The Hanging Garden

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Terrible muddle,’ he said, kicking over a pile of books.

  ‘Know the feeling, sir,’ Hogan said.

  Colquhoun peered in Rebus’s direction. ‘My secretary says you used the library.’

  ‘Filling in some of the gaps, sir.’ Rebus kept his voice level.

  ‘Yes, Candice ...’ Colquhoun was thoughtful. ‘Is she ... ? I mean, did she ... ?’

  ‘But today, sir,’ Hogan interrupted, ‘we want to talk to you about Joseph Lintz.’

  Colquhoun sat down heavily in his wooden chair, which creaked under the weight. Then he sprang to his feet again. ‘Tea, coffee? You must excuse the mess. Not normally this disorganised ...’

  ‘Not for us, sir,’ Hogan said. ‘If you’d just take a seat?’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Again, Colquhoun collapsed on to his chair.

  ‘Joseph Lintz, sir,’ Hogan prompted.

  ‘Terrible tragedy ... terrible. They think it’s murder, you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir, we do know.’

  ‘Of course you do. Apologies.’

  The desk in front of Colquhoun was venerable and spotted with woodworm. The shelves were bowed under the weight of textbooks. There were old framed prints on the walls, and a blackboard with the single word CHARACTER on it. University paperwork was piled on the window ledge, all but blacking out the bottom two panes. The smell in the room was that of intellect gone awry.

  ‘It’s just that Mr Lintz had your name in his address book, sir,’ Hogan continued. ‘And we’re talking to all his friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ Colquhoun looked up. ‘I wouldn’t call us “friends” exactly. We were colleagues, but I don’t think I met him socially more than three or four times in twenty-odd years.’

  ‘Funny, he seems to have taken an interest in you, sir.’ Hogan flipped open his notebook. ‘Starting with your address in Warrender Park Terrace.’

  ‘I haven’t lived there since the seventies.’

  ‘He also has your telephone number there. After that, it’s Currie.’

  ‘I thought I was ready for the rural life ...’

  ‘In Currie?’ Hogan sounded sceptical.

  Colquhoun tipped his head. ‘I eventually realised my mistake.’

  ‘And moved to Duddingston.’

  ‘Not at first. I rented a few properties while I was looking for a place to buy.’

  ‘Mr Lintz has your telephone number in Currie, but not for the Duddingston address.’

  ‘Interesting. I went ex-directory when I moved.’

  ‘Any reason for that, sir?’

  Colquhoun swayed in his chair. ‘Well, I’m sure it sounds awful ...’

  ‘Try us.’

  ‘I didn’t want students bothering me.’

  ‘Did they do that?’

  ‘Oh, yes, phoning to ask questions, advice. Worried about exams or wanting deadlines extended.’

  ‘Do you remember giving Mr Lintz your address, sir?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Yes, but it wouldn’t have been hard for him to find out. I mean, he could just have asked one of the secretaries.’

  Colquhoun was beginning to look more agitated than ever. The little chair could barely contain him.

  ‘Sir,’ Hogan said, ‘is there anything you want to tell us about Mr Lintz, anything at all?’

  Colquhoun just shook his head, staring at the surface of his desk.

  Rebus decided to use their joker. ‘Mr Lintz made a phone call to this office. He was talking for over twenty minutes.’

  ‘That’s ... simply not true.’ Colquhoun mopped his face with a handkerchief. ‘Look, gentlemen, I’d like to help, but the fact is, I barely knew Joseph Lintz.’

  ‘And he didn’t phone you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea why he’d keep note of your Edinburgh addresses for the past three decades?’

  ‘No.’

  Hogan sighed theatrically. ‘Then we’re wasting your time and ours.’ He got to his feet. ‘Thank you, Dr Colquhoun.’

  The look of relief on the old academic’s face told both detectives all they needed to know.

  They said nothing as they walked back downstairs – like Colquhoun had said, sound could travel. Hogan’s car was nearest. They rested against it as they talked.

  ‘He was worried,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Hiding something. Think we should go back up?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Let him sweat for a day or so, then hit him.’

