Black Book

kicking off his trunks, mooning mightily at Rebus as he did so.

Morag Johnson. Yes, of course. Rebus would bet that not many people tried the ‘Mo Johnson’ gag in front of Big Ger. But that’s where he’d heard the name before. The woman into whose flat Aengus Gibson had trespassed had soon afterwards married Big Ger Cafferty. So soon after, in fact, that they must have been going out together at the time the break-in had occurred.

Rebus had his link between Aengus Gibson, the Bru-Head Brothers and Big Ger.

Now all he had to do was figure out what the hell it meant.

He rose from his chair, eliciting a low growl from the devil dog. Slowly and quietly he made for the door, knowing all Big Ger had to do was call from the shower, and Kaiser would be on Rebus faster than piss on a lamp post. As he made his exit, he was remembering those scenarios for his painful execution, so lovingly described by Big Ger.

John Rebus was once again grateful he didn’t yet have the gun.

But there was something else. The way Big Ger had seemed surprised when told about Holmes. As if he really hadn’t known about it. Added to which how keen he’d been to find out if Holmes had had any success tracking down Tam and Eck Roberston.

Rebus drove away with more mysteries than answers. But one question he was sure had been answered: Cafferty had been behind Michael’s abduction. He was certain of it now.

21

‘You can’t have,’ said Siobhan Clarke.

‘And yet I have,’ said Peter Petrie. He had run out of film. Plenty of spare batteries. Of batteries there were plenty. But film was there none. It was first thing Thursday morning, and the last thing Clarke needed. ‘So you’d better go and fetch some pronto.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because I am in pain.’ This was true. He was on painkillers for his nose, and had complained about nothing else all day yesterday. So much so that the maddening Madden had lost all sense of good fun and bad puns and had told Petrie to ‘shut the fuck up’. Now they weren’t talking. Siobhan wondered if it was a good idea to leave them alone.

‘It’s special film,’ Petrie was telling her. He rummaged in the camera case and came out with an empty film- box, the flap of which he tore off and handed to her. ‘This is the stuff.’

‘This,’ she said to him, grabbing the scrap of card, ‘is a pain in the arse.’

‘Try Pyle’s,’ said Madden.

She turned on him. ‘Are you being funny?’

‘It’s the name of a camera shop on Morrison Street.’

‘That’s miles away!’

‘Take your car,’ Petrie suggested.

Siobhan grabbed her bag. ‘Stuff that, I’ll find somewhere before Morrison Street.’

However, after ten filmless minutes she began to realise that there was no great demand for special high- speed film in Gorgie Road. It wasn’t as if you needed high-speed to take a photo of Hearts in action. She consoled herself with this thought and resigned herself to the walk to Morrison Street. Maybe she could catch a bus back.

She saw that she was nearing the Heartbreak Cafe, and crossed the road to look at it. It had looked closed yesterday when she drove past, and there was a sign in the window. She read now that the place was closed ‘due to convalescence’. Strange, though, the door was open a couple of inches. And was there a funny smell, a smell like gas? She pushed the door open and peered in.

‘Hello?’

Yes, definitely gas, and there was no one around. A woman on the street stopped to watch.

‘Awfy smell o’ gas, hen.’

Siobhan nodded and walked into the Heartbreak Cafe.

Without its lights on, and with little natural light, the place was all darkness and shadows. But the last thing she planned to do was flick an electric switch. She could see chinks of light through the kitchen door, and made towards it. Yes, there were windows in the kitchen, and the smell was much stronger here. She could hear the unmistakable hiss of escaping gas. With a hankie stuffed to her nose, she made for the emergency exit, and pushed at the bar which should release it. But the thing was sticking, or els…She gave a mighty heave and the door grunted open an inch. Dustbins were being stored right against it on the outside. Fresh air started trickling in, the welcome smells of traffic exhaust and beer hops.

Now she had to find whichever cooker had been left on. Only as she turned did she see the legs and body which were lying on the floor, the head hidden inside a huge oven. She walked over and turned off the gas, then peered down. The body lay on its side, dressed in black and white check trousers and a white chef’s jacket. She didn’t recognise the man from his face, but the elaborately stitched name on his left breast made identification easy.

It was Eddie Ringan.

The place was still choking with gas, so she walked back to the emergency door and gave it another heave. This time it opened most of the way, scattering clanking dustbins onto the ground outside. It was then that a curious passer-by pushed open the door from the restaurant to the kitchen. His hand went to the light-switch.

‘Don’t touch tha-!’

There was a tremendous blast and fireball. The shock sent Siobhan Clarke flying backwards into the parking lot, where her landing was softened by the rubbish she’d scattered only seconds earlier. She didn’t even suffer the same minor burns as the hapless passer-by, who went crashing back into the restaurant pursued by a blue ball of flame. But Eddie Ringan, well, he looked like he’d been done to a turn inside an oven which wasn’t even hot.

By the time Rebus got there, aching after last night’s exertions, the scene was one of immaculate chaos. Pat Calder had arrived in time to see his lover being carted away in a blue plastic bag. The bag was deemed necessary to stop bits of charred face breaking off and messing up the floor. The bagging itself had been overseen by a police doctor, but Rebus knew where Eddie would eventually end up: under the all-seeing scalpel of Dr Curt.

‘All right, Clarke?’

Rebus affected the usual inspectorial nonchalance, hands in pockets and an air of having seen it all before.

‘Apart from my coccyx, sir.’ And she gave the bone a rub for luck. ‘What happened?’

So she filled in the details, all the way from having no film (yes, why not drop Petrie in it?) to the passer-by who had nearly killed her. He had been seen to by the doctor too: frizzled eyebrows and lashes, some bruising from the fall. Rebus’s scalp tingled at the thought. There was no smell of gas in the kitchen now. But there was a smell of cooked meat, almost inviting till you remembered its source.

Calder was seated at the bar, watching the world move past him in and out of the dream he had built with Eddie Ringan. Rebus sat down beside him, glad to take the weight off his legs.

‘Those nightmares,’ Calder said immediately, ‘looks like he made them come true, eh?’

‘Looks like it. Any idea why he’d kill himself?’

Calder shook his head. He was bearing up, but only just. ‘I suppose it all got too much for him.’

‘All what?’

Calder continued shaking his head. ‘Perhaps we’ll never know.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ Rebus said, trying not to make it sound like a threat. He must have failed, for suddenly Calder turned towards him. ‘Can’t you let it rest?’ The pale eyes were glistening.

‘No rest for the wicked, Mr Calder,’ said Rebus. He slid off the barstool and went back into the kitchen. Siobhan was standing beside a shelf filled with basic cookery books.

‘Most chefs,’ she said, ‘would rather die than keep this lot out on display.’

‘He wasn’t any ordinary chef.’

‘Look at this one.’ It was a school jotter, with ruled red lines about half an inch apart and an inch-wide