The Hanging Garden (22 page)

‘I’ve got a message for you,’ Rhona said. ‘From Dr Morrison.’

‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’

‘I’ve no idea. All he said was, could he have his t-shirt back?’

The ghoul with the scythe … Rebus picked up Pa Broon, turned the bear in his hands. They sat in silence for a while, until Rhona shifted in her chair. ‘Patience is really nice.’

‘Did the two of you have a good chat?’ She nodded. ‘And you told her what a perfect husband I’d been?’

‘You must be crazy, walking out on her.’

‘Sanity’s never exactly been my strong point.’

‘But you used to know a good thing when you saw it.’

‘Trouble is, that’s never what I see when I look in the mirror.’

‘What do you see?’

He looked at her. ‘Sometimes I don’t see anything at all.’

Later, they took a coffee-break, went to the machine.

‘I lost her, you know,’ Rhona said.

‘What?’

‘Sammy, I lost her. She came back here. She came back to you.’

‘We hardly see one another, Rhona.’

‘But she’s
here
. Don’t you get it? It’s you she wants, not me.’ She turned away from him, fumbled for her handkerchief. He stood close behind her, then couldn’t think of anything to say. He was all out of words; every line of sympathy rang hollow to him, just another cliché. He touched the back of her neck, rubbed it. She lowered her head a little, didn’t resist. Massage: there’d been a lot of massage early on in their relationship. By the end, he hadn’t even given her time for a handshake.

‘I don’t know why she came back, Rhona,’ he said at last. ‘But I don’t think she was running away, and I don’t think it had much to do with seeing me.’

A couple of nurses ran past, urgency in their movements.

‘I’d better get back,’ Rhona said, rubbing a hand over her face, pulling it into something resembling composure.

Rebus went with her to the room, then said he had to be going. He bent down to kiss Sammy, feeling the breath from her nostrils against his cheek.

‘Wake up, Sammy,’ he cajoled. ‘You can’t stay in bed all your life. Time to get up.’

When there was no movement, no response, he turned and left the room.

David Levy was no longer in Edinburgh. At least, he wasn’t at the Roxburghe Hotel. Rebus could think of only one way of contacting him. Seated at his desk, he called the Holocaust Investigation Bureau in Tel Aviv and asked to speak with Solomon Mayerlink. Mayerlink wasn’t available, but Rebus identified himself and said he needed to contact him as a matter of urgency. He got a home telephone number.

‘Is there news on Linzstek, Inspector?’ Mayerlink’s voice was a harsh rasp.

‘Of a kind, yes. He’s dead.’

Silence on the line, then a slow release of breath. ‘That’s a pity.’

‘It is?’

‘People die, a little bit of history dies with them. We would have preferred to see him in court, Inspector. Dead, he’s worthless.’ Mayerlink paused. ‘I take it this ends your inquiry?’

‘It changes the nature of the investigation. He was murdered.’

Static on the line; an eight-beat pause. ‘How did it happen?’

‘He was hung from a tree.’

There was a longer silence on the line. ‘I see,’ Mayerlink said at last. There was a slight echo on his voice. ‘You think the allegations led to his murder?’

‘What would you say?’

‘I’m not a detective.’

But Rebus knew Mayerlink was lying: detection was
exactly
the role he’d chosen in life. A detective of history.

‘I need to talk to David Levy,’ Rebus said. ‘Do you have his address and phone number?’

‘He came to see you?’

‘You know he did.’

‘It’s not that simple with David. He doesn’t work for the Bureau. He’s self-motivated. I ask him for help occasionally. Sometimes he helps, sometimes he doesn’t.’

‘But you do have some way of contacting him?’

It took Mayerlink a full minute to come up with the details. An address in Sussex, plus telephone number.

‘Is David your number one suspect, Inspector?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I could tell you you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

‘The same tree Joseph Lintz swung from?’

‘Can you really see David Levy as a murderer, Inspector?’

Safari suit, walking stick. ‘It takes all sorts,’ Rebus said, putting down the phone.

He tried Levy’s number. It rang and rang. He gave it a couple of minutes, drank a coffee, tried again. Still no answer. He called British Telecom instead, explained what he needed, was finally put through to the right person.

‘My name’s Justine Graham, Inspector. How can I help?’

Rebus gave her Lintz’s details. ‘He used to get itemised bills, then he switched.’