  ‘He didn’t like the fact you were there.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘That restaurant ... Lintz dining with an elderly gent.’

  ‘We could tell him we’ve got a description from the restaurant staff.’

  ‘Without going into specifics?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘See if it flushes him out.’

  ‘What about the other person Lintz took to lunch, the young woman?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Posh restaurant, old man, young woman ...’

  ‘A call girl?’

  Hogan smiled. ‘Do they still call them that?’

  Rebus was thoughtful. ‘It might explain the phone call to Telford. Only I doubt Telford’s daft enough to discuss business like that from his office. Besides, his escort agency runs from another address.’

  ‘Fact is, he called Telford’s office.’

  ‘And nobody’s owned up to talking to him.’

  ‘Escort agency stuff, could be very innocent. He doesn’t want to eat alone, hires some company. Afterwards, a peck on the cheek and separate taxis.’ Hogan exhaled. ‘This one’s running in circles.’

  ‘I know the feeling, Bobby.’

  They looked up at the second-floor windows. Saw Colquhoun staring down, handkerchief to his face.

  ‘Let’s leave him to it,’ Hogan said, unlocking his car.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask: how did you get on with Abernethy?’

  ‘He didn’t give me too much trouble.’ Hogan avoided Rebus’s eyes.

  ‘So he’s gone?’

  Hogan had disappeared into the driver’s seat. ‘He’s gone. See you, John.’

  Leaving Rebus on the pavement, a frown on his face. He waited till Hogan’s car had turned the corner, then went back into the stairwell and climbed the steps again.

  Colquhoun’s office door was open, the old man fidgeting behind his desk. Rebus sat down opposite him, said nothing.

  ‘I’ve been ill,’ Colquhoun said.

  ‘You’ve been hiding.’ Colquhoun started shaking his head. ‘You told them where to find Candice.’ Head still shaking. ‘Then you got worried, so they hid you away, maybe in a room at the casino.’ Rebus paused. ‘How am I doing?’

  ‘I’ve no comment to make,’ Colquhoun snapped.

  ‘What if I just keep talking then?’

  ‘I want you to leave now. If you don’t go, I’ll have to call my lawyer.’

  ‘Name of Charles Groal?’ Rebus smiled. ‘They might have spent the last few days tutoring you, but they can’t change what you’ve done.’ Rebus stood up. ‘You sent Candice back to them. You did that.’ He leaned down over the desk. ‘You knew all along who she was, didn’t you? That’s why you were so nervous. How come you knew who she was, Dr Colquhoun? How come you’re so chummy with a turd like Tommy Telford?’

  Colquhoun picked up the receiver, his hands shaking so badly he kept missing the digits.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m going. But we’ll talk again. And you will talk. You’ll talk because you’re a coward, Dr Colquhoun. And cowards always talk eventually ...’

  23

  The Crime Squad office at Fettes: home of country and western; Claverhouse terminating a phone call. No sign of Ormiston and Clarke.

  ‘They’re out on a call,’ Claverhouse said.

  ‘Any progress on that stabbing?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think there’s something
you should know.’ Rebus seated himself behind Siobhan Clarke’s desk, admiring its tidy surface. He opened a drawer: it was tidy, too. Compartments, he thought to himself. Clarke was very good at dividing her life into separate compartments. ‘Jake Tarawicz is in town. He’s got this outrageous white limo, hard to miss.’ Rebus paused. ‘And he’s brought Candice with him.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘I think he’s here for the show.’

  ‘What show?’

  ‘Cafferty and Telford, fifteen rounds of bare-knuckle and no referee.’ Rebus leaned forward, arms on the desk. ‘And I’ve got an idea where it’s headed.’

  Rebus went home, called Patience and told her he might be late.

  ‘How late?’ she asked.

  ‘How late can I be without us falling out?’

  She thought about it. ‘Half-nine.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  He checked his answering machine: David Levy, saying he could be reached at home.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Rebus asked, when Levy’s daughter had put her father on.

  ‘I had business elsewhere.’

  ‘You know your daughter’s been worried. You might have phoned her.’

  ‘Does this counselling service come free?’

