The Hanging Garden (37 page)

They enjoyed themselves that night in the barracks, chiding Rebus for letting his trigger-finger slip. They cracked open cans of beer and told stories, stories which
were already being exaggerated, turning the event into a myth, giving it a grandeur it had lacked.

Turning it into a lie.

A few weeks later, the same IRA man was found shot dead in a stolen car south of the city, on a farm road with a view of hills and grazing land. Protestant paramilitaries took the blame, but Mean Machine, though he admitted nothing, would wink and grin when the incident was mentioned. Bravado or confession – Rebus was never sure. All he knew was that he wanted out, away from Mean Machine’s newly minted code of ethics. So he did the one thing he could – applied to join the SAS. Nobody would think him a coward or a turncoat for applying to join the elite.

To be born again
.

Side one had finished; Rebus turned the record over, switched off the lights and went to sit in his chair. He felt a chill run through him. Because he
knew
how events like Villefranche could come to be. Because he
knew
how the world’s continuing horrors could come to be perpetrated at the cusp of the twentieth century. He knew that mankind’s instinct was raw, that every act of bravery and kindness was countered by so many acts of savagery.

And he suspected that if his daughter had been that sniper’s victim, he’d have run into the bar with his trigger-finger already working.

Telford’s gang ran in a pack, too, trusted their leader. But now
he
wanted to run with an even bigger gang …

The phone rang and he picked up.

‘John Rebus,’ he said.

‘John, it’s Jack.’ Jack Morton. Rebus put down his can.

‘Hello, Jack. Where are you?’

‘In the poky one-bedroomed flat our friends at Fettes so graciously provided.’

‘It has to fit the image.’

‘Aye, I suppose so. Got a phone though. Coin job, but you can’t have everything.’ He paused. ‘You okay, John? You sound … not all there.’

‘That just about sums me up, Jack. What’s it like being a security guard?’

‘A dawdle, pal. Should have taken it up years ago.’

‘Wait till your pension’s safe.’

‘Aye, right.’

‘And it went okay with Marty Jones?’

‘Oscars all round. They were just heavy enough. I stumbled back into the shop, said I had to sit down. The Gruesome Twosome were very solicitous, then started asking me all these questions … Not very subtle.’

‘You don’t think they twigged?’

‘Like you, I was a bit dubious about setting it up so fast, but I think they fell for it. Whether their boss goes along is a different story.’

‘Well, he’s under a lot of pressure.’

‘With the war going on?’

‘I don’t think that’s the whole story, Jack. I think he’s under pressure from his partners.’

‘The Russian and the Japs?’

‘I think they’re setting him up for a fall, and Maclean’s is the precipice.’

‘Evidence?’

‘Gut feeling.’

Jack was thoughtful. ‘So where do I stand?’

‘Just ca’ canny, Jack.’

‘I never thought of that.’

Rebus laughed. ‘When do you think they’ll make contact?’

‘They followed me home – that’s how desperate they are. They’re sitting outside right now.’

‘They must think you’re a good thing.’

Rebus could see the way it was going. Dec and Ken
getting panicky, needing a quick result – feeling vulnerable so far away from Flint Street, not knowing if they’d be Cafferty’s next victims. Telford, pressure applied by Tarawicz, and now with the Yakuza boss in town … needing a result, something to show he was top dog.

‘What about you, John? It’s been a while.’

‘Yes.’

‘How are you holding up?’

‘I’m on soft drinks only, if that’s what you mean.’ And a car doused in whisky … he could taste it in his lungs.

‘Hang on,’ Jack said. ‘Someone’s at the door. I’ll call you back.’

‘Be careful.’

The phone went dead.

Rebus gave it an hour. When Jack hadn’t called, he got on the blower to Claverhouse.

‘It’s okay,’ Claverhouse told him from his mobile. ‘Tweedledee and Tweedledum came calling, took him off somewhere.’

