by Ian Rankin
‘God bless the child.’
‘For sleeping beauty, some of my clothes. They’ll do till the shops open.’
Rebus was already biting into the first sandwich. Cheese salad on white bread had never tasted finer.
‘How am I getting home?’ he asked.
‘I called you a cab.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’ll be here in two minutes.’
‘What would I do without you?’
‘It’s a toss-up: either freeze to death or starve.’ She closed the window. ‘Now go on, get out of here.’
He looked at Candice one last time, almost wanting to wake her to let her know he wasn’t leaving for good. But she was sleeping so soundly, and Siobhan could take care of everything.
So he tucked the second sandwich into his pocket, tossed the room-key on to the sofa, and left.
Four-thirty. The taxi was idling outside. Rebus felt hungover. He went through a mental list of all the places he could get a drink at this time of night. He didn’t know how many days it had been since he’d had a drink. He wasn’t counting.
He gave his address to the cabbie, and settled back, thinking again of Candice, so soundly asleep, and protected for now. And of Sammy, too old now to need anything from her father. She’d be asleep too, snuggling into Ned Farlowe. Sleep was innocence. Even the city looked innocent in sleep. He looked at the city sometimes and saw a beauty his cynicism couldn’t touch. Someone in a bar – recently? years back? – had challenged him to define romance. How could he do that? He’d seen too much of love’s obverse: people killed for passion and from lack of it. So that now when he saw beauty, he could do little but respond to it with the realisation that it would fade or be brutalised. He saw lovers in Princes Street Gardens and imagined them further down the road, at the crossroads where betrayal and conflict met. He saw valentines in the shops and imagined puncture wounds, real hearts bleeding.
Not that he’d voiced any of this to his public bar inquisitor.
‘Define romance,’ had been the challenge. And Rebus’s response? He’d picked up a fresh pint of beer and kissed the glass.
He slept till nine, showered and made some coffee. Then he phoned the hotel, and Siobhan assured him all was well.
‘She was a bit startled when she woke up and saw me instead of you. Kept saying your name. I told her she’d see you again.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘Shopping – one quick swoop on The Gyle. After that, Fettes. Dr Colquhoun’s coming in at noon for an hour. We’ll see what we get.’
Rebus was at his window, looking down on a damp Arden Street. ‘Take care of her, Siobhan.’
‘No problem.’
Rebus knew there’d be no problem, not with Siobhan. This was her first real action with the Crime Squad, she’d be doing her damnedest to make it a success. He was in the kitchen when the phone rang.
‘Is that Inspector Rebus?’
‘Who’s speaking?’ A voice he didn’t recognise.
‘Inspector, my name is David Levy. We’ve never met. I apologise for calling you at home. I was given this number by Matthew Vanderhyde.’
Old man Vanderhyde: Rebus hadn’t seen him in a while.
‘Yes?’
‘I must say, I was astonished when it transpired he knew you.’ The voice was tinged with a dry humour. ‘But by now nothing about Matthew should surprise me. I went to him because he knows Edinburgh.’
‘Yes?’
Laughter on the line. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I can’t blame you for being suspicious when I’ve made such a mess of the introductions. I am a historian by profession. I’ve been contacted by Solomon Mayerlink to see if I might offer assistance.’
Mayerlink . . . Rebus knew the name. Placed it: Mayerlink ran the Holocaust Investigation Bureau.
‘And exactly what “assistance” does Mr Mayerlink think I need?’
‘Perhaps we could discuss it in person, Inspector. I’m staying in a hotel on Charlotte Square.’
‘The Roxburghe?’
‘Could we meet there? This morning, ideally.’
Rebus looked at his watch. ‘An hour?’ he suggested.
‘Perfect. Goodbye, Inspector.’
Rebus called into the office, told them where he’d be.
