The Hanging Garden

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Ask her if those are self-inflicted.’

  Colquhoun struggled with the translation. ‘I’m more used to literature and film than … um …’

  ‘What does she say?’

  ‘She says she did them herself.’

  Rebus looked at her for confirmation, and she nodded slowly, looking slightly ashamed.

  ‘Who put her on the street?’

  ‘You mean …?’

  ‘Who’s running her? Who’s her manager?’

  Another short dialogue.

  ‘She says she doesn’t understand.’

  ‘Does she deny working as a prostitute?’

  ‘She says she doesn’t understand.’

  Rebus turned to WPC Sharpe. ‘Well?’

  ‘A couple of cars stopped. She leaned in the window to talk with the drivers. They drove off again. Didn’t like the look of the goods, I suppose.’

  ‘If she can’t speak English, how did she manage to “talk” to the drivers?’

  ‘There are ways.’

  Rebus looked at Candice. He began to speak to her, very softly. ‘Straight fuck, fifteen, twenty for a blow job. Unprotected is an extra fiver.’ He paused. ‘How much is anal, Candice?’

  Colour flooded her cheeks. Rebus smiled.

  ‘Maybe not university tuition, Dr Colquhoun, but someone’s taught her a few words of English. Just enough to get her working. Ask her again how she got here.’

  Colquhoun mopped his face first. Candice spoke with her head lowered.

  ‘She says she left Sarajevo as a refugee! Went to Amsterdam, then came to Britain. The first thing she remembers is a place with lots of bridges.’

  ‘Bridges?’

  ‘She stayed there for some time.’ Colquhoun seemed shaken by the story. He handed her a handkerchief so she could wipe her eyes. She rewarded him with a smile. Then she looked at Rebus.

  ‘Burger chips, yes?’

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Rebus rubbed his stomach. She nodded and smiled. He turned to Sharpe. ‘See what the canteen can come up with, will you?’

  The WPC gave him a hard stare, not wanting to leave. ‘Would you like anything, Dr Colquhoun?’

  He shook his head. Rebus asked for another coffee. As Sharpe left, Rebus crouched down by the table and looked at Candice. ‘Ask her how she got to Edinburgh.’

  Colquhoun asked, then listened to what sounded like a long tale. He scratched some notes on a folded sheet of paper.

  ‘The city with the bridges, she says she didn’t see much of it. She was kept inside. Sometimes she was driven to some rendezvous … You’ll have to forgive me, Inspector. I may be a linguist, but I’m no expert on colloquialisms.’

  ‘You’re doing fine, sir.’

  ‘Well, she was used as a prostitute, that much I can infer. And one day they put her in the back of a car, and she thought she was going to another hotel or office.’

  ‘Office?’

  ‘From her descriptions, I’d say some of her … work … was done in offices. Also private apartments and houses. But mostly hotel rooms.’

  ‘Where was she kept?’

  ‘In a house. She had a bedroom, they kept it locked.’ Colquhoun pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘They put her in the car one day, and next thing she knew she was in Edinburgh.’

  ‘How long was the trip?’

  ‘She’s not sure. She slept part of the way.’

  ‘Tell her everything’s going to be all right.’ Rebus paused. ‘And ask her who she works for now.’

  The fear returned to Candice’s face. She stammered, shaking her head. Her voice sounded more guttural than ever. Colquhoun looked like he was having trouble with the translation.

  ‘She can’t tell you,’ he said.

  ‘Tell her she’s safe.’ Colquhoun did so. ‘Tell her again,’ Rebus said. He made sure she was looking at him while Colquhoun spoke. His face was set, a face she could trust. She reached a hand out to him. He took it, squeezed.

  ‘Ask her again who she works for.’

  ‘She can’t tell you, Inspector. They’d kill her. She’s heard stories.’

  Rebus decided to try the name he’d been thinking of, the man who ran half the city’s working girls.

  ‘Cafferty,’ he said, watching for a reaction. There was none. ‘Big Ger. Big Ger Cafferty.’ Her face remained blank. Rebus squeezed her hand again. There was another name … one he’d been hearing recently.

  ‘Telford,’ he said. ‘Tommy Telford.’

