10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (343 page)

Irretrievable.

He hadn’t cried, and didn’t think he would. Instead, he felt numb, as if his soul had been spiked with novocaine. The world seemed to have slowed, like the mechanism was running down. He wondered if the sun would have the energy to rise again.

And I got him into it
.

He had wallowed before in feelings of guilt and inadequacy, but nothing to measure up to this. This was overwhelming. Jack Morton, a copper with a quiet patch in
Falkirk . . . murdered in Edinburgh because a friend had asked a favour. Jack Morton, who’d brought himself back to life by swearing off cigarettes and booze, getting into shape, eating right, taking
care
of himself . . . Lying in the mortuary, deep-body temperature dropping.

And I put him there
.

He jumped up suddenly, threw the chair at the wall. Gill Templer walked into the room.

‘All right, John?’

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Fine.’

‘My office is empty if you want to get your head down.’

‘No, I’ll be fine. Just . . .’ He looked around. ‘Is this place needed?’

She nodded.

‘Right. Okay.’ He picked up the chair. ‘Who is it?’

‘Brian Summers,’ she said.

Pretty-Boy. Rebus straightened his back.

‘I can make him talk.’

Templer looked sceptical.

‘Honest, Gill.’ Hands trembling. ‘He doesn’t know what I’ve got on him.’

She folded her arms. ‘And what’s that?’

‘I just need . . .’ He checked his watch. ‘An hour or so; two hours tops. Bobby Hogan needs to be here. And I want Colquhoun brought in pronto.’

‘Who’s he?’

Rebus found the business card and handed it over. ‘Pronto,’ he repeated. He worked at his tie, making himself presentable. Smoothed back his hair. Said nothing.

‘John, I’m not sure you’re in any state to . . .’

He pointed at her, turned it into a wagging finger. ‘Don’t presume, Gill. If I say I can break him, I mean it.’

‘No one else has said a single word.’

‘Summers will be different.’ He stared at her. ‘Believe me.’

Looking back at him, she believed. ‘I’ll hold him back till Hogan gets here.’

‘Thanks, Gill.’

‘And, John?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m really sorry about Jack Morton. I didn’t know him, but I’ve heard what everyone’s saying.’

Rebus nodded.

‘They’re saying he’d be the last one to blame you.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Right at the back of the queue.’

‘There’s only one person in the queue, John,’ she said quietly. ‘And you’re it.’

Rebus phoned the night-desk at the Caledonian Hotel, learned that Sakiji Shoda had checked out unexpectedly, less than two hours after Rebus had dropped off the green folder which had cost him fifty-five pence at a stationer’s on Raeburn Place. Actually, the folders had come in three-packs at one sixty-five. He had the other two in his car, only one of them empty.

Bobby Hogan was on his way. He lived in Portobello. He said to give him half an hour. Bill Pryde came over to Rebus’s desk and said how sorry he was about Jack Morton, how he knew the two of them had been old friends.

‘Just don’t get too close to me, Bill,’ Rebus told him. ‘The people closest to me tend to lose their health.’

He got a message from reception: someone there to see him. He headed downstairs, found Patience Aitken.

‘Patience?’

She had all her clothes on, but not necessarily in the right order, like she’d dressed in a power-cut.

‘I heard on the radio,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I had
the radio on, and they said about this police raid and how people were dead . . . And you weren’t in your flat, so I . . .’

He hugged her. ‘I’m okay,’ he whispered. ‘I should have called you.’

‘It’s my fault, I . . .’ She looked at him. ‘You were there, I can see it on your face.’ He nodded. ‘What happened?’

‘I lost a friend.’

‘Oh, Christ, John.’ She hugged him again. She was still warm from the bedclothes. He could smell shampoo on her hair, perfume on her neck.
The people closest to me
. . . He pulled away gently, planted a kiss on her cheek.

‘Go get some sleep,’ he told her.

‘Come for breakfast.’

‘I just want to go home and crash.’

‘You could sleep at my place. It’s Sunday. We could stay in bed.’

‘I don’t know what time I’ll finish here.’

She found his eyes. ‘Don’t feed on it, John. Don’t keep it all inside.’

‘Okay, Doc.’ He pecked her cheek again. ‘Now vamoose.’

He managed a smile and a wink: both felt treacherous. He stood at the door and watched her leave. A lot of times while he’d been married, he’d thought of just walking. There were times when all the responsibilities and the shite at work and the pressure and the
need
would make him dream of escape.