5
They sat in the Roxburghe’s lounge, Levy pouring coffee. An elderly couple in the far corner, beside the window, pored over sections of newspaper. David Levy was elderly, too. He wore black-rimmed glasses and had a small silver beard. His hair was a silver halo around a scalp the colour of tanned leather. His eyes seemed constantly moist, as if he’d just chewed on an onion. He sported a dun-coloured safari suit with blue shirt and tie beneath. His walking-stick rested against his chair. Now retired, he’d worked in Oxford, New York State, Tel Aviv itself, and several other locations around the globe.
‘I never came into contact with Joseph Lintz, however. No reason why I should, our interests being different.’
‘So why does Mr Mayerlink think you can help me?’
Levy put the coffee pot back on its tray. ‘Milk? Sugar?’ Rebus shook his head to both, then repeated his question.
‘Well, Inspector,’ Levy said, tipping two spoonfuls of sugar into his own cup, ‘it’s more a matter of moral support.’
‘Moral support?’
‘You see, many people before you have been in the same position in which you now find yourself. I’m talking about objective people, professionals with no axe to grind, and no real stake in the investigation.’
Rebus bristled. ‘If you’re suggesting I’m not doing my job . . .’
A pained look crossed Levy’s face. ‘Please, Inspector, I’m not making a very good job of this, am I? What I mean is that there will be times when you will doubt the validity of what you are doing. You’ll doubt its worth.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Perhaps you’ve already had doubts?’
Rebus said nothing. He had a drawerful of doubts, especially now that he had a real, living, breathing case – Candice. Candice, who might lead to Tommy Telford.
‘You could say I’m here as your conscience, Inspector.’ Levy winced again. ‘No, I didn’t put that right, either. You already have a conscience, that’s not under debate.’ He sighed. ‘The question you’ve no doubt been pondering is the same one I’ve asked myself on occasions: can time wash away responsibility? For me, the answer would have to be no. The thing is this, Inspector.’ Levy leaned forward. ‘You are not investigating the crimes of an old man, but those of a young man who now happens to be old. Focus your mind on that. There have been investigations before, half-hearted affairs. Governments wait for these men to die rather than have to try them. But each investigation is an act of remembrance, and remembrance is never wasted. Remembrance is the only way we learn.’
‘Like we’ve learned with Bosnia?’
‘You’re right, Inspector, as a species we’ve always been slow to take in lessons. Sometimes they have to be hammered home.’
‘And you think I’m your carpenter? Were there Jews in Villefranche?’ Rebus couldn’t remember reading of any.
‘Does it matter?’
‘I’m just wondering, why the interest?’
‘To be honest, Inspector, there is a slight ulterior motive.’ Levy sipped coffee, considering his words. ‘The Rat Line. We’d like to show that it existed, that it operated to save Nazis from possible tormentors.’ He paused. ‘That it worked with the tacit approval – the more than tacit approval – of several western governments and even the Vatican. It’s a question of general complicity.’
‘What you want is for everyone to feel guilty?’
‘We want recognition, Inspector. We want the truth. Isn’t that what you want? Matthew Vanderhyde would have me believe it is your guiding principle.’
‘He doesn’t know me very well.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Meantime, there are people out there who want the truth to stay hidden.’
‘The truth being . . .?’
> ‘That known war criminals were brought back to Britain – and elsewhere – and offered new lives, new identities.’
‘In exchange for what?’
‘The Cold War was starting, Inspector. You know the old saying: My enemy’s enemy is my friend. These murderers were protected by the secret services. Military Intelligence offered them jobs. There are people who would rather this did not become general knowledge.’
‘So?’
‘So a trial, an open trial, would expose them.’
‘You’re warning me about spooks?’
Levy put his hands together, almost in an attitude of prayer. ‘Look, I’m not sure this has been a completely satisfactory meeting, and for that I apologise. I’ll be staying here for a few days, maybe longer if necessary. Could we try this again?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, think about it, won’t you?’ Levy extended his right hand. Rebus took it. ‘I’ll be right here, Inspector. Thank you for seeing me.’
‘Take care, Mr Levy.’
‘Shalom, Inspector.’
