by Ian Rankin
‘Any chance of coming back in later, sir?’ Claverhouse asked.
‘You mean today?’
‘I thought maybe this evening . . .?’
‘Look, I do have other commitments.’
‘We appreciate that, sir. Meantime, DC Ormiston will run you back into town.’
‘My pleasure,’ Ormiston said, all charm. They needed Colquhoun, after all. They had to keep him sweet.
‘One thing,’ Colquhoun said. ‘There’s a refugee family in Fife. From Sarajevo. They’d probably take her in. I could ask.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Claverhouse said. ‘Maybe later on, eh?’
Colquhoun seemed disappointed as Ormiston led him away.
Rebus walked over to Claverhouse, who was shuffling his photos together.
‘Bit of an oddball,’ Claverhouse commented.
‘Not used to the real world.’
‘Not much help either.’
Rebus looked towards Candice. ‘Mind if I take her out?’
‘What?’
‘Just for an hour.’ Claverhouse stared at him. ‘She’s been cooped up here, and only her hotel room to look forward to. I’ll drop her back there in an hour, hour and a half.’
‘Bring her back in one piece, preferably with a smile on her face.’
Rebus motioned for Candice to join him.
‘Japanese and golf courses,’ Claverhouse mused. ‘What do you think?’
‘Telford’s a businessman, we know that. Businessmen do deals with other businessmen.’
‘He runs bouncers and slot machines: what’s the Japanese connection?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘I leave the hard questions to the likes of you.’ He opened the door.
‘And, John?’ Claverhouse warned, nodding towards Candice. ‘She’s Crime Squad property, okay? And remember, you came to us.’
‘No bother, Claverhouse. And by the way, I’m your B Division liaison.’
‘Since when?’
‘With immediate effect. If you don’t believe me, ask your boss. This might be your case, but Telford works out of my territory.’
He took Candice by the arm and marched her from the room.
He stopped the car on the corner of Flint Street.
‘It’s okay, Candice,’ he said, seeing her agitation. ‘We’re staying in the car. Everything’s all right.’ Her eyes were darting around, looking for faces she didn’t want to see. Rebus started the car again and drove off. ‘Look,’ he told her, ‘we’re leaving.’ Knowing she couldn’t understand. ‘I’m guessing this is where you started from that day.’ He looked at her. ‘The day you went to Juniper Green. The Japanese would be staying in a central hotel, somewhere pricey. You picked them up, then headed east. Along Dalry Road maybe?’ He was speaking for his own benefit. ‘Christ, I don’t know. Look, Candice, anything you see, anything that looks familiar, just let me know, okay?’
‘Okay.’
Had she understood? No, she was smiling. All she’d heard was that final word. All she knew was that they were heading away from Flint Street. He took her down on to Princes Street first.
‘Was it a hotel here, Candice? The Japanese? Was it here?’ She gazed from the window with a blank look.
He headed up Lothian Road. ‘Usher Hall,’ he said. ‘Sheraton . . . Any of it ring a bell?’ Nothing did. Out along the Western Approach Road, Slateford Road, and on to Lanark Road. Most of the lights were against them, giving her plenty of time to study the buildings. Each newsagent’s they passed, Rebus pointed it out, just in case the convoy had paused there to buy cigarettes. Soon they were out of town and entering Juniper Green.
‘Juniper Green!’ she said, pointing at the signpost, delighted to have something to show him. Rebus attempted a smile. There were plenty of golf courses around the city. He couldn’t hope to take her to every one of them, not in a week never mind an hour. He stopped for a few moments by the side of a field. Candice got out, so he followed, lit a cigarette. There were two stone gateposts next to the road, but no sign of a gate between them, or any sort of path behind them. Once there might have been a track, and a house at the end of it. Atop one of the pillars sat the badly worn representation of a bull. Candice pointed towards the ground behind the other pillar, where another lump of carved stone lay, half-covered by weeds and grass.
