10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (131 page)

‘Whatever you say, Patience. Bye.’ John Rebus dropped the phone from his hand and grabbed his jacket.

Rebus was parking outside the Heartbreak Cafe barely seven minutes later. That was the beauty of Edinburgh when you could avoid traffic lights. The Heartbreak Cafe had been opened just over a year before by a chef who also happened to be an Elvis Presley fan. He had used some of his extensive memorabilia to decorate the interior, and his cooking skills to come up with a menu which was almost worth a visit even if, like Rebus, you’d never liked Elvis. Holmes had raved about the place since its opening, drooling for hours over the dessert called Blue Suede Choux. The Cafe operated as a bar too, with garish cocktails and 1950s music, plus bottled American beers whose prices would have caused convulsions in the Broadsword pub. Rebus got the idea that Holmes had become friends with the owner; certainly, he’d been spending a lot of time there since the split from Nell, and had put on a fair few pounds as a result.

From the outside, the place looked nothing special: pale cement front wall with a narrow rectangular window in the middle, most of which was filled with neon signs advertising beers. And above this a larger neon sign flashing the name of the restaurant. The action wasn’t here, however. Holmes had been set on around the back of the place. A narrow alley, just about able to accommodate the width of a Ford Cortina, led to the patrons’ car park. This was small by any restaurant’s standards, and was also where the overflowing refuse bins were kept. Most clients, Rebus guessed, would park on the street out front. Holmes only parked back here because he spent so much time in the bar, and because his car had once been scratched when he’d left it out front.

There were two cars in the car park. One was Holmes’, and the other almost certainly belonged to the owner of the Heartbreak Cafe. It was an old Ford Capri with a painting of Elvis on its bonnet. Brian Holmes lay between the two cars. So far no one had moved him. He would be moved soon, though, after the doctor had finished his examination. One of the officers present recognised Rebus and came over.

‘Nasty blow to the back of the head. He’s been out cold for at least twenty minutes. That’s how long ago he was found. The owner of the place – that’s who found him – recognised him and called in. Could be a fractured skull.’

Rebus nodded, saying nothing, his eyes on the prone figure of his colleague. The other detective was still talking, going on about how Holmes’ breathing was regular, the usual reassurances. Rebus walked towards the body, standing over the kneeling doctor. The doctor didn’t even glance up, but ordered a uniformed constable, who was holding a flashlight over Brian Holmes, to move it a bit to the left. He then started examining that section of Holmes’ skull.

Rebus couldn’t see any blood, but that didn’t mean much. People died all the time without losing any blood over it. Christ, Brian looked so at peace. It was almost like staring into a casket. He turned to the detective.

‘What’s the owner’s name again?’

‘Eddie Ringan.’

‘Is he inside?’

The detective nodded. ‘Propping up the bar.’

That figured. ‘I’ll just go have a word,’ said Rebus.

Eddie Ringan had nursed what was euphemistically called a drinking problem for several years, long before he’d opened the Heartbreak Cafe. For this reason, people reckoned the venture would fail, as other ventures of his had. But they reckoned wrong, for the sole reason that Eddie managed to find a manager, a manager who not only was some kind of financial guru but was also as straight and as strong as a construction girder. He didn’t rip Eddie off, and he kept Eddie where Eddie belonged during working hours – in the kitchen.

Eddie still drank, but he could cook and drink; that wasn’t a problem. Especially when there were one or two apprentice chefs around to do the stuff which required focused eyes or rock steady hands. And so, according to Brian Holmes, the Heartbreak Cafe thrived. He still hadn’t managed to persuade Rebus to join him there for a meal of King Shrimp Creole or Love Me Tenderloin. Rebus wasn’t persuaded to walk through the front door . . . until tonight.

The lights were still on. It was like walking into some teenager’s shrine to his idol. There were Elvis posters on the walls, Elvis record covers, a life-size cut-out figure of the performer, even an Elvis clock, with the King’s arms pointing to the time. The TV was on, an item on the late news. Some oversized charity cheque was being handed over in front of Gibson’s Brewery.

There was no one in the place except Eddie Ringan slumped on a barstool, and another man behind the bar, pouring two shots of Jim Beam. Rebus introduced himself and was invited to take a seat. The bartender introduced himself as Pat Calder.

‘I’m Mr Ringan’s partner.’ The way he said it made Rebus wonder if the two young men were more than merely business partners. Holmes hadn’t mentioned Eddie was gay. He turned his attention to the chef.

