The Hanging Garden (27 page)

‘And afterwards?’

Farlowe shrugged. ‘What does afterwards matter? It’s only the rest of my life.’

Rebus didn’t go home, knew he wouldn’t sleep. And he’d no car, so he couldn’t go driving. Instead, he visited the hospital, sat down by Sammy’s bedside. He took her hand, rested it against his face.

When a nurse came in and asked if he wanted anything, he asked if she’d any Paracetamol.

‘In a hospital?’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Rebus was due for further questioning at St Leonard’s at ten o’clock, so when his pager sounded at eight-fifteen, he assumed it was a reminder. But the phone number it wanted him to call was the mortuary down in the Cowgate. He called from the hospital payphone, and was put through to Dr Curt.

‘Looks like I’ve drawn the short straw,’ Curt told him.

‘You’re about to start work on Matsumoto?’

‘For my sins. Look, I’ve heard the stories … don’t suppose there’s any truth in them?’

‘I didn’t kill him.’

‘Glad to hear it, John.’ Curt seemed to be struggling to say something. ‘There are questions of ethics, of course, so I can’t suggest that you come down here …’

‘There’s something you think I should see?’

‘That I can’t say.’ Curt cleared his throat. ‘But if you happened to be here … and the place is always very quiet this time of the morning …’

‘I’m on my way.’

The Infirmary to the mortuary: a ten-minute walk. Curt himself was waiting to lead Rebus to the body.

The room was all white tile, bright light and stainless steel. Two of the dissecting-tables lay empty. Matsumoto’s naked body lay on the third. Rebus walked around it, stunned by what he saw.

Tattoos.

And not just the kilted piper on a sailor’s arm. These
were works of art, and they were massive. A scaly green dragon, breathing pink and red fire, covered one shoulder and crept down the arm towards the wrist. Its back legs reached around the body’s neck, while its front ones rested on the chest. There were other smaller dragons, and a landscape – Mount Fuji reflected in water. There were Japanese symbols and the visored face of a kendo champion. Curt put on rubber gloves, and had Rebus do the same. Then the two men rolled the body over, displaying a further gallery across Matsumoto’s back. A masked actor, something out of a Noh play, and a warrior in full armour. Some delicate flowers. The effect was mesmerising.

‘Stunning, aren’t they?’ Curt said.

‘Phenomenal.’

‘I’ve visited Japan a few times, given papers at conferences.’

‘So you recognise some of these?’

‘A few of the references, yes. Thing is, tattoos – especially on this scale – usually mean you’re a gang member.’

‘Like the Triads?’

‘The Japanese are called Yakuza. Look here.’ Curt held up the left hand. The pinkie had been severed at the first joint, the skin healed in a rough crust.

‘That’s what happens when they screw up, isn’t it?’ Rebus said, the word ‘Yakuza’ bouncing around in his head. ‘Someone cuts off a finger every time.’

‘I think so, yes,’ Curt said. ‘Just thought you might like to know.’

Rebus nodded, eyes glued to the corpse. ‘Anything else?’

‘Well, I haven’t started on him yet, really. All looks fairly standard: evidence of impact with a moving vehicle. Crushed ribcage, fractures to the arms and legs.’ Rebus noticed that a bone was protruding from one calf, obscenely white against the skin. ‘There’ll be a lot of internal damage.
Shock probably killed him.’ Curt was thoughtful. ‘I must let Professor Gates know. Doubt he’ll have seen anything like it.’

‘Can I use your phone?’ Rebus asked.

He knew one person who might know about the Yakuza – she’d seemed knowledgeable about every other country’s criminal gangs. So he spoke to Miriam Kenworthy in Newcastle.

‘Tattoos and missing fingers?’ she said.

‘Bingo.’

‘That’s Yakuza.’

‘Actually, it’s only the top bit missing from one little finger. That’s done to them when they step out of line, isn’t it?’

‘Not quite. They do it to
themselves
as a way of saying they’re sorry. I’m not sure I know much more than that.’ There was the sound of papers being shifted. ‘I’m just looking for my notes.’

‘What notes?’

‘When I was connecting all these gangs, different cultures, I did some research. Might be something on the Yakuza … Look, can I call you back?’

‘How long?’

‘Five minutes.’

