10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (315 page)

Heading south down the coast, thinking about families, he decided to visit his brother.

Mickey lived on an estate in Kirkcaldy, his red BMW parked in the driveway. He was just home from work and suitably surprised to see Rebus.

‘Chrissie and the kids are at her mum’s,’ he said. ‘I was going to grab a curry for dinner. How about a beer?’

‘Maybe just a coffee,’ Rebus said. He sat in the lounge until Mickey returned, toting a couple of old shoe-boxes.

‘Look what I dug out of the attic last weekend. Thought you might like a look. Milk and sugar?’

‘A spot of milk.’

While Mickey went to the kitchen to fetch the coffee, Rebus examined the boxes. They were filled with packets of photographs. The packets had dates on them, some with questionmarks. Rebus opened one at random. Holiday snaps. A fancy dress parade. A picnic. Rebus didn’t have
any pictures of his parents, and the photos startled him. His mother had thicker legs than he remembered, but a tidy body, too. His father used the same grin in every shot, a grin Rebus shared with Mickey. Digging further into the box, he found one of himself with Rhona and Sammy. They were on a beach somewhere, the wind playing havoc. Peter Gabriel: ‘Family Snapshot’. Rebus couldn’t place it at all. Mickey came back through with a mug of coffee and a bottle of beer.

‘There are some,’ he said, ‘I don’t know who the people are. Relatives maybe? Grandma and Grandad?’

‘I’m not sure I’d be much help.’

Mickey handed over a menu. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘best Indian in town. Pick what you want.’

So Rebus chose, and Mickey phoned the order in. Twenty minutes till delivery. Rebus was on to another packet. These photos were older still, the 1940s. His father in uniform. The soldiers wore hats like McDonald’s counter staff. They also wore long khaki shorts. ‘Malaya’ written on the backs of some, ‘India’ on the others.

‘Remember, the old man got himself wounded in Malaya?’ Mickey said.

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘He showed us the wound. It was in his knee.’

Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Uncle Jimmy told me it was a cut Dad got playing football. He kept picking the scab off, ended with a scar.’

‘He told us it was a war wound.’

‘He was fibbing.’

Mickey had started on the other box. ‘Here, look at these . . .’ Handing over an inch-thick collection of postcards and photographs, secured with an elastic band. Rebus pulled the band off, turned the cards over, saw his own writing. The photos were of him, too: posed snaps, badly taken.

‘Where did you get these?’

‘You always used to send me a card or a photo, don’t you remember?’

They were all from Rebus’s own Army days. ‘I’d forgotten,’ he said.

‘Once a fortnight, usually. A letter to Dad, a card for me.’

Rebus sat back in his chair and started to go through them. Judging by the postmarks, they were in chronological sequence. Training, then service in Germany and Ulster, more exercises in Cyprus, Malta, Finland, and the desert of Saudi Arabia. The tone of each postcard was breezy, so that Rebus failed to recognise his own voice. The cards from Belfast consisted of almost nothing but jokes, yet Rebus remembered that as one of the most nightmarish periods of his life.

‘I used to love getting them,’ Mickey said, smiling. ‘I’ll tell you, you almost had me joining up.’

Rebus was still thinking of Belfast: the closed barracks, the whole compound a fortress. After a shift out on the streets, there was no way to let off steam. Booze, gambling and fights – all taking place within the same four walls. All culminating in the Mean Machine . . . And here were these postcards, here was the image of Rebus’s past life that Mickey had lived with these past twenty-odd years.

And it was all a lie.

Or was it? Where did the reality lie, other than in Rebus’s own head? The postcards were fake documents, but they were also the only ones in existence. There was nothing to contradict them, nothing except Rebus’s word. It was the same with the Rat Line, the same with Joseph Lintz’s story. Rebus looked at his brother and knew he could break the spell right now. All he had to do was tell him the truth.

‘What’s the matter?’ Mickey asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Ready for that beer yet? The food’ll be here any second.’

Rebus stared at the cooling mug of coffee. ‘More than ready,’ he said, putting the rubber band back around his past. ‘But I’ll stick to this.’ He lifted the mug, toasted his brother.

Next morning, Rebus went to St Leonard’s, telephoned the NCIS centre at Prestwick and asked if they had anything connecting British criminals to European prostitution. His reasoning:
someone
had brought Candice – she was still Candice to him – from Amsterdam to Britain, and he didn’t think it was Telford. Whoever it was, Rebus would get to them somehow. He wanted to show Candice her chains could be broken.

