The Hanging Garden (20 page)

‘Kids,’ Pryde said, nodding. ‘They pushed over a load of gravestones.’

Rebus remembered now. ‘Just the Jewish headstones, wasn’t it?’

‘I think so.’

And there, sprayed on the wall near the gates, the same piece of graffiti: Won’t Anyone Help?

It was late evening, and Rebus was driving. Not the M90 into Fife: tonight, he was on the M8, heading west, heading for Glasgow. He’d spent half an hour at the hospital, followed by an hour and a half with Rhona and Jackie Platt, their guest for dinner at the Sheraton. He’d worn a fresh suit and shirt. He hadn’t smoked. He’d drunk a bottle of Highland Spring.

They were planning yet more tests on Sammy. The
neurologist had taken them into his office and talked them through the procedures. There would probably be another operation at the end of it. Rebus could barely remember what the man had said. Rhona had asked for the occasional explanation, but these seemed no more lucid than what had gone before.

Dinner had been a subdued affair. Jackie Platt, it turned out, sold second-hand cars.

‘See, John, where I really score is the obituaries. Check the local paper, hare round there and see if they’ve left a car behind. Quick cash offer.’

‘Sammy doesn’t drive, sorry,’ Rebus had said, causing Rhona to drop her cutlery on to her plate.

At the end of the meal, she’d seen him out to his car, gripped one of his arms hard.

‘Get the bastard, John. I want to look him in the face. Just get the bastard who did this to us.’ Her eyes were blazing.

He nodded. Stones: ‘Just Wanna See His Face’. Rebus wanted it, too.

The M8, which could be a nightmare at rush-hour, was a quiet drive in the evenings. Rebus knew he was making good time, and that he would soon see the outline of the Easterhouse estate against the sky. When his phone sounded, he didn’t hear it at first: blame Wishbone Ash. As
Argus
finished, he picked up.

‘Rebus.’

‘John, it’s Bill.’

‘What’ve you got?’

‘Forensics were good as gold. There are prints all over the car, interior and exterior. Several sets.’ He paused, and Rebus thought the connection had gone. ‘One good palm and finger set on the front of the bonnet …’

‘Sammy’s?’

‘For definite.’

‘So we’ve got our car.’

‘The owner’s given us a set so we can eliminate him. When we’ve done that …’

‘We’re still not home and dry, Bill. The car sat unlocked outside that cemetery, we don’t know someone didn’t clean it out.’

‘Owner says the radio/cassette fascia was there when he left it. Also half a dozen tapes, a packet of Paracetamol, receipts for petrol and a road map. So someone cleaned it out, whether it’s the bastard we want or just some scavenger.’

‘At least we know it’s the car.’

‘I’ll check again with Howdenhall tomorrow, collect any other prints and start trying to match them. Plus I’ll ask around Piershill, see if anyone saw someone dumping it.’

‘Meantime get some sleep, eh?’

‘Try and stop me. What about you?’

‘Me?’ Two cups of espresso after dinner. And with the knowledge of what lay ahead. ‘I’ll get my head down soon enough, Bill. Talk to you tomorrow.’

On the outskirts of Glasgow, headed for Barlinnie Prison.

He’d phoned ahead, made sure they were expecting him. It was way outside any visiting hours, but Rebus had made up a story about a murder inquiry. ‘Follow-up questions,’ was what he’d said.

‘At this time of night?’

‘Lothian and Borders Police, pal. Motto: Justice Never Sleeps.’

Morris Gerald Cafferty probably didn’t sleep much either. Rebus imagined him lying awake at night, hands under his head, staring into the darkness.

Scheming.

Running things through his mind: how to keep his
empire from falling, how best to combat threats like Tommy Telford. Rebus knew that Cafferty employed a lawyer – a middle-aged pinstripe from the New Town – to carry messages back to his gang in Edinburgh. He thought of Charles Groal, Telford’s lawyer. Groal was young and sharp, like his paymaster.

‘Strawman.’

He was waiting in the Interview Room, arms folded, chair set well away from the table. And of course his opening gambit was his nickname for Rebus.

‘A lovely surprise, two visits in a week. Don’t tell me you’ve another message from the Pole?’

Rebus sat down opposite Cafferty. ‘Tarawicz isn’t Polish.’ He glanced towards the guard who stood by the door, lowered his voice. ‘Another of Telford’s boys got a doing.’

‘How clumsy.’

‘He was all but scalped. Are you looking for war?’