At his desk, Rebus could still feel Levy’s handshake. Surrounded by the Villefranche files, he felt like the curator of some museum visited only by specialists and cranks. Evil had been done in Villefranche, but had Joseph Lintz been responsible? And even if he had, had he perhaps atoned during the past half-century? Rebus phoned the Procurator-Fiscal’s office to let them know how little progress he was making. They thanked him for calling. Then he went to see the Farmer.
‘Come in, John, what can I do for you?’
‘Sir, did you know the Crime Squad had set up a surveillance on our patch?’
‘You mean Flint Street?’
‘So you know about it?’
‘They keep me informed.’
‘Who’s acting as liaison?’
The Farmer frowned. ‘As I say, John, they keep me informed.’
‘So there’s no liaison at street level?’ The Farmer stayed silent. ‘By rights there should be, sir.’
‘What are you getting at, John?’
‘I want the job.’
The Farmer stared at his desk. ‘You’re busy on Villefranche.’
‘I want the job, sir.’
‘John, liaison means diplomacy. It’s never been your strongest suit.’
So Rebus explained about Candice, and how he was already tied into the case. ‘And since I’m already in, sir,’ he concluded, ‘I might as well act as liaison.’
‘What about Villefranche?’
‘That remains a priority, sir.’
The Farmer looked into his eyes. Rebus didn’t blink. ‘All right then,’ he said at last.
‘You’ll let Fettes know?’
‘I’ll let them know.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Rebus turned to leave.
‘John . . .?’ The Farmer was standing behind his desk. ‘You know what I’m going to say.’
‘You’re going to tell me not to tread on too many toes, not to go off on my own little crusade, to keep in regular contact with you, and not betray your trust in me. Does that just about do it, sir?’
The Farmer shook his head, smiling. ‘Bugger off,’ he said.
Rebus buggered off.
When he walked into the room, Candice rose so quickly from her chair that it fell to the floor. She came forward and gave him a hug, while Rebus looked at the faces around them – Ormiston, Claverhouse, Dr Colquhoun, and a WPC.
They were in an Interview Room at Fettes, Lothian and Borders Police HQ. Colquhoun was wearing the same suit as the previous day and the same nervous look. Ormiston was picking up Candice’s chair. He’d been standing against one wall. Claverhouse was seated at the table beside Colquhoun, a pad of paper in front of him, pen poised above it.
‘She says she’s happy to see you,’ Colquhoun translated.
‘I’d never have guessed.’ Candice was wearing new clothes: denims too long for her and turned up four inches at the ankle; a black woollen v-neck jumper. Her skiing jacket was hanging over the back of her chair.
‘Get her to sit down again, will you?’ Claverhouse said. ‘We’re pushed for time.’
There was no chair for Rebus, so he stood next to Ormiston and the WPC. Candice went back to the story she’d been telling, but glanced regularly towards him. He noticed that beside Claverhouse’s pad of paper sat a brown folder and an A4-sized envelope. On top of the envelope sat a black and white surveillance shot of Tommy Telford.
‘This man,’ Claverhouse asked, tapping the photo, ‘she knows him?’
Colquhoun asked, then listened to her answer. ‘She . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘She hasn’t had any direct dealings with him.’ Her two-minute commentary reduced to this. Claverhouse dipped into the envelope, spread more photos before her. Candice tapped one of them.
‘Pretty-Boy,’ Claverhouse said. He picked up the photo of Telford again. ‘But she’s had dealings with this man, too?’
‘She’s . . .’ Colquhoun mopped his face. ‘She’s saying something about Japanese people . . . Oriental businessmen.’
Rebus shared a look with Ormiston, who shrugged.
‘Where was this?’ Claverhouse asked.
‘In a car . . . more than one car. You know, a sort of convoy.’
‘She was in one of the cars?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did they go?’
‘They headed out of town, stopping once or twice.’
‘Juniper Green,’ Candice said, quite clearly.
‘Juniper Green,’ Colquhoun repeated.
‘They stopped there?’
‘No, they stopped before that.’
‘To do what?’
