by Ian Rankin
‘Can you do that outside, please? We need to vacate this room.’
Pretty-Boy knew Rebus was bluffing . . . knew the policeman needed him. But he realised, too, that Rebus was not bluffing about giving the file to Shoda, and he was far too intelligent not to be scared. He didn’t move from the chair, and held his lawyer’s arm so he had to stay and listen. Eventually the lawyer cleared his throat.
‘Inspector, Mr Summers is willing to answer your questions.’
‘All my questions?’
The lawyer nodded. ‘But I must insist on hearing more of the “deal” you’re proposing.’
Rebus looked at Hogan. ‘Go get the Chief Super.’
Rebus left the room, stood in the hallway while Hogan was away. Cadged a cigarette off a passing uniform. He’d just got it lit when Farmer Watson came barrelling towards him, Hogan behind as though attached to Watson by an invisible leash.
‘No smoking, John, you know that.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Rebus said, crimping the tip. ‘I was just holding it for Inspector Hogan.’
Watson nodded towards the door. ‘What do they want?’
‘We’ve been talking possible immunity from prosecution. At the very least, he’ll want a soft sentence, and a safe one, plus new ID afterwards.’
Watson was thoughtful. ‘We haven’t had a cheep out of any of them. Not that it matters greatly. There’s the gang we caught red-handed, plus Telford on the audio tape . . .’
‘Summers is a real insider, knows Telford’s organisation.’
‘So how come he’s willing to spill?’
‘Because he’s scared, and his fear is overwhelming his loyalty. I’m not saying we’ll get every last detail out of him, but we’ll probably get enough to start pressing the other members. Once they know someone’s yapping, they’ll all want a trade.’
‘What’s his lawyer like?’
‘Expensive.’
‘No point shilly-shallying then.’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, sir.’
The Chief Super pinned back his shoulders. ‘All right, let’s do a deal.’
‘When did you first meet Joseph Lintz?’
Pretty-Boy’s arms were no longer folded. He was resting them on the desk, head in his hands. His hair flopped forward, making him look younger than ever.
‘About six months ago. We’d spoken on the phone before that.’
‘He was a punter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Meaning what exactly?’
Pretty-Boy looked at the turning spools. ‘You want me to explain for all our listeners?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Joseph Lintz was a client of the escort service for which I worked.’
‘Come on, Brian, you were a bit more than a flunkey. You ran it, didn’t you?’
‘If you say so.’
‘Anytime you want to walk, Brian . . .’
Eyes burning. ‘Okay, I ran it for my employer.’
‘And Mr Lintz phoned wanting an escort?’
‘He wanted one of our girls to go to his home.’
‘And?’
‘And that was it. He’d sit there opposite her and just stare for half an hour.’
‘Both of them fully clothed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Not at first.’
‘Ah.’ Rebus paused. ‘You must have been curious.’
Pretty-Boy shrugged. ‘Takes all sorts, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose it does. So how did your business relationship progress?’
‘Well, on a gig like that, there’s always a chaperone.’
‘Yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t have better things to do?’
Another shrug. ‘I was curious.’
‘About what?’
‘The address: Heriot Row.’
‘Mr Lintz had . . . class?’
‘Coming out his ears. I mean, I’ve met plenty fat cats, corporate types looking for a shag in their hotel, but Lintz was a long way from that.’
‘He just wanted to look at the girls.’
‘That’s right. And this huge house he had . . .’
‘You went in? You didn’t just wait in the car?’
‘Told him it was company policy.’ A smile. ‘Really, all I wanted was to snoop.’
‘Did you talk to him?’
‘Later, yes.’
‘You became friends?’
‘Not really . . . maybe. He knew things, had a real brain on him.’
‘You were impressed.’
Pretty-Boy nodded. Yes, Rebus could imagine. His previous role model had always been Tommy Telford, but Pretty-Boy had aspirations. He wanted class. He wanted people to acknowledge him for his mind. Rebus knew how seductive Lintz’s storytelling could be. How much more seductive would Pretty-Boy have found it?
