Black Book

calling up on the computer.

Not that there was much on Aengus Grahame Fairmile Gibson. Public drunkenness mostly, usually with associated high jinks. Knocking the policeman’s helmet off seemed to be a game enjoyed by youthful Gibson and his cronies. Other indiscretions included kerb-crawling in a part of town not renowned for its prostitutes, and an attempt to enter a friend’s flat by the window (the key having been lost) which landed him in the wrong flat.

But it all came to a stop five years ago. From then till now, Gibson had received not so much as a parking ticket or a speeding fine. So much for his police files. Rebus punched in Broderick Gibson, too, not expecting anything. His expectations were fulfilled. The elder Gibson’s ‘youthful indiscretions’ would be the stuff of musty old files in an annexe somewhere-always supposing there were any to begin with. Rebus had the feeling that anyone associated with Scottish Sword & Shield would probably have been arrested for disorderly conduct or breach of the peace at some point in their career. The possible exception, perhaps, being Matthew Vanderhyde.

He made a phone call to check that the meeting he’d arranged yesterday was still on, then switched off the computer and headed out of the building, just as a bleary Chief Superintendent Watson was coming in.

He waited in the newspaper office’s public area, flipping through the past week’s editions. A few early punters came in with Spot the Ball coupons or the like, and a few more hopefuls were checking copy with the people on the classified ads desk.

‘Inspector Rebus.’ She’d come from behind the main desk, where a stern security man had been keeping a watchful eye on Rebus. She was already wearing her raincoat, so there was to be no tour of the premises today, though she’d been promising him for weeks.

Her name was Mairie Henderson and she was in her early twenties. Rebus had come up against her when she was compiling a postmortem feature on the Gregor Jack case. Rebus had just wanted to forget about the whole ugly episode, but she’d been persisten…and persuasive. She was just out of college, where she’d won awards for her student journalism and for pieces she’d contributed to the daily and weekly press. She hadn’t yet forgotten how to be hungry; Rebus liked that. ’

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’m starving. I’ll buy you breakfast.’

So they went to a little cafe bakery on South Bridge, where there were difficult choices to be made. Was it too early for pies and bridies? Too early for a fruit scone? Well then, they’d be like everyone else and settle for sliced sausage, black pudding and fried eggs.

‘No haggis or dumpling?’ Mairie was so imploring, the woman at the counter went off to ask the chef. Which made Rebus make a mental note to phone Pat Calder sometime today. But there was no haggis or dumpling, not even for ready money. So they took their trays to the cash till, where Mantle insisted on paying.

‘After all, you’re going to give me the story of the decade.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘One of these days you will, trust me.’

They squeezed into a booth and she reached for the brown sauce, then for the ketchup. ‘I can never decide between the two. Shame about the fried dumpling, that’s my favourite.’

She was about five feet five inches and had about as much fat on her as a rabbit in a butcher’s window. Rebus looked down at his fry-up and suddenly didn’t feel very hungry. He sipped the weak coffee.

‘So what’s it all about?’ she asked, having made a good start into the food on her plate.

‘You tell me.’

She waved a no-no with her knife. ‘Not till you tell me why you want to know.’

‘That’s not the way the game’s played.’

‘We’ll change the rules, then.’ She scooped up some egg-white with her fork. She had her coat wrapped tight around her, though it was steamy in the cafe. Good legs too; Rebus missed seeing her legs. He blew on the coffee, then sipped again. She’d be willing to wait all day for him to say something.

‘Remember the fire at the Central Hotel?’ he said at last.

‘I was still at school.’

‘A body turned up in the ruins.’ She nodded encouragement. ‘Well, maybe there’s new evidenc…no, not new evidence. It’s just that some things have been happening, and I think they’ve got something to do with that fire and that shooting.’

‘This isn’t an official investigation, then?’

‘Not yet.’

‘And there’s no story?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Nothing that wouldn’t get you pasted in a libel court.’

‘I could live with that, if the story was good enough.’

‘It isn’t, not yet.’

She began mopping-up operations with a triangle of buttered bread. ‘So let me get this straight: you’re on your own looking into a fire from five years ago?’

A fire which turned one man to drink, he could have said, and led another to the path of self-righteousness. But all he did was nod.

‘And what’s Gibson got to do with it?’

‘Strictly between us, he was there that night. Yet he was kept off the list of the hotel’s customers.’

‘His father pulled some strings?’

‘Could be.’

‘Well, that’s already a story.’

‘I’ve nothing to back it up.’ This was a lie, there was always Vanderhyde; but he wasn’t going to tell her that. He didn’t want her getting ideas. The way she was staring, she was getting plenty of those anyway.

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing,’ he repeated.

‘Well, I don’t know that this will help.’ She opened her coat and pulled out the file which she’d been hiding, tucked down the front of her fashion-cut denims. He accepted the file from her, looking around the cafe. Nobody seemed to be paying attention.

‘A bit cloak and dagger,’ he told her. She shrugged.

‘So I’ve seen too many films.’

Rebus opened the file. It bore no title, but inside were cuttings and ‘spiked’ stories concerning Aengus Gibson.

‘Those are only from five years ago to the present. There isn’t much, mostly charity work, giving to good causes. A little bit about the brewery’s rising image and ditto profits.’

He glanced through the stuff. It was worthless. ‘I was hoping to find out something about him from just after the fire.’

Mairie nodded. ‘So you said on the phone. That’s why I talked to a few people, including our chief sub. He says Gibson went into a psychiatric hospital. Nervous breakdown was the word.’

‘Were the words,’ corrected Rebus.

‘Depends,’ she said cryptically. Then: ‘He was there the best part of three months. There was never a story, the father kept it out of the papers. When Aengus reappeared, that’s when he started working in the business, and that’s when he started all the do-gooding.’

‘Shouldn’t that be good-doing?’

She smiled. ‘Depends,’ she said. Then, of the file, ‘It’s not much, is it?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘I thought not. Still, it’s all there was.’

‘What about your chief sub? Would he be able to say exactly when Gibson went into that hospital?’

‘I don’t know. No harm in asking. Do you want me to?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘All right then. And one more question.’

‘Yes?’

‘Aren’t you going to eat any of that?’

Rebus pushed his plate across to her and watched her take her fill.

When he got back to St Leonard’s, there was a call from the Chief Super’s office. Chief Superintendent