The Hanging Garden (38 page)

‘Do you know how far away Newcastle is?’

‘A couple of hours?’

‘No distance at all by bike. Anything else I should know?’

‘Well, Telford tried the Crab in the van, but he wasn’t much good.’

‘What van?’

‘The ice-cream van.’

Rebus nearly dropped the phone. ‘Explain,’ he said.

‘Easy: Telford’s boys were selling dope from an ice-cream van. The “five-pound special”, they called it. You handed over a fiver and got back a cone or wafer with a wee plastic bag tucked inside …’

Rebus thanked Hannigan and terminated the call. Five-pound specials: Mr Taystee with his clients who ate ice-cream in all weathers. His daytime pitches: near schools. His nighttime pitches: outside Telford’s clubs. Five-pound specials on the menu, Telford taking his cut … The new Merc: Mr Taystee’s big mistake. Telford’s moneymen wouldn’t have taken long to work out their boy was skimming. Telford would have decided to turn Mr Taystee into a lesson …

It was coming together. He spun his pen, caught it, and made another call, this time to Newcastle.

‘Nice to hear from you,’ Miriam Kenworthy said. ‘Any sign of your lady friend?’

‘She’s turned up here.’

‘Great.’

‘In tow with Mr Pink Eyes.’

‘Not so great. I wondered where he’d gone.’

‘And he’s not here to see the sights.’

‘I’ll bet he isn’t.’

‘Which is really why I’m calling.’

‘Mmm?’

‘I’m just wondering if he’s ever been linked to machete attacks.’

‘Machetes? Let me think …’ She was so quiet for so long, he thought the connection had failed. ‘You know, that
does
ring a bell. Let me put it up on the screen.’ Clackety-clack of her keyboard. Rebus was biting his bottom lip, almost drawing blood.

‘God, yes,’ she said. ‘A year or so back, a battle on an estate. Rival gangs, that was the story, but everyone knew what was behind it: namely, drugs and pitch incursions.’

‘And where there’s drugs, there’s Tarawicz?’

‘There was a rumour his men were involved.’

‘And they used machetes?’

‘One of them did. His name’s Patrick Kenneth Moynihan, known to all and sundry as “PK”.’

‘Can you give me a description?’

‘I can fax you his picture. But meantime: tall, heavy build, curly black hair and a black beard.’

He wasn’t part of the Tarawicz retinue. Two of Mr Pink’s best muscle-men had been left behind in Newcastle. For safety’s sake. Rebus put PK down as one of the Paisley attackers – Cafferty again in the clear.

‘Thanks, Miriam. Listen, about that rumour …’

‘Remind me.’

‘Telford supplying Tarawicz rather than the other way round: anything to back it up?’

‘We tracked Pink Eyes and his men. A couple of jaunts to the continent, only they came back clean.’

‘Leading you up the garden path?’

‘Which made us start reassessing.’

‘Where would Telford be getting the stuff?’

‘We didn’t reassess that far.’

‘Well, thanks again …’

‘Hey, don’t leave me hanging: what’s the story?’

‘Morning Glory. Cheers, Miriam.’

Rebus went and got a coffee, put sugar in it without realising, had finished half the cup before he noticed. Tarawicz was attacking Telford. Telford was blaming Cafferty. The resulting war would destroy Cafferty and weaken Telford. Then Telford would pull off the Maclean’s break-in but be grassed up …

And Tarawicz would fill the vacuum. That had been the plan all along. Bluesbreakers: ‘Double-Crossing Time’. Christ, it was beautiful: set the two rivals against one another and wait for the carnage to end …

The prize: something Rebus didn’t yet know. There had to be something big. Tarawicz, the theory went, was sourcing his drugs not from London but from Scotland. From Tommy Telford.

What did Telford know? What was it that made
his
supply so valuable? Did it have something to do with Maclean’s? Rebus got another coffee, washed down three Paracetamol with it. His head felt ready to explode. Back at his desk, he tried Claverhouse, couldn’t get him. Paged him instead, and got an immediate call back.

‘I’m in the van,’ Claverhouse said.

‘I’ve something to tell you.’

‘What?’

Rebus wanted to know what was happening. Wanted in on the action. ‘It’s got to be face to face. Where are you parked?’

Claverhouse sounded suspicious. ‘Down from the shop.’

‘White decorator’s van?’

‘This definitely isn’t a good idea …’

‘You want to hear what I’ve got?’

‘Sell me the idea.’

