by Ian Rankin
‘Jesus, do you always answer a question with a question? Look, as collator, this guy Levy’s name has popped up on my computer screen more than once. That’s why I’m interested.’
‘Abernethy the Conscientious Cop.’
‘That’s right. So shall we go see Lintz?’
‘Well, seeing you’ve come all this way . . .’
On the way back to the flat, Rebus stopped at a newsagent’s and bought the Record. The stabbing had taken place outside Megan’s Nightclub, a new establishment in Portobello. The fatality had been a ‘doorman’, William Tennant, aged 25. The story had made the front page because a Premier League footballer had been on the periphery of the incident. A friend who’d been with him had received minor cuts. The attacker had fled on a motorbike. The footballer had offered no comment to reporters. Rebus knew him. He lived in Linlithgow and a year or so back had been caught speeding in Edinburgh, with – in his own words – a ‘wee bitty Charlie’, meaning cocaine, on his person.
‘Anything interesting?’ Abernethy asked.
‘Someone killed a bouncer. Quiet little backwater, eh?’
‘A story like that, in London it wouldn’t rate a column inch.’
‘How long are you staying here?’
‘I’ll be off today, want to drop in on Carlisle. They’re supposed to have another old Nazi. After that, it’s Blackpool and Wolverhampton before home.’
‘A sucker for punishment.’
Rebus drove them the tourist route: down The Mound and across Princes Street. He double parked in Heriot Row, but Joseph Lintz wasn’t home.
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘I know where he’ll probably be.’ He took them down Inverleith Row and turned right into Warriston Gardens, stopping at the cemetery gates.
‘What is he, a gravedigger?’ Abernethy got out of the car and zipped his jacket.
‘He plants flowers.’
‘Flowers? What for?’
‘I’m not sure.’
A cemetery should have been about death, but Warriston didn’t feel that way to Rebus. Much of it resembled a rambling park into which some statuary had been dropped. The newer section, with stone driveway, soon gave way to an earthen path between fading inscriptions. There were obelisks and Celtic crosses, lots of trees and birds, and the electric movements of squirrels. A tunnel beneath a walkway took you to the oldest part of the cemetery, but between tunnel and driveway sat the heart of the place, with its roll-call of Edinburgh’s past. Names like Oven-stone, Cleugh, and Flockhart, and professions such as actuary, silk merchant, ironmonger. There were people who’d died in India, and some who’d died in infancy. A sign at the gate informed visitors that the place had been the subject of a compulsory purchase by the City of Edinburgh, because previous private owners had let it fall into neglect. But that same neglect was at least part of its charm. People walked their dogs here, or came to practise photography, or just mused among the tombstones. Gays came looking for company, others for solitude.
After dark, of course, the place had another reputation entirely. A Leith prostitute – a woman Rebus had known and liked – had been found murdered here earlier in the year. Rebus wondered if Joseph Lintz knew about that . . .
‘Mr Lintz?’
He was trimming the grass around a headstone, doing so with a half-sized pair of garden shears. There was a sheen of sweat on his face as he forced himself upright.
‘Ah, Inspector Rebus. You have brought a colleague?’
‘This is DI Abernethy.’
Abernethy was examining the headstone, which belonged to a teacher called Cosmo Merriman.
‘They let you do this?’ he asked, his eyes finally finding Lintz’s.
‘No one has tried to stop me.’
‘Inspector Rebus tells me you plant flowers, too.’
‘People assume I am a relative.’
‘But you’re not, are you?’
‘Only in so far as we are the family of man, Inspector Abernethy.’
‘You’re a Christian then?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Born and bred?’
Lintz took out a handkerchief and wiped his nose. ‘You’re wondering if a Christian could commit an atrocity like Villefranche. It’s perhaps not in my interest to say this, but I think it entirely possible. I’ve been explaining this to Inspector Rebus.’
Rebus nodded. ‘We’ve had a couple of talks.’
‘Religious belief is no defence, you see. Look at Bosnia, plenty of Catholics involved in the fighting, plenty of good Muslims, too. “Good” in that they are believers. And what they believe is that their faith gives them the right to kill.’
