The Black Book (10 page)

‘Yes, sir.’ She stood up. ‘Oh, by the way, I got the files on Cafferty.’

‘Plenty of reading in there, most of it x-rated.’

‘I know, I’ve already started. And there’s no x-rating nowadays. It’s called “eighteen” instead.’

Rebus blinked. ‘It’s just an expression.’ As she was turning away, he stopped her. ‘Look, take some notes, will you? On Cafferty and his gang, I mean. Then when you’re finished you can refresh my memory. I’ve spent a long time shutting that monster out of my thoughts; it’s about time I opened the door again.’

‘No problem.’

And with that she was off. Rebus wondered if he should have told her she’d done well at Bone’s house. Ach, too late now. Besides, if she thought she were pleasing him, maybe she’d stop trying so hard. He picked up his phone and called Jack Morton.

‘Jack? Long time no hear. It’s John Rebus.’

‘John, how are you?’

‘No’ bad, how’s yourself?’

‘Fine. I made Inspector.’

‘Aye, me too.’

‘So I heard.’ Jack Morton choked off his words as he gave a huge hacking cough.

‘Still on the fags, eh, Jack?’

‘I’ve cut down.’

‘Remind me to sell my tobacco shares. So listen, what’s the problem?’

‘It’s your problem, not mine. Only I saw something from Scotland Yard about Andrew McPhail.’

Rebus tried the name out in his head. ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘you’ve got me there.’

‘We had him on file as a sex offender. He’d had a go at the daughter of the woman he was living with. This was about eight years back. But we never got the charge to stick.’

Rebus was remembering a little of it. ‘We interviewed him when those wee girls started to disappear?’ Rebus shivered at the memory: his own daughter had been one of the ‘wee girls’.

‘That’s it, just routine. We started with convicted and suspected child offenders and went on from there.’

‘Stocky guy with wiry hair?’

‘You’ve got him.’

‘So what’s the point, Jack?’

‘The point is, you really have got him. He’s in Edinburgh.’

‘So?’

‘Christ, John, I thought you’d know. He buggered off to Canada after that last time we hassled him. Set himself up as a photographer, doing shots for fashion catalogues. He’d approach the parents of kids he fancied. He had business cards, camera equipment, the works, rented a studio and used to take shots of the children, promising they’d be in some catalogue or other. They’d get to dress up in fancy dresses, or sometimes maybe just in underwear …’

‘I get the picture, Jack.’

‘Well, they nabbed him. He’d been touching the girls, that was all. A lot of girls, so they put him inside.’

‘And?’

‘And now they’ve let him out. But they’ve also deported him.’

‘He’s in Edinburgh?’

‘I started checking. I wanted to find out where he’d ended up, because I knew if it was anywhere near my patch I’d pay him a visit some dark night. But he’s on your patch instead. I’ve got an address.’

‘Wait a second.’ Rebus found a pen and copied it down.

‘How did you get his address anyway? The DSS?’

‘No, the files said he had a sister in Ayr. She told me he’d had her get a phone number for him, a boarding house. Know what else she said? She said we should lock him in a cellar and forget about the key.’

‘Sounds like a lovely lass.’

‘She’s my kind of woman, all right. Of course, he’s probably been rehabilitated.’

That word – rehabilitated. A word Vanderhyde had used about Aengus Gibson. ‘Probably,’ said Rebus, believing it about as much as Morton himself. They were professional disbelievers, after all. It was a policeman’s lot.

‘Still, it’s good to know about. Thanks, Jack.’

‘You’re welcome. Any chance we’ll be seeing you in Falkirk some day? It’d be good to have a drink.’

‘Yes, it would. Tell you what, I might be over that way soon.’

‘Oh?’

‘Dropping McPhail off in the town centre.’

Morton laughed. ‘Ya shite, ye.’ And with that he put down the phone.

Jack Morton stared at the phone for the best part of a minute, still grinning. Then the grin melted away. He unwrapped a stick of chewing gum and started gnawing it. It’s better than a cigarette, he kept telling himself. He looked at the scribbled sheet of notes in front of him on the desk. The girl McPhail had assaulted was called Melanie Maclean these days. Her mother had married, and Melanie lived with the couple in Haddington, far enough from Edinburgh so that she probably wouldn’t bump into McPhail. Nor, in all probability, would McPhail be able to find her. He’d have to know the stepfather’s name, and that wouldn’t be easy for him. It hadn’t been
that
easy for Jack Morton. But the name was here. Alex Maclean. Jack Morton had a home address, home phone number, and work number. He wondered …

He knew too that Alex Maclean was a carpenter, and Haddington police were able to inform him that Maclean had a temper on him, and had twice (long before his marriage) been arrested after some flare-up or other. He wondered, but he knew he was going to do it. He picked up the receiver and punched in the numbers. Then waited.