  Candice pulled her hand away and broke into hysterics, just as WPC Sharpe pushed open the door.

  Rebus walked Dr Colquhoun out of the station, recalling that just such a walk had got him into this in the first place.

  ‘Thanks again, sir. If I need you, I hope you won’t mind if I call?’

  ‘If you must, you must,’ Colquhoun said grudgingly.

  ‘Not too many Slavic specialists around,’ Rebus said. He had Colquhoun’s business card in his hand, a home phone number written on its back. ‘Well,’ Rebus put out his free hand, ‘thanks again.’ As they shook, Rebus thought of something.

  ‘Were you at the university when Joseph Lintz was Professor of German?’

  The question surprised Colquhoun. ‘Yes,’ he said at last.

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Our departments weren’t that close. I met him at a few social functions, the occasional lecture.’

  ‘What did you think of him?’

  Colquhoun blinked. He still wasn’t looking at Rebus. ‘They’re saying he was a Nazi.’

  ‘Yes, but back then …?’

  ‘As I say, we weren’t close. Are you investigating him?’

  ‘Just curious, sir. Thanks for your time.’

  Back in the station, Rebus found Ellen Sharpe outside the Interview Room door.

  ‘So what do we do with her?’ she asked.

  ‘Keep her here.’

  ‘You mean charge her?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Let’s call it protective custody.’

  ‘Does she know that?’

  ‘Who’s she going to complain to? There’s only one bugger in the whole city can make out what she’s saying, and I’ve just packed him off home.’

  ‘What if her man comes to get her?’

  ‘Think he will?’

  She thought about it. ‘Probably not.’

  ‘No, because as far as he’s concerned, all he has to do is wait, and we’ll release her eventually. Meantime, she doesn’t speak English, so what can she give us? And she’s here illegally no doubt, so if she talks, all we’d probably do is kick her out of the country. Telford’s clever … I hadn’t realised it, but he is. Using illegal aliens as prossies. It’s sweet.’

  ‘How long do we keep her?’

  Rebus shrugged.

  ‘And what do I tell my boss?’

  ‘Direct all enquiries to DI Rebus,’ he said, going to open the door.

  ‘I thought it was exemplary, sir.’

  He stopped. ‘What?’

  ‘Your knowledge of the charge-scale for prostitutes.’

  ‘Just doing my job,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘One last question, sir … ?’

  ‘Yes, Sharpe?’

  ‘Why? What’s the big deal?’

  Rebus considered this, twitched his nose. ‘Good question,’ he said finally, opening the door and going in.

  And he knew. He knew straight away. She looked like Sammy. Wipe away the make-up and the tears, get some sensible clothes on her, and she was the spitting image.

  And she was scared.

  And maybe he could help her.

  ‘What can I call you, Candice? What’s your real name?’

  She took hold of his hand, put her face to it. He pointed to himself.

  ‘John,’ he said.

  ‘Don.’

  ‘John.’

  ‘Shaun.’

  ‘John.’ He was smiling; so was she. ‘John.’

  ‘John.’

  He nodded. ‘That
’s it. And you?’ He pointed at her now. ‘Who are you?’

  She paused. ‘Candice,’ she said, as a little light died behind her eyes.

  4

  Rebus didn’t know Tommy Telford by sight, but he knew where to find him.

  Flint Street was a passageway between Clerk Street and Buccleuch Street, near the university. The shops had mostly closed down, but the games arcade always did good business, and from Flint Street Telford leased gaming machines to pubs and clubs across the city. Flint Street was the centre of his eastern empire.

  The franchise had until recently belonged to a man called Davie Donaldson, but he’d suddenly retired on ‘health grounds’. Maybe he’d been right at that: if Tommy Telford wanted something from you and you weren’t forthcoming, predictions of your future health could suddenly change. Donaldson was now in hiding somewhere: hiding not from Telford but from Big Ger Cafferty, for whom he had been holding the franchise ‘in trust’ while Cafferty bided his time in Barlinnie jail. There were some who said Cafferty ran Edinburgh as effectively from inside as he ever had done outside, but the reality was that gangsters, like Nature, abhorred a vacuum, and now Tommy Telford was in town.