‘Looks like a serpent,’ Rebus said. ‘Maybe a dragon.’ He looked at her. ‘It’ll all mean something to somebody.’ She looked back at him blankly. He saw Sammy’s features, reminded himself that he wanted to help her. He was in danger of letting that slip, of focusing on how she might help them get to Telford.
Back in the car, he branched off towards Livingston, intending to head for Ratho and from there back into town. Then he noticed that Candice had turned to look out of the back window.
‘What is it?’
She came out with a stream of words, her tone uncertain. Rebus turned the car anyway, and drove slowly back the way they’d just come. He stopped at the side of the road, opposite a low dry-stone wall, beyond which lay the undulations of a golf course.
‘Recognise it?’ She mumbled more words. Rebus pointed. ‘Here? Yes?’
She turned to him, said something which sounded apologetic.
‘It’s okay,’ he told her. ‘Let’s take a closer look anyway.’ He drove to where a vast iron double-gate stood open. A sign to one side read POYNTINGHAME GOLF AND COUNTRY CLUB. Beneath it: ‘Bar Lunches and A La Carte, Visitors Welcome’. As Rebus drove through the gates, Candice started nodding again, and when an oversized Georgian house came into view she almost bounced in her seat, slapping her hands against her thighs.
‘I think I get the picture,’ Rebus said.
He parked outside the main entrance, squeezing between a Volvo estate and a low-slung Toyota. Out on the course, three men were finishing their round. As the final putt went in, hands went to wallets and money changed hands.
Two things Rebus knew about golf: one, to some people it was a religion; two, a lot of players liked a bet. They’d bet on final tally, each hole, even every shot if they could.
And didn’t the Japanese have a passion for gambling?
He took Candice’s arm as he escorted her into the main building. Piano music from the bar. Panatella smoke and oak-panelling. Huge portraits of self-important unknowns. A few old wooden putters, framed behind glass. A poster advertised a Halloween dinner-dance for that evening. Rebus walked up to reception, explained who he was and what he wanted. The receptionist made a phone call, then led them to the Chief Executive’s office.
Hugh Malahide, bald and thin, mid-forties, already had a slight stammer, which intensified when Rebus asked his first question. By throwing it back at the questioner, he seemed to be playing for time.
‘Have we had any Japanese visitors recently? Well, we do get a few golfers.’
‘These men came to lunch. Maybe a fortnight, three weeks back. There were three of them, plus three or four Scottish men. Probably driving Range Rovers. The table may have been reserved in the name of Telford.’
‘Telford?’
‘Thomas Telford.’
‘Ah, yes . . .’ Malahide wasn’t enjoying this at all.
‘You know Mr Telford?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
Rebus leaned forward in his chair. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, he’s . . . look, the reason I seem so reticent is because we don’t want this made common knowledge.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Mr Telford is acting as go-between.’
‘Go-between?’
‘In the negotiations.’
Rebus saw what Malahide was getting at. ‘The Japanese want to buy Poyntinghame?’
‘You understand, Inspector, I’m just the manager here. I mean, I run the day-to-day business.’
‘But you’re the Chief Executive.’
‘With no personal share in the club. The actual owners were set against selling at first. But an offer has been made, and I beli
eve it’s a very good one. And the potential buyers . . . well, they’re persistent.’
‘Have there been any threats, Mr Malahide?’
He looked horrified. ‘What sort of threats?’
‘Forget it.’
‘The negotiations haven’t been hostile, if that’s what you mean.’
‘So these Japanese, the ones who had lunch here . . . ?’
‘They were representing the consortium.’
‘The consortium being . . . ?’
‘I don’t know. The Japanese are always very secretive. Some big company or corporation, I’d guess.’
‘Any idea why they want Poyntinghame?’
‘I’ve wondered that myself.’
‘And?’
‘Everyone knows the Japanese love golf. It might be a prestige thing. Or it could be that they’re opening a plant of some kind in Livingston.’
‘And Poyntinghame would become the factory social club?’
Malahide shivered at the thought. Rebus got to his feet.
