The Black Book by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online Page B

But the reward had gone uncollected.
    The hotel had once been a traveller’s paradise. It was sited on Princes Street, no distance at all from Waverley Station, and so had become a travelling businessman’s home-from-home. But in its latter years, the Central had seen business decline. And as genuine business declined, so disingenuous business took over. It was no real secret that the Central’s stuffy rooms could be hired by the hour or the afternoon. Room service would provide a bottle of champagne and as much talcum powder as any room’s tenants required.
    In other words, the Central had become a knocking-shop, and by no means a subtle one. It also catered to the town’s shadier elements in all shapes and forms. Wedding parties and stag nights were held for a spread of the city’s villains, and underage drinkers could loll in the lounge bar for hours, safe in the knowledge that no honest copper would stray inside the doors. Familiarity bred further contempt, and the lounge bar started to be used for drug deals, and other even less savoury deals too, so that the Central Hotel became something more than a mere knocking-shop. It turned into a swamp.
    A swamp with an eviction order over its head.
    The police couldn’t turn a blind eye forever and a day, especially when complaints from the public were rising by the month. And the more trash was introduced to the Central, the more trash was produced by the place. Until almost no real drinkers went there at all. If you ventured into the Central, you were looking for a woman, cheap drugs, or a fight. And God help you if you weren’t.
    Then, as had to happen, one night the Central burnt down. This came as no surprise to anyone; so much so that reporters on the local paper hardly bothered to cover the blaze. The police, of course, were delighted. The fire saved them having to raid the joint.
    But the next morning there was a solitary surprise: for though all the hotel’s staff and customers had been accounted for, a body turned up amongst the charred ceilings and roofbeams. A body that had been burnt out of all recognition.
    A body that had been dead when the fire started.
    These scant details Rebus knew. He would not have been a City of Edinburgh detective if he hadn’t known. Yet here was Holmes’ black book, throwing up tantalising clues. Or what looked like tantalising clues. Rebus read the relevant section through again.
    Central fire. El was there! Poker game on 1st floor. R. Brothers involved (so maybe Mork too??). Try finding.
    He studied Holmes’ handwriting, trying to decide whether the journal said El or El; the letter 1 or the number 1. And if it was the letter 1, did he mean El to stand as the phonetic equivalent of a single letter 1? Why the exclamation mark? It seemed that the presence of El (or L or E-One) was some kind of revelation to Brian Holmes. And who the hell were the R. Brothers? Rebus thought at once of Michael and him, the Rebus brothers, but shook the picture from his mind. As for Mork, a bad TV show came to mind, nothing else.
    No, he was too tired for this. Tomorrow would be time enough. Maybe by tomorrow Brian would be up and talking. Rebus decided he’d say a little prayer for him before he went to sleep.

3
    A prayer which went unanswered. Brian Holmes had still not regained consciousness when Rebus phoned the Infirmary at seven o’clock.
    ‘Is he in a coma or something, then?’
    The voice on the other end of the phone was cold and factual. ‘There will be tests this morning.’
    ‘What sorts of tests?’
    ‘Are you part of Mr Holmes’ immediate family?’
    ‘No, I’m bloody not. I’m …’ A police officer? His boss? Just a friend? ‘Never mind.’ He put down the receiver. One of the students put her head around the living-room door.
    ‘Want some herbal tea?’
    ‘No thanks.’
    ‘A bowl of muesli?’
    Rebus shook his head. She smiled at him and disappeared. Herbal tea and muesli, great God almighty. What sort of way was