by Ian Rankin
‘So what’s the story?’
Ormiston turned in his seat. ‘Ever hear of Teddy Willocks? Glasgow hardman. Carpentry nails and a claw-hammer.’
Rebus nodded. ‘You welched on someone, Willocks came to see you with the carpentry bag.’
‘But then,’ Claverhouse took over, ‘Teddy got on the wrong side of some Geordie bastard. Telford was young, making a name for himself, and he very badly wanted an in with this Geordie, so he took care of Teddy.’
‘And that’s why he carries a teddy around with him,’ Ormiston said. ‘A reminder to everyone.’
Rebus was thinking. Geordie meant someone from Newcastle. Newcastle, with its bridges over the Tyne …
‘Newcastle,’ he said softly, leaning forward in his seat.
‘What about it?’
‘Maybe Candice was there. Her city of bridges. She might link Telford to this Geordie gangster.’
Ormiston and Claverhouse looked at one another.
‘She’ll need a safe place to stay,’ Rebus told them. ‘Money, somewhere to go afterwards.’
‘A first-class flight home if she helps us nail Telford.’
‘I’m not sure she’ll want to go home.’
‘That’s for later,’ Claverhouse said. ‘First thing is to talk to her.’
‘You’ll need a translator.’
Claverhouse looked at him. ‘And of course you know just the man … ?’
She was asleep in her cell, curled under the blanket, only her hair visible. The Mothers of Invention: ‘Lonely Little Girl’. The cell was in the women’s block. Painted pink and blue, a slab to sleep on, graffiti scratched into the walls.
‘Candice,’ Rebus said quietly, squeezing her shoulder. She started awake, as if he’d administered an electric shock. ‘It’s okay, it’s me, John.’
She looked round blindly, focused on him slowly. ‘John,’ she said. Then she smiled.
Claverhouse was off making phone calls, squaring things. Ormiston stood in the doorway, appraising Candice. Not that Ormiston was known to be choosy. Rebus had tried Colquhoun at home, but there’d been no answer. So now Rebus was gesturing, letting her know they wanted to take her somewhere.
‘A hotel,’ he said.
She didn’t like that word. She looked from him to Ormiston and back again.
‘It’s okay,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s just a place for you to sleep, that’s all, somewhere safe. No Telford, nothing like that.’
She seemed to soften, came off the bed and stood in front of him. Her eyes seemed to say, I’ll trust you, and if you let me down I won’t be surprised.
Claverhouse came back. ‘All fixed,’ he said, his examination falling on Candice. ‘She doesn’t speak any English?’
‘Not as practised in polite society.’
‘In that case,’ Ormiston said, ‘she should be fine with us.’
Three men and a young woman in a dark blue Ford Orion, heading south out of the city. It was late now, past midnight, black taxis cruising. Students were spilling from pubs.
‘They get younger every year.’ Claverhouse was never short of a cliché.
‘And more of them end up joining the force,’ Rebus commented.
Claverhouse smiled. ‘I meant prossies, not students. We pulled one in last week, said she was fifteen. Turned out she was twelve, on the run. All grown up about it.’
Rebus tried to remember Sammy at twelve. He saw her scared, in the clutches of a madman with a grievance against Rebus. She’d had lots of nightmares afterwards, till her mother had taken her to London. Rhona had phoned Rebus a few years later. She just wanted to let him know he’d robbed Sammy of her childhood.
‘I phoned ahead,’ Claverhouse said. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve used this place before. It’s perfect.’
‘She’ll need some clothes,’ Rebus said.
‘Siobhan can fetch her some in the morning.’
‘How is Siobhan?’
‘Seems fine. Hasn’t half cut into the jokes and the language though.’
‘Ach, she can take a joke,’ Ormiston said. ‘Likes a drink, too.’
This last was news to Rebus. He wondered how much Siobhan Clarke would change in order to blend with her new surroundings.
‘It’s just off the bypass,’ Claverhouse said, meaning their destination. ‘Not far now.’
