by Ian Rankin
‘You understand, Inspector, I’m just the manager here. I mean, I run the day-to-day business.’
‘But you’re the Chief Executive.’
‘With no personal share in the club. The actual owners were set against selling at first. But an offer has been made, and I believe it’s a very good one. And the potential buyers … well, they’re persistent.’
‘Have there been any threats, Mr Malahide?’
He looked horrified. ‘What sort of threats?’
‘Forget it.’
‘The negotiations haven’t been hostile, if that’s what you mean.’
‘So these Japanese, the ones who had lunch here … ?’
‘They were representing the consortium.’
‘The consortium being … ?’
‘I don’t know. The Japanese are always very secretive. Some big company or corporation, I’d guess.’
‘Any idea why they want Poyntinghame?’
‘I’ve wondered that myself.’
‘And?’
‘Everyone knows the Japanese love golf. It might be a prestige thing. Or it could be that they’re opening a plant of some kind in Livingston.’
‘And Poyntinghame would become the factory social club?’
Malahide shivered at the thought. Rebus got to his feet.
‘You’ve been very helpful, sir. Anything else you can tell me?’
‘Look, this has been off the record, Inspector.’
‘I’ve no problem with that. I don’t suppose you’ve got any names?’
‘Names?’
‘Of the diners that day.’
Malahide shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, not even credit card details. Mr Telford paid cash as usual.’
‘Did he leave a big tip?’
‘Inspector,’ smiling, ‘some secrets are sacrosanct.’
‘Let’s keep this conversation that way, too, sir, all right?’
Malahide looked at Candice. ‘She’s a prostitute, isn’t she? I thought as much the day they were here.’ There was revulsion in his voice. ‘Tarty little thing, aren’t you?’
Candice stared at him, looked to Rebus for help, said a few words neither man understood.
‘What’s she saying?’ Malahide asked.
‘She says she once had a punter who looked just like you. He dressed in plus-fours and made her whack him with a mashie-niblick.’
Malahide showed them out.
6
Rebus telephoned Claverhouse from Candice’s room.
‘Could be something or nothing,’ Claverhouse said, but Rebus could tell he was interested, which was good: the longer he stayed interested, the longer he’d want to hang on to Candice. Ormiston was on his way to the hotel to resume babysitting duties.
‘What I want to know is, how the hell did Telford land something like this?’
‘Good question,’ Claverhouse said.
‘It’s way out of his previous sphere, isn’t it?’
‘As far as we know.’
‘A chauffeur service for Jap companies …’
‘Maybe he’s after the contract to supply their gaming machines.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I still don’t get it.’
‘Not your problem, John, remember that.’
‘I suppose so.’ There was a knock at the door. ‘Sounds like Ormiston.’
‘I doubt it. He’s just left.’
Rebus stared at the door. ‘Claverhouse, wait on the line.’
He left the receiver on the bedside table. The knock was repeated. Rebus motioned for Candice, who’d been flicking through a magazine on the sofa, to move into the bathroom. Then he crept up to the door and put his eye to the spy-hole. A woman: the day-shift receptionist. He unlocked the door.
‘Yes?’
‘Letter for your wife.’
He stared at the small white envelope which she was trying to hand him.
‘Letter,’ she repeated.
There was no name or address on the envelope, no stamp. Rebus took it and held it to the light. A single sheet of paper inside, and something flat and square, like a photograph.
‘A man handed it in at reception.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Two, three minutes.’
‘What did he look like?’
She shrugged. ‘Tallish, short brown hair. He was wearing a suit, took the letter out of a briefcase.’
‘How do you know who it’s for?’
‘He said it was for the foreign woman. He described her to a T.’
Rebus was staring at the envelope. ‘Okay, thanks,’ he mumbled. He closed the door, went back to the telephone.
‘What is it?’ Claverhouse asked.
‘Someone’s just dropped off a letter for Candice.’ Rebus tore open the envelope, holding the receiver between shoulder and chin. There was a Polaroid photo and a single sheet, handwritten in small capitals. Foreign words.
