10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (334 page)

‘Same as ever.’

‘As bad as that?’

‘It’s my calling.’

‘You’re done with Lintz though?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘There’s half a chance he ties in to Telford.’

‘You still think Telford was behind the hit-and-run?’

‘Telford or Cafferty.’

‘Cafferty?’

‘Setting up Telford, the way someone tried to set
me
up for Matsumoto.’

‘You know you’re not out of the woods?’

He looked at her. ‘An internal inquiry? The men with rubber soles?’ She nodded. ‘Bring them on.’ He sat forward in his chair, rubbed his temples. ‘No reason they should be left out of the party.’

‘What party?’

‘The one inside my head. The party that never stops.’ Rebus leaned across the desk to answer the phone. ‘No, he’s not here. Can I take a message? This is DI Rebus.’ A pause; he was looking at Gill Templer. ‘Yes, I’m working that case.’ He found pen and paper, started writing. ‘Mmm, I see. Yes, sounds like. I’ll let him know when he gets back.’ Eyes
boring into
hers. Then the punchline: ‘How many did you say were dead?’

Just the one. Another fled the scene, holding his arm, all
but severed from the shoulder. He turned up at a local hospital later, needing surgery and a huge transfusion of blood.

In broad daylight. Not in Edinburgh, but Paisley. Telford’s hometown, the town he still ruled. Four men, dressed in council work jackets, like a road team. But in place of picks and shovels, they’d toted machetes and a large-calibre revolver. They’d chased two men into a housing scheme. Kids playing on tricycles; kicking a ball up the street. Women hanging out of their windows. And grown men itching to hurt one another. A machete swung overhead, coming down hard. The wounded man kept running. His friend tried hurdling a fence, wasn’t agile enough. Three inches higher and he’d have made it. As it was, his toe caught, and he fell. He was pushing himself back up when the barrel of the gun touched the back of his head. Two shots, a fine drizzle of blood and brain. The children not playing any more, the women screaming for them to run. But something had been satisfied by those two shots. The chase was over. The four men turned and jogged back down the street, towards a waiting van.

A public execution, in Tommy Telford’s heartland.

The two victims: known money-lenders. The one in hospital was called ‘Wee’ Stevie Murray, age twenty-two. The one in the mortuary was Donny Draper – known since childhood as ‘Curtains’. They’d be making jokes about that. Curtains was two weeks shy of his twenty-fifth birthday. Rebus hoped he’d made the most of his short time on the planet.

Paisley police knew about Telford’s move to Edinburgh, knew there were some problems there. A courtesy call had been placed to Chief Superintendent Watson.

The caller said: the men were two of Telford’s brightest and best.

The caller said: descriptions of the attackers were vague.

The caller said: the children weren’t talking. They were being shielded by their parents, fearful of reprisals. Well, they might not be talking to the
police
, but Rebus doubted they’d be so reticent when Tommy Telford came calling, armed with his own questions and determined to have answers.

This was bad. This was
escalation
. Fire-bombings and beatings: these could be remedied. But murder ... murder put the grudge-match on to a much higher plane.

‘Is it worth talking to them again?’ Gill Templer asked. They were in the canteen, sandwiches untouched in front of them.

‘What do you think?’

He knew what she thought. She was talking because she thought talking was better than doing nothing. He could have told her to save her breath.

‘They used a machete,’ he said.

‘Same thing they took to Danny Simpson’s scalp.’ Rebus nodded. ‘I’ve got to ask ...’ she said.

‘What?’

‘About Lintz ... what you said?’

He drained the last inch of his cold coffee. ‘Fancy another?’

‘John ...’

He looked at her. ‘Lintz had some phone calls he was trying to hide. One of them was to Tommy Telford’s office in Flint Street. We don’t know how it ties in, but we think it
does
tie in.’

‘What could Lintz and Telford have had in common?’

‘Maybe Lintz went to him for help. Maybe he rented prossies off him. Like I say, we don’t
know
. Which is why we’re keeping it under the table.’

‘You want Telford very badly, don’t you?’

Rebus stared at her, thought about it. ‘Not as much as I did. He’s not enough any more.’

‘You want Cafferty, too?’

‘And Tarawicz . . . and the Yakuza . . . and anybody else who’s along for the ride.’

She nodded. ‘This is the party you were talking about?’

