by Ian Rankin
Ten minutes later, Wilson turned up. He drank in the Ox occasionally, which was his problem really. Drunk in charge of a taxi-cab. Luckily Rebus had been around to smooth things over, as a result of which Wilson owed him a lifetime of favours. He was tall, heavily built, with short black hair and a long black beard. Ruddy-faced, and he always wore check shirts. Rebus thought of him as ‘The Lumberjack’.
‘Need a lift?’ Wilson said, as Rebus got into the front passenger-seat.
‘First thing I need is a blast of the heater.’ Wilson obliged. ‘Second thing I need is to use your taxi as cover.’
‘You mean, sit here?’
‘That’s what I mean.’
‘With the meter running?’
‘You’ve got an engine problem, Henry. Your cab’s out of the game for the rest of the afternoon.’
‘I’m saving up for Christmas,’ Wilson complained. Rebus stared him out. The big man sighed and lifted a newspaper from the side of his seat. ‘Help me pick a few winners then,’ he said, turning to the racing pages.
They sat for over an hour at the end of Flint Street, and Rebus stayed in the front of the cab. His reasoning: a cab parked with a passenger in the back looked suspicious. A cab parked with two guys in the front, and you’d just think they were on their break, or at shift’s end – two cabbies sharing stories and a flask of tea.
Rebus took one sip from the plastic cup and winced. Half a bag of sugar in the flask.
‘I’ve always had a sweet tooth,’ Wilson explained. He had a packet of crisps open on his lap: pickled onion flavour.
Finally, Rebus saw two Range Rovers being driven into Flint Street. Sean Haddow – Telford’s money man – was driving the lead car. He got out and went into the arcade. On the passenger seat, Rebus could see a huge yellow teddy bear. Haddow was coming out again, bringing Telford with him. Telford: back from the hospital already, hands bandaged, gauze patches on his face like he’d had a particularly ropey shave. But not about to let a little thing like an acid attack get in the way of business. Haddow held the back door open, and Telford got in.
‘This is us, Henry,’ Rebus said. ‘You’re going to be following those two Range Rovers. Stay back as far as you like. Those things are so high off the ground, we’ll be able to see them over anything smaller than a double-decker.’
Both Range Rovers headed out of Flint Street. The second car carried three of Telford’s ‘soldiers’. Rebus recognised Pretty-Boy. The other two were younger recruits, well-dressed with groomed hair. One hundred percent business.
The convoy headed for the city centre, stopped outside a hotel. Telford had a word with his men, but entered the building alone. The cars stayed where they were.
‘Are you going in?’ Wilson asked.
‘I think I’d be noticed,’ Rebus said. The drivers of both Range Rovers had got out and were enjoying a smoke, but keeping a keen eye on people entering and leaving the hotel. A couple of prospects looked into the cab, but Wilson shook his head.
‘I could be making a mint here,’ he muttered. Rebus offered him a Polo. Wilson accepted with a snort.
‘Brilliant,’ Rebus said. Wilson looked back towards the hotel. A parking warden was talking to Haddow and Pretty-Boy. She had her notebook out. They were tapping their watches, attempting charm. Double yellow lines kerbside: no parking any time.
Haddow and Pretty-Boy held up their hands in surrender, had a quick confab, then it was back into the Range Rovers. Pretty-Boy made circling motions with one hand, letting his passengers know they were going to circle the block. The warden stood her ground till they’d moved off. Haddow was on his mobile: doubtless letting his boss know the score.
Interesting: they hadn’t tried to strongarm the warden, or bribe her, nothing like that. Law-abiding citizens. Telford’s rules, no doubt. Again, Rebus couldn’t see any of Cafferty’s men giving in so quickly.
‘You going in then?’ Wilson asked.
‘Not much point, Henry. Telford will already be in a bedroom or somebody’s suite. If he’s doing business, it’ll be behind closed doors.’
‘So that was Tommy Telford?’
‘You’ve heard of him?’
‘I’m a taxi driver, we hear things. He’s after Big Ger’s cab business.’ Wilson paused. ‘Not that Big Ger has a cab business, you understand.’
‘Any idea how Telford plans to wrest it away from Cafferty?’
