Black Book

Watson wanted to see him straight away, as in ten minutes ago. Rebus checked that there were no messages for him, and called Siobhan Clarke in Gorgie to make sure the new window had been fitted.

‘It’s perfect,’ she told him. ‘It’s got white gunk on it, window polish or something. We just didn’t bother wiping it off. We can take shots through it, but from the outside it just looks like a new window that’s waiting to be cleaned.’

‘Fine,’ said Rebus. He wanted to make sure he was up to date. If. Watson intended to carpet him over yesterday, it would be considerably more than Lauderdale’s fireside rug.

But Rebus had got it way wrong.

‘What the hell are you up to?’ Watson looked like he’d run a half-marathon gobbling down chilli peppers all the way. His breathing was raspy, his cheeks a dark cherry colour. If he walked into a hospital, they’d have him whisked to emergency on a two-man stretcher.

No, better make that a four-man.

‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’

Watson fairly pounded the desk with his fist. A pencil dropped onto the floor. ‘You’re not sure what I mean!’ Rebus moved forward to pick up the pencil.

‘Leave it! Just sit down.’ Rebus went to sit. ‘No, better yet, keep standing.’ Rebus stood up. ‘Now, just tell me why.’ Rebus remembered a science teacher at his secondary school, a man with an evil temper who had spoken to the teenage Rebus just like this. ‘Just tell me why.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go on then.’

‘With respect, sir, why what?’

The words came out through gritted teeth. ‘Why you’ve seen fit to start pestering Broderick Gibson.’

‘With respect, sir — ’

‘Stop all that with respect“ shite! Just give me an answer.’

‘I’m not pestering Broderick Gibson, sir.’

‘Then what are you doing, wooing him? The Chief Constable phoned me this morning in absolute fucking apoplexy!’ Watson, being a Christian of no mean persuasion, didn’t swear often. It was a bad sign.

Rebus saw it all. The bash for the SSPCC. Yes, and Broderick Gibson collaring his friend the Chief Constable. One of your minions has been on to me, what’s it all about? The Chief Constable not knowing anything about it, stuttering and spluttering and saying he’d get to the bottom of it. Just give me the officer’s nam…

‘It’s his son I’m interested in, sir.’

‘But you looked both of them up on the computer this morning.’ Ah, so someone had taken notice of his early shift. ‘Yes, I did, but I was really only interested in Aengus.’

‘You still haven’t explained why.’

‘No, sir, well, it’s a bi…nebulous.’

Watson frowned. ‘Nebulous? When’s the graduation party?’ Rebus didn’t get it. ‘Since you’ve obviously,’ Watson was happy to explain, ‘just got your astronomy degree!’ He poured himself coffee from the machine on the floor, offering none to Rebus who could just use a cup.

‘It was the word that came to mind, sir,’ he said.

‘I can think of a few words too, Rebus. Your mother wouldn’t like to hear them.’

No, thought Rebus, and yours would wash your mouth out with soap.

The Chief Super slurped his coffee. They didn’t call him ‘Farmer’ for nothing; he had many ways and predilections that could only be described as agricultural.

‘But before I say any of them,’ he went on, ‘I’m a generous enough man to say that I’ll listen to your explanation. Just make it bloody convincing.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Rebus. How could he make any of it sound convincing? He supposed he’d have to try.

So he tried, and halfway through Watson even told him he could sit if he liked. At the end of fifteen minutes, Rebus placed his hands out in front of him, palms up, as if to say: that’s all, folks.

Watson poured another cup of coffee and placed it on the desk in front of Rebus.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Rebus gulped it down black.

‘John, have you ever thought you might be paranoid?’

‘All the time, sir. Show me two men shaking hands and I’ll show you a Masonic conspiracy.’

Watson almost smiled, before recalling that this was no joking matter. ‘Look, let me put it like this. What you’ve got so far i…well, it’…’

‘Nebulous, sir?’

‘Piss and wind,’ corrected Watson. ‘Somebody died five years ago. Was it anyone important? Obviously not, or we’d know who they were by now. So we assume it was somebody the world had hardly known and was happy to forget. No grieving widow or weans, no family asking questions.’

‘You’re saying let it die, sir? Let somebody get away with murder?’

Watson looked exasperated. ‘I’m saying we’re stretched as it is.’

‘All Brian Holmes did was ask a few questions. Somebody brained him for it. I take over, my flat’s invaded and my brother half scared to death.’

‘My point exactly, it’s all become personal. You can’t allow that to happen. Look at the other stuff on your plate. Operation Moneybags for a start, and I’m sure there’s more besides.’

‘You’re asking me to drop it, sir? Might I ask if you’re under any personal pressure?’

There was personal pressure aplenty as Watson’s blood rose, his face purpling. ‘Now wait just one second, that’s not the sort of comment I can tolerate.’

‘No, sir. Sorry, sir.’ But Rebus had made his point. The clever soldier knows when to duck. Rebus had taken his shot, and now he was ducking.

‘I should think so,’ said Watson, wriggling in his chair as though his trousers were lined with scouring-pads. ‘Now here’s what I think. I think that if you can bring me something concrete, the dead man’s identity perhaps, within twenty-four hours, then we’ll reopen the case. Otherwise, I want the whole thing dropped until such time as new evidence does come forward.’

‘Fair enough, sir,’ said Rebus. It wasn’t much good arguing the point. Maybe twenty-four hours would be enough. And maybe Charlie Ch’an had a clan tartan. ‘Thanks for the coffee, much appreciated.’

When Watson started to make his joke about feeling ‘full of beans’, Rebus made his excuses and left.

19

He was seated at his desk, glumly examining all the dead ends in the case, when he happened to catch word of an ‘altercation’ at a house in Broughton. He caught the address, but it took a few seconds for it to register with him. Minutes later, he was in his car heading into the east end of town. The traffic was its usual self, with agonisingly slow pockets at the major junctions. Rebus blamed the traffic lights. Why couldn’t they just do away with them and let the pedestrians take their chances? No, there’d only be more hold-ups, what with all the ambulances they’d need to ferry away the injured and the dead.

Still, why was he hurrying? He thought he knew what he was going to find. He was wrong. (It was turning out to be one of those weeks.) A police car and an ambulance sat outside Mrs MacKenzie’s two-storey house, and the neighbours were out in a show of conspicuous curiosity. Even the kids across the road were interested. It must be a break-time, and some of them pushed their heads between the vertical iron bars and stared open-mouthed at the brightly marked vehicles.

Rebus thought about those railings. Their intention was to keep the kids in, keep them safe. But could they keep anybody out?

Rebus flashed his ID at the constable on door duty and entered Mrs MacKenzie’s house. She was wailing loudly, so that Rebus started to think of murder. A WPC comforted her, while trying to have a conversation with her own over-amplified shoulder radio. The WPC saw Rebus.