10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (306 page)

‘You seem to have no end of forgiveness, Mr Lintz.’

A careful shrug. ‘Do you know Blake’s words, Inspector? “And through all eternity/ I forgive you, you forgive me.” I’m not so sure I can forgive the media.’ This last word voiced with a distaste which manifested itself as a twist of facial muscles.

‘Is that why you’ve set your lawyer on them?’

‘“Set” makes me sound like a hunter, Inspector. This is a
newspaper
, with a team of expensive lawyers at its beck and call. Can an individual hope to win against such odds?’

‘Then why bother trying?’

Lintz thumped both arms of his chair with clenched fists. ‘For the principle, man!’ Such outbursts were rare and short-lived, but Rebus had experienced enough of them to know that Lintz had a temper . . .

‘Hello?’ Kirstin Mede said, angling her head to catch his gaze.

‘What?’

She smiled. ‘You were miles away.’

‘Just across town,’ he replied.

She pointed to the papers. ‘I’ll leave these here, okay? If you’ve any questions . . .’

‘Great, thanks.’ Rebus got to his feet.

‘It’s okay, I know my way out.’

But Rebus was insistent. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit . . .’ He waved his hands around his head.

‘As I said, it gets to you after a while.’

As they walked back through the CID office, Rebus
could feel eyes following them. Bill Pryde came up, preening, wanting to be introduced. He had curly fair hair and thick blond eyelashes, his nose large and freckled, mouth small and topped with a ginger moustache – a fashion accessory he could well afford to lose.

‘A pleasure,’ he said, taking Kirstin Mede’s hand. Then, to Rebus: ‘Makes me wish we’d swopped.’

Pryde was working on the Mr Taystee case: an ice-cream man found dead in his van. Engine left running in a lockup, looking initially like suicide.

Rebus steered Kirstin Mede past Pryde, kept them moving. He wanted to ask her out. He knew she wasn’t married, but thought there might be a boyfriend in the frame. Rebus was thinking: what would she like to eat – French or Italian? She spoke both those languages. Maybe stick to something neutral: Indian or Chinese. Maybe she was vegetarian. Maybe she didn’t like restaurants. A drink then? But Rebus didn’t drink these days.

‘. . . So what do you think?’

Rebus started. Kirstin Mede had asked him something.

‘Sorry?’

She laughed, realising he hadn’t been listening. He began to apologise, but she shook it off. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘you’re a bit . . .’ And she waved her hands around her head. He smiled. They’d stopped walking. They were facing one another. Her briefcase was tucked under one arm. It was the moment to ask her for a date, any kind of date – let
her
choose.

‘What’s that?’ she said suddenly. It was a shriek, Rebus had heard it, too. It had come from behind the door nearest them, the door to the women’s toilets. They heard it again. This time it was followed by some words they understood.

‘Help me, somebody!’

Rebus pushed open the door and ran in. A WPC was pushing at a cubicle door, trying to force it with her
shoulder. From behind the door, Rebus could hear choking noises.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘Picked her up twenty minutes ago, she said she needed the loo.’ The policewoman’s cheeks wore a flush of anger and embarrassment.

Rebus grabbed the top of the door and hauled himself up, peering over and down on to a figure seated on the pan. The woman there was young, heavily made-up. She sat with her back against the cistern, so that she was staring up at him, but glassily. And her hands were busy. They were busy pulling a streamer of toilet-paper from the roll, stuffing it into her mouth.

‘She’s gagging,’ Rebus said, sliding back down. ‘Stand back’. He shouldered the door, tried again. Stood back and hit the lock with the heel of his shoe. The door flew open, catching the seated woman on the knees. He pushed his way in. Her face was turning purple.

‘Grab her hands,’ he told the WPC. Then he started pulling the stream of white paper from her mouth, feeling like nothing so much as a cheap stage-show magician. There seemed to be half a roll in there, and as Rebus caught the WPC’s eye, both of them let out a near-involuntary laugh. The woman had stopped struggling. Her hair was mousy-brown, lank and greasy. She wore a black skiing jacket and a tight black skirt. Her bare legs were mottled pink, bruising at one knee where the door had connected. Her bright red lipstick was coming off on Rebus’s fingers. She had been crying, was crying still. Rebus, feeling guilty about the sudden laughter, crouched down so that he could look into her makeup-streaked eyes. She blinked, then held his gaze, coughing as the last of the paper was extracted.

‘She’s foreign,’ the policewoman was explaining. ‘Doesn’t seem to speak English.’

‘So how come she told you she needed the toilet?’

‘There are ways, aren’t there?’

‘Where did you find her?’