The city ended suddenly. Green belt, plus the Pentland Hills. The bypass was quiet, Ormiston doing the ton between exits. They came off at Colinton and signalled into the hotel. It was a motorist’s stop, one of a nationwide chain: same prices, same rooms. The cars which crowded the parking area were salesmen’s specials, cigarette packets littering the passenger seats. The reps would be sleeping, or lying in a daze with the TV remote to hand.
Candice seemed reluctant to get out of the car, until she saw that Rebus was coming, too.
‘You light up her life,’ Ormiston offered.
At reception, they signed her in as one half of a couple – Mrs Angus Campbell. The two Crime Squad cops had the routine off pat. Rebus watched the hotel clerk, but a wink from Claverhouse told him the man was okay.
‘Make it the first floor, Malcolm,’ Ormiston said. ‘Don’t want anyone peeking in the windows.’
Room number 20. ‘Will someone be with her?’ Rebus asked as they climbed the stairs.
‘Right there in the room,’ Claverhouse said. ‘The landing’s too obvious, and we’d freeze our bums off in the car. Did you give me Colquhoun’s number?’
‘Ormiston has it.’
Ormiston was unlocking the door. ‘Who’s on first watch?’
Claverhouse shrugged. Candice was looking towards Rebus, seeming to sense what was being discussed. She snatched at his arm, jabbering in her native tongue, looking first to Claverhouse and then to Ormiston, all the time waving Rebus’s arm.
‘It’s okay, Candice, really. They’ll take care of you.’
She kept shaking her head, holding him with one hand and pointing at him with the other, prodding his chest to make her meaning clear.
‘What do you say, John?’ Claverhouse asked. ‘A happy witness is a willing witness.’
‘What time’s Siobhan expected?’
‘I’ll hurry her up.’
Rebus looked at Candice again, sighed, nodded. ‘Okay.’ He pointed to himself, then to the room. ‘Just for a little while, okay?’
Candice seemed satisfied with this, and went inside. Ormiston handed Rebus the key.
‘I don’t want you young things waking the neighbours now …’
Rebus closed the door on his face.
The room was exactly as expected. Rebus filled the kettle and switched it on, dumped a tea-bag into a cup. Candice pointed to the bathroom, made turning motions with her hands.
‘A bath?’ He gestured with his arm. ‘Go ahead.’
The curtain over the window was closed. He parted it and looked out. A grassy slope, occasional lights from the bypass. He made sure the curtains were closed tight, then tried adjusting the heating. The room was stifling. There didn’t seem to be a thermostat, so he went back to the window and opened it a fraction. Cold night air, and the swish of nearby traffic. He opened the pack of custard creams, two small biscuits. Suddenly he felt ravenous. He’d seen a snack machine in the lobby. Plenty of change in his pockets. He made the tea, added milk, sat down on the sofa. For want of any other distractions, he turned the TV on. The tea was fine. The tea was absolutely fine, no complaints there. He picked up the phone and called Jack Morton.
‘Did I wake you?’
‘Not really. How’s it going?’
‘I wanted a drink today.’
‘So what’s new?’
Rebus could hear his friend making himself comfortable. Jack had helped Rebus get off the booze. Jack had said he could phone any time he liked.
‘I had to talk to this scumbag, Tommy Telford.’
‘I know the name.’
Rebus lit a cigarette. ‘I think a drink would have helped.’
‘Before or after?’
‘Both.’ Rebus smiled. ‘Guess where I am now?’
Jack couldn’t, so Rebus told him the story.
‘What’s your angle?’ Jack asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Rebus thought about it. ‘She seems to need me. It’s been a long time since anyone’s felt like that.’ As he said the words, he feared they didn’t tell the whole story. He remembered another argument with Rhona, her screaming that he’d exploited every relationship he’d ever had.
‘Do you still want that drink?’ Jack was asking.
‘I’m a long way from one.’ Rebus stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Sweet dreams, Jack.’
He was on his second cup of tea when she came back in, wearing the same clothes, her hair wet and hanging in rat’s-tails.
‘Better?’ he asked, making the thumbs-up sign. She nodded, smiling. ‘Do you want some tea?’ He pointed to the kettle. She nodded again, so he made her a cup. Then he suggested a trip to the snack machine. Their haul included crisps, nuts, chocolate, and a couple of cans of Coke. Another cup of tea finished off the tiny cartons of milk. Rebus lay along the sofa, shoes off, watching soundless television. Candice lay on the bed, fully-clothed, sliding the occasional crisp from its packet, flicking channels. She seemed to have forgotten he was there. He took this as a compliment.
