by Ian Rankin
Clarke’s police radio was silent. They had maintained silence since before midnight. Claverhouse’s words: ‘The first person to speak will be me, understood? Anyone uses a radio before me, they’re in farmyard shit. And I won’t utter a sound until the truck’s entered the compound. Is that clear?’ Nods all around. ‘They could be listening in, so this is important. We’ve got to do this right.’ Averting his eyes from Rebus as he said it. ‘I’d wish us all luck, but the less luck’s involved the better I’ll like it. A few hours from now, if we stick to the plan, we should have broken up Tommy Telford’s gang.’ He paused. ‘Just let that sink in. We’ll be heroes.’ He swallowed, realising the immensity of the prize.
Rebus couldn’t get so excited. The whole enterprise had shown him a simple truth: no vacuum. Where you had society, you had criminals. No belly without an underbelly.
Rebus knew his own criteria came cheaply: his flat, books, music and clapped-out car. And he realised that he had reduced his life to a mere shell in recognition that he had completely failed at the important things: love, relationships, family life. He’d been accused of being in thrall to his career, but that had never been the case. His work sustained him only because it was an easy option. He dealt every day with strangers, with people who didn’t mean anything to him in the wider scheme. He could enter their lives, and leave again just as easily. He got to live other people’s lives, or at least portions of them, experiencing things at one remove, which wasn’t nearly as challenging as the real thing.
Sammy had brought home to him these essential truths: that he was not only a failed father but a failed human being; that police work kept him sane, yet was a substitute for the life he could have had, the kind of life everyone else seemed to lead. And if he became obsessed with his casework, well, that was no different from being obsessed with train numbers or cigarette cards or rock albums. Obsession came easy – especially to men – because it was a cheap way of achieving control, albeit control over something practically worthless. What did it matter if you could reel off the track listing to every ’60s Stones album? It didn’t matter a damn. What did it matter if Tommy Telford got put away? Tarawicz would take his place, and if he didn’t, there was always Big Ger Cafferty. And if not Cafferty, then someone else. The disease was endemic, no cure in sight.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Clarke asked, switching her rod from left hand to right.
‘My next cigarette.’ Patience’s words: happiest when in denial . . .
They heard the truck before they saw it: changing gears noisily. Slid down into their seats, then up again as it made to pull into Maclean’s. A wheeze of air-brakes as it jolted to a stop at the gates. A guard came out to talk to the driver. He carried a clip-board.
‘Jack really suits a uniform,’ Rebus said.
‘Clothes maketh the man.’
‘You reckon your boss has got it right?’ He meant Claverhouse’s plan: when the truck was in the compound, they’d use a megaphone and show the marksmen to whoever was in the driver’s cab, tell them to come out. The rest of the men could stay locked in the back of the vehicle. They’d have them toss out any arms and then come out one at a time.
It was either that or wait until they were all out of the truck. Merit of this second plan: they’d know what they were dealing with. Merit of the first: most of the gang would be nicely stowed in the truck, and could be dealt with as and when.
Claverhouse had plumped for plan one.
Marked and unmarked cars were to move in as soon as the truck had come to a stop – engine off – in the compound. They would block the exit, then watch from safety while Claverhouse, at a first-floor window with his megaphone, and the marksmen (roof; ground-floor windows) did their stuff. ‘Negotiation with force’ was how Claverhouse had described it.
‘Jack’s opening the gates,’ Rebus said, peering through the side window.
Engine roar, and the truck jerked forward.
‘Driver seems a bit nervous,’ Clarke commented.
‘Or isn’t used to HGVs.’
‘Okay, they’re in.’
Rebus stared at the radio, willing it to burst into life. Clarke had turned the ignition one click away from starting. Jack Morton was watching the truck move into the compound. He turned his head towards the line of cars parked across the way.
‘Any second . . .’
The truck’s brake-lights came on, then went off again. Air-brakes sounded.
The radio fizzed a single word: ‘Now!’
