Ian Rankin: Black Book

Rebus was parking outside the Heartbreak Cafe barely seven minutes later. That was the beauty of Edinburgh when you could avoid traffic lights. The Heartbreak Cafe had been opened just over a year before by a chef who also happened to be an Elvis Presley fan. He had used some of his extensive memorabilia to decorate the interior; and his cooking skills to come up with a menu which was almost worth a visit even if, like Rebus, you’d never liked Elvis. Holmes had raved about the place since its opening, drooling for hours over the dessert called Blue Suede Choux. The Cafe operated as a bar too, with garish cocktails and 1950s music, plus bottled American beers whose prices would have caused convulsions in the Broadsword pub. Rebus got the idea that Holmes had become friends with the owner; certainly, he’d been spending a lot of time there since the split from Nell, and had put on a fair few pounds as a result.

From the outside, the place looked nothing special: pale cement front wall with a narrow rectangular window in the middle, most of which was filled with neon signs advertising beers. And above this a larger neon sign flashing the name of the restaurant. The action wasn’t here, however. Holmes had been set on around the back of the place. A narrow alley, just about able to accommodate the width of a Ford Cortina, led to the patrons’ car park. This was small by any restaurant’s standards, and was also where the overflowing refuse bins were kept. Most clients, Rebus guessed, would park on the street out front. Holmes only parked back here because he spent so much time in the bar, and because his car had once been scratched when he’d left it out front.

There were two cars in the car park. One was Holmes’, and the other almost certainly belonged to the owner of the Heartbreak Cafe. It was an old Ford Capri with a painting of Elvis on its bonnet. Brian Holmes lay between the two cars. So far no one had moved him. He would be moved soon, though, after the doctor had finished his examination. One of the officers present recognised Rebus and came over.

‘Nasty blow to the back of the head. He’s been out cold for at least twenty minutes. That’s how long ago he was found. The owner of the place-that’s who found him-recognised him and called in. Could be a fractured skull.’

Rebus nodded, saying nothing, his eyes on the prone figure of his colleague. The other detective was still talking, going on about how Holmes’ breathing was regular, the usual reassurances. Rebus walked towards the body, standing over the kneeling doctor. The doctor didn’t even glance up, but ordered a uniformed constable, who was holding a flashlight over Brian Holmes, to move it a bit to the left. He then started examining that section of Holmes’ skull.

Rebus couldn’t see any blood, but that didn’t mean much. People died all the time without losing any blood over it. Christ, Brian looked so at peace. It was almost like staring into a casket. He turned to the detective.

‘What’s the owner’s name again?’

‘Eddie Ringan.’

‘Is he inside?’

The detective nodded. ‘Propping up the bar.’

That figured. ‘I’ll just go have a word,’ said Rebus.

Eddie Ringan had nursed what was euphemistically called a drinking problem for several years, long before he’d opened the Heartbreak Cafe. For this reason, people reckoned the venture would fail, as other ventures of his had. But they reckoned wrong, for the sole reason that Eddie managed to find a manager, a manager who not only was some kind of financial guru but was also as straight and as strong as a construction girder. He didn’t rip Eddie off, and he kept Eddie where Eddie belonged during working hours-in the kitchen.

Eddie still drank, but he could cook and drink; that wasn’t a problem, Especially when there were one or two apprentice chefs around to do the stuff which required focused eyes or rock steady hands. And so, according to Brian Holmes, the Heartbreak Cafe thrived. He still hadn’t’ managed to persuade Rebus to join him there for a meal of King Shrimp, Creole or Love Me Tenderloin. Rebus wasn’t persuaded to walk through, the front doo…until tonight.

The lights were still on. It was like walking into some teenager’s shrine, to his idol. There were Elvis posters on the walls, Elvis record covers, a life-size cut-out figure of the performer, even an Elvis clock, with the, King’s arms pointing to the time. The TV as on, an item on the late news. Some oversized charity cheque was being handed over in front of Gibson’s Brewery.

There was no one in the place except Eddie Ringan slumped on barstool, and another man behind the bar, pouring two shots of Jim Beam. Rebus introduced himself and was invited to take a seat. The bartender introduced himself as Pat Calder.

‘I’m Mr Ringan’s partner.’ The way he said it made Rebus wonder if the two young men were more than merely business partners. Holmes hadn’t mentioned Eddie was gay. He turned his attention to the chef.

Eddie Ringan was probably in his late twenties, but looked ten years older. He had straight, thinning hair over a large oval-shaped head, a of which sat uneasily above the larger oval of his body. Rebus had see fat chefs and fatter chefs, and Ringan surely was a living advertisement for somebody’s cooking. His doughy face was showing signs of wear from the drink; not just this evening’s scoop, but the weeks and months of steady, heavy consumption. Rebus watched him drain the inch of amber fire in a single savouring swallow.

‘Gimme another.’

But Pat Calder shook his head. ‘Not if you’re driving.’ Then, in clear and precise tones: ‘This man is a police officer, Eddie. He’s come to talk about Brian.’

Eddie Ringan nodded. ‘He fell down, hit his head.’

‘Is that what you think?’ asked Rebus.

‘Not really.’ For the first time, Ringan looked up from the bartop an into Rebus’s eyes. ‘Maybe it was a mugger, or maybe it was a warning.’

‘What sort of a warning?’

‘Eddie’s had too many tonight, Inspector,’ said Pat Calder. ‘He starts imagining — ’

‘I’m not bloody imagining.’ Ringan slapped his palm down on the bartop for emphasis. He was still looking at Rebus. ‘You know what it’s like. It’s either protection money-insurance, they like to call it-or it’s the other restaurants ganging up because they don’t like the business you’re doing and they’re not. You make a lot of enemies in this game.’

Rebus was nodding. ‘So do you have anyone in mind, Eddie? Anyone in particular?’

But Ringan shook his head in a slow swing. ‘Not really. No, not really.’

‘But you think maybe you were the intended victim?’

Ringan signalled for another drink, and Calder poured. He drank before answering. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. They could be trying to scare off the customers. Times are hard.’

Rebus turned to Calder, who was staring at Eddie Ringan with a fair amount of revulsion. ‘What about you, Mr Calder, any ideas?’

‘I think it was just a mugging.’

‘Doesn’t look like they took anything.’

‘Maybe they were interrupted.’

‘By someone coming up the alley? Then how did they escape? That car park’s a dead end.’

‘I don’t know.’ Rebus kept watching Pat Calder. He was a few years older than Ringan, but looked younger. He’d drawn his dark hair back into what Rebus supposed was a fashionable ponytail, and had kept long straight sideburns reaching down past his ears. He was tall and thin. Indeed, he looked like he could use a good meal. Rebus had seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil. ‘Maybe,’ Calder was saying, ‘maybe he did fall after all. It’s pretty dark out there. We’ll get some lighting put in.’

‘Very commendable of you, sir.’ Rebus rose from the uncomfortable barstool. ‘Meantime, if anything does come to mind, and especially if any names come to mind, you can always call us.’