by Ian Rankin
‘Did she . . . Did she look at you? Did she say anything?’
‘She was just staring at the ceiling, where the strip-light is. Then I thought she was going to blink, but she closed her eyes again and they stayed shut.’ Rhona burst into tears. ‘It was like . . . I lost her all over again.’
Rebus took her in his arms. She hugged him back.
‘She did it once,’ he whispered into her ear, ‘she’ll do it again.’
‘That’s what one of the doctors said. He said they’re “very hopeful”. Oh, John, I wanted to tell you! I wanted to tell every one!’
And he’d been busy with work: Claverhouse, Jack Morton. And he’d got Sammy into all this in the first place. Sammy and Candice – pebbles dropped into a pool. And now the ripples had grown so that he’d all but forgotten about the centre, the starting point. Just like when he was married, work consuming him, becoming an end in itself. And Rhona’s words: You’ve exploited every relationship you ever had.
To be born again . . .
‘I’m sorry, Rhona,’ he said.
‘Can you let Ned know?’ She started crying again.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get some breakfast. Have you been here all night?’
‘I couldn’t leave.’
‘I know.’ He kissed her cheek.
‘The person in the car . . .’
‘What?’
She looked at him. ‘I don’t care any more. I don’t care who they were or whether they get caught. All I want is for her to wake up.’
Rebus nodded, told her he understood. Told her breakfast was on him. He kept the talk going, his mind not really on it. Instead, her words bounced around in his head: I don’t care who they were or whether they get caught . . .
Whichever stress he put on it, he couldn’t make it sound like surrender.
At St Leonard’s, he broke the news to Ned Farlowe. Farlowe wanted to go to the hospital, but Rebus shook his head. Farlowe was crying as Rebus left his cell. Back at his desk, the files on the Crab were waiting.
The Crab: real name, William Andrew Colton. He had form going back to his teens, celebrated his fortieth birthday on Guy Fawkes Day. Rebus hadn’t had many dealings with him during his time in Edinburgh. Looked like the Crab had lived in the city for a couple of years in the early-80s, and again in the early-90s. 1982: Rebus gave evidence against him in a conspiracy trial. Charges dropped. 1983: he was in trouble again – a fight in a pub left one man in a coma and his girlfriend needing sixty stitches to her face. Sixty stitches: you could knit a pair of mittens with less.
The Crab had held various jobs: bouncer, bodyguard, general labourer. The Inland Revenue had a go at him in 1986. By ’88, he was on the West Coast, which was presumably where Tommy Telford had found him. Knowing good muscle when he saw it, he’d put the Crab on the doors of his club in Paisley. More blood-spilling; more accusations. Nothing came of them. The Crab had lived a charmed life, the sort of life that niggled at cops the world over: witnesses too scared to testify; withdrawing or refusing to give evidence. The Crab didn’t often make it to trial. He’d served three adult sentences – a total of twenty-seven months – in a career that was now entering its fourth decade. Rebus went through the paperwork again, picked up the phone and called CID in Paisley. The man he wanted to speak to had been transferred to Motherwell. Rebus made the call, eventually got through to Detective Sergeant Ronnie Hannigan, and explained his interest.
‘It’s just that reading between the lines, you suspected the Crab of a lot more than ever got put down on paper.’
‘You’re right.’ Hannigan cleared his throat. ‘Never got close to proving anything though. You say he’s south of the border now?’
‘Telford placed him with a gangster in Newcastle.’
‘Have criminal tendencies, will travel. Well, let’s hope they keep him. He was a one-man reign of terror, and that’s no exaggeration. Probably why Telford palmed him off on someone else: the Crab was getting out of control. My theory is, Telford tried him out as a hit-man. Crab wasn’t suitable, so Telford needed to jettison him.’
‘What was the hit?’
‘Down in Ayr. Must’ve been . . . four years ago? Lot of drugs swilling around, most of them inside a dance-club . . . can’t remember its name. I don’t know what happened: maybe a deal went sour, maybe someone was skimming. Whatever, there was a hit outside the club. Guy got his face half torn off with a carving knife.’
