Black Book

‘Understood, sir.’

Rebus would have said anything to shorten the meeting; well, just about anything. But he was damned if he was going to hand anything to Flower, least of all a case like this, even if he did think it a waste of time. Get back to the here and now, Lauderdale had said. But when Rebus left the office, he knew exactly where his brain was heading: back to the there and then.

By late afternoon, he decided that he had only two options regarding the Central Hotel, only two people left who might help. He telephoned one, and after a little persuasion was able to arrange an immediate interview.

‘There may be interruptions,’ the secretary warned. ‘We’re very busy just now.’

‘I can put up with interruptions.’

Twenty minutes later, he was ushered into a small wood-panelled office in a well-maintained old stone building. The windows looked out onto uglier new constructions of corrugated metal and shining steel. Steam billowed from pipes, but indoors you miraculously lost that strong brewery smell.

The door opened and a thirtyish man ambled into the room. ‘Inspector Rebus?’

They shook hands. ‘Good of you to see me at such short notice, sir.’

‘Your call was intriguing. I still like a bit of intrigue.’

Close up, Rebus saw that Aengus Gibson was probably still in his twenties. The sober suit, the spectacles and short sleek hair made him seem older. He went to his desk, slipped off his jacket, and placed it carefully over the back of a large padded chair. Then he sat down and began rolling up his shirtsleeves.

‘Sit yourself down, Inspector, please. Now, something to do with the Central Hotel, you said?’

There were papers laid out on the desk, and Gibson appeared to be browsing through them as Rebus spoke, but Rebus knew the man was taking in every word.

‘As you know, Mr Gibson, the Central burnt down five years ago. The cause of the fire was never satisfactorily explained, but more disturbing still was the finding of a body, a body with a bullet-hole through the heart. The body has never been identified.’

Rebus paused. Gibson took off his glasses and laid them on top of the papers. ‘I knew the Central quite well, Inspector. I’m sure my reputation precedes you into this office.’

‘Past and present reputations, sir.’

Gibson made no show of hearing this. ‘I was a bit wild in my youth, and a wilder crowd you’d be hard pressed to find than that congregating in the Central Hotel in those days.’

‘You’d be in your early twenties, sir, hardly a “youth”.’

‘Some of us take longer to grow up than others.’

‘Why did you arrange to meet Matthew Vanderhyde there?’

Gibson sat back in his chair. ‘Ah, now I see why you’re here. Well, I thought Uncle Matthew might appreciate the seedy glory of the Central. He was wild himself in years past.’

‘And maybe also you thought it might shock him?’

‘Nobody could shock Matthew Vanderhyde, Inspector.’ He smiled. ‘But perhaps you’re right. Yes, I’m sure there was an element of that. I knew damned fine that my father had asked him to talk to me. So I arranged to meet in the worst place I could think of.’

‘I could probably have helped find a few worse places than the Central.’

‘Me too, really. But the Central wa…well, central.’

‘And the two of you talked?’

‘He talked. I was supposed to listen. But when you’re with a blind man, Inspector, you don’t need to put up any pretence. No need for glazed eyes and all that. I think I read the paper, tried the crossword, watched the TV. It didn’t seem to matter to him. He was doing my father a favour, that was all.’

‘But pretty soon afterwards you put your “Black Aengus” days behind you.’

‘That’s true, yes. Maybe Uncle Matthew’s words had an effect after all.’

‘And after the meeting?’

‘We thought of having dinner together-not, I might add, in the Central. Filthiest kitchens I’ve ever seen. But I think I had a prior appointment with a young lady. Well, not that young, actually. Married, I seem to recall. Sometimes I miss those days. The media call me a reformed character. It’s an easy cliche, but damned hard to live up to.’

‘Your name never appeared on the official list of the Central’s customers that night.’

‘An oversight.’

‘One you could have corrected by coming forward.’

‘Giving yet more fuel to the newspapers.’

‘What if they found out now that you were there?’

‘Well, Inspector, that wouldn’t be fuel.’ Aengus Gibson’s eyes were warm and clear. ‘That would be an incendiary.’

‘Is there anything you can tell me about that night, sir?’

‘You seem to know all of it. I was in the bar with Matthew Vanderhyde. We left hours before the place caught fire.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Have you ever been on the hotel’s first floor, sir?’

‘What an extraordinary question. It was five years ago.’

‘A long time, certainly.’

‘And now the case is being reopened?’

‘In a way, sir, yes. We can’t give too many details.’

‘That’s all right, I’ll get my father to ask the Chief Constable. They’re good friends, you know.’

Rebus kept silent. There was no case. Nothing he could present to his superiors would cause them to reopen it. He knew he was in this all on his own, and for not very good reasons. There was a brisk tap at the door, and an older man came into the office. His face strongly resembled Aengus Gibson’s, but both face and body were much leaner. Ascetic was the word that came to mind. Broderick Gibson would rarely loosen his tight-knotted tie or undo the top button of his shirt. He wore a woollen V-neck below his suit jacket. Rebus had seen church elders like him. Their faces persuaded more guilt-money into the collection.

‘Sorry to butt in,’ Broderick Gibson said. ‘These need a look-over before tomorrow morning.’ He placed a folder on the desk.

‘Father, this is Inspector Rebus. Inspector, Broderick Gibson, my father.’

And the man who had started Gibson’s Brewing from his garden shed back in the 1950s. Rebus shook the firm hand.

‘No trouble I hope, Inspector?’

‘None at all, sir,’ replied Rebus.

Broderick Gibson turned to his son. ‘You haven’t forgotten that do tonight for the SSPCC?’

‘No, father. Eight o’clock?’

‘Damned if I can remember.’

‘I think it’s eight o’clock.’

‘You’re right, sir,’ said Rebus.

‘Oh?’ Aengus Gibson looked surprised. ‘Will you be there yourself?’

But Rebus shook his head. ‘I read a piece about it in the paper.’ He was so far below these people on the social ladder, he wondered if they could see him at all. As they’d climbed, they’d sawn off the rungs behind them. Rebus could only peer up into the clouds, catching a glimpse every now and then. But they all liked to be liked by the police. Which was probably why Broderick Gibson insisted on shaking Rebus’s hand again before leaving.

With his father gone, Aengus Gibson seemed to relax. ‘I’m sorry, I should have asked you before-would you like tea or coffee? I know you’re on duty, so I won’t ask if you’d like to try a beer.’

‘Actually, sir,’ said Rebus, glancing at the clock on the wall, ‘I finished work five minutes ago.’

Aengus Gibson laughed and went to a large cupboard which, when opened, revealed three bar-pumps and a gathering of sparkling pint and half-pint glasses. ‘The Dark is very good today,’ he said.

‘Dark’s fine, but just a half.’

‘A half of Dark it is.’

In fact, Rebus managed another half, this time of the pale ale. But it was the taste of the Dark that stayed