10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (324 page)

‘Slow work. A lot of old numbers, people who’ve moved on or died. Plus a few charities, museums . . . an art gallery or two.’ Hogan paused. ‘What about you?’

Rebus opened his drawer, pulled out the fax sheets. ‘Waiting for me this morning. The calls Lintz wanted kept secret.’

Hogan looked down the list. ‘Calls plural, or one in particular?’

‘I’ve just started going through them. Best guess: there’ll be callers he spoke to regularly. Those numbers will show up on the other statements. We’re looking for anomalies, one-offs.’

‘Makes sense.’ Hogan looked at his watch. ‘Anything else I should know?’

‘Two things. Remember I told you about the Special Branch interest?’

‘Abernethy?’

Rebus nodded. ‘I tried calling him yesterday.’

‘And?’

‘According to his office, he was on his way up here. He’d already heard the news.’

‘So I’ve got Abernethy sniffing around, and you don’t trust him? Terrific. What’s the other thing?’

‘David Levy. I spoke with his daughter. She doesn’t know where he is. He could be anywhere.’

‘With a grudge against Lintz?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘What’s his phone number?’

Rebus patted the topmost file on his desk. ‘Ready for you to take away.’

Hogan studied the foot-high pile, looking glum.

‘I whittled it down to what’s absolutely necessary,’ Rebus told him.

‘There’s a month’s reading there.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘My case is your case, Bobby.’

With Hogan gone, Rebus went back to the British Telecom list. It was as detailed as he could have wished for. Lots of calls to Lintz’s solicitor, a few to one of the city’s taxi firms. Rebus tried a couple of numbers, found himself connected to charity offices: Lintz would have been phoning to tender his resignation. There were a few calls that stood out from the crowd: the Roxburghe Hotel – duration four minutes; Edinburgh University – twenty-six minutes. The Roxburghe had to mean Levy. Rebus knew Levy had talked to Lintz – Lintz himself had admitted it. Talking to him – being confronted by him – was one thing; calling him at his hotel quite another.

The number for Edinburgh University connected Rebus to the main switchboard. He asked to be put through to Lintz’s old department. The secretary was very helpful. She’d been in the job over twenty years, was due to retire. Yes, she remembered Professor Lintz, but he hadn’t contacted the department recently.

‘Every call that comes through here, I know about it.’

‘He might have got straight through to a tutor though?’ Rebus suggested.

‘No one’s mentioned speaking to him. There’s nobody here from the Professor’s day.’

‘He doesn’t keep in touch with the department?’

‘I haven’t spoken to him in years, Inspector. Too many years for me to remember . . .’

So who had he been talking to for over twenty minutes? Rebus thanked the secretary and put down the phone. He went through the other numbers: a couple of restaurants, a wine shop, and the local radio station. Rebus told the receptionist what he was after, and she said she’d do her best. Then he went back to the restaurants, asked them to check if Lintz had been making a reservation.

Within half an hour, the calls started coming in. First restaurant: a booking for dinner, just the one cover. The radio station: they’d asked Lintz to appear on a programme. He’d said he’d consider it, then had called back to decline. Second restaurant: a lunch reservation, two covers.

‘Two?’

‘Mr Lintz and one other.’

‘Any idea who the “other” might have been?’

‘Another gentleman, quite elderly, I think . . . I’m sorry, I don’t really remember.’

‘Did he walk with a stick?’

‘I wish I could help, but it’s a madhouse here at lunchtime.’

‘You remember Lintz though?’

‘Mr Lintz is a regular . . . was a regular.’

‘Did he usually eat alone, or with company?’

‘Mostly alone. He didn’t seem to mind. He’d bring a book with him.’

‘Do you happen to recall any of his other guests?’

‘I remember a young woman . . . his daughter maybe? Or granddaughter?’

‘So when you say “young” . . .?’

‘Younger than him.’ A pause. ‘Maybe much younger.’

‘When was this?’

‘I really don’t remember.’ The voice impatient now.

‘I appreciate your help, sir. Just one more minute of your time . . . This woman, did he bring her more than once?’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector. The kitchen needs me.’

‘Well, if you think of anything else . . .’

‘Of course. Goodbye.’

Rebus put the phone down, made some notes. Just one number left. He waited for an answer.

‘Yeah?’ The voice grudging.

‘Who’s this?’

‘This is Malky. Who the fuck are you?’

