The Hanging Garden (25 page)

‘Any chance of taking me with you?’ Rebus smiled. ‘This window’s fine, too. I’ll just check your door, see if it could do with more locks.’ They went into the narrow hall.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘we’ve always been very lucky here, no break-ins or anything like that.’

Hardly surprising with Tommy Telford as proprietor.

‘And with the panic button, of course …’

Rebus looked at the wall next to the front door. A large red button. He’d assumed it was for the stairhead lights or something.

‘Anyone who calls, anyone at all, I’m supposed to press it.’

Rebus opened the door. ‘And do you?’

Two very large men were standing right outside.

‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Hetherington said. ‘I always do.’

For thugs, they were very polite. Rebus showed them his warrant card and explained the nature of his visit. He asked them who they were, and they told him they were ‘representatives of the building’s owner’. He knew the faces though: Kenny Houston, Ally Cornwell. Houston – the ugly one – ran Telford’s doormen; Cornwell, with his wrestler’s bulk, was general muscle. The little charade was carried out with humour and good nature on both sides. They accompanied him downstairs. Across the street,
Tommy Telford was standing in the café doorway, wagging his finger. A pedestrian crossed Rebus’s line of vision. Too late, Rebus saw who it was. Had his mouth open to shout something, then saw Telford hang his head, hands going to his face. Screeching.

Rebus ran across the road, pulled the pedestrian round: Ned Farlowe. A bottle dropped from Farlowe’s hand. Telford’s men were closing in. Rebus held tight to Farlowe.

‘I’m placing this man under arrest,’ he said. ‘He’s
mine
, understood?’

A dozen faces glaring at him. And Tommy Telford down on his knees.

‘Get your boss to the hospital,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m taking this one to St Leonard’s …’

Ned Farlowe sat on the ledge in one of the cells. The walls were blue, smeared brown near the toilet-pan. Farlowe was looking pleased with himself.

‘Acid?’ Rebus said, pacing the cell. ‘
Acid
? All this research must have gone to your head.’

‘It’s what he deserved.’

Rebus glared at him. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done.’

‘I know
exactly
what I’ve done.’

‘He’ll kill you.’

Farlowe shrugged. ‘Am I under arrest?’

‘You’d better believe it, son. I want you kept out of harm’s way. If I hadn’t been there …’ But he didn’t want to think about that. He looked at Farlowe. Looked at Sammy’s lover, who’d just staged a full-frontal assault on Telford, the kind of assault Rebus knew wouldn’t work.

Now Rebus would have to redouble his efforts. Because otherwise, Ned Farlowe was a dead man … and when Sammy came round, he didn’t want news like that to be waiting for her.

He drove back towards Flint Street, parked at a distance from it, and headed there on foot. Telford had the place sewn up, no doubt about it. Letting his flats to old folk might have been a charitable act but he’d made damned sure it served its purpose. Rebus wondered if, given the same circumstances, Cafferty would have been clever enough to think of panic-buttons. He suspected not. Cafferty wasn’t thick, but most of what he did he did by instinct. Rebus wondered if Tommy Telford had ever made a rash move in his life.

He was staking out Flint Street because he needed an
in
, needed to find the weak link in the chain around Telford. After ten minutes of windchill, he thought of a better idea. On his mobile, he called one of the city’s taxi firms. Identified himself and asked if Henry Wilson was on shift. He was. Rebus told the switchboard to put a call out to Henry. It was as simple as that.

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.