Clarke turned the engine, revved hard. Five other cars did the same. Exhaust smoke billowed suddenly into the night air. The noise was like the start of a stock-car race. Rebus wound his window down, the better to hear Claverhouse’s megaphone diplomacy. Clarke’s car leaped forward, first to the gates. Both she and Rebus jumped out, keeping their heads down, the car a shield between themselves and the truck.
‘Engine’s still running,’ Rebus hissed.
‘What?’
‘The truck. Its engine’s still running!’
Claverhouse’s voice, warbling – partly nerves, partly megaphone quality: ‘Armed police. Open the cab doors slowly and come out one at a time, hands held high. I repeat: armed police. Discard weapons before coming out. I repeat: discard weapons.’
‘Do it!’ Rebus hissed. Then: ‘Tell them to switch off the bloody engine!’
Claverhouse: ‘The gate is blocked, there’s no escape, and we don’t want anyone getting hurt.’
‘Tell them to throw out the keys.’ Cursing, Rebus dived back into the car, grabbed the handset. ‘Claverhouse, tell them to ditch the bloody keys!’
Windscreen frosted over; he couldn’t see a thing. Heard Clarke’s yell: ‘Get out!’
Saw: dim white lights. The truck was reversing. At speed. A roar from its engine, veering crazily but heading for the gates.
Heading straight for him.
An explosion: bricks flying from the factory’s front wall.
Rebus dropped the handset, got his arm stuck in the seatbelt. Clarke was screaming as he leaped clear.
A second later, truck and car connected in a rending of metal and smashing of glass. Domino effect: Clarke’s car hit the one behind, throwing officers off balance. The road was like a skating rink, the truck pushing one car, two cars, then three cars back on to the highway.
Claverhouse was on the megaphone, choking on dust: ‘No shooting! Officers too close! Officers too close!’
Yes, all they needed now was to be pinned down by sniper fire. Men and women were slipping, losing their footing, clambering from their cars. Some of them armed, but dazed. The truck’s back doors, buckled by the initial collision, flew open, seven or eight men hit the ground running. Two of them had handguns, and loosed off three or four shots apiece.
Shouts, screams, the megaphone. The glass wall of the gatehouse exploded as a bullet hit it. Rebus couldn’t see Jack Morton . . . couldn’t see Siobhan. He was lying on his front on a section of grass verge, hands over his head: classic defence/defeat posture and bloody useless with it. The whole area was picked out by floodlights, and one of the gunmen – Declan from the shop – was now aiming at those. Other members of the gang had headed out into the street and were running for it. They carried shotguns, pickaxe handles. Rebus recognised a few more faces: Ally Cornwell, Deek McGrain. The streetlights were dead, of course, giving them all the cover they could want. Rebus hoped the backup cars from the builder’s yard were coming.
Yes: turning the corner now, all lights blazing, sirens howling. Tenement curtains were twitching, palms rubbing at windows. And right in front of Rebus, about an inch from his nose, a thickly rimed blade of grass. He could make out each sliver of frost, and the complex patterns which had formed. But he realised it was melting fast as his breath hit it. And his front was growing cold. And the marksmen were running from the building, lit up like a firing-range.
And Siobhan Clarke was safe: he could see her lying beneath a car. Good girl.
&nbs
p; And one policewoman, also lying low, had been wounded in the knee. She kept touching it with her hand, then pulling the hand away to stare at the blood.
And there was still no sign of Jack Morton.
The gunmen were returning fire, scattering shots, smashing windscreens. Uniforms were ordered out of the front back-up car. Four of the gang got in.
Second car: uniforms out, three of the gang got in. No windscreens, but they were rolling. Yelling and whooping, waving their weapons. The two remaining gunmen were cool. They were taking a good look round, assessing the situation. Did they want to be here when the marksmen arrived? Maybe they did. Maybe they fancied their chances in that arena, too. Their luck had held this far, after all. Claverhouse: the less luck’s involved, the better I’ll like it.
Rebus got on to his knees, then his feet, staying at a crouch. He felt moderately safe. After all, his luck had held today, too.
‘You okay, Siobhan?’ Voice low, eyes on the gunmen. The two getaway cars added up to seven men. Two still left. Where was number ten?
