Authors: Ian Rankin
Greenwood thought about it, then got up, unlocked the door of the booth, and came out. ‘Round here,’ he said, leading Rebus to the rear of the shop. He unlocked another door, letting them into a much cosier and more private office.
‘Any trouble?’ he asked immediately, sitting down and reaching into his desk drawer for a bottle of whisky.
‘Not for me, sir,’ Rebus said. He sat down opposite Greenwood and stared at him. Christ, it was difficult after all these years. But Midge’s portrait wasn’t so far off the mark. A chess player would be making ready to play a pawn; Rebus decided to sacrifice his queen. ‘So, Eck,’ he said, getting comfortable, ‘how’ve things been?’
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 lenses … 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.
‘His father tried chasing after him,’ Burns was saying. ‘Didn’t get very far. Old boy like that, it’s a wonder his heart didn’t give out. They had to help him down from the third circle.’
Rebus counted up three walkways. ‘A bit of Dante, eh?’ he said, winking at Burns.
‘The old boy’s saying it was an accident.’
‘Of course he is.’
‘It wasn’t, though.’
‘Of course it wasn’t.’
‘I’ve got a dozen witnesses who say he jumped.’
‘A dozen witnesses,’ Rebus corrected, ‘who’ll change their minds if their jobs are on the line.’
‘Aye, right enough.’
Rebus breathed in. He’d always liked that smell of hops, but from now on he knew it would smell differently to him. It would smell like this moment, played over time and time again.
‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,’ said Burns. ‘What happened to your leg, by the way?’
‘Ingrown toenails,’ said Rebus. ‘The Lord gave them, the Infirmary took them away.’
Burns was shaking his head at this easy blasphemy when a window in the building behind them opened.
‘You!’ shouted Broderick Gibson. ‘You killed him! You did it!’ His crooked finger, a finger he seemed unable to straighten, was mostly pointed at Rebus. His eyes were like wet glass, his breathing strained. Someone was trying to coax him gently back into the office, hands on his shoulders. ‘There’ll be a reckoning!’ he called to Rebus. ‘Mark my words. There’ll come a reckoning!’
The old man was finally pulled inside, the window falling shut after him. The workers were looking over towards the two policemen.
‘He must be one of yours,’ said Rebus, making for his car.
That was that then. Aengus Gibson had shot and killed Tam Robertson, and now Aengus was dead. End of story. Rebus could think of one person not in Aengus’s family who was going to be very upset: Big Ger Cafferty. Cafferty had protected Black Aengus, maybe even blackmailed him, all the time waiting for the day when the young man would take over the brewery. With Aengus dead, the whole edifice fell, and good riddance to it.
Still, there was no comeback for Cafferty, no punishment.
Back at the flat, Michael had some news.
‘The doc’s been trying to get you.’
‘Which one? I’ve seen so many recently.’
‘Dr Patience Aitken. She seems to think you’re avoiding her. Sounds like the ploy’s working, too.’
‘It’s not a ploy. I’ve just had a lot on my plate.’
‘And if you don’t finish it, you won’t get afters.’ Michael smiled. ‘She sounds nice, by the way.’
‘She
is
nice. I’m the arsehole.’
‘So go see her.’
Rebus flopped onto the sofa. ‘Maybe I will. What are you reading?’ Michael showed him the cover. ‘Another book on hypnotherapy. You must have exhausted the field.’
‘I’ve just been scratching the surface.’ Michael paused. ‘I’m going to take a course.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m going to become a hypnotherapist. I mean, I know I can hypnotise people.’
‘You can certainly get them to take their trousers off and bark like dogs.’
‘Exactly, it’s about time I put it to better use.’
‘They say laughter is the best medicine.’
‘Shut up, John, I’m trying to be serious. And I’m moving back in with Chrissie and the kids.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve talked with her. We’ve decided to try again.’
‘Sounds romantic.’
‘Well, one of us has got to have some romance in his soul.’ Michael picked up the telephone and handed it to Rebus. ‘Now phone the doctor.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Rebus.
Broderick Gibson had clout, there was no denying it. On Wednesday morning the newspapers reported the ‘tragic accident’ at the Gibson Brewery near Fountainbridge, Edinburgh. There were photos of Aengus, some in his Black Aengus days, others showing the later model at charity events. There wasn’t a whisper of suicide. It was another cover-up by Aengus’s father, another distortion of the truth. It had become just something Broderick Gibson did, a part of the routine.
At ten-fifteen, Rebus received a phone call. It was Chief Superintendent Watson.
‘There’s someone here to see you,’ he said. ‘I told him you’re under suspension, but he’s bloody insistent.’
‘Who is it?’ asked Rebus.
‘Some blind old duffer called Vanderhyde.’
Vanderhyde was still waiting when Rebus arrived. He looked quite at ease, concentrating on the sounds around him. Chatter and phone calls and the clacking of keyboards. He was seated on a chair facing Rebus’s desk. Rebus tiptoed painfully around him and sat down. He watched Matthew Vanderhyde for a couple of minutes. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and black tie: mourning clothes. He carried a blue cardboard folder, which he rested on his thighs. His walking-stick rested against the side of his chair.
‘Well, Inspector,’ said Vanderhyde suddenly, ‘seen enough?’
Rebus gave a wry smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Vanderhyde. What gave me away?’
‘You’re carrying a cane of some kind. It hit the corner of your desk.’
Rebus nodded. ‘I was sorry to hear –’
‘No sorrier than his parents. They’ve worked hard over the years with Aengus. He has
been
hard work. Devilish hard at times. Now it’s all gone to waste.’ Vanderhyde leaned forward in his chair. Had he been sighted, his eyes would have been boring into Rebus’s. As it was, Rebus could see his own face reflected in the double mirror of Vanderhyde’s glasses. ‘Did he deserve to die, Inspector?’
‘He had a choice.’
‘Did he?’
Rebus was remembering the priest’s words.
Can you live the rest of your life with the memories and the guilt?
Vanderhyde knew Rebus wasn’t about to answer. He nodded slowly, and sat back a little in his chair.