Black Book

Hendry’d be on it for hours.’

They walked to Tollcross, Siobhan insistent that she could do with some fresh air.

‘I thought you’d have had enough of that at the game.’

‘Are you joking? Fresh air? Between the smoking and the smells of dead beer and pie-greas…’

‘You’re putting me off my curry.’

‘I bet you’re the vindaloo type too.’

‘Strictly Madras,’ said Rebus.

During the meal, he reasoned that Siobhan might as well toddle off home afterwards. It wasn’t as if they could do anything tonight with the list of betting shops. And tomorrow the shops would be closed. But Siobhan wanted to stick around at least until Hendry phoned.

‘We haven’t covered all the files yet,’ she argued.

‘True enough,’ said Rebus. After the meal, while Siobhan drank a cup of coffee Rebus ordered some takeaway for Michael.

‘Is he all right?’ Siobhan asked.

‘He’s getting better,’ Rebus insisted. ‘Those pills are nearly finished. He’ll be fine once he’s shot of them.’

As if to prove the point, when they got back to the flat Michael was in the kitchen, dunking a teabag in a mug of hot milky water. He looked like he’d just had a shower. He’d also shaved.

‘I fetched you a curry,’ Rebus said.

‘You must be a mind reader.’ Michael sniffed into the brown paper bag. ‘Rogan Josh?’ Rebus nodded and turned to Siobhan. ‘Michael is the city’s Rogan Josh expert.’

‘There was a call while you were out.’ Michael lifted the cardboard containers out of the bag.

‘Hendry?’

‘That was the name.’

‘Did he leave a message?’

Michael unpeeled both cartons, meat and rice. ‘He said you should get a pen and a lot of paper ready.’

Rebus smiled at Siobhan. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s save Hendry’s phone bill.’

‘I’m glad you phoned back,’ were Hendry’s first words. ‘For one thing, I’m due at an indoor bowls tourney in half an hour. For another, this is a big list.’

‘So let’s have it,’ said Rebus.

‘I could fax it to you at the station?’

‘No you couldn’t, I’m out of the game.’

‘I hadn’t heard.’

‘Funny, that; you hear about my love life fast enough. Ready when you are.’

As Hendry reeled off the names, addresses and phone numbers, Rebus relayed them to Siobhan. She claimed to be a fast writer, so was given the job of transcribing. But after ten minutes they switched over, her hand being sore. The final list covered three sides of A4. As well as the basic information, Hendry dropped in snippets of his own, such as licensing wrangles, suspected handling of stolen goods, hangouts for ne’er-do-wells and the like. Rebus was grateful for all of it.

‘A fine institution, the bookie’s,’ he commented, when Siobhan handed him the receiver.

‘You bet,’ said Hendry. ‘Can I go now?’

‘Sure, and thanks for everything.’

‘So long as it helps you get back in the game. We need all the fly-halfs we can get. Those two names didn’t click with me, by the way. And Rebus?’

‘What?’

‘She sounds a right wee smasher.’

Hendry severed the connection before Rebus could explain. When it came to gossip, Hendry was a regular sweetie-wife. Rebus dreaded to think what stories he’d be hearing about himself in the next week or two.

‘What was he saying?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Nothing.’

She’d been running through the list for herself. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘no names there that mean anything to me.’ Rebus took the list from her. ‘Me neither.’

‘Next stop Fife?’

‘For me, yes. On Monday, I suppose.’ Except that on Monday he’d to report to Chief Superintendent Watson and attend Eddie Ringan’s funeral. ‘You,’ he said, ‘are going to be busy shoring up our side of Operation Moneybags.’

‘Oh, I thought I might go to the funeral. That’d give us the excuse for a couple of hours’ work in Fife.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I appreciate the thought, but you’re still on the force. I’m the one with time for this sort of legwork.’ She looked bitterly disappointed. ‘And that’s an order,’ Rebus told her.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Siobhan.

27

The thought of another interminable Sunday bothered Rebus so much that, after attending Mass, he drove across the Forth Road Bridge back into Fife.

He’d been to Our Lady of Perpetual Hell, sitting at the back, watching and wondering if the priest who led the worship was his priest. The accent was Scots-Irish; hard to tell. His priest had spoken quietly, while this one belted everything out at the top of his voice. Maybe some of the congregation were deaf. But at least there were a fair number of young folk in attendance. He was almost alone in not accepting communion.

West-central Fife could use a spot of communion itself. It would drink the wine and pawn the chalice. He decided to leave Dunfermline till last; it was the biggest town with the most locations. He’d start small. He couldn’t recall whether it was quicker to get to Ballingry by coming off the motorway at Kinross, but certainly it was a much bonnier drive. He was tempted to stop at Loch Leven, site of many a childhood picnic and game of football. He still had a lump below his knee where Michael had kicked him once. The narrow, meandering roads were busy with Sunday drivers, their cars polished like medals. There was half a chance Hendry would be at the Loch Leven bird sanctuary, but Rebus didn’t stop. Soon enough he was in the glummer confines of Ballingry. He didn’t loiter longer than he needed to.

He wasn’t sure what this trip was supposed to accomplish. All the betting shops would be tight shut. Maybe he’d find someone he could gossip with about this or that bookie’s, but he doubted it. He knew what he was doing. He was killing time, and this was a good place for it. At least here there was the illusion that he was doing something constructive about the case. So he parked outside the closed shop and constructively marked a tick against the address on his three-page list.

Of course, there was one more reason for his early rise this morning and his early exit from the house. In the car with him he had the Sunday paper. The Central Hotel story had stuck tenaciously to the front page, now with the headline CENTRAL MURDER BLAZE: GUN FOUND. Once Watson and co. saw it, they’d be on the phone to each other and, naturally, to John Rebus. But for once the students would have to field his calls. He’d read the story through twice to himself, knowing every word by heart. He was hoping that somewhere somebody was reading it and starting to panic …

Next stops: Lochore, Lochgelly, Cardenden. Rebus had been born and raised in Cardenden. Well, Bowhill actually, back when there had been tour parishes: Auchterderran, Bowhill, Cardenden, and Dundonald. The ABCD, people called it. Then the post office had termed it all the one town, Cardenden. It wasn’t so very much changed from the place Rebus had known. He stopped the car at the cemetery and spent a few minutes by the grave of his father and mother. A woman in her forties placed some flowers against a headstone nearby and smiled at Rebus as she passed him. When Rebus got back to the cemetery gates, she was waiting there.