10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (340 page)

‘Inspector, I must insist . . .’

‘Insist away, Mr Groal. It won’t change the facts. I’m just wondering what Mr Summers will say in court when he’s asked about the phone call, the meeting . . . when the witnesses identify him. I’m sure he’s got a fund of stories, but he’ll have to find a bloody good one.’

Summers slapped the desk with both palms, half-rose to his feet. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Veins stood out on the backs of his hands.

‘I told you, I’ve never met him, never talked to him. Period, end of story, finito. And if you’ve got witnesses, they’re lying. Maybe
you’ve
told them to lie. And that’s all I’ve got to say.’ He sat back down, put his hands in his pockets.

‘I’ve heard,’ Rebus said, as though attempting to liven up a flagging conversation between friends, ‘that you run the more upmarket girls, the three-figure jobs rather than the gam-and-bam merchants.’

Summers snorted and shook his head.

‘Inspector,’ Groal said, ‘I can’t allow these accusations to continue.’

‘Was that what Lintz wanted? Did he have expensive tastes?’

Summers continued shaking his head. He seemed about to say something, but caught himself, laughed instead.

‘I would like to remind you,’ Groal went on, unheeded by anyone, ‘that my client has co-operated fully throughout this outrageous . . .’

Rebus caught Pretty-Boy’s eyes, held their stare. There was so much he wasn’t telling . . . so much he very nearly
wanted
to tell. Rebus thought of the length of rope in Lintz’s house.

‘He liked to tie them up, didn’t he?’ Rebus asked quietly.

Groal stood up, yanking Summers to his feet.

‘Brian?’ Rebus asked.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Groal said. He was stuffing his notepad into his case, closing its brass locks. ‘If you should find yourselves with any questions worth my client’s time, we’ll be pleased to assist. But otherwise, I’d advise you to . . .’

‘Brian?’

DC Preston had turned off the tape recorder and gone to open the door. Summers picked up his car keys, slipped his sunglasses on.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘it’s been educational.’

‘S&M,’ Rebus persisted, getting in Pretty-Boy’s face. ‘Did he tie them up?’

Pretty-Boy snorted, shook his head again. He paused as his lawyer led him past Rebus.

‘It was for
him
,’ he said in an undertone.

It was for him.

Rebus drove to the hospital. Sat with Sammy for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of meditation and head-clearing. Twenty reviving minutes, at the end of which he squeezed his daughter’s hand.

‘Thanks for that,’ he said.

Back at the flat, he thought of ignoring the answering-machine until after he’d had a bath. His shoulders and back were aching from the drive to Inverness. But something made him press the button. Jack Morton’s voice: ‘I’m on for a meeting with TT. Let’s meet after. Half-ten at the Ox. I’ll aim for that, but can’t promise. Wish me luck.’

He walked in at eleven.

There was folk music in the back room. The front would have been quiet if it weren’t for two loud-mouths who looked like they’d been at it since their office closed for the
night. They still wore work-suits, newspapers rolled in their pockets. They were drinking G&T.

Rebus asked Jack Morton what he wanted.

‘A pint of orange and lemonade.’

‘So how did it go?’ Rebus ordered the drink. In forty minutes, he’d managed to put away two Cokes, and was now on coffee.

‘They seem keen.’

‘So who was at the meeting?’

‘My sponsors from the shop, plus Telford and a couple of his men.’

‘The transmitter worked okay?’

‘Sound as a pound.’

‘Did they search you?’

Morton shook his head. ‘They were sloppy, seemed really sweaty about something. Want to hear the plan?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Middle of the night, truck arrives at the factory, and I let it through the gates. My story is, I had a phone call from the boss okaying the delivery. So I wasn’t suspicious.’

‘Only your boss never made the call?’

‘That’s right. So I was duped by a voice. And that’s all I need to tell the police.’

‘We’d sweat the truth out of you.’

‘Like I say, John, the whole plan’s half-baked. I’ll give them this though – they did check my background. Seemed satisfied.’

‘Who’s going to be in the truck?’

‘Ten men, armed to the teeth. I’m to get a rough plan of the place to Telford tomorrow, let him know how many people will be around, what the alarm system’s like . . .’

‘What’s in it for you?’

‘Five grand. He’s judged that right: five gets my debts repaid and puts a wedge in my pocket.’

Five grand: the amount Joseph Lintz had taken out of his bank . . .

‘Your story’s holding?’

‘They’ve staked out my flat.’

