Ian Rankin - Black Book

A plate crashed onto the kitchen floor. It couldn’t go on like this, really it couldn’t. There’d be nothing left. He didn’t like to think about the budgie in the living-roo…

McPhail drained the strong tea. The caffeine made him slightly giddy, sweat breaking out on his forehead. The playground was empty, the school doors closed. He couldn’t see anything through the building’s few visible windows. There might be a late-arriving straggler, but he didn’t have time to waste. He had work to do. It was good to keep busy. Keeping busy kept you sane.

‘Big Ger,’ Rebus was saying, ‘real name Morris Gerald Cafferty.’ Dutifully, and despite her good memory, DC Siobhan Clarke wrote these words on her notepad. Rebus didn’t mind her taking notes. It was good exercise. When she lowered her head to write, Rebus had a view of the crown of her head, light-brown hair falling forward. She was good looking in a homely sort of way. Indeed, she reminded him a bit of Nell Stapleton.

‘He’s the prime mover, and if we’re offered him we’ll take him. But Operation Moneybags will actually be focusing on David Charles Dougary, known as Davey.’ Again, the words went onto the paper. ‘Dougary rents office space from a dodgy mini-cab service in Gorgie Road.’

‘Not far from the Heartbreak Cafe?’

The question surprised him. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not too far.’

‘And the restaurant owner hinted at a protection pay-off?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Don’t get carried away, Clarke.’

‘And these men are involved in protection money too, aren’t they?’

‘There’s not much Big Ger Cafferty isn’t involved in: money laundering, prostitution. He’s a big bad bastard, but that isn’t the point. The point is, this operation will concentrate on loan-sharking, period.’

‘All I’m saying is maybe Sergeant Holmes was attacked by mistake instead of the Cafe’s owner.’

‘It’s a possibility,’ said Rebus. And if it’s true, he thought, I’m wasting a lot of time and effort on an old case. But as Nell said, Brian was frightened of something in his black book. And all because he’d started trying to track down the mysterious R. Brothers.

‘But to get back to business, we’ll be setting up a surveillance across the road from the taxi firm.’

‘Round the clock?’

‘We’ll start with working hours. Dougary has a fairly fixed routine by all accounts.’

‘What’s he supposed to be doing in that office?’

‘The way he tells it, everything from basic entrepreneurship to arranging food parcels for the Third World. Don’t get me wrong, Dougary’s clever. He’s lasted longer than most of Big Ger’s “associates”. He’s also a maniac, it’s worth bearing that in mind. We once arrested him after a pub brawl. He’d torn the ear off another man with his teeth. When we got there, Dougary was chomping away. The ear was never recovered.’

Rebus always expected some reaction from his favourite stories, but all Siobhan Clarke did was smile and say, ‘I love this city.’ Then: ‘Are there files on Mr Cafferty?’

‘Oh aye, there are files. By all means, plough through them. They’ll give you some idea what you’re up against.’

She nodded. ‘I’ll do that. And when do we start the.surveillance, sir?’

‘First thing Monday morning. Everything will be set up on Sunday. I just hope they give us a decent camera.’ He noticed Clarke was looking relieved. Then the penny dropped. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t miss the Hibs game.’

She smiled. ‘They’re away to Aberdeen.’

‘And you’re still going?’

‘Absolutely.’ She tried never to miss a game.

Rebus was shaking his head. He didn’t know that many Hibs fans. ‘I wouldn’t travel that far for the Second Coming.’

‘Yes you would.’

Now Rebus smiled. ‘Who’s been talking? Right, what’s on the agenda for today?’

‘I’ve talked to the butcher. He was no help at all. I think I’d have more chance of getting a complete sentence out of the carcases in his deep freeze. But he does drive a Merc. That’s an expensive car. Butchers aren’t well known for high salaries, are they?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘The prices they charge, I wouldn’t be so sure.’

‘Anyway, I’m planning to drop in on him at home this morning, just to clear up a couple of points.’

‘But he’ll be at work.’

‘Unfortunately yes.’

Rebus caught on. ‘His wife will be home?’

‘That’s what I’m hoping. The offer of a cup of tea, a little chat in the living room. Wasn’t it terrible about Rory? That sort of thing.’

‘So you can size up his home life, and maybe get a talkative wife thrown in for good measure.’ Rebus was nodding slowly. It was so devious he should have thought of it himself.

‘Get tae it, lass,’ he said, and she did, leaving him to reach down onto the floor and lift one of the Central Hotel files onto his desk.

He started reading, but soon froze at a certain page. It listed the Hotel’s customers on the night it burnt down. One name fairly flew off the page.

‘Would you credit that?’ Rebus got up from the desk and put his jacket on. Another ghost. And another excuse to get out of the office.

The ghost was Matthew Vanderhyde.

The house next to Vanderhyde’s was as mad as ever. Owned by an ancient Nationalist, it sported the saltire flag on its gate and what looked like thirty-year-old(tracts taped to its windows. The owner couldn’t get much light, but then the house Rebus was approaching had its curtains drawn closed.

He rang the doorbell and waited. It struck him that Vanderhyde might well be dead. He would be in his early- to mid-seventies, and though he’d seemed healthy enough the last time they’d met, well, that was over two years ago.

He had consulted Vanderhyde in an earlier case. After the case was closed, Rebus used to drop in on Vanderhyde from time to time, just casually. They only lived six, streets apart, after all. But then he’d started to get serious with Dr Patience Aitken, and hadn’t found time for a visit since.

The door opened, and there stood Matthew Vanderhyde, looking just the same as ever. His sightless eyes were hidden behind dark green spectacles, above which sat a high shiny forehead and long swept-back yellow hair. He was wearing a suit of beige cord with a brown waistcoat, from the pocket of which hung a watch-chain. He leaned lightly on his silver-topped cane, waiting for the caller to speak.

‘Hello there, Mr Vanderhyde.’

‘Ah, Inspector Rebus. I was wondering when I’d see you. Come in, come in.’

From Vanderhyde’s tone, it sounded like they’d last met two weeks before. He led Rebus through the dark hallway and into the darker living room. Rebus took in the shapes of bookshelves, paintings, the large mantelpiece covered in mementoes from trips abroad.

‘As you can see, Inspector, nothing has changed in your absence.’

‘I’m glad to see you looking so well, sir.’

Vanderhyde shrugged aside the remark. ‘Some tea?’

‘No thanks.’

‘I’m really quite thrilled that you’ve come. It must mean there’s something I can do for you.’

Rebus smiled. ‘I’m sorry I stopped visiting.’

‘It’s a free country, I didn’t pine away.’

‘I can see that.’

‘So what sort of thing is it? Witchcraft? Devilment in the city streets?’

Rebus was still smiling. In his day, Matthew Vanderhyde had been an active white witch. At least, Rebus hoped he’d been white. It had never been discussed between them.

‘I don’t think this is anything to do with magic,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s about the Central Hotel.’

‘The Central? Ah, happy memories, Inspector. I used to go there as a young man. Tea dances, a very acceptable luncheon-they had an excellent kitchen in those days, you know-even once or twice to an evening ball.’