‘You put the Crab in the frame?’
‘He had an alibi, of course, and the eye-witnesses all seemed to have suffered temporary blindness. Could be a plot for the X-Files in that.’
A knife attack outside a nightclub . . . Rebus tapped his desk with a pen. ‘Any idea how the attacker got away?’
‘On a motorbike. The Crab likes bikes. Crash helmet makes a good disguise.’
‘We had an almost identical attack recently. Guy on a motorbike went for a drug dealer outside one of Tommy Telford’s nightclubs. Killed a bouncer instead.’
And Cafferty denied any involvement . . .
‘Well, like you say, the Crab’s in Newcastle.’
Yes, and staying put . . . scared to come north. Warned off by Tarawicz. Because Edinburgh was too dangerous . . . people might remember him.
‘Do you know how far away Newcastle is?’
‘A couple of hours?’
‘No distance at all by bike. Anything else I should know?’
‘Well, Telford tried the Crab in the van, but he wasn’t much good.’
‘What van?’
‘The ice-cream van.’
Rebus nearly dropped the phone. ‘Explain,’ he said.
‘Easy: Telford’s boys were selling dope from an ice-cream van. The “five-pound special”, they called it. You handed over a fiver and got back a cone or wafer with a wee plastic bag tucked inside . . .’
Rebus thanked Hannigan and terminated the call. Five-pound specials: Mr Taystee with his clients who ate ice-cream in all weathers. His daytime pitches: near schools. His nighttime pitches: outside Telford’s clubs. Five-pound specials on the menu, Telford taking his cut . . . The new Merc: Mr Taystee’s big mistake. Telford’s moneymen wouldn’t have taken long to work out their boy was skimming. Telford would have decided to turn Mr Taystee into a lesson . . .
It was coming together. He spun his pen, caught it, and made another call, this time to Newcastle.
‘Nice to hear from you,’ Miriam Kenworthy said. ‘Any sign of your lady friend?’
‘She’s turned up here.’
‘Great.’
‘In tow with Mr Pink Eyes.’
‘Not so great. I wondered where he’d gone.’
‘And he’s not here to see the sights.’
‘I’ll bet he isn’t.’
‘Which is really why I’m calling.’
‘Mmm?’
‘I’m just wondering if he’s ever been linked to machete attacks.’
‘Machetes? Let me think . . .’ She was so quiet for so long, he thought the connection had failed. ‘You know, that does ring a bell. Let me put it up on the screen.’ Clackety-clack of her keyboard. Rebus was biting his bottom lip, almost drawing blood.
‘God, yes,’ she said. ‘A year or so back, a battle on an estate. Rival gangs, that was the story, but everyone knew what was behind it: namely, drugs and pitch incursions.’
‘And where there’s drugs, there’s Tarawicz?’
‘There was a rumour his men were involved.’
‘And they used machetes?’
‘One of them did. His name’s Patrick Kenneth Moynihan, known to all and sundry as “PK”.’
‘Can you give me a description?’
‘I can fax you his picture. But meantime: tall, heavy build, curly black hair and a black beard.’
He wasn’t part of the Tarawicz retinue. Two of Mr Pink’s best muscle-men had been left behind in Newcastle. For safety’s sake. Rebus put PK down as one of the Paisley attackers – Cafferty again in the
clear.
‘Thanks, Miriam. Listen, about that rumour . . .’
‘Remind me.’
‘Telford supplying Tarawicz rather than the other way round: anything to back it up?’
‘We tracked Pink Eyes and his men. A couple of jaunts to the continent, only they came back clean.’
‘Leading you up the garden path?’
‘Which made us start reassessing.’
‘Where would Telford be getting the stuff?’
‘We didn’t reassess that far.’
‘Well, thanks again . . .’
‘Hey, don’t leave me hanging: what’s the story?’
‘Morning Glory. Cheers, Miriam.’
Rebus went and got a coffee, put sugar in it without realising, had finished half the cup before he noticed. Tarawicz was attacking Telford. Telford was blaming Cafferty. The resulting war would destroy Cafferty and weaken Telford. Then Telford would pull off the Maclean’s break-in but be grassed up . . .
