by Ian Rankin
‘She’s had another scan,’ Rhona explained. ‘They had to get the gunk off afterwards.’ Rebus nodded. ‘They said you’d noticed eye movement?’
‘I thought I did.’
Rhona touched his arm. ‘Jackie says he might manage to come up again at the weekend. Call this fair warning.’
‘Received and understood.’
‘You look tired.’
He smiled. ‘One of these days someone’s going to tell me how terrific I’m looking.’
‘But not today,’ Rhona said.
‘Must be all the booze, clubbing and women.’
Thinking: Coke, the Morvena Casino, and Candice.
Thinking: why do I feel like piggy in the middle? Are Cafferty and Telford both playing games with me?
Thinking: I hope Jack Morton’s okay.
The phone was ringing when he got back to Arden Street. He picked up just as the answering machine was cutting in.
‘Hold on till I stop this thing.’ Found the right button and hit it.
‘Technology, eh, Strawman?’
Cafferty.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve heard about Paisley.’
‘You mean you’ve been talking to yourself?’
‘I had nothing to do with it.’
Rebus laughed out loud.
‘I’m telling you.’
Rebus fell into his chair. ‘And I’m supposed to believe you?’ Games, he was thinking.
‘Whether you believe me or not, I wanted you to know.’
‘Thanks, I’m sure I’ll sleep better for that.’
‘I’m being set up, Strawman.’
‘Telford doesn’t need to set you up.’ Rebus sighed, stretched his neck to left and right. ‘Look, have you considered another possibility?’
‘What?’
‘Your men have lost it. They’re going behind your back.’
‘I’d know.’
‘You’d know what your own lieutenants tell you. What if they’re lying? I’m not saying it’s the whole gang, could be just two or three gone rogue.’
‘I’d know.’ The emotion had drained from Cafferty’s voice. He was thinking it over.
‘Fine, okay, you’d know: who’d be the first to tell you? Cafferty, you’re on the other side of the country. You’re in prison. How hard would it be to keep stuff from you?’
‘These are men I’d trust with my life.’ Cafferty paused. ‘They’d tell me.’
‘If they knew. If they hadn’t been warned not to tell you. See what I’m saying?’
‘Two or three gone rogue . . .’ Cafferty echoed.
‘You must have candidates?’
‘Jeffries would know.’
‘Jeffries? Is that the Weasel’s name?’
‘Don’t let him hear you call him that.’
‘Give me his number. I’ll talk to him.’
‘No, but I’ll get him to call you.’
‘And if he’s part of the breakaway?’
‘We don’t know there is one.’
‘But you admit it makes sense?’
‘I admit Tommy Telford’s trying to put me in a box.’
Rebus stared from his window. ‘You mean literally?’
‘I’ve heard word of a contract.’
‘But you’ve got protection?’
Cafferty chuckled. ‘Strawman, you almost sound concerned.’
‘You’re imagining things.’
‘Look, there are only two ways out of this. One, you deal with Telford. Two, I deal with him. Are we agreed on that? I mean, I’m not the one who went poaching players and territory and putting out frighteners.’
‘Maybe he’s just more ambitious than you. Maybe he reminds you of the way you used to be.’
‘Are you saying I’ve gone soft?’
‘I’m saying it’s adapt or die.’
‘Have you adapted, Strawman?’
‘Maybe a little.’
‘Aye, a fucking speck, if that.’
‘We’re not talking about me though.’
‘You’re as involved as anyone. Remember that, Strawman. And sweet dreams.’
Rebus put down the phone. He felt exhausted, and depressed. The kids across the way were in bed, shutters closed. He looked around the room. Jack Morton had helped him paint it, back when Rebus was thinking of selling. Jack had helped him off the sauce, too . . .
He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Got back into the car and headed for Young Street. The Oxford Bar was quiet. A couple of philosophers in the corner, and through in the back-room three musicians who’d packed up their fiddles. He drank a couple of cups of black coffee, then drove to Oxford Terrace. Parked the car outside Patience’s flat, turned off the ignition and sat there for a while, jazz on the radio. He hit a good streak: Astrid Gilberto, Stan Getz, Art Pepper, Duke Ellington. Told himself he’d wait till a bad record came on, then go knock on Patience’s door.
But by then it was too late. He didn’t want to turn up unannounced. It would be . . . it wouldn’t look right. He didn’t mind that it smacked of desperation, but he didn’t want her to think he was pushing. He started the engine again and moved off, drove around the New Town and down to Granton. Sat by the edge of the Forth, window down, listening to water and the nighttime traffic of HGVs.