He got NCIS to fax him what information they had. Most of it concerned the ‘Tippelzone’, a licensed car park where drivers went for sex. It was worked by foreign prostitutes mainly, most of them lacking work permits, many smuggled in from Eastern Europe. The main gangs seemed to be from former Yugoslavia. NCIS had no names for any of these kidnappers-cum-pimps. There was nothing about prostitutes making the trip from Amsterdam to Britain.

Rebus went into the car park to smoke his second cigarette of the day. There were a couple of other smokers out there, a small brotherhood of social pariahs. Back in the office, the Farmer wanted to know if there was any progress on Lintz.

‘Maybe if I brought him in and slapped him around a bit,’ Rebus suggested.

‘Be serious, will you?’ the Farmer growled, stalking back to his office.

Rebus sat down at his desk and pulled forward a file.

‘Your problem, Inspector,’ Lintz had said to him once, ‘is that you’re afraid of being taken seriously. You want to give people what you think they expect. I mention the Ishtar gate, and you talk of some Hollywood movie. At first I thought this was meant to rouse me to some indiscretion, but now it seems more a game you are playing against
yourself
.’

Rebus: seated in his usual chair in Lintz’s drawing-room. The view from the window was of Queen Street Gardens. They were kept locked: you had to pay for a key.

‘Do educated people frighten you?’

Rebus looked at the old man. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure? Don’t you perhaps wish you were more like them?’ Lintz grinned, showing small, discoloured teeth. ‘Intellectuals like to see themselves as history’s victims, prejudiced against, arrested for their beliefs, even tortured and murdered. But Karadzic thinks himself an intellectual. The Nazi hierarchy had its thinkers and philosophers. And even in Babylon . . .’ Lintz got up, poured himself more tea. Rebus declined a refill.

‘Even in Babylon, Inspector,’ Lintz continued, getting comfortable again, ‘with its opulence and its artistry, with its enlightened king . . . do you know what they did? Nebuchadnezzar held the Jews captive for seventy years. This splendid, awe-inspiring civilisation . . . Do you begin to see the madness, Inspector, the flaws that run so deep in us?’

‘Maybe I need glasses.’

Lintz threw his cup across the room. ‘You need to listen and to learn! You need to understand!’

The cup and saucer lay on the carpet, still intact. Tea was soaking into the elaborate design, where it would become all but invisible . . .

He parked on Buccleuch Place. The Slavic Studies
department was housed in one of the tenements. He tried the secretary’s office first, asked if Dr Colquhoun was around.

‘I haven’t seen him today.’

When Rebus explained what he wanted, the secretary tried a couple of numbers but didn’t find anyone. Then she suggested he take a look in their library, which was one floor up and kept locked. She handed him a key.

The room was about sixteen feet by twelve, and smelled stuffy. The shutters across the windows were closed, giving the place no natural light. A No Smoking sign sat on one of four desks. On another sat an ashtray with three butts in it. One entire wall was shelved, filled with books, pamphlets, magazines. There were boxes of press cuttings, and maps on the walls showing Yugoslavia’s changing demarcation lines. Rebus lifted down the most recent box of cuttings.

Like a lot of people he knew, Rebus didn’t know much about the war in ex-Yugoslavia. He’d seen some of the news reports, been shocked by the pictures, then had got on with his life. But if the cuttings were to be believed, the whole region was being run by war criminals. The Implementation Force seemed to have done its damnedest to avoid confrontation. There had been a few arrests recently, but nothing substantial: out of a meagre seventy-four suspects charged, only
seven
had been apprehended.

He found nothing about slave traders, so thanked the secretary and gave her back her key, then crawled through the city traffic. When the call came on his mobile, he nearly went off the road.

Candice had disappeared.

Mrs Drinic was distraught. They’d had dinner last night, breakfast this morning, and Karina had seemed fine.

‘There was a lot she said she couldn’t tell us,’ Mr Drinic
said, standing behind his seated wife, hands stroking her shoulders. ‘She said she wanted to forget.’

And then she’d gone out for a walk down to the harbour, and hadn’t returned. Lost maybe, though the village was small. Mr Drinic had been working; his wife had gone out, asking people if they’d seen her.

‘And Mrs Muir’s son,’ she said, ‘he told me she’d been taken away in a car.’

‘Where was this?’ Rebus asked.

