Ian Rankin: Black Book

Greenwood looked around. ‘Are you talking to me?’

‘I suppose I must be. My name’s not Eck. Do you want to keep playing games? Fine then, let’s play games.’ Greenwood was pouring himself a large whisky. ‘Your name is Eck Robertson. You fled from the Cafferty gang taking with you quite a lot of Big. Ger’s money. You also took another man’s identity-Thomas Greenwood. You knew Tommy wouldn’t complain because he was dead. Another one of Big Ger’s incredible disappearing acts. You took his name and his identity, and you set up for yourself in the arse-end of Fife, living out of a suitcase full of money till you got this place in profit.’ Rebus paused. ‘How am I doing?’

Greenwood, aka Eck Robertson, swallowed loudly and refilled his glass.

‘You took too much of Greenwood’s identity, though. When you set up here, Inland Revenue got onto you for an unpaid income tax bill. You wrote to them, and eventually you paid up.’ Rebus brought the faxed sheets from his pocket. ‘I’ve got a copy of your letter here, along with some earlier stuff from the real Thomas Greenwood. Wait till a handwriting expert gets hold of them in court. Have you ever seen those guys work on a jury? It’s like Perry Mason. Even I can see the signatures aren’t the same.’

‘I changed my writing style.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Changed your face too. Dyed hair, shaved off your moustache, contact lense…tinted. Your eyes used to be hazel, didn’t they, Eck?’

‘I keep telling you, my name’s-’

Rebus got up. ‘Whatever you say. I’m sure Big Ger will recognise you quick enough.’

‘Wait a minute, sit down.’ Rebus sat and waited. Eck Robertson tried to smile. He flicked on his radio for a moment and listened to the race, then flicked it off again. A six-to-one shot had romped home.

‘Another win for the bookies,’ Rebus said. ‘Always liked the horses, didn’t you? Not as much as Tam, though, Tam just loved betting. He bet you he could screw money out of Big Ger without Ger noticing. Creaming it off just a little at a time, but it all mounted up. Here.’ Rebus tossed the drawing of Tam Robertson onto the desk. ‘Here’s what he might look like these days if Big Ger hadn’t found out.’

Eck Robertson stared at the drawing, tracing a finger over it.

‘You had to do a runner before Big Ger caught you, so you took the money. Then Radiator ran too. After all, he’d introduced the two of you into the gang. He’d be in for punishment too.’ Rebus paused again. ‘Or did Big Ger catch up with him?’

Robertson, eyes still on the drawing, shrugged.

‘Well, whatever,’ said Rebus. ‘I think I’ll have that whisky now.’ His leg was hurting like blazes, his knuckles white on the handle of the cane. It took Robertson a while to pour the drink. ‘So,’ Rebus asked him, ‘anything you want to add?’

‘How did you find me?’

‘Somebody spotted you.’

Robertson nodded. ‘The chef, what’s his name? Ringan? I saw him in some pub in Cowdenbeath. He looked like he was on a bender, so I got out fast. I didn’t think he’d seen me, and if he had I didn’t think he’d recognise me. I was wrong, eh?’

‘You were wrong.’ Rebus sipped the whisky like it was medicine on a spoon.

‘It was Aengus Gibson,’ Robertson said suddenly. ‘Aengus Gibson had the gun.’

And then he told the rest of the story. Tam had been cheating at poker, as usual. But Aengus was on to him, and drew the gun. Shot Tam dead. ‘We scarpered.’

‘What?’ Rebus was disbelieving. ‘No thoughts of revenge? That young drunk had just killed your brother!’

‘Nobody touched Black Aengus. He was Big Ger’s pal. They got friendly after some misunderstanding, a break-in at Mo’s flat. Big Ger had plans for him.’

‘What sort of plans?’

Robertson shrugged. ‘Just plans. You’re right about the money. I knew I had to run while I could.’

‘Why here, though?’

Robertson blinked. ‘It was the last station on the line. Big Ger’s never had much interest in Fife. It would mean tackling the Italians and the Orangemen.’

Rebus was doing some quick thinking. ‘So what did Ger do when Aengus shot Tam?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Eck, I know Big Ger was at the poker game. So what did he do?’

‘He scarpered the same as the rest of us.’

So Big Ger had been there! Robertson’s eyes were on his brother’s portrait again. Rebus had a very good idea, too, what Cafferty’s ‘plans’ for Aengus must have been. Imagine, having such a hold over someone who’d one day control the Gibson Brewing business. Such a hold all these years …

‘Who took away the gun, Eck?’

Eck shrugged again. Rebus got the idea he’d stopped listening. He rapped the edge of the desk with his cane. ‘You went to a lot of trouble, Eck. Eddie Ringan appreciated that. He learned from you that it’s possible to disappear. A handy lesson when Big Ger’s after you. He really makes people disappear, doesn’t he? Dumping them at sea like that. That’s what he does, isn’t it?’

‘After a while, aye.’

Rebus frowned at this. But then Eck Robertson’s next words hit him. ‘Nobody notices a butcher’s van.’

Rebus nodded, smiling. ‘You’re right about that.’ He wet his lips. ‘Eck, would you testify against him? In closed court, keep your new identity secret? Would you?’

But Eck Robertson was shaking his head. He was still shaking it when the door burst open. Ah, the half-remembered face from the form sheets. It was the pool player from the Midden.

‘All right, Tommy?’

‘Fine, Sharky, fine.’ But ‘Tommy Greenwood’ didn’t look it.

‘Out you go, son,’ said Rebus, ‘Mr Greenwood and me have got business.’

Sharky ignored him. ‘Want me to chuck him out, Tommy?’

Tommy Greenwood never got a chance to answer. Rebus pushed the handle of his cane hard up under Sharky’s nose and then whipped it harder still against his knees. The young man crumpled. Rebus stood up. ‘Handy thing, this,’ he said. He pointed it at Eck Robertson. ‘You can keep the picture as a reminder, Eck. Meantime, I’ll be back. I want you to testify against Cafferty. Not now, not yet. Sometime after I’ve got him firm on a charge. And if you won’t testify, I can always resurrect Eck Robertson. Think about it. One way or the other, Big Ger’ll know.’

He was crossing the Forth Road Bridge when he heard the news on the radio.

‘Aw Christ,’ he said, stepping on the accelerator.

Rebus showed his ID as he drove through the brewery gates. There was only the one police car left at the scene, and no sign of an ambulance. Workers stood around in huddled, low-talking groups, passing round cigarettes and stories.

Rebus knew the detective sergeant. He worked out of Edinburgh West, and his unfortunate name was Robert Burns. This Burns was tall and bulky and red-haired, with freckles on his face. On Sunday afternoons, he could sometimes be found at the foot of the Mound, where he would lambast the strolling heathens. Rebus was glad to see Burns. You might get fire and brimstone with him, but you’d never get waffle.

Burns pointed to the huge aluminium tank. ‘He climbed to the top.’ Yes, Rebus could see all too clearly the metal stairwell which reached to the top of the tank, with walkways circling the tank every thirty feet or so. ‘And when he got to the top, he jumped. A lot of the workers saw him, and they all said the same thing. He just climbed steadily till there were no more stairs, and then he threw himself off, arms stretched out. One of them said the dive was better than anything he’d seen in the Olympics.’

‘That good, eh?’ They weren’t the only ones staring at the tank. Some of the workforce glanced up from time to time, then traced Aengus Gibson’s descent. He’d hit the tarmac and crumpled like a concertina. There was a dent in the ground as though a boulder had been lifted from the spot.