He heard her fingers hammer a keyboard. ‘That’s right,’ she told him. ‘The customer asked for itemised billing to be discontinued.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘No record of that. You don’t need to give an excuse, you know.’

‘When was this?’

‘A couple of months back. The customer had requested monthly billing several years previously.’

Monthly billing: because he was meticulous, kept his accounts by the month. A couple of months back – September – the Lintz/Linzstek story had blown up in the media. And, suddenly, he hadn’t wanted his phone calls to be a matter of record.

‘Do you have records of his calls, even the
un
itemised ones?’

‘Yes, we should have that information.’

‘I’d like to see a list. Everything from the first unitemised call through to this morning.’

‘Is that when he died – this morning?’

‘Yes.’

She was thoughtful. ‘Well, I’ll need to check.’

‘Please do. But remember, Ms Graham, this is a murder inquiry.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And your information could be absolutely crucial.’

‘I’m quite aware of –’

‘So if I could have that by the end of today … ?’

She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I can promise that.’

‘And one last thing. The bill for September is missing. I’d like a copy of it. Let me give you the fax number here, speed things up.’

Rebus congratulated himself with another cup of coffee and a cigarette in the car park. She might or might not deliver later in the day, but he was confident she’d be trying her best. Wasn’t that all you could ask of anybody?

Another call: Special Branch in London. He asked for Abernethy.

‘I’ll just put you through.’

Someone picked up: a grunt in place of an acknowledgement.

‘Abernethy?’ Rebus asked. He heard liquid being swallowed. The voice became clearer.

‘He’s not here. Can I help?’

‘I really need to speak to him.’

‘I could have him paged, if it’s urgent.’

‘My name’s DI Rebus, Lothian and Borders Police.’

‘Oh, right. Have you lost him or something?’

Rebus’s expression turned quizzical. His voice carried a false note of humour. ‘You know what Abernethy’s like.’

A snort. ‘Don’t I just.’

‘So any help appreciated.’

‘Yeah, right. Look, give me your number. I’ll get him to call you.’

Have you lost him or something?
‘You’ve no idea where he is then?’

‘It’s your city, chum. Take your best shot.’

He’s up here
, Rebus thought.
He’s right here
.

‘I bet the office is quiet without him.’

Laughter on the line, then the sounds of a cigarette being lit. A long exhalation. ‘It’s like being on holiday. Keep him as long as you like.’

‘So how long have you been without him?’

A pause. As the silence lengthened, Rebus could feel the change of atmosphere.

‘What did you say your name was?’

‘DI Rebus. I was only asking when he left London.’

‘This morning, soon as he heard. So what have I won: the hatchback or the hostess trolley?’

Rebus’s turn to laugh. ‘Sorry, I’m just nosy.’

‘I’ll be sure to tell him that.’ A single click, then the sound of an open line.

Later that afternoon, Rebus chased up British Telecom, then tried Levy’s house again. This time he got through to a woman.

‘Hello, Mrs Levy? My name’s John Rebus. I was wondering if I could have a word with your husband?’

‘You mean my father.’

‘I’m sorry. Is your father there?’

‘No, he’s not.’

‘Any idea when … ?’

‘Absolutely none.’ She sounded peeved. ‘I’m just his cook and cleaner. Like I don’t have a life of my own.’ She caught herself. ‘Sorry, Mr … ?’

‘Rebus.’

‘It’s just that he never says how long he’s going to be away.’

‘He’s away just now?’

‘Has been for the best part of a fortnight. He rings two or three times a week, asks if there’ve been any calls or letters. If I’m lucky, he
might
remember to ask how
I’m
doing.’

‘And how are you doing?’

A smile in her voice. ‘I know, I know. I sound like I’m his mother or something.’

‘Well, you know, fathers …’ Rebus stared into the middle distance … ‘if you don’t tell them anything’s wrong, they’re happy to assume the best and hold their peace.’

‘You speak from experience?’

‘Too much experience.’

She was thoughtful. ‘Is it something important?’

‘Very.’

‘Well, give me your name and number, and next time he calls I’ll have him phone you.’

‘Thanks.’ Rebus reeled off two numbers: home and mobile.

‘Got that,’ she said. ‘Any other message?’

‘No, just have him call me.’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Has he had any other calls?’

