Ian Rankin: Black Book

‘Such as?’ Rebus was looking at the clock above the bar. It couldn’t be that late, surely. They always ran the clock ten minutes fast here, but even so.

‘Anything at all,’ said Torrance. ‘Anything from a shag to a shooter. You name it.’

‘How about a watch?’ Rebus started winding his own. ‘Mine only seems to go for a couple of hours at a stretch.’

Torrance looked at it. ‘Longines,’ he said, pronouncing the word correctly, ‘you don’t want to chuck that. Get it cleaned, it’ll be fine. Mind you, I could probably part-ex it against a Role…?’

‘So you sell dodgy watches.’

‘Did I say that? I don’t recall saying that. Anything, John. Whatever the client wants, I’ll fetch it for him.’ Torrance winked.

‘Listen, what time do you make it?’

Torrance shrugged and pulled up the sleeve of his jacket. He wasn’t wearing a watch. Rebus was thinking. He’d kept his appointment with the Grinder, Deek happy to wait for him in the anteroom. And afterwards they’d still had time for a pint or two before he had to make his way home. They’d had tw… no, three drinks so far. Maybe he was running a bit late. He caught the barman’s attention and tapped at his wrist.

‘Twenty past eight,’ called the barman.

‘I’d better phone Patience,’ said Rebus.

But someone was using the public phone to cement some romance. What’s more, they’d dragged the receiver into the ladies’ toilet so that they could hear above the noise from the bar. The telephone cord was stretched taut, ready to garotte anyone trying to use the toilets. Rebus bided his time, then began staring at the wall-mounted telephone cradle. What the hell. He pushed his finger down on the cradle, released it, then moved back into the throng of drinkers. A young man appeared from inside the ladies’ toilet and slammed the receiver hard back into its cradle. He checked for change in his pocket, had none, and started to make for the bar.

Rebus moved in on the phone. He picked it up, but could hear no tone. He tried again, then tried dialling. Nothing. Something had obviously come loose when the man had slammed the receiver home. Shite on a stick. It was nearly half past eight now, and it would take fifteen minutes to drive back to Oxford Terrace. He was going to pay dearly for this.

‘You look like you could use a drink,’ said Deek Torrance when Rebus joined him at the bar.

‘Know what, Deek?’ said Rebus. ‘My life’s a black comedy.’

‘Oh well, better than a tragedy, eh?’

Rebus was beginning to wonder what the difference was.

He got back to the flat at twenty past nine. Probably Patience had cooked a meal for the four of them. Probably she’d waited fifteen minutes or so before eating. She’d have kept his meal warm for another fifteen minutes, then dumped it. If it was fish, the cat would have eaten it. Otherwise its destination would be the compost heap in the garden. This had happened before, too many times, really. Yet it kept on happening, and Rebus wasn’t sure the excuses of an old friend or a broken watch would work any kind of spell.

The steps down to the garden flat were worn and slippery. Rebus took them carefully, and so was slow to notice the large sports holdall which, illuminated by the orange street-lamp, was sitting on the rattan mat outside the front door of the flat. It was his bag. He unzipped it and looked in. On top of some clothes and a pair of shoes there was a note. He read it through twice.

Don’t bother trying the door, I’ve bolted it. I’ve also disconnected the doorbell, and the phone is off the hook for the weekend. I’ll leave another load of your stuff on the front step Monday morning.

The note needed no signature. Rebus whistled a long breathy note, then tried his key in the lock. It didn’t budge. He pressed the doorbell. No sound. As a last resort, he crouched down and peered in through the letterbox. The hall was in darkness, no sign of light“ from any of the rooms.

‘Something came up,’ he called. No response. ‘I tried phoning, I couldn’t get through.’ Still nothing. He waited a few more moments, half-expecting Jenny at least to break the silence. Or Susan, she was a right stirrer of trouble. And a heartbreaker too, by the look of her. ‘Bye, Patience,’ he called. ‘Bye, Susan. Bye, Jenny.’ Still silence. ‘I’m sorry.’

He truly was.

‘Just one of those weeks,’ he said to himself, picking up the bag.

On Sunday morning, in weak sunshine and a snell wind, Andrew McPhail sneaked back into Edinburgh. He’d been away a long time, and the city had changed. Everywhere and everything had changed. He was still jetlagged from several days ago, and poorer than he should have been due to London’s inflated prices. He walked from the bus station to the Broughton area of town, just off Leith Walk. It wasn’t a long walk, but every step seemed heavy, though his bags were light. He’d slept badly on the bus, but that was nothing new: he couldn’t remember when he’d last had a good night’s sleep, sleep without dreams.

The sun looked as though it might disappear at any minute. Thick clouds were pushing in over Leith. McPhail tried to walk faster. He had an address in his pocket, the address of a boarding house. He’d phoned last night, and his landlady was expecting him. She sounded nice on the phone, but it was difficult to tell. He wouldn’t mind, no matter what she was like, so long as she kept quiet. He knew that his leaving Canada had been in the Canadian newspapers, and even in some of the American ones, and he supposed that journalists here would be after him for a story. He’d been surprised at slipping so quietly into Heathrow. No one seemed to know who he was, and that was good.

He wanted nothing but a quiet life, though perhaps not as quiet as a few of the past years.

He’d phoned his sister from London and asked her to check directory enquiries for a Mrs MacKenzie in the Bellevue area. (Directory enquiries in London hadn’t gone out of their way to help.) Melanie and her mother had lodged with Mrs MacKenzie when he’d first met them, before they moved in together. Alexis was a single parent, a DSS case. Mrs MacKenzie had been a more sympathetic landlady than most. Not that he’d ever visited Melanie and her mum there-Mrs MacKenzie wouldn’t have liked it.

She didn’t take lodgers much these days, but she was a good Christian and McPhail was persuasive.

He stood outside the house. It was a plain two-storey construction finished off in grey pebbledash and ugly double glazing. It looked just the same as the houses either side of it. Mrs MacKenzie answered the door as though she’d been ready for him for some time. She fussed about in the living room and kitchen, then led him upstairs to show him the bathroom, and then finally his own bedroom. It was no larger, than a prison cell, but had been nicely decorated (sometime in the mid-1960s, he’d guess). It was fine, he’d no complaints.

‘It’s lovely,’ he told Mrs MacKenzie, who shrugged her shoulders as if to say, of course it is.

‘There’s tea in the pot,’ she said. ‘I’ll just go make us a cuppy.’ Then she remembered something. ‘No cooking in the room, mind.’

Andrew McPhail shook his head. ‘I don’t cook,’ he said. She thought of something else and crossed to the window, where the net curtains were still closed.

‘Here, I’ll open these. You can open a window too, if you want some fresh air.’

‘Fresh air would be nice,’ he agreed. They both looked out of the window down onto the street.

‘It’s quiet,’ she said. ‘Not too much traffic. Of course, there’s always a wee bit of noise during the day.’

McPhail could see what she was referring to: there was an old school building across the road with a black iron fence in front of it. It wasn’t a large school, probably primary. McPhail’s window looked down onto the school gates, just to the right of the main building. Directly behind the gates was the deserted playground.