Bosnia: Rebus saw a sharp image of Candice escaping the terror, only to end up more terrified still, and more trapped than ever.
Lintz was stuffing the large white handkerchief into the pocket of his baggy brown cord trousers. In the outfit – green rubber overshoes, green woollen jersey, tweed jacket – he did look like a gardener. Little wonder he attracted so little attention in the cemetery. He blended in. Rebus wondered how artful it was, how deeply he’d learned the skill of invisibility.
‘You look impatient, Inspector Abernethy. You’re not a man for theories, am I right?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir.’
‘In that case, you must not know very much. Now Inspector Rebus, he listens to what I have to say. More than that, he looks interested. Whether he is or not, I can’t judge, but his performance – if performance it be – is exemplary.’ Lintz always spoke like this, like he’d been rehearsing each line. ‘Last time he visited my home, we discussed human duality. Would you have any opinion on that, Inspector Abernethy?’
The look on Abernethy’s face was cold. ‘No, sir.’
Lintz shrugged: case against the Londoner proven. ‘Atrocities, Inspector, occur by an effort of the collective will.’ Spelling it out; sounding like the lecturer he had once been. ‘Because sometimes all it takes to turn us into devils is the fear of being an outsider.’
Abernethy sniffed, hands in pockets. ‘Sounds like you’re justifying war crimes, sir. Sounds to me like you might even have been there yourself.’
‘Do I need to be a spaceman to imagine Mars?’ He turned to Rebus, gave him the fraction of a smile.
‘Well, maybe I’m just a bit too simple, sir,’ Abernethy said. ‘I’m also a bit parky. Let’s walk back to the car and carry on our discussion there, all right?’
While Lintz packed his few small tools into a canvas bag, Rebus looked around, saw movement in the distance, between headstones. The crouched figure of a man. Split-second glimpse of a face he recognised.
‘What is it?’ Abernethy asked.
Rebus shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
The three men walked in silence back to the Saab. Rebus opened the back door for Lintz. To his surprise, Abernethy got into the back, too. Rebus took the driver’s seat, felt warmth returning slowly to his toes. Abernethy had his arm along the back of the seat, his body twisted towards Lintz.
‘Now, Herr Lintz, my role in all this is quite straightforward. I’m collating all the information on this latest outbreak of alleged old Nazis. You understand that with allegations such as these, very serious allegations, we have a duty to investigate?’
‘Spurious allegations rather than “serious” ones.’
‘In which case you’ve nothing to worry about.’
‘Except my reputation.’
‘When you’re exonerated, we’ll take care of that.’
Rebus was listening closely. None of this sounded like Abernethy. The hostile graveside tone had been replaced by something much more ambiguous.
‘And meantime?’ Lintz seemed to be picking up whatever the Londoner was saying between the lines. Rebus felt deliberately excluded from the conversation, which was why Abernethy had got into the back seat in the first place. He’d placed a physical barrier between himself and the officer investigating Joseph Lintz. There was something going on.
; ‘Meantime,’ Abernethy said, ‘co-operate as fully as you can with my colleague. The sooner he’s able to reach his conclusions, the sooner this will all be over.’
‘The problem with conclusions is that they should be conclusive, and I have so little proof. This was wartime, Inspector Abernethy, a lot of records destroyed . . .’
‘Without proof either way, there’s no case to answer.’
Lintz was nodding. ‘I see,’ he said.
Abernethy hadn’t voiced anything Rebus himself didn’t feel; the problem was, he’d voiced it to the suspect.
‘It would help if your memory improved,’ Rebus felt obliged to add.
‘Well, Mr Lintz,’ Abernethy was saying, ‘thanks for your time.’ His hand was on the elderly man’s shoulder: protective, comforting. ‘Can we drop you somewhere?’
‘I’ll stay here a little longer,’ Lintz said, opening the door and easing himself out. Abernethy handed the bag of tools to him.
‘Take care now,’ he said.
Lintz nodded, gave a small bow to Rebus, and shuffled back towards the gate. Abernethy climbed into the passenger seat.
‘Rum little bugger, isn’t he?’
