10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (313 page)

‘Don’t get them out of order,’ she warned. ‘I didn’t have time to staple them.’

‘Fast work.’

‘I went back into the office last night. Thought I’d get it done while no one was about. I can summarise, if you like.’

‘Just tell me who the main players are.’

She came to the table and pulled a chair over beside him,
found a sequence of surveillance shots. Put names to the faces.

‘Brian Summers,’ she said, ‘better known as “Pretty-Boy”. He runs most of the working girls.’ Pale, angular face, thick black lashes, a pouting mouth. Candice’s pimp.

‘He’s not very pretty.’

Clarke found another picture. ‘Kenny Houston.’

‘From Pretty-Boy to Plug-Ugly.’

‘I’m sure his mother loves him.’ Prominent teeth, jaundiced skin.

‘What does he do?’

‘He runs the doormen. Kenny, Pretty-Boy and Tommy Telford grew up on the same street. They’re at the heart of The Family.’ She sifted through more photos. ‘Malky Jordan . . . he keeps the drugs flowing. Sean Haddow . . . bit of a brainbox, runs the finances. Ally Cornwell . . . he’s muscle. Deek McGrain . . . There’s no religious divide in The Family, Prods and Papes working together.’

‘A model society.’

‘No women though. Telford’s philosophy: relationships get in the way.’

Rebus picked up a sheaf of paper. ‘So what have we got?’

‘Everything but the evidence.’

‘And surveillance is supposed to provide that?’

She smiled over the top of her mug. ‘You don’t agree?’

‘It’s not my problem.’

‘And yet you’re interested.’ She paused. ‘Candice?’

‘I don’t like what happened to her.’

‘Well, just remember: you didn’t get this stuff from me.’

‘Thanks, Siobhan.’ He paused. ‘Everything going all right?’

‘Fine. I like Crime Squad.’

‘Bit livelier than St Leonard’s.’

‘I miss Brian.’ Meaning her one-time partner, now out of the force.

‘You ever see him?’

‘No, do you?’

Rebus shook his head, got up to show her out.

He spent about an hour sifting through the paperwork, learning more about The Family and its convoluted workings. Nothing about Newcastle. Nothing about Japan. The core of The Family – eight or nine of them – had been at school together. Three of them were still based in Paisley, taking care of the established business. The rest were now in Edinburgh, and busy prying the city away from Big Ger Cafferty.

He went through lists of nightclubs and bars in which Telford had an interest. There were incident reports attached: arrests in the vicinity. Drunken brawls, swings taken at bouncers, cars and property damaged. Something caught Rebus’s eye: mention of a hot-dog van, parked outside a couple of the clubs. The owner questioned: possible witness. But he’d never seen anything worth the recall. Name: Gavin Tay.

Mr Taystee.

Recent dodgy suicide. Rebus gave Bill Pryde a bell, asked how that investigation was going.

‘Dead end street, pal,’ Pryde said, not sounding too concerned. Pryde: too long the same rank, and not going anywhere. Beginning the long descent into retirement.

‘Did you know he ran a hot-dog stall on the side?’

‘Might explain where he got the cash from.’

Gavin Tay was an ex-con. He’d been in the ice-cream business a little over a year. Successful, too: new Merc parked outside his house. His financial records hadn’t hinted at money to spare. His widow couldn’t account for the Merc. And now: evidence of a job on the side, selling food and drink to punters stumbling out of nightclubs.

Tommy Telford’s nightclubs.

Gavin Tay: previous convictions for assault and reset. A
persistent offender who’d finally gone straight . . . The room began to feel stuffy, Rebus’s head clotted and aching. He decided to get out.

Walked through The Meadows and down George IV Bridge, took the Playfair Steps down to Princes Street. A group was sitting on the stone steps of the Scottish Academy: unshaven, dyed hair, torn clothes. The city’s dispossessed, trying their best not to be ignored. Rebus knew he had things in common with them. In the course of his life, he’d failed to fit several niches: husband, father, lover. He hadn’t fit in with the Army’s ideas of what he should be, and wasn’t exactly ‘one of the lads’ in the police. When one of the group held out a hand, Rebus offered a fiver, before crossing Princes Street and heading for the Oxford Bar.

He settled into a corner with a mug of coffee, got out his mobile, and called Sammy’s flat. She was home, all was well with Candice. Rebus told her he had a place for Candice, she could move out tomorrow.

