Ian Rankin: Black Book

‘I was there one day when he killed someone,’ he said baldly. Then he screwed shut his eyes. Rebus was trying to control his own breathing. This guy would make a gem of a witness.

‘Killed them how?’ Still not pressing; still the friend.

Kintoul tipped his head back, feeding tears back where they had come from. ‘How? With his bare hands. We’d arrived late. The van had broken down in the middle of nowhere. It was about ten in the morning. Mist all around the farm, like driving into Brigadoon. They were both wearing business suits, that’s what got me. And they were up to their ankles in glaur.’

Rebus frowned, not quite comprehending. ‘They were in the pigsty?’

Kintoul nodded. ‘There’s a fenced run. Cafferty was in there with this man. There were other people watching through the fence.’ He swallowed. ‘I swear Cafferty looked like he was enjoying it. There with the mud lapping at him, and the pigs squealing in their boxes wondering what the hell was happening, and all the silent onlookers.’ Kintoul tried to shake the memory away, probably a daily event.

‘They were fighting?’

‘The other man looked like he’d been roughed up beforehand. Nobody’d call it a fair fight. And eventually, after Cafferty’d beaten the living shite out of him, he grabbed him by the neck and forced him down into the muck. He stood on the man’s back, balancing there, and holding the face down with his hands. He looked like it was nothing new. Then the man stopped strugglin…’

Rebus and Kintoul were silent, blood pounding through them, both trying to cope with the vision of an early morning pigst…‘Afterwards,’ said Kintoul, his voice lower than ever, ‘he beamed at us like it was his coronation.’

Then, in complete grimacing silence, he started to weep.

Rebus was visiting the Infirmary so often he was considering taking out a season ticket. But he hadn’t expected to see Flower there.

‘Checking in? The psychiatric section’s down the hall.’

‘Ha ha,’ said Flower.

‘What are you doing here anyway?’

‘I could ask you the same question.’

‘I live here, what about you?’

‘I came to ask some questions.’

‘Of Andrew McPhail?’ Flower nodded. ‘Did nobody tell you his jaw’s wired shut?’ Flower twitched, producing a good wide grin from Rebus. ‘How come it’s your business anyway?’

‘It involves Cafferty,’ Flower said.

‘Oh aye, so it does, I’d forgotten.’

‘Looks like we’ve got him this time.’

‘Looks like it. But you never know with Cafferty.’ Rebus stared unblinking at Flower as he spoke. ‘The reason he’s lasted so long is he’s clever. He’s clever, and he’s got the best lawyers. Plus he’s got people scared of him, and he’s got people in his pocke…maybe even a copper or three.’

Flower had stared out the gaze; now he blinked. ‘You think I was in Cafferty’s pocket?’

Rebus had been pondering this. He had Cafferty marked down for the attack on Michael and the scam with the gun. As for the clumsy hit-and-run attempt, that was so amateurish, he guessed at Broderick Gibson for its architect. Quite simply, Cafferty would have used better men.

He’d been silent long enough, so he shook his head. ‘I don’t think you’re that smart. Cafferty likes smart people. But I do think you had a word with the Inland Revenue about me.’

‘I don’t know what, you’re talking about.’

Rebus grinned. ‘I do like a cliche.’ Then he walked on down the hall.

Andrew McPhail was easy to find. You just looked for the broken face. He was wired up like somebody’s first attempt at a junction box. Rebus thought he could see where they’d used two wires where one would have sufficed. But then he was no doctor. McPhail had his eyes closed.

‘Hello there,’ said Rebus. The eyes opened. There was anger there, but Rebus could cope with it. He held up a hand. ‘No,’ he said, ‘don’t bother to thank me.’ Then he smiled. ‘It’s all set up for when they let you out. Up north for rehabilitation, maybe a job, and bracing coastal walks. Man, I envy you.’ He looked around the ward. Every bed had a body in it. The nurses looked like they could use a holiday or at the very least a gin and lime with some dry-roast peanuts.

‘I said I’d leave you alone,’ Rebus went on, ‘and I keep my word. But a piece of advice.’ He rested his hands on the edge of the bed and leaned towards McPhail. ‘Cafferty’s the biggest villain in town. You’re probably the only bugger in Edinburgh who didn’t know that. Now his men know a guy called McPhail set their boss up. So don’t ever think of coming back, will you?’ McPhail still glared at him. ‘Good,’ said Rebus. He straightened up, turned, and walked away, then paused and turned. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘and I meant to say something.’ He returned to the bed and stood at its foot, where charts showed McPhail’s temperature and medicaments. Rebus waited till McPhail’s wet eyes were on his, then he smiled sympathetically again.

‘Sorry,’ he said. This time, when he turned he kept on walking.

Andy Steele had been the necessary go-between. It was too dangerous for Rebus to put the story out first-hand. The source of the tale might have got back to Cafferty, and that would have ruined everything. McPhail hadn’t been necessary, but he’d been useful. Rebus explained the ruse twice to Andy Steele, and even then the young fisherman didn’t seem to take it all in. He had the look of a man with a dozen unaskable questions.

‘So what are you going to do now?’ Rebus asked. He’d been hoping in fact that Steele might already have left for home.

‘Oh, I’m applying for a grant,’ said Steele.

‘You mean like university?’

But Steele hooted. ‘Not likely! It’s one of those schemes to get the unemployed into business.’

‘Oh aye?’

Steele nodded. ‘I’m eligible.’

‘So what’s the business?’

‘A detective agency, of course!’

‘Where exactly?’

‘Edinburgh. I’ve made more money since I came here than I made in six months in Aberdeen.’

‘You cannot be serious,’ said Rebus. But Andy Steele was.

He had one last meeting planned, and wasn’t looking forward to it. He walked from St Leonard’s to the University library at George Square. The indifferent security man on the door glanced at his ID and nodded him towards the front desk, where Nell Stapleton, tall and broad-shouldered, was taking returned books from a duffel-coated student. She caught his eye and looked surprised. Pleased at first; but as she went through the books, Rebus saw her mind wasn’t wholly on the job. At last, she came over to him.

‘Hello, John.’

‘Nell.’

‘What brings you here?’

‘Can we have a word?’

She checked with the other assistant that it was okay to take a five-minute break. They walked as far as a book-lined corridor.

‘Brian tells me you’ve closed the case, the one he was so worried about.’

Rebus nodded.

‘That’s great news. Thanks for your help.’

Rebus shrugged.

She tilted her head slightly. ‘Is something the matter?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Rebus. ‘Do you want to tell me?’

‘Me?’

Rebus nodded again.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You’ve lived with a policeman, Nell. You know we deal in motives. Sometimes there isn’t much else to go on. I’ve been thinking about motives recently.’ He shut up as a female student pulled open a door, came out into the corridor, smiled briefly at Nell, and went on her way. Nell watched her go. Rebus thought she would like to swop bodies for a few minutes.

‘Motives?’ she said. She was leaning against the wall, but Rebus got no notion of calmness from her stance.