‘It clears everything up,’ Rebus lied.

Claverhouse waited for more, but Rebus wasn’t obliging. Theatrical sigh: life was hard on Claverhouse.

‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ Rebus said. He put down
the phone, looked around the office. ‘Anyone got a set of overalls?’

‘Nice disguise,’ Claverhouse said, as Rebus squeezed into the front seat.

Ormiston was in the driver’s seat, plastic piece-box open in front of him. A flask of tea had been opened, steaming up the windscreen. The back of the van was full of paint-tins, brushes and other paraphernalia. A ladder was strapped to the roof, and another was leaning against the wall of the tenement beside which the van had been parked. Claverhouse and Ormiston were in white overalls, daubed with swatches of old paint. The best Rebus could come up with was a blue boilersuit, tight at the waist and chest. He pulled the first few studs open as he settled in.

‘Anything happening?’

‘Jack’s been in twice this morning.’ Claverhouse looked towards the shop. ‘Once for ciggies and a paper, once for a can of juice and a filled roll.’

‘He doesn’t smoke.’

‘He does for this operation: perfect excuse to nip to the shop.’

‘He hasn’t given you any signal?’

‘You expecting him to put the flags out?’ Ormiston exhaled fish-paste.

‘Just asking.’ Rebus checked his watch. ‘Either of you want a break?’

‘We’re fine,’ Claverhouse said.

‘What’s Siobhan up to?’

‘Paperwork,’ Ormiston said with a smile. ‘Ever come across a woman house painter?’

‘Done much house painting yourself, Ormie?’

This brought a smile from Claverhouse. ‘So, John,’ he said, ‘what is it you’ve got for us?’

Rebus filled them in quickly, noting Claverhouse’s mounting interest.

‘So Tarawicz is planning to double-cross Telford?’ Ormiston said at the end.

Rebus shrugged. ‘That’s my guess.’

‘Then why the hell are we bothering to set up a sting? Just let them get on with it.’

‘That wouldn’t give us Tarawicz,’ Claverhouse said, his eyes slitted in concentration. ‘If he sets up Telford for a fall,
he’s
home and dry. Telford gets put away, and all we’ve done is replace one villain with another.’

‘And an altogether nastier species at that,’ Rebus said.

‘What? And Telford’s Robin Hood?’

‘No, but at least with him, we know what we’re dealing with.’

‘And the old dears in his flats love him,’ Claverhouse said.

Rebus thought of Mrs Hetherington, readying herself for her trip to Holland. The only drawback: she had to fly from Inverness … Sakiji Shoda had flown from London to Inverness …

Rebus started laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’

He shook his head, still laughing, wiping his eyes. It wasn’t funny, not really.

‘We could let Telford know what we know,’ Claverhouse said, studying Rebus. ‘Set him against Tarawicz, let them eat each other alive.’

Rebus nodded, took a deep breath. ‘That’s certainly one option.’

‘Give me another.’

‘Later,’ Rebus said. He opened the door.

‘Where are you off to?’ Claverhouse asked.

‘Got to fly.’

But in fact he was driving. A long drive, too. North through Perth and from there into the Highlands, taking a route which could be cut off during the worst of the winter. It wasn’t a bad road, but traffic was heavy. He’d get past one slow-moving lorry only to catch up with another. He knew he should be thankful for small mercies: in the summer, caravans could end up fronting mile-long tailbacks.

He did pass a couple of caravans outside Pitlochry. They were from the Netherlands. Mrs Hetherington had said it was out of season for a trip to Holland. Most people her age would go in the spring, ready to fill their senses with the bulb-fields. But not Mrs Hetherington. Telford’s offer: go when I say. Telford probably provided spending money, too. Told her to have a good time, not worry about a thing …

As he neared Inverness, Rebus hit dual carriageway again. He’d been on the road well over two hours. Sammy might be coming round again; Rhona had his mobile number. Inverness Airport was signposted from the road into town. Rebus parked and got out, stretched his legs and arched his back, feeling the vertebrae pop. He went into the terminal and asked for security. He got a small balding man with glasses and a limp. Rebus introduced himself. The man offered coffee, but Rebus was jumpy enough after the drive. Hungry though: no lunch. He gave the man his story, and eventually they tracked down a representative of
Her Majesty’s Customs. During his tour of the facilities, Rebus got the impression of a low-key operation. The Customs official was in her early thirties, rosy-cheeked and with black curly hair. There was a purple birthmark, the size of a small coin, in the middle of her forehead, looking for all the world like a third eye.

