by Ian Rankin
Rebus and Claverhouse shared a look.
‘We can’t hold her, John, not if she wants to leave. It’s been dodgy enough keeping her away from a lawyer. Once she starts asking to go . . .’ He shrugged.
‘Come on, man,’ Rebus hissed, ‘she’s shit-scared, and with good reason. And now you’ve got all you’re going to get out of her, you’re just going to hand her back to Telford?’
‘Look, it’s not a question of –’
‘He’ll kill her, you know he will.’
‘If he was going to kill her, she’d be dead.’ Claverhouse paused. ‘He’s cleverer than that. He knows damned well all he had to do was give her a fright. He knows her. It sticks in my craw, too, but what can we do?’
‘Just keep her a few days, see if we can’t . . .’
‘Can’t what? You want to hand her over to Immigration?’
‘It’s an idea. Get her the hell away from here.’
Claverhouse pondered this, then turned to Colquhoun. ‘Ask her if she wants to go back to Sarajevo.’
Colquhoun asked. She slurred some answer, choking back tears.
‘She says if she goes back, they’ll kill everyone.’
Silence in the room. They were all looking at her. Four men, men with jobs, family ties, men with lives of their own. In the scheme of things, they seldom realised how well off they were. And now they realised something else: how helpless they were.
‘Tell her,’ Claverhouse said quietly, ‘she’s free to walk out of here at any time, if that’s what she really wants. If she stays, we’ll do our damnedest to help her . . .’
So Colquhoun spoke to her, and she listened, and when he’d finished she pushed herself back on to her feet and looked at them. Then she wiped her nose on her bandages, pushed the hair out of her eyes, and walked to the door.
‘Don’t go, Candice,’ Rebus said.
She half-turned towards him. ‘Okay,’ she said.
Then she opened the door and was gone.
Rebus grabbed Claverhouse’s arm. ‘We’ve got to pull Telford in, warn him not to touch her.’
‘You think he needs telling?’
‘You think he’d listen?’ Ormiston added.
‘I can’t believe this. He scared her half to death, and as a result we let her walk? I really can’t get my head round this.’
‘She could always have gone to Fife,’ Colquhoun said. With Candice out of the room, he seemed to have perked up a bit.
‘Bit late now,’ Ormiston said.
‘He beat us this time, that’s all,’ Claverhouse said, his eyes on Rebus. ‘But we’ll take him down, don’t worry.’ He managed a thin, humourless smile. ‘Don’t think we’re giving up, John. It’s not our style. Early days yet, pal. Early days . . .’
She was waiting for him out in the car park, standing by the passenger-door of his battered Saab 900.
‘Okay?’ she said.
‘Okay,’ he agreed, smiling with relief as he unlocked the car. He could think of only one place to take her. As he drove through The Meadows, she nodded, recognising the tree-lined playing fields.
‘You’ve been here before?’
She said a few words, nodded again as Rebus turned into Arden Street. He parked the car and turned to her.
‘You’ve been here?’
She pointed upwards, fingers curled into the shape of binoculars.
‘With Telford?’
‘Telford,’ she said. She made a show of writing something down, and Rebus took out his notebook and pen, handed them over. She drew a teddy bear.
‘You came in Telford’s car?’ Rebus interpreted. ‘And he watched one of the flats up there?’ He pointed to his own flat.
‘Yes, yes.’
‘When was this?’ She didn’t understand the question. ‘I need a phrasebook,’ he muttered. Then he opened his door, got out and looked around. The cars around him were all empty. No Range Rovers. He signalled for Candice to get out and follow him.
She seemed to like his living-room, went straight to the record collection but couldn’t find anything she recognised. Rebus went into the kitchen to make coffee and to think. He couldn’t keep her here, not if Telford knew about the place. Telford . . . why had he been watching Rebus’s flat? The answer was obvious: he knew the detective was linked to Cafferty, and therefore a potential threat. He thought Rebus was in Cafferty’s pocket. Know your enemy: it was another rule Telford had learned.
