The Hanging Garden (16 page)

As Rebus stood upright, he saw that the grab had dropped the car and was swinging towards them. Kenworthy folded her arms and stood her ground. Rebus was reminded of those arcade games where you had to pick up a prize. He could see Tarawicz in the cab, manipulating the controls like a kid with a toy. He remembered Tommy Telford on his arcade bike, and saw at once something the two men had in common: neither had ever really grown up.

The motorised hum stopped suddenly, and Tarawicz dropped from the cab. He was wearing a cream suit and emerald shirt, open at the neck. He’d borrowed a pair of green wellies from somewhere, so as to keep his trousers clean. As he walked towards the two detectives, his men stepped into line behind him.

‘Miriam,’ he said, ‘always a pleasure.’ He paused. ‘Or so
the rumour goes.’ A couple of his men grinned. Rebus recognised one face: ‘The Crab’, that’s what he’d been called in central Scotland. His grip could crush bones. Rebus hadn’t seen him in a long time, and had never seen him so smartly groomed and dressed.

‘All right, Crab?’ Rebus said.

This seemed to disconcert Tarawicz, who half-turned towards his minion. The Crab stayed quiet, but colour had risen to his neck.

Up close, it was hard not to stare at Mr Pink Eyes’s face. His eyes demanded that you meet them, but you really wanted to study the flesh in which they sat.

He was looking at Rebus now.

‘Have we met?’

‘No.’

‘This is Detective Inspector Rebus,’ Kenworthy explained. ‘He’s come all the way from Scotland to see you.’

‘I’m flattered.’ Tarawicz’s grin showed small sharp teeth with gaps between them.

‘I think you know why I’m here,’ Rebus said.

Tarawicz made a show of astonishment. ‘Do I?’

‘Telford needed your help. He needed a home address for Candice, a note to her in Serbo-Croat …’

‘Is this some sort of riddle?’

‘And now you’ve taken her back.’

‘Have I?’

Rebus took a half-step forward. Tarawicz’s men fanned out either side of their boss. There was a sheen on Tarawicz’s face which could have been sweat or some medical cream.

‘She wanted out,’ Rebus told him. ‘I promised I’d help her. I never break a promise.’

‘She wanted out? She told you that?’ Tarawicz’s voice was teasing.

One of the men behind cleared his throat. Rebus had been wondering about this man, so much smaller and more reticent than the others, better dressed and with sad drooping eyes and sallow skin. Now he knew: lawyer. And the cough was his way of warning Tarawicz that he was saying too much.

‘I’m going to take Tommy Telford down,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘That’s my promise to you. Once he’s in custody, who knows what he’ll say?’

‘I’m sure Mr Telford can look after himself, Inspector. Which is more than can be said for Candice.’ The lawyer coughed again.

‘I want her kept off the streets,’ Rebus said.

Tarawicz stared at him, tiny black pupils like spots of absolute darkness.

‘Can Thomas Telford go about his daily business unfettered?’ he said at last. Behind him, the lawyer almost choked.

‘You know I can’t promise that,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s not me he has to worry about.’

‘Take a message to your friend,’ Tarawicz said. ‘And afterwards, stop being his friend.’

Rebus realised then: Tarawicz was talking about
Cafferty
. Telford had told him that Rebus was Cafferty’s man.

‘I think I can do that,’ Rebus said quietly.

‘Then do it.’ Tarawicz turned away.

‘And Candice?’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He stopped, slid his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘Hey, Miriam,’ he said, his back still to them, ‘I like you better in that red two-piece.’

Laughing, he walked away.

‘Get in the car,’ Kenworthy said through gritted teeth. Rebus got into the car. She looked nervous, dropped her keys, bent to retrieve them.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she snapped.

‘The red two-piece?’

She glared at him. ‘I don’t have a red two-piece.’ She did a three point-turn, hitting brakes and accelerator with a little more force than necessary.

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Last week,’ she said, ‘I bought some red underwear … bra and pants.’ She revved the engine. ‘Part of his little game.’

‘So how does he know?’

‘That’s what I’m wondering.’ She shot past the dogs and out of the gate. Rebus thought of Tommy Telford, and how he’d been watching Rebus’s flat.

‘Surveillance isn’t always one-way,’ he said, knowing now who’d taught Telford the skill. A little later he asked about the scrapyard.

