Black Book

with him as he drove back out through the brewery’s wrought-iron gates. Gibson’s Dark. The Gibsons, father and son, were dark, all right. You had to look beneath the surface to see it, but it was there. To the outside world, Aengus Gibson might be a changed man, but Rebus could see the young man was just barely in control of himself. He even wondered if Gibson might be on mood control drugs of some kind. He had spent some time in a private ‘nursing’ home-euphemism for psychiatric care. At least, that was the story Rebus had heard. He thought maybe he’d do a bit of digging, just to satisfy his curiosity. He was curious about one small detail in particular, one thing Aengus Gibson had said. He not only knew the kitchens of the Central Hotel were filthy-he’d seen them.

John Rebus found that very interesting indeed.

He returned to St Leonard’s and was relieved to find no sign of Lauderdale or Little Weed. He’d forgotten to visit Holmes, so telephoned the hospital instead. He knew how it went at the Infirmary; they could wheel a payphone to your bed.

‘Brian?’

‘Hello there. I’ve just had a visit from Nell.’ He sounded bright. Rebus hoped he wasn’t just getting her sympathy vote.

‘How is she?’

‘She’s okay. Any progress?’

Rebus thought about the past twenty-four hours. A lot of work. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no progress.’ He decided not to tell Holmes that Eddie Ringan was missing: he might worry himself back into relapse.

‘Are you thinking of giving up?’

‘I’ve got a lot on my plate, Brian, but no, I’m not giving up.’

‘Thanks.’

Rebus almost blurted out, It’s not just for you now, it’s for my brother too. Instead, he told Holmes to take care, and promised him a visit soon.

‘Better make it very soon, they’re letting me out tomorrow or the day after.’

‘That’s good.’

‘I don’t kno…there’s this nurse in her…’

‘Ach, away with ye!’ But Rebus remembered a nurse who had treated his scalp, a nurse he’d become too friendly with. That had been the start of the trouble with Patience. ‘Be careful,’ he ordered, putting down the phone.

His next call was to the local newspaper. He spoke to someone there for a few minutes, after which he tried calling Siobhan Clarke in Gorgie. But there was no answer. Obviously Dougary had clocked off for the day, and with him her surveillance. Well, it was time for Inspector Rebus to clock off too. On his way out, he heard the unmistakable brag of Alister Flower’s voice heading towards him. Rebus dodged into another office and waited for Flower and his underlings to pass. They hadn’t been talking about him, which was something. He felt only a little ashamed at hiding. Every good soldier knew when to hide.

17

Michael was up and about that evening, doing a fair imitation of a telly addict. He held the remote control like it was a pacemaker, and stared deeply at anything on the screen. Rebus began to wonder about the dosages he’d been taking. But there still seemed to be a fair number of tablets in the bottle.

He went out and bought fish suppers from the local chip shop. It wasn’t the best of stuff, but Rebus didn’t feel like driving the distance to anywhere better. He remembered the chip shop in their home town, where the fryer would spit into the fat to check how hot it was. Michael smiled at the story, but his eyes never left the TV. He pushed chips into his mouth, chewing slowly, picking batter off the fish and eating that before attacking the fatty white flesh.

‘Not bad chips,’ Rebus commented, pouring Irn-Bru for both of them. He was waiting for Patience’s phone call, giving the time and place for their meet. But whenever the phone did ring, it was for the students.

It rang for a fifth or sixth time, and Rebus picked up the receiver. ‘Edinburgh University answering service?’

‘It’s me,’ said Siobhan Clarke.

‘Oh, hello there.’

‘Don’t sound too excited.’

‘What can I do for you, Clarke?’

‘I wanted to apologise for this morning.’

‘Not entirely your fault.’

‘I should have told those boys who we really were. I’ve been going over it again and again in my head, what I should have done.’

‘Well, you won’t do it again.’

‘No, sir.’ She paused. ‘I heard you were carpeted.’

‘You mean by the Chief Inspector?’ Rebus smiled. ‘More like a fireside rug than a length of Wilton. How’s the window?’

‘Boarded up. The glass’ll be replaced overnight.’

‘Anything of interest today?’

‘You were there for it, sir. Petrie came back in the afternoon.’

‘Oh yes, how was he?’

‘Bandaged up like the Elephant Man.’

Rebus knew that if anyone had talked about the morning’s incident-and someone had-it must be Petrie. He’d little sympathy. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir. Goodnight.’

‘What was all that about?’ asked Michael.

‘Nothing.’

‘I thought that’s what you’d say. Is there any more Irn-Bru?’ Rebus passed him the bottle.

When Patience hadn’t phoned by ten, he gave up and started to concentrate on the TV. He had half a mind to leave the receiver off its cradle. The next call came ten minutes later. There was tremendous background noise, a party or a pub. A bad song was being badly sung nearby.

‘Turn that down a bit, Mickey.’ Michael hit the mute button, silencing a politician on the news. ‘Hello?’

‘Is that you, Mr Rebus?’

‘It’s me.’

‘Chick Muir here.’ Chick was one of Rebus’s contacts.

‘What is it, Chick?’ The song had come to an end, and Rebus heard clapping, laughter, and whistles.

‘That fellow you were wanting to see, he’s about twenty feet away from me with a treble whisky up at his nose.’

‘Thanks, Chick. I’ll be right there.’

‘Wait a second, don’t you want to know where I am?’

‘Don’t be stupid, Chick. I know where you are.’

Rebus put the receiver down and looked over at Mickey, who seemed to have fallen asleep. He switched off the television, and went to get his jacket.

It was a nap Chick Muir had been calling from the Bowery, a late-opening dive near the bottom of Easter Road. The pub had been called Finnegan’s until a year ago, when a new owner had come up with the ‘inspired’ change of name, because, as he explained, he wanted to see loads of bums on seats.

He got bums all right, some of whom wouldn’t have looked amiss in the original Bowery. He also got some students and perennial hard drinkers, partly because of the pub’s location but mostly because of the late licence. There had never been any trouble though, well, none to speak of. Half the drinkers in the Bowery feared the other half, who meantime were busy fearing them. Besides which, it was rumoured Big Ger gave round-the-clock insurance-for a price.