by Ian Rankin
‘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.’
‘Recuperating?’
‘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.
When they were eight feet from the chair, the Weasel nodded and the man stood away, revealing to Rebus the terrified figure of a kid.
A boy.
Nine or ten, no older.
One black eye, nose caked with blood, both cheeks bruised and a graze on his chin. Burst lip beginning to heal, trousers torn at the knees, one shoe missing.
And a smell, as if he’d wet himself, maybe even worse.
‘What the hell is this?’ Rebus asked.
‘This,’ the Weasel said, ‘is the little bastard who stole the car. This is the little bastard who lost his nerve at a red light and gunned through it, losing control of the pedals because he could barely reach them. This ...’ The Weasel stepped forward, planted a hand on the kid’s shoulder. ‘This is the culprit.’
Rebus looked at the faces around him. ‘Is this your idea of a joke?’
‘No joke, Rebus.’
He looked at the boy. Dried tear-tracks. Eyes bloodshot from crying. Shoulders trembling. They’d tied his arms behind him. Tied his ankles to the chair-legs.
‘Puh-please, mister ...’ Dry, cracked voice. ‘I ... help me, puh-please ...’
‘Nicked the car,’ the Weasel recited, ‘then did the hit and run, got scared, and dumped the car near where he lives. Took the cassette and the tapes. He wanted the car for a race. That’s what they do, race cars around the schemes. This little runt can start an engine in ten seconds flat.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘So ... here we all are.’
‘Help me ...’
Rebus recalling the city’s graffiti: Won’t Anyone Help? The Weasel nodding towards one of his men, the man producing a pickaxe-handle.
‘Or the screwdriver,’ the Weasel said. ‘Or whatever you like, really. We are at your command.’ And he gave a little bow.
Rebus could hardly speak. ‘Cut the ropes.’
Silence in the warehouse.
‘Cut those fucking ropes!’
A sniff from the Weasel. ‘You heard the man, Tony.’
Ca-chink of a flick-knife opening. Ropes severed like cutting through butter. Rebus walked to within inches of the boy.
‘What’s your name?’
‘J-Jordan.’
‘Is that your first name or your second?’
The boy looked at him. ‘First.’
‘Okay, Jordan.’ Rebus leaned down. The boy flinched, but did not resist as Rebus picked him up. He weighed almost nothing. Rebus started walking with him.
‘What now, Rebus?’ the Weasel asked. But Rebus didn’t answer. He carried the boy to the threshold, kicked open the door, stepped out into sunshine.
‘I’m ... I’m really sorry.’ The boy had a hand across his eyes, unused to the light. He was starting to cry.
‘You know what you did?’
Jordan nodded. ‘I’ve been ... ever since that night. I knew it was bad ...’ Now the tears came.
‘Did they say who I was?’
‘Please don’t kill me.’
‘I’m not going to kill you, Jordan.’
The boy blinked, trying to clear tears from his eyes, the better to know whether he was being lied to.
‘I think you’ve been through enough, pal,’ Rebus said. Then added: ‘I think we both have.’
So after everything, it had come to this. Bob Dylan: ‘Simple Twist of Fate’. Segue to Leonard Cohen: ‘Is This What You Wanted?’
Rebus didn’t know the answer to that.
38
Clean and sober, he went to the hospital. An open ward this time, set hours for visitors. No more darkened vigils. No return visit by Candice, though nurses spoke of regular phone calls by someone foreign-sounding. No way of knowing where she was. Maybe out there searching for her son. It didn’t matter, so long as she was safe. So long as she was in control.
When he reached the ward’s far end, two women rose from their chairs so he could kiss them: Rhona and Patience. He had a carrier-bag with him, magazines and grapes. Sammy was sitting up, supported by three pillows, Pa Broon propped beside her. Her hair had been washed and brushed, and she was smiling at him.
‘Women’s magazines,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘They should be on the top-shelf.’