‘What does it say?’ Claverhouse asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Rebus tried a couple of words aloud. Candice had emerged from the bathroom. She snatched the paper from him and read it quickly, then fled back into the bathroom.
‘It means something to Candice,’ Rebus said. ‘There’s a photo, too.’ He looked at it. ‘She’s on her knees gamming some fat bloke.’
‘Description?’
‘The camera’s not exactly interested in his face. Claverhouse, we’ve got to get her away from here.’
‘Hang on till Ormiston arrives. They might be trying to panic you. If they want to snatch her, one cop in a car isn’t going to cause much of a problem. Two cops just might.’
‘How did they know?’
‘We’ll think about that later.’
Rebus was staring at the bathroom door, remembering the locked cubicle at St Leonard’s. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Be careful.’
Rebus put down the receiver.
‘Candice?’ He tried the door. It was locked. ‘Candice?’ He stood back and kicked. The door wasn’t as strong as the one in St Leonard’s; he nearly took it off its hinges. She was seated on the toilet, a plastic safety razor in her hand, slashing it across her arms. There was blood on her t-shirt, blood spraying the white tiled floor. She started screaming at him, the words collapsing into monosyllables. Rebus grabbed the razor, nicked his thumb in the process. He pulled her off the toilet, flushed the razor, and started wrapping towels around her arms. The note was lying in the bath. He waved it in her face.
‘They’re trying to scare you, that’s all.’ Not even half-believing it himself. If Telford could find her this quickly, if he had the means of writing to her in her own language, then he was much stronger, much cleverer than Rebus had suspected.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ he went on. ‘I promise. It’s all okay. We’ll look after you. We’ll get you out of here, take you somewhere he can’t get to you. I promise, Candice. Look, this is me talking.’
But she was bawling, tears dripping from her cheeks, head shaking from side to side. For a time, she’d actually believed in knights on white chargers. Now, she was realising how stupid she’d been …
The coast seemed to be clear.
Rebus took her in his car, Ormiston tucked in behind. No other way to play it. It was a trade-off: a speedy exit versus hanging around for a cavalry escort. And the way Candice was bleeding, they couldn’t afford to wait. The drive to the hospital was nerve-tingling, then there was the wait while her wounds were checked and some of them sewn up. Rebus and Ormiston waited in A&E, drinking coffee from beakers, asking one another questions they couldn’t answer.
‘How did he know?’
‘Who did he get to write the note?’
‘Why give us a warning? Why not just grab her?’
‘What does the note say?’
It struck Rebus that they were near the university. He took Dr Colquhoun’s card from his pocket and phoned his office. Colquhoun was in. Rebus read the message out to him, spelling some of the words.
‘They so
und like addresses,’ Colquhoun said. ‘Untranslatable.’
‘Addresses? Are any towns named?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Sir, we’ll be taking her to Fettes if she’s well enough … any chance you could meet us there? It’s important.’
‘Everything with you chaps is important.’
‘Yes, sir, but this is important. Candice’s life may be in danger.’
Colquhoun took time answering. ‘I suppose in that case …’
‘I’ll send a car for you.’
After an hour, she was well enough to leave. ‘The cuts weren’t too deep,’ the doctor said. ‘Not life-threatening.’
‘They weren’t meant to be.’ Rebus turned to Ormiston. ‘She thinks she’s going back to Telford, that’s why she did it. She knows she’s going back to him.’
Candice looked as though all the blood had been drained from her. Her face seemed more skeletal than before, and her eyes darker. Rebus tried to recall what her smile looked like. He doubted he’d be seeing one for a while. She kept her arms folded protectively in front of her, and wouldn’t meet his eyes. Rebus had seen suspects act that way in custody: people for whom the world had become a trap.
At Fettes, Claverhouse and Colquhoun were already waiting. Rebus handed over the note and photo.
‘As I said, Inspector,’ Colquhoun stated, ‘addresses.’
