The Hanging Garden (35 page)

‘You’re going to be meeting him fairly shortly.’

‘Even so … say the tapes got taken from the car after it was abandoned?’

The Weasel was shaking his head. ‘That’s not how it was.’

‘Then how was it?’ He wanted to pull his tormentor down on to the ground and start hammering his skull on the pavement.

‘Give us a day or two, we’ll have everything you need.’ The wind gusted some grit towards them. They turned their faces. Rebus saw a heavy-set man loitering sixty yards behind.

‘Don’t worry,’ the Weasel said, ‘he’s with me.’

‘Getting jittery?’

‘After Paisley, Telford’s out for blood.’

‘What do you know about Paisley?’

The Weasel’s eyes became slits. ‘Nothing.’

‘No? Cafferty’s beginning to suspect some of his own men might have gone rogue.’ Rebus watched the Weasel shake his head.

‘I don’t know the first thing about it.’

‘Who’s your boss’s main man?’

‘Ask Mr Cafferty.’ The Weasel was looking around, as if bored by the conversation. He made a signal to the backmarker,
who passed it along. Seconds later, a newish Jaguar – arterial-red paint-job – cruised to a stop beside them. Rebus saw: a driver itching for a less sedentary occupation; cream leather interior; the back-marker jogging forwards, opening the door for the Weasel.

‘It’s you,’ Rebus said. The Weasel: Cafferty’s eyes and ears on the street; the man with the look and dress-code of a down-and-out. The Weasel was running the show. All the lieutenants in the various outposts … all the tailor-made suits … the collective which, according to police intelligence, ran Cafferty’s kingdom in their master’s absence … they were a smokescreen. The hunched man pulling off his lumberjack hat, the man with bad teeth and a blunt razor,
he
was in charge.

Rebus actually laughed. The bodyguard got into the car’s passenger seat, having made sure his boss was comfortable in the back. Rebus tapped on the window. The Weasel lowered it.

‘Tell me,’ Rebus asked, ‘have you got the bottle to wrest it away from him?’

‘Mr Cafferty trusts me. He knows I’ll do right by him.’

‘What about Telford?’

The Weasel stared at him. ‘Telford’s not my concern.’

‘Then who is?’

But the window was rising again, and the Weasel – Cafferty had called him Jeffries – had turned his face away, dismissing Rebus from his mind.

He stood there, watching the car drive off. Was Cafferty making a big mistake, putting the Weasel in charge? Was it just that his best men had scarpered or gone over to the other side?

Or was the Weasel every bit as sly, clever and vicious as his namesake?

Back at the station, Rebus sought out Bill Pryde. Pryde was
shrugging his shoulders even before Rebus had reached his desk.

‘Sorry, John, no news.’

‘Nothing at all? What about the stolen tapes?’ Pryde shook his head. ‘That’s funny, I’ve just been talking to someone who claims to know who sold them on, and who
he
got them from.’

Pryde sat back in his chair. ‘I wondered why you hadn’t been chasing me up. What’ve you done, hired a private eye?’ Blood was rising to his face. ‘I’ve been working my arse off on this, John, you know I have. Now you don’t trust me to do the job?’

‘It’s not like that, Bill.’ Rebus suddenly found himself on the defensive.

‘Who’ve you got working for you, John?’

‘Just people on the street.’

‘Well-connected people by the sound of it.’ He paused. ‘Are we talking villains?’

‘My daughter’s in a coma, Bill.’

‘I’m well aware of that. Now answer my question!’

People around them were staring. Rebus lowered his voice. ‘Just a few of my grasses.’

‘Then give me their names.’

‘Come on, Bill …’

Pryde’s hands gripped the table. ‘These past days, I’ve been thinking you’d lost interest. Thinking maybe you didn’t
want
an answer.’ He was thoughtful. ‘You wouldn’t go to Telford … Cafferty?’ His eyes widened. ‘Is that it, John?’

Rebus turned his head away.

‘Christ, John … what’s the deal here? He hands over the driver, what do
you
hand
him
?’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘I can’t believe you’d trust Cafferty. You put him away, for Christ’s sake!’

‘It’s not a question of trust.’

But Pryde was shaking his head. ‘There’s a line we don’t cross.’

‘Get a grip, Bill. There’s no line.’ Rebus spread his arms. ‘If there is, show me it.’

Pryde tapped his forehead. ‘It’s up here.’

‘Then it’s a fiction.’

‘You really believe that?’

