to all as Big Ger) as badly as John Rebus did. He wanted a full scale crucifixion. He wanted to be holding the spear, giving one last poke just to make sure the bastard really was dead. Cafferty was scum, but clever scum. There were always flunkies around to go to jail on his behalf. Because Rebus had failed so often to put the man away, he would rather not think of him at all. Now the Farmer was telling him that there was to be an ‘operation’. That would mean long days and nights of surveillance, a lot of paperwork, and the arrests of a few pimply apprentice hardmen at the end of it all.
‘John,’ said Watson, summoning his powers of character analysis, ‘I know how you feel. But let’s give it one more shot, eh?’
‘I know the kind of shot I’d take at Cafferty given half a chance.’ Rebus turned his fist into a gun and mimed the recoil.
Watson smiled. ‘Then it’s lucky we won’t be issuing firearms, isn’t it?’ After a moment, Rebus smiled too. He sat down again. ‘Go on then, sir,’ he said, ‘I’m listening.’
At eleven o’clock that evening, Rebus was watching TV in the flat. As usual, there was no one else about. They were either still studying in the University library, or else down at the pub. Since Michael wasn’t around either, the pub seemed an odds-on bet. He knew the students were wary, expecting him to kick at least one of them out so he could claim a bedroom. They moved around the flat like eviction notices.
He’d phoned Patience three times, getting the answering machine on each occasion and telling it that he knew she was there and why didn’t she pick up the phone?
As a result, the phone was on the floor beside the sofa, and when it rang he dangled an arm, picked up the receiver, and held it to his ear. ‘Hello?’
‘John?’
Rebus sat up fast. ‘Patience, thank Christ you — ’
‘Listen, this is important.’
‘I know it is. I know I was stupid, but you’ve got to believe — ’
‘Just listen, will your Rebus shut up and listened. He would do whatever she told him, no question. ‘They thought you’d be here, someone from the station just phoned. It’s Brian Holmes.’
‘What did he want?’
‘No, they were phoning about him.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s been in some sort o…I don’t know. Anyway, he’s hurt.’
Still holding the receiver, Rebus stood up, hauling the whole apparatus off the floor with him. ‘Where is he?’
‘Somewhere in Haymarket, some ba…’
‘The Heartbreak Cafe?’
‘That’s it. And listen, John?’
‘Yes?’
‘We will talk. But not yet. Just give me time.’
‘Whatever you say, Patience. Bye.’ John Rebus dropped the phon from his hand and grabbed his jacket.
Rebus was parking outside the Heartbreak Cafe barely seven minutes later. That was the beauty of Edinburgh when you could avoid traffic lights. The Heartbreak Cafe had been opened just over a year before by a chef who also happened to be an Elvis Presley fan. He had used some of his extensive memorabilia to decorate the interior; and his cooking skills to come up with a menu which was almost worth a visit even if, like Rebus, you’d never liked Elvis. Holmes had raved about the place since its opening, drooling for hours over the dessert called Blue Suede Choux. The Cafe operated as a bar too, with garish cocktails and 1950s music, plus bottled American beers whose prices would have caused convulsions in the Broadsword pub. Rebus got the idea that Holmes had become friends with the owner; certainly, he’d been spending a lot of time there since the split from Nell, and had put on a fair few pounds as a result.
From the outside, the place looked nothing special: pale cement front wall with a narrow rectangular window in the middle, most of which was filled with neon signs advertising beers. And above this a larger neon sign flashing the name of the restaurant. The action wasn’t here, however. Holmes had been set on around the back of the place. A narrow alley, just about able to accommodate the width of a Ford Cortina, led to the patrons’ car park. This was small by any restaurant’s standards, and was also where the overflowing refuse bins were kept. Most clients, Rebus guessed, would park on the street out front. Holmes only parked back here because he spent so much time in the bar, and because his car had once been scratched when he’d left it out front.
There were two cars in the car park. One was Holmes’, and the other almost certainly belonged to the owner of the Heartbreak Cafe. It was an old Ford Capri with a painting of Elvis on its bonnet. Brian Holmes lay between the two cars. So far no one had moved him. He would be moved soon, though, after the doctor had finished his examination. One of the officers present recognised Rebus and came over.
‘Nasty blow to the back of the head. He’s been out cold for at least twenty minutes. That’s how long ago he was found. The owner of the place-that’s who found him-recognised him and called in. Could be a fractured skull.’
Rebus nodded, saying nothing, his eyes on the prone figure of his colleague. The other detective was still talking, going on about how Holmes’ breathing was regular, the usual reassurances. Rebus walked towards the body, standing over the kneeling doctor. The doctor didn’t even glance up, but ordered a uniformed constable, who was holding a flashlight over Brian Holmes, to move it a bit to the left. He then started examining that section of Holmes’ skull.
Rebus couldn’t see any blood, but that didn’t mean much. People died all the time without losing any blood over it. Christ, Brian looked so at peace. It was almost like staring into a casket. He turned to the detective.
‘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 doo…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 as 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 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, a of which sat uneasily above the larger oval of his body. Rebus had see 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 an 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 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 legs, arms cold against the floor, when he sensed someone towering over kill. It was Nell Stapleton Rebus recognised her by her very height, lo g before his eyes ha 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 happen…’
‘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 argue…’
‘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. perfume, her shape, the way she moulded against him.
‘We argued, and he went to that bar, and the…’
‘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 w…’ 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 feelin…feeling I’m somehow responsible. If we’d neve…’
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 E1; 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.