A voice in the background: ‘Tommy says that new machine’s fucked.’ Rebus put the phone down. His hand was shaking.
That new machine
. . . Tommy Telford on his arcade motorbike. He remembered The Family mugshots: Malky Jordan. Tiny nose and eyes in a balloon of a face.
Joseph Lintz talking to one of Telford’s men? Phoning Telford’s office??
Rebus found the number of Hogan’s mobile.

‘Bobby,’ he said. ‘If you’re driving, better slow down right now . . .’

Hogan’s notion: five in cash was just Telford’s style. Blackmail? But where was the connection? Something else . . .?

Hogan’s play: he’d talk to Telford.

Rebus’s notion: five was a bit steep for a hit-man. All the same, he wondered about Lintz . . . paying five thou’ to Telford to set up the ‘accident’. Motive: give Rebus a fright, scare him off? It put Lintz back in the frame, potentially.

Rebus had fixed up another meeting, one he didn’t want
anyone knowing about. Haymarket Station was nice and anonymous. The bench on platform one. Ned Farlowe was already waiting. He looked tired: worry over Sammy. They talked about her for a couple of minutes. Then Rebus got down to business.

‘You know Lintz has been murdered?’

‘I didn’t think this was a social call.’

‘We’re looking at a blackmail angle.’

Farlowe looked interested. ‘And he didn’t pay up?’

Oh, he paid up all right, Rebus thought. He paid up, and someone still took him out of the game.

‘Look, Ned, this is
all
off the record. By rights I should take you in for questioning.’

‘Because I followed him for a few days?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that makes me a suspect?’

‘It makes you a possible witness.’

Farlowe thought about it. ‘One evening. Lintz left his house, walked down the road, made a call from a phone-box, then went straight back home.’

Not wanting to use his home phone . . . afraid it was bugged? Afraid of the number being traced? Telephone bugging: a favourite ploy of Special Branch.

‘And something else,’ Farlowe was saying. ‘He met this woman on his doorstep. Like she was waiting for him. They had a few words. I think she was crying when she left.’.

‘What did she look like?’

‘Tall, short dark hair, well-dressed. She had a briefcase with her.’

‘Wearing?’

Farlowe shrugged. ‘Skirt and jacket . . . matching. Black and white check. You know . . . elegant.’

He was describing Kirstin Mede. Her phone message to Rebus:
I can’t do this any more
. . .

‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ Farlowe was saying. ‘That girl Candice.’

‘What about her?’

‘You asked me if anything unusual had happened just before Sammy got hit.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well,
she
happened, didn’t she?’ Farlowe’s eyes narrowed. ‘Does she have anything to do with it?’

Rebus looked at Farlowe, who started nodding.

‘Thanks for the confirmation. Who was she?’

‘One of Telford’s girls.’

Farlowe leaped to his feet, paced the platform. Rebus waited for him to sit down again. When he did, there could be no doubting the fury in his eyes.

‘You hid one of Telford’s girls with your own
daughter
?’

‘I didn’t have much choice. Telford knows where I live. I . . .’

‘You were using us!’ He paused. ‘Telford did this, didn’t he?’

‘I don’t know,’ Rebus said. Farlowe leaped to his feet again. ‘Look, Ned, I don’t want you –’

‘Quite frankly,
Inspector
, I don’t think you’re in any position to give advice.’ He started walking, and though Rebus called after him, he never once looked back.

As Rebus walked into the Crime Squad office, a paper plane glided past and crashed into the wall. Ormiston had his feet up on the desk. Country and western music was playing softly in the background, its source a tape player on the window ledge behind Claverhouse’s desk. Siobhan Clarke had pulled a chair over beside him. They were poring over some report.

‘Not exactly the “A-Team” in here, is it?’ Rebus retrieved the plane, straightened its crumpled nose, and
sent it back to Ormiston, who asked what he was doing there.

‘Liaising,’ Rebus told him. ‘My boss wants a progress report.’

Ormiston glanced towards Claverhouse, who was tipping himself back in his chair, hands behind his head.

‘Want to take a guess at the headway we’ve made?’

Rebus sat down opposite Claverhouse, nodded a greeting to Siobhan.

‘How’s Sammy?’ she asked.

‘Just the same,’ Rebus answered. Claverhouse looked abashed, and Rebus suddenly realised that he could use Sammy as a lever, play on people’s sympathy. Why not? Hadn’t he used her in the past? Wasn’t Ned Farlowe on the nail there?