Rebus sought an answer, slumped against the desk, ran his hands over his head. He remembered something Lintz had once said:
when we stop believing in God, we don’t suddenly believe in ‘nothing’ … we believe anything
.

‘John?’ someone called. ‘Phone call.’

Rebus stared at Pryde. ‘Later,’ he said. He walked across to another desk, took the call.

‘Rebus here.’

‘It’s Bobby.’ Bobby Hogan.

‘What can I do for you, Bobby?’

‘For a start, you can help get that Special Branch arsehole off my back.’

‘Abernethy?’

‘He won’t leave me alone.’

‘Keeps phoning you?’

‘Christ, John, aren’t you listening? He’s
here
.’

‘When did he get in?’

‘He never went away.’

‘Whoah, hold on.’

‘And he’s driving me round the twist. He says he knows you from way back, so how about having a word?’

‘Are you at Leith?’

‘Where else?’

‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

‘I got so pissed off, I went to my boss – and that’s something I seldom have to resort to.’ Bobby Hogan was
drinking coffee like it was something best taken intravenously. The top button of his shirt was undone, tie hanging loose.

‘Only,’ he went on, ‘
his
boss had a word with my
boss’s
boss, and I ended up with a warning: co-operate or else.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I wasn’t to tell anyone he was still around.’

‘Thanks, pal. So what’s he actually doing?’

‘What
isn’t
he doing? He wants to be in on any interviews. He wants copies of tapes and transcripts. He wants to see all the paperwork, wants to know what I’m planning to do next, what I had for breakfast …’

‘I don’t suppose he’s managing to be helpful in any shape or form?’

Hogan’s look gave Rebus his answer.

‘I don’t mind him taking an interest, but this verges on the obstructive. He’s slowing the case to a dead stop.’

‘Maybe that’s his plan.’

Hogan looked up from his cup. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘Neither do I. Look, if he’s being obstructive, let’s put on a show, see how he reacts.’

‘What sort of show?’

‘What time will he be in?’

Hogan checked his watch. ‘Half an hour or so. That’s when my work stops for the day, while I fill him in.’

‘Half an hour’s enough. Mind if I use your phone?’

When Abernethy arrived, he didn’t manage not to look surprised. The space put aside for the investigation – Hogan’s space – now contained three bodies, and they were working at the devil’s own pace.

Hogan was on the telephone to a librarian. He was asking for a run-down of books and articles about the ‘Rat Line’. Rebus was sorting through paperwork, putting it in order, cross-referencing, laying aside anything he didn’t think useful. And Siobhan Clarke was there, too. She appeared to be on the phone to some Jewish organisation, and was asking them about lists of war criminals. Rebus nodded towards Abernethy, but kept on working.

‘What’s going on?’ Abernethy asked, taking off his raincoat.

‘Helping out. Bobby’s got so many leads to work on …’ He nodded towards Siobhan. ‘And Crime Squad are interested, too.’

‘Since when?’

Rebus waved a piece of paper. ‘This might be bigger than we think.’

Abernethy looked around. He wanted to speak to Hogan, but Hogan was still on the phone. Rebus was the only one with time to talk.

Which was just the way Rebus had planned it.

He’d only had five minutes in which to brief Siobhan, but she was a born actress, even holding a conversation with the dialling tone. Hogan’s fantasy librarian, meantime,
was asking him all the right questions. And Abernethy was looking glazed.

‘What do you mean?’

‘In fact,’ Rebus said, putting down a file, ‘you might be able to help.’

‘How?’

‘You’re Special Branch, and Special Branch has access to the secret services.’ Rebus paused. ‘Right?’

Abernethy licked his lips and shrugged.

‘See,’ Rebus went on, ‘we’re beginning to wonder something. There could be a dozen reasons why someone would want to kill Joseph Lintz, but the one we’ve been practically ignoring’ (ignoring at Abernethy’s suggestion, according to Hogan) ‘is the one that just might provide the answer. I’m talking about the Rat Line. What if Lintz’s murder had something to do with that?’

‘How could it?’

It was Rebus’s turn to shrug. ‘That’s why we need your help. We need any and all information we can get on the Rat Line.’

‘But it never existed.’

‘Funny, a lot of books seem to say it did.’

‘They’re wrong.’

‘Then there are all these survivors … except they haven’t survived. Suicides, car crashes, a fall from a window. Lintz is just one of a long line of dead men.’

Siobhan Clarke and Bobby Hogan had finished their calls and were listening.

‘You’re climbing the wrong tree,’ Abernethy said.