And Tarawicz would fill the vacuum. That had been the plan all along. Bluesbreakers: ‘Double-Crossing Time’. Christ, it was beautiful: set the two rivals against one another and wait for the carnage to end . . .
The prize: something Rebus didn’t yet know. There had to be something big. Tarawicz, the theory went, was sourcing his drugs not from London but from Scotland. From Tommy Telford.
What did Telford know? What was it that made his supply so valuable? Did it have something to do with Maclean’s? Rebus got another coffee, washed down three Paracetamol with it. His head felt ready to explode. Back at his desk, he tried Claverhouse, couldn’t get him. Paged him instead, and got an immediate call back.
‘I’m in the van,’ Claverhouse said.
‘I’ve something to tell you.’
‘What?’
Rebus wanted to know what was happening. Wanted in on the action. ‘It’s got to be face to face. Where are you parked?’
Claverhouse sounded suspicious. ‘Down from the shop.’
‘White decorator’s van?’
‘This definitely isn’t a good idea . . .’
‘You want to hear what I’ve got?’
‘Sell me the idea.’
‘It clears everything up,’ Rebus lied.
Claverhouse waited for more, but Rebus wasn’t obliging. Theatrical sigh: life was hard on Claverhouse.
‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ Rebus said. He put down the phone, looked around the office. ‘Anyone got a set of overalls?’
‘Nice disguise,’ Claverhouse said, as Rebus squeezed into the front seat.
Ormiston was in the driver’s seat, plastic piece-box open in front of him. A flask of tea had been opened, steaming up the windscreen. The back of the van was full of paint-tins, brushes and other paraphernalia. A ladder was strapped to the roof, and another was leaning against the wall of the tenement beside which the van had been parked. Claverhouse and Ormiston were in white overalls, daubed with swatches of old paint. The best Rebus could come up with was a blue boilersuit, tight at the waist and chest. He pulled the first few studs open as he settled in.
‘Anything happening?’
‘Jack’s been in twice this morning.’ Claverhouse looked towards the shop. ‘Once for ciggies and a paper, once for a can of juice and a filled roll.’
‘He doesn’t smoke.’
‘He does for this operation: perfect excuse to nip to the shop.’
‘He hasn’t given you any signal?’
‘You expecting him to put the flags out?’ Ormiston exhaled fish-paste.
‘Just asking.’ Rebus checked his watch. ‘Either of you want a break?’
‘We’re fine,’ Claverhouse said.
‘What’s Siobhan up to?’
‘Paperwork,’ Ormiston said with a smile. ‘Ever come across a woman house painter?’
‘Done much house painting yourself, Ormie?’
This brought a smile from Claverhouse. ‘So, John,’ he said, ‘what is it you’ve got for us?’
Rebus filled them in quickly, noting Claverhouse’s mounting interest.
‘So Tarawicz is planning to double-cross Telford?’ Ormiston said at the end.
Rebus shrugged. ‘That’s my guess.’
‘Then why the hell are we bothering to set up a sting? Just let them get on with it.’
‘That wouldn’t give us Tarawicz,’ Claverhouse said, his eyes slitted in concentration. ‘If he sets up Telford for a fall, he’s home and dry. Telford gets put away, and all we’ve done is replace one villain with another.’
‘And an altogether nastier species at that,’ Rebus said.
‘What? And Telford’s Robin Hood?’
‘No, but at least with him, we know what we’re dealing with.’
‘And the old dears in his flats love him,’ Claverhouse said.
Rebus thought of Mrs Hetherington, readying herself for her trip to Holland. The only drawback: she had to fly from Inverness . . . Sakiji Shoda had flown from London to Inverness . . .
Rebus started laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’
He shook his head, still laughing, wiping his eyes. It wasn’t funny, not really.
‘We could let Telford know what we know,’ Claverhouse said, studying Rebus. ‘Set him against Tarawicz, let them eat each other alive.’
Rebus nodded, took a deep breath. ‘That’s certainly one option.’