He must have fallen asleep. The touch of her fingers on his knee brought him awake. She was standing in front of him, wearing the t-shirt and nothing else. She stared at him, fingers still resting on his knee. He smiled, shook his head, led her back to bed. Made her lie down. She lay on her back, arms stretched. He shook his head again and pulled the duvet over her.
‘That’s not you any more,’ he told her. ‘Goodnight, Candice.’
Rebus retreated to the sofa, lay down again, and wished she would stop saying his name.
The Doors: ‘Wishful Sinful’ …
A tapping at the door brought him awake. Still dark outside. He’d forgotten to close the window, and the room was cold. The TV was still playing, but Candice was asleep, duvet kicked off, chocolate wrappers strewn around her bare legs and thighs. Rebus covered her up, then tiptoed to the door, peered through the spyhole, and opened up.
‘For this relief, much thanks,’ he whispered to Siobhan Clarke.
She was carrying a bulging polythene bag. ‘Thank God for the twenty-four-hour shop.’ They went inside. Clarke looked at the sleeping woman, then went over to the sofa and started unpacking the bag.
‘For you,’ she whispered, ‘a couple of sandwiches.’
‘God bless the child.’
‘For sleeping beauty, some of my clothes. They’ll do till the shops open.’
Rebus was already biting into the first sandwich. Cheese salad on white bread had never tasted finer.
‘How am I getting home?’ he asked.
‘I called you a cab.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’ll be here in two minutes.’
‘What would I do without you?’
‘It’s a toss-up: either freeze to death or starve.’ She closed the window. ‘Now go on, get out of here.’
He looked at Candice one last time, almost wanting to wake her to let her know he wasn’t leaving for good. But she was sleeping so soundly, and Siobhan could take care of everything.
So he tucked the second sandwich into his pocket, tossed the room-key on to the sofa, and left.
Four-thirty. The taxi was idling outside. Rebus felt hungover. He went through a mental list of all the places he could get a drink at this time of night. He didn’t know how many days it had been since he’d had a drink. He wasn’t counting.
He gave his address to the cabbie, and settled back, thinking again of Candice, so soundly asleep, and protected for now. And of Sammy, too old now to need anything from her father. She’d be asleep too, snuggling into Ned Farlowe. Sleep was innocence. Even the city looked innocent in sleep. He looked at the city sometimes and saw a beauty his cynicism couldn’t touch. Someone in a bar – recently? years back? – had challenged him to define romance. How could he do that? He’d seen too much of love’s obverse: people killed for passion and from lack of it. So that now when he saw beauty, he could do little but respond to it with the realisation that it would fade or be brutalised. He saw lovers in Princes Street Gardens and imagined them further down the road, at the crossroads where betrayal and conflict met. He saw valentines in the shops and imagined puncture wounds, real hearts bleeding.
Not that he’d voiced any of this to his public bar inquisitor.
‘Define romance,’ had been the challenge. And Rebus’s response? He’d picked up a fresh pint of beer and kissed the glass.
He slept till nine, showered and made some coffee. Then he phoned the hotel, and Siobhan assured him all was well.
‘She was a bit startled when she woke up and saw me instead of you. Kept saying your name. I told her she’d see you again.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘Shopping – one quick swoop on The Gyle. After that, Fettes. Dr Colquhoun’s coming in at noon for an hour. We’ll see what we get.’
Rebus was at his window, looking down on a damp Arden Street. ‘Take care of her, Siobhan.’
‘No problem.’
Rebus knew there’d be no problem, not with Siobhan. This was her first real action with the Crime Squad, she’d be doing her damnedest to make it a success. He was in the kitchen when the phone rang.
‘Is that Inspector Rebus?’
‘Who’s speaking?’ A voice he didn’t recognise.
‘Inspector, my name is David Levy. We’ve never met. I apologise for calling you at home. I was given this number by Matthew Vanderhyde.’