Rebus gave her Curt’s number, then sat and waited. Curt’s room wasn’t so much an office as a walk-in cupboard. Files were stacked high on his desk, and a dictaphone lay on top of them, along with a fresh pack of tapes. The room reeked of cigarettes and bad ventilation. On the walls: schedules of meetings, postcards, a couple of framed prints. The place was a bolt-hole, a necessity; Curt spent most of his time elsewhere.

Rebus took out Colquhoun’s business card, tried home
and office. As far as his secretary was concerned, Dr Colquhoun was still off sick.

Maybe, but he was well enough to visit a casino. One of Telford’s casinos. No coincidence surely …

Kenworthy was good as gold.

‘Yakuza,’ she said, sounding like she was lifting from her script. ‘Ninety thousand members split into something like two and a half thousand groupings. Utterly ruthless, but also highly intelligent and sophisticated. Very hierarchical structure, almost impenetrable to outsiders. Like a secret society. They even have a sort of middle management level, called the Sokaiya.’

Rebus was writing it all down. ‘How do you spell that?’

She told him. ‘Back in Japan they run
pachinko
parlours – that’s a sort of gaming thing – and have fingers in most other illegal pies.’

‘Unless they’ve lopped them off. What about outside Japan?’

‘Only thing I’ve got down here is that they ship expensive designer stuff back home to sell on the black market, also stolen art, ship it back to wealthy buyers …’

‘Wait a minute, you told me Jake Tarawicz started out smuggling icons out of Russia.’

‘You’re saying Pink Eyes might connect to the Yakuza?’

‘Tommy Telford’s been chauffeuring them around. There’s a warehouse everyone seems interested in, plus a country club.’

‘What’s in the warehouse?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Maybe you should find out.’

‘It’s on my list. Something else, these
pachinko
parlours … would those be like amusement arcades?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘Another connection with Telford: he puts gaming machines into half the pubs and clubs on the east coast.’

‘You think the Yakuza saw someone they could do a deal with?’

‘I don’t know.’ He tried stifling a yawn.

‘Too early in the morning for big questions?’

He smiled. ‘Something like that. Thanks for your help, Miriam.’

‘No problem. Keep me posted.’

‘Sure. Anything new on Tarawicz?’

‘Nothing I’ve heard. No sign of Candice either, sorry.’

‘Thanks again.’

‘’Bye.’

Curt was standing in the doorway. He’d stripped off gown and gloves, and his hands smelled of soap.

‘Not much I can do till my assistants get in.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Fancy a spot of breakfast?’

‘You have to appreciate how this looks, John. The media could be all over us. I can think of a few journalists who’d give their drinking-arm to nail you.’

Chief Superintendent Watson was in his element. Seated behind his desk, hands folded, he had the serenity of a large stone Buddha. The occasional crises with which John Rebus presented him had hardened the Farmer to life’s lesser knocks and taught him calm acceptance.

‘You’re going to suspend me,’ Rebus stated with conviction – he’d been here before. He finished the coffee his boss had given him, but kept his hands locked around the mug. ‘Then you’re going to open an investigation.’

‘Not straight away,’ Watson surprised him by saying. ‘What I want first of all is your statement – and I mean a full and frank explanation – of your recent movements, your interest in Mr Matsumoto and Thomas Telford. Bring in anything you want about your daughter’s accident, any suspicions you’ve had, and above all the
validity
of those suspicions. Telford already has a lawyer asking
awkward questions about our Japanese friend’s untimely end. The lawyer …’ Watson looked to Gill Templer, seated by the door, mouth a thin unimpressed line.

‘Charles Groal,’ she said flatly.

‘Groal, yes. He’s been asking at the casino. He got a description of a man who came in just after Matsumoto, and left immediately after him. He seems to think it’s you.’

‘Are you telling him otherwise?’ Rebus asked.

‘We’re telling him nothing, not until our own inquiries have established … et cetera. But I can’t hold him off forever, John.’

‘Have you asked anyone what Matsumoto was doing here?’

‘He works for a firm of management consultants. He was here at a client’s behest, finalising the takeover of a country club.’

‘With Tommy Telford in tow.’

‘John, let’s not lose sight of …’

‘Matsumoto was a member of the Yakuza, sir. The closest I’ve come to one of those before has been on a TV screen. Now suddenly they’re in Edinburgh.’ Rebus paused. ‘Don’t you find that just a
wee
bit curious? I mean, doesn’t it worry you at all? I don’t know, maybe I’m getting my priorities all wrong, but it seems to me we’re splashing about in puddles while a tidal wave’s coming in!’