Even with eyes closed, he couldn’t shut out the world. In fact, in those moments before sleep came, his images were at their most vivid. He wondered what Sammy dreamed about, or even if she dreamed at all. Rhona said that Sammy had come north to be with him. He couldn’t think what he’d done to deserve her.
Back into town for an espresso at Gordon’s Trattoria, then the hospital: easy to find a parking space this time of night. A taxi was idling outside the entrance. He made his way to Sammy’s room, was surprised to see someone there. His first thought: Rhona. The only illumination in the room was that given through the closed curtains. A woman, kneeling by the bed, head resting on the covers. He walked forwards. She heard him, turned, face glistening with tears.
Candice.
Her eyes widened. She stumbled to her feet.
‘I wanting see her,’ she said quietly.
Rebus nodded. In shadows, she looked even more like Sammy: same build, similar hair and shape to her face. She wore a long red coat, fished in the pocket for a paper hankie.
‘I like her,’ she said. He nodded again.
‘Does Tarawicz know where you are?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘The taxi outside?’ he guessed.
She nodded. ‘They went casino. I said sore head.’ She spoke falteringly, checking each word was right before using it.
‘Will he find out you’ve gone?’
She thought about it, shook her head.
‘You sleep in the same room?’ Rebus asked.
She shook her head again, smiled. ‘Jake not liking women.’
This was news to Rebus. Miriam Kenworthy had said something about him marrying an Englishwoman . . . but put that down to immigration. He remembered the way Tarawicz had pawed Candice, realised now it had been for Telford’s benefit. He’d been showing Telford that he could control his women. While Telford . . . well, Telford had let her get arrested, then be taken in by the Crime Squad. A small sign of rivalry between the two partners. Something to be exploited?
‘Is she . . . will she . . .?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘We hope so, Candice.’
She looked down at the floor. ‘My name is Karina.’
‘Karina,’ he echoed.
‘Sarajevo was . . .’ She looked up at him. ‘You know, like really. I was escaping . . . lucky. They all said to me: “You lucky, you lucky”.’ She stabbed at her chest with a finger. ‘Lucky. Survivor.’ She broke down again, and this time he held her.
The Stones: ‘Soul Survivor’. Only sometimes it was the body alone that survived, the soul eaten into, chewed up by experience.
‘Karina,’ he said, repeating her name, reinforcing her true ident
ity, trying to get through to the one part of her she’d kept hidden since Sarajevo. ‘Karina, sshhh. It’s going to be all right. Sshhh.’ And stroking her hair, her face, his other hand on her back, feeling her tremble. Blinking back his own tears, and watching Sammy’s body. The atmosphere in the room crackled like electricity: he wondered if any part of it was reaching Sammy’s brain.
‘Karina, Karina, Karina . . .’
She pulled away, turned her back on him. He wouldn’t let her go. Walked up to her and rested his hands on her shoulders.
‘Karina,’ he said, ‘how did Tarawicz find you?’ She seemed not to understand. ‘In Anstruther, his men found you.’
‘Brian,’ she said quietly.
Rebus frowned. ‘Brian Summers?’ Pretty-Boy . . .
‘He tell Jake.’
‘He told Tarawicz where you were?’ But why not just take her back to Edinburgh? Rebus thought he knew: she was too dangerous; she’d been too close to the police. Best get her out of the way. Not a killing: that would have implicated all of them. But Tarawicz could control her. Mr Pink Eyes bailing out his friend one more time . . .
‘He brought you here so he could gloat over Telford.’ Rebus was thoughtful. He looked at Candice. What could he do with her? Where would be safe? She seemed to sense his thoughts, squeezed his hand.
‘You know I have a . . .’ She made a cradling motion with her hands.
‘A boy,’ Rebus said. She nodded. ‘And Tarawicz knows where he is?’
She shook her head. ‘The lorries . . . they took him.’
‘Tarawicz’s refugee lorries?’ She nodded again. ‘And you don’t know where he is?’
‘Jake knows. He says his man . . .’ she made scuttling motions with her hands ‘. . . will kill my boy if . . .’
Scuttling motions: the Crab. Something struck Rebus. ‘Why isn’t the Crab up here with Tarawicz?’ She was looking at him. ‘Tarawicz here,’ he said, ‘Crab in Newcastle. Why?’
She shrugged, looked thoughtful. ‘He don’t come.’ She was remembering some snippet of conversation. ‘Danger.’
‘Dangerous?’ Rebus frowned. ‘Who for?’
She shrugged again. Rebus took her hands.
‘You can’t trust him, Karina. You have to leave him.’
She smiled up at him, eyes glinting. ‘I tried.’
They looked at one another, held one another for a while. Afterwards, he walked her back out to her taxi.
