The Sunday Telegraph raves, "No one captures the noirish side of the city as well as Rankin," and The Black Book is one of his best. Five years ago, a mysterious fire burned Edinburgh's seed Central Hotel to ashes. Long-forgotten and unsolved, the case reappears when a charred body--with a bullet in its head--is found amongst the ruins. Inspector John Rebus knows that his superiors would rather he let sleeping dogs lie. He knows that part of the answer lies somewhere in a cryptic black notebook. And he knows that to solve the case, he'll have to peel back layer upon layer of unspeakable secrets to arrive at the truth. . . “With this latest action-packed adventure of Edinburgh's Inspector John Rebus, Rankin steps into the company of accomplished fellow British procedural writers John Harvey and Peter Turnbull.” ― Publishers Weekly (Starred Review) “Thick and zesty as a bottomless bowl of Scotch broth. ...Rebus ... shines right down to the nasty surprise on the last page.” ― Kirkus Reviews “No one captures the noirish side of the city as well as Rankin.” ― Sunday Telegraph “Ian Rankin joins the elite of British crime writing.” ―Marcel Berlins, The Times Ian Rankin is the worldwide #1 bestselling writer of the Inspector Rebus books, including Knots and Crosses, Hide and Seek, Let It Bleed, Black and Blue, Set in Darkness, Resurrection Men, A Question of Blood, The Falls and Exit Music . He is also the author of The Complaints and Doors Open . He has won an Edgar Award, a Gold Dagger for fiction, a Diamond Dagger for career excellence, and the Chandler-Fulbright Award. He has been elected a Hawthornden Fellow, and received the Order of the British Empire (OBE) for his contributions to literature. He graduated from the University of Edinburgh in 1982. He lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with his wife and their two sons. The Black Book By Rankin, Ian Minotaur Books Copyright © 2009 Rankin, Ian All right reserved. ISBN: 9780312565640 Chapter 1 IT all happened because John Rebus was in his favourite massage parlour reading the Bible. I It all happened because a man walked in through the door in the mistaken belief that any massage parlour sited so close to a brewery and half a dozen good pubs had to be catering to Friday night pay packets and anytime drunks; and therefore had to be bent as a paperclip. But the Organ Grinder, God-fearing tenant of the setup, ran a clean shop, a place where tired muscles were beaten mellow. Rebus was tired: tired of arguments with Patience Aitken, tired of the fact that his brother had turned up seeking shelter in a flat filled to the gunwales with students, and most of all tired of his job. It had been that kind of week. On the Monday evening, he’d had a call from his Arden Street flat. The students he’d rented to had Patience’s number and knew they could reach him there, but this was the first time they’d ever had reason. The reason was Michael Rebus. ‘Hello, John.’ Rebus recognised the voice at once. ‘Mickey?’ ‘How are you, John?’ ‘Christ, Mickey. Where are you? No, scratch that, I know where you are. I mean—’ Michael was laughing softly. ‘It’s just I heard you’d gone south.’ ‘Didn’t work out.’ His voice dropped. ‘Thing is, John, can we talk? I’ve been dreading this, but I really need to talk to you.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Shall I come round there?’ Rebus thought quickly. Patience was picking up her two nieces from Waverley Station, but all the same . . . ‘No, stay where you are. I’ll come over. The students are a good lot, maybe they’ll fix you a cup of tea or a joint while you’re waiting.’ There was silence on the line, then Michael’s voice: ‘I could have done without that.’ The line went dead. Michael Rebus had served three years of a five-year sentence for drug dealing. During that time, John Rebus had visited his brother fewer than half a dozen times. He’d felt relief more than anything when, upon release, Michael had taken a bus to London. That was two years ago, and the brothers had not exchanged a word since. But now Michael was back, bringing with him bad memories of a period in John Rebus’s life he’d rather not remember. The Arden Street flat was suspiciously tidy when he arrived. Only two of the student tenants were around, the couple who slept in what had been Rebus’s bedroom. He talked to them in the hallway. They were just going out to the pub, but handed over to him another letter from the Inland Revenue. Really, Rebus would have liked them to stay. When they left, there was silence in the flat. Rebus knew that Michael would be in the living room and he was, crouched in front of the stereo and flipping through stacks of records. ‘Look at this lot,’ Michael said, his back still to Rebus. ‘The Beatles and the Stones, same stuff you used to listen to. Remember how you drove dad daft? What was that record player again . . . ?’ ‘A Dansette.’ ‘That’s it. Dad got it saving cigarette coupons.’ Michael stood up and turned towards his brother. ‘Hello,