‘You’re watching the flat?’

‘Decorator’s van parked down the street.’

‘So you’ve no idea where they’ve taken him?’

‘I’d guess he’s at Flint Street.’

‘With no back-up?’

‘That’s how we all wanted it.’

‘Christ, I don’t know …’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘It’s not you in the firing line. And I’m the one who volunteered him.’

‘He knows the score, John.’

‘So now you wait for him either to come home or end up on a slab?’

‘Christ, John, Calvin was Charlie Chester compared to you.’ Claverhouse had lost all patience. Rebus tried to think of a comeback, slammed the phone down instead.

Suddenly he couldn’t be doing with Van the Man; put on Bowie instead,
Aladdin Sane
: nicely discordant, Mike Garson’s piano in key with his thoughts.

Empty juice cans and a dead pack of cigarettes stared up at him. He didn’t know Jack’s address. The only person who’d give it to him was Claverhouse, and he didn’t want to pick up their conversation. He took Bowie off halfway through side one, substituted
Quadrophenia
. Liner notes: ‘Schizophrenic? I’m bleeding Quadrophenic’. Which was just about right.

Quarter past midnight, the phone rang. It was Jack Morton.

‘Back home safe and sound?’ Rebus asked.

‘Right as nails.’

‘Have you spoken to Claverhouse?’

‘He can wait his turn. I said I’d phone you back.’

‘So what did you get?’

‘The third degree, basically. Some guy with dyed black hair, frizzy … tight jeans.’

‘Pretty-Boy.’

‘Wears mascara.’

‘Looks like. So what was the gist?’

‘Second hurdle passed. Nobody’s mentioned what the job is yet. Tonight was a sort of preface. Wanted to know all about me, told me my money worries could be over. If I could help them with a “little problem” – Pretty-Boy’s words.’

‘You asked what the problem was?’

‘He wasn’t saying. If you ask me, he goes to Telford, talks it through. Then there’s another meeting, and that’s where they tell me the plan.’

‘And you’ll be miked up?’

‘Yes.’

‘And if they strip you?’

‘Claverhouse has access to some miniaturised stuff, cuff-links and the like.’

‘And your character would obviously wear cuff-links.’

‘True enough. Maybe fit a transmitter into a bookie’s pencil.’

‘Now you’re thinking.’

‘I’m thinking I’m wiped out.’

‘What was the mood like?’

‘Fraught.’

‘Any sign of Tarawicz or Shoda?’

‘Nope, just Pretty-Boy and the Gruesome Twosome.’

‘Claverhouse calls them Tweedledum and Tweedledee.’

‘He’s obviously classically educated.’ Morton paused. ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

‘When you didn’t call back.’

‘I’m touched. Do you think he’s up to it?’

‘Claverhouse?’ Rebus thought about it. ‘I’d feel better if
I
was in charge. But that probably puts me in a minority.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You’re a pal, Jack.’

‘They’re running a check on me. But that’s all in place. With luck, I’ll pass.’

‘What did they say to your sudden arrival at Maclean’s?’

‘I’ve been transferred from another plant. If they go looking, I’m in the personnel files.’ Morton paused again. ‘One thing I want to know …’

‘What?’

‘Pretty-Boy handed me a hundred quid on account: what do I do with it?’

‘That’s between you and your conscience, Jack. See you soon.’

‘Night, John.’

For the first time in a while, Rebus actually made it as far as his bed. His sleep was deep and dreamless.

Doctors in white coats were doing things to Sammy when Rebus arrived at the hospital next morning: taking her pulse, shining lights in her eyes. They were setting up another scanner, a nurse trying to untangle the thin coloured leads. Rhona looked like she’d lost some sleep. She jumped up and ran towards him.

‘She woke up!’

It took him a second to take it in. Rhona was holding his arms, shaking him.

‘She woke
up
, John!’

He pushed his way to the bedside.

