Authors: Ian Rankin
More than one person that Sunday read the story on the front page of their morning paper with a mixture of anguish, fear, guilt, and fury. Telephone calls were made. Words were exchanged like bullets. But being Sunday, there wasn’t much anyone could do about the situation except, if they were of a mind, pray. If the off-licences had been open, or the supermarkets and grocer’s shops allowed to sell alcohol, they might have drowned their sorrows or assuaged their anger. As it was, the anger just built, and so did the anguish. Block by block, the structure neared completion. A roof, that was all it lacked. Something to keep the pressure in, or nature’s forces out.
And it was all because of John Rebus. This was more or less agreed. John Rebus was out there with a battering ram, and more than one person was of a mind to unlock the door and let him in – let him into
their
lair. And then lock the door after him.
The meeting in Farmer Watson’s office had been arranged for nine in the morning. Presumably, they wanted Rebus at his groggiest and most supine. He might growl loudly in the morning, but he didn’t normally start biting till afternoon. That everyone from Watson to the canteen staff knew he was being fitted up didn’t make things any less awkward. For a start, the investigation into the Central Hotel murder wasn’t official, and Watson still wasn’t keen to sanction it. So Rebus had been working rogue anyway. Give the Farmer his due, he looked after his team. They managed between them to concoct a story whereby Rebus had been given permission to do some digging into the files on his own time.
‘With a view towards the case perhaps being reopened at a later date as fresh evidence allowed,’ said the Farmer. His secretary, a smart woman with a scary taste in hair colourants, copied down these closing words. ‘And date it a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said.
When she’d left the room, Rebus said, ‘Thank you, sir.’ He’d been standing throughout the proceedings, there being space for just the one chair, the one the secretary had been seated on. He now stepped gingerly over piles of files and placed his bum where hers had latterly been.
‘I’m covering
my
hide as well as yours, John. And not a word to anyone, understand?’
‘Yes, sir. What about Inspector Flower, won’t he suspect? He’s bound to complain to Chief Inspector Lauderdale at least.’
‘Good. Him and Lauderdale can have a chinwag. There’s something you’ve got to understand, John.’ Watson clasped his hands together on the desk, his head sinking into huge rounded shoulders. He spoke softly. ‘I
know
Lauderdale’s after my job. I know I can trust him as far as I’d trust an Irish scoor-oot.’ He paused. ‘Do
you
want my job, Inspector?’
‘No fear.’
Watson nodded. ‘That’s what I mean. Now, I know you’re not going to be sitting on your hands for the next week or two, so take some advice. The law can’t be tinkered with the way you tinker with an old car.
Think
before you do anything. And remember, stunts like buying a gun can get you thrown off the force.’
‘But I didn’t buy it, sir,’ said Rebus, reciting the story they’d thought up, ‘it came into my possession as a potential piece of evidence.’
Watson nodded. ‘Quite a mouthful, eh? But it might just save your bacon.’
‘I’m vegetarian, sir,’ Rebus said. A statement which caused Watson to laugh very loudly indeed.
They were both more than a little interested in what was happening in Gorgie. The initial news had not seemed promising. Nobody had turned up at the office, nobody at all. An extra detail was now keeping a watch on the hospital where Dougary lay in traction. If nothing happened at the Gorgie end, they’d switch to the hospital until Dougary was up and about. Maybe he’d keep working from his bedside. Stranger things had happened.
But at eleven-thirty, a brightly polished Jag pulled into the taxi lot. The chauffeur, a huge man with long straight hair, got out, and when he opened the back door, out stepped Morris Gerald Cafferty.
‘Got you, you bastard,’ hissed DS Petrie, firing off a whole roll of film in the excitement. Siobhan was already telephoning St Leonard’s. And after talking with CI Lauderdale, as instructed (though
not
by Lauderdale) she phoned Arden Street. Rebus picked up the phone on its second ring.
‘Bingo,’ she said. ‘Cafferty’s come calling.’
‘Make sure the photographs are dated and timed.’
‘Yes, sir. How did the meeting go?’
‘I think the Farmer’s in love with me.’
‘They’re both going in,’ said Petrie, at last lifting his finger from the shutter release. The camera motor stopped. Madden, who had come over to the window to watch, asked who they were.
At the same time, Rebus was asking a similar question. ‘Who’s with Big Ger?’
‘His driver.’
‘Man mountain with long hair?’
‘That’s him.’
