Black Book

13

He had only dropped into St Leonard’s to pick up a few things from his desk, but the duty sergeant stopped him short.

‘Gentleman here has been waiting to see you. He seems a bit anxious.’ The ‘gentleman’ in question had been standing in a corner, but was now directly in front of Rebus. ‘You don’t recognise me?’

Rebus studied the man for a moment longer, and felt an old loathing. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘I recognise you all right.’

‘Didn’t you get my message?’

This had been the other message relayed to him when he’d called in from Gorgie Road. He nodded.

‘Well, what are you going to do?’

‘What would you like me to do, Mr McPhail?’

‘You’ve got to stop him!’

‘Stop who exactly? And from what?’

‘You said you got the message.’

‘All I was told was that someone called Andrew McPhail had phoned wanting to speak to me.’

‘What I want is bloody protection!’

‘Calm down now.’ Rebus saw that the desk sergeant was getting ready for action, but he didn’t think there would be any need for that.

‘What have I got to do?’ McPhail was saying. ‘You want me to hit you? That’d get me a night in the cells, wouldn’t it? I’d be safe there.’

Rebus nodded. ‘You’d be safe all right, until we told your cell mates about your past escapades.’

This seemed to calm McPhail down like a bucket of ice. Maybe he was remembering particular incidents during his spell in the Canadian Prison. Or maybe it was a less localised fear. Whatever it was, it worked. His tone became quietly plaintive. ‘But he’ll kill me.’

‘Who will?’

‘Stop pretending! I know you set him on to me. It had to be you.’

‘Humour me,’ said Rebus.

‘Maclean,’ said McPhail. ‘Alex Maclean.’

‘And who is Alex Maclean?’

McPhail looked disgusted. He spoke in an undertone. ‘The wee girl’s stepfather. Melanie’s stepfather.’

‘Ah,’ said Rebus, nodding now. He knew immediately what Jack Morton had done, bugger that he was. No wonder McPhail got in touch. And as Rebus had been round to see Mrs MacKenzie, he’d thought Rebus must be behind the whole scheme.

‘Has he threatened you?’

McPhail nodded.

‘In what way?’

‘He came to the house. I wasn’t there. He told Mrs MacKenzie he’ be back to get me. Poor woman’s in a terrible state.’

‘You could always move, get out of Edinburgh.’

‘Christ, is that what you want? That’s why you’ve set Maclean on me. Well, I’m staying put.’

‘Heroic of you, Mr McPhail.’

‘Look, I know what I’ve done, but that’s behind me.’

Rebus nodded. ‘And all you’ve got in front of you is the view from your bedroom.’

‘Jesus, I didn’t know Mrs MacKenzie lived across from a primary school!’

‘Still, you could move. A location like that, it’s bound to rile Maclean further.’

McPhail stared at Rebus. ‘You’re repulsive,’ he said. ‘Whatever I’ve done in my life, I’m willing to bet you’ve done worse. Never mind about me, I’ll look after myself.’ McPhail made show of pushing past Rebus towards the door.

‘Ca’ canny, Mr McPhail,’ Rebus called after him.

‘Christ,’ said the desk sergeant, ‘who was that?’

‘That,’ said Rebus, ‘was someone finding out how it feels to be a victim.’

All the same, he felt a bit guilty. What if McPhail had been rehabilitated, and Maclean did do him some damage? Scared as he was, McPhail might even decide a first strike was his only form of defence. Well, Rebus had slightly more pressing concerns, hadn’t he?

In the CID room, he studied the only available mug-shots of Tam and Eck Robertson, taken over five years ago. He got a DC to make him some photocopies, but then had a better idea. There was no police artist around, but that didn’t bother Rebus. He knew where an artist could always be found.

It was five o’clock when he got to McShane’s Bar near the bottom of the Royal Mile. McShane’s was a haven for bearded folk fans and their woolly sweaters. Upstairs, there was always music, be it a professional performer or some punter who’d taken the stage to belt out ‘Will Ye Go Lassie Go’ or ‘Both Sides 0’ The Tweed’.

Midgie McNair did good business in McShane’s sketching flattering likenesses of acquiescent customers, who paid for the privilege and often bought the drinks as well.

At this early hour, Midgie was downstairs, reading a paperback at a corner table. His sketch-pad sat on the table beside him, along with half a dozen pencils. Rebus placed two pints on the table, then sat down and produced the photos of the Bru-Head Brothers.

‘Not exactly Butch and Sundance, are they?’ said Midgie McNair. ‘Not exactly,’ said Rebus.