‘And they didn’t follow you here?’

Morton shook his head, and Rebus filled him in on what he’d learned and what he suspected. While Morton was taking it in, Rebus threw a question at him.

‘How does Claverhouse want to play it?’

‘The tape evidence is good: Telford talking, me making sure I called him “Mr Telford” and “Tommy” a few times. It’s obviously him on the recording. But . . . Claverhouse wants Telford’s crew caught red-handed.’

‘“Got to do it right”.’

‘That seems to be his catch-phrase.’

‘Is there a date?’

‘Saturday, all being well.’

‘What’s the betting we get a tip-off on Friday?’

‘If your theory’s right.’

‘If I’m right,’ he agreed.

The tip-off didn’t come until Saturday lunchtime, but when it did, Rebus knew his hunch had been right.

Claverhouse was the first to congratulate him, which surprised Rebus, because Claverhouse had a lot on his plate and had acted very casually when the call had come. Pinned to the walls of the Crime Squad office were detailed maps of the drugs plant, along with staff rosters. Coloured stickers showed where personnel would be stationed. During the night, it was security only, unless some big order was demanding overtime. Tonight, the usual security staff would be augmented by Lothian & Borders Police. Twenty people inside the plant, with marksmen stationed on roofs and at certain key windows. A dozen cars and vans as back-up. It was the biggest operation of Claverhouse’s career; a lot was expected of him. He kept saying ‘it has to be done right’. He said he would leave ‘nothing to chance’. Those two phrases had become his mantra.

Rebus had listened to a recording of the snitch call: ‘Be at Maclean’s factory in Slateford tonight. Two in the morning, it’s going to be turned over. Ten men, tooled up, driving a lorry. If you’re canny, you can catch all of them.’

Scots accent, but sounding long distance. Rebus smiled, looked at the turning spools, and said ‘Hello again, Crab’ out loud.

No mention of Telford, which was interesting. Telford’s men were loyal: they’d go down without saying a word. And Tarawicz wasn’t grassing up Telford. He couldn’t
know the police already had taped evidence of Telford’s involvement. Which meant he was planning on letting Telford go . . . No, think it through. With the plan dead in the water and ten of his best men in custody, Tarawicz didn’t
need
Telford under lock and key. He wanted him out in the open and worried, Yakuza breathing down his neck, all his frailties exposed. He could be picked off at any time, or made to hand over
everything
. No blood-letting required; it would be a simple business proposition.

‘It has to be . . .’

‘Done right,’ Rebus said. ‘Claverhouse, we
know
, okay?’

Claverhouse lost it. ‘You’re only here because I tolerate you! So let’s get that straight for a start. I snap my fingers and you’re out of the game, understood?’

Rebus just stared at him. A line of sweat was running down Claverhouse’s left temple. Ormiston was looking up from his desk. Siobhan Clarke, briefing another officer beside a wall-chart, stopped talking.

‘I promise I’ll be a good boy,’ Rebus said quietly, ‘if you’ll promise to stop with the broken record routine.’

Claverhouse’s jaw was working, but eventually he produced a near-smile of apology.

‘Let’s get on with it then.’

Not that there was much for them to do. Jack Morton was working a double shift, wouldn’t start till three o’clock. They’d be watching the place from then on, just in case Telford changed the game-plan. This meant personnel were going to miss the big match: Hibs against Hearts at Easter Road. Rebus had his money on a 3–2 home win.

Ormiston’s summing-up: ‘Easiest quid you’ll ever lose.’

Rebus retired to one of the computers and got back to work. Siobhan Clarke had already come round snooping.

‘Writing it up for one of the tabloids?’

‘No such luck.’

He tried to keep it simple, and when he was happy with
the finished product he printed off two copies. Then he went out to buy a couple of nice, bright folders . . .

He dropped off one of the folders, then returned home, too restless to be much use at Fettes. Three men were waiting in his tenement stairwell. Two more came in behind him, blocking the only escape route. Rebus recognised Jake Tarawicz and one of his muscle-men from the scrapyard. The others were new to him.

‘Up the stairs,’ Tarawicz ordered. Rebus was a prisoner under escort as they climbed the steps.

‘Unlock the door.’

‘If I’d known you were coming, I’d have got in some beers,’ Rebus said, searching his pockets for keys. He was wondering which was safer: let them in, or keep them out? Tarawicz made the decision for him, nodded some signal. Rebus’s arms were grabbed, hands went into his jacket and trousers, found his keys. He kept his face blank, eyes on Tarawicz.