Rebus phoned a contact from the Scotland on Sunday business section.
‘Japanese companies,’ Rebus said. ‘Rumours pertaining to.’
‘Can you narrow that down?’
‘New sites around Edinburgh, maybe Livingston.’
Rebus could hear the reporter shuffling papers on his desk. ‘There’s a whisper going round about a microprocessor plant.’
‘In Livingston?’
‘That’s one possibility.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nope. Why the interest?’
‘Cheers, Tony.’ Rebus put down the receiver, looked across at Candice. He couldn’t think where else to take her. Hotels weren’t safe. One place came to mind, but it would be risky . . . Well, not so very risky. He made the call.
‘Sammy?’ he said. ‘Any chance you could do me a favour . . . ?’
Sammy lived in a ‘colonies’ flat in Shandon. Parking was almost impossible on the narrow street outside. Rebus got as close as he could.
Sammy was waiting for them in the narrow hallway, and led them into the cramped living-room. There was a guitar on a wicker chair and Candice lifted it, setting herself on the chair and strumming a chord.
‘Sammy,’ Rebus said, ‘this is Candice.’
‘Hello there,’ Sammy said. ‘Happy Halloween.’ Candice was putting chords together now. ‘Hey, that’s Oasis.’
Candice looked up, smiled. ‘Oasis,’ she echoed.
‘I’ve got the CD somewhere . . .’ Sammy examined a tower of CDs next to the hi-fi. ‘Here it is. Shall I put it on?’
‘Yes, yes.’
Sammy switched the hi-fi on, told Candice she was going to make some coffee, and beckoned for Rebus to follow her into the kitchen.
‘So who is she?’ The kitchen was tiny. Rebus stayed in the doorway.
‘She’s a prostitute. Against her will. I don’t want her pimp getting her.’
‘Where’s she from again?’
‘Sarajevo.’
‘And she doesn’t have much English?’
‘How’s your Serbo-Croat?’
‘Rusty.’
Rebus looked around. ‘Where’s your boyfriend?’
‘Out working.’
‘On the book?’ Rebus didn’t like Ned Farlowe. Partly it was that name: ‘Neds’ were what the Sunday Post called hooligans. They robbed old ladies of their pension books and walking-frames. Those were the Neds of this world. And Farlowe meant Chris Farlowe: ‘Out of Time’, a number one that should have belonged to the Stones. Farlowe was researching a history of organised crime in Scotland.
‘Sod’s law,’ Sammy said. ‘He needs money to buy the time to write the thing.’
‘So what’s he doing?’
‘Just some freelance stuff. How long am I babysitting?’
‘A couple of days at most. Just till I find somewhere else.’
‘What will he do if he finds her?’
‘I’m not that keen to find out.’
Sammy finished rinsing the mugs. ‘She looks like me, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes, she does.’
‘I’ve got some time off coming. Maybe I’ll phone in, see if I can stay here with her. What’s her real name?’
‘She hasn’t told me.’
‘Has she any clothes?’
‘At a hotel. I’ll get a patrol car to bring them.’
‘She’s really in danger?’
‘She might be.’
Sammy looked at him. ‘But I’m not?’
‘No,’ her father said. ‘Because it’ll
be our secret.’
‘And what do I tell Ned?’
‘Keep it short, just say you’re doing your dad a favour.’
‘You think a journalist’s going to be content with that?’
‘If he loves you.’
The kettle boiled, clicked off. Sammy poured water into three mugs. Through in the living-room, Candice’s interest had shifted to a pile of American comic books.
Rebus drank his coffee, then left them to their music and their comics. Instead of going home, he made for Young Street and the Ox, ordering a mug of instant. Fifty pee. Pretty good deal, when you thought about it. Fifty pence for . . . what, half a pint? A pound a pint? Cheap at twice the price. Well, one-point-seven times the price, which would take it to the price of a beer . . . give or take.
Not that Rebus was counting.