‘Down the Pleasance, brazen as you like.’

‘That’s a new patch on me.’

‘Me, too.’

‘Nobody with her?’

‘Not that I saw.’

Rebus took the woman’s hands. He was still crouching in front of her, aware of her knees brushing his chest.

‘Are you all right?’ She just blinked. He made his face show polite concern. ‘Okay now?’

She nodded slightly. ‘Okay,’ she said, her voice husky. Rebus felt her fingers. They were cold. He was thinking: junkie? A lot of the working girls were. But he’d never come across one who couldn’t speak English. Then he turned her hands, saw her wrists. Recent zigzag scar tissue. She didn’t resist as he pushed up one sleeve of her jacket. The arm was a mass of similar inflictions.

‘She’s a cutter.’

The woman was talking now, babbling incoherently. Kirstin Mede, who had been standing back from proceedings, stepped forward. Rebus looked to her.

‘It’s not anything I understand . . . not quite. Eastern European.’

‘Try her with something.’

So Mede asked a question in French, repeating it in three or four other languages. The woman seemed to understand what they were trying to do.

‘There’s probably someone at the uni who could help,’ Mede said.

Rebus started to stand up. The woman grabbed him by the knees, pulled him to her so that he nearly lost his balance. Her grip was tight, her face resting against his legs. She was still crying and babbling.

‘I think she likes you, sir,’ the policewoman said. They
wrested her hands free, and Rebus stepped back, but she was after him at once, throwing herself forwards, like she was begging, her voice rising. There was an audience now, half a dozen officers in the doorway. Every time Rebus moved, she came after him on all fours. Rebus looked to where his exit was blocked by bodies. The cheap magician had become straight man in a comedy routine. The WPC grabbed her, pulled her back on to her feet, one arm twisted behind her back.

‘Come on,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘Back to the cell. Show’s over, folks.’

There was scattered applause as the prisoner was marched away. She looked back once, seeking Rebus, her eyes pleading. For what, he did not know. He turned towards Kirstin Mede instead.

‘Fancy a curry some time?’

She looked at him like he was mad.

‘Two things: one, she’s a Bosnian Muslim. Two, she wants to see you again.’

Rebus stared at the man from the Slavic Studies department, who’d come here at Kirstin Mede’s request. They were talking in the corridor at St Leonard’s.

‘Bosnian?’

Dr Colquhoun nodded. He was short and almost spherical, with long black hair which was swept back either side of a bald dome. His puffy face was pockmarked, his brown suit worn and stained. He wore suede Hush Puppies – same colour as the suit.
This
, Rebus couldn’t help feeling, was how dons were supposed to look. Colquhoun was a mass of nervous twitches, and had yet to make eye contact with Rebus.

‘I’m not an expert on Bosnia,’ he went on, ‘but she says she’s from Sarajevo.’

‘Does she say how she ended up in Edinburgh?’

‘I didn’t ask.’

‘Would you mind asking her now?’ Rebus gestured back along the corridor. The two men walked together, Colquhoun’s eyes on the floor.

‘Sarajevo was hit hard in the war,’ he said. ‘She’s twenty-two, by the way, she told me that.’

She’d looked older. Maybe she was; maybe she was lying. But as the door to the Interview Room opened and Rebus saw her again, he was struck by how unformed her face was, and he revised her age downwards. She stood up abruptly as he came in, looked like she might rush forward to him, but he held up a hand in warning, and pointed to the chair. She sat down again, hands cradling the mug of sweetened black tea. She never took her eyes off him.

‘She’s a big fan,’ the WPC said. The policewoman – same one as the toilet incident – was called Ellen Sharpe. She was sitting on the room’s other chair. There wasn’t much space in the Interview Room: a table and two chairs just about filled it. On the table were twin video recorders and a twin cassette-machine. The video camera pointed down from one wall. Rebus gestured for Sharpe to give her seat to Colquhoun.

‘Did she give you a name?’ he asked the academic.

‘She told me Candice,’ Colquhoun said.

‘You don’t believe her?’

‘It’s not exactly ethnic, Inspector.’ Candice said something. ‘She’s calling you her protector.’

‘And what am I protecting her from?’

The dialogue between Colquhoun and Candice was gruff, guttural.

‘She says firstly you protected her from herself. And now she says you have to continue.’

‘Continue protecting her?’

‘She says you own her now.’

Rebus looked at the academic, whose eyes were on
Candice’s arms. She had removed her skiing jacket. Underneath she wore a ribbed, short-sleeved shirt through which her small breasts were visible. She had folded her bare arms, but the scratches and slashes were all too apparent.

‘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.’