He was tempted again now. Push open the door and head off to somewhere that wasn’t here, to do something that wasn’t this. But that, too, would be treachery. He had scores to settle, and a reason to settle them. He knew Telford was somewhere in the building, probably consulting with Charles Groal, saying nothing to anyone else. He wondered how the team were playing it. When would they let Telford know about the tape? When would they tell him
the security guard had been a plant? When would they tell him that same man was now dead?

He hoped they were being clever. He hoped they were rattling Telford’s cage.

He couldn’t help wondering – and not for the first time – if it was all worth it. Some cops treated it like a game, others like a crusade, and for most of the rest it was neither, just a way of earning their daily bread. He asked himself why he’d invited Jack Morton in. Answers: because he’d wanted a
friend
involved, someone who’d keep
him
in the game; because he’d thought Jack was bored, and would enjoy the challenge; because tactics had demanded an outsider. There were plenty of reasons. Claverhouse had asked if Morton had any family, anyone who should be informed. Rebus had told him: divorced, four kids.

Did Rebus blame Claverhouse? Easy to be wise after the event, but then Claverhouse’s reputation had been built on being wise
before
the event. And he’d failed . . . monumentally.

Icy roads: they’d needed the gates closed. The blockade had been too easy to move with the horsepower available to a truck.

Marksmen in the building: fine in the enclosed space of the yard, but they’d failed to keep the truck there, and the marksmen had been ineffectual once the truck had reversed out.

More armed officers
behind
the truck: producing little but a crossfire hazard.

Claverhouse should have got them to turn off the ignition, or – better still – waited for it to be turned off before making his presence known.

Jack Morton should have kept his head down.

And Rebus should have warned him.

Only, a shout would have turned the gunmen’s attention towards him. Cowardice: was that what was at the bottom
of his feelings? Simple human cowardice. Like in the bar in Belfast, when he hadn’t said anything, fearing Mean Machine’s wrath, fearing a rifle-butt turned on
him
. Maybe that was why – no,
of course
that was why – Lintz had got beneath Rebus’s skin. Because when it came down to it, if Rebus had been in Villefranche . . . drunk on failure, the dream of conquest over . . . if he’d been under orders, just a lackey with a gun . . . if he’d been primed by racism and the loss of comrades . . . who was to say what he’d have done?

‘Christ, John, how long have you been out here?’

It was Bobby Hogan, touching his face, prising the folder from frozen fingers.

‘You’re like ice, man, let’s get you inside.’

‘I’m fine,’ Rebus breathed. And it had to be true: how else to explain the sweat on his back and his brow? How else to explain that he only started shivering
after
Bobby led him indoors?

Hogan got two mugs of sweet tea into him. The station was still buzzing: shock, rumour, theories. Rebus filled Hogan in.

‘They’ll have to let Telford walk, if nobody talks.’

‘What about the tape?’

‘They’ll want to spring that later . . . if they’re being canny.’

‘Who’s in with him?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Farmer Watson himself, last time I heard. He was doing a double-act with Bill Pryde, but I saw Bill later, so they’ve either taken a break or else done a swop.’

Hogan shook his head. ‘What a fucking business.’

Rebus stared at his tea. ‘I hate sugar.’

‘You drank the first mug all right.’

‘Did I?’ He took a mouthful, squirmed.

‘What the hell did you think you were doing out there?’

‘Catching a breath.’

‘Catching your death more like.’ Hogan patted down an unruly clump of hair. ‘I had a visit from a man called Harris.’

‘What are you going to do?’

Hogan shrugged. ‘Let it go, I suppose.’

Rebus stared at him. ‘You might not have to.’

Colquhoun didn’t look happy to be there.

‘Thanks for coming in,’ Rebus told him.

‘I didn’t have much choice.’ He had a solicitor sitting beside him, a middle-aged man: one of Telford’s? Rebus couldn’t have cared less.

‘You might have to get used to not having choices, Dr Colquhoun. Know who else is in here tonight? Tommy Telford; Brian Summers.’

‘Who?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘You’re getting your script wrong. It’s okay for you to know who they are: we talked about them in front of Candice.’

Colquhoun’s face flushed.

‘You remember Candice, don’t you? Her real name’s Karina: did I ever tell you that? She’s got a son somewhere, only they took him away. Maybe she’ll find him one day, maybe not.’

‘I don’t see what this –’

‘Telford and Summers are going to be spending a while behind bars.’ Rebus sat back. ‘If I want to, I could have a damned good go at putting you in there with them. How would you like that, Dr Colquhoun? Conspiracy to pervert, et cetera.’

