The Hanging Garden (11 page)

‘She’s a prostitute. Against her will. I don’t want her pimp getting her.’

‘Where’s she from again?’

‘Sarajevo.’

‘And she doesn’t have much English?’

‘How’s your Serbo-Croat?’

‘Rusty.’

Rebus looked around. ‘Where’s your boyfriend?’

‘Out working.’

‘On the book?’ Rebus didn’t like Ned Farlowe. Partly it was that name: ‘Neds’ were what the
Sunday Post
called hooligans. They robbed old ladies of their pension books
and walking-frames. Those were the Neds of this world. And Farlowe meant Chris Farlowe: ‘Out of Time’, a number one that should have belonged to the Stones. Farlowe was researching a history of organised crime in Scotland.

‘Sod’s law,’ Sammy said. ‘He needs money to buy the time to write the thing.’

‘So what’s he doing?’

‘Just some freelance stuff. How long am I babysitting?’

‘A couple of days at most. Just till I find somewhere else.’

‘What will he do if he finds her?’

‘I’m not that keen to find out.’

Sammy finished rinsing the mugs. ‘She looks like me, doesn’t she?’

‘Yes, she does.’

‘I’ve got some time off coming. Maybe I’ll phone in, see if I can stay here with her. What’s her real name?’

‘She hasn’t told me.’

‘Has she any clothes?’

‘At a hotel. I’ll get a patrol car to bring them.’

‘She’s really in danger?’

‘She might be.’

Sammy looked at him. ‘But I’m not?’

‘No,’ her father said. ‘Because it’ll be our secret.’

‘And what do I tell Ned?’

‘Keep it short, just say you’re doing your dad a favour.’

‘You think a journalist’s going to be content with that?’

‘If he loves you.’

The kettle boiled, clicked off. Sammy poured water into three mugs. Through in the living-room, Candice’s interest had shifted to a pile of American comic books.

Rebus drank his coffee, then left them to their music and their comics. Instead of going home, he made for Young Street and the Ox, ordering a mug of instant. Fifty pee.
Pretty good deal, when you thought about it. Fifty pence for … what, half a pint? A pound a pint? Cheap at twice the price. Well, one-point-seven times the price, which would take it to the price of a beer … give or take.

Not that Rebus was counting.

The back room was quiet, just somebody scribbling away at the table nearest the fire. He was a regular, a journalist of some kind. Rebus thought of Ned Farlowe, who would want to know about Candice, but if anyone could keep him at bay, Sammy could. Rebus took out his mobile, phoned Colquhoun’s office.

‘Sorry to bother you again,’ he said.

‘What is it now?’ The lecturer sounded thoroughly exasperated.

‘Those refugees you mentioned. Any chance you could have a word with them?’

‘Well, I …’ Colquhoun cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I suppose I could talk to them. Does that mean …?’

‘Candice is safe.’

‘I don’t have their number here.’ Colquhoun sounded fuddled again. ‘Can it wait till I go home?’

‘Phone me when you’ve talked to them. And thanks.’

Rebus rang off, finished his coffee, and called Siobhan Clarke at home.

‘I need a favour,’ he said, feeling like a broken record.

‘How much trouble will it get me in?’

‘Almost none.’

‘Can I have that in writing?’

‘Think I’m stupid?’ Rebus smiled. ‘I want to see the files on Telford.’

‘Why not just ask Claverhouse?’

‘I’d rather ask you.’

‘It’s a lot of stuff. Do you want photocopies?’

‘Whatever.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Voices were raised in the front bar. ‘You’re not in the Ox, are you?’

‘As it happens, yes.’

‘Drinking?’

‘A mug of coffee.’

She laughed in disbelief and told him to take care. Rebus ended the call and stared at his mug. People like Siobhan Clarke, they could drive a man to drink.

It was 7 a.m. when the buzzer sounded, telling him there was someone at his tenement’s main door. He staggered along the hall to the intercom, and asked who the bloody hell it was.

‘The croissant man,’ a rough English voice replied.

‘The what?’

‘Come on, dick-brain, wakey-wakey. Memory’s not so hot these days, eh?’

A name tilted into Rebus’s head. ‘Abernethy?’

‘Now open up, it’s perishing down here.’

Rebus pushed the buzzer to let Abernethy in, then jogged back to the bedroom to put on some clothes. His mind felt numb. Abernethy was a DI in Special Branch, London. The last time he’d been in Edinburgh had been to chase terrorists. Rebus wondered what the hell he was doing here now.