‘You’ve been very helpful, sir. Anything else you can tell me?’
‘Look, this has been off the record, Inspector.’
‘I’ve no problem with that. I don’t suppose you’ve got any names?’
‘Names?’
‘Of the diners that day.’
Malahide shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, not even credit card details. Mr Telford paid cash as usual.’
‘Did he leave a big tip?’
‘Inspector,’ smiling, ‘some secrets are sacrosanct.’
‘Let’s keep this conversation that way, too, sir, all right?’
Malahide looked at Candice. ‘She’s a prostitute, isn’t she? I thought as much the day they were here.’ There was revulsion in his voice. ‘Tarty little thing, aren’t you?’
Candice stared at him, looked to Rebus for help, said a few words neither man understood.
‘What’s she saying?’ Malahide asked.
‘She says she once had a punter who looked just like you. He dressed in plus-fours and made her whack him with a mashie-niblick.’
Malahide showed them out.
6
Rebus telephoned Claverhouse from Candice’s room.
‘Could be something or nothing,’ Claverhouse said, but Rebus could tell he was interested, which was good: the longer he stayed interested, the longer he’d want to hang on to Candice. Ormiston was on his way to the hotel to resume babysitting duties.
‘What I want to know is, how the hell did Telford land something like this?’
‘Good question,’ Claverhouse said.
‘It’s way out of his previous sphere, isn’t it?’
‘As far as we know.’
‘A chauffeur service for Jap companies . . .’
‘Maybe he’s after the contract to supply their gaming machines.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I still don’t get it.’
‘Not your problem, John, remember that.’
‘I suppose so.’ There was a knock at the door. ‘Sounds like Ormiston.’
‘I doubt it. He’s just left.’
Rebus stared at the door. ‘Claverhouse, wait on the line.’
He left the receiver on the bedside table. The knock was repeated. Rebus motioned for Candice, who’d been flicking through a magazine on the sofa, to move into the bathroom. Then he crept up to the door and put his eye to the spy-hole. A woman: the day-shift receptionist. He unlocked the door.
‘Yes?’
‘Letter for your wife.’
He stared at the small white envelope which she was trying to hand him.
‘Letter,’ she repeated.
There was no name or address on the envelope, no stamp. Rebus took it and held it to the light. A single sheet of paper inside, and something flat and square, like a photograph.
‘A man handed it in at reception.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Two, three minutes.’
‘What did he look like?’
She shrugged. ‘Tallish, short brown hair. He was wearing a suit, took the letter out of a briefcase.’
‘How do you know who it’s for?’
‘He said it was for the foreign woman. He described her to a T.’
Rebus was staring at the envelope. ‘Okay, thanks,’ he mumbled. He closed the door, went back to the telephone.
‘What is it?’ Claverhouse asked.
‘Someone’s just dropped off a letter for Candice.’ Rebus tore open the envelope, holding the receiver between shoulder and chin. There was a Polaroid photo and a single sheet, handwritten in small capitals. Foreign words.
‘What does it say?’ Claverhouse asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Rebus tried a couple of words aloud. Candice had emerged from the bathroom. She snatched the paper from him and read it quickly, then fled back into the bathroom.
‘It means something to Candice,’ Rebus said. ‘There’s a photo, too.’ He looked at it. ‘She’s on her knees gamming some fat bloke.’
‘Description?’
‘The camera’s not exactly interested in his face. Claverhouse, we’ve got to get her away from here.’
‘Hang on till Ormiston arrives. They might be trying to panic you. If they want to snatch her, one cop in a car isn’t going to cause much of a problem. Two cops just might.’
‘How did they know?’
‘We’ll think about that later.’
Rebus was staring at the bathroom door, remembering the locked cubicle at St Leonard’s. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Be careful.’
Rebus put down the receiver.
