10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (344 page)

Rebus cleared his throat, took a sip of tea – a fresh cup, no sugar.

‘Does this sound familiar, Mr Summers?’ Pretty-Boy said nothing. He was busy reading. ‘My guess is that the Japanese were never meant to become involved. In other words, they had no knowledge of what was happening. Telford was showing them around, easing the way for them as they tried to buy a country club. Rest and recreation for their members, plus a good way of laundering money – less suspect than a casino or similar operation, especially when an electronics factory is about to open, so that the Yakuza slip into the country as just a few more Japanese businessmen.

‘I think when Tarawicz saw this, he began to worry. He didn’t want to get rid of Tommy Telford just to leave the way open for other competitors to muscle in. So he decided they’d have to become part of his plan. He had Matsumoto followed. He had him killed, and in a nice twist made
me
the chief suspect. Why? Two reasons. First, Tommy Telford had me pegged as Cafferty’s man, so by fingering me, Tarawicz was fingering Cafferty. Second, he wanted me out of the game, because I’d gone to Newcastle, and had met one of his men, a guy called William ‘The Crab’ Colton. I knew the Crab of old, and it so happened Tarawicz had used him for the hit on the drug dealer. He didn’t want me putting two and two together.’

Rebus paused again. ‘How’s it sounding, Brian?’

Pretty-Boy had finished reading. His arms were folded again, eyes on Rebus.

‘We’ve yet to see any evidence, Inspector,’ the lawyer said.

Rebus shrugged. ‘I don’t need evidence. See, the same file you’ve got there, I delivered a copy to a Mr Sakiji Shoda at the Caledonian Hotel.’ Rebus watched Pretty-Boy’s eyelids flutter. ‘Now, the way I see it, Mr Shoda is going to be a bit pissed off. I mean, he’s already pissed off, that’s why he was here. He’d seen Telford screw up, and wanted to see if he could do anything
right
. I don’t suppose the raid on Maclean’s will have given him any renewed sense of confidence. But he was also here to find out why one of his men had been killed, and who was responsible. This report tells him Tarawicz was behind it, and if he chooses to believe that, he’ll go after Tarawicz. In fact, he checked out of his hotel yesterday evening – seems he was in a bit of a rush. I’m wondering if he was on his way home via Newcastle. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’ll
still
be pissed off at Telford for letting it happen. And meantime Jake Tarawicz is going to be wondering who
shopped him to Shoda. The Yakuza are not nice people, Brian. You lot are nursery school by comparison.’ Rebus sat back in his chair.

‘One last point,’ he said. ‘Tarawicz’s base is Newcastle. I’m betting he had eyes and ears here in Edinburgh. In fact, I know he did. I’ve just been having a chat with Dr Colquhoun. You remember him, Brian? You’d heard about him from Lintz. Then when Tarawicz offered East Europeans as working girls, you reckoned maybe Tommy should have a few foreign phrases to hand. Colquhoun did the teaching. You told him stories about Tarawicz, about Bosnia. Catch was, he’s the only person round these parts who knew the subject, so when we picked up Candice, we ended up using him, too. Colquhoun sussed straight off what was happening. He wasn’t sure if he had anything to fear: he’d never met her, and her answers were reassuringly vague – or he kept them that way. All the same, he came to you. Your solution: ship Candice to Fife, then snatch her, and take Colquhoun out of the game till the heat died.’

Rebus smiled. ‘He told
you
about Fife. Yet it was
Tarawicz
who got Candice. I think Tommy will find that a bit odd, don’t you? So, here we sit. And I can tell you that the minute you walk out of here, you’re going to be a marked man. Could be the Yakuza, could be Cafferty, could be your own boss or Tarawicz himself. You haven’t got any friends, and nowhere’s safe any more.’ Rebus paused. ‘Unless
we
help you. I’ve talked to Chief Superintendent Watson, and he’s agreeing to witness protection, new identity, whatever you want. There may be a short sentence to serve – just so it looks right – but it’ll be a soft option, room of your own, no other prisoners allowed near. And afterwards, you’ll be home and dry. That’s a big commitment on our part, and we’ll need a big commitment from
you
. We’ll want everything.’ Rebus counted off on his fingers. ‘The drug shipments, the war with Cafferty, the
Newcastle connection, the Yakuza, the prostitutes.’ He paused again, drained his tea. ‘Tall order, I know. Your boss had a meteoric rise, Brian, and he nearly made it. But that’s all over. Best thing you can do now is talk. It’s either that or spend the rest of your days waiting for the bullet or the machete to strike . . .’