When the doorbell sounded, Rebus tucked in his shirt and walked back down the hall. True to his word, Abernethy was carrying a bag of croissants. He hadn’t changed much: same faded denims and black leather bomber, same cropped brown hair spiked with gel. His face was heavy, pockmarked, and his eyes an unnerving, psychopath’s blue.

‘How’ve you been, mate?’ Abernethy slapped Rebus’s shoulder and marched past him into the kitchen. ‘Get the kettle on then.’ Like they did this every day of the week. Like they didn’t live four hundred miles apart.

‘Abernethy, what the hell are you doing here?’

‘Feeding you, of course, same thing the English have always done for the Jocks. Got any butter?’

‘Try the butter-dish.’

‘Plates?’

Rebus pointed to a cupboard.

‘Bet you drink instant: am I right?’

‘Abernethy …’

‘Let’s get this ready first, then talk, okay?’

‘The kettle boils quicker if you switch it on at the plug.’

‘Right.’

‘And I think there’s some jam.’

‘Any honey?’

‘Do I look like a bee?’

Abernethy smirked. ‘Old Georgie Flight sends his love, by the way. Word is, he’ll be retiring soon.’

George Flight: another ghost from Rebus’s past. Abernethy had unscrewed the top from the coffee jar and was sniffing the granules.

‘How fresh is this?’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘No class, John.’

‘Unlike you, you mean? When did you get here?’

‘Hit town half an hour ago.’

‘From London?’

‘Stopped a couple of hours in a lay-by, got my head down. That A1 is murder though. North of Newcastle, it’s like coming into a third-world country.’

‘Did you drive four hundred miles just to insult me?’

They took everything through to the table in the living-room, Rebus shoving aside books and notepads, stuff about the Second World War.

‘So,’ he said, as they sat down, ‘I’m assuming this isn’t a social call?’

‘Actually it is, in a way. I could have just telephoned, but I suddenly thought: wonder how the old devil’s getting on?
Next thing I knew, I was in the car and heading for the North Circular.’

‘I’m touched.’

‘I’ve always tried to keep track of what you’re up to.’

‘Why?’

‘Because last time we met … well, you’re different, aren’t you?’

‘Am I?’

‘I mean, you’re not a team player. You’re a loner, bit like me. Loners can be useful.’

‘Useful?’

‘For undercover, jobs that are a bit out of the ordinary.’

‘You think I’m Special Branch material?’

‘Ever fancied moving to London? It’s where the action is.’

‘I get action enough up here.’

Abernethy looked out of the window. ‘You couldn’t wake this place with a fifty-megaton warhead.’

‘Look, Abernethy, not that I’m not enjoying your company or anything, but why
are
you here?’

Abernethy brushed crumbs from his hands. ‘So much for the social niceties.’ He took a gulp of coffee, squirmed at its awfulness. ‘War Crimes,’ he said. Rebus stopped chewing. ‘There’s a new list of names. You know that, because you’ve got one of them living on your doorstep.’

‘So?’

‘So I’m heading up the London HQ. We’ve established a temporary War Crimes Unit. My job’s to collate gen on the various investigations, create a central register.’

‘You want to know what I know?’

‘That’s about it.’

‘And you drove through the night to find out? There’s got to be more to it.’

Abernethy laughed. ‘Why’s that?’

‘There just has. A collator’s job is for someone good at office work. That’s not you, you’re only happy in the field.’

‘What about you? I’d never have taken you for a historian.’ Abernethy tapped one of the books on the table.

‘It’s a penance.’

‘What makes you think it’s any different with me? So, what’s the score with Herr Lintz?’

‘There’s no score. So far all the darts have missed the board. How many cases are there?’

‘Twenty-seven originally, but eight of those are deceased.’

‘Any progress?’

Abernethy shook his head. ‘We got one to court, trial collapsed first day. Can’t prosecute if they’re ga-ga.’

‘Well, for your information, here’s where the Lintz case stands. I can’t prove he was and is Josef Linzstek. I can’t disprove his story of his participation in the war, or how he came to Britain.’ Rebus shrugged.

‘Same tale I’ve been hearing up and down the country.’

‘What did you expect?’ Rebus was picking at a croissant.

‘Shame about this coffee,’ Abernethy said. ‘Any decent caffs in the neighbourhood?’