Colquhoun spoke with Candice again. ‘She doesn’t know. She thinks one of the drivers went into a shop for some cigarettes. The others all seemed to be looking at a building, as if they were interested in it, but not saying anything.’
‘What building?’
‘She doesn’t know.’
Claverhouse looked exasperated. She wasn’t giving him much of anything, and Rebus knew that if there was nothing she could trade, Crime Squad would dump her straight back on the street. Colquhoun was all wrong for this job, completely out of his depth.
‘Where did they go after Juniper Green?’
‘Just drove around the countryside. For two or three hours, she thinks. They would stop sometimes and get out, but just to look at the scenery. Lots of hills and . . .’ Colquhoun checked something. ‘Hills and flags.’
‘Flags? Flying from buildings?’
‘No, stuck into the ground.’
Claverhouse gave Ormiston a look of hopelessness.
‘Golf courses,’ Rebus said. ‘Try describing a golf course to her, Dr Colquhoun.’
Colquhoun did so, and she nodded agreement, beaming at Rebus. Claverhouse was looking at him, too.
‘Just a guess,’ Rebus said with a shrug. ‘Japanese businessmen, it’s what they like about Scotland.’
Claverhouse turned back to Candice. ‘Ask her if she . . . accommodated any of these men.’
Colquhoun cleared his throat again, colour flooding his cheeks as he spoke. Candice looked down at the table, moved her head in the affirmative, started to speak.
‘She says that’s why she was there. She was fooled at first. She thought maybe they just wanted a pretty woman to look at. They had a nice lunch . . . the beautiful drive . . . But then they came back into town, dropped the Japanese off at a hotel, and she was taken up to one of the hotel rooms. Three of them . . . she, as you put it yourself, DS Claverhouse, she “accommodated” three of them.’
‘Does she remember the name of the hotel?’
She didn’t.
‘Where did they have lunch?’
‘A restaurant next to flags and . . .’ Colquhoun corrected himself. ‘Next to a golf course.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Two or three weeks.’
‘And how many of them were there?’
‘Ask her how long she’s been in Edinburgh,’ Rebus asked.
Colquhoun did so. ‘She thinks maybe a month.’
‘A month working the street . . . funny we haven’t picked her up.’
‘She was put there as a punishment.’
‘For what?’ Claverhouse asked. Rebus had the answer.
‘For making herself ugly.’ He turned to Candice. ‘Ask her why she cuts herself.’
Candice looked at him and shrugged.
‘What’s your point?’ Ormiston asked.
‘She thinks the scars will deter punters. Which means she doesn’t like the life she’s been leading.’
‘And helping us is her only sure ticket out?’
‘Something like that.’
So Colquhoun asked her again, then said: ‘They don’t like that she does it. That’s why she does it.’
‘Tell her if she helps us, she won’t ever have to do anything like that again.’
Colquhoun translated, glancing at his watch.
‘Does the name Newcastle mean anything to her?’ Claverhouse asked.
Colquhoun tried the name. ‘I’ve explained to her that it’s a town in England, built on a river.’
‘Don’t forget the bridges,’ Rebus said.
Colquhoun added a few words, but Candice only shrugged. She looked upset that she was failing them. Rebus gave her another smile.
‘What about the man she worked for?’ Claverhouse asked. ‘The one before she came to Edinburgh.’
She seemed to have plenty to say about this, and kept touching her face with her fingers while she talked. Colquhoun nodded, made her stop from time to time so he could translate.
‘A big man . . . fat. He was the boss. Something about his skin . . . a birthmark maybe, certainly something distinctive. And glasses, like sunglasses but not quite.’
Rebus saw Claverhouse and Ormiston exchange another look. It was all too vague to be much use. Colquhoun checked his watch again. ‘And cars, a lot of cars. This man crashed them.’
‘Maybe he got a scar on his face,’ Ormiston offered.
‘Glasses and a scar aren’t going to get us very far,’ Claverhouse added.
‘Gentlemen,’ Colquhoun said, while Candice looked towards Rebus, ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave.’