‘Candice?’ He tried the door. It was locked. ‘Candice?’ He stood back and kicked. The door wasn’t as strong as the one in St Leonard’s; he nearly took it off its hinges. She was seated on the toilet, a plastic safety razor in her hand, slashing it across her arms. There was blood on her t-shirt, blood spraying the white tiled floor. She started screaming at him, the words collapsing into monosyllables. Rebus grabbed the razor, nicked his thumb in the process. He pulled her off the toilet, flushed the razor, and started wrapping towels around her arms. The note was lying in the bath. He waved it in her face.
‘They’re trying to scare you, that’s all.’ Not even half-believing it himself. If Telford could find her this quickly, if he had the means of writing to her in her own language, then he was much stronger, much cleverer than Rebus had suspected.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ he went on. ‘I promise. It’s all okay. We’ll look after you. We’ll get you out of here, take you somewhere he can’t get to you. I promise, Candice. Look, this is me talking.’
But she was bawling, tears dripping from her cheeks, head shaking from side to side. For a time, she’d actually believed in knights on white chargers. Now, she was realising how stupid she’d been . . .
The coast seemed to be clear.
Rebus took her in his car, Ormiston tucked in behind. No other way to play it. It was a trade-off: a speedy exit versus hanging around for a cavalry escort. And the way Candice was bleeding, they couldn’t afford to wait. The drive to the hospital was nerve-tingling, then there was the wait while her wounds were checked and some of them sewn up. Rebus and Ormiston waited in A&E, drinking coffee from beakers, asking one another questions they couldn’t answer.
‘How did he know?’
‘Who did he get to write the note?’
‘Why give us a warning? Why not just grab her?’
‘What does the note say?’
It struck Rebus that they were near the university. He took Dr Colquhoun’s card from his pocket and phoned his office. Colquhoun was in. Rebus read the message out to him, spelling some of the words.
‘They sound like addresses,’ Colquhoun said. ‘Untranslatable.’
‘Addresses? Are any towns named?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Sir, we’ll be taking her to Fettes if she’s well enough . . . any chance you could meet us there? It’s impor
tant.’
‘Everything with you chaps is important.’
‘Yes, sir, but this is important. Candice’s life may be in danger.’
Colquhoun took time answering. ‘I suppose in that case . . .’
‘I’ll send a car for you.’
After an hour, she was well enough to leave. ‘The cuts weren’t too deep,’ the doctor said. ‘Not life-threatening.’
‘They weren’t meant to be.’ Rebus turned to Ormiston. ‘She thinks she’s going back to Telford, that’s why she did it. She knows she’s going back to him.’
Candice looked as though all the blood had been drained from her. Her face seemed more skeletal than before, and her eyes darker. Rebus tried to recall what her smile looked like. He doubted he’d be seeing one for a while. She kept her arms folded protectively in front of her, and wouldn’t meet his eyes. Rebus had seen suspects act that way in custody: people for whom the world had become a trap.
At Fettes, Claverhouse and Colquhoun were already waiting. Rebus handed over the note and photo.
‘As I said, Inspector,’ Colquhoun stated, ‘addresses.’
‘Ask her what they mean,’ Claverhouse demanded. They were in the same room as before. Candice knew her place, and was already seated, her arms still folded, showing cream-coloured bandages and pink plasters. Colquhoun asked, but it was as though he’d ceased to exist. Candice stared at the wall in front of her, unblinking, her only motion a slight rocking to and fro.
‘Ask her again,’ Claverhouse said. But Rebus interrupted before Colquhoun could start.
‘Ask her if people she knows live there, people who are important to her.’
As Colquhoun formed the question, the rocking grew slightly in intensity. There were fresh tears in her eyes.
‘Her mother and father? Brothers and sisters?’
Colquhoun translated. Candice tried to stop her mouth trembling.
‘Maybe she left a kid behind . . .’
As Colquhoun asked, Candice flew from her chair, shouting and screaming. Ormiston tried to grab her, but she kicked out at him. When she’d calmed, she subsided in a corner of the room, arms over her head.
‘She’s not going to tell us anything,’ Colquhoun translated. ‘She was stupid to believe us. She just wants to go now. There’s nothing she can help us with.’
