But at least I’m still alive, he thought. And God willing nobody will dispatch me by funnelling alcohol down my throat before turning on the gas. It struck him again: why the need for the funnel? All you had to do was take Eddie to any bar and he’d willingly render himself unconscious on tequila and bourbon. You didn’t need to force him. Yet Dr Curt had tossed his liver in the air and proclaimed it a fair specimen. That was difficult to accept, except that he’d seen it with his own eyes.
Or had he?
He peered across the distance to where Pat Calder was taking hold of rope number one, testing it for tensile strength. Brian was number four, which meant he stood across the casket from Calder and sandwiched between two men Rebus didn’t know. The barman Toni was number six. But Rebus’s eyes were on Calder. Oh Jesus, you bastard, he thought. You didn’t, did you? Then again, maybe you did.
He turned and ran, back to where his car was parked out on the road outside the cemetery. His destination was Arden Street.
Arden Street and the reservations book for the Heartbreak Cafe.
As he saw it, Rebus had two choices. He could kick the door down, or he could try to open it quietly. It was a snib lock, the kind a stiff piece of plastic could sometimes open. Of course, there was a mortice deadlock too, but probably not engaged. When he pushed and pulled the door, there was enough give in it to suggest this was probably true. Only the snib then. But the gap where door met jamb was covered by a long strip of ornamental wood. This normally wouldn’t deter a burglar, who would take a crowbar to it until he had access to the gap.
But Rebus had forgotten to pack his crowbar.
A rap with the door-knocker wouldn’t elicit a response, would it? But he didn’t fancy his chances of shouldering or kicking the door down, snib-lock or not. So he crouched down, opened the letterbox with one hand, put his eyes level with it, and reached up his other hand to the black iron ring, giving it five loud raps: shave-and-a-haircut, some people called it. It signalled a friend; at least, that’s what Rebus hoped. There was neither sound nor movement from the inside of the maisonette. The Colonies was daytime quiet. He could probably crowbar the door open without anyone noticing. Instead, he tried the knocker again. The door had a spy-hole, and he was hoping someone might be intrigued enough to want to creep to the spy-hole and take a look.
Movement now, a shadow moving slowly from the living area towards the hall. Moving stealthily. And then a head sticking out of the doorway. It was all Rebus needed.
‘Hello, Eddie,’ he called. ‘I’ve got your wreath here.’
Eddie Ringan let him in.
He was dressed in a red silk kimono-style gown with a fierce dragon crawling all down its back. On the arms were symbols Rebus didn’t understand. They didn’t worry him. Eddie flopped onto the sofa, usually Rebus’s perch, so Rebus made do with standing. ‘I was lying about the wreath,’ he said.
‘It’s the thought that counts. Nice suit, too.’
‘I had to borrow the tie,’ said Rebus.
‘Black ties are cool.’ Eddie looked like death warmed up. His eyes were dark-ringed and bloodshot, and his face resembled a prisoner’s: sunless grey, lacking hope. He scratched himself under the armpit. ‘So how did it go?’
‘I left just as they were lowering you away.’
‘They’ll be at the reception now. Wish I could have done the catering myself, but you know how it is.’
Rebus nodded. ‘It’s not easy being a corpse. You’d have found that out.’
‘Some people have managed quite nicely in the past.’
‘Like Radiator McCallum and the Robertson brothers?’ Eddie produced a grim smile. ‘One of those, yes.’
‘You must be pretty desperate to stage your own death.’
‘I’m not saying anything.’
‘That’s fine.’ There was silence for a minute until Eddie broke it. ‘How did you find out?’
Rebus absent-mindedly took a cigarette from the pack on the mantelpiece. ‘It was Pat. He made up this unnecessarily exaggerated story.’
‘That’s Pat for you. Amateur fucking dramatics all the way.’
‘He said Willie stormed out of the restaurant after sticking his face in some poor punter’s plate. I checked with a couple of the people who ate there that night. A quick phone call was all it took. Nobody saw anything of the sort. Then there was the dead man’s liver. It was in good nick, so it couldn’t possibly have been yours.’
‘You can say that again.’
Rebus was about to light up. He caught himself, lifted the cigarette from his mouth, and placed it beside the packet.
‘Then I checked missing persons. Seems Willie hasn’t been back to his digs in a few days. The whole thing was amateurish, Eddie. If the poor bugger hadn’t got his face blown away in the explosion, we‘d’ve known straight away it wasn’t you.’
‘Would you? We wondered about that, we reckoned with Brian off the scene and Haymarket not your territory, it might just work.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘For a start, we take photographs, and I’d have seen them sooner or later. I always do.’ He paused. ‘So why did you kill him?’
‘It was an accident.’
‘Let me guess, you came back late to the restaurant after a pretty good bender. You were angry as hell to see Willie had coped. You had a fight, he smashed his head. Then you had an idea.’
‘Maybe.’
‘There’s only one rotten thing about the whole story,’ said Rebus. Eddie shifted on the sofa. He looked ridiculous in the kimono, and had folded his arms protectively. He was staring at the fireplace, avoiding Rebus altogether.
‘What?’ he said finally.
‘Pat said Willie ran out of the Cafe on Tuesday night. His body wasn’t found until Thursday morning. If he’d died in a fight on Tuesday, lividity and rigor mortis would have told the pathologist the body was old. But it wasn’t, it was fresh. Which means you didn’t booze him up and gas him until early Thursday morning. You must’ve kept him alive all day Wednesday, knowing pretty well what you were going to do with him.’
‘I’m not saying anything.’
‘No, I’m saying it. Like I say, a desperate remedy, Eddie. About as desperate as they come. Now come on.’
‘What?’
‘We’re taking a drive.’
‘Where to?’
‘Down to the station, of course. Get some clothes on.’ Rebus watched him try to stand up. His legs took a while to lock upright. Yes, murder could do that to you. It was the opposite of rigor mortis. It was liquefaction, the jelly effect. It took him a long time to dress, Rebus watching throughout. There were tears in Eddie’s eyes when he finished, and his lips were wet with saliva.
Rebus nodded. ‘You’ll do,’ he said. He, fully intended taking Eddie to St Leonard’s.
But they’d be taking the scenic route.
‘Where are we going?’
‘A little drive. Nice day for it.’
Eddie looked out of the windscreen. It was a uniform grey outside, buildings and sky, with rain threatening and the breeze gaining force. He started to get the idea when they turned up Holyrood Park Road, heading straight for Arthur’s Seat. And when Rebus took a right, away from Holyrood and in the direction of Duddingston, Eddie started to look very worried indeed.
‘You know where we’re going?’ Rebus suggested.
‘No.’
‘Oh well.’
He kept driving, drove all the way up to the gates of the house and signalled with his indicator that he was turning into the drive.
‘Christ, nor yelped Eddie Ringan. He tucked his knees in front of him, wedging them against the dashboard like he thought they were about to crash. Instead of turning in at the gates, Rebus cruised past them and stopped kerbside. You caught a glimpse of Cafferty’s mansion from here. Presumably, if someone up at the house were looking out of the right window, they could see the car.
‘No, no.’ Eddie was weeping.