‘Scare off the drivers, or get them to switch sides.’
‘What about your company, Henry?’
‘Honest, legal and decent, Mr Rebus.’
‘No approach by Telford?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Here they come again.’ They watched as the two Range Rovers turned back into the street. There was no sign of the warden. A couple of minutes later, Telford emerged from the hotel, bringing with him a Japanese man with spiky hair and a shiny aquamarine suit. He carried a briefcase but didn’t look like a businessman. Maybe it was the sunglasses, worn in late-afternoon twilight; maybe it was the cigarette slouching from the corner of the downturned mouth. Both men got into the back of the lead car. The Japanese leaned forward and ruffled the teddy bear’s ears, making some joke. Telford didn’t look amused.
‘Do we follow them?’ Wilson asked. He saw the look on Rebus’s face, turned the key in the ignition.
They were heading west out of town. Rebus already had an inkling of their ultimate destination, but he wanted to know what route they’d take. Turned out it was much the same route he’d taken with Candice. She hadn’t recognised anything until Juniper Green, but it wasn’t as if there were many landmarks. On Slateford Road the back car signalled that it was pulling over.
‘What do I do?’ Wilson asked.
‘Keep going. Make the first left you can, and turn the cab round. We’ll wait for them to go past us.’
Haddow had gone into a newspaper shop. Same story as with Candice. Strange, during what was a business trip, that Telford would allow a stop. And what about the building which, according to Candice, he’d seemed so interested in? There it was: an anonymous brick edifice. A warehouse maybe? Rebus could think of reasons why a warehouse might be of interest to Tommy Telford. Haddow stayed in the shop three minutes – Rebus timed him. No one else came out, so it wasn’t as if he’d had to queue. Back into the car, and the little convoy set off again. They were heading for Juniper Green, and after that Poyntinghame Country Club. Little point in tagging along: the further they got out of town, the more conspicuous the cab would be. Rebus told Henry to turn around.
He got the cabbie to drop him off at the Oxford Bar. Wilson slid down his window as he was about to move off.
‘Are we square now?’ he called.
‘Till next time, Henry.’ Rebus pushed open the door and walked into the pub.
Perched on a stool, daytime TV and Margaret the barmaid for company, Rebus ordered a mug of coffee and a corned beef and beetroot roll. For his main course Margaret suggested a bridie.
‘Excellent choice,’ Rebus agreed. He was thinking about the Japanese businessman. Who hadn’t really looked like a businessman at all. He’d been all sharp edges, chiselled face. Fortified, Rebus walked from the Ox back to the hotel, and kept watch on it from an overpriced bar across the street. He passed the time making calls on his mobile. By the time the battery died, he’d spoken with Hogan, Bill Pryde, Siobhan Clarke, Rhona and Patience, and had been about to call Torphichen cop-shop, see if anyone there could identify the building on Slateford Road. Two hours crawled by. He broke his ‘personal best’ for slow drinking: two Cokes. The bar wasn’t exactly crowded; no one seemed to mind. The music was on a tape-loop. ‘Psycho Killer’ was coming round for the third time when the Range Rovers stopped outside the hotel. Telford and the Jap shook hands, made slight bows. Telford and his men drove off.
Rebus left the bar, crossed the road, and entered the hotel. The lift doors were closing on Mr Aquamarine. Rebus walked up to reception, showed his ID.
‘The
guest who just came in, I need his name.’
The receptionist had to check. ‘Mr Matsumoto.’
‘First name?’
‘Takeshi.’
‘When did he arrive?’
She checked the register again. ‘Yesterday.’
‘How long’s he staying?’
‘Three more days. Look, I should call my supervisor . . .’
Rebus shook his head. ‘That’s all I needed to know, thanks. Mind if I sit in the lounge for a while?’