‘Give me another.’
‘Later,’ Rebus said. He opened the door.
‘Where are you off to?’ Claverhouse asked.
‘Got to fly.’
32
But in fact he was driving. A long drive, too. North through Perth and from there into the Highlands, taking a route which could be cut off during the worst of the winter. It wasn’t a bad road, but traffic was heavy. He’d get past one slow-moving lorry only to catch up with another. He knew he should be thankful for small mercies: in the summer, caravans could end up fronting mile-long tailbacks.
He did pass a couple of caravans outside Pitlochry. They were from the Netherlands. Mrs Hetherington had said it was out of season for a trip to Holland. Most people her age would go in the spring, ready to fill their senses with the bulb-fields. But not Mrs Hetherington. Telford’s offer: go when I say. Telford probably provided spending money, too. Told her to have a good time, not worry about a thing . . .
As he neared Inverness, Rebus hit dual carriageway again. He’d been on the road well over two hours. Sammy might be coming round again; Rhona had his mobile number. Inverness Airport was signposted from the road into town. Rebus parked and got out, stretched his legs and arched his back, feeling the vertebrae pop. He went into the terminal and asked for security. He got a small balding man with glasses and a limp. Rebus introduced himself. The man offered coffee, but Rebus was jumpy enough after the drive. Hungry though: no lunch. He gave the man his story, and eventually they tracked down a representative of Her Majesty’s Customs. During his tour of the facilities, Rebus got the impression of a low-key operation. The Customs official was in her early thirties, rosy-cheeked and with black curly hair. There was a purple birthmark, the size of a small coin, in the middle of her forehead, looking for all the world like a third eye.
She took Rebus into the Customs area and found a room they could use for their conversation.
‘They’ve just started direct international flights,’ she said, in answer to his question. ‘It’s shocking really.’
‘Why?’
‘Because at the same time, they’ve cut back on manpower.’
‘You mean in Customs?’
She nodded.
‘You’re worried about drugs?’
‘Of course.’ She paused. ‘And everything else.’
‘Are there flights to Amsterdam?’
‘There will be.’
‘But as of now . . . ?’
She shrugged. ‘You can fly to London, make the connection there.’
Rebus was thoughtful. ‘There was a guy a few days
ago, flew from Japan to Heathrow, then got a flight to Inverness.’
‘Did he stop off in London?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Caught the first connection.’
‘That counts as an international connection.’
‘Meaning?’
‘His luggage would be put on the plane in Japan, and he wouldn’t see it again until Inverness.’
‘So you’d be the first Customs point?’
She nodded.
‘And if his flight came in at some horrible hour . . .?’
She shrugged again. ‘We do what we can, Inspector.’
Yes, Rebus could imagine: a lone, bleary-eyed Customs official, wits not at their sharpest . . .
‘So the bags change planes at Heathrow, but no one checks them there?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘And if you were flying from Holland to Inverness via London?’
‘Same deal.’
Rebus knew now, knew the brilliance of Tommy Telford’s thinking. He was supplying drugs for Tarawicz, and Christ knew how many others. His little old ladies and men were bringing them in past early-morning or late-night Customs posts. How difficult would it be to slip something into a piece of luggage? Then Telford’s men would be on hand to take everyone back to Edinburgh, carry their luggage upstairs . . . and surreptitiously remove each package.
Old age pensioners as unwitting drugs couriers. It was stunning.
And Shoda hadn’t flown into Inverness so he could check out the local tourist amenities. He’d flown in so he could see how easy it was, what a brilliant route Telford had found, quick and efficient with a minimum of risk. Rebus had to laugh again. The Highlands had its own drugs problem these days: bored teenagers and cash-rich oil-workers. Rebus had smashed one north-east ring back in early summer, only to have Tommy Telford come along . . .
Cafferty would never have thought of it. Cafferty would never have been so daring. But Cafferty would have kept it quiet. He wouldn’t have sought to expand, wouldn’t have brought partners into the scheme.
Telford was still a kid in some respects. The passenger-seat teddy bear was proof of that.
