10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (325 page)

Abernethy smiled. ‘Manners maketh the man, John.’

‘What does that maketh you?’

Abernethy turned his head slowly, looked at Siobhan Clarke who’d just spoken.

‘I’m just a regular guy with a heart of gold and twelve big inches of ability.’ He grinned at her.

‘To go with your twelve big points of IQ,’ she said, going back to the report. Ormiston and Claverhouse weren’t trying too hard to conceal their laughter as Abernethy stormed out of the room. Rebus hung back long enough to watch Ormiston pat Clarke on the back, then headed off after the Special Branch man.

‘What a bitch,’ Abernethy said. He was making for the exit.

‘She’s a friend of mine.’

‘And they say you can choose your friends . . .’ Abernethy shook his head.

‘What brings you back?’

‘You have to ask?’

‘Lintz is dead. Case closed as far as you’re concerned.’

They emerged from the building.

‘So?’

‘So,’ Rebus persisted, ‘why come all the way back here? What is there that couldn’t be done with a phone or fax?’

Abernethy stopped, turned to face him. ‘Loose ends.’

‘What loose ends?’

‘There aren’t any.’ Abernethy gave a cheerless smile and took a key from his pocket. As they approached his car, he used the remote to unlock it and disable the alarm.

‘What’s going on, Abernethy?’

‘Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.’ He opened the driver’s-side door.

‘Are you glad he’s dead?’

‘What?’

‘Lintz. How do you feel about him being murdered?’

‘I’ve no feelings either way. He’s dead, which means I can cross him off my list.’

‘That last time you came up here, you were warning him.’

‘Not true.’

‘Was his phone bugged?’ Abernethy just snorted. ‘Did you know he might be killed?’

Abernethy turned on Rebus. ‘What’s it to you? I’ll tell you: nothing. Leith CID are on the murder, and you’re out of it. End of story.’

‘Is it the Rat Line? Too embarrassing if it all came to light?’

‘Christ, what
is
it with you? Just give it a rest.’ Abernethy got into the car, closed the door. Rebus didn’t move. The engine turned and caught, Abernethy’s window slid down. Rebus was ready.

‘They sent you four hundred miles just to check there were no loose ends.’

‘So?’

‘So there’s rather a large loose end, isn’t there?’ Rebus paused. ‘Unless you know who Lintz’s killer was.’

‘I leave that sort of thing to you guys.’

‘Heading down to Leith?’

‘I have to talk to Hogan.’ Abernethy stared at Rebus. ‘You’re a hard bastard, aren’t you? Maybe even a bit selfish.’

‘How’s that?’

‘If I’d a daughter in hospital, police work would be the last thing on my mind.’

As Rebus lunged towards the open window, Abernethy gunned the car. Footsteps behind: Siobhan Clarke.

‘Good riddance,’ she said, watching the car speed off. A finger appeared from Abernethy’s window. She gave a two-fingered reply. ‘I didn’t want to say anything in the office . . .’ she began.

‘I took the test yesterday,’ Rebus lied.

‘It’ll be negative.’

‘Are you positive?’

She smiled a little longer than the joke merited. ‘Ormiston chucked your tea away, said he was going to disinfect the mug.’

‘Abernethy has that effect on people.’ He looked at her. ‘Remember, Ormiston and Claverhouse go back years.’

‘I know. I think Claverhouse has a crush on me. It’ll pass, but until it does . . .’

‘Tread carefully.’ They started walking back towards the main entrance. ‘And don’t let him tempt you into the broom cupboard.’

Rebus went back to St Leonard’s, saw that the office was coping quite well without him, and headed over to the hospital with Dr Morrison’s Iron Maiden t-shirt in a plastic bag. A third bed had been moved into Sammy’s room. An elderly woman lay in it. Though awake, she stared fixedly at the ceiling. Rhona was at Sammy’s bedside, reading a book.

Rebus stroked his daughter’s hair. ‘How is she?’

‘No change.’

‘Any more tests planned?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘That’s it then? She just stays like this?’

He lifted a chair over, sat down. It had turned into a sort of ritual now, this bedside vigil. It felt almost . . . the word he wanted to use was ‘comfortable’. He squeezed Rhona’s hand, sat there for twenty minutes, saying almost nothing, then went to find Kirstin Mede.

She was in her office at the French Department, marking scripts. She sat at a big desk in front of the window, but moved from this to a coffee-table with half a dozen chairs arranged around it.