‘You as good as told him he was off the hook.’
‘Bollocks,’ Abernethy said. ‘I told him where he stands, let him know the score. That’s all.’ He saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘Come on, do you really want to see him in court? An old professor who keeps cemeteries tidy?’
‘It doesn’t make it any easier if you sound like you’re on his side.’
‘Even supposing he did order that massacre – you think a trial and a couple of years in clink till he snuffs it is the answer? Better to just give them all a bloody good scare, stuff the trial, and save the taxpayer millions.’
‘That’s not our job,’ Rebus said, starting the engine.
He took Abernethy back to Arden Street. They shook hands, Abernethy trying to sound like he wanted to stay a little longer.
‘One of these days,’ he said. And then he was gone. As his Sierra drew away, another car pulled into the space he’d just vacated. Siobhan Clarke got out, bringing with her a supermarket carrier-bag.
‘For you,’ she said. ‘And I think I’m owed a coffee.’
She wasn’t as fussy as Abernethy, accepted the mug of instant with thanks and ate a spare croissant. There was a message on the answering machine, Dr Colquhoun telling him the refugee family could take Candice tomorrow. Rebus jotted down the details, then turned his attention to the contents of Siobhan’s carrier-bag. Maybe two hundred sheets of paper, photocopies.
‘Don’t get them out of order,’ she warned. ‘I didn’t have time to staple them.’
‘Fast work.’
‘I went back into the office last night. Thought I’d get it done while no one was about. I can summarise, if you like.’
‘Just tell me who the main players are.’
She came to the table and pulled a chair over beside him, found a sequence of surveillance shots. Put names to the faces.
‘Brian Summers,’ she said, ‘better known as “Pretty-Boy”. He runs most of the working girls.’ Pale, angular face, thick black lashes, a pouting mouth. Candice’s pimp.
‘He’s not very pretty.’
Clarke found another picture. ‘Kenny Houston.’
‘From Pretty-Boy to Plug-Ugly.’
‘I’m sure his mother loves him.’ Prominent teeth, jaundiced skin.
‘What does he do?’
‘He runs the doormen. Kenny, Pretty-Boy and Tommy Telford grew up on the same street. They’re at the heart of The Family.’ She sifted through more photos. ‘Malky Jordan . . . he keeps the drugs flowing. Sean Haddow . . . bit of a brainbox, runs the finances. Ally Cornwell . . . he’s muscle. Deek McGrain . . . There’s no religious divide in The Family, Prods and Papes working together.’
‘A model society.’
‘No women though. Telford’s philosophy: relationships get in the way.’
Rebus picked up a sheaf of paper. ‘So what have we got?’
‘Everything but the evidence.’
‘And surveillance is supposed to provide that?’
She smiled over the top of her mug. ‘You don’t agree?’
‘It’s not my problem.’
‘And yet you’re interested.’ She paused. ‘Candice?’
‘I don’t like what happened to her.’
‘Well, just remember: you didn’t get this stuff from me.’
‘Thanks, Siobhan.’ He paused. ‘Everything going all right?’
‘Fine. I like Crime Squad.’
‘Bit livelier than St Leonard’s.’
‘I miss Brian.’ Meaning her one-time partner, now out of the force.
‘You ever see him?’
‘No, do you?’
Rebus shook his head, got up to show her out.
He spent about an hour sifting through the paperwork, learning more about The Family and its convoluted workings. Nothing about Newcastle. Nothing about Japan. The core of The Family – eight or nine of them – had been at school together. Three of them were still based in Paisley, taking care of the established business. The rest were now in Edinburgh, and busy prying the city away from Big Ger Cafferty.
He went through lists of nightclubs and bars in which Telford had an interest. There were incident reports attached: arrests in the vicinity. Drunken brawls, swings taken at bouncers, cars and property damaged. Something caught Rebus’s eye: mention of a hot-dog van, parked outside a couple of the clubs. The owner questioned: possible witness. But he’d never seen anything worth the recall. Name: Gavin Tay.
Mr Taystee.
Recent dodgy suicide. Rebus gave Bill Pryde a bell, asked how that investigation was going.