‘Hello, can I speak to Mr Maclean please? Mr Maclean? You don’t know me, but I have some information I’d like to share with you. It concerns a man called Andrew McPhail …’

Matthew Vanderhyde too made a telephone call that afternoon, but only after long thought in his favourite armchair. He held the cordless phone in his hand, tapping it with a long fingernail. He could hear a dog outside, the one from down the street with the nasal whine. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked, the tick seeming to slow as he concentrated on it. Time’s heartbeat. At last he made the call. There was no preamble.

‘I’ve just had a policeman here,’ he said. ‘He was asking about the night the Central Hotel caught fire.’ He hesitated slightly. ‘I told him about Aengus.’ He could pause now, listening with a weary smile to the fury on the other end of the line, a fury he knew so well. ‘Broderick,’ he interrupted, ‘if any skeletons are being uncloseted,
I
don’t want to be the only one shivering.’

When the fury began afresh, Matthew Vanderhyde terminated the call.

Rebus noticed the man for the first time that evening. He thought he’d seen him outside St Leonard’s in the afternoon. A young man, tall and broad-shouldered. He was standing outside the entrance to Rebus’s communal stairwell in Arden Street. Rebus parked his car across the street, so that he could watch the man in his rearview mirror. The man looked agitated, pumped up about something. Maybe he was only waiting for his date. Maybe.

Rebus wasn’t scared, but he started the car again and drove off anyway. He’d give it an hour and see if the man was still there. If he was, then he wasn’t waiting on any date, no matter how bonny the girl. He drove along the Meadows to Tollcross, then took a right down Lothian Road. It was slow going, as per. The number of vehicles needing to get through the city of an evening seemed to grow every week. Edinburgh in the twilight looked much the same as any other place: shops and offices and crowded pavements. Nobody looked particularly happy.

He crossed Princes Street, cut into Charlotte Square, and began the crawl along Queensferry Street and Queensferry Road until he could take a merciful (if awkward) right turn into Oxford Terrace. But Patience wasn’t home. He knew Patience’s sister was expected this week, staying a few days then taking the girls home. Patience’s cat, Lucky, sat outside, demanding entry, and Rebus for once was almost sympathetic.

‘Nae luck,’ he told it, before starting back up the steps.

When he got back to Arden Street, there was no sign of the skulking hulk. But Rebus would recognise him if he saw him again. Oh yes, he’d know him, all right.

Indoors, he had another argument with Michael, the two of them in the living room, everyone else in the kitchen. That was another thing: how many tenants did he have? There seemed to be a shifting population of about a dozen, where he’d rented to three with a possible fourth. He could swear he saw different faces every morning, and as a result could never remember anyone’s name.

So there was another row about that, this time with the students in the kitchen while Michael sat in the box room, at the end of which Rebus said, ‘Away to hell,’ and proceeded to follow his own instructions by getting back in his car and making for one of the city’s least respectable quarters, there to dine on pies and pints while staring at a soundless TV. He spoke with a few of his contacts, who had nothing to report regarding the assault on Brian Holmes.

So it was just another evening, really.

He got back purposely late, hoping everyone else would have gone to bed. He fumbled with the door-catch of the tenement and let the door swing shut loudly behind him, searching in his pockets for the flat key, eyes to the ground. So he didn’t see the man, who must have been sitting on the bottom step of the stairs.

‘Hello there.’

Rebus looked up, startled, recognised the figure, and sent small change and keys scattering as he threw a punch. He wasn’t that drunk, but then his target was stone cold sober and twenty years younger. The man palmed the punch easily. He looked surprised at the attack, but also somehow excited by it. Rebus cut short the thrill of it all by sharply raising his knee into unprotected groin. The man expelled air noisily, and started to double over, which gave Rebus the opportunity to punch down onto the back of his neck. He felt his knuckles crackle with the force of the blow.

‘Jesus,’ the man gasped. ‘Stop it.’

