The Hanging Garden (31 page)

What was Tarawicz getting out of it
?

Miriam Kenworthy had suggested muscle: Scottish hardmen trained in Telford’s organisation then shipped south. But it wasn’t
enough
of a trade. There had to be more. Was Mr Pink Eyes due a share of the Maclean’s payout? Was Telford tempting him with some Yakuza action? What about the theory that Telford was Tarawicz’s supplier?

At quarter to midnight, another phone call had the driver springing into action. He flicked his cigarette on to the road, started opening doors. Tarawicz and his entourage breezed out of the casino looking like they owned the world. Candice was wearing a black full-length coat over a shimmering pink dress which didn’t quite reach her knees. She was carrying a bottle of champagne. Rebus counted three of Tarawicz’s men, remembering them from the scrapyard. Two no-shows: the lawyer, and the Crab. Telford was there, too, with a couple of minders, one of them Pretty-Boy. Pretty-Boy was making sure his jacket hung right, trying to decide whether it would look better buttoned. But his eyes raked the darkened street. Rebus had parked away from the street-lights, confident he was invisible. They were piling into the limo. Rebus watched it move off, waited until it had signalled and turned a corner before switching on his own headlamps and starting the engine.

They drove to the same hotel Matsumoto had stayed at. Telford’s Range Rover was parked outside. Pedestrians – late-night couples hurrying home from the pub – turned to stare at the limo. Saw the entourage spill out, probably mistook them for pop stars or film people. Rebus as casting director: Candice’s starlet being mauled by sleazy producer Tarawicz. Telford a sleek young operator on his way up, looking to learn from the producer before toppling him. The others were bit players, except maybe Pretty-Boy, who was hanging on to his boss’s coattails, maybe readying himself for his own big break ...

If Tarawicz had a suite, there might be room for them all. If not, they’d be in the bar. Rebus parked, followed them inside.

The lights hurt his eyes. The reception area was all mirrors and pine, brass and pot-plants. He tried to look like he’d been left behind by the party. They were settling
down in the bar, through a double set of swing-doors with glass panels. Rebus hung back. Sitting target in the empty reception; bigger target in the bar. Retreat to the car? Someone was standing up, shrugging off a long black coat. Candice. Smiling now, saying something to Tarawicz, who was nodding. Took her hand and planted a kiss in the palm. Went further: a slow lick across the palm and up her wrist. Everyone laughing, whistling. Candice looking numb. Tarawicz got to the inside of her elbow and took a bite. She squealed, pulled back, rubbed her arm. Tarawicz had his tongue out, playing to the gallery. Give Tommy Telford credit: he wasn’t grinning along with everyone else.

Candice stood there, a stooge to her owner’s little act. Then he waved her off with a flick of his hand. Permission granted, she started for the doors. Rebus moved back into a recess where the public telephones sat. She turned right out of the doors, disappeared into the ladies’. At the table, they were busy ordering more champagne – and an orange juice for Pretty-Boy.

Rebus looked around, took a deep breath. Walked into the ladies’ toilets like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She was splashing her face with water. A little brown bottle sat next to the sink. Three yellow tablets lying ready. Rebus swept them on to the floor.

‘Hey!’ She turned, saw him, put a hand to her mouth. She tried backing away, but there was nowhere to go.

‘Is this what you want, Karina?’ Using her real name as a weapon: friendly fire.

She frowned, shook her head: incomprehension on her face. He grabbed her shoulders, squeezed.

‘Sammy,’ he hissed. ‘Sammy’s in hospital. Very ill.’ He pointed towards the hotel bar. ‘
They
tried to kill her.’

The gist got through. Candice shook her head. Tears were smudging her mascara.

‘Did you tell Sammy anything?’

She frowned again.

‘Anything about Telford or Tarawicz? Did you talk to Sammy about them?’

A slow, determined shake of the head. ‘Sammy ... hospital?’

He nodded. Turned his hands into a steering-wheel, made engine noises, then slammed a fist into his open palm. Candice turned away, grabbed the sink. She was crying, shoulders jerking. She scrabbled for more tablets. Rebus tore them from her hand.

‘You want to blank it all out? Forget it.’ He threw them on to the floor, crushed them under his heel. She crouched down, licked a finger and dabbed at the powder. Rebus hauled her to her feet. Her knees wouldn’t lock; he had to keep holding her upright. She wouldn’t look him in the eyes.

‘It’s funny, we first met in a toilet, remember? You were scared. You hated your life so much you’d slashed your arms.’ He touched her scarred wrists. ‘That’s how much you hated your life. And now you’re straight back in it.’

Her face was against his jacket, tears dropping on to his shirt.

‘Remember the Japanese?’ he cooed. ‘Remember Juniper Green, the golf club?’

She drew back, wiped her nose on her bare wrist. ‘Juniper Green,’ she said.

‘That’s right. And a big factory ... the car stopped, and everyone looked at the factory.’

She was nodding.

‘Did anyone talk about it? Did they say
anything
?’

She was shaking her head. ‘John ...’ Her hands on his lapels. She sniffed, swiped at her nose again. She slid down his jacket, his shirt. She was on her knees, looking up at him, blinking tears, while her damp fingers scored white
powder from the tiles. Rebus crouched down in front of her.

‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you.’ He pointed towards the door, towards the world outside, but she was busy in her own world now, fingers going to her mouth. Someone pushed open the door. Rebus looked up.

A woman: young, drunk, hair falling into her eyes. She stopped and studied the two people on the floor, then smiled and headed for a cubicle.

‘Save some for me,’ she said, sliding the lock.

‘Go, John.’ There was powder at the corners of Candice’s mouth. A tiny piece of tablet had lodged between her front two teeth. ‘Please, go now.’

‘I don’t want you getting hurt.’ He sought her hands, squeezed them.

‘I do not hurt any more.’

She got to her feet and turned from him. Checked her face in the mirror, wiped away the powder and dabbed at her mascara. Blew her nose and took a deep breath.

Walked out of the toilets.

Rebus waited a moment, time enough for her to reach the table. Then he opened the door and made his exit. Walked back to his car on legs that seemed to belong to someone else.

Drove home, not quite crying.

But not quite not.

Four in the morning, the blessed telephone pulled him out of a nightmare.

Prison-camp prostitutes with teeth filed to points were kneeling in front of him. Jake Tarawicz, in full SS regalia, held him from behind, telling him resistance was useless. Through the barred window, Rebus could see black berets – the
maquis
, busy freeing the camp but leaving his billet till last. Alarm bells ringing, everything telling him that salvation was at hand ...

... alarm becoming his telephone ... he staggered from his chair, picked it up.

‘Yes.’

‘John?’ The Chief Super’s voice: Aberdonian, instantly recognisable.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘We’ve got a spot of bother. Get down here.’

‘What kind of bother?’

‘I’ll tell you when you get here. Now
shift
.’

Night shift, to be precise. The city asleep. St Leonard’s was lit up, the tenements around it dark. No sign of the Farmer’s ‘spot of bother’. The Chief Super’s office: the Farmer in conference with Gill Templer.

‘Sit down, John. Coffee?’

‘No, thanks, sir.’

While Templer and the Chief Super were deciding who should speak, Rebus helped them out.

‘Tommy Telford’s businesses have been hit.’

Templer blinked. ‘Telepathy?’

‘Cafferty’s offices and taxis got firebombed. So did his house.’ Rebus shrugged. ‘We knew there’d be payback.’

‘Did we?’

What could he say?
I did, because Cafferty told me
. He didn’t think they’d like that. ‘I just put two and two together.’

The Farmer poured himself a mug of coffee. ‘So now we’ve got open war.’

‘What got hit?’

‘The arcade on Flint Street,’ Templer said. ‘Not too much damage: the place has a sprinkler system.’ She smiled: an amusement arcade with a sprinkler system ... not that Telford was careful or anything.

‘Plus a couple of nightclubs,’ the Farmer added. ‘And a casino.’

‘Which one?’

The Chief Super looked to Templer, who answered: ‘The Mor vena.’

‘Any injuries?’

‘The manager and a couple of friends: concussion and bruising.’

‘Which they got ...?’

‘Falling over each other as they ran down the stairs.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Funny how some people have trouble with stairs.’ He sat back. ‘So what does all this have to do with me? Don’t tell me: having disposed of Telford’s Japanese partner, I decided to take up fire-raising?’

‘John ...’ The Farmer got up, rested his backside against the desk. ‘The three of us, we know you had nothing to do with that. Tell me, we found an untouched half-bottle of malt under your driver’s seat ...’

Rebus nodded. ‘It’s mine.’ Another of his little suicide bombs.

‘So why would you be drinking a supermarket blend?’

‘Is that what the screw-top was? The cheap bastards.’

‘No alcohol in your blood either. Meantime, as you say, Cafferty’s in the frame for this. And Cafferty and you ...’

‘You want me to talk to him?’

Gill Templer leaned forward in her chair. ‘We don’t want war.’

‘Takes two to make a ceasefire.’

‘I’ll talk to Telford,’ she said.

‘He’s a sharp little bugger, watch out for him.’

She nodded. ‘Will you talk to Cafferty?’

Rebus didn’t want a war. It would take Telford’s mind off the Maclean’s heist. He’d need all the troops he could get; the shop might even have to close. No, Rebus didn’t want a war.

‘I’ll talk to him,’ he said.

Breakfast-time at Barlinnie.

Rebus jangling after the drive, knowing a whisky would smooth out his nerve-endings. Cafferty waiting for him, same room as before.

‘Top of the morning, Strawman.’ Arms folded, looking pleased with himself.

‘You’ve had a busy night.’

‘On the contrary, I slept as well as I ever have done in this place. What about you?’

‘I was up at four o’clock, checking damage reports. I could have done without driving all the way here. Maybe if you gave me the number of your mobile ...?’

Cafferty grinned. ‘I hear the nightclubs were gutted.’

‘I think your boys are making themselves look good.’ Cafferty’s grin tightened. ‘Telford’s premises seem to have state of the art fire prevention. Smoke sensors, sprinklers, fire-doors. The damage was minimal.’

‘This is just the start,’ Cafferty said. ‘I’ll have that little arse-wipe.’

‘I thought that was supposed to be
my
job?’

‘I’ve seen precious little from you, Strawman.’

‘I’ve got something in the pipeline. If it comes off, you’ll like it.’

Cafferty’s eyes narrowed. ‘Give me details. Make me believe you.’

But Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Sometimes, you just have to have faith.’ He paused. ‘Deal?’

‘I must have missed something.’

Rebus spelled it out. ‘Back off. Leave Telford to me.’

‘We’ve been through this. He hits me and I do nothing, I look like something you’d step around on the pavement.’

‘We’re talking to him, warning him off.’

‘And meantime I’m supposed to trust you to get the job done?’

‘We shook hands on it.’

Cafferty snorted. ‘I’ve shaken hands with a lot of bastards.’

‘And now you’ve met an exception to the rule.’

‘You’re an exception to a lot of rules, Strawman.’ Cafferty looked thoughtful. ‘The casino, the clubs, the arcade ... they weren’t badly hit?’

‘My guess is the sprinklers will have done as much damage as anything.’

Cafferty’s jaw hardened. ‘Makes me look even more of a mug.’

Rebus sat in silence, waiting for him to finish whatever chess-game was being played inside his head.

‘Okay,’ the gangster said at last, ‘I’ll call off the troops. Maybe it’s time to do some recruiting anyway.’ He looked up at Rebus. ‘Time for some fresh blood.’

Which reminded Rebus of another job he’d been putting off.

Danny Simpson lived at home with his mother in a terraced house in Wester Hailes.

This bleak housing-scheme, designed by sadists who’d never had to live anywhere near it, had a heart which had shrivelled but refused to stop pumping. Rebus had a lot of respect for the place. Tommy Smith had grown up here, practising with socks stuffed into the mouth of his sax, so as not to disturb the neighbours through the thin walls of the high-rise. Tommy Smith was one of the best sax players Rebus had ever heard.

In a sense, Wester Hailes existed outside the real world: it wasn’t on a route from anywhere to anywhere. Rebus had never had cause to drive
through
it – he only went there if he had business there. The city bypass flew past it, offering many drivers their only encounter with Wester Hailes. They saw: high-rise blocks, terraces, tracts of unused playing field. They didn’t see: people. Not so much concrete jungle as concrete vacuum.

Rebus knocked on Danny Simpson’s door. He didn’t know what he was going to say to the young man. He just wanted to see him again. He wanted to see him without the blood and the pain. Wanted to see him whole and of a piece.

Wanted to see him.

But Danny Simpson wasn’t in, and neither was his mother. A neighbour, lacking her top set of dentures, came out and explained the situation.

The situation took Rebus to the Infirmary, where, in a small, gloomy ward not easily found, Danny Simpson lay in bed, head bandaged, sweating like he’d just played a full ninety minutes. He wasn’t conscious. His mother sat beside him, stroking his wrist. A nurse explained to Rebus that a hospice would be the best place for Danny, supposing they could find him a bed.