‘That’s also the guy who got his ear eaten by Davey Dougary.’
‘No love lost there, then?’
‘Except now the man mountain’s working for Big Ger.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Knowing Big Ger, I’d say he put him on the payroll just to piss off Dougary.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘His idea of a joke. Let me know when they come out again.’
‘Will do.’
She phoned him back half an hour later. ‘Cafferty’s taken off again.’
‘He didn’t stay long.’
‘But listen, the chauffeur stayed put.’
‘What?’
‘Cafferty drove off alone.’
‘Well, I’ll be buggered. He’s putting the man mountain in charge of Dougary’s accounts!’
‘He must trust him.’
‘I suppose he must. But I can’t see the big chap having much experience running a book. He’s strictly a guard dog.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning Big Ger will have to nurse him along. Meaning Big Ger will be down at that office practically every day. It couldn’t be better!’
‘We’d better get in some more film, then.’
‘Aye, don’t let that stupid bugger Petrie run out again. How’s his face by the way?’
‘Itchy, but it hurts when he scratches.’ Petrie glanced over, so she told him, ‘Inspector Rebus was just asking after you.’
‘Was I buggery,’ said Rebus. ‘I hope his nose drops off and falls in his thermos.’
‘I’ll pass your good wishes on, sir,’ said Siobhan.
‘Do that,’ replied Rebus. ‘And don’t be shy about it either. Right, I’m off to a funeral.’
‘I was talking to Brian, he said he’s a pall-bearer.’
‘Good,’ said Rebus. ‘That means I’ll have a shoulder to cry on.’
Warriston Cemetery is a sprawling mix of graves, from the ancient (and sometimes desecrated) to the brand new. There are stones there whose messages have been eroded away to faint indents only. On a sunny day, it can be an educational walk, but at nights the local Hell’s Angels chapter have been known to party hard, recreating scenes more like New Orleans voodoo than Scottish country dancing.
Rebus felt Eddie would have approved. The ceremony itself was simple and dignified, if you ignored the wreath in the shape of an electric guitar and the fact that he was to be buried with an Elvis LP cover inside the casket.
Rebus stood at a distance from proceedings, and had turned down an invitation by Pat Calder to attend the reception afterwards, which was to be held not in the hollow Heartbreak Cafe but in the upstairs room of a nearby hostelry. Rebus was tempted for a moment – the chosen pub served Gibson’s – but shook his head the way he’d shaken Calder’s hand: with regrets.
Poor Eddie. For all that Rebus hadn’t really known him, for all that the chef had tried scalping him with a panful of appetisers, Rebus had liked the man. He saw them all the time, people who could have made so much of their lives, yet hadn’t. He knew he belonged with them. The losers.
But at least I’m still alive, he thought. And God willing nobody will dispatch me by funneling alcohol down my throat before turning on the gas. It struck him again: why the need for the funnel? All you had to do was take Eddie to any bar and he’d willingly render himself unconscious on tequila and bourbon. You didn’t
need
to force him. Yet Dr Curt had tossed his liver in the air and proclaimed it a fair specimen. That was difficult to accept, except that he’d seen it with his own eyes.
Or had he?
He peered across the distance to where Pat Calder was taking hold of rope number one, testing it for tensile strength. Brian was number four, which meant he stood across the casket from Calder and sandwiched between two men Rebus didn’t know. The barman Toni was number six. But Rebus’s eyes were on Calder. Oh Jesus, you bastard, he thought. You didn’t, did you? Then again, maybe you did.
He turned and ran, back to where his car was parked out on the road outside the cemetery. His destination was Arden Street.
Arden Street and the reservations book for the Heartbreak Cafe.
As he saw it, Rebus had two choices. He could kick the door down, or he could try to open it quietly. It was a snib lock, the kind a stiff piece of plastic could sometimes open. Of course, there was a mortice deadlock too, but probably not engaged. When he pushed and pulled the door, there was enough give in it to suggest this was probably true. Only the snib then. But the gap where door met jamb was covered by a long strip of ornamental wood. This normally wouldn’t deter a burglar, who would take a crowbar to it until he had access to the gap.
But Rebus had forgotten to pack his crowbar.