‘Ask her what they mean,’ Claverhouse demanded. They were in the same room as before. Candice knew her place, and was already seated, her arms still folded, showing cream-coloured bandages and pink plasters. Colquhoun asked, but it was as though he’d ceased to exist. Candice stared at the wall in front of her, unblinking, her only motion a slight rocking to and fro.
‘Ask her again,’ Claverhouse said. But Rebus interrupted before Colquhoun could start.
‘Ask her if people she knows live there, people who are important to her.’
As Colquhoun formed the question, the rocking grew slightly in intensity. There were fresh tears in her eyes.
‘Her mother and father? Brothers and sisters?’
Colquhoun translated. Candice tried to stop her mouth trembling.
‘Maybe she left a kid behind …’
As Colquhoun asked, Candice flew from her chair, shouting and screaming. Ormiston tried to grab her, but she kicked out at him. When she’d calmed, she subsided in a corner of the room, arms over her head.
‘She’s not going to tell us anything,’ Colquhoun translated. ‘She was stupid to believe us. She just wants to go now. There’s nothing she can help us with.’
Rebus and Claverhouse shared a look.
‘We can’t hold her, John, not if she wants to leave. It’s been dodgy enough keeping her away from a lawyer. Once she starts asking to go …’ He shrugged.
‘Come on, man,’ Rebus hissed, ‘she’s shit-scared, and with good reason. And now you’ve got all you’re going to get out of her, you’re just going to hand her back to Telford?’
‘Look, it’s not a question of –’
‘He’ll kill her, you know he will.’
‘If he was going to kill her, she’d be dead.’ Claverhouse paused. ‘He’s cleverer than that. He knows damned well all he had to do was give her a fright. He knows her. It sticks in my craw, too, but what can we do?’
‘Just keep her a few days, see if we can’t …’
‘Can’t what? You want to hand her over to Immigration?’
‘It’s an idea. Get her the hell away from here.’
Claverhouse pondered this, then turned to Colquhoun. ‘Ask her if she wants to go back to Sarajevo.’
Colquhoun asked. She slurred some answer, choking back tears.
‘She says if she goes back, they’ll kill everyone.’
Silence in the room. They were all looking at her. Four men, men with jobs, family ties, men with lives of their own. In the scheme of things, they seldom realised how well off they were. And now they realised something else: how helpless they were.
‘Tell her,’ Claverhouse said quietly, ‘she’s free to walk out of here at any time, if that’s what she really wants. If she stays, we’ll do our damnedest to help her …’
So Colquhoun spoke to her, and she listened, and when he’d finished she pushed herself back on to her feet and looked at them. Then she wiped her nose on her bandages, pushed the hair out of her eyes, and walked to the door.
‘Don’t go, Candice,’ Rebus said.
She half-turned towards him. ‘Okay,’ she said.
Then she opened the door and was gone.
Rebus grabbed Claverhouse’s arm. ‘We’ve got to pull Telford in, warn him not to touch her.’
‘You think he needs telling?’
‘You think he’d listen?’ Ormiston added.
‘I can’t believe this. He scared her half to death, and as a result we let her walk? I really can’t get my head round this.’
‘She could always have gone to Fife,’ Colquhoun said. With Candice out of the room, he seemed to have perked up a bit.
‘Bit late now,’ Ormiston said.
‘He beat us this time, that’s all,’ Claverhouse said, his eyes on Rebus. ‘But we’ll take him down, don’t worry.’ He managed a thin, humourless smile. ‘Don’t think we’re giving up, John. It’s not our style. Early days yet, pal. Early days …’
She was waiting for him out in the car park, standing by the passenger-door of his battered Saab 900.
‘Okay?’ she said.
‘Okay,’ he agreed, smiling with relief as he unlocked the car. He could think of only one place to take her. As he drove through The Meadows, she nodded, recognising the tree-lined playing fields.
‘You’ve been here before?’
She said a few words, nodded again as Rebus turned into Arden Street. He parked the car and turned to her.
‘You’ve been here?’
She pointed upwards, fingers curled into the shape of binoculars.