‘We’ve pulled the surveillance,’ Claverhouse said.

‘Why?’

Ormiston snorted, but it was Claverhouse who answered.

‘High maintenance, low returns.’

‘Orders from above?’

‘It isn’t as if we were close to getting a result.’

‘So we just let him get on with getting on?’

Claverhouse shrugged. Rebus wondered if news would get back to Newcastle. Jake Tarawicz would be happy. He’d think Rebus was fulfilling his part of the bargain. Candice would be safe. Maybe.

‘Any news on that nightclub killing?’

‘Nothing to link it to your chum Cafferty.’

‘He’s
not
my chum.’

‘Whatever you say. Stick the kettle on, Ormie.’ Ormiston glanced towards Clarke, then rose grudgingly from his chair. Rebus had thought the tension in the office was all to do with Telford. Not a bit of it. Claverhouse and Clarke close together,
involved
. Ormiston off on his own, a kid making paper planes, seeking attention. An old Status Quo
song: ‘Paper Plane’. But the status quo here had been disturbed: Clarke had usurped Ormiston. The office junior was absolved from making the tea.

Rebus could see why Ormiston was pissed off.

‘I hear Herr Lintz was a bit of a swinger,’ Claverhouse said.

‘Now there’s a joke I haven’t heard before.’ Rebus’s pager sounded. The display gave him a number to call.

He used Claverhouse’s phone. It sounded like he was connected to a pay-phone. Street sounds, heavy traffic close by.

‘Mr Rebus?’ Placed the voice at once: the Weasel.

‘What is it?’

‘A couple of questions. The tape player from the car, any idea of the make?’

‘Sony.’

‘The front bit detachable?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So all they got was the front bit?’

‘Yes.’ Claverhouse and Clarke, back at their report, pretending they weren’t listening.

‘What about the tapes? You said some tapes got stolen?’

‘Opera –
The Marriage of Figaro
and Verdi’s
Macbeth
.’ Rebus squeezed his eyes shut, thinking. ‘And another tape with film music on it, famous themes. Plus Roy Orbison’s
Greatest Hits
.’ This last the wife’s. Rebus knew what the Weasel was thinking: whoever took the stuff, they’d try flogging it round the pubs or at a car boot sale. Car boot sales were clearing houses for knock-off. But getting whoever had lifted the stuff from the unlocked car wasn’t going to nail the driver . . . Unless the kid – the one who’d lifted the stuff, whose prints were on the car – had
seen
something: been hanging around on the street, watched the car screeching to a stop, a man getting out and hoofing it . . .

An eye witness, someone who could describe the driver.

‘The only prints we got were small, maybe a kid’s.’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘Anything else I can do,’ Rebus said, ‘just let me know.’

The Weasel hung up.

‘Sony’s a good make,’ Claverhouse said, fishing.

‘Some stuff lifted from a car,’ Rebus told him. ‘It might have turned up.’

Ormiston had made the tea. Rebus went to fetch himself a chair, saw someone walk past the open doorway. He dropped the chair and ran into the corridor, grabbed at an arm.

Abernethy spun quickly, saw who it was and relaxed.

‘Nice one, son,’ he said. ‘You almost had knuckles for teeth.’ He was working on a piece of chewing gum.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Visiting.’ Abernethy looked back at the open door, walked towards it. ‘What about you?’

‘Working.’

Abernethy read the sign on the door. ‘Crime Squad,’ he said, sounding amused, taking in the office and the people in it. Hands in pockets, he sauntered in, Rebus following.

‘Abernethy, Special Branch,’ the Londoner said by way of introduction. ‘That music’s a good idea: play it at interrogations, sap the suspect’s will to live.’ He was smiling, surveying the premises like he was thinking of moving in. The mug meant for Rebus was on the corner of the desk. Abernethy picked it up and slurped, made a face, started chewing again. The three Crime Squad officers were like a frozen tableau. Suddenly they looked like a unit: it had taken Abernethy to do that.

Had taken him all of ten seconds.

‘What you working on?’ No one answered. ‘Must’ve got the sign on the door wrong,’ Abernethy said. ‘Should be Mime Squad.’

‘Is there something we can do for you?’ Claverhouse asked, his voice level, hostility in his eyes.

‘I don’t know. It was John pulled me in here.’

‘And I’m pulling you out again,’ Rebus said, taking his arm. Abernethy shrugged free, bunched his fists. ‘A word in the corridor . . . please.’