‘He wouldn’t say. All he did say was, he hoped you’ll think it was worth it, though he himself doubts it.’ Vanderhyde paused. ‘Of course, I was curious enough to study it in my own particular way. It’s a book of some kind.’ Rebus accepted the heavy folder, and Vanderhyde took his own hand away, finding his walking-stick and resting the hand there. ‘Some keys were found on Aengus. They didn’t seem to match any known lock. Last night, Broderick found some bank statements detailing monthly payments to an estate office. He knows the head of the office, so he phoned him. Aengus, it seems, had been leasing a flat in Blair Street.’
Rebus knew it, a narrow passage between the High Street and the Cowgate, balanced precariously between respectability and low living. ‘Nobody knew about it?’
Vanderhyde shook his head. ‘It was his little den, Inspector. A real rat’s nest, according to Broderick. Mouldering food and empty bottles, pornographic video…’
‘A regular bachelor pad.’
Vanderhyde ignored his levity. ‘This book was found there.’
Rebus had already opened the folder. Inside was a large ring-bound notebook. It bore no title, but its narrow lines were filled with writing. A few sentences told Rebus what it was: Aengus Gibson’s journal.
32
Rebus sat at his desk reading. Nobody bothered him, despite the fact that he was supposed to be suspended. The day grew sunless, and the office emptied slowly. He might as well have been in solitary confinement for all the notice he took. His phone was off its hook and his head, bowed over the journal, was hidden by his hands; a clear sign that he did not want to be disturbed.
He read the journal quickly first time through. After all, only some of the pages were germane. The early entries were full of wild parties, illicit coitus in country mansions with married women who were still ‘names’ even today, and more often with the daughters of those women. Arguments with father and mother, usually over money. Money. There was a lot of money in these early entries, money spent on travel, cars, champagne, clothes. However, the journal itself opened quite strangely:
Sometimes, mostly when I’m alone, but occasionally in company, I catch a glimpse of someone from the corner of my eye. Or think I do. When I look properly, there’s nobody there. There may be some shape there, some interesting, unconscious arrangement of the edge of an open door and the window frame beyond it, or whatever, which gives the hint of a human shape. I mention the door and the window frame because it is the most recent example.
I am becoming convinced, however, that I really am seeing things. And what I am seeing-being shown, to be more accurate-is myself. That other part of me. I went to church when I was a child, and believed in ghosts. I still believe in ghosts …
Rebus skipped to the start of the next entry:
I can write this journal safe in the knowledge that whoever is reading it-yes you, dear reader-does so after my death. Nobody knows it is here, and since I have no friends, no confidants or confidantes, it is unlikely that anyone will sneak a look at it. A burglar may carry it off, of course. If so, shame on you: it is the least valuable thing in this flat, though it may become more valuable the longer I write …
There were huge gaps in the chronology. A single year might garner half a dozen dated entries. Black Aengus, it seemed, was no more regular in keeping a diary than he was in anything else. Five years ago, though, there had been a spate of entries. The accidental break-in at Mo Johnson’s flat; Aengus becoming friendly with Mo and being introduced by her to a certain Morris Cafferty. After a while, Cafferty became simply ‘Big Ger’ as Aengus and he met at parties and in pubs and clubs.
By far the longest entry, however, belonged to the one day Rebus was really interested in:
This isn’t a bad place really. The nursing staff are understanding and ready with jokes and stories. They carry me with all gentleness back to my room when I find I’ve wandered from it. The corridors are long and mazey. I thought I saw a tree once in one corridor, but it was a painting on the window. A nurse placed my hand on the cold glass so I could be sure in my mind.
Like the rest of them, she refused to smuggle in any vodka.
From my window I can see a squirrel-a red squirrel, I think-leaping between trees, and beyond that hills covered with stunted foliage, like a bad school haircut.
But I’m not really seeing this pastoral scene. I’m looking into a room, a room where I think I’ll be spending a great deal of my time, even after I’ve left this hospital.
Why did I ever try to talk my father into going to the poker game? I know the answer now. Because Cafferty wanted him there. And father was keen enough-there’s still a spark in him, a spark of the wildness that has been his legacy to me. But he couldn’t come. Had he been there, I wonder if things would have turned out differently.
I met Uncle Matthew in the bar. God, what a bore. He thinks that because he has dabbled with demons and the hobgoblins of nationalism he has some import in the world. I could have told him, men like Cafferty have import. They are the hidden movers and shakers, the deal-makers. Simply, they get things done. And God, what things!
Tam Robertson suggested that I join the poker game which was happening upstairs. The stake money required was not high, and I knew I could always nip over to Blair Street for more cash if needed. Of course, I knew Tam Robertson’s reputation. He dealt cards in a strange manner, elbow jutting out and up. Though I couldn’t fathom how, some people reckoned he was able to see the underside of the cards as he dealt. His brother, Eck, explained it away by saying Tam had broken his arm as a young man. Well, I’m no card sharp, and I expected to lose a few quid, but I was sure I’d know if anyone tried to cheat me.
But then the other two players arrived, and I knew I would not be cheated. One was Cafferty. He was with a man called Jimmy Bone, a butcher by trade. He looked like a butcher, too-puffy-faced, red-cheeked, with fingers as fat as link sausages. He had a just-scrubbed look too. You often get that with butchers, surgeons, workers in the slaughterhouse. They like to look cleaner than clean.
Now that I think of it, Cafferty looked like that too. And Eck. And Tam. Tam was always rubbing his hands, giving off an aroma of lemon soap. Or he would examine his fingernails and pick beneath them. To look at his clothes, you would never guess, but he was pathologically hygienic. I realise now-blessed hindsight! — that the Robertson brothers were not pleased to see Cafferty. Nor did the butcher look happy at having been cajoled into playing. He kept complaining that he owed too much as it was, but Cafferty wouldn’t hear of it.
The butcher was a dreadful poker player. He mimed dejection whenever he had a bad hand, and fidgeted, shuffling his feet, when he had a good one. As the game wore on, it was obvious there was an undercurrent between Cafferty and the Robertsons. Cafferty kept complaining about business. It was slow, money wasn’t what it was. Then he turned to me abruptly and slapped his palm against the back of my hand.
‘How many dead men have you seen?’
In Cafferty’s company, I affected more bravado even than usual, an effect achieved in most part by seeming preternaturally relaxed.
‘Not many,’ I said (or something offhand like that).
‘Any at all?’ he persisted. He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’ve seen dozens. Yes, dozens. What’s more, Black Aengus, I’ve killed my fair share of them.’
He lifted his hand away, sat back and said nothing. The next hand was dealt in silence. I wished Mo were around. She had a way of calming him down. He was drinking whisky from the bottle, sloshing it around in his mouth before swallowing noisily. Sober, he is unpredictable; drunk, he is dangerous. That’s why I like him. I even admire him, in a strange sort of way. He gets what he wants by any means necessary. There is something magnetic about that singularity of mind. And of course, in his company I am someone to be respected, respected by people who would normally call me a stuck-up snob and, as one person did, ‘a pissed-up piece of shite’. Cafferty took exception when I told him I’d been called this. He paid the man responsible a visit.
What makes him want to spend time with me? Before that night, I’d thought maybe we saw fire in one another’s eyes. But now I know differently. He spent time with me because I was going to be another means to an end. A final, bitter end.