She took Rebus into the Customs area and found a room they could use for their conversation.

‘They’ve just started direct international flights,’ she said, in answer to his question. ‘It’s shocking really.’

‘Why?’

‘Because at the same time, they’ve cut back on manpower.’

‘You mean in Customs?’

She nodded.

‘You’re worried about drugs?’

‘Of course.’ She paused. ‘And everything else.’

‘Are there flights to Amsterdam?’

‘There will be.’

‘But as of now … ?’

She shrugged. ‘You can fly to London, make the connection there.’

Rebus was thoughtful. ‘There was a guy a few days ago, flew from Japan to Heathrow, then got a flight to Inverness.’

‘Did he stop off in London?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Caught the first connection.’

‘That counts as an international connection.’

‘Meaning?’

‘His luggage would be put on the plane in Japan, and he wouldn’t see it again until Inverness.’

‘So you’d be the first Customs point?’

She nodded.

‘And if his flight came in at some horrible hour …?’

She shrugged again. ‘We do what we can, Inspector.’

Yes, Rebus could imagine: a lone, bleary-eyed Customs official, wits not at their sharpest …

‘So the bags change planes at Heathrow, but no one checks them there?’

‘That’s about it.’

‘And if you were flying from Holland to Inverness via London?’

‘Same deal.’

Rebus knew now, knew the brilliance of Tommy Telford’s thinking.
He
was supplying drugs for Tarawicz, and Christ knew how many others. His little old ladies and men were bringing them in past early-morning or late-night Customs posts. How difficult would it be to slip something into a piece of luggage? Then Telford’s men would be on hand to take everyone back to Edinburgh, carry their luggage upstairs … and surreptitiously remove each package.

Old age pensioners as unwitting drugs couriers. It was stunning.

And Shoda hadn’t flown into Inverness so he could check out the local tourist amenities. He’d flown in so he could see how easy it was, what a brilliant route Telford had found, quick and efficient with a minimum of risk. Rebus had to laugh again. The Highlands had its own drugs problem these days: bored teenagers and cash-rich oil-workers. Rebus had smashed one north-east ring back in early summer, only to have Tommy Telford come along …

Cafferty would never have thought of it. Cafferty would never have been so daring. But Cafferty would have kept it quiet. He wouldn’t have sought to expand, wouldn’t have brought partners into the scheme.

Telford was still a kid in some respects. The passenger-seat teddy bear was proof of that.

Rebus thanked the Customs official and went in search of food. Parked in the middle of town and grabbed a
burger, sat at a window table and thought it all through. There were still aspects that didn’t make sense, but he could cope with that.

He made two calls: one to the hospital; one to Bobby Hogan. Sammy hadn’t woken up again. Hogan was interviewing Pretty-Boy at seven o’clock. Rebus said he’d be there.

The weather was kind on the trip south, the traffic manageable. The Saab seemed to enjoy long drives, or maybe it was just that at seventy miles an hour the engine noise disguised all the rattles and bumps.

He drove straight to Leith cop-shop, looked at his watch and found he was quarter of an hour late. Which didn’t matter, since they were just starting the interview. Pretty-Boy was there with Charles Groal, all-purpose solicitor. Hogan was sitting with another CID officer, DC James Preston. A tape-recorder had been set up. Hogan looked nervous, realising how speculative this whole venture was, especially with a lawyer present. Rebus gave him a reassuring wink and apologised for having been detained. The burger had given him indigestion, and the coffee he’d had with it had done nothing for his frayed nerves. He had to shake his head clear of Inverness and all its implications and concentrate on Pretty-Boy and Joseph Lintz.

Pretty-Boy looked calm. He was wearing a charcoal suit with a yellow t-shirt, black suede winkle-picker boots. He smelt of expensive aftershave. In front of him on the desk: a pair of tortoiseshell Ray-Bans and his car keys. Rebus knew he’d own a Range Rover – it was mandatory for Telford employees – but the key-ring boasted the Porsche marque, and on the street outside Rebus had parked behind a cobalt blue 944. Pretty-Boy showing a touch of individuality …

Groal had his briefcase open on the floor beside him. On the desk in front of him: an A4 pad of ruled paper, and a fat black Mont Blanc pen.

Lawyer and client oozed money easily made and just as easily spent. Pretty-Boy used his money to buy class, but Rebus knew his background: working-class Paisley, a granite-hard introduction to life.