Black Book

driven the butcher’s van for his cousin.’

‘What, full time?’

‘Yes. Up until about a year ago.’

‘I didn’t know Bone’s had a van. That’ll be the next to go.’

‘Sir?’

‘The van. Smash the shop window, and if that doesn’t work, torch the van.’

‘You’re saying it’s all about protection?’

‘Maybe protection, more likely money owing on bad bets. What do you think?’

‘Well, I did raise that possibility with Kintoul.’

‘And?’

‘He laughed.’

‘That’s strong language coming from him.’

‘Agreed, he’s not exactly the emotional type.’

‘So it’s not betting money. I’ll have another think.’

‘His son came in while we were talking.’

‘Refresh my memory.’

‘Seventeen and unemployed, name’s Jason. When Kintoul told him I was CID, the son looked worried.’

‘A natural reaction in a teenager on the dole. They think we’re press-ganging these days.’

‘There was more to it than that.’

‘How much more?’

‘I don’t know. Could be the usual, drugs and gangs.’

‘We’ll see if he’s got a record. How’s Moneybags?’

‘Frankly, I’d rather be sewing mailbags.’

Rebus smiled. ‘All part of the learning curve, Clarke,’ he said, putting down the phone.

Somehow yesterday he’d forgotten to ask Pat Calder about the message on the inside of the recipe book. He didn’t like to think it had been jostled from his mind by Maine’s legs or the sight of all those Elvises. Rebus had checked before leaving the station. Jason Kintoul was not on the files. Somehow the gun beneath the driver’s seat helped keep Rebus’s mind sharp. The drive to the Colonies didn’t take long.

Pat Calder seemed quite shocked to see him.

‘Morning,’ said Rebus. ‘Thought I’d find you at home.’

‘Come in, Inspector.’

Rebus went in. The living room was much less tidy than on hi previous visit, and he began to wonder which,of the couple had been the tidier. Certainly, Eddie Ringan looked and acted like a slob, but you couldn’t always tell.

‘Sorry for the mess.’

‘Well, you’ve got a lot on your mind just now.’ The place was stuffy, with that heavy male smell you got sometimes in shared flats and locker-rooms. But usually it took more than one person to create it. Rebus began to wonder about the lean young bartender who’d accompanied Calder to the mortuar.

‘I’ve just been arranging the funeral,’ Pat Calder was saying. ‘It’s on Monday. They asked if it would be family and friends. I had to tell the Eddie didn’t have any family.’

‘He had good friends, though.’

Calder smiled. ‘Thank you, Inspector. Thank you for that. Was there something in particula…?’

‘It was just something we found at the scene.’

‘Oh?’

‘A sort of a message. It said, “I only turned on the gas”.’

Calder froze. ‘Christ, it was suicide, then?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘It wasn’t that kind of note. We found it on the inside of a school jotter.’

‘Eddie’s recipe book?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wondered where that had got to.’

‘The message had been heavily scored out. I took it away for analysis. ‘Maybe it’s something to do with the nightmares.’

‘That’s just what I was thinking. Depends what he was dreaming about, though, doesn’t it? Nightmares can be about things you fear, or things you’ve done.’

‘I’m no psychologist.’

‘Me neither,’ Rebus admitted. ‘I take it Eddie had keys to the restaurant?’

‘Yes.’

‘We didn’t find any on his body. Did you come across them when you were packing things up?’

‘I don’t think so. But how did he get in without keys?’

‘You should be in CID, Mr Calder. That’s what I’ve been wondering.’ Rebus got up from the sofa. ‘Well, sorry I had to come by.’

‘Oh, that’s all right. Can you tell Brian about the funeral arrangements? Warriston Cemetery at two o’clock.’

‘Monday at two, I’ll tell him. Oh, one last thing. You keep a record of table bookings, don’t you?’

Calder seemed puzzled. ‘Of course.’

‘Only, I’d like to take a look. There might be some names there that don’t mean anything to you but might mean something to a policeman.’ Calder nodded. ‘I see what you’re getting at. I’ll drop it into the station. I’m going to the Heartbreak at lunchtime, I’ll pick it up then.’

‘Still clearing stuff away?’

‘No, it’s a potential buyer. One of the pizza restaurants is looking to expan…’

Whatever it was Pat Calder was hiding, he was doing only a fair job. But Rebus really didn’t have the heart to start digging. There was way too much for him to worry about as it was. Starting with the gun. He’d sat with it in his car last night, his finger on the trigger. Just the way his instructor had taught him back in the Army: firm, but not tense. Like it was an erection, one you wanted to sustain.

He had been thinking too of goodies and baddies. If you thought bad things-dreams of cruelty and lust-that didn’t make you bad. But if your head was full of civilised thoughts and you spent all day as a torture…It came down to the fact that you were judged by your actions in society, not by the inside of your head. So he’d no reason to feel bad about thinking grim and bloody thoughts. Not unless he turned thoughts into deeds. Yet going beyond thought would feel so good. More than that, it would feel right.

He stopped his car at the first church he came to. He hadn’t attended any kind of worship for several months, always managing to make excuses and promises to himself that he’d try harder. It was just that Patience had made Sunday mornings so good.

Someone had been busy with a marker-pen on the wooden signboard in the churchyard, turning ‘Our Lady of Perpetual Help’ into ‘Our Lady of Perpetual Hell’. Not the greatest of omens, but Rebus went inside anyway. He sat in a pew for a while. There weren’t many souls in there with him. He had picked up a prayer book on the way in, and stared long and hard at its unjudgmental black cover, wondering why it made him feel so guilty. Eventually, a woman left the confessional, pulling up her headscarf. Rebus stood up and made himself enter the small box. He sat there in silence for a minute, trying to think what it was you were supposed to say.

‘Forgive me, father, I’m about to sin.’

‘We’ll see about that, son,’ came a gruff Irish voice from the other side of the grille. There was such assurance in the voice, Rebus almost smiled.

Instead he said, ‘I’m not even a Catholic.’

‘I’m sure that’s true. But you’re a Christian?’

‘I suppose so. I used to go to church.’

‘Do you believe?’

‘I can’t not believe.’ He didn’t add how hard he’d tried. ‘Then tell me your problem.’

‘Someone’s been threatening me, my friends and family.’

‘Have you gone to the police?’

‘I am the police.’