‘I’m right here.’
‘How long’s that been?’
The protege checked his watch. ‘Three and a half. I’ve put the butter down there next to the eggs.’
‘Willie’s my assistant, Inspector.’
The exasperation in Willie’s voice and expressions made Rebus doubt he would be assisting for much longer. Though younger than Ringan, Willie was about the same size. You wouldn’t call him slender. Rebus reckoned chefs were partial to too much R & D. ‘Can we talk for a minute?’
‘Two and a half minutes if you like.’
‘I’d like to know about the Central Hotel.’ Ringan didn’t seem to hear this, his attention on the contents of the frying-pan. ‘You were there the night it burned down.’
El was short for Elvis, and Elvis was code for Eddie Ringan. Holmes hadn’t wanted the wrong people getting hold of the Black Book and being able to identify the person who’d been talking. That’s why he’d gone an extra step in disguising Ringan’s identity.
He’d also made Rebus promise that he wouldn’t tell the chef Holmes had shared their secret. It
‘Did you hear me, Eddie?’
‘A minute left, Inspector.’
‘You never cropped up on the list of staff because you were moonlighting, working there some nights without the other place you worked at knowing anything about it. So you were able to give a false name, and nobody ever found out it was you there that night, the night of the poker game.’
‘Nearly done.’ There was more sweat on Eddie Ringan’s face now, and his mouth seemed stiff with suppressed anger.
‘I’m nearly done too, Eddie. When did you start on the booze, eh? Just after that night, wasn’t it? Because something happened in that hotel. I wonder what it was. Whatever it was, you saw it, and if you don’t tell me about it, I’m going to find out anyway, and then I’m going to come back here for you.’ To emphasise this, Rebus pushed a finger against the chef’s arm.
Ringan snatched the frying-pan and swung it at Rebus, sending bits of Jailhouse Roquefort flying in arcs across the kitchen.
‘Get the fuck away from me!’
Rebus dodged the frying-pan, but Ringan was still holding it in front of him, ready to lunge.
‘Just you get the fuck out of here! Who told you, anyway?’
‘Nobody needed to tell me, Eddie. I worked it out for myself.’
Willie meantime was down on one knee. A hot cube of cheese had caught him smack in the eye.
‘I’m dying!’ he called. ‘Get an ambulance, get a lawyer! This is an industrial injury.’
Eddie Ringan glanced towards the trainee chef, then back at the frying-pan in his hand, then at Rebus, and he began to laugh, the laughter becoming uproarious, hysterical. But at least he put down the pan. He even picked up one of the cheese cubes and took a bite out of
‘Tastes like shite,’ he said, still laughing and spluttering bits of bread-crumb at Rebus.
‘Are you going to tell me, Eddie?’ Rebus asked calmly.
‘I’m going to tell you this: get the fuck out.’
Rebus stood his ground, though Eddie had already turned his back. ‘Tell me where I can find the Bru-Head Brothers.’
This brought more laughter.
‘Just give me a start, Eddie. Then it’ll be off your conscience.’
‘I lost my conscience a long time ago, Inspector. Willie, let’s get a fresh batch going.’
The young man was still checking for damage. He held one hand across his good eye like a patch. ‘I cannae see a thing,’ he complained. ‘I think the retina’s cracked.’
‘And the cornea’s melted,’ added Ringan. ‘Come on, I’m hoping to have this on the menu tonight.’ He turned to Rebus, making a show of astonishment. ‘Still here? A definite case of too many cooks.’
Rebus looked at him with sad, steady eyes. ‘Just a start, Eddie.’
‘Away tae fuck.’
Slowly, Rebus turned around and pushed open the door.
‘Inspector!’ He turned his head towards the chef. ‘There’s a pub in Cowdenbeath called The Midtown. The locals call it the Midden. I wouldn’t eat the food there.’
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘It’s
‘More like the outer bloody limits.’
But no, he knew that only now would he be going to the outer limits, back to the haunts of his youth.
13
He had only dropped into St Leonard’s to pick up a few things from his desk, but the duty sergeant stopped him short.
‘Gentleman here has been waiting to see you. He seems a bit anxious.’ The ‘gentleman’ in question had been standing in a corner, but was now directly in front of Rebus. ‘You don’t recognise me?’
Rebus studied the man for a moment longer, and felt an old loathing. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘I recognise you all right.’
‘Didn’t you get my message?’
This had been the other message relayed to him when he’d called in from Gorgie Road. He nodded.
‘Well, what are you going to do?’
‘What would you like me to do, Mr McPhail?’
‘You’ve got to stop him!’
‘Stop who exactly? And from what?’
‘You said you got the message.’
‘All I was told was that someone called Andrew McPhail had phoned wanting to speak to me.’
‘What I want is bloody protection!’
‘Calm down now.’ Rebus saw that the desk sergeant was getting ready for action, but he didn’t think there would be any need for that.
‘What have I got to do?’ McPhail was saying. ‘You want me to hit you? That’d get me a night in the cells, wouldn’t it? I’d be safe there.’
Rebus nodded. ‘You’d be safe all right, until we told your cell mates about your past escapades.’
This seemed to calm McPhail down like a bucket of ice. Maybe he was remembering particular incidents during his spell in the Canadian Prison. Or maybe it was a less localised fear. Whatever it was, it worked. His tone became quietly plaintive. ‘But he’ll kill me.’
‘Who will?’
‘Stop pretending! I know you set him on to me. It had to be you.’
‘Humour me,’ said Rebus.
‘Maclean,’ said McPhail. ‘Alex Maclean.’
‘And who is Alex Maclean?’
McPhail looked disgusted. He spoke in an undertone. ‘The wee girl’s stepfather. Melanie’s stepfather.’
‘Ah,’ said Rebus, nodding now. He knew immediately what Jack Morton had done, bugger that he was. No wonder McPhail got in touch. And as Rebus had been round to see Mrs MacKenzie, he’d thought Rebus must be behind the whole scheme.
‘Has he threatened you?’