The lawyer started to protest. Rebus held up a hand.

‘We’ll need all of it, Brian. Including Lintz.’

‘Lintz,’ Pretty-Boy said dismissively. ‘Lintz is nothing.’

‘So where’s the harm?’

The look in Pretty-Boy’s eyes was a mix of anger, fear and disorientation. Rebus stood up.

‘I need something else to drink. What about you gentlemen?’

‘Coffee,’ the lawyer said, ‘black, no sugar.’

Pretty-Boy hesitated, then said, ‘Get me a Coke.’ And at that point – for the very first time – Rebus knew a deal might be done. He stopped the interview, Hogan switched off the tapes, and both men left the room. Hogan patted him on the back.

Farmer Watson was coming along the corridor towards them. Rebus moved to meet him, leading them away from the door.

‘I think we might be in with a shout, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘He’ll try to twist the deal, give us less than we want, but I think there’s a chance.’

Watson beamed a smile, as Rebus leaned against the wall, eyes closed. ‘I feel about a hundred years old.’

‘Experience tells,’ Hogan said.

Rebus growled at him, then they went to fetch the drinks.

‘Mr Summers,’ the lawyer said, as Rebus handed him his cup, ‘would like to tell you the story of his relationship with Joseph Lintz. But first we’ll need some assurances.’

‘What about everything else I mentioned?’

‘These can be negotiated.’

Rebus stared at Pretty-Boy. ‘You don’t trust me?’

Pretty-Boy picked up his can, said ‘No’, and drank.

‘Fine.’ Rebus walked over to the far wall. ‘In that case, you’re free to go.’ He checked his watch. ‘Soon as you’ve finished your drinks, I want you out of here. Interview Rooms are at a premium tonight. DI Hogan, mark up the tapes, will you?’

Hogan ejected both cassettes. Rebus sat down beside him and they started discussing work, as though Pretty-Boy had been dismissed from their minds. Hogan examined a sheet of paper, checking who was due to be interviewed next.

From the corner of his eye, Rebus saw Pretty-Boy leaning in towards his lawyer, whispering something. He turned on them.

‘Can you do that outside, please? We need to vacate this room.’

Pretty-Boy
knew
Rebus was bluffing . . . knew the policeman needed him. But he realised, too, that Rebus was
not
bluffing about giving the file to Shoda, and he was far too intelligent not to be scared. He didn’t move from the chair, and held his lawyer’s arm so he had to stay and listen. Eventually the lawyer cleared his throat.

‘Inspector, Mr Summers is willing to answer your questions.’

‘
All
my questions?’

The lawyer nodded. ‘But I must insist on hearing more of the “deal” you’re proposing.’

Rebus looked at Hogan. ‘Go get the Chief Super.’

Rebus left the room, stood in the hallway while Hogan was away. Cadged a cigarette off a passing uniform. He’d just got it lit when Farmer Watson came barrelling towards him, Hogan behind as though attached to Watson by an invisible leash.

‘No smoking, John, you know that.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Rebus said, crimping the tip. ‘I was just holding it for Inspector Hogan.’

Watson nodded towards the door. ‘What do they want?’

‘We’ve been talking possible immunity from prosecution. At the very least, he’ll want a soft sentence, and a safe one, plus new ID afterwards.’

Watson was thoughtful. ‘We haven’t had a cheep out of any of them. Not that it matters greatly. There’s the gang we caught red-handed, plus Telford on the audio tape . . .’

‘Summers is a real insider, knows Telford’s organisation.’

‘So how come he’s willing to spill?’

‘Because he’s scared, and his fear is overwhelming his loyalty. I’m not saying we’ll get every last detail out of him, but we’ll probably get enough to start pressing the other members. Once they know someone’s yapping, they’ll all want a trade.’

‘What’s his lawyer like?’

‘Expensive.’

‘No point shilly-shallying then.’

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, sir.’

The Chief Super pinned back his shoulders. ‘All right, let’s do a deal.’

‘When did you first meet Joseph Lintz?’

Pretty-Boy’s arms were no longer folded. He was resting them on the desk, head in his hands. His hair flopped forward, making him look younger than ever.

‘About six months ago. We’d spoken on the phone before that.’

‘He was a punter?’

‘Yes.’

‘Meaning what exactly?’

Pretty-Boy looked at the turning spools. ‘You want me to explain for all our listeners?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Joseph Lintz was a client of the escort service for which I worked.’