Rebus could feel himself relaxing into his work; doing it for Jack.

The solicitor was about to say something, but Colquhoun got in first. ‘It was a mistake.’

‘A mistake?’ Rebus hooted. ‘One way of putting it, I suppose.’ He sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. ‘Time to talk, Dr Colquhoun. You know what they say about confession . . .’

Brian ‘Pretty-Boy’ Summers looked immaculate.

He had a lawyer with him, too, a senior partner who looked like an undertaker and wasn’t taking kindly to being kept waiting. As they settled at the table in the Interview Room, and Hogan slotted tapes into cassette machine and video recorder, the lawyer started the protest he’d spent the past hour or two preparing in his head.

‘On behalf of my client, Inspector, I feel duty bound to say that this is some of the most appalling behaviour I’ve –’

‘You think you’ve seen appalling behaviour?’ Rebus answered. ‘In the words of the song, you ain’t seen nothing yet.’

‘Look, it’s clear to me that you –’

Rebus ignored him, slapped the folder down on to the table, slid it towards Pretty-Boy.

‘Take a look.’

Pretty-Boy was wearing a charcoal suit and purple shirt, open at the neck. No sunglasses or car-keys. He’d been brought in from his flat in the New Town. Comment from one of the men who’d gone to fetch him: ‘Biggest hi-fi I’ve seen in my life. Bugger was wide awake, listening to Patsy Cline.’

Rebus started whistling ‘Crazy’: that got Pretty-Boy’s attention and a wry smile, but he kept his arms folded.

‘I would if I were you,’ Rebus said.

‘Ready,’ Hogan said, meaning he had the tapes running. They went through the formalities: date and time, location, individuals present. Rebus looked towards the lawyer and smiled. He looked pretty expensive. Telford would have ordered the best, same as always.

‘Know any Elton John, Brian?’ Rebus asked. ‘He’s got this song: “Someone Saved My Life Tonight”. You’ll be singing it to me once you’ve looked inside.’ He tapped the folder. ‘Go on, you know it makes sense. I’m not playing some trick, and you don’t have to say anything. But you really should do yourself a favour . . .’

‘I’ve got nothing to say.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Just open the folder, take a look.’

Pretty-Boy looked to his lawyer, who seemed uncertain.

‘Your client won’t be incriminating himself,’ Rebus explained. ‘If you want to read what’s in there first, that’s fine. It might not mean much to you, but go ahead.’

The lawyer opened the folder, found a dozen sheets of paper.

‘Sorry in advance for any mistakes,’ Rebus said. ‘I typed it in a bit of a rush.’

Pretty-Boy didn’t so much as glance towards the material. He kept his eyes on Rebus, while the lawyer sifted through the papers.

‘These allegations,’ the lawyer finally said, ‘you must realise they’re worthless?’

‘If that’s your opinion, fair enough. I’m not asking Mr Summers to admit or deny anything. Like I said, he can do a deaf and dumb routine for all I care, so long as he uses his
eyes
.’

A smile from Pretty-Boy, then a glance towards his lawyer, who shrugged his shoulders, saying there was nothing here to fear. A glance back at Rebus, and Pretty-Boy unfolded his arms, picked up the first sheet, and started reading.

‘Just so we have a record for the tape,’ Rebus said, ‘Mr Summers is now reading a draft report prepared by myself earlier today.’ Rebus paused. ‘Actually, I mean yesterday, Saturday. He’s reading my interpretation of recent events in and around Edinburgh, events concerning his employer,
Thomas Telford, a Japanese business consortium – which is really, in my opinion, a Yakuza front – and a gentleman from Newcastle by the name of Jake Tarawicz.’

He paused. The lawyer said: ‘Agreed, thus far.’ Rebus nodded and continued.

‘My version of events is as follows. Jake Tarawicz became an associate of Thomas Telford only because he wanted something Telford had: namely, a slick operation to bring drugs into Britain without raising suspicion. Either that or it was only later on, once their relationship had become established, that Tarawicz decided he could move in on Telford’s turf. To facilitate this, he manufactured a war between Telford and Morris Gerald Cafferty. This was easily accomplished. Telford had moved in aggressively on Cafferty’s territory, probably with Tarawicz egging him on. All Tarawicz had to do was make sure things escalated. To this end, he had one of his men attack a drug dealer outside one of Telford’s night-clubs, Telford immediately placing the blame on Cafferty. He also had some of his men attack a Telford stronghold in Paisley. Meanwhile, there were attacks on Cafferty’s territory and associates, retaliation by Telford for perceived wrongs.’