Cafferty drew his chair in to the table, leaned across towards Rebus. ‘I’ve never backed down from a fight.’

‘My daughter got hurt. Funny that, so soon after we’d had our little chat.’

‘Hurt how?’

‘Hit and run.’

Cafferty was thoughtful. ‘I don’t pick on civilians.’

Yes, Rebus thought, but she wasn’t a civilian, because
he
had lured her on to the battlefield.

‘Convince me,’ Rebus said.

‘Why should I bother?’

‘The conversation we had … What you asked me to do.’

‘Telford?’ A whisper. Cafferty sat back for a moment to consider. When he leaned forward again, his eyes bored into Rebus’s. ‘There’s something you’ve forgotten. I lost a son, remember. Think I could do that to another father? I’d do a lot of things, Rebus, but not that, never that.’

Rebus held the stare. ‘All right,’ he said.

‘You want me to find who did it?’

Rebus nodded slowly.

‘That’s your price?’

Rhona’s words:
I want to look him in the face
. Rebus shook his head. ‘I want them
delivered
to me. I want you to do that, whatever it takes.’

Cafferty placed his hands on his knees, seemed to take his time positioning them just so. ‘You know it’s probably Telford?’

‘Yes. If it’s not you.’

‘You’ll be going after him then?’

‘Any way I can.’

Cafferty smiled. ‘But your ways aren’t my ways.’

‘You might get to him first. I want him
alive
.’

‘And meantime, you’re my man?’

Rebus stared at him. ‘I’m your man,’ he said.

Rebus got a phone call early the next morning from Leith CID, telling him Joseph Lintz was dead. The bad news was, it looked like murder: the body found hanging from a tree in Warriston Cemetery.

By the time Rebus appeared at the scene, they were cordoning it off, the doctor having concluded that most suicides wouldn’t have bothered administering a violent blow to their own head before commencing with operations.

The corpse of Joseph Lintz was being zipped into a body bag. Rebus got a look at the face. He’d seen elderly corpses before, and mostly they’d looked wonderfully at peace, their faces shiny and child-like. But Joseph Lintz looked like he’d suffered. He didn’t look to be at rest at all.

‘You’ll have come to thank us, no doubt,’ a man said, walking towards Rebus. His shoulders were hunched inside a navy raincoat and he walked with head bowed, hands in pockets. His hair was thick and silver and wiry, his skin an almost jaundiced yellow – the remains of an autumn holiday tan.

‘Hiya, Bobby,’ Rebus said.

Bobby Hogan was Leith CID.

‘To get back to my initial observation, John …’

‘What am I supposed to be thanking you for?’

Hogan nodded towards the body bag. ‘Taking Mr Lintz off your hands. ‘Don’t tell me you were
enjoying
digging into all that?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Any idea who might have wanted him dead?’

Rebus puffed out his cheeks. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

‘I mean, I’m right to rule out the usual, aren’t I?’ Hogan held up three fingers. ‘It wasn’t suicide, muggers aren’t quite this creative, and it surely wasn’t an accident.’

‘Someone was making a point, no doubt about it.’

‘But what sort of point?’

Scene of Crime officers were busying themselves, filling the
locus
with noise and movement. Rebus gestured for Hogan to walk with him. They were deep in the cemetery, the part Lintz had loved so much. As they walked, the place grew wilder, more overgrown.

‘I was here with him yesterday morning,’ Rebus said. ‘I don’t know if he had a routine exactly, but he came here most days.’

‘We found a bag of gardening tools.’

‘He planted flowers.’

‘So if someone knew he’d be coming, they could have been waiting?’

Rebus nodded. ‘An assassination.’

Hogan was thoughtful. ‘Why hang him?’

‘It’s what happened at Villefranche. The town elders were strung up in the square.’

‘Jesus.’ Hogan stopped walking. ‘I know you’ve got other stuff on the go, but can you help out on this, John?’

‘Any way I can.’

‘A list of possibles would do for a start.’

‘How about an old woman living in France, and a Jewish historian who walks with a stick?’

‘Is that all you’ve got?’

‘Well, there’s always me. Yesterday I as good as accused him of trying to kill my daughter.’ Hogan stared at him. ‘I don’t think he did it.’ Rebus paused, thinking of Sammy:
he’d called the hospital first thing. She was still unconscious; they still weren’t using the word ‘coma’. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Special Branch, a guy called Abernethy. He was here talking to Lintz.’

‘What’s the connection?’