The back room was quiet, just somebody scribbling away at the table nearest the fire. He was a regular, a journalist of some kind. Rebus thought of Ned Farlowe, who would want to know about Candice, but if anyone could keep him at bay, Sammy could. Rebus took out his mobile, phoned Colquhoun’s office.
‘Sorry to bother you again,’ he said.
‘What is it now?’ The lecturer sounded thoroughly exasperated.
‘Those refugees you mentioned. Any chance you could have a word with them?’
‘Well, I . . .’ Colquhoun cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I suppose I could talk to them. Does that mean . . .?’
‘Candice is safe.’
‘I don’t have their number here.’ Colquhoun sounded fuddled again. ‘Can it wait till I go home?’
‘Phone me when you’ve talked to them. And thanks.’
Rebus rang off, finished his coffee, and called Siobhan Clarke at home.
‘I need a favour,’ he said, feeling like a broken record.
‘How much trouble will it get me in?’
‘Almost none.’
‘Can I have that in writing?’
‘Think I’m stupid?’ Rebus smiled. ‘I want to see the files on Telford.’
‘Why not just ask Claverhouse?’
‘I’d rather ask you.’
‘It’s a lot of stuff. Do you want photocopies?’
‘Whatever.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Voices were raised in the front bar. ‘You’re not in the Ox, are you?’
‘As it happens, yes.’
‘Drinking?’
‘A mug of coffee.’
She laughed in disbelief and told him to take care. Rebus ended the call and stared at his mug. People like Siobhan Clarke, they could drive a man to drink.
7
It was 7 a.m. when the buzzer sounded, telling him there was someone at his tenement’s main door. He staggered along the hall to the intercom, and asked who the bloody hell it was.
‘The croissant man,’ a rough English voice replied.
‘The what?’
‘Come on, dick-brain, wakey-wakey. Memory’s not so hot these days, eh?’
A name tilted into Rebus’s head. ‘Abernethy?’
‘Now open up, it’s perishing down here.’
Rebus pushed the buzzer to let Abernethy in, then jogged back to the bedroom to put on some clothes. His mind felt numb. Abernethy was a DI in Special Branch, London. The last time he’d been in Edinburgh had been to chase terrorists. Rebus wondered what the hell he was doing here now.
When the doorbell sounded, Rebus tucked in his shirt and walked back down the hall. True to his word, Abernethy was carrying a bag of croissants. He hadn’t changed much: same faded denims and black leather bomber, same cropped brown hair spiked with gel. His face was heavy, pockmarked, and his eyes an unnerving, psychopath’s blue.
‘How’ve you been, mate?’ Abernethy slapped Rebus’s shoulder and marched past him into the kitchen. ‘Get the kettle on then.’ Like they did this every day of the week. Like they didn’t live four hundred miles apart.
‘Abernethy, what the hell are you doing here?’
‘Feeding you, of course, same thing the English have always done for the Jocks. Got any butter?’
‘Try the butter-dish.’
‘Plates?’
Rebus pointed to a cupboard.
‘Bet you drink instant: am I right?’
‘Abernethy . . .’
‘Let’s get this ready first, then talk, okay?’
‘The kettle boils quicker if you switch it on at the plug.’
‘Right.’
‘And I think there’s some jam.’
‘Any honey?’
‘Do I look like a bee?’
Abernethy smirked. ‘Old Georgie Flight sends his love, by the way. Word is, he’ll be retiring soon.’
George Flight: another ghost from Rebus’s past. Abernethy had unscrewed the top from the coffee jar and was sniffing the granules.
‘How fresh is this?’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘No class, John.’
‘Unlike you, you mean? When did you get here?’
‘Hit town half an hour ago.’
‘From London?’
‘Stopped a couple of hours in a lay-by, got my head down. That A1 is murder though. North of Newcastle, it’s like coming into a third-world country.’
‘Did you drive four hundred miles just to insult me?’
They took everything through to the table in the living-room, Rebus shoving aside books and notepads, stuff about the Second World War.
‘So,’ he said, as they sat down, ‘I’m assuming this isn’t a social call?’
