Black Book

‘I can manage fine without it.’ This was true, though by ‘fine’ he meant that he could hobble along at a reasonable pace. ‘I see Hibs got a result yesterday.’

‘About time.’

‘No sign of himself?’

But Siobhan pointed to the car park. ‘Here he comes now.’

A Mini Metro had climbed the road to the top of the hill and was squeezing into a space between two shinier larger cars. ‘Give me a hand down,’ said Siobhan.

‘Watch for my leg,’ Rebus complained. But she felt almost weightless as he lifted her down.

‘Thanks,’ she said. Brian Holmes had watched the performance before locking his car and coming towards them.

‘A regular Baryshnikov,’ he commented.

‘Bless you,’ said Rebus.

‘So what’s this all about, sir?’ Siobhan asked. ‘Why the secrecy?’

‘There’s nothing secret,’ Rebus said, starting to walk, ‘about an Inspector wanting to talk with two of his junior colleagues. Trusted junior colleagues.’

Siobhan caught Holmes’ eye. Holmes shook his head: he wants something from us. As if she didn’t know.

They leaned against a railing, enjoying the view, Rebus doing most of the talking. Siobhan and Holmes added occasional questions, mostly rhetorical.

‘So this would be off our own bats?’

‘Of course,’ Rebus answered. ‘Just two keen coppers with a little bit of initiative.’ He had a question of his own. ‘Will the lighting be difficult?’ Holmes shrugged. ‘I’ll ask Jimmy Hutton about that. He’s a professional photographer. Does calendars and that sort of thing.’

‘It’s not going to be wee kittens or a Highland glen,’ replied Rebus. ‘No, sir,’ said Holmes.

‘And you think this’ll work?’ asked Siobhan.

Rebus shrugged. ‘Let’s wait and see.’

‘We haven’t said we’ll do it, sir.’

‘No,’ said Rebus, turning away, ‘but you will.’

34

Off their own initiative then, Holmes and Siobhan decided to spend Monday evening doing a surveillance shift on Operation Moneybags. Without heating, the room they crouched in was cold and damp, and dark enough to attract the odd mouse. Holmes had set the camera up, after taking advice from the calendar man. He’d even borrowed a special lens for the occasion, telephoto and night-sighted. He hadn’t bothered with his Walkman and his Patsy Cline tapes: in the past, there’d always been more than enough to talk about with Siobhan. But tonight she didn’t seem in the mood. She kept gnawing on her top and bottom lips, and got up every now and then to do stretching exercises.

‘Don’t you get stiff?’ she asked him.

‘Not me,’ said Holmes quietly. ‘I’ve been in training for this-years of being a couch potato.’

‘I thought you kept pretty fit.’

He watched her bend forward and lay her arms down the length of one leg. ‘And you must be double- jointed.’

‘Not quite. You should’ve seen me in my teens.’ Holmes’ grin was illuminated by the street light’s diffuse orange glow. ‘Down, Rover,’ said Siobhan. There was a scuttling overhead.

‘A rat,’ said Holmes. ‘Ever cornered one?’ She shook her head. ‘They can jump like a Tummel salmon.’

‘My parents took me to the hydro dam when I was a kid.’

‘At Pitlochry?’ She nodded. ‘So you’ve seen the salmon leaping?’ She nodded again. ‘Well,’ said Holmes, ‘imagine one of those with hair and fangs and a long thick tail.’

‘I’d rather not.’ She watched from the window. ‘Do you think he’ll come.’

‘I don’t know. John Rebus isn’t often wrong.’

‘Is that why everyone hates him?’

Holmes seemed a little surprised. ‘Who hates him?’

She shrugged. ‘People I’ve talked to at St Leonard’…and other places. They don’t trust him.’

‘He wouldn’t have it any other way.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s thrawn.’ He was remembering the first time Rebus had used him in a case. He’d spent a cold frustrating evening watching for a dog-fight that never took place. He was hoping tonight would be better.

The rat was moving again, to the back of the room now, over by the door.

‘Do you think he’ll come?’ Siobhan asked again.

‘He’ll come, lass.’ They both turned towards the shape in the doorway. It was Rebus. ‘You two,’ he said, ‘blethering like sweetie wives. I could have climbed those stairs in pit boots and you’d not have heard me.’ He came over to the window. ‘Anything?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

Rebus angled his watch towards the light. ‘I make it five to.’

The display on Siobhan’s digital watch was backlit. ‘Ten to, sir.’

‘Bloody watch,’ muttered Rebus. ‘Not long now. There’ll be some action by the top of the hour. Unless that daft Aberdonian’s put the kibosh on it.’

But the ‘daft Aberdonian’ wasn’t so daft. Big Ger Cafferty paid for information. Even if it was information he already knew, he tended to pay: it was a cheap way of making sure everything got back to him. For example, even though he’d already heard from two sources that the teuchters were planning to muscle in on him, he still paid Shug Oliphant a few notes for his effort. And Oliphant, who liked to keep his own sources sweet, handed over ten quid to Andy Steele, this representing two-fifths of Oliphant’s reward.

‘There you go,’ he said.

‘Cheers,’ said Andy Steele, genuinely pleased.

‘Found anything you like?’

Oliphant was referring to the videotapes which surrounded them in the small rental shop which he operated. The area behind the narrow counter was so small, Oliphant only just squeezed in there. Every time he moved he seemed to knock something off a shelf onto the floor, where it remained, since there was also no room for him to bend over.

‘I’ve got some bits and pieces under the counter,’ he went on, ‘if you’re interested.’

‘No, I don’t want a video.’

Oliphant grinned unpleasantly. ‘I’m not sure the gentleman really believed your story,’ Oliphant told Andy. ‘But I’ve heard the rumour a few times since, so maybe there’s something in it.’

‘There is,’ said Andy Steele. Rebus was right, if you told a deaf man something on Monday, by Tuesday it was in the evening paper. ‘They’ve got a watch on his hang-outs, including the operation in Gorgie.’

Oliphant looked mightily suspicious. ‘How do you know?’

‘Luck, really. I bumped into one of them. I knew him in Aberdeen. He told me to get out if I didn’t want to get mixed up in it.’

‘But you’re still here.’

‘I’m on the mail train tomorrow morning.’

‘So something’s happening tonight?’ Oliphant still sounded highly sceptical, but then that was his way.

Steele shrugged. ‘All I know is, they’re keeping watch. I think maybe they just want to talk.’

Oliphant considered, running his fingers over a video-box. ‘There were two pubs last night got their windows smashed.’ Steele didn’t blink. ‘Pubs where the gentleman drank. Could be a connection?’

Steele shrugged. ‘Could be.’ If he were being honest, he’d have told how he acted as getaway driver while Rebus himself tossed the large rocks through the glass. One of the pubs had been the Firth at Tollcross, the other