‘Sit down,’ she said. Rebus sat down.

‘I got your message,’ he told her.

‘Hardly matters now, does it? The man’s dead.’

‘I know you spoke with him, Kirstin.’

She glanced towards him. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You waited for him outside his house. Did the two of you have a nice chat?’

Colour had risen to her cheeks. She crossed her legs, tugged the hem of her skirt towards her knee. ‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘I went to his house.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I wanted to see him close up.’ Her eyes were on his now, challenging him. ‘I thought maybe I could tell from his face . . . the look in his eyes. Maybe something in his tone of voice.’

‘And could you?’

She shook her head. ‘Not a damned thing. No window to the soul.’

‘What did you say to him?’

‘I told him who I was.’

‘Any reaction?’

‘Yes.’ She folded her arms. ‘His words: “My dear lady, will you kindly piss off.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yes. Because I knew then. Not whether he was Linzstek or not, but something else.’

‘What?’

‘That he was at the end of his tether.’ She was nodding. ‘Absolutely at breaking point.’ She looked at Rebus again. ‘And capable of anything.’

The problem with the Flint Street surveillance was that it had been so open. A hidden operation – deep cover – that’s what was needed. Rebus had decided to scout out the territory.

The tenement flats across the road from Telford’s café and arcade were served by a single main door. It was locked, so Rebus chose a buzzer at random – marked
HETHERINGTON
. Waited, pushed again. An elderly voice came on the intercom.

‘Who is it, please?’

‘Mrs Hetherington? Detective Inspector Rebus, I’m your Community CID officer. Can I talk to you about home security? There’ve been a few break-ins around here, especially with elderly victims.’

‘Gracious, you’d better come up.’

‘Which floor?’

‘The first.’ The door buzzed, and Rebus pushed it open.

Mrs Hetherington was waiting for him in her doorway. She was tiny and frail-looking, but her eyes were lively and her movements assured. The flat was small, well-maintained. The sitting-room was heated by a two-bar electric fire. Rebus wandered over to the window, found himself looking down on to the arcade. Perfect location for a surveillance. He pretended to check her windows.

‘These seem fine,’ he said. ‘Are they always locked?’

‘I open them a bit in the summer,’ Mrs Hetherington said, ‘and when they need washing. But I always lock them again afterwards.’

‘One thing I should warn you about, and that’s bogus officials. People coming to your door, telling you they’re so-and-so. Always ask to see some ID, and don’t open up until you’re satisfied.’

‘How can I see it without opening the door?’

‘Ask them to push it through the letterbox.’

‘I didn’t see
your
identification, did I?’

Rebus smiled. ‘No, you didn’t.’ He took it out and showed her. ‘Sometimes the fake stuff can look pretty convincing. If you’re unsure, keep the door locked and call the police.’ He looked around. ‘You have a phone?’

‘In the bedroom.’

‘Any windows in there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I take a look?’

The bedroom window also looked out on to Flint Street.
Rebus noticed travel brochures on the dressing-table, a small suitcase standing near the door.

‘Off on holiday, eh?’ With the flat empty, maybe he could move the surveillance in.

‘Just a long weekend,’ she said.

‘Somewhere nice?’

‘Holland. Wrong time of year for the bulb-fields, but I’ve always wanted to go. It’s a nuisance flying from Inverness, but so much cheaper. Since my husband died . . . well, I’ve done a bit of travelling.’

‘Any chance of taking me with you?’ Rebus smiled. ‘This window’s fine, too. I’ll just check your door, see if it could do with more locks.’ They went into the narrow hall.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘we’ve always been very lucky here, no break-ins or anything like that.’

Hardly surprising with Tommy Telford as proprietor.

‘And with the panic button, of course . . .’

Rebus looked at the wall next to the front door. A large red button. He’d assumed it was for the stairhead lights or something.

‘Anyone who calls, anyone at all, I’m supposed to press it.’

Rebus opened the door. ‘And do you?’

Two very large men were standing right outside.

‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Hetherington said. ‘I always do.’

For thugs, they were very polite. Rebus showed them his warrant card and explained the nature of his visit. He asked them who they were, and they told him they were ‘representatives of the building’s owner’. He knew the faces though: Kenny Houston, Ally Cornwell. Houston – the ugly one – ran Telford’s doormen; Cornwell, with his wrestler’s bulk, was general muscle. The little charade was carried out with humour and good nature on both sides. They accompanied him downstairs. Across the street,
Tommy Telford was standing in the café doorway, wagging his finger. A pedestrian crossed Rebus’s line of vision. Too late, Rebus saw who it was. Had his mouth open to shout something, then saw Telford hang his head, hands going to his face. Screeching.