‘Just a couple of streets away,’ Mr Drinic said.

‘Show me.’

Outside his home on Seaford Road, Eddie Muir, aged eleven, told Rebus what he’d seen. A car stopping beside a woman. A bit of chat, though he couldn’t hear it. The door opening, the woman getting in.

‘Which door, Eddie?’

‘One of the back ones. Had to be, there were two of them in the car already.’

‘Men?’

Eddie nodded.

‘And the woman got in by herself? I mean, they didn’t grab her or anything?’

Eddie shook his head. He was straddling his bike, keen to be going. One foot kept testing a pedal.

‘Can you describe the car?’

‘Big, a bit flash. Not from round here.’

‘And the men?’

‘Didn’t really get a good look. Driver was wearing a Pars shirt.’

Meaning a football shirt, Dunfermline Athletic. Which would mean he was from Fife. Rebus frowned. A pick-up? Could that be it? Candice back to her old ways so soon? Not likely, not in a place like this, on a street like this. It was no chance encounter. Mrs Drinic was right: she’d been snatched. Which meant someone had known where to find
her. Had Rebus been followed yesterday? If he had, they’d been invisible. Some device on his car? It seemed unlikely, but he checked wheel-arches and the underbody: nothing. Mrs Drinic had calmed a little, her husband having administered medicinal vodka. Rebus could use a shot himself, but turned down the offer.

‘Did she make any phone calls?’ he asked. Drinic shook his head. ‘What about strangers hanging around the street?’

‘I would have noticed. After Sarajevo, it’s hard to feel safe, Inspector.’ He opened his arms. ‘And here’s the proof – nowhere’s safe.’

‘Did you tell anyone about Karina?’

‘Who would we tell?’

Who knew? That was the question. Rebus did. And Claverhouse and Ormiston knew about the place, because Colquhoun had mentioned it.

Colquhoun knew. The nervy old Slavic Studies specialist knew . . . On the way back to Edinburgh, Rebus tried phoning him at office and home: no reply. He’d told the Drinks to let him know if Candice came back, but he didn’t think she’d be coming back. He remembered the look she’d given him early on when he’d asked her to trust him.
I won’t be surprised if you let me down
. Like she’d known back then that he’d fail. And she’d given him a second chance, waiting for him beside his car. And he’d let her down. He got back on his mobile and called Jack Morton.

‘Jack,’ he said, ‘for Christ’s sake, talk me out of having a drink.’

He tried Colquhoun’s home address and the Slavic Studies office: both locked up tight. Then he drove to Flint Street and looked for Tommy Telford in the arcade. But Telford wasn’t there. He was in the café’s back office, surrounded as usual by his men.

‘I want to talk to you,’ Rebus said.

‘So talk.’

‘Without the audience.’ Rebus pointed to Pretty-Boy. ‘That one can stay.’

Telford took his time, but finally nodded, and the room began to empty. Pretty-Boy stood against a wall, hands behind his back. Telford had his feet up on his desk, leaning back in his chair. They were relaxed, confident. Rebus knew what
he
looked like: a caged bear.

‘I want to know where she is.’

‘Who?’

‘Candice.’

Telford smiled. ‘Still on about her, Inspector? How should I know where she is?’

‘Because a couple of your boys grabbed her.’ But as he spoke, Rebus realised he was making a mistake. Telford’s gang was a
family
: they’d grown up together in Paisley. Not many Dunfermline supporters that distant from Fife. He stared at Pretty-Boy, who ran Telford’s prostitutes. Candice had arrived in Edinburgh from a city of bridges, maybe Newcastle. Telford had Newcastle connections. And the Newcastle United strip – vertical black and white lines – was damned close to Dunfermline’s. Probably only a kid in Fife could make the mistake.

A Newcastle strip. A Newcastle car.

Telford was talking, but Rebus wasn’t listening. He walked straight out of the office and back to the Saab. Drove to Fettes – the Crime Squad offices – and started looking. He found a contact number for a DS Miriam Kenworthy. Tried the number but she wasn’t there.

‘Fuck it,’ he told himself, getting back into his car.

The Al was hardly the country’s fastest road – Abernethy was right about that. Still, without the daytime traffic Rebus made decent time on his way south. It was late evening when he arrived in Newcastle, pubs emptying, queues forming outside clubs, a few United shirts on
display, looking like prison bars. He didn’t know the city. Drove around it in circles, passing the same signs and landmarks, heading further out, just cruising.