Authors: Ian Rankin
‘What’s up, sir?’
‘How are things?’
‘Things?’
‘Yes.’
‘Things are fine, sir.’ Rebus wondered if the Farmer knew about Patience. Surely not.
‘DC Clarke getting on all right, is she?’
‘I’ve no complaints.’
‘Good. We’ve got a bit of a job coming up, joint operation with Trading Standards.’
‘Oh?’
‘Chief Inspector Lauderdale will fill in the details, but I wanted to sound you out first, check how things are going.’
‘What sort of joint operation?’
‘Money lending,’ said Watson. ‘I forgot to ask, do you want coffee?’ Rebus shook his head and watched as Watson bent over in his chair. There being so little space in the room, he’d taken to keeping his coffee-maker on the floor behind his desk, where twice so far to Rebus’s knowledge he’d spilt it all across the new beige carpet. When Watson sat up again, he held in his meaty fist a cup of the devil’s own drink. The Chief Super’s coffee was a minor legend in Edinburgh.
‘Money lending with some protection on the side,’ Watson corrected. ‘But mostly money lending.’
The same old sad story, in other words. People who wouldn’t stand a chance in any bank, and with nothing worth pawning, could still borrow money, no matter how bad a risk. The problem was, of course, that the interest ran into the hundreds per cent and arrears could soon mount, bringing more prohibitive interest. It was the most vicious circle of all, vicious because at the end of it all lay intimidation, beatings and worse.
Suddenly, Rebus knew why the Chief Super had wanted this little chat. ‘It’s not Big Ger, is it?’ he asked.
Watson nodded. ‘In a way,’ he said.
Rebus sprang to his feet. ‘This’ll be the fourth time in as many years! He always gets off. You know that, I know that!’ Normally, he would have recited this on the move, but there was no floorspace worth the name, so he just stood there like a Sunday ranter at the foot of The Mound. ‘It’s a waste of time trying to pin him on money lending. I thought we’d been through all this a dozen times and decided it was useless going after him without trying another tack.’
‘I know, John, I know, but the Trading Standards people are worried. The problem seems bigger than they thought.’
‘Bloody Trading Standards.’
‘Now, John …’
‘But,’ Rebus paused, ‘with respect, sir, it’s a complete waste of time and manpower. There’ll be a surveillance, we’ll take a few photos, we’ll arrest a couple of the poor saps who act as runners, and nobody’ll testify. If the Procurator Fiscal wants Big Ger nailed, then they should give us the resources so we can mount a decent size of operation.’
The problem, of course, was that nobody wanted to nail Morris Gerald Cafferty (known to all as Big Ger) as badly as John Rebus did. He wanted a full scale crucifixion. He wanted to be holding the spear, giving one last poke just to make sure the bastard really was dead. Cafferty was scum, but clever scum. There were always flunkies around to go to jail on his behalf. Because Rebus had failed so often to put the man away, he would rather not think of him at all. Now the Farmer was telling him that there was to be an ‘operation’. That would mean long days and nights of surveillance, a lot of paperwork, and the arrests of a few pimply apprentice hardmen at the end of it all.
‘John,’ said Watson, summoning his powers of character analysis, ‘I know how you feel. But let’s give it one more shot, eh?’
‘I know the kind of shot I’d take at Cafferty given half a chance.’ Rebus turned his fist into a gun and mimed the recoil.
Watson smiled. ‘Then it’s lucky we won’t be issuing firearms, isn’t it?’
After a moment, Rebus smiled too. He sat down again. ‘Go on then, sir,’ he said, ‘I’m listening.’
At eleven o’clock that evening, Rebus was watching TV in the flat. As usual, there was no one else about. They were either still studying in the University library, or else down at the pub. Since Michael wasn’t around either, the pub seemed an odds-on bet. He knew the students were wary, expecting him to kick at least one of them out so he could claim a bedroom. They moved around the flat like eviction notices.
He’d phoned Patience three times, getting the answering machine on each occasion and telling it that he knew she was there and why didn’t she pick up the phone?
As a result, the phone was on the floor beside the sofa, and when it rang he dangled an arm, picked up the receiver, and held it to his ear.
‘Hello?’
‘John?’
Rebus sat up fast. ‘Patience, thank Christ you –’
‘Listen, this is important.’
‘I know it is. I know I was stupid, but you’ve got to believe –’
‘Just listen, will you!’ Rebus shut up and listened. He would do whatever she told him, no question. ‘They thought you’d be here, so someone from the station just phoned. It’s Brian Holmes.’
‘What did he want?’
‘No, they were phoning
about
him.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s been in some sort of … I don’t know. Anyway, he’s hurt.’
Still holding the receiver, Rebus stood up, hauling the whole apparatus off the floor with him. ‘Where is he?’
‘Somewhere in Haymarket, some bar …’
‘The Heartbreak Cafe?’
‘That’s it. And listen, John?’
‘Yes?’
‘We will talk. But not yet. Just give me time.’
‘Whatever you say, Patience. Bye.’ John Rebus dropped the phone from his hand and grabbed his jacket.
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 door … 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 was 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 a 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, all of which sat uneasily above the larger oval of his body. Rebus had seen fat chefs and fatter chefs, and Ringan surely was a living advertisement for
some
body’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 and 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.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Rebus paused in the doorway. ‘Oh, and Mr Calder?’
‘Yes?’
‘If you let Mr Ringan drive tonight, I’ll have him pulled over before he reaches Haymarket. Can’t you drive him home?’
‘I don’t drive.’
‘Then I suggest you put your hand in the till for cab fare. Otherwise Mr Ringan’s next creation might be Jailhouse Roquefort.’
As Rebus left the restaurant, he could actually hear Eddie Ringan starting to laugh.
He didn’t laugh for long. Drink was demanding his attention. ‘Gimme another,’ he ordered. Pat Calder silently poured to the level of the shot-glass. They’d bought the glasses on a trip to Miami, along with a lot of other stuff. Much of the money had come out of Pat Calder’s own pockets, as well as those of his parents. He held the glass in front of Ringan, then toasted him before draining the contents himself. When Ringan started to complain, Calder slapped him across the face.
Ringan looked neither surprised nor hurt. Calder slapped him again.