‘Then what happened?’
Pretty-Boy shifted. ‘His tastes changed.’
‘Or his real tastes started to emerge?’
‘That’s what I wondered.’
‘So what did he want?’
‘He wanted the girls . . . he had this length of rope . . . he’d made it into a noose.’ Pretty-Boy swallowed. His lawyer had stopped writing, was listening intently. ‘He wanted the girls to slip it over their heads, then lie down like they were dead.’
‘Dressed or naked?’
‘Naked.’
‘And?’
‘And he’d . . . he’d sit on his chair and get off. Some of the girls wouldn’t go along. He wanted the works: bulging eyes, tongue sticking out, neck twisted . . .’ Pretty-Boy rubbed his hands through his hair.
‘Did you ever talk about it?’
‘With him? No, never.’
‘So what did you talk about?’
‘All sorts of things.’ Pretty-Boy looked up at the ceiling, laughed. ‘He told me once, he believed in God. Said the problem was, he wasn’t sure God believed in him. That seemed clever at the time . . . he always managed to get me thinking. And this was the same guy who tossed himself off over bodies with ropes round their necks.’
‘All this personal attention you were giving him,’ Rebus said, ‘you were sizing him up, weren’t you?’
Pretty-Boy looked into his lap, nodded.
‘For the tape, please.’
‘Tommy always wanted to know if a punter was worth squeezing.’
‘And . . .?’
Pretty-Boy shrugged. ‘We found out about the Nazi stuff, realised we couldn’t hurt him any more than he was already being hurt. Turned into a bit of a joke. There we were, thinking of threatening him with exposure as a perv, and at the same time the papers were saying he was a mass murderer.’ He laughed again.
‘So you dropped that idea?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he paid you five grand?’ Rebus fishing.
Pretty-Boy licked his lips. ‘He’d tried topping himself. He told me that. Tying the rope to the top of his banister and jumping off. Only it didn’t work. Banister snapped and he fell half a flight.’
Rebus remembering: the broken stair-rail.
Rebus remembering: Lintz with a scarf around his neck, his voice hoarse. Telling Rebus he had a throat bug.
‘He told you this?’
‘He phoned the office, said we had to meet. That was unusual. In the past, he’d always used phone boxes and got me on my mobile. Safe old bugger, I’d always thought. Then he calls from home, right to the office.’
‘Where did you meet?’
‘In a restaurant. He bought me lunch.’ The young woman . . . ‘Told me he’d tried killing himself and couldn’t do it. He kept saying he’d proved himself a “moral coward”, whatever that means.’
‘So what did he want?’
Pretty-Boy stared up at Rebus. ‘He needed someone to help him.’
‘You?’
Pretty-Boy shrugged.
‘And the price was right?’
‘No haggling necessary. He wanted it done in Warriston Cemetery.’
‘Did you ask him why?’
‘I knew he liked the place. We met at his house, really early. I drove him down there. He seemed the same as ever, except he kept thanking me for my “resolve”. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. To me, Resolve is something you take after a hard night.’
Rebus smiled, as was expected. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Not much more to tell, is there? He put the noose over his head. He told me to pull on the rope. I had a last go at talking him out of it, but the bugger was determined. It’s not murder, is it? Assisted suicide: a lot of places, it’s legal.’
‘How did the dunt get on his head?’
‘He was heavier than I thought. First time I hauled him up, the rope slipped and he fell, thumped himself on the ground.’
Bobby Hogan cleared his throat. ‘Brian, did he say anything . . . right at the end?’
‘Famous last words and all that?’ Pretty-Boy shook his head. ‘All he said was “thank you”. Poor old sod. One thing: he wrote it all down.’
‘What?’
‘About me helping him. A sort of insurance, in case anyone ever linked us. Letter says he paid me, begged me to help.’
‘Where is this?’
‘In a safe. I can get it for you.’
Rebus nodded, stretched his back. ‘Did you ever talk about Villefranche?’
‘A little bit, mostly about the way the papers and TV were hounding him, how difficult it made it when he wanted . . . company.’