‘Fine,’ Clarke said. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m okay.’ Rebus left her, worked his way round to the front of the truck. The driver was unconscious behind his wheel, head bleeding where it had connected after the collision. There was some kind of grenade launcher on the seat beside him. It had left a bloody great hole in the wall of Maclean’s. Rebus checked the driver for firearms, found none. Then checked the pulse: steady. Recognised the face: one of the arcade regulars; looked about nineteen, twenty. Rebus took out his handcuffs, hooked the driver to the steering-wheel, threw the grenade launcher on to the road.
Then headed for the gatehouse. Jack Morton, in uniform but missing his cap, prone on the floor, covered by a glass shroud. The bullet had pierced his right breast-pocket. Pulse was weak.
‘Christ, Jack . . .’
There was a telephone in the booth. Rebus punched 999 and asked for ambulances.
‘Police officers down at the Maclean’s factory on Slateford Road!’ Staring down at his friend.
‘Whereabouts on Slateford Road?’
‘Believe me, they won’t be able to miss it.’
Five marksmen, dressed in black, aimed rifles at Rebus from outside. Saw him on the phone, saw him shake his head, moved on. Saw their targets out on the road, getting into a patrol car. Yelled the order to stop, warning that they would fire.
Response: muzzle-flash. Rebus ducked again. Fire was returned, the noise deafening but momentary.
Shouts from the road: ‘Got them!’
A plaintive wail: one of the gunmen wounded. Rebus looked. The other was lying quite still on the road. Marksmen yelling to the wounded man: ‘Drop the weapon, turn on to your front, hands behind your back.’
Response: ‘I’m shot!’
Rebus to himself: ‘Bastard’s only wounded. Finish him off.’
Jack Morton unconscious. Rebus knew better than to move him. He could staunch the bleeding, that was all. Removed his jacket, folded it and pressed it to his friend’s chest. Must’ve hurt, but Jack was out of it. Rebus dug the fuel rod out of his own pocket, the tiny canister still warm. Pressed it into Jack’s right hand, curled the fingers around it.
‘Stick around, pal. Just keep sticking around.’
Siobhan Clarke at the doorway, tears welling in her eyes.
Rebus pushed past her, slid his way across the road to where the Armed Response Team were cuffing the wounded man. Nobody much bothering with his dead partner. A little group of onlookers, keeping their distance. Rebus walked right up to the corpse, prised the handgun from its fingers, walked back around the front of the car. Heard someone call out: ‘He’s got a gun!’
Rebus bending down until the barrel of the gun touched the back of the wounded man’s neck. Declan from the shop: breath coming in short gasps, hair matted with sweat, burrowing his face into the tarmac.
‘John . . .’
Claverhouse. No megaphone needed. Standing right behind him. ‘You really want to be like them?’
Like them . . . Like Mean Machine. Like Telford and Cafferty and Tarawicz. He’d crossed the line before, made several trips forth and back. His foot was on Declan’s neck, the gun barrel so hot it was singeing nape-skin.
‘Please, no . . . oh, Christ, please . . . don’t . . . don’t . . .’
‘Shut up,’ Rebus hissed. He felt Claverhouse’s hand close over his, flick on the safety.
‘My responsibility, John. My fuck-up, don’t make it yours, too.’
‘Jack . . .’
‘I know.’
Rebus’s vision blurred. ‘They’re getting away.’
Claverhouse shook his head. ‘Road blocks. Back-up are already on it.’
‘And Telford?’
Claverhouse checked his watch. ‘Ormie will be picking him up right about now.’
Rebus grabbed Claverhouse’s lapels. ‘Nail him!’
Sirens nearing. Rebus shouted for the drivers to move their cars, make room for the ambulance. Then he ran back to the gatehouse. Siobhan Clarke was kneeling beside Jack, stroking his forehead. Her face was streaked with tears. She looked up at Rebus and shook her head.
‘He’s gone,’ she said.
‘No.’ But he knew the truth. Which didn’t stop him saying the word over and over again.