‘With Telford?’
‘Telford,’ she said. She made a show of writing something down, and Rebus took out his notebook and pen, handed them over. She drew a teddy bear.
‘You came in Telford’s car?’ Rebus interpreted. ‘And he watched one of the flats up there?’ He pointed to his own flat.
‘Yes, yes.’
‘When was this?’ She didn’t understand the question. ‘I need a phrasebook,’ he muttered. Then he opened his door, got out and looked around. The cars around him were all empty. No Range Rovers. He signalled for Candice to get out and follow him.
She seemed to like his living-room, went straight to the record collection but couldn’t find anything she recognised. Rebus went into the kitchen to make coffee and to think. He couldn’t keep her here, not if Telford knew about the place. Telford … why had he been watching Rebus’s flat? The answer was obvious: he knew the detective was linked to Cafferty, and therefore a potential threat. He thought Rebus was in Cafferty’s pocket. Know your enemy: it was another rule Telford had learned.
Rebus phoned a contact from the Scotland on Sunday business section.
‘Japanese companies,’ Rebus said. ‘Rumours pertaining to.’
‘Can you narrow that down?’
‘New sites around Edinburgh, maybe Livingston.’
Rebus could hear the reporter shuffling papers on his desk. ‘There’s a whisper going round about a microprocessor plant.’
‘In Livingston?’
‘That’s one possibility.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nope. Why the interest?’
‘Cheers, Tony.’ Rebus put down the receiver, looked across at Candice. He couldn’t think where else to take her. Hotels weren’t safe. One place came to mind, but it would be risky … Well, not so very risky. He made the call.
‘Sammy?’ he said. ‘Any chance you could do me a favour … ?’
Sammy lived in a ‘colonies’ flat in Shandon. Parking was almost impossible on the narrow street outside. Rebus got as close
as he could.
Sammy was waiting for them in the narrow hallway, and led them into the cramped living-room. There was a guitar on a wicker chair and Candice lifted it, setting herself on the chair and strumming a chord.
‘Sammy,’ Rebus said, ‘this is Candice.’
‘Hello there,’ Sammy said. ‘Happy Halloween.’ Candice was putting chords together now. ‘Hey, that’s Oasis.’
Candice looked up, smiled. ‘Oasis,’ she echoed.
‘I’ve got the CD somewhere …’ Sammy examined a tower of CDs next to the hi-fi. ‘Here it is. Shall I put it on?’
‘Yes, yes.’
Sammy switched the hi-fi on, told Candice she was going to make some coffee, and beckoned for Rebus to follow her into the kitchen.
‘So who is she?’ The kitchen was tiny. Rebus stayed in the doorway.
‘She’s a prostitute. Against her will. I don’t want her pimp getting her.’
‘Where’s she from again?’
‘Sarajevo.’
‘And she doesn’t have much English?’
‘How’s your Serbo-Croat?’
‘Rusty.’
Rebus looked around. ‘Where’s your boyfriend?’
‘Out working.’
‘On the book?’ Rebus didn’t like Ned Farlowe. Partly it was that name: ‘Neds’ were what the Sunday Post called hooligans. They robbed old ladies of their pension books and walking-frames. Those were the Neds of this world. And Farlowe meant Chris Farlowe: ‘Out of Time’, a number one that should have belonged to the Stones. Farlowe was researching a history of organised crime in Scotland.
‘Sod’s law,’ Sammy said. ‘He needs money to buy the time to write the thing.’
‘So what’s he doing?’
‘Just some freelance stuff. How long am I babysitting?’
‘A couple of days at most. Just till I find somewhere else.’
‘What will he do if he finds her?’
‘I’m not that keen to find out.’
Sammy finished rinsing the mugs. ‘She looks like me, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes, she does.’
‘I’ve got some time off coming. Maybe I’ll phone in, see if I can stay here with her. What’s her real name?’
‘She hasn’t told me.’
‘Has she any clothes?’
‘At a hotel. I’ll get a patrol car to bring them.’