‘He owns it. He’s got a compacter, but before the cars get squashed he likes to play with them. And if you cross him, he welds your seatbelt shut.’ She looked at him. ‘You become part of his game.’

Never get personally involved: it was
the
golden rule. And practically every case he worked, Rebus broke it. He sometimes felt that the reason he became so involved in his cases was that he had no life of his own. He could only live
through
other people.

Why had he become so involved with Candice? Was it down to her physical resemblance to Sammy? Or was it that she had seemed to need
him
? The way she’d clung to his leg that first day … Had he wanted – just for a little while – to be someone’s knight in shining armour, the real thing, not some mockery?

John Rebus: complete bloody sham.

He phoned Claverhouse from his car, filled him in. Claverhouse told him not to worry.

‘Thanks for that,’ Rebus said. ‘I feel a whole lot better now. Listen, who’s Telford’s supplier?’

‘For what? Dope?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s the real joker in the pack. I mean, he does business with Newcastle, but we can’t be certain who’s dealing and who’s buying.’

‘What if Telford’s selling?’

‘Then he’s got a line from the continent.’

‘What do Drugs Squad say?’

‘They say not. If he’s landing the stuff from a boat, it means transporting it from the coast. Much more likely he’s buying from Newcastle. Tarawicz has the contacts in Europe.’

‘Makes you wonder why he needs Tommy Telford at all …’

‘John, do yourself a favour, switch off for five minutes.’

‘Colquhoun seems to be keeping his head down …’

‘Did you hear me?’

‘I’ll talk to you soon.’

‘Are you heading back?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’ Rebus cut the call and drove.

‘Strawman,’ said Morris Gerald Cafferty, as he was escorted into the room by two prison guards.

Earlier in the year, Rebus had promised Cafferty he would put a Glasgow gangster, Uncle Joe Toal, behind bars. It hadn’t worked, despite Rebus’s best efforts. Toal, pleading old age and illness, was still a free man, like a war criminal excused for senility. Ever since then, Cafferty had felt Rebus owed him.

Cafferty sat down, rolled his neck a few times, loosening it.

‘So?’ he asked.

Rebus nodded for the guards to leave, waited in silence until they’d gone. Then he slipped a quarter-bottle of Bell’s from his pocket.

‘Keep it,’ Cafferty told him. ‘From the look of you, I’d say your need was greater than mine.’

Rebus put the bottle back in his pocket. ‘I’ve brought a message from Newcastle.’

Cafferty folded his arms. ‘Jake Tarawicz?’

Rebus nodded. ‘He wants you to lay off Tommy Telford.’

‘What does he mean?’

‘Come on, Cafferty. That bouncer who got stabbed, the dealer wounded … There’s war breaking out.’

Cafferty stared at the detective. ‘Not my doing.’

Rebus snorted, but looking into Cafferty’s eyes, he found himself almost believing.

‘So who was it?’ he asked quietly.

‘How do I know?’

‘Nevertheless, war is breaking out.’

‘That’s as may be. What’s in it for Tarawicz?’

‘He does business with Tommy.’

‘And to protect that, he needs to have
me
warned off by a cop?’ Cafferty was shaking his head. ‘You really buy that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Rebus said.

‘One way to finish this.’ Cafferty paused. ‘Take Telford out of the game.’ He saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘I don’t mean top him, I mean put him away. That should be
your
job, Strawman.’

‘I only came to deliver a message.’

‘And what’s in it for you? Something in Newcastle?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Are you Tarawicz’s man now?’

‘You know me better than that.’

‘Do I?’ Cafferty sat back in his chair, stretched out his legs. ‘I wonder about that sometimes. I mean, it doesn’t keep me awake at night, but I wonder all the same.’

Rebus leaned on the table. ‘You must have a bit salted away. Why can’t you just be content with that?’

Cafferty laughed. The air felt charged; there might have been only the two of them left in the world. ‘You want me to retire?’

‘A good boxer knows when to stop.’

‘Then neither of us would be much cop in the ring, would we? Got any plans to retire, Strawman?’

Despite himself, Rebus smiled.

‘Thought not. Do I have to say something for you to take back to Tarawicz?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘That wasn’t the deal.’

‘Well, if he does come asking, tell him to get some life insurance, the kind with death benefits.’

Rebus looked at Cafferty. Prison might have softened him, but only physically.

‘I’d be a happy man if someone took Telford out of the game,’ Cafferty went on. ‘Know what I mean, Strawman? It’d be worth a lot to me.’