‘Dead end street, pal,’ Pryde said, not sounding too concerned. Pryde: too long the same rank, and not going anywhere. Beginning the long descent into retirement.
‘Did you know he ran a hot-dog stall on the side?’
‘Might explain where he got the cash from.’
Gavin Tay was an ex-con. He’d been in the ice-cream business a little over a year. Successful, too: new Merc parked outside his house. His financial records hadn’t hinted at money to spare. His widow couldn’t account for the Merc. And now: evidence of a job on the side, selling food and drink to punters stumbling out of nightclubs.
Tommy Telford’s nightclubs.
Gavin Tay: previous convictions for assault and reset. A persistent offender who’d finally gone straight . . . The room began to feel stuffy, Rebus’s head clotted and aching. He decided to get out.
Walked through The Meadows and down George IV Bridge, took the Playfair Steps down to Princes Street. A group was sitting on the stone steps of the Scottish Academy: unshaven, dyed hair, torn clothes. The city’s dispossessed, trying their best not to be ignored. Rebus knew he had things in common with them. In the course of his life, he’d failed to fit several niches: husband, father, lover. He hadn’t fit in with the Army’s ideas of what he should be, and wasn’t exactly ‘one of the lads’ in the police. When one of the group held out a hand, Rebus offered a fiver, before crossing Princes Street and heading for the Oxford Bar.
He settled into a corner with a mug of coffee, got out his mobile, and called Sammy’s flat. She was home, all was well with Candice. Rebus told her he had a place for Candice, she could move out tomorrow.
‘That’s fine,’ Sammy said. ‘Hold on a second.’ There was a rustling sound as the receiver was passed along.
‘Hello, John, how are you?’
Rebus smiled. ‘Hello, Candice. That’s very good.’
‘Thank you. Sammy is . . . uh . . . I am teaching how to . . .’ She broke into laughter, handed the receiver back.
‘I’m teaching her English,’ Sammy said.
‘I can tell.’
‘We started with some Oasis lyrics, just went from there.’
‘I’ll try to come round later. What did Ned say?’
‘He was so shattered when he came home, I think he barely noticed.’
‘Is he there? I’d like to talk to him.’
‘He’s out working.’
‘What did you say he was doing again?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Right. Thanks again, Sammy. See you later.’
He took a swig of coffee, washed it around his mouth. Abernethy: he couldn’t just let it go. He swallowed the coffee and called the Roxburghe, asked for David Levy’s room.
‘Levy speaking.’
‘It’s John Rebus.’
‘Inspector, how good to hear from you. Is there something I can do?’
‘I’d like to talk to you.’
‘Are you in your office?’
Rebus looked around. ‘In a manner of speaking. It’s a two-minute walk from your hotel. Turn right out of the door, cross George Street, and walk down to Young Street. Far end, the Oxford Bar. I’m in the back room.’
When Levy arrived, Rebus bought him a half of eighty-bob. Levy eased himself into a chair, hanging his walking-stick on the back of it. ‘So what can I do for you?’
‘I’m not the only policeman you’ve spoken to.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Someone from Special Branch in London came to see me today.’
‘And he told you I’d been travelling around?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he warn you against speaking to me?’
‘Not in so many words.’
Levy took off his glasses, began polishing them. ‘I told you, there are people who’d rather this was all relegated to history. This man, he came all the way from London just to tell you about me?’
‘He wanted to see Joseph Lintz.’
‘Ah.’ Levy was thoughtful. ‘Your interpretation, Inspector?’
‘I was hoping for yours.’
‘My utterly subjective interpretation?’ Rebus nodded. ‘He wants to be sure of Lintz. This man works for Special Branch, and as everyone knows Special Branch is the public arm of the secret services.’
‘He wanted to be confident I wasn’t going to get anything out of Lintz?’
Levy nodded, staring at the smoke from Rebus’s cigarette. This case was like that: one minute you could see it, the next you couldn’t. Like smoke.
‘I have a little book with me,’ Levy said, reaching into his pocket. ‘I’d like you to read it. It’s in English, translated from the Hebrew. It’s about the Rat Line.’