Rebus stopped it and wagged his aching hand. But he wasn’t about to offer help. He kept his distance, and asked ‘Who are you?’

The man managed to stop retching for a moment. ‘Andy Steele.’

‘Nice to meet you, Andy. What the fuck do you want?’

The man looked up at Rebus with tears in his eyes. It took him a while to catch his breath. When he spoke, Rebus either couldn’t understand the accent or else just didn’t believe what he was saying. He asked Steele to repeat himself.

‘Your auntie sent me,’ said Steele. ‘She’s got a message for you.’

Rebus sat Andy Steele down on the sofa with a cup of tea, including the four sugars Steele himself had requested.

‘Can’t be good for your teeth.’

‘They’re not my own,’ Steele replied, huddled over the hot mug.

‘Then whose are they?’ asked Rebus. Steele gave the flicker of a smile. ‘You’ve been following me all day.’

‘Not exactly. Maybe if I had a car, but I don’t.’

You don’t have a car?’ Steele shook his head. ‘Some private detective.’

‘I didn’t say I was a private detective exactly. I mean, I
want
to be one.’

‘A sort of trainee, then?’

‘Aye, that’s right. Testing the water, so to speak.’

‘And how’s the water, Andy?’

Another smile, a sip of tea. ‘A bit hot. But I’ll be more careful next time.’

‘I didn’t even know I had an aunt. Not up north.’ Steele’s accent was a giveaway.

Andy Steele nodded. ‘She lives next door to my mum and dad, just across the road from Pittodrie.’

‘Aberdeen?’ Rebus nodded to himself. ‘It’s coming back to me. Yes, an uncle and aunt in Aberdeen.’

‘Your dad and Jimmy – that’s your uncle – fell out years ago. You’re probably too young to remember.’

‘Thanks for the compliment.’

‘It’s just what Ena told me.’

‘And now Uncle Jimmy’s dead?’

‘Three weeks past.’

‘And Aunt Ena wants to see me?’ Steele nodded. ‘What about?’

‘I don’t know. She was just talking about how she’d like to see you again.’

‘Just me? No mention of my brother?’

Steele shook his head. Rebus had checked to see if Michael was in the box room. He wasn’t. But the other bedrooms seemed to be occupied.

‘Right enough,’ said Rebus, ‘if they argued when I was wee, maybe it was before Michael was born.’

‘They might no’ even know about him,’ Steele conceded. Well, that was families for you. ‘Anyway, Ena kept harping on about you, so I told her I’d come south and have a look. I got laid off from the fishing boats six months ago, and I’ve been going up the wall ever since. Besides, I told you I’ve always fancied being a private eye. I love all those films.’

‘Films don’t get you a knee in the balls.’

‘True enough.’

‘So how
did
you find me?’

Steele’s face brightened. ‘I went to the address Ena gave me, where you and your dad used to live. All the neighbours knew was that you were a policeman in Edinburgh. So I got the directory out and phoned every station I could find, asking for John Rebus.’ He shrugged and returned to his tea.

‘But how did you get my home address?’

‘Someone in CID gave it to me.’

‘Don’t tell me, Inspector Flower?’

‘A name like that, aye.’

Seated on the sofa, Andy Steele looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had the sort of large frame which could be kept in shape only through hard work, such as that found on a North Sea fishing boat. But already, deprived of work for six months, that frame was growing heavy with disuse. Rebus felt sorry for Andy Steele and his dreams of becoming a private eye. The way he stared into space as he drank the tea, he looked lost, his immediate life without form or plan.

‘So are you going to go and see her?’

‘Maybe at the weekend,’ said Rebus.

‘She’d like that.’

‘I can give you a lift back.’

But the young man was shaking his head. ‘No, I’d like to stay in Edinburgh for a bit.’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Rebus. ‘Just be careful.’

‘Careful? I could tell you stories about Aberdeen that would make your hair stand on end.’

‘And could they thicken it a bit at the temples while they’re at it?’

It took Andy Steele a minute to get the joke.

The next day, Rebus paid a visit to Andrew McPhail. But McPhail wasn’t home, and his landlady hadn’t seen him since the previous evening.

‘Usually he comes down at seven sharp for a wee bitty breakfast. So I went upstairs and there was no sign of him. Is he in any trouble, Inspector?’

‘No, nothing like that, Mrs MacKenzie. This is a lovely Madiera by the way.’