‘Actually it is, in a way. I could have just telephoned, but I suddenly thought: wonder how the old devil’s getting on? Next thing I knew, I was in the car and heading for the North Circular.’
‘I’m touched.’
‘I’ve always tried to keep track of what you’re up to.’
‘Why?’
‘Because last time we met . . . well, you’re different, aren’t you?’
‘Am I?’
‘I mean, you’re not a team player. You’re a loner, bit like me. Loners can be useful.’
‘Useful?’
‘For undercover, jobs that are a bit out of the ordinary.’
‘You think I’m Special Branch material?’
‘Ever fancied moving to London? It’s where the action is.’
‘I get action enough up here.’
Abernethy looked out of the window. ‘You couldn’t wake this place with a fifty-megaton warhead.’
‘Look, Abernethy, not that I’m not enjoying your company or anything, but why are you here?’
Abernethy brushed crumbs from his hands. ‘So much for the social niceties.’ He took a gulp of coffee, squirmed at its awfulness. ‘War Crimes,’ he said. Rebus stopped chewing. ‘There’s a new list of names. You know that, because you’ve got one of them living on your doorstep.’
‘So?’
‘So I’m heading up the London HQ. We’ve established a temporary War Crimes Unit. My job’s to collate gen on the various investigations, create a central register.’
‘You want to know what I know?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘And you drove through the night to find out? There’s got to be more to it.’
Abernethy laughed. ‘Why’s that?’
‘There just has. A collator’s job is for someone good at office work. That’s not you, you’re only happy in the field.’
‘What about you? I’d never have taken you for a historian.’ Abernethy tapped one of the books on the table.
‘It’s a penance.’
‘What makes you think it’s any different with me? So, what’s the score with Herr Lintz?’
‘There’s no score. So far all the darts have missed the board. How many cases are there?’
‘Twenty-seven originally, but eight of those are deceased.’
‘Any progress?’
Abernethy shook his head. ‘We got one to court, trial collapsed first day. Can’t prosecute if they’re ga-ga.’
‘Well,
for your information, here’s where the Lintz case stands. I can’t prove he was and is Josef Linzstek. I can’t disprove his story of his participation in the war, or how he came to Britain.’ Rebus shrugged.
‘Same tale I’ve been hearing up and down the country.’
‘What did you expect?’ Rebus was picking at a croissant.
‘Shame about this coffee,’ Abernethy said. ‘Any decent caffs in the neighbourhood?’
So they went to a café, where Abernethy ordered a double espresso, Rebus a decaf. There was a story on the front of the Record about a fatal stabbing outside a nightclub. The man reading the paper folded it up when he’d finished his breakfast and took it away with him.
‘Any chance you’ll be talking to Lintz today?’ Abernethy asked suddenly.
‘Why?’
‘Thought I might tag along. It’s not often you get to meet someone who might have killed seven hundred Frenchies.’
‘Morbid attraction?’
‘We’re all a bit that way inclined, aren’t we?’
‘I’ve nothing new to ask him,’ Rebus said, ‘and he’s already been muttering to his lawyer about harassment.’
‘He’s well-connected?’
Rebus stared across the table. ‘You’ve done your reading.’
‘Abernethy the Conscientious Cop.’
‘Well, you’re right. He has friends in high places, only a lot of them have been hiding behind the curtains since this all started.’
‘Sounds like you think he’s innocent.’
‘Until proven guilty.’
Abernethy smiled, lifted his cup. ‘There’s a Jewish historian been going around. Has he contacted you?’
‘What’s his name?’
Another smile. ‘How many Jewish historians have you been in touch with? His name’s David Levy.’
‘You say he’s been going around?’
‘A week here, a week there, asking how the cases are going.’
‘He’s in Edinburgh just now.’
Abernethy blew on his coffee. ‘So you’ve spoken with him?’
‘Yes, as it happens.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘Did he try his “Rat Line” story?’
‘Again, why the interest?’
‘He’s tried it with everyone else.’
‘What if he has?’