He tapped his head. ‘They’re all in here, Gill. I’ve tried kicking them out, but they won’t leave.’

‘Maybe if you stopped playing their kind of music?’

He smiled tiredly. ‘Now there’s an idea. What do you reckon: ELP? The Enid? How about a Yes triple album?’

‘Your department, not mine, thank God.’

‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

‘Yes, I do: I was there first time round.’

Old Scottish proverb: he who has had knuckles rapped will want to rap someone else’s. Which is why Rebus found himself back in Watson’s office. The Farmer’s cheeks were still red from his meeting with the Chief Constable. When Rebus made to sit, Watson told him to get back on his feet.

‘You’ll sit when you’re told and not before.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘What the bloody hell’s going on, John?’

‘Pardon, sir?’

The Farmer looked at the note Rebus had left on his desk. ‘What’s this?’

‘One dead, one seriously wounded in Paisley, sir. Telford’s men. Cafferty’s hitting him where it hurts. Probably reckons that Telford’s territory’s spun a bit thin. Leaves him open to breaches.’

‘Paisley.’ The Farmer stuffed the note in his drawer. ‘Not our problem.’

‘It will be, sir. When Telford hits back, it’ll be right here.’

‘Never mind that, Inspector. Let’s talk about Maclean’s Pharmaceuticals.’

Rebus blinked, relaxed his shoulders. ‘I was going to tell you, sir.’

‘But instead I had to hear it from the Chief Constable?’

‘Not really my baby, sir. Crime Squad are pushing the pram.’

‘But who put the baby
in
the pram?’

‘I was going to tell you, sir.’

‘Know how it makes me look? I walk into Fettes and I don’t know something one of my junior officers knows? I look like a mug.’

‘With respect, sir, I’m sure that’s not the case.’

‘I look like a
mug
!’ The Farmer slammed the desk with both palms. ‘And it’s not as though this was the first time. I’ve always tried to do my best for you, you know that.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Always been fair.’

‘Absolutely, sir.’

‘And you pay me back like this?’

‘It won’t happen again, sir.’

The Farmer stared at him; Rebus held it, returned it.

‘I bloody well hope not.’ The Farmer leaned back in his chair. He’d calmed down a little. Bollocking as therapy. ‘Nothing else you want to tell me, is there, while I’ve got you here?’

‘No, sir. Except . . . well . . .’

‘Go on.’ The Farmer sat forward again.

‘It’s the man in the flat above me, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘I think he might be Lord Lucan.’

Leonard Cohen: ‘There is a War’.

They were waiting for Telford’s retaliatory strike. The Chief Constable’s idea: ‘visible presence as deterrent’. It came as no surprise to Rebus: probably even less so to Telford, who had Charles Groal ready, claiming harassment the minute the patrol cars turned up in Flint Street. How was his client supposed to carry on with his legitimate and substantial business interests, as well as his many community developments, under the pressure of unwarranted and intrusive police surveillance? ‘Community developments’ meaning the pensioners and their rent-free flats: Telford wouldn’t hesitate to use them as pawns. The media would love it.

The patrol cars would be pulled, it was just a matter of time. And afterwards: firework night all over again. That’s what everyone was expecting.

Rebus went to the hospital, sat with Rhona. The room, so familiar to him now, was an oasis where calm and order reigned, where each hour of the day brought its comforting rituals.

‘They’ve washed her hair,’ he said.

‘She’s had another scan,’ Rhona explained. ‘They had to get the gunk off afterwards.’ Rebus nodded. ‘They said you’d noticed eye movement?’

‘I thought I did.’

Rhona touched his arm. ‘Jackie says he might manage to come up again at the weekend. Call this fair warning.’

‘Received and understood.’

‘You look tired.’

He smiled. ‘One of these days someone’s going to tell me how terrific I’m looking.’

‘But not today,’ Rhona said.

‘Must be all the booze, clubbing and women.’

Thinking: Coke, the Morvena Casino, and Candice.

Thinking: why do I feel like piggy in the middle? Are Cafferty and Telford
both
playing games with me?

Thinking: I hope Jack Morton’s okay.

The phone was ringing when he got back to Arden Street. He picked up just as the answering machine was cutting in.

‘Hold on till I stop this thing.’ Found the right button and hit it.

‘Technology, eh, Strawman?’

Cafferty.

‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve heard about Paisley.’

‘You mean you’ve been talking to yourself?’

‘I had nothing to do with it.’

Rebus laughed out loud.

‘I’m telling you.’

Rebus fell into his chair. ‘And I’m supposed to believe you?’ Games, he was thinking.

‘Whether you believe me or not, I wanted you to know.’

‘Thanks, I’m sure I’ll sleep better for that.’

‘I’m being set up, Strawman.’

‘Telford doesn’t
need
to set you up.’ Rebus sighed, stretched his neck to left and right. ‘Look, have you considered another possibility?’

‘What?’

‘Your men have lost it. They’re going behind your back.’

‘I’d know.’

‘You’d know what your own lieutenants tell you. What if
they’re lying? I’m not saying it’s the whole gang, could be just two or three gone rogue.’

‘I’d know.’ The emotion had drained from Cafferty’s voice. He was thinking it over.

‘Fine, okay, you’d know: who’d be the first to tell you? Cafferty, you’re on the other side of the country. You’re in
prison
. How hard would it be to keep stuff from you?’

‘These are men I’d trust with my life.’ Cafferty paused. ‘They’d tell me.’

‘
If
they knew.
If
they hadn’t been warned not to tell you. See what I’m saying?’

‘Two or three gone rogue . . .’ Cafferty echoed.

‘You must have candidates?’

‘Jeffries would know.’

‘Jeffries? Is that the Weasel’s name?’

‘Don’t let him hear you call him that.’

‘Give me his number. I’ll talk to him.’

‘No, but I’ll get him to call you.’

‘And if he’s part of the breakaway?’

‘We don’t know there is one.’

‘But you admit it makes sense?’

‘I admit Tommy Telford’s trying to put me in a box.’

Rebus stared from his window. ‘You mean literally?’

‘I’ve heard word of a contract.’

‘But you’ve got protection?’

Cafferty chuckled. ‘Strawman, you almost sound concerned.’

‘You’re imagining things.’

‘Look, there are only two ways out of this. One,
you
deal with Telford. Two,
I
deal with him. Are we agreed on that? I mean, I’m not the one who went poaching players and territory and putting out frighteners.’

‘Maybe he’s just more ambitious than you. Maybe he reminds you of the way you used to be.’

‘Are you saying I’ve gone soft?’

‘I’m saying it’s adapt or die.’

‘Have
you
adapted, Strawman?’

‘Maybe a little.’

‘Aye, a fucking speck, if that.’

‘We’re not talking about me though.’

‘You’re as involved as anyone. Remember that, Strawman. And sweet dreams.’

Rebus put down the phone. He felt exhausted, and depressed. The kids across the way were in bed, shutters closed. He looked around the room. Jack Morton had helped him paint it, back when Rebus was thinking of selling. Jack had helped him off the sauce, too . . .

He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Got back into the car and headed for Young Street. The Oxford Bar was quiet. A couple of philosophers in the corner, and through in the back-room three musicians who’d packed up their fiddles. He drank a couple of cups of black coffee, then drove to Oxford Terrace. Parked the car outside Patience’s flat, turned off the ignition and sat there for a while, jazz on the radio. He hit a good streak: Astrid Gilberto, Stan Getz, Art Pepper, Duke Ellington. Told himself he’d wait till a bad record came on, then go knock on Patience’s door.

But by then it was too late. He didn’t want to turn up unannounced. It would be . . . it wouldn’t look right. He didn’t mind that it smacked of desperation, but he didn’t want her to think he was pushing. He started the engine again and moved off, drove around the New Town and down to Granton. Sat by the edge of the Forth, window down, listening to water and the nighttime traffic of HGVs.

Even with eyes closed, he couldn’t shut out the world. In fact, in those moments before sleep came, his images were at their most vivid. He wondered what Sammy dreamed about, or even if she dreamed at all. Rhona said that Sammy had come north to be with him. He couldn’t think what he’d done to deserve her.

Back into town for an espresso at Gordon’s Trattoria, then the hospital: easy to find a parking space this time of night. A taxi was idling outside the entrance. He made his way to Sammy’s room, was surprised to see someone there. His first thought: Rhona. The only illumination in the room was that given through the closed curtains. A woman, kneeling by the bed, head resting on the covers. He walked forwards. She heard him, turned, face glistening with tears.

Candice.