Ian Rankin: Black Book

‘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.