28
In the morning he called the hospital, found out how Sammy was doing, then asked to be transferred.
‘How’s Danny Simpson getting on?’
‘I’m sorry, are you family?’
Which told him everything. He identified himself, asked when it had happened.
‘In the night,’ the nurse said.
Body at its lowest ebb: the dying hours. Rebus called the mother, identified himself again.
‘Sorry to hear the news,’ he said. ‘Is the funeral . . .?’
‘Just family, if you don’t mind. No flowers. We’re asking for donations to be sent to an . . . to a charity. Danny was well thought of, you know.’
‘I’m sure.’
Rebus took down details of the charity – an AIDS hospice; the mother couldn’t bring herself to say the word. Terminated the call. Got an envelope out and put in ten pounds, plus a note: ‘In memory of Danny Simpson’. He wondered about going for that test . . . His phone rang and he picked it up.
‘Hello?’
Lots of static and engine noise: car-phone, on the move at speed.
‘This takes persecution to new levels.’ Telford.
‘What do you mean?’ Rebus trying to compose himself.
‘Danny Simpson’s been dead six hours, and already you’re on the phone to his mum.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I was there. Paying my respects.’
‘Same reason I phoned then. Know what, Telford? I think you’re taking persecution complexes to new levels.’
‘Yes, and Cafferty’s not out to shut me down.’
‘He says he didn’t have anything to do with Paisley.’
‘I bet you believed in the Tooth Fairy when you were a kid.’
‘I still do.’
‘You’ll need more than a good fairy if you side with Cafferty.’
‘Is that a threat? Don’t tell me: Tarawicz is in the car with you?’ Silence. Bingo, Rebus thought. ‘You think Tarawicz will respect you because you bad-mouth cops? He’s got no respect for you whatsoever – look how he’s waving Candice in your face.’
Mixing levity with fury: ‘Hey, Rebus, you and Candice in that hotel – what was she like? Jake tells me she’s vindaloo.’ Background laughter: Mr Pink Eyes, who, according to Candice, had never touched her. For ‘laughter’ read ‘bravado’. Telford and Tarawicz, playing games between themselves, playing games with the world.
Rebus found the tone of voice he wanted. ‘I tried to help her. If she’s too stupid to know that, she deserves the likes of you and Tarawicz.’ Telling them he had no further interest in her. ‘Anyway, Tarawicz didn’t have any trouble taking her off your hands.’ Rebus jabbing away, looking for gaps in the armour of the Telford/Tarawicz relationship.
‘What if Cafferty wasn’t behind Paisley?’ he asked into the silence.
‘It was his men.’
‘Gone rogue.’
‘He can’t control them, that’s his look-out. He’s a joke, Rebus. He’s finished.’
Rebus didn’t say anything; listened instead to a muted conversation. Then Telford again: ‘Mr Tarawicz wants a word.’ The phone was handed over.
‘Rebus? I thought we were civilised men?’
‘In what way?’
‘When we met in Newcastle . . . I thought we came to an understanding?’
The unspoken agreement: leave Telford alone, have nothing more to do with Cafferty, and Candice and her son would be safe. What was Tarawicz getting at?
‘I’ve kept my side.’
A forced chuckle. ‘You know what Paisley represents?
‘What?’
‘The beginning of the end of Morris Gerald Cafferty.’
‘And I bet you’d send flowers to the grave.’
Dead flowers at that.
Rebus went into St Leonard’s, got settled in front of his computer screen, and took a look at the Crab.
The Crab: William Andrew Colton. Plenty of form. Rebus decided he’d like to read the files. Phoned in and requested them, backed up the request in writing. Buzzed from downstairs: a man to see him, no name supplied. Description: the Weasel.
Rebus went downstairs.
The Weasel was outside, smoking a cigarette. He was wearing a green waxed jacket, torn at both pockets. A lumberjack hat with its flaps down protected his ears from the wind.
‘Let’s walk,’ Rebus said. The Weasel got into step with him. They wandered through an estate of new flats: satellite dishes and windows picked from Lego boxes. Behind the flats sat Salisbury Crags.
‘Don’t worry,’ Rebus said, ‘I’m not in the mood for rock-climbing.’
‘I’m in the mood for indoors.’ The Weasel tucked his chin into the upturned collar of his coat.
‘What’s the news on my daughter?’
‘We’re close, I told you.’
‘How close?’
The Weasel measured his response. ‘We’ve got the tapes from the car, the guy who sold them. He says he got them from another party.’
‘And he is . . .?’
A sly smile: the Weasel knew he had control over Rebus. He’d play it out as long as possible.
‘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?