‘Abernethy’s co-ordinating the various war crimes investigations. He’s street-tough, not your typical desk-jockey.’

‘A strange choice for the job?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Which hardly makes him a suspect.’

‘I’m doing my best, Bobby. We could check Lintz’s house, see if we can turn up any of the hate mail he claimed he’d been getting.’

‘“Claimed”?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘You were never sure where you were with Lintz. Do you have any idea what happened?’

‘From what you’ve told me, I’d guess he came down here as usual to do his gardening stint – he’s certainly dressed for it. Someone was waiting. They smacked him over the head, stuck his neck in a noose, and hauled him up into the tree. The rope was tied around a headstone.’

‘Did the hanging kill him?’

‘Doctor says yes. Haemorrhages in the eyes. What do you call them?’

‘Tardieu spots.’

‘That’s it. The blow to the head was just to knock him out. Something else – bruising and cuts on the face. Looks like someone kicked him when he was down.’

‘Knock him cold, thump him in the face, then string him up.’

‘Big-time grudge.’

Rebus looked around. ‘Someone with a flair for theatre.’

‘And not afraid to take risks. This place might never get exactly crowded, but it’s a public space and that tree’s in open view. Anyone could have walked past.’

‘What time are we talking about?’

‘Eight, eight-thirty. I’m guessing Mr Lintz would have wanted to do his digging in daylight.’

‘Could have been earlier,’ Rebus suggested. ‘A prearranged meeting.’

‘Then why the tools?’

‘Because by the time it got light, the meeting would be over.’

Hogan looked doubtful.

‘And if it
was
a meeting,’ Rebus said, ‘there might be some record of it at Lintz’s home.’

Hogan looked at him, nodded. ‘My car or yours?’

‘Better get his keys first.’

They started back up the slope.

‘Searching through a dead man’s pockets,’ Hogan said to himself. ‘Why is that never mentioned during recruitment?’

‘I was here yesterday,’ Rebus said. ‘He invited me back for tea.’

‘No family?’

‘None.’

Hogan looked around the hallway. ‘Big place. What happens to the money when it’s sold?’

Rebus looked at him. ‘We could split it two ways.’

‘Or we could just move ourselves in. Basement and ground for me, you can have first and second.’

Hogan smiled, tried one of the doors off the hall. It opened on to an office. ‘This could be my bedroom,’ he said, going in.

‘When I came here before, he always took me upstairs.’

‘On you go. We’ll take a floor each, then swop.’

Rebus headed up the staircase, running his hand over the varnished banister: not a speck of dust. Cleaning ladies could be invaluable informants.

‘If you find a chequebook,’ he called down to Hogan, ‘look for regular payments to a Mrs Mop.’

Four doors led off the first-floor landing. Two were bedrooms, one a bathroom. The last door led into the huge drawing-room, where Rebus had asked his questions and listened to the stories and philosophy that Lintz had used in place of answers.

‘Do you think guilt has a genetic component, Inspector?’ he’d asked one time. ‘Or are we taught it?’

‘Does it matter, so long as it’s there?’ Rebus had said, and Lintz had nodded and smiled, as if the pupil had given some satisfactory answer.

The room was big, not too much furniture. Huge sash windows – recently cleaned – looked down on to the street. There were framed prints and paintings on the walls. They could have been priceless originals or junk-store stuff – Rebus was no expert. He liked one painting. It showed a ragged white-haired man seated on a rock, surrounded by a barren plain. He had a book open on his lap, but was staring skywards in horror or awe as a shining light appeared there, picking him out. It had a Biblical look, but Rebus couldn’t quite place it. He knew the look on the man’s face though. He’d seen it before when some suspect’s carefully crafted alibi had suddenly come tumbling down.

Over the marble fireplace was a large gilt-framed mirror. Rebus studied himself in it. Behind him he could see the room. He knew he didn’t fit here.

One bedroom was for guests, the other was Lintz’s. A faint smell of embrocation, half a dozen medicine bottles on the bedside table. Books, too, a pile of them. The bed had been made, a dressing-gown draped across it. Lintz was a creature of habit; he’d been in no special hurry this morning.

The next floor up, Rebus found two further bedrooms and a toilet. There was a slight smell of damp in one room, and the ceiling was discoloured. Rebus didn’t suppose Lintz got many visitors; no impetus to redecorate. Out on
the landing again, he saw that one of the stair-rails was missing. It had been propped against the wall, awaiting repair. A house this size, things would always be going wrong.