‘But not the massacre itself?’
Pretty-Boy shook his head. ‘Know something else? Even if he had told me, I wouldn’t tell you.’
Rebus tapped his pen against the desk. He knew the Lintz story was as closed as it was ever going to be. Bobby Hogan knew it, too. They had the secret at last, the story of how Lintz had died. They knew he’d been helped by the Rat Line, but they’d never know whether he’d been Josef Linzstek or not. The circumstantial evidence was overwhelming, but so was the evidence that Lintz had been hounded to death. He’d started putting the escorts into nooses only after the accusations had been made.
Hogan caught Rebus’s eye and shrugged, as if to say: what does it matter? Rebus nodded back. Part of him wanted to take a break, but now that Pretty-Boy was rolling it was important to keep up the steam.
‘Thanks for that, Mr Summers. We may come back to Mr Lintz if we think of any more questions. But meantime, let’s move on to the relationship between Thomas Telford and Jake Tarawicz.’
Pretty-Boy shifted, as if trying to get comfortable. ‘This could take a while,’ he said.
‘Take as long as you like,’ Rebus told him.
37
They got it all, in time.
Pretty-Boy had to rest, and so did they. Other teams came in, worked on different areas. The tapes were filling up, being listened to elsewhere, notes and transcripts made. Back-up questions were forwarded to the Interview Room. Telford wasn’t talking. Rebus went and took a look at him, sat across from him. Telford didn’t blink once. He sat ramrod-straight, hands on knees. And all the while, Pretty-Boy’s confession was being used to squeeze other gang members – without letting slip who was singing.
The ranks broke, slowly at first and then in a cataract of accusation, self-defence and denial. And they got it all.
Telford and Tarawicz: European prostitutes heading north; muscle and dope heading south.
Mr Taystee: taking more than his fair share; dealt with accordingly.
The Japanese: using Telford as their introduction to Scotland, finding it a good base of operations.
Only now Rebus had scuppered that. In his folder to Shoda he’d warned the gangster to leave Poyntinghame alone, or he’d be ‘implicated in ongoing criminal investigations’. The Yakuza weren’t stupid. He doubted they’d be back ... for a while at least.
His last trip of the night: Rebus went down to the cells, unlocked one of the doors and told Ned Farlowe he was free. Told him he had nothing to fear ...
Unlike Mr Pink Eyes. The Yakuza had a score to settle. And it didn’t stay unsettled long. He was found in his car-crusher, seatbelt welded shut. His men had started running.
Some of them were running still.
Rebus sat in his living-room, staring at the door Jack Morton had stripped and varnished. He was thinking about the funeral, about how the Juice Church would be there in force. He wondered if they’d blame him. Jack’s kids would be there, too. Rebus had never met them; didn’t think he wanted to see them.
Wednesday morning, he was back in Inverness, meeting Mrs Hetherington off her flight. She’d been delayed in Holland, answering Customs questions. They’d laid a little trap, caught a man called De Gier – a known trafficker – planting the kilo package of heroin in Mrs Hetherington’s luggage: a secret compartment in her suitcase, the suitcase itself a gift from her landlord. Several of Telford’s other elderly tenants were enjoying short breaks in Belgium. They’d be questioned by local police.
Home again, Rebus telephoned David Levy.
‘Lintz committed suicide,’ he told him.
‘That’s your conclusion?’
‘It’s the truth. No conspiracy, no cover-up.’
A sigh. ‘It’s of little consequence, Inspector. What matters is that we’ve lost another one.’
‘Villefranche doesn’t mean a thing to you, does it? The Rat Line, that’s all you care about.’
‘There’s nothing we can do about Villefranche.’
Rebus took a deep breath. ‘A man called Harris came to see me. He works for British Intelligence. They’re protecting some big names, high-level people. Rat Line survivors, maybe their children. Tell Mayerlink to keep digging.’
There was silence for a moment. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’
Rebus was in a car. It was the Weasel’s Jag. The Weasel was in the back with him. Their driver was missing a big chunk of his left ear. The shape made him resemble a pixie – but only from the side, and you wouldn’t want to tell him to his face.