‘I need a few fantasies to sustain me in here,’ Sammy said. Rebus beamed at her, said hello, then bent down and kissed his daughter.
The sun was shining as they walked through The Meadows – a rare day off for both. They held hands and watched people sunbathing and playing football. He knew Rhona was excited, and thought he knew why. But he wasn’t going to spoil things with speculation.
‘If you had a daughter, what would you call her?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘Haven’t really thought about it.’
‘What about a son?’
‘I quite like Sam.’
‘Sam?’
‘When I was a kid, I had a bear called Sam. My mum knitted it for me.’
‘Sam...” She tried the name out. ‘It would work both ways, wouldn’t it?’
He stopped, circled his arms around her waist. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, it could be Samuel or Samantha. You don’t get many of those – names that work both ways.’
‘I suppose not. Rhona, is there ...?’
She put a finger to his lips, then kissed him. They walked on. There didn ‘t seem to be a cloud in the whole damned sky.
Afterword
My fictional French village of Villefranche d’Albarede owes its existence to the real village of Oradour-sur-Glâne, which was the subject of an attack by the 3rd Company of the SS ‘Der Führer’ regiment.
On the afternoon of Saturday 10 June 1944, 3rd Company – known as ‘Das Reich’ – entered the village and rounded up everyone. The women and children were herded into the church, while the men were split into groups and marched to various barns and other buildings around the village. Then the slaughter began.
Some 642 victims have been accounted for, but the estimate is that up to a thousand people may have perished that day. Only fifty-three corpses were ever identified. One boy from Lorraine, having first-hand knowledge of SS atrocities, managed to flee when the troops entered the village. Five men escaped the massacre in Laudy’s barn. Wounded, they were able to crawl from the burning building and hide until the next day. One woman escaped from the church, climbing out of a window after playing dead beside the corpse of her child.
Soldiers went from house to house, finding villagers too sick or elderly to leave their beds. These people were shot and their houses set alight. Some of the bodies we
re hidden in mass graves, or dumped down wells and in bread ovens.
General Lammerding was the commanding officer. On 9 June he’d ordered the deaths of ninety-nine hostages in Tulle. He also gave the order for the Oradour massacre. Later on in the war, Lammerding was captured by the British, who refused his extradition to France. Instead, he was returned to Düsseldorf, where he ran a successful company until his death in 1971.
In the general euphoria of the Normandy landings, the tragedy at Oradour went almost unnoticed. Eventually, in January 1953, the trial opened in Bordeaux of sixty-five men identified as having been involved in the massacre. Of these sixty-five, only twenty-one were present: seven Germans, and fourteen natives of French Alsace. None of the men was of officer rank.
Every individual found guilty at the Bordeaux trial left court a free man. A special Act of Amnesty had been passed, in the interests of national unity. (People in Alsace were disgruntled that their countrymen had been picked out for condemnation.) Meantime, the Germans were said to have already served their terms.
As a result, Oradour broke off all relations with the French state, a rupture which lasted seventeen years.
In May 1983, a man stood trial in East Berlin, charged with having been a lieutenant in ‘Das Reich’ during the Oradour massacre. He admitted everything, and was sentenced to life imprisonment.
In June 1996, it was reported that around 12,000 foreign volunteers to the Waffen SS are still receiving pensions from the Federal German government. One of these pensioners, a former Obersturmbannführer, was a participant at Oradour ...
Oradour still stands as a shrine. The village has been left just the way it was on that day in June 1944.
© Rankin
ABOUT IAN RANKIN
Ian Rankin, OBE, writes a huge proportion of all the crime novels sold in the UK and has won numerous prizes, including in 2005 the Crime Writers’ Association Diamond Dagger. His work is available in over 30 languages, home sales of his books exceed one million copies a year, and several of the novels based around the character of Detective Inspector Rebus – his name meaning ‘enigmatic puzzle’ – have been successfully transferred to television.