  ‘My fee cancels out when you answer a few questions. You know Lintz is dead?’

  ‘I’ve heard.’

  ‘Where were you when you heard?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I had business ... Inspector, am I a suspect?’

  ‘Practically the only one we’ve got.’

  Levy gave a harsh laugh. ‘This is preposterous. I’m not a ...’ He couldn’t say the word. Rebus guessed his daughter was within hearing distance. ‘Hold on a moment, please.’ The receiver was muffled: Levy ordering his daughter out of the room. He came back on, voice lower than before.

  ‘Inspector, for the record, I feel I must let you know how angry I felt when I heard the news. Justice may have been done or not done – 1 can’t argue those points just now – but what is absolutely certain is that history has been cheated here!’

  ‘Of the trial?’

  ‘Of course! And the Rat Line, too. With each suspect who dies, we’re that much less likely to prove its existence. Lintz isn’t the first, you know. One man, the brakes failed on his car. Another fell from an upstairs window. There’ve been two apparent suicides, six more cases of what look like natural causes.’

  ‘Am I going to get the full conspiracy theory?’

  ‘This isn’t a joke, Inspector.’

  ‘Did you hear me laughing? What about you, Mr Levy? When did you leave Edinburgh?’

  ‘Before Lintz died.’

  ‘Did you see him?’ Rebus knowing he had, but seeking a lie.

  Levy paused. ‘Confronted would be a more apposite term.’

  ‘Just the once?’

  ‘Three times. He wasn’t keen to talk about himself, but I stated my case nonetheless.’

  ‘And the phone call?’

  Levy paused. ‘What phone call?’

  ‘When he called you at the Roxburghe.’

  ‘I wish I’d recorded it for posterity. Rage, Inspector. Foul-mouthed rage. I’m positive he was mad.’

  ‘Mad?’

  ‘You didn’t hear him. He’s very good at seeming perfectly normal – he must be, or he wouldn’t have gone undetected for so long. But the man is ... was ... mad. Truly mad.’

  Rebus was remembering the crooked little man in the cemetery, and how he’d suddenly let fly at a passing dog. Poise, to rage, to poise again.

  ‘The story he told ...’ Levy sighed.

  ‘Was this in the restaurant?’

  ‘What restaurant?’

  ‘Sorry, I thought the two of you went out to lunch.’

  ‘I can assure you we didn’t.’

  ‘So what story is this then?’

  ‘These men, Inspector, they come to justify their actions by blanking them out, or by transference. Transference is the more common.’

  ‘They tell themselves someone else did it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that was Lintz’s story?’

  ‘Less believable than most. He said it was all a case of mistaken identity.’

  ‘And who did he think you were mistaking him for?’

  ‘A colleague at the university ... a Dr Colquhoun.’

  Rebus called Hogan, gave him the story.

  ‘I told Levy you’d want to speak to him.’

  ‘I’ll phone him right now.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Colquhoun a war criminal?’ Hogan snorted.

  ‘Me, too,’ Rebus said. ‘I asked Levy why he didn’t think any of this worth telling us.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said as he gave it no credence, it was worthless.’

  ‘All the same, we’d better talk to Colquhoun again. Tonight.’

  ‘I’ve other plans for tonight, Bobby.’

  ‘Fair enough, John. Look, I really appreciate all your help.’

  ‘You’re going to talk to him alone?’

  ‘I’ll have someone with me.’

  Rebus hated being left out. If he cancelled that late supper ...

  ‘Let me know how you get on.’ Rebus put the telephone down. On the hi-fi: Eddie Harris, upbeat and melodic. He went and soaked in a bath, facecloth across his eyes. Everyone, it seemed to him, lived their lives out of little boxes, opening different ones for different occasions. Nobody ever gave their whole self away. Cops were like that, each box a safety mechanism. Most people you met in the course of your life, you never even learned their names. Everybody was boxed off from everybody else. It was called society.

  He was wondering about Joseph Lintz, always questioning, turning every conversation into a philosophy lesson. Stuck in his own little box, identity blocked off elsewhere, his past a necessary mystery ... Joseph Lintz, furious when cornered, possibly clinically mad, driven there by ... what? Memories? Or the lack of them? Driven there by other people?

