The Hanging Garden (3 page)

‘Christ!’ he yelled. ‘Help me!’ He fell to his knees again, both hands scrabbling at his scalp. His face was a mask of blood. Rebus crouched in front of him.

‘We’ll get you an ambulance,’ he said. A crowd had gathered at the window of the café. The door had been pulled open, and two young men were watching, like they were onlookers at a piece of street theatre. Rebus recognised them: Kenny Houston and Pretty-Boy. ‘Don’t just stand there!’ he yelled. Houston looked to Pretty-Boy, but Pretty-Boy wasn’t moving. Rebus took out his mobile, called in the emergency, his eyes fixing on Pretty-Boy: black wavy hair, eyeliner. Black leather jacket, black polo-neck, black jeans. Stones: ‘Paint it Black’. But the face chalk-white, like it had been powdered. Rebus walked up to the door. Behind him, the man was beginning to wail, a roar of pain echoing into the night sky.

‘We don’t know him,’ Pretty-Boy said.

‘I didn’t ask if you knew him, I asked for help.’

Pretty-Boy didn’t blink. ‘The magic word.’

Rebus got right up into his face. Pretty-Boy smiled and nodded towards Houston, who went to fetch towels.

Most of the customers had returned to their tables. One was studying the bloody palmprint on the window. Rebus saw another group of people, watching from the doorway of a room to the back of the café. At their centre stood Tommy Telford: tall, shoulders straight, legs apart. He looked almost soldierly.

‘I thought you took care of your lads, Tommy!’ Rebus called to him. Telford looked straight through him, then turned back into the room. The door closed. More screams from outside. Rebus grabbed the dishtowels from Houston and ran. The bleeder was on his feet again, weaving like a boxer in defeat.

‘Take your hands down for a sec.’ The man lifted both hands from his matted hair, and Rebus saw a section of scalp rise with them, like it was attached to the skull by a hinge. A thin jet of blood hit Rebus in the face. He turned away and felt it against his ear, his neck. Blindly he stuck the towel on to the man’s head.

‘Hold this.’ Rebus grabbing the hands, forcing them on to the towel. Headlights: the unmarked police car. Claverhouse had his window down.

‘Lost them in Causewayside. Stolen car, I’ll bet. They’ll be hoofing it.’

‘We need to get this one to Emergency.’ Rebus pulled open the back door. Clarke had found a box of paper hankies and was pulling out a wad.

‘I think he’s beyond Kleenex,’ Rebus said as she handed them over.

‘They’re for you,’ she said.

It was a three-minute drive to the Royal Infirmary. Accident & Emergency was gearing up for firework casualties. Rebus went to the toilets, stripped, and rinsed himself off as best he could. His shirt was damp and cold to the touch. A line of blood had dried down the front of his chest. He turned to look in the mirror, saw more blood on his back. He had wet a clump of blue paper towels. There was a change of clothes in his car, but his car was back near Flint Street. The door of the toilets opened and Claverhouse came in.

‘Best I could do,’ he said, holding out a black t-shirt. There was a garish print on the front, a zombie with demon’s eyes, wielding a scythe. ‘Belongs to one of the junior doctors, made me promise to get it back to him.’

Rebus dried himself off with another wad of towels. He asked Claverhouse how he looked.

‘There’s still some on your brow.’ Claverhouse wiped the bits Rebus had missed.

‘How is he?’ Rebus asked.

‘They reckon he’ll be okay, if he doesn’t get an infection on the brain.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Message to Tommy from Big Ger.’

‘Is he one of Tommy’s men?’

‘He’s not saying.’

‘So what’s his story?’

‘Fell down a flight of steps, cracked his head at the bottom.’

‘And the drop-off?’

‘Says he can’t remember.’ Claverhouse paused. ‘Eh, John …?’

‘What?’

‘One of the nurses wanted me to ask you something.’

His tone told Rebus all he needed to know. ‘AIDS test?’

‘They just wondered.’

Rebus thought about it. Blood in his eyes, his ears, running down his neck. He looked himself over: no scratches or cuts. ‘Let’s wait and see,’ he said.

‘Maybe we should pull the surveillance,’ Claverhouse said, ‘leave them to get on with it.’

‘And have a fleet of ambulances standing by to pick up the bodies?’

Claverhouse snorted. ‘Is this sort of thing Big Ger’s style?’

‘Very much so,’ Rebus said, reaching for his jacket.

‘But not that nightclub stabbing?’

‘No.’

Claverhouse started laughing, but there was no humour to the sound. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Never got those chips, did we? Christ, I could use a drink.’