‘Big mistake,’ he said.

‘In,’ Tarawicz ordered. They pushed Rebus into the hallway, walked him to the living room.

‘Sit.’

Hands pushed Rebus on to the sofa.

‘At least let me make a pot of tea,’ he said. Inside he was trembling, knowing everything he couldn’t afford to give away.

‘Nice place,’ Mr Pink Eyes was saying. ‘Lacks the feminine touch though.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘Where is she?’ Two of the men had peeled off to search the place.

‘Who?’

‘I mean, who else would she turn to? Not your daughter . . . not now she’s in a coma.’

Rebus stared at him. ‘What do you know about that?’ The two men returned, shook their heads.

‘I hear things.’ Tarawicz pulled out a dining-chair and sat down. There were two men behind the sofa, two in front.

‘Make yourselves at home, lads. Where’s the Crab, Jake?’ Reasoning: a question he might be expected to ask.

‘Down south. What’s it to you?’

Rebus shrugged.

‘Shame about your daughter. Going to make a recovery, is she?’ Rebus didn’t answer. Tarawicz smiled. ‘National Health Service . . . I wouldn’t trust it myself.’ He paused. ‘Where is she, Rebus?’

‘Using my finely honed detective’s skills, I’ll assume you mean Candice.’ Meaning she’d done a runner. Trusting to herself for once. Rebus was proud of her.

Tarawicz snapped his fingers. Arms grabbed Rebus from behind, pinning back his shoulders. One man stepped forward and punched him solidly on the jaw. Stepped back again. Second man forward: gut punches. A hand tugged his hair, forcing his eyes up to the ceiling. He didn’t see the flat-handed chop aiming for his throat. When it came, he thought he was going to cough out his voice-box. They let him go, and he pitched forward, hands going to his throat, retching for breath. A couple of teeth felt loose, and the skin inside his cheek had burst. He got out a handkerchief, spat blood.

‘Unfortunately,’ Tarawicz was saying, ‘I have no sense of humour. So I hope you’ll understand I’m not joking when I say that I’ll kill you if I have to.’

Rebus shook his head free of all the secrets he knew, all the power he held over Tarawicz. He told himself:
you don’t know anything
.

He told himself:
you’re not going to die
.

‘Even . . . if . . . I did know . . .’ Fighting for breath. ‘I wouldn’t tell you. If the two of us were standing in a
minefield, I wouldn’t let you know. Want me . . . to tell you why?’

‘Sticks and stones, Rebus.’

‘It’s not because of
who
you are, it’s
what
you are. You trade in human beings.’ Rebus dabbed at his mouth. ‘You’re no better than the Nazis.’

Tarawicz put a hand to his chest. ‘I’m struck to the quick.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ Rebus coughed again. ‘Tell me, why do you want her back?’ Rebus knowing the answer: because he was about to head south, leaving Telford in Shit Street. Because to return to Newcastle without her was a small but palpable defeat. Tarawicz wanted it
all
. He wanted every last crumb on the plate.

‘My business,’ Tarawicz said. Another signal, and the hands grabbed him again, Rebus resisting this time. Packing-tape was being wound around his mouth.

‘Everybody tells me how
genteel
Edinburgh is,’ Tarawicz was saying. ‘Can’t have the neighbours complaining about the screams. Put him on a chair.’

Rebus was lifted up. He struggled. A kidney punch buckled his knees. They forced him down on to a dining-chair. Tarawicz was removing his jacket, undoing gold cufflinks so he could roll up the sleeves of his pink and blue striped shirt. His arms were hairless, thick, and the same mottled colour as his face.

‘A skin complaint,’ he explained, removing his blue-tinted glasses. ‘Some distant cousin of leprosy, they tell me.’ He loosened his top button. ‘I’m not as pretty as Tommy Telford, but I think you’ll find me his master in every other respect.’ A smile to his troops, a smile Rebus wasn’t supposed to understand. ‘We can start anywhere you want, Rebus. And
you
get to choose when we stop. Just nod your head, tell me where she is, and I walk out of your life forever.’

He got in close to Rebus, the sheen on his face like a protective seal. His pale blue eyes had tiny black pupils. Rebus thought: consumer as well as pusher. Tarawicz waited for a nod which didn’t come, then retreated. Found an anglepoise lamp next to Rebus’s chair. Planted both feet on its base and yanked on the mains cable, ripping it free.