She shook her head, so Rebus wandered into the residents’ lounge. He settled on a sofa – perfect view of the reception area through the glass double-doors – and picked up a newspaper. Matsumoto was in town on Poyntinghame business, but Rebus had a whiff of something altogether less savoury. Hugh Malahide’s story had been that a corporation wanted to buy the club, but Matsumoto didn’t look like he worked in any above-board business. When he finally emerged into reception, he’d changed into a white suit, black open-necked shirt, and Burberry trenchcoat, topped off with a woollen tartan scarf. He had a cigarette in his mouth, but didn’t light it until he was outside the hotel. With the collar of his coat turned up, he started walking. Rebus followed him for the best part of a mile, and kept checking that no one was following him. It was possible, after all, that Telford would want to keep tabs on Matsumoto. But if there was surveillance, it was exceptional. Matsumoto wasn’t playing the tourist, wasn’t dawdling. He kept his head down, protecting his face from the wind, and seemed to have some destination in mind.
When he disappeared into a building, Rebus paused, studying the glass door behind which stood a flight of red-carpeted stairs. He knew where he was, didn’t need the sign above the door to tell him. He was outside the Morvena Casino. The place used to be owned by a local villain called Topper Hamilton and managed by a man called Mandel-son. But Hamilton was in retirement, and Mandelson had scarpered. The new owner was still an unknown quantity – or had been till now. Rebus guessed he wouldn’t be far wrong if he placed Tommy Telford and his Japanese friends in the frame. He looked around, checking the parked cars: no Range Rovers.
‘What the hell,’ he said to himself, pushing open the door and starting to climb the stairs.
In the upstairs foyer he was eyeballed by security: two of them looking uncomfortable in their black suits and bowties, white shirts. One skinny – he’d be all about speed and manoeuvres; one a real heavyweight – slow muscle to back up the fast moves. Rebus seemed to pass whatever test they’d just given him. He bought a twenty’s worth of chips and walked into the gaming room.
At one time, it would have been the drawing-room of a Georgian house. There were two huge bay windows, and ornate cornicing connected the twenty-foot-high cream walls to the pastel-pink ceiling. Now it was home to gaming tables: blackjack, dice, roulette. Hostesses moved between the tables, taking orders for drinks. There was very little noise: the gamblers took their work seriously. Rebus wouldn’t have called the place busy, but what clientele there was comprised a veritable United Nations. Matsumoto’s coat had disappeared into the cloakroom, and he was seated at the roulette table. Rebus sat down beside two men at the blackjack table, nodded a greeting. The dealer – young, but obviously sure of himself – smiled. Rebus won with his first hand. Lost with his second and third. Won again with his fourth. There was a voice just behind his right ear.
‘Something to drink, sir?’
The hostess had bent forward to speak to him, showing plenty of cleavage.
‘Coke,’ he told her. ‘Ice and lemon.’ He pretended to watch her move away. Really, he was scoping the room. He’d sat in on the game quickly: walking around the room would have attracted everyone’s interest, and he couldn’t be sure if there’d be anyone here who’d know him.
He needn’t have worried. The only person he recognised was Matsumoto, rubbing his hands as the croupier pushed chips towards him. Rebus stuck on eighteen. The dealer got twenty. Rebus had never been a great gambler. He’d tried the football pools, sometimes the horses, and now occasionally the lottery. But fruit machines didn’t interest him; the poker sessions organised in the office didn’t interest him. He had other ways of losing money.
Matsumoto lost and gave what sounded like a curse, a little bit louder than the room liked. The skinny security ape put his head around the door, but Matsumoto ignored him, and when Mr Skinny saw who was making the noise, he retreated fast. Matsumoto laughed: he might not have much English, but he knew he had power in this place. He told everyone something in a stream of Japanese, nodding, trying for eye contact. Then a hostess brought him a big tumbler of whisky and ice. He handed her a couple of chips as a tip. The croupier was telling everyone to place their bets. Matsumoto quietened down and went back to work.
Rebus’s drink was a while coming, Coke the unlikely beverage of the high roller. He’d won a couple of hands, felt a bit better. Stood up to accept the drink. The table knew to leave him out of the next deal.
‘Where are you from?’ he asked the hostess. ‘I can’t place your accent.’
‘I am from Ukraine.’
‘You speak good English.’