So they went to a café, where Abernethy ordered a double espresso, Rebus a decaf. There was a story on the front of the
Record
about a fatal stabbing outside a nightclub. The man reading the paper folded it up when he’d finished his breakfast and took it away with him.

‘Any chance you’ll be talking to Lintz today?’ Abernethy asked suddenly.

‘Why?’

‘Thought I might tag along. It’s not often you get to meet someone who might have killed seven hundred Frenchies.’

‘Morbid attraction?’

‘We’re all a bit that way inclined, aren’t we?’

‘I’ve nothing new to ask him,’ Rebus said, ‘and he’s already been muttering to his lawyer about harassment.’

‘He’s well-connected?’

Rebus stared across the table. ‘You’ve done your reading.’

‘Abernethy the Conscientious Cop.’

‘Well, you’re right. He has friends in high places, only a lot of them have been hiding behind the curtains since this all started.’

‘Sounds like you think he’s innocent.’

‘Until proven guilty.’

Abernethy smiled, lifted his cup. ‘There’s a Jewish historian been going around. Has he contacted you?’

‘What’s his name?’

Another smile. ‘How many Jewish historians have you been in touch with? His name’s David Levy.’

‘You say he’s been going around?’

‘A week here, a week there, asking how the cases are going.’

‘He’s in Edinburgh just now.’

Abernethy blew on his coffee. ‘So you’ve spoken with him?’

‘Yes, as it happens.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Did he try his “Rat Line” story?’

‘Again, why the interest?’

‘He’s tried it with everyone else.’

‘What if he has?’

‘Jesus, do you always answer a question with a question? Look, as collator, this guy Levy’s name has popped up on my computer screen more than once. That’s why I’m interested.’

‘Abernethy the Conscientious Cop.’

‘That’s right. So shall we go see Lintz?’

‘Well, seeing you’ve come all this way …’

On the way back to the flat, Rebus stopped at a newsagent’s and bought the
Record
. The stabbing had taken place outside Megan’s Nightclub, a new establishment in Portobello. The fatality had been a ‘doorman’, William Tennant, aged 25. The story had made the front page because a Premier League footballer had been on the periphery of the incident. A friend who’d been with him had received minor cuts. The attacker had fled on a motorbike. The footballer had offered no comment to reporters. Rebus knew him. He lived in Linlithgow and a year or so back had been caught speeding in Edinburgh, with – in his own words – a ‘wee bitty Charlie’, meaning cocaine, on his person.

‘Anything interesting?’ Abernethy asked.

‘Someone killed a bouncer. Quiet little backwater, eh?’

‘A story like that, in London it wouldn’t rate a column inch.’

‘How long are you staying here?’

‘I’ll be off today, want to drop in on Carlisle. They’re supposed to have another old Nazi. After that, it’s Blackpool and Wolverhampton before home.’

‘A sucker for punishment.’

Rebus drove them the tourist route: down The Mound and across Princes Street. He double parked in Heriot Row, but Joseph Lintz wasn’t home.

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘I know where he’ll probably be.’ He took them down Inverleith Row and turned right into Warriston Gardens, stopping at the cemetery gates.

‘What is he, a gravedigger?’ Abernethy got out of the car and zipped his jacket.

‘He plants flowers.’

‘Flowers? What for?’

‘I’m not sure.’

A cemetery should have been about death, but Warriston
didn’t feel that way to Rebus. Much of it resembled a rambling park into which some statuary had been dropped. The newer section, with stone driveway, soon gave way to an earthen path between fading inscriptions. There were obelisks and Celtic crosses, lots of trees and birds, and the electric movements of squirrels. A tunnel beneath a walkway took you to the oldest part of the cemetery, but between tunnel and driveway sat the heart of the place, with its roll-call of Edinburgh’s past. Names like Oven-stone, Cleugh, and Flockhart, and professions such as actuary, silk merchant, ironmonger. There were people who’d died in India, and some who’d died in infancy. A sign at the gate informed visitors that the place had been the subject of a compulsory purchase by the City of Edinburgh, because previous private owners had let it fall into neglect. But that same neglect was at least part of its charm. People walked their dogs here, or came to practise photography, or just mused among the tombstones. Gays came looking for company, others for solitude.

After dark, of course, the place had another reputation entirely. A Leith prostitute – a woman Rebus had known and liked – had been found murdered here earlier in the year. Rebus wondered if Joseph Lintz knew about that …