‘You mean, people trying to reach him? Why do you ask?’

‘I just … no real reason.’ He didn’t want to say he was a policeman; didn’t want her spooked. ‘No reason,’ he repeated.

As he came off the phone, someone handed him another coffee. ‘That receiver must be red hot.’

He touched it with the tips of his fingers. It was pretty warm. Then it rang and he picked it up again.

‘DI Rebus,’ he said.

‘John, it’s Siobhan.’

‘Hiya, how’s tricks?’

‘John, you remember that guy?’ Her tone was warning him of something.

‘What guy?’ The humour was gone from his voice.

‘Danny Simpson.’ He of the flappy skull; Telford’s lackey.

‘What about him?’

‘I’ve just found out he’s HIV positive. His GP let the hospital know.’

Blood in Rebus’s eyes, his ears, dribbling down his neck …

‘Poor guy,’ he said quietly.

‘He should have said something at the time.’

‘When?’

‘When we got him to the hospital.’

‘Well, he had other things on his mind, and some of them were in danger of falling off.’

‘Christ, John, be serious for a minute!’ Her voice was loud enough to have people glance up from their desks. ‘You need to get a blood test.’

‘Fine, no problem. How is he, by the way?’

‘Back home but poorly. And sticking to his story.’

‘Do I detect the influence of Telford’s lawyer?’

‘Charles Groal? That one’s so slimy, he’s practically primordial.’

‘Saves you the cost of a valentine.’

‘Look, just phone the hospital. Talk to a Dr Jones. She’ll fix an appointment. They can do a test right away. Not that it’ll be the last word – there’s a three-month incubation.’

‘Thanks, Siobhan.’

Rebus put down the receiver, drummed his fingers against it. Wouldn’t
that
be a nice irony? Rebus out to get Telford, does the Good Samaritan bit for one of his men, gets AIDS and dies. Rebus stared at the ceiling.

Nice one, Big Man
.

The phone rang again. Rebus snatched it up.

‘Switchboard,’ he said.

‘Is that you, John?’ Patience Aitken.

‘The one and only.’

‘Just wanted to check we’re still on for tonight.’

‘To be honest, Patience, I’m not sure I’ll be at my most sparkling.’

‘You want to cancel?’

‘Absolutely not. But I have something to take care of. At the hospital.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘No, I don’t think you understand. It’s not Sammy this time, it’s me.’

‘What’s wrong?’

So he told her.

She went with him. Same hospital Sammy was in, different department. Last thing he wanted was to bump into Rhona, have to explain everything to her. Possibly HIV-infected: chances were, she’d red-card him from the bedside.

The waiting room was white, clean. Lots of information on the walls. Leaflets on every table, as if paperwork was the real virus.

‘I must say, it’s very pleasant for a leper colony.’

Patience didn’t say anything. They were alone in the room. Someone on reception had dealt with him first, then a nurse had come out and taken some details. Now another door opened.

‘Mr Rebus?’

A tall thin woman in a white coat, standing in the doorway: Dr Jones, he presumed. Patience took his arm as they walked towards her. Halfway across the floor, Rebus turned on his heels and bolted.

Patience caught up with him outside, asked what was wrong.

‘I don’t want to know,’ he told her.

‘But, John …’

‘Come on, Patience. All I got was a bit of blood splashed on me.’

She didn’t look convinced. ‘You need to take the test.’

He looked back towards the building. ‘Fine.’ Started walking away. ‘But some other time, eh?’

It was one in the morning when he drove back into Arden Street. No dinner date with Patience: instead, they’d visited the hospital, sat with Rhona. He’d made a silent pact with the Big Man: bring her back and I’ll keep off the booze. He’d driven Patience home. Her last words to him: ‘Take that test. Get it over and done with.’

As he locked his car, a figure appeared from nowhere.

‘Mr Rebus, long time no see.’

Rebus recognised the face. Pointy chin, misshapen teeth, the breathing a series of small gasps. The Weasel: one of Cafferty’s men. He was dressed like a down-and-out, perfect camouflage for his role in life. He was Cafferty’s eyes and ears on the street.

‘We need to talk, Mr Rebus.’ His hands were deep in the
pockets of a tweed coat meant for someone eight inches taller. He glanced towards the tenement door.

‘Not in my flat,’ Rebus stated. Some things were sacrosanct.