‘Thank you.’ She turned away. Conversation was not house policy, it kept the punters away from their games. Ukraine: Rebus wondered if she was another of Tarawicz’s imports. Like Candice . . . A few things seemed clear to him. Matsumoto was comfortable here, therefore known. And the staff were wary of him, therefore he had clout, had Telford behind him. Telford wanted him kept sweet. It wasn’t much return for all Rebus’s work, but it was something.
Then someone walked in. Someone Rebus knew. Dr Colquhoun. He saw Rebus immediately and fear jumped into his face. Colquhoun: with his sick line to the university; his enforced holiday; no forwarding address. Colquhoun: who’d known Rebus was taking Candice to the Drinics.
Rebus watched him back towards the doors. Watched him turn and run.
Options: go after him, or stay with Matsumoto? Which was the more important to him now, Candice or Telford? Rebus stayed. But now Colquhoun was back in town, he’d track him down.
For definite.
After an hour and a quarter’s play, he was considering cashing a cheque for more chips. Twenty quid down in a little over an hour, and Candice fighting for some space in his crowded head. He took a break, moved to a row of fruit machines, but the lights and buttons defeated him. He wasted three nudges and ran out of time on some accumulator. Another two quid gone – this time in a couple of minutes. Little wonder clubs and pubs wanted slot machines. Tommy Telford was in the right business. His hostess came to see him again, asked if he wanted another drink.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Not much action tonight.’
‘It’s early,’ she told him. ‘Wait till after midnight . . .’
No way was he sticking around that long. But Matsumoto surprised him, threw up his hands and came out with another rush of Japanese, nodding and grinning, gathering up his chips. He cashed them and left the casino. Rebus waited all of thirty seconds, then followed. He said a breezy goodnight to the security men, felt their eyes on him all the way back down the stairs.
Matsumoto was buttoning his coat, wrapping the scarf tight around his neck. He was headed back in the direction of the hotel. Rebus, suddenly bone-tired, stopped in his tracks. He was thinking of Sammy and Lintz and the Weasel, thinking of all the time he seemed to be wasting.
‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers.’
Turned on his heels and went to collect his car. Ten Years After: ‘Goin’ Home’.
It was a twenty-minute walk to Flint Street, a lot of it uphill and with the wind doing nobody any favours. The city was quiet: people huddled at bus stops; students munching on baked potatoes, chips with curry sauce. A few souls marching home with the concentrated tread of the sozzled. Rebus stopped, frowned, looked around. This was where he’d left the Saab. He was positive . . . no, not ‘positive’ – the word had taken on malign overtones. He was sure, yes, sure he’d left the Saab righ
t here. Where now a black Ford Sierra was parked, and behind that a Mini. But no sign of Rebus’s car.
‘Aw, Christ,’ he exploded. There were no signs of glass by the roadside, which meant they hadn’t taken a brick to one of his windows. Oh, there’d be jokes in the office about this though, whether he got the car back or not. A taxi came along and he flagged it down, then remembered he’d no cash, so waved it off again.
His flat in Arden Street wasn’t that far off, but had he been a camel, he’d have been keeping well clear of any straw.
20
He was asleep in his chair by the living-room window, duvet pulled up to his neck, when the buzzer sounded. He couldn’t remember setting the alarm. Consciousness brought the dawning realisation that it was his door. He staggered to his feet, found his trousers and put them on.
‘All right, all right,’ he called, heading for the hall. ‘Keep your hair on.’
He opened the door and saw Bill Pryde.
‘Jesus, Bill, is this some sort of twisted revenge?’ Rebus looked at his watch: two-fifteen.
‘Afraid not, John,’ Pryde said. His face and voice told Rebus something bad had happened.
Something very bad indeed.
‘I’ve been off the booze for weeks.’
‘Sure about that?’
‘Definite.’ Rebus’s eyes burned into those of DCI Gill Templer. They were in her office at St Leonard’s. Pryde was there, too. His jacket was off and his sleeves rolled up. Gill Templer looked bleary from interrupted sleep. Rebus was pacing what floor there was, unable to stay seated.
‘I’ve had nothing to drink all day but coffee and Coke.’
‘Really?’
Rebus ran his hands through his hair. He felt groggy, and his head was throbbing. But he couldn’t ask for Paracetamol and water: they’d assume hangover.
