Free The Black Book by Ian Rankin Page B

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.