  Telford was a product of Ferguslie Park in Paisley. At eleven he’d joined the local gang; at twelve a couple of woolly-suits had visited him to ask about a spate of tyre slashings. They’d found him surrounded by other gang members, nearly all of them older than him, but he was at the centre, no doubt about it.

  His gang had grown with him, taking over a sizeable chunk of Paisley, selling drugs and running prostitutes, doing a bit of extortion. These days he had shares in casinos and video shops, restaurants and a haulage firm, plus a property portfolio which made him landlord to several hundred people. He’d tried to make his mark in Glasgow, but had found it sealed down tight, so had gone exploring elsewhere. There were stories he’d become friendly with some big villain in Newcastle. Nobody could remember anything like it since the days when London’s Krays had rented their muscle from ‘Big Arthur’ in Glasgow.

  He’d arrived in Edinburgh a year ago, moving softly at first, buying a casino and hotel. Then suddenly he was inescapably there, like the shadow from a raincloud. With the chasing out of Davie Donaldson he’d given Cafferty a calculated punch to the gut. Cafferty could either fight or give up. Everyone was waiting for it to get messy …

  The games arcade called itself Fascination Street. The machines were all flashing insistence, in stark contrast to the dead facial stares of the players. Then there were shoot-’em-ups with huge video screens and digital imprecations.

  ‘Think you’re tough enough, punk?’ one of them challenged as Rebus walked past. They had names like Harbinger and NecroCop, this latter reminding Rebus of how old he felt. He looked at the faces around him, saw a few he recognised, kids who’d been pulled into St Leonard’s. They’d be on the fringes of Telford’s gang, awaiting the call-up, hanging around like foster children, hoping The Family would take them. Most of them came from families who weren’t families, latchkey kids grown old before their time.

  One of the staff came in from the café.

  ‘Who ordered the bacon sarnie?’

  Rebus smiled as the faces turned to him. Bacon meant pig meant him. A moment’s examination was all he warranted. There were more pressing demands on their attention. At the far end of the arcade were the really big machines: half-size motorbikes you sat astride as you negotiated the circuit on the screen in front of you. A small appreciative coterie stood around one bike, on which sat a young man dressed in a leather jacket. Not a market-stall jacket, something altogether more special. Quality goods. Shiny sharp-toed boots. Tight black denims. White polo neck. Surrounded by fawning courtiers. Steely Dan: ‘Kid Charlemagne’. Rebus found a space for himself in the midst of the glaring onlookers.

  ‘No takers for that bacon sarnie?’ he asked.

  ‘Who are you?’ the man on the machine demanded.

  ‘DI Rebus.’

  ‘Cafferty’s man.’ Said with conviction.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I hear you and him go back.’

  ‘I put him inside.’

  ‘Not every cop gets visiting rights though.’ Rebus realised that though Telford’s gaze was fixed on the screen, he was watching Rebus in its reflection. Watching him, talking to him, yet still managing to control the bike through hairpin bends.

  ‘So is there some problem, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a problem. We picked up one of your girls.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘She calls herself Candice. That’s about as much as we know. But foreign lassies are a new one on me. And you’re fairly new around here, too.’

  ‘I’m not getting your drift, Inspector. I supply goods and services to the entertainment sector. Are you accusing me of being a pimp?’

  Rebus stuck out a foot and pushed the bike sideways. On the screen, it spun and hit a crash barrier. A moment later, the screen changed. Back to the start of the race.

  ‘See, Inspector,’ Telford said, still not turning round. ‘That’s the beauty of games. You can always start again after an accident. Not so easy in real life.’

  ‘What if I cut the power? Game over.’

  Slowly, Telford swivelled from the hips. Now he was looking at Rebus. Close up, he looked so young. Most of the gangsters Rebus had known, they’d had a worn look, undernourished but overfed. Telford had the look of some new strain of bacteria, not yet tested or understood.

  ‘So what is it, Rebus? Some message from Cafferty?’

  ‘Candice,’ Rebus said quietly, the slight tremor in his voice betraying his anger. With a couple of drinks in him, he’d have had Telford on the floor by now. ‘From tonight, she’s off the game, understood?’