Eddie Ringan was probably in his late twenties, but looked ten years older. He had straight, thinning hair over a large oval-shaped head, all of which sat uneasily above the larger oval of his body. Rebus had seen fat chefs and fatter chefs, and Ringan surely was a living advertisement for
some
body’s cooking. His doughy face was showing signs of wear from the drink; not just this evening’s scoop, but the weeks and months of steady, heavy consumption. Rebus watched him drain the inch of amber fire in a single savouring swallow.

‘Gimme another.’

But Pat Calder shook his head. ‘Not if you’re driving.’ Then, in clear and precise tones: ‘This man is a police officer, Eddie. He’s come to talk about Brian.’

Eddie Ringan nodded. ‘He fell down, hit his head.’

‘Is that what you think?’ asked Rebus.

‘Not really.’ For the first time, Ringan looked up from the bartop and into Rebus’s eyes. ‘Maybe it was a mugger, or maybe it was a warning.’

‘What sort of a warning?’

‘Eddie’s had too many tonight, Inspector,’ said Pat Calder. ‘He starts imagining –’

‘I’m not bloody imagining.’ Ringan slapped his palm down on the bartop for emphasis. He was still looking at Rebus. ‘You know what it’s like. It’s either protection money – insurance, they like to call it – or it’s the other restaurants ganging up because they don’t like the business you’re doing and they’re not. You make a lot of enemies in this game.’

Rebus was nodding. ‘So do you have anyone in mind, Eddie? Anyone in particular?’

But Ringan shook his head in a slow swing. ‘Not really. No, not really.’

‘But you think maybe
you
were the intended victim?’

Ringan signalled for another drink, and Calder poured. He drank before answering. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. They could be trying to scare off the customers. Times are hard.’

Rebus turned to Calder, who was staring at Eddie Ringan with a fair amount of revulsion. ‘What about you, Mr Calder, any ideas?’

‘I think it was just a mugging.’

‘Doesn’t look like they took anything.’

‘Maybe they were interrupted.’

‘By someone coming up the alley? Then how did they escape? That car park’s a dead end.’

‘I don’t know.’ Rebus kept watching Pat Calder. He was a few years older than Ringan, but looked younger. He’d drawn his dark hair back into what Rebus supposed was a fashionable ponytail, and had kept long straight sideburns reaching down past his ears. He was tall and thin. Indeed, he looked like he could use a good meal. Rebus had seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil. ‘Maybe,’ Calder was saying, ‘maybe he did fall after all. It’s pretty dark out there. We’ll get some lighting put in.’

‘Very commendable of you, sir.’ Rebus rose from the uncomfortable barstool. ‘Meantime, if anything
does
come to mind, and especially if any
names
come to mind, you can always call us.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Rebus paused in the doorway. ‘Oh, and Mr Calder?’

‘Yes?’

‘If you let Mr Ringan drive tonight, I’ll have him pulled over before he reaches Haymarket. Can’t you drive him home?’

‘I don’t drive.’

‘Then I suggest you put your hand in the till for cab fare. Otherwise Mr Ringan’s next creation might be Jailhouse Roquefort.’

As Rebus left the restaurant, he could actually hear Eddie Ringan starting to laugh.

He didn’t laugh for long. Drink was demanding his attention. ‘Gimme another,’ he ordered. Pat Calder silently poured to the level of the shot-glass. They’d bought the glasses on a trip to Miami, along with a lot of other stuff. Much of the money had come out of Pat Calder’s own pockets, as well as those of his parents. He held the glass in front of Ringan, then toasted him before draining the contents himself. When Ringan started to complain, Calder slapped him across the face.

Ringan looked neither surprised nor hurt. Calder slapped him again.

‘You stupid bugger!’ he hissed. ‘You stupid, stupid bugger!’

‘I can’t help it,’ said Ringan, proffering his empty glass. ‘I’m all shook up. Now give me a drink before I do something
really
stupid.’

Pat Calder thought about it for a moment. Then he gave Eddie Ringan the drink.

The ambulance took Brian Holmes to the Royal Infirmary.

Rebus had never been persuaded by this hospital. It seemed full of good intentions and unfilled staff rosters. So he stood close by Brian Holmes’ bed, as close as they’d let him stand. And as the night wore on, he didn’t flinch; he just slid a little lower down the wall. He was crouching with his head resting against his knees, arms cold against the floor, when he sensed someone towering over him. It was Nell Stapleton. Rebus recognised her by her very height, long before his eyes had reached her tear-stained face.