Rebus reached into his jacket for the quarter-bottle of Bell’s.

Claverhouse didn’t seem surprised as he broke the seal. He took a gulp, chased it down with another, and handed the bottle back. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’

Rebus started screwing the top back on.

‘Not having one?’

‘I’m on the wagon.’ Rebus rubbed a thumb over the label.

‘Since when?’

‘The summer.’

‘So why carry a bottle around?’

Rebus looked at it. ‘Because that’s not what it is.’

Claverhouse looked puzzled. ‘Then what is it?’

‘A bomb.’ Rebus tucked the bottle back into his pocket. ‘A little suicide bomb.’

They walked back to A&E. Siobhan Clarke was waiting for them outside a closed door.

‘They’ve had to sedate him,’ she said. ‘He was up on his feet again, reeling all over the place.’ She pointed to marks on the floor – airbrushed blood, smudged by footprints.

‘Do we have a name?’

‘He’s not offered one. Nothing in his pockets to identify him. Over two hundred in cash, so we can rule out a mugging. What do you reckon for a weapon? Hammer?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘A hammer would dent the skull. That flap looked too neat. I think they went for him with a cleaver.’

‘Or a machete,’ Claverhouse added. ‘Something like that.’

Clarke stared at him. ‘I smell whisky.’

Claverhouse put a finger to his lips.

‘Anything else?’ Rebus asked. It was Clarke’s turn to shrug.

‘Just one observation.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I like the t-shirt.’

Claverhouse put money in the machine, got out three coffees. He’d called his office, told them the surveillance was suspended. Orders now were to stay at the hospital, see if the victim would say anything. The very least they wanted was an ID. Claverhouse handed a coffee to Rebus.

‘White, no sugar.’

Rebus took the coffee with one hand. In the other he
held a polythene laundry-bag, inside which was his shirt. He’d have a go at cleaning it. It was a good shirt.

‘You know, John,’ Claverhouse said, ‘there’s no point you hanging around.’

Rebus knew. His flat was a short walk away across The Meadows. His large, empty flat. There were students through the wall. They played music a lot, stuff he didn’t recognise.

‘You know Telford’s gang,’ Rebus said. ‘Didn’t you recognise the face?’

Claverhouse shrugged. ‘I thought he looked a bit like Danny Simpson.’

‘But you’re not sure?’

‘If it’s Danny, a name’s about all we can hope to get out of him. Telford picks his boys with care.’

Clarke came towards them along the corridor. She took the coffee from Claverhouse.

‘It’s Danny Simpson,’ she confirmed. ‘I just got another look, now the blood’s been cleaned off.’ She took a swallow of coffee, frowned. ‘Where’s the sugar?’

‘You’re sweet enough already,’ Claverhouse told her.

‘Why did they pick on Simpson?’ Rebus asked.

‘Wrong place, wrong time?’ Claverhouse suggested.

‘Plus he’s pretty low down the pecking order,’ Clarke added, ‘making it a gentle hint.’

Rebus looked at her. Short dark hair, shrewd face with a gleam to the eyes. He knew she worked well with suspects, kept them calm, listened carefully. Good on the street, too: fast on her feet as well as in her head.

‘Like I say, John,’ Claverhouse said, finishing his coffee, ‘any time you want to head off …’

Rebus looked up and down the empty corridor. ‘Am I in the way or something?’

‘It’s not that. But your job’s
liaison
– period. I know the
way you work: you get attached to cases, maybe even over-attached. Look at Candice. I’m just saying …’

‘You’re saying, don’t butt in?’ Colour rose to Rebus’s cheeks:
Look at Candice
.

‘I’m saying it’s our case, not yours. That’s all.’

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t get it.’

Clarke stepped in. ‘John, I think all he means is –’

‘Whoah! It’s okay, Siobhan. Let the man speak for himself.’

Claverhouse sighed, screwed up his empty cup and looked around for a bin. ‘John, investigating Telford means keeping half an eye on Big Ger Cafferty and his crew.’

‘And?’

Claverhouse stared at him. ‘Okay, you want it spelling out? You went to Barlinnie yesterday – news travels in our business. You met Cafferty. The two of you had a chinwag.’

‘He asked me to go,’ Rebus lied.

Claverhouse held up his hands. ‘Fact is, as you’ve just said, he asked you and you went.’ Claverhouse shrugged.

‘Are you saying I’m in his pocket?’ Rebus’s voice had risen.

‘Boys, boys,’ Clarke said.