‘You did well,’ the Weasel was saying. ‘Mr Cafferty’s pleased.’
‘How long have you been holding him?’
The Weasel smiled. ‘Nothing gets past you, Rebus.’
‘Rangers have offered me a trial in goal. How long have you had him?’
‘A few days. Had to be sure we had the right one, didn’t we?’
‘And now you’re sure?’
‘Absolutely positive.’
Rebus looked out of the window at the passing parade of shops, pedestrians, buses. The car was heading down towards Newhaven and Granton. ‘You wouldn’t be setting up some loser to take the blame?’
‘He’s genuine.’
‘You could have spent the past few days making sure he was going to say the right things.’
The Weasel seemed amused. ‘Such as?’
‘Such as that he was in Telford’s pay.’
‘Rather than Mr Cafferty’s, you mean?’ Rebus glared at the Weasel, who laughed. ‘I think you’ll find him a pretty convincing candidate.’
The way he said it made Rebus shiver. ‘He’s still alive, isn’t he?’
‘Oh, yes. How long he remains so is entirely up to you.’
‘You think I want him dead?’
‘I know you do. You didn’t go to Mr Cafferty because you wanted justice. You went out of revenge.’
Rebus stared at the Weasel. ‘You don’t sound like yourself.’
‘You mean I don’t sound like my persona – different thing entirely.’
‘And do many people get behind the persona?’ The Who: ‘Can You See the Real Me?’
The Weasel smiled again. ‘I thought you deserved it, after all the trouble you’ve gone to.’
‘I didn’t break Telford just to please your boss.’
‘Nevertheless ...’ The Weasel slid across his seat towards Rebus. ‘How’s Sammy, by the way?’
‘She’s fine.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s good news. Mr Cafferty will be pleased. He’s disappointed you haven’t been to see him.’
Rebus took a newspaper from his pocket. It was folded at a story: FATAL STABBING AT JAIL.
‘Your boss?’ he said, handing the paper over.
The Weasel made show of reading it. ‘“Aged twenty-six, from Govan ... stabbed through the heart in his cell ... no witnesses, no weapon recovered despite a thorough search.”’ He tutted. ‘Bit careless.’
‘He’d taken up the contract on Cafferty?’
‘Had he?’ The Weasel looked amazed.
‘Fuck off,’ Rebus said, turning back to his window.
‘By the way, Rebus, if you decide not to go to trial with the driver ...’ The Weasel was holding something out. A homemade screwdriver, filed to a point, grip covered in packing-tape. Rebus looked at it in disgust.
‘I washed the blood off,’ the Weasel assured him. Then he laughed again. Rebus felt like he was being ferried straight to hell. In front of him he could see the grey expanse of the Firth of Forth, and Fife beyond it. They were coming into an area of docks, gas-plant and warehouses. It had been earmarked for a development spill-over from Leith. The whole city was changing. Traffic routes and priorities were altered overnight, cranes were kept busy on building-sites, and the council, who always complained about being broke, had all manner of schemes underway to further alter the shape and scope of his chosen home.
‘Nearly there,’ the Weasel said.
Rebus wondered if there’d be any turning back.
They stopped at the gates to a warehouse complex. The driver undid the padlock, pulled the chain free. The gates swung open. In they went. The Weasel ordered the driver to park around the back. There was a plain white van there, more rust than metal. Its back windows had been painted over, turning it into a suitable hearse should occasion demand.
They got out into a salt wind. The Weasel shuffled over towards a door and banged once. The door was pushed open from within. They stepped inside.
A huge open space, filled with only a few packing cases, a couple of pieces of machinery covered with oil-cloth. And two men: the one who’d let them in, and another at the far end. This man was standing in front of a wooden chair. There was a figure tied to the chair, half-hidden by the man. The Weasel led the procession. Rebus tried to control his breathing, which was growing painfully shallow. His heart was racing, nerves jangling. He pushed back the anger, wasn’t sure he could hold it.