35
They divided the gang between two different locations – Torphichen and Fettes – and took Telford and a few of his ‘lieutenants’ to St Leonard’s. Result: a logistical nightmare. Claverhouse was washing Pro-Plus down with double-strength coffee, part of him wanting to do things right, the other part knowing he was answerable for the blood-bath at Maclean’s. One officer dead, six wounded or otherwise injured – one of them seriously. One gunman dead, one wounded – not seriously enough to some people’s minds.
The getaway cars had been apprehended and arrests made – shots exchanged but no bloodshed. None of the gang was saying anything, not a single damned word.
Rebus was sitting in an empty Interview Room at St Leonard’s, arms on the table, head resting on arms. He’d been sitting there for a while, just thinking about loss, about how suddenly it could strike. A life, a friendship, just snatched away.
Irretrievable.
He hadn’t cried, and didn’t think he would. Instead, he felt numb, as if his soul had been spiked with novocaine. The world seemed to have slowed, like the mechanism was running down. He wondered if the sun would have the energy to rise again.
And I got him into it.
He had wallowed before in feelings of guilt and inadequacy, but nothing to measure up to this. This was overwhelming. Jack Morton, a copper with a quiet patch in Falkirk . . . murdered in Edinburgh because a friend had asked a favour. Jack Morton, who’d brought himself back to life by swearing off cigarettes and booze, getting into shape, eating right, taking care of himself . . . Lying in the mortuary, deep-body temperature dropping.
And I put him there.
He jumped up suddenly, threw the chair at the wall. Gill Templer walked into the room.
‘All right, John?’
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Fine.’
‘My office is empty if you want to get your head down.’
‘No, I’ll be fine. Just . . .’ He looked around. ‘Is this place needed?’
She nodded.
‘Right. Okay.’ He picked up the chair. ‘Who is it?’
‘Brian Summers,’ she said.
Pretty-Boy. Rebus straightened his back.
‘I can make him talk.’
Templer looked sceptical.
‘Honest, Gill.’ Hands trembling. ‘He doesn’t know what I’ve got on him.’
She folded her arms. ‘And what’s that?’
‘I just need . . .’ He checked his watch. ‘An hour or so; two hours tops. Bobby Hogan needs to be here. And I want Colquhoun brought in pronto.’
‘Who’s he?’
Rebus found the business card an
d handed it over. ‘Pronto,’ he repeated. He worked at his tie, making himself presentable. Smoothed back his hair. Said nothing.
‘John, I’m not sure you’re in any state to . . .’
He pointed at her, turned it into a wagging finger. ‘Don’t presume, Gill. If I say I can break him, I mean it.’
‘No one else has said a single word.’
‘Summers will be different.’ He stared at her. ‘Believe me.’
Looking back at him, she believed. ‘I’ll hold him back till Hogan gets here.’
‘Thanks, Gill.’
‘And, John?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m really sorry about Jack Morton. I didn’t know him, but I’ve heard what everyone’s saying.’
Rebus nodded.
‘They’re saying he’d be the last one to blame you.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Right at the back of the queue.’
‘There’s only one person in the queue, John,’ she said quietly. ‘And you’re it.’
Rebus phoned the night-desk at the Caledonian Hotel, learned that Sakiji Shoda had checked out unexpectedly, less than two hours after Rebus had dropped off the green folder which had cost him fifty-five pence at a stationer’s on Raeburn Place. Actually, the folders had come in three-packs at one sixty-five. He had the other two in his car, only one of them empty.
Bobby Hogan was on his way. He lived in Portobello. He said to give him half an hour. Bill Pryde came over to Rebus’s desk and said how sorry he was about Jack Morton, how he knew the two of them had been old friends.
‘Just don’t get too close to me, Bill,’ Rebus told him. ‘The people closest to me tend to lose their health.’
He got a message from reception: someone there to see him. He headed downstairs, found Patience Aitken.
‘Patience?’
She had all her clothes on, but not necessarily in the right order, like she’d dressed in a power-cut.
‘I heard on the radio,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I had the radio on, and they said about this police raid and how people were dead . . . And you weren’t in your flat, so I . . .’