Black Book

4

The past was certainly important to Edinburgh. The city fed on its past like a serpent with its tail in its mouth. And Rebus’s past seemed to be circling around again too. There was a message on his desk in Clarke’s handwriting. Obviously she’d gone to visit Holmes, but not before taking a telephone call intended for her superior.

DI Morton called from Falkirk. He’ll try again another time. He wouldn’t say what it’s about.

Very cagey. I’ll be back in two hours.

She was the sort who would make up the two hours by staying late a few nights, even though Rebus had deprived her of a reasonable lunch-break. Despite being English, there was something of the Scottish Protestant in Siobhan Clarke. It wasn’t her fault she was called Siobhan either. Her parents had been English Literature lecturers at Edinburgh University back in the 1960s. They’d lumbered her with the Gaelic name, then moved south again, taking her to be schooled in Nottingham and London. But she’d come back to Edinburgh to go to college, and fallen in love (her story) with Edinburgh. Then she’d decided on the police as a career (alienating her friends and, Rebus suspected, her liberal parents). Still, the parents had bought her a New Town flat, so it couldn’t be all strife.

Rebus suspected she’d do well in the police, despite people like him. Women did have to work harder in the force to progress at the same pace as their male colleagues: everyone knew it. But Siobhan worked hard enough, and by Christ did she have a memory. A month from now, he could ask her about this note on his desk, and she’d remember the telephone conversation word for word. It was scary.

It was slightly scary too that Jack Morton’s name had come up at this particular time. Another ghost from Rebus’s past. When they’d worked together six years ago, Rebus wouldn’t have given the younger Morton more than four or five years to live, such was his steady consumption of booze and cigarettes.

There was no contact phone number. It would have taken only a few minutes to find the number of Morton’s nick, but Rebus didn’t feel like it. He felt like getting back to the files on his desk. But first he phoned the Infirmary to check on Brian Holmes’ progress, only to be told that there wasn’t any, though there was also no decline.

‘That sounds cheery.’

‘It’s just an expression,’ the person on the phone said.

The test results wouldn’t be known until next morning. He thought for a moment, then made another call, this time to Patience Aitken’s group practice. But Patience was out on a call, so Rebus left a message. He got the receptionist to read it back so he could be sure it sounded right.

‘ “Thought I’d call to let you know how Brian’s doing. Sorry you weren’t in. You can call me at Arden Street if you like. John.”’

Yes, that would do. She’d have to call him now, just to show she wasn’t uncaring about Brian’s condition. With a speck of hope in his heart, Rebus went back to work.

He got back to the flat at six, having done some shopping en route. Though he’d proposed taking the files home, he really couldn’t be bothered. He was tired, his head ached, and his nose was stuffy from the old dust which rose from their pages. He climbed the flights of stairs wearily, opened the door, and took the grocery bags into the kitchen, where one of the students was spreading peanut butter onto a thick slice of brown bread.

‘Hiya, Mr Rebus. You got a phone call.’

‘Oh?’

‘Some woman doctor.’

‘When?’

‘Ten minutes ago, something like that.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She said if she wanted to find out abou…’

‘Brian? Brian Holmes?’

‘Aye, that’s it. If she wanted to find out about him, she could call the hospital, and that’s exactly what she’d done twice today already.’ The student beamed, pleased at having remembered the whole message. So Patience had seen through his scheme. He should have known. Her intelligence, amongst other things, had attracted him to her. Also, they were very much alike in many ways. Rebus should have learned long ago, never try to put one over on someone who knows the way your mind works. He lifted a box of eggs, tin of beans, and packet of bacon out of the bag.

‘Oh my God,’ said the student in disgust. ‘Do you know just how intelligent pigs are, Mr Rebus?’

Rebus looked at the student’s sandwich. ‘A damned sight more intelligent than peanuts,’ he said. Then: ‘Where’s the frying-pan?’

Later, Rebus sat watching TV. He’d nipped over to the Infirmary to visit Brian Holmes. He reckoned it was quicker to walk rather than driving around The Meadows. So he’d walked, letting his head clear. But the visit itself had been depressing. Not a bit of progress.

‘How long can he stay conked out?’

‘It can take a while,’ a nurse had consoled.

‘It’s been a while.’

She touched his arm. ‘Patience, patience.’

Patience! He almost took a taxi to her flat, but dropped the idea. Instead, he walked back to Arden Street, climbed the same old weary stairs, and flopped onto the sofa. He had spent so many evenings deep in thought in this room, but that had been back when the flat was his, only his.

Michael came into the living room, fresh from a shave and a shower. He wore a towel tight around his flat stomach. He was in good shape; Rebus hadn’t noticed before. But Michael saw him noticing now, and patted his stomach.

‘One thing about Peterhead, plenty of exercise.’

‘I suppose you’ve got to get fit in there,’ Rebus drawled, ‘so you can fight back when someone’s after your arse.’

Michael shook off the remark like it was so much water. ‘Oh, there’s plenty of that too. Never interested me.’ Whistling, he went into the box room and started to dress.

‘Going out?’ Rebus called.

‘Why stay in?’

‘Seeing that wee girl again?’

Michael put his head around the door. ‘She’s a consenting adult.’

Rebus got to his feet. ‘She’s a wee girl.’ He walked over to the box room and stared at Michael, forcing him to stop what he was doing.

‘What, John? You want me to stop going out with women? If you don’t like it, tough.’

Rebus thought of all the remarks he could make. This is my fla…I’m your big brothe…you should know bette…He knew Mickey would laugh-quite rightly-at any and all of them. So he thought of something else to say.

‘Fuck you, Mickey.’

Michael Rebus recommenced dressing. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment, but what’s the alternative? Sit here all night watching you stew or sulk or whatever it is you do inside your head? Thanks but no thanks.’

‘I thought you were going to look for a job.’

Michael Rebus grabbed a book from the bed and, threw it at his brother. ‘I’m looking for a fucking job! What do you think I do all day?

Just give it a rest, will you?’ He picked up his jacket and pushed past Rebus. ‘Don’t wait up for me, eh?’

That was a laugh: Rebus was asleep, and alone in the flat, before the ten o’clock news. But it wasn’t a sound sleep. It was a sleep filled with dreams. He was chasing Patience through some office block, always just losing her. He was eating in a restaurant with a teenage girl while the Rolling Stones entertained unnoticed on the small stage in the corner. He was watching a hotel burn to the ground, wondering if Brian Holmes, still unaccounted for, had gotten out aliv…

And then he was awake and shivering, the room illuminated only by the street-lamp outside, burning through a chink in the curtains. He’d been reading the book Michael had thrown at him. It was about hypnotherapy and still lay in his lap, beneath the blanket someone had thrown over him. There were noises nearby, noises of pleasure. They were coming from the box room. Some therapy, no doubt. Rebus listened to them for what seemed like hours until the light outside grew pale.