Rebus ran across the road, pulled the pedestrian round: Ned Farlowe. A bottle dropped from Farlowe’s hand. Telford’s men were closing in. Rebus held tight to Farlowe.

‘I’m placing this man under arrest,’ he said. ‘He’s
mine
, understood?’

A dozen faces glaring at him. And Tommy Telford down on his knees.

‘Get your boss to the hospital,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m taking this one to St Leonard’s . . .’

Ned Farlowe sat on the ledge in one of the cells. The walls were blue, smeared brown near the toilet-pan. Farlowe was looking pleased with himself.

‘Acid?’ Rebus said, pacing the cell. ‘
Acid
? All this research must have gone to your head.’

‘It’s what he deserved.’

Rebus glared at him. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done.’

‘I know
exactly
what I’ve done.’

‘He’ll kill you.’

Farlowe shrugged. ‘Am I under arrest?’

‘You’d better believe it, son. I want you kept out of harm’s way. If I hadn’t been there . . .’ But he didn’t want to think about that. He looked at Farlowe. Looked at Sammy’s lover, who’d just staged a full-frontal assault on Telford, the kind of assault Rebus knew wouldn’t work.

Now Rebus would have to redouble his efforts. Because otherwise, Ned Farlowe was a dead man . . . and when Sammy came round, he didn’t want news like that to be waiting for her.

He drove back towards Flint Street, parked at a distance from it, and headed there on foot. Telford had the place sewn up, no doubt about it. Letting his flats to old folk might have been a charitable act but he’d made damned sure it served its purpose. Rebus wondered if, given the same circumstances, Cafferty would have been clever enough to think of panic-buttons. He suspected not. Cafferty wasn’t thick, but most of what he did he did by instinct. Rebus wondered if Tommy Telford had ever made a rash move in his life.

He was staking out Flint Street because he needed an
in
, needed to find the weak link in the chain around Telford. After ten minutes of windchill, he thought of a better idea. On his mobile, he called one of the city’s taxi firms. Identified himself and asked if Henry Wilson was on shift. He was. Rebus told the switchboard to put a call out to Henry. It was as simple as that.

Ten minutes later, Wilson turned up. He drank in the Ox occasionally, which was his problem really. Drunk in charge of a taxi-cab. Luckily Rebus had been around to smooth things over, as a result of which Wilson owed him a lifetime of favours. He was tall, heavily built, with short black hair and a long black beard. Ruddy-faced, and he always wore check shirts. Rebus thought of him as ‘The Lumberjack’.

‘Need a lift?’ Wilson said, as Rebus got into the front passenger-seat.

‘First thing I need is a blast of the heater.’ Wilson obliged. ‘Second thing I need is to use your taxi as cover.’

‘You mean, sit here?’

‘That’s what I mean.’

‘With the meter running?’

‘You’ve got an engine problem, Henry. Your cab’s out of the game for the rest of the afternoon.’

‘I’m saving up for Christmas,’ Wilson complained.
Rebus stared him out. The big man sighed and lifted a newspaper from the side of his seat. ‘Help me pick a few winners then,’ he said, turning to the racing pages.

They sat for over an hour at the end of Flint Street, and Rebus stayed in the front of the cab. His reasoning: a cab parked with a passenger in the back looked suspicious. A cab parked with two guys in the front, and you’d just think they were on their break, or at shift’s end – two cabbies sharing stories and a flask of tea.

Rebus took one sip from the plastic cup and winced. Half a bag of sugar in the flask.

‘I’ve always had a sweet tooth,’ Wilson explained. He had a packet of crisps open on his lap: pickled onion flavour.

Finally, Rebus saw two Range Rovers being driven into Flint Street. Sean Haddow – Telford’s money man – was driving the lead car. He got out and went into the arcade. On the passenger seat, Rebus could see a huge yellow teddy bear. Haddow was coming out again, bringing Telford with him. Telford: back from the hospital already, hands bandaged, gauze patches on his face like he’d had a particularly ropey shave. But not about to let a little thing like an acid attack get in the way of business. Haddow held the back door open, and Telford got in.