The pressure of his hands around the mug had been increasing by degrees. Now the thing broke, a piece falling to the floor as Rebus winced. He picked one ceramic shard out of his palm. Drops of blood hit the carpet. Gill Templer had come forward, was reaching for his hand.

‘Here, let me.’

He spun away from her. ‘No!’ Way too loud. Fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief.

‘I’ve got some paper ones in my bag.’

‘It’s all right.’ Blood dripping on to his shoes. Watson
was saying something about the mug having a crack; Templer was staring at him. He wrapped white cotton around the wound.

‘I’ll go wash it,’ he said. ‘With your permission, sir?’

‘On you go, John. Sure you’re all right?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

It wasn’t a bad cut. Cold water helped. He dried off with paper towels, which he flushed down the toilet, waiting to see they’d gone. A first aid box next: half a dozen plasters, cover the nick good and proper. He bunched his fist, saw no sign of leakage. Had to be content with that.

Back at his desk, he started on his memoirs – as ordered by Watson. Gill Templer came past, decided he needed a few soft words.

‘None of us thinks you did it, John. But something like this … questions being asked by the Japanese consul … it has to be done by the book.’

‘It all comes down to politics in the end, eh?’ He was thinking of Joseph Lintz.

At lunchtime he dropped in on Ned Farlowe, asked him if he needed anything. Farlowe wanted sandwiches, books, newspapers, company. He looked drawn, weary of imprisonment. Maybe soon he’d think to ask for a lawyer. A lawyer – any lawyer – would get him out.

Rebus handed his report to Watson’s secretary and headed out of the station. He’d gone fifty yards when a car pulled up alongside. Range Rover. Pretty-Boy telling him to get in. Rebus looked into the back of the car.

Telford. Ointment on his blistered face. Looking like a scaled-down Jake Tarawicz …

Rebus hesitated. The cop shop was a short sprint away.

‘Get in,’ Pretty-Boy repeated. Sucker for a free offer, Rebus got in.

Pretty-Boy turned the car. The giant yellow teddy had been strapped into the passenger seat.

‘I don’t suppose,’ Rebus said, ‘it’s worth my while asking you to leave Ned Farlowe be?’

Telford’s mind was on other things. ‘He wants war, he’s going to get war.’

‘Who?’

‘Your boss.’

‘I don’t work for Cafferty.’

‘Don’t give me that.’

‘I’m the one who put him inside.’

‘And you’ve been snuggling up ever since.’

‘I didn’t kill Matsumoto.’

Telford looked at him for the first time, and Rebus could see he was itching for violence.

‘You know I didn’t,’ Rebus went on.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Because you did it, and you want me to –’

Telford’s hands were around Rebus’s neck. Rebus shrugged them off, tried pinning Telford down. Impossible with the car in motion, cramped in the back seat. Pretty-Boy stopped the car and got out, opened Rebus’s door and dragged him on to the pavement. Telford followed, face beetroot-red, eyes bulging.

‘You’re not going to pin this on me!’ he roared. Drivers slowed to watch. Pedestrians crossed the road to safety.

‘Who else?’ Rebus’s voice was shaky.

‘Cafferty!’ Telford screeched. ‘It’s you and Cafferty, trying to shut me down!’

‘I’m telling you, I didn’t do it.’

‘Boss,’ Pretty-Boy was saying, ‘let’s screw the head, eh?’ He was looking around, nervous of the attention they were attracting. Telford saw his point, let his shoulders relax a little.

‘Get in the car,’ he said to Rebus. Rebus just stared at
him. ‘It’s okay. Just get in. I want to show you a couple of things.’

Rebus, world’s craziest cop, got back in.

There was silence for a couple of minutes, Telford rearranging the dressings on his fingers, which had come loose during the fight.

‘I don’t think Cafferty wants war,’ Rebus said.

‘What makes you so sure?’

Because I’ve done a deal with him – it’s me who’s going to shut you down
. They were heading west. Rebus tried not to think about possible destinations.

‘You were in the Army, weren’t you?’ Telford asked.

Rebus nodded.

‘Paratroops, then the SAS.’

‘I didn’t get past training.’ Rebus thinking: he’s well-informed.

‘So you decided to become a cop instead.’ Telford was completely calm again. He’d brushed down his suit and checked the knot in his tie. ‘Thing is, working for structures like those – Army, cops – you need to obey orders. I hear you’re not very good at it. You wouldn’t last long with me.’ He looked out of the window. ‘What’s Cafferty planning?’