‘Well, you know, if you’re in a forest, climbing any tree will give you a better view.’

‘There is no Rat Line.’

‘You’re an expert?’

‘I’ve been collating …’

‘Yes, yes, all the investigations. And how far have you got? Is any one of them going to make it to trial?’

‘It’s too early to tell.’

‘And soon it may be too late. These men aren’t getting any younger. I’ve seen the same thing all around Europe: delay the trial until the defendants are so old they snuff it or go doolally. Result’s the same: no trial.’

‘Look, this has nothing to do with …’

‘Why are you here, Abernethy? Why did you come up that time to speak to Lintz?’

‘Look, Rebus, it’s not …’

‘If you can’t tell us, talk to your boss. Get
him
to do it. Otherwise, the way we’re digging, we’re bound to throw up an old bone sooner or later.’

Abernethy stood back a pace. ‘I think I get it,’ he said. And he began to smile. ‘You’re trying to stiff me.’ He was looking at Hogan. ‘That’s what this is.’

‘Not at all,’ Rebus answered. ‘What I’m saying is: we’ll redouble our efforts. We’ll sniff into every little corner. The Rat Line, the Vatican, turning Nazis into cold war spies for the allies … it could all count as evidence. The other men on your list, the other suspects … we’ll need to talk to all of them, see if they knew Joseph Lintz. Maybe they met him on the trip over.’

Abernethy was shaking his head. ‘I’m not going to let you do that.’

‘You’re going to obstruct the investigation?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

‘No, but it’s what you’ll
do
.’ Rebus paused. ‘If you think we’re climbing the wrong tree – and, incidentally, that should be
barking up
– go ahead and prove it. Give us everything you’ve got on Lintz’s past.’

Abernethy’s eyes were fierce.

‘Or we go on digging and sniffing.’ Rebus opened another file, lifted out the first sheet. Hogan picked up his
telephone, made another call. Siobhan Clarke looked at a list of numbers and chose one.

‘Hello, is that the City Synagogue?’ Hogan was saying. ‘Yes, it’s Detective Inspector Hogan here, Leith CID. Do you by any chance have information on a Joseph Lintz?’

Abernethy grabbed his coat, turned on his heels and left. They waited thirty seconds, then Hogan put the receiver down.

‘He looked nettled.’

‘That’s one Christmas wish I can chalk off,’ Siobhan Clarke said.

‘Thanks for your time, Siobhan,’ Rebus said.

‘Happy to oblige. But why did it have to be me?’

‘Because he knows you’re Crime Squad. I wanted him to think interest was escalating. And because the two of you didn’t exactly hit it off last time you met. Antagonism always helps.’

‘And what did we accomplish?’ Bobby Hogan asked, beginning to gather together the files, half of which belonged to other cases.

‘We rattled his cage,’ Rebus said. ‘He’s not up here for the good of his health – or yours, come to that. He’s here because Special Branch in London want to know all about the investigation. And to me, that means they’re scared of something.’

‘The Rat Line?’

‘That would be my guess. Abernethy’s been keeping an eye on all the new cases nationwide. Someone in London is getting a bit sweaty.’

‘They’re worried this Rat Line will connect to whoever killed Lintz?’

‘I’m not sure it goes that far,’ Rebus said.

‘Meaning?’

He looked at Clarke. ‘Meaning I’m not sure it goes that far.’

‘Well,’ Hogan said, ‘looks like he’s off my back for a little while at least, for which I’m grateful.’ He got to his feet. ‘Get anyone a coffee?’

Clarke checked her watch. ‘Go on then.’

Rebus waited till Hogan was gone, then thanked Siobhan again. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be able to spare the time.’

‘We’re giving Jack Morton a wide berth,’ she explained. ‘Nothing to do but bite our fingernails and wait. What about you, what are you up to?’

‘Keeping my nose clean.’

She smiled. ‘I’ll bet.’

Hogan came back with three coffees. ‘Powdered milk, sorry.’

Clarke wrinkled her nose. ‘Actually, I’ve got to be getting back.’ She stood up and put on her coat.

‘That’s one I owe you,’ Hogan said, shaking her hand.

‘I won’t let you forget.’ She turned to Rebus. ‘See you later.’

‘Cheers, Siobhan.’

Hogan put her cup beside his own. ‘So we got Abernethy off my back, but did we get anything else?’

‘Wait and see, Bobby. I didn’t exactly have much time to devise a strategy.’

The phone rang, just as Hogan took a mouthful of scalding coffee. Rebus picked up.