‘Come on, Brian, you were a bit more than a flunkey. You ran it, didn’t you?’

‘If you say so.’

‘Anytime you want to walk, Brian . . .’

Eyes burning. ‘Okay, I
ran
it for my employer.’

‘And Mr Lintz phoned wanting an escort?’

‘He wanted one of our girls to go to his home.’

‘And?’

‘And that was it. He’d sit there opposite her and just stare for half an hour.’

‘Both of them fully clothed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Not at first.’

‘Ah.’ Rebus paused. ‘You must have been curious.’

Pretty-Boy shrugged. ‘Takes all sorts, doesn’t it?’

‘I suppose it does. So how did your business relationship progress?’

‘Well, on a gig like that, there’s always a chaperone.’

‘Yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t have better things to do?’

Another shrug. ‘I was curious.’

‘About what?’

‘The address: Heriot Row.’

‘Mr Lintz had . . . class?’

‘Coming out his ears. I mean, I’ve met plenty fat cats, corporate types looking for a shag in their hotel, but Lintz was a long way from that.’

‘He just wanted to look at the girls.’

‘That’s right. And this huge house he had . . .’

‘You went in? You didn’t just wait in the car?’

‘Told him it was company policy.’ A smile. ‘Really, all I wanted was to snoop.’

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘Later, yes.’

‘You became friends?’

‘Not really . . . maybe. He knew things, had a real brain on him.’

‘You were impressed.’

Pretty-Boy nodded. Yes, Rebus could imagine. His previous role model had always been Tommy Telford, but Pretty-Boy had aspirations. He
wanted
class. He wanted people to acknowledge him for his mind. Rebus knew how seductive Lintz’s storytelling could be. How much more seductive would Pretty-Boy have found it?

‘Then what happened?’

Pretty-Boy shifted. ‘His tastes changed.’

‘Or his real tastes started to emerge?’

‘That’s what I wondered.’

‘So what did he want?’

‘He wanted the girls . . . he had this length of rope . . . he’d made it into a noose.’ Pretty-Boy swallowed. His lawyer had stopped writing, was listening intently. ‘He wanted the girls to slip it over their heads, then lie down like they were dead.’

‘Dressed or naked?’

‘Naked.’

‘And?’

‘And he’d . . . he’d sit on his chair and get off. Some of the girls wouldn’t go along. He wanted the works: bulging eyes, tongue sticking out, neck twisted . . .’ Pretty-Boy rubbed his hands through his hair.

‘Did you ever talk about it?’

‘With him? No, never.’

‘So what did you talk about?’

‘All sorts of things.’ Pretty-Boy looked up at the ceiling, laughed. ‘He told me once, he believed in God. Said the problem was, he wasn’t sure God believed in him. That seemed clever at the time . . . he always managed to get me thinking. And this was the same guy who tossed himself off over bodies with ropes round their necks.’

‘All this personal attention you were giving him,’ Rebus said, ‘you were sizing him up, weren’t you?’

Pretty-Boy looked into his lap, nodded.

‘For the tape, please.’

‘Tommy always wanted to know if a punter was worth squeezing.’

‘And . . .?’

Pretty-Boy shrugged. ‘We found out about the Nazi stuff, realised we couldn’t hurt him any more than he was already being hurt. Turned into a bit of a joke. There we were, thinking of threatening him with exposure as a perv, and at the same time the papers were saying he was a mass murderer.’ He laughed again.

‘So you dropped that idea?’

‘Yes.’

‘But he paid you five grand?’ Rebus fishing.

Pretty-Boy licked his lips. ‘He’d tried topping himself. He told me that. Tying the rope to the top of his banister and jumping off. Only it didn’t work. Banister snapped and he fell half a flight.’

Rebus remembering: the broken stair-rail.

Rebus remembering: Lintz with a scarf around his neck, his voice hoarse. Telling Rebus he had a throat bug.

‘He told you this?’

‘He phoned the office, said we had to meet. That was unusual. In the past, he’d always used phone boxes and got me on my mobile. Safe old bugger, I’d always thought. Then he calls from home, right to the office.’

‘Where did you meet?’

‘In a restaurant. He bought me lunch.’ The young woman . . . ‘Told me he’d tried killing himself and couldn’t do it. He kept saying he’d proved himself a “moral coward”, whatever that means.’

‘So what did he want?’

Pretty-Boy stared up at Rebus. ‘He needed someone to help him.’

‘You?’

Pretty-Boy shrugged.