Old man Vanderhyde: Rebus hadn’t seen him in a while.
‘Yes?’
‘I must say, I was astonished when it transpired he knew you.’ The voice was tinged with a dry humour. ‘But by now nothing about Matthew should surprise me. I went to him because he knows Edinburgh.’
‘Yes?’
Laughter on the line. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I can’t blame you for being suspicious when I’ve made such a mess of the introductions. I am a historian by profession. I’ve been contacted by Solomon Mayerlink to see if I might offer assistance.’
Mayerlink … Rebus knew the name. Placed it: Mayerlink ran the Holocaust Investigation Bureau.
‘And exactly what “assistance” does Mr Mayerlink think I need?’
‘Perhaps we could discuss it in person, Inspector. I’m staying in a hotel on Charlotte Square.’
‘The Roxburghe?’
‘Could we meet there? This morning, ideally.’
Rebus looked at his watch. ‘An hour?’ he suggested.
‘Perfect. Goodbye, Inspector.’
Rebus called into the office, told them where he’d be.
5
They sat in the Roxburghe’s lounge, Levy pouring coffee. An elderly couple in the far corner, beside the window, pored over sections of newspaper. David Levy was elderly, too. He wore black-rimmed glasses and had a small silver beard. His hair was a silver halo around a scalp the colour of tanned leather. His eyes seemed constantly moist, as if he’d just chewed on an onion. He sported a dun-coloured safari suit with blue shirt and tie beneath. His walking-stick rested against his chair. Now retired, he’d worked in Oxford, New York State, Tel Aviv itself, and several other locations around the globe.
‘I never came into contact with Joseph Lintz, however. No reason why I should, our interests being different.’
‘So why does Mr Mayerlink think you can help me?’
Levy put the coffee pot back on its tray. ‘Milk? Sugar?’ Rebus shook his head to both, then repeated his question.
‘Well, Inspector,’ Levy said, tipping two spoonfuls of sugar into his own cup, ‘it’s more a matter of moral support.’
‘Moral support?’
‘You see, many people before you have been in the same position in which you now find yourself. I’m talking about ob
jective people, professionals with no axe to grind, and no real stake in the investigation.’
Rebus bristled. ‘If you’re suggesting I’m not doing my job …’
A pained look crossed Levy’s face. ‘Please, Inspector, I’m not making a very good job of this, am I? What I mean is that there will be times when you will doubt the validity of what you are doing. You’ll doubt its worth.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Perhaps you’ve already had doubts?’
Rebus said nothing. He had a drawerful of doubts, especially now that he had a real, living, breathing case – Candice. Candice, who might lead to Tommy Telford.
‘You could say I’m here as your conscience, Inspector.’ Levy winced again. ‘No, I didn’t put that right, either. You already have a conscience, that’s not under debate.’ He sighed. ‘The question you’ve no doubt been pondering is the same one I’ve asked myself on occasions: can time wash away responsibility? For me, the answer would have to be no. The thing is this, Inspector.’ Levy leaned forward. ‘You are not investigating the crimes of an old man, but those of a young man who now happens to be old. Focus your mind on that. There have been investigations before, half-hearted affairs. Governments wait for these men to die rather than have to try them. But each investigation is an act of remembrance, and remembrance is never wasted. Remembrance is the only way we learn.’
‘Like we’ve learned with Bosnia?’
‘You’re right, Inspector, as a species we’ve always been slow to take in lessons. Sometimes they have to be hammered home.’
‘And you think I’m your carpenter? Were there Jews in Villefranche?’ Rebus couldn’t remember reading of any.
‘Does it matter?’
‘I’m just wondering, why the interest?’
‘To be honest, Inspector, there is a slight ulterior motive.’ Levy sipped coffee, considering his words. ‘The Rat Line. We’d like to show that it existed, that it operated to save Nazis from possible tormentors.’ He paused. ‘That it worked with the tacit approval – the more than tacit approval – of several western governments and even the Vatican. It’s a question of general complicity.’
‘What you want is for everyone to feel guilty?’
‘We want recognition, Inspector. We want the truth. Isn’t that what you want? Matthew Vanderhyde would have me believe it is your guiding principle.’