Rebus stood up. ‘No deal,’ he said. ‘Personally, I’d be happy if you wiped one another out. I’d be jumping for joy at ring-side.’

‘Know what happens at ring-side?’ Cafferty rubbed at his temples. ‘You tend to get spattered with blood.’

‘As long as it’s someone else’s.’

The laughter came from deep within Cafferty’s chest. ‘You’re not a spectator, Strawman. It’s not in your nature.’

‘And you’re some kind of psychologist?’

‘Maybe not,’ said Cafferty. ‘But I know what gets people excited.’

Running through the hospital, stopping nurses to ask directions. Sweat dripping off him, tie hanging loose around his neck. Taking right turns, left turns, looking for signs. Whose fault? He kept asking himself that. A message which failed to reach him. Because he was on a surveillance. Because he wasn’t in radio contact. Because the station didn’t know how important the message was
.

Now running, a stitch in his side. He’d run all the way from the car. Up two flights of stairs, down corridors. The place was quiet. Middle of the night
.

‘
Maternity!
’
he called to a man pushing a trolley. The man pointed to a set of doors. He pushed through them. Three nurses in a glass cubicle. One of them came out
.

‘
Can I help?
’

‘
I’m John Rebus. My wife
…’

She gave him a hard look. ‘Third bed along.’ Pointing … Third bed along, curtains closed around it. He pulled the curtains open. Rhona lay on her side, face still flushed, hair sticking to her brow. And beside her, nuzzling into her, a tiny perfection with wisps of brown hair and black, unfocused eyes
.

He touched the nose, ran a finger round the curves of an ear. The face twitched. He bent past it to kiss his wife
.

‘
Rhona … I’m really sorry. They didn’t get the message to me until ten minutes ago. How did it … ? I mean … he’s beautiful
.’

‘
He’s a she
,’
his wife said, turning away from him
.

Rebus was sitting in his boss’s office. It was nine-fifteen and he had slept for probably forty-five minutes the previous night. There’d been the hospital vigil and Sammy’s operation: something about a blood clot. She was still unconscious, still ‘critical’. He’d called Rhona in London. She’d told him she’d catch the first train she could. He’d given her his mobile number, so she could let him know when she arrived. She’d started to ask … her voice had cracked. She’d put down the receiver. He’d tried to find some feeling for her. Richard and Linda Thompson: ‘Withered and Died’.

He’d called Mickey, who said he’d drop by the hospital some time today. And that was it for the family. There were other people he could call, people like Patience, who had been his lover for a time, and Sammy’s landlady until far more recently. But he didn’t. He knew in the morning he’d call the office where Sammy worked. He wrote it in his notebook so he wouldn’t forget. And then he’d called Sammy’s flat and given Ned Farlowe the news.

Farlowe had asked a question nobody else had: ‘How about you? Are you all right?’

Rebus had looked around the hospital corridor. ‘Not exactly.’

‘I’ll be right there.’

So they’d spent a couple of hours in one another’s company, not really saying very much at first. Farlowe smoked, and Rebus helped him empty the pack. He
couldn’t reciprocate with whisky – there was nothing in the bottle – but he’d bought the young man several cups of coffee, since Farlowe had spent nearly all his money on the taxi from Shandon …

‘Wakey-wakey, John.’

Rebus’s boss was shaking him gently. Rebus blinked, straightened in his chair.

‘Sorry, sir.’

Chief Superintendent Watson went around the desk and sat down. ‘Hellish sorry to hear about Sammy. I don’t really know what to say, except that she’s in my prayers.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Do you want some coffee?’ The Farmer’s coffee had a reputation throughout the station, but Rebus accepted a mug gladly. ‘How is she anyway?’

‘Still unconscious.’

‘No sign of the car?’

‘Not the last I heard.’

‘Who’s handling it?’

‘Bill Pryde started the ball rolling last night. I don’t know who’s taken it from him.’

‘I’ll find out.’ The Farmer made an internal call, Rebus watching him over the rim of his mug. The Farmer was a big man, imposing behind a desk. His cheeks were a mass of tiny red veins and his thin hair lay across the dome of his head like the lines of a well-furrowed field. There were photos on his desk: grandchildren. The photos had been taken in a garden. There was a swing in the background. One of the children was holding a teddy bear. Rebus felt his throat start to ache, tried to choke it back.