  The Eddie Harris CD was on its last track by the time he emerged from the bathroom. He put on the clothes he’d be wearing to Patience’s. Only he had a couple of stops to make first: check on Sammy at the hospital, and then a meeting at Torphichen.

  ‘The gang’s all here,’ he said, walking into the CID room.

  Shug Davidson, Claverhouse, Ormiston, and Siobhan Clarke, all seated around the one big desk, drinking coffee from identical Rangers mugs. Rebus pulled a chair over.

  ‘Have you filled them in, Shug?’

  Davidson nodded.

  ‘What about the shop?’

  ‘I was just getting to that.’ Davidson picked up a pen, played with it. ‘The last owner went out of business, not enough passing trade. The shop was shut the best part of a year, then suddenly reopened – under new management and with prices that stopped the locals looking elsewhere.’

  ‘And got the workers at Maclean’s interested, too,’ Rebus added. ‘So how long’s it been going?’

  ‘Five weeks, selling cut-price everything.’

  ‘No profit motive, you see.’ Rebus looked around the table. This was mostly for the benefit of Ormiston and Clarke; he’d given Claverhouse the story already.

  ‘And the owners?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Well, the shop’s run by a couple of lads called Declan Delaney and Ken Wilkinson. Guess where they come from?’

  ‘Paisley,’ Claverhouse said, keen to hurry things on.

  ‘So they’re part of Telford’s gang?’ Ormiston asked.

  ‘Not in so many words, but they’re connected to him, no doubt about that.’ Davidson blew his nose loudly. ‘Of course, Dec and Ken are running the shop, but they don’t own it.’

  ‘Telford does,’ Rebus stated.

  ‘Okay,’ Claverhouse said. ‘So we’ve got Telford owning a loss-making business, in the hope of gathering intelligence.’

  ‘I think it goes further than that,’ Rebus said. ‘I
mean, listening in on gossip is one thing, but I don’t suppose any of the workers are standing around talking about the various security systems and how to beat them. Dec and Ken are garrulous, perfect for the job Telford’s given them. But it’s going to look suspicious if they start asking too many questions.’

  ‘So what’s Telford looking for?’ Ormiston asked. Siobhan Clarke turned to him.

  ‘A mole,’ she said.

  ‘Makes sense,’ Davidson went on. ‘That place is well-protected, but not impregnable. We all know any break-in’s going to be a lot easier with someone on the inside.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘We fight Telford’s sting with our own,’ Rebus explained. ‘He wants a man on the inside, we give him one.’

  ‘I’m seeing the head of Maclean’s later on tonight,’ Davidson said.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Claverhouse said, keen not to be left out.

  ‘So we put someone of our own inside the factory.’ Clarke was working it out for herself. ‘And they shoot their mouth off in the shop, making them an attractive proposition. And we sit and pray that Telford approaches them rather than anyone else?’

  ‘The less luck we have to rely on the better,’ Claverhouse said. ‘Got to do this right.’

  ‘Which is why we work it like this.’ Rebus said. ‘There’s a bookie called Marty Jones. He owes me one big favour. Say our man’s just been into Telford’s shop. As he’s coming out, a car pulls up. Marty and a couple of his men. Marty wants some bets paid off. Big argy-bargy, and a punch in the guts as warning.’

  Clarke could see it. ‘He stumbles back into the shop, sits down to catch his breath. Dec and Ken ask him what’s going on.’

  ‘And he gives them the whole sorry story: gambling debts, broken marriage, whatever.’

  ‘To make him more attractive still,’ Davidson said, ‘we make him a security guard.’

  Ormiston looked at him. ‘You think Maclean’s will go for it?’

  ‘We’ll persuade them,’ Claverhouse said quietly.

  ‘More importantly,’ Clarke asked, ‘will Telford go for it?’

  ‘Depends how desperate he is,’ Rebus answered.

  ‘A man on the inside ...’ Ormiston’s eyes were alight. ‘Working for Telford – it’s what we’ve always wanted.’