The doors at the end of the corridor had swung open. A young man in dark business suit, briefcase swinging, was coming towards the drinks machine. He was humming some tune. He stopped humming as he reached them, put down his case and searched his pockets for change. He smiled when he looked at them.

‘Good evening.’

Early-thirties, black hair slicked back from his forehead. One kiss-curl looped down between his eyebrows.

‘Anyone got change of a pound?’

They looked in their pockets, couldn’t find enough coins.

‘Never mind.’ Though the machine was flashing
EXACT
MONEY ONLY
he stuck in the pound coin and selected tea, black, no sugar. He stooped down to retrieve the cup, but didn’t seem in a hurry to leave.

‘You’re police officers,’ he said. His voice was a drawl, slightly nasal: Scottish upper-class. He smiled. ‘I don’t think I know any of you professionally, but one can always tell.’

‘And you’re a lawyer,’ Rebus guessed. The man bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Here to represent the interests of a certain Mr Thomas Telford.’

‘I’m Daniel Simpson’s legal advisor.’

‘Which adds up to the same thing.’

‘I believe Daniel’s just been admitted.’ The man blew on his tea, sipped it.

‘Who told you he was here?’

‘Again, I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Detective …?’

‘DI Rebus.’

The man transferred his cup to his left hand so he could hold out his right. ‘Charles Groal.’ He glanced at Rebus’s t-shirt. ‘Is that what you call “plain clothes”, Inspector?’

Claverhouse and Clarke introduced themselves in turn. Groal made great show of handing out business cards.

‘I take it,’ he said, ‘you’re loitering here in the hope of interviewing my client?’

‘That’s right,’ Claverhouse said.

‘Might I ask why, DS Claverhouse? Or should I address that question to your superior?’

‘He’s not my –’ Claverhouse caught Rebus’s look.

Groal raised an eyebrow. ‘Not your superior? And yet he manifestly is, being an Inspector to your Sergeant.’ He looked towards the ceiling, tapped a finger against his cup. ‘You’re not strictly colleagues,’ he said at last, bringing his gaze back down to focus on Claverhouse.

‘DS Claverhouse and myself are attached to the Scottish Crime Squad,’ Clarke said.

‘And Inspector Rebus isn’t,’ Groal observed. ‘Fascinating.’

‘I’m at St Leonard’s.’

‘Then this is quite rightly part of your division. But as for the Crime Squad …’

‘We just want to know what happened,’ Rebus went on.

‘A fall of some kind, wasn’t it? How is he, by the way?’

‘Nice of you to show concern,’ Claverhouse muttered.

‘He’s unconscious,’ Clarke said.

‘And likely to be in an operating theatre fairly soon. Or will they want to X-ray him first? I’m not very up on the procedures.’

‘You could always ask a nurse,’ Claverhouse said.

‘DS Claverhouse, I detect a certain hostility.’

‘Just his normal tone,’ Rebus said. ‘Look, you’re here to make sure Danny Simpson keeps his trap shut. We’re here to listen to whatever bunch of shite the two of you eventually concoct for our delectation. I think that’s a pretty fair summary, don’t you?’

Groal cocked his head slightly to one side. ‘I’ve heard about you, Inspector. Occasionally stories can become exaggerated but not, I’m pleased to say, in your case.’

‘He’s a living legend,’ Clarke offered. Rebus snorted and headed back into A&E.

There was a woolly-suit in there, seated on a chair, his cap on his lap and a paperback book resting on the cap. Rebus had seen him half an hour before. The constable was sitting outside a room with its door closed tight. Quiet voices came from the other side. The woolly-suit was called Redpath and he worked out of St Leonard’s. He’d been in the force a bit under a year. Graduate recruit. They called him ‘The Professor’. He was tall and spotty and had a shy look about
him. He closed the book as Rebus approached, but kept a finger in his page.

‘Science fiction,’ he explained. ‘Always thought I’d grow out of it.’

‘There are a lot of things we don’t grow out of, son. What’s it about?’

‘The usual: threats to the stability of the time continuum, parallel universes.’ Redpath looked up. ‘What do you think of parallel universes, sir?’

Rebus nodded towards the door. ‘Who’s in there?’

‘Hit and run.’

‘Bad?’ The Professor shrugged. ‘Where did it happen?’

‘Top of Minto Street.’

‘Did you get the car?’

Redpath shook his head. ‘Waiting to see if she can tell us anything. What about you, sir?’

‘Similar story, son. Parallel universe, you could call it.’

Siobhan Clarke appeared, nursing a fresh cup of coffee. She nodded a greeting towards Redpath, who stood up: a courtesy which gained him a sly smile.