A rap with the door-knocker wouldn’t elicit a response, would it? But he didn’t fancy his chances of shouldering or kicking the door down, snib-lock or not. So he crouched down, opened the letterbox with one hand, put his eyes level with it, and reached up his other hand to the black iron ring, giving it five loud raps: shave-and-a-haircut, some people called it. It signalled a friend; at least, that’s what Rebus hoped. There was neither sound nor movement from the inside of the maisonette. The Colonies was daytime quiet. He could probably crowbar the door open without anyone noticing. Instead, he tried the knocker again. The door had a spy-hole, and he was hoping someone might be intrigued enough to want to creep to the spy-hole and take a look.
Movement now, a shadow moving slowly from the living area towards the hall. Moving stealthily. And then a head sticking out of the doorway. It was all Rebus needed.
‘Hello, Eddie,’ he called. ‘I’ve got your wreath here.’
Eddie Ringan let him in.
He was dressed in a red silk kimono-style gown with a fierce dragon crawling all down its back. On the arms were symbols Rebus didn’t understand. They didn’t worry him. Eddie flopped onto the sofa, usually Rebus’s perch, so Rebus made do with standing.
‘I was lying about the wreath,’ he said.
‘It’s the thought that counts. Nice suit, too.’
‘I had to borrow the tie,’ said Rebus.
‘Black ties are cool.’ Eddie looked like death warmed up. His eyes were dark-ringed and bloodshot, and his face resembled a prisoner’s: sunless grey, lacking hope. He scratched himself under the armpit. ‘So how did it go?’
‘I left just as they were lowering you away.’
‘They’ll be at the reception now. Wish I could have done the catering myself, but you know how it is.’
Rebus nodded. ‘It’s not easy being a corpse. You’d have found that out.’
‘Some people have managed quite nicely in the past.’
‘Like Radiator McCallum and the Robertson brothers?’
Eddie produced a grim smile. ‘One of those, yes.’
‘You must be pretty desperate to stage your own death.’
‘I’m not saying anything.’
‘That’s fine.’ There was silence for a minute until Eddie broke it.
‘How did you find out?’
Rebus absent-mindedly took a cigarette from the pack on the mantelpiece. ‘It was Pat. He made up this unnecessarily exaggerated story.’
‘That’s Pat for you. Amateur fucking dramatics all the way.’
‘He said Willie stormed out of the restaurant after sticking his face in some poor punter’s plate. I checked with a couple of the people who ate there that night. A quick phone call was all it took. Nobody saw anything of the sort. Then there was the dead man’s liver. It was in good nick, so it couldn’t possibly have been yours.’
‘You can say that again.’
Rebus was about to light up. He caught himself, lifted the cigarette from his mouth, and placed it beside the packet.
‘Then I checked missing persons. Seems Willie hasn’t been back to his digs in a few days. The whole thing was amateurish, Eddie. If the poor bugger hadn’t got his face blown away in the explosion, we’d’ve known straight away it wasn’t you.’
‘Would you? We wondered about that, we reckoned with Brian off the scene and Haymarket not your territory, it might just work.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘For a start, we take photographs, and I’d have seen them sooner or later. I always do.’ He paused. ‘So why did you kill him?’
‘It was an accident.’
‘Let me guess, you came back late to the restaurant after a pretty good bender. You were angry as hell to see Willie had coped. You had a fight, he smashed his head. Then you had an idea.’
‘Maybe.’
‘There’s only one rotten thing about the whole story,’ said Rebus. Eddie shifted on the sofa. He looked ridiculous in the kimono, and had folded his arms protectively. He was staring at the fireplace, avoiding Rebus altogether.
‘What?’ he said finally.
‘Pat said Willie ran out of the Cafe on
Tuesday
night. His body wasn’t found until Thursday morning. If he’d died in a fight on Tuesday, lividity and rigor mortis would have told the pathologist the body was old. But it wasn’t, it was fresh. Which means you didn’t booze him up and gas him until early Thursday morning. You must’ve kept him alive all day Wednesday, knowing pretty well what you were going to do with him.’
‘I’m not saying anything.’
‘No,
I’m
saying it. Like I say, a desperate remedy, Eddie. About as desperate as they come. Now come on.’
‘What?’
‘We’re taking a drive.’
‘Where to?’
‘Down to the station, of course. Get some clothes on.’ Rebus watched him try to stand up. His legs took a while to lock upright. Yes, murder could do that to you. It was the opposite of rigor mortis. It was liquefaction, the jelly effect. It took him a long time to dress, Rebus watching throughout. There were tears in Eddie’s eyes when he finished, and his lips were wet with saliva.