Rebus always expected some reaction from his favourite stories, but all Siobhan Clarke did was smile and say, ‘I love this city.’ Then: ‘Are there files on Mr Cafferty?’
‘Oh aye, there are files. By all means, plough through them. They’ll give you some idea what you’re up against.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll do that. And when do we start the.surveillance, sir?’
‘First thing Monday morning. Everything will be set up on Sunday. I just hope they give us a decent camera.’ He noticed Clarke was looking relieved. Then the penny dropped. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t miss the Hibs game.’
She smiled. ‘They’re away to Aberdeen.’
‘And you’re still going?’
‘Absolutely.’ She tried never to miss a game.
Rebus was shaking his head. He didn’t know that many Hibs fans. ‘I wouldn’t travel that far for the Second Coming.’
‘Yes you would.’
Now Rebus smiled. ‘Who’s been talking? Right, what’s on the agenda for today?’
‘I’ve talked to the butcher. He was no help at all. I think I’d have more chance of getting a complete sentence out of the carcases in his deep freeze. But he does drive a Merc. That’s an expensive car. Butchers aren’t well known for high salaries, are they?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘The prices they charge, I wouldn’t be so sure.’
‘Anyway, I’m planning to drop in on him at home this morning, just to clear up a couple of points.’
‘But he’ll be at work.’
‘Unfortunately yes.’
Rebus caught on. ‘His wife will be home?’
‘That’s what I’m hoping. The offer of a cup of tea, a little chat in the living room. Wasn’t it terrible about Rory? That sort of thing.’
‘So you can size up his home life, and maybe get a talkative wife thrown in for good measure.’ Rebus was nodding slowly. It was so devious he should have thought of it himself.
‘Get tae it, lass,’ he said, and she did, leaving him to reach down onto the floor and lift one of the Central Hotel files onto his desk.
He started reading, but soon froze at a certain page. It listed the Hotel’s customers on the night it burnt down. One name fairly flew off the page.
‘Would you credit that?’ Rebus got up from the desk and put his jacket on. Another ghost. And another excuse to get out of the office.
The ghost was Matthew Vanderhyde.
6
The house next to Vanderhyde’s was as mad as ever. Owned by an ancient Nationalist, it sported the saltire flag on its gate and what looked like thirty-year-old(tracts taped to its windows. The owner couldn’t get much light, but then the house Rebus was approaching had its curtains drawn closed.
He rang the doorbell and waited. It struck him that Vanderhyde might well be dead. He would be in his early- to mid-seventies, and though he’d seemed healthy enough the last time they’d met, well, that was over two years ago.
He had consulted Vanderhyde in an earlier case. After the case was closed, Rebus used to drop in on Vanderhyde from time to time, just casually. They only lived six, streets apart, after all. But then he’d started to get serious with Dr Patience Aitken, and hadn’t found time for a visit since.
The door opened, and there stood Matthew Vanderhyde, looking just the same as ever. His sightless eyes were hidden behind dark green spectacles, above which sat a high shiny forehead and long swept-back yellow hair. He was wearing a suit of beige cord with a brown waistcoat, from the pocket of which hung a watch-chain. He leaned lightly on his silver-topped cane, waiting for the caller to speak.
‘Hello there, Mr Vanderhyde.’
‘Ah, Inspector Rebus. I was wondering when I’d see you. Come in, come in.’
From Vanderhyde’s tone, it sounded like they’d last met two weeks before. He led Rebus through the dark hallway and into the darker living room. Rebus took in the shapes of bookshelves, paintings, the large mantelpiece covered in mementoes from trips abroad.
‘As you can see, Inspector, nothing has changed in your absence.’
‘I’m glad to see you looking so well, sir.’
Vanderhyde shrugged aside the remark. ‘Some tea?’
‘No thanks.’
‘I’m really quite thrilled that you’ve come. It must mean there’s something I can do for you.’
Rebus smiled. ‘I’m sorry I stopped visiting.’
‘It’s a free country, I didn’t pine away.’
‘I can see that.’
‘So what sort of thing is it? Witchcraft? Devilment in the city streets?’
Rebus was still smiling. In his day, Matthew Vanderhyde had been an active white witch. At least, Rebus hoped he’d been white. It had never been discussed between them.
‘I don’t think this is anything to do with magic,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s about the Central Hotel.’
‘The Central? Ah, happy memories, Inspector. I used to go there as a young man. Tea dances, a very acceptable luncheon-they had an excellent kitchen in those days, you know-even once or twice to an evening ball.’
‘I’m thinking of more recent times. You were at the hotel the night it was torched.’
‘I don’t recall arson was proven.’
As usual, Vanderhyde’s memory was sharp enough when it suited him. ‘That’s true. All the same, you were there.’
‘Yes, I was. But I left several hours before the fire started. Not guilty, your honour.’
‘Why were you there in the first place?’
‘To meet a friend for a drink.’
‘A seedy place for a drink.’
‘Was it? You’ll have to remember, Inspector, I couldn’t see anything. It certainly didn’t smell or feel particularly disreputable.’
‘Point taken.’
‘I had my memories. To me, it was the same old Central Hotel I’d lunched in and danced in. I quite enjoyed the evening.’
‘Was the Central your choice, then?’
‘No, my friend’s.’
‘Your friend bein…?’
Vanderhyde considered. ‘No secret, I suppose. Aengus Gibson.’ Rebus sifted through the name’s connotations. ‘You don’t mean Black Aengus?’
Vanderhyde laughed, showing small blackened teeth. ‘You’d better not let him hear you calling him that these days.’
Yes, Aengus Gibson was a reformed character, that much was public knowledge. He was also, so Rebus presumed, still one of Scotland’s most eligible young men, if thirty-two could be considered young in these times. Black Aengus, after all, was sole heir to the Gibson Brewery and all that came with it.
‘Aengus Gibson,’ said Rebus.
‘The same.’
‘And this was five years ago, when he was stil…’
‘High spirited?’ Vanderhyde gave a low chuckle. ‘Oh, he deserved the name Black Aengus then, all right. The newspapers got it just right when they came up with that nickname.’
Rebus was thinking. ‘I didn’t see his name in the records. Your name was there, but his wasn’t.’
‘I’m sure his family saw to it that his name never appeared in any records, Inspector. It would have given the media even more fuel than they needed at the time.’
Yes, Christ, Black Aengus had been a wild one all right, so wild even the London papers took an interest. He’d looked to be spiralling out of control on ever-new excesses, but then suddenly all that stopped. He’d been rehabilitated, and was now as respectable as could be, involved in the brewing business and several prominent charities besides.
‘The leopard changed its spots, Inspector. I know you policemen are dubious about such things. Every offender is a potential repeat offender. I suppose you have to be cynical in your job, but with young Aengus the leopard really did change.’
‘Do you know why?’
Vanderhyde shrugged. ‘Maybe because of our chat.’
‘That night in the Central Hotel?’
‘His father had asked me to talk to him.’
‘You know them, then?’