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘Why didn’t you phone me?’

‘I tried three, four times. You were engaged. I tried Patience, but there was no answer there.’

‘What happened?’ To him, Sammy looked the same as ever.

‘She just opened her eyes … No, first off, it was like she was moving her eyeballs. You know, with her eyelids closed. Then she opened her eyes.’

Rebus could see that the medical personnel were finding their work hampered. Half of him wanted to lash out –
We’re her fucking parents!
The other half wanted them to do all they could to bring her round again. He took Rhona by the shoulder and guided her out into the hallway.

‘Did she … Did she look at you? Did she say anything?’

‘She was just staring at the ceiling, where the strip-light is. Then I thought she was going to blink, but she closed her eyes again and they stayed shut.’ Rhona burst into tears. ‘It was like … I lost her all over again.’

Rebus took her in his arms. She hugged him back.

‘She did it once,’ he whispered into her ear, ‘she’ll do it again.’

‘That’s what one of the doctors said. He said they’re “very hopeful”. Oh, John, I wanted to tell you! I wanted to tell
every one
!’

And he’d been busy with work: Claverhouse, Jack Morton. And he’d got Sammy into all this in the first place. Sammy and Candice – pebbles dropped into a pool. And now the ripples had grown so that he’d all but forgotten about the centre, the starting point. Just like when he was married, work consuming him, becoming an end in itself. And Rhona’s words:
You’ve exploited every relationship you ever had
.

To be born again
…

‘I’m sorry, Rhona,’ he said.

‘Can you let Ned know?’ She started crying again.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get some breakfast. Have you been here all night?’

‘I couldn’t leave.’

‘I know.’ He kissed her cheek.

‘The person in the car …’

‘What?’

She looked at him. ‘I don’t care any more. I don’t care who they were or whether they get caught. All I want is for her to wake up.’

Rebus nodded, told her he understood. Told her breakfast was on him. He kept the talk going, his mind not really on it. Instead, her words bounced around in his head:
I don’t care who they were or whether they get caught
…

Whichever stress he put on it, he couldn’t make it sound like surrender.

At St Leonard’s, he broke the news to Ned Farlowe. Farlowe wanted to go to the hospital, but Rebus shook his head. Farlowe was crying as Rebus left his cell. Back at his desk, the files on the Crab were waiting.

The Crab: real name, William Andrew Colton. He had form going back to his teens, celebrated his fortieth birthday on Guy Fawkes Day. Rebus hadn’t had many dealings with him during his time in Edinburgh. Looked like the Crab had lived in the city for a couple of years in the early-80s, and again in the early-90s. 1982: Rebus gave evidence against him in a conspiracy trial. Charges dropped. 1983: he was in trouble again – a fight in a pub left one man in a coma and his girlfriend needing sixty stitches to her face. Sixty stitches: you could knit a pair of mittens with less.

The Crab had held various jobs: bouncer, bodyguard, general labourer. The Inland Revenue had a go at him in 1986. By ’88, he was on the West Coast, which was presumably where Tommy Telford had found him. Knowing good muscle when he saw it, he’d put the Crab on the doors of his club in Paisley. More blood-spilling; more accusations. Nothing came of them. The Crab had lived a charmed life, the sort of life that niggled at cops the world over: witnesses too scared to testify; withdrawing or refusing to give evidence. The Crab didn’t often make it to trial. He’d served three adult sentences – a total of twenty-seven months – in a career that was now entering its fourth decade. Rebus went through the paperwork again, picked up the phone and called CID in Paisley. The man he wanted to speak to had been transferred to Motherwell. Rebus made the call, eventually got through to Detective Sergeant Ronnie Hannigan, and explained his interest.

‘It’s just that reading between the lines, you suspected the Crab of a lot more than ever got put down on paper.’

‘You’re right.’ Hannigan cleared his throat. ‘Never got close to proving anything though. You say he’s south of the border now