  ‘I don’t know any Candice.’

  ‘Understood?’

  ‘Hang on, let’s see if I’ve got this. You want me to agree with you that a woman I’ve never met should stop touting her hole?’

  Smiles from the spectators. Telford turned back to his game. ‘Where’s this woman from anyway?’ he asked, almost casually.

  ‘We’re not sure,’ Rebus lied. He didn’t want Telford knowing any more than was necessary.

  ‘Must have been a great little chat the two of you had.’

  ‘She’s scared shitless.’

  ‘Me, too, Rebus. I’m scared you’re going to bore me to death. This Candice, did she give you a taste of the goods? I’m betting it’s not every scrubber would get you this het up.’

  Laughter, Rebus its brunt.

  ‘She’s off the game, Telford. Don’t think about touching her.’

  ‘Not with a bargepole, pal. Myself, I’m a clean-living sort of individual. I say my prayers last thing at night.’

  ‘And kiss your cuddly bear?’

  Telford looked at him again. ‘Don’t believe all the stories, Inspector. Here, grab a bacon sarnie on your way out, I think there’s one going spare.’ Rebus stood his ground a few moments longer, then turned away. ‘And tell the mugs out front I said hello.’

  Rebus walked back through the arcade and out into the night, heading for Nicolson Street. He was wondering what he was going to do with Candice. Simple answer: let her go, and hope she had the sense to keep moving. As he made to pass a parked car, its window slid down.

  ‘Fucking well get in,’ a voice ordered from the passenger seat. Rebus stopped, looked at the man who’d spoken, recognised the face.

  ‘Ormiston,’ he said, opening the back door of the Orion. ‘Now I know what he meant.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tommy Telford. I’m to tell you he said hello.’

  The driver stared at Ormiston. ‘Rumbled again.’ He didn’t sound surprised. Rebus recognised the voice.

  ‘Hello, Claverhouse.’

  DS Claverhouse, DC Ormiston: Scottish Crime Squad, Fettes’s finest. On surveillance. Claverhouse: as thin as ‘twa ply o’ reek’, as Rebus’s father would have said. Ormiston: freckle-faced
and with Mick McManus’s hair – slick, pudding-bowl cut, unfeasibly black.

  ‘You were blown before I walked in there, if that’s any consolation.’

  ‘What the fuck were you doing?’

  ‘Paying my respects. What about you?’

  ‘Wasting our time,’ Ormiston muttered.

  The Crime Squad were out for Telford: good news for Rebus.

  ‘I’ve got someone,’ he said. ‘She works for Telford. She’s frightened. You could help her.’

  ‘The frightened ones don’t talk.’

  ‘This one might.’

  Claverhouse stared at him. ‘And all we’d have to do is …?’

  ‘Get her out of here, set her up somewhere.’

  ‘Witness relocation?’

  ‘If it comes to that.’

  ‘What does she know?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Her English isn’t great.’

  Claverhouse knew when he was being sold something. ‘Tell us,’ he said.

  Rebus told them. They tried not to look interested.

  ‘We’ll talk to her,’ Claverhouse said.

  Rebus nodded. ‘So how long has this been going on?’

  ‘Ever since Telford and Cafferty squared off.’

  ‘And whose side are we on?’

  ‘We’re the UN, same as always,’ Claverhouse said. He spoke slowly, measuring each word and phrase. A careful man, DS Claverhouse. ‘Meantime, you go charging in like some bloody mercenary.’

  ‘I’ve never been a great one for tactics. Besides, I wanted to see the bastard close up.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He looks like a kid.’

  ‘And he’s as clean as a whistle,’ Claverhouse said. ‘He’s got a dozen lieutenants who’d take the fall for him.’

  At the word ‘lieutenants’, Rebus’s mind flashed to Joseph Lintz. Some men gave orders, some carried them out: which group was the more culpable?

  ‘Tell me something,’ he said, ‘the teddy bear story … is it true?’

  Claverhouse nodded. ‘In the passenger seat of his Range Rover. A fucking huge yellow thing, sort they raffle in the pub Sunday lunchtime.’