‘Hello there, Nell.’

‘Christ, John.’ And the tears started again. He pulled himself upright, embracing her quickly. She was throwing words into his ear. ‘We talked only this evening. I was horrible. And now this happens . . .’

‘Hush, Nell. It’s not your fault. This sort of thing can happen anytime.’

‘Yes, but I can’t help remembering, the last time we spoke it was an argument. If we hadn’t argued . . .’

‘Sshh, pet. Calm down now.’ He held her tight. Christ, it felt good. He didn’t like to think about how good it felt. It felt good all the same. Her perfume, her shape, the way she moulded against him.

‘We argued, and he went to that bar, and then . . .’

‘Sshh, Nell. It’s not your fault.’

He believed it, too, though he wasn’t sure whose fault it was: protection racketeers? Jealous restaurant owners? Simple neds? A difficult one to call.

‘Can I see him?’

‘By all means.’ Rebus gestured with his arm towards Holmes’ bed. He turned away as Nell Stapleton approached it, giving the couple some privacy. Not that the gesture meant anything; Holmes was still unconscious, hooked up to some monitor and with his head heavily bandaged. But he could almost make out the words Nell used when she spoke to her estranged lover. The tone she used made him think of Dr Patience Aitken, made him half-wish
he
were lying unconscious. It was nice to think people were saying nice things about you.

After five minutes, she came tiredly back. ‘Hard work?’ Rebus offered.

Nell Stapleton nodded. ‘You know,’ she said quietly, ‘I think I’ve an idea why this happened.’

‘Oh?’

She was speaking in a near-whisper, though the ward was quiet. They were the only two souls about on two legs. She sighed loudly. Rebus wondered if she’d ever taken drama classes.

‘The black book,’ she said. Rebus nodded as though understanding her, then frowned.

‘What black book?’ he asked.

‘I probably shouldn’t be telling you, but you’re not just someone he works with, are you? You’re a friend.’ She let out another whistle of air. ‘It was Brian’s notebook. Nothing official, this was stuff he was looking into on his own.’

Rebus, wary of waking anyone, led her out of the ward. ‘A diary?’ he asked.

‘Not really. It was just that sometimes he used to hear rumours, bits of pub gossip. He’d write them down in the black book. Then he might take things further. It was sort of a hobby with him, but maybe he thought it was also a way to an early promotion. I don’t know. We used to argue about that, too. I was hardly seeing him, he was so busy.’

Rebus was staring at the wall of the corridor. The overhead lighting stung his eyes. He’d never heard Holmes mention any kind of notebook.

‘What about it?’

Nell was shaking her head. ‘It was just something he said, something before we . . .’ Her hand went to her mouth, as though she were about to cry. ‘Before we split up.’

‘What was it, Nell?’

‘I’m not sure exactly.’ Her eyes met Rebus’s. ‘I just know Brian was scared, and I’d never seen him scared before.’

‘Scared of what?’

She shrugged. ‘Something in the book.’ Then she shook her head again. ‘I’m not sure what. I can’t help feeling . . . feeling I’m somehow responsible. If we’d never . . .’

Rebus pulled her to him again. ‘There there, pet. It’s not your fault.’

‘But it
is
! It
is
!’

‘No it isn’t.’ Rebus made his voice sound determined. ‘Now, tell me, where did Brian keep this wee black book of his?’

About his person, was the answer. Brian Holmes’ clothes and possessions had been removed when the ambulance delivered him to the Infirmary. But Rebus’s ID was enough to gain access to the hospital’s property department, even at this grim hour. He plucked the notebook out of an A4 envelope’s worth of belongings, and had a look at the other contents. Wallet, diary, ID. Watch, keys, small change. Stuff without personality, now that it had been separated from its owner, but strengthening Rebus’s conviction that this was no mere mugging.

Nell had gone home still crying, leaving no message to be passed along to Brian. All Rebus knew was that she suspected the beating was something to do with the notebook. And maybe she was right. He sat in the corridor outside Holmes’ ward, sipping water and skipping through the cheap leatherette book. Holmes had employed a kind of shorthand, but the code was not nearly complex enough to puzzle another copper. Much of the information had come from a single night and a single action: the night an animal rights group had broken into Fettes HQ’s records room. Amongst other things, they’d uncovered evidence of a rent-boy scandal among Edinburgh’s most respectable citizens.
This
didn’t come as news to John Rebus, but some other entries were intriguing, and especially the one referring to the Central Hotel.