‘That’s fine,’ Sammy said. ‘Hold on a second.’ There was a rustling sound as the receiver was passed along.

‘Hello, John, how are you?’

Rebus smiled. ‘Hello, Candice. That’s very good.’

‘Thank you. Sammy is . . . uh . . . I am teaching how to . . .’ She broke into laughter, handed the receiver back.

‘I’m teaching her English,’ Sammy said.

‘I can tell.’

‘We started with some Oasis lyrics, just went from there.’

‘I’ll try to come round later. What did Ned say?’

‘He was so shattered when he came home, I think he barely noticed.’

‘Is he there? I’d like to talk to him.’

‘He’s out working.’

‘What did you say he was doing again?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Right. Thanks again, Sammy. See you later.’

He took a swig of coffee, washed it around his mouth. Abernethy: he couldn’t just let it go. He swallowed the coffee and called the Roxburghe, asked for David Levy’s room.

‘Levy speaking.’

‘It’s John Rebus.’

‘Inspector, how good to hear from you. Is there something I can do?’

‘I’d like to talk to you.’

‘Are you in your office?’

Rebus looked around. ‘In a manner of speaking. It’s a two-minute walk from your hotel. Turn right out of the door, cross George Street, and walk down to Young Street. Far end, the Oxford Bar. I’m in the back room.’

When Levy arrived, Rebus bought him a half of eighty-bob. Levy eased himself into a chair, hanging his walking-stick on the back of it. ‘So what can I do for you?’

‘I’m not the only policeman you’ve spoken to.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘Someone from Special Branch in London came to see me today.’

‘And he told you I’d been travelling around?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he warn you against speaking to me?’

‘Not in so many words.’

Levy took off his glasses, began polishing them. ‘I told you, there are people who’d rather this was all relegated to history. This man, he came all the way from London just to tell you about me?’

‘He wanted to see Joseph Lintz.’

‘Ah.’ Levy was thoughtful. ‘Your interpretation, Inspector?’

‘I was hoping for yours.’

‘My utterly subjective interpretation?’ Rebus nodded. ‘He wants to be sure of Lintz. This man works for Special Branch, and as everyone knows Special Branch is the public arm of the secret services.’

‘He wanted to be confident I wasn’t going to get anything out of Lintz?’

Levy nodded, staring at the smoke from Rebus’s cigarette. This case was like that: one minute you could see it, the next you couldn’t. Like smoke.

‘I have a little book with me,’ Levy said, reaching into his pocket. ‘I’d like you to read it. It’s in English, translated from the Hebrew. It’s about the Rat Line.’

Rebus took the book. ‘Does it prove anything?’

‘That depends on your terms.’

‘Concrete proof.’

‘Concrete proof exists, Inspector.’

‘In this book?’

Levy shook his head. ‘Under lock and key in Whitehall, kept from scrutiny by the Hundred Year Rule.’

‘So there’s no way to prove anything.’

‘There’s one way . . .’

‘What?’

‘If someone talks. If we can get just
one
of them to talk . . .’

‘That’s what this is all about: wearing down their resistance? Looking for the weakest link?’

Levy smiled again. ‘We have learned patience, Inspector.’ He finished his drink. ‘I’m so grateful you called. This has been a much more satisfactory meeting.’

‘Will you send your bosses a progress report?’

Levy chose to ignore this. ‘We’ll talk again, when you’ve read the book.’ He stood up. ‘The Special Branch officer . . . I’ve forgotten his name?’

‘I didn’t give it.’

Levy waited a moment, then said, ‘Ah, that explains it
then. Is he still in Edinburgh?’ He watched Rebus shake his head. ‘Then he’s probably on his way to Carlisle, yes?’

Rebus sipped coffee, offered no comment.

‘My thanks again, Inspector,’ Levy said, undeterred.

‘Thanks for dropping by.’

Levy took a final look around. ‘Your office,’ he said, shaking his head.

The Rat Line was an ‘underground railway’, delivering Nazis – sometimes with the help of the Vatican – from their Soviet persecutors. The end of the Second World War meant the start of the Cold War. Intelligence was necessary, as were intelligent, ruthless individuals who could provide a certain level of expertise. It was said that Klaus Barbie, the ‘Butcher of Lyons’, had been offered a job with British Intelligence. It was rumoured that high-profile Nazis had been spirited away to America. It wasn’t until 1987 that the United Nations released its full list of fugitive Nazi and Japanese war criminals, forty thousand of them.

Why so late in releasing the list? Rebus thought he could understand. Modern politics had decreed that Germany and Japan were part of the global brotherhood of capitalism. In whose interests would it be to reopen old wounds? And besides, how many atrocities had the Allies themselves hidden? Who fought a war with clean hands? Rebus, who’d grown to adulthood in the Army, could comprehend this. He’d done things . . . He’d served time in Northern Ireland, seen trust disfigured, hatred replace fear.

Part of him could well believe in the existence of a Rat Line.

The book Levy had given him went into the mechanics of how such an operation might have worked. Rebus wondered: was it really possible to disappear completely, to change identity? And again, the recurring question: did any of it matter? There did exist sources of identification, and
there
had
been court cases – Eichmann, Barbie, Demjanjuk – with others ongoing. He read about war criminals who, rather than being tried or extradited, were allowed to return home, running businesses, growing rich, dying of old age. But he also read of criminals who served their sentences and became ‘good people’, people who
had
changed. These men said war itself was the real culprit. Rebus recalled one of his first conversations with Joseph Lintz, in the drawing-room of Lintz’s home. The old man’s voice was hoarse, a scarf around his throat.

‘At my age, Inspector, a simple throat infection can feel like death.’

There didn’t seem to be many photographs around. Lintz had explained that a lot had gone missing during the war.

‘Along with other mementoes. I do have these photos though.’

He’d shown Rebus half a dozen framed shots, dating back to the 1930s. As he’d explained who the subjects were, Rebus had suddenly thought: what if he’s making it up? What if these are just a bunch of old photos he picked up somewhere and had framed? And the names, the identities he now gave to the faces – had he invented them? He’d seen in that instant, for the first time, how easy it might be to construct another life.

And then, later in their conversation that day, Lintz, sipping honeyed tea, had started discussing Villefranche.

‘I’ve been thinking a lot about it, Inspector, as you might imagine. This Lieutenant Linzstek, he was in charge on the day?’

‘Yes.’

‘But presumably under orders from above. A lieutenant is not so very far up the pecking order.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You see, if a soldier is under orders . . . then they must carry out those orders, no?’

‘Even if the order is insane?’

‘Nevertheless, I’d say the person was at the very least
coerced
into committing the crime, and a crime that very many of us would have carried out under similar circumstances. Can’t you see the hypocrisy of trying someone, when you’d probably have done the same thing yourself? One soldier standing out from the crowd . . . saying no to the massacre: would you have made that stand yourself?’

‘I hope so.’ Rebus thinking back to Ulster and the ‘Mean Machine’ . . .

Levy’s book didn’t prove anything. All Rebus knew was that Josef Linzstek’s name was on a list as having used the Rat Line, posing as a Pole. But where had the list originated? In Israel. Again, it was highly speculative. It wasn’t
proof
.

And if Rebus’s instincts told him Lintz and Linzstek were one and the same, they were still failing to tell him whether it mattered.

He dropped the book back to the Roxburghe, asked the receptionist to see that Mr Levy got it.

‘I think he’s in his room, if you’d like to . . .’

Rebus shook his head. He hadn’t left any message with the book, knowing Levy might interpret this as a message in itself. He went home for his car, drove down to Haymarket and along to Shandon. As usual, parking near Sammy’s flat was a problem. Everyone was home from work and tucked in front of their televisions. He climbed the stone steps, wondering how treacherous they’d get when the frosts came, and rang the bell. Sammy herself led him into the living room, where Candice was watching a game show.

‘Hello, John,’ she said. ‘Are you my wonderwall?’

‘I’m nobody’s wonderwall, Candice.’ He turned to Sammy. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Just fine.’

At that moment, Ned Farlowe walked in from the kitchen. He was eating soup from a bowl, dunking a folded slice of brown bread into it.

‘Mind if I have a word?’ Rebus said.

Farlowe shook his head, then jerked it in the direction of the kitchen.

‘Can I eat while we talk? I’m starving.’ He sat down at the foldaway table, got another slice of bread from the packet and spread margarine on it. Sammy put her head round the doorway, saw the look on her father’s face, and made a tactical retreat. The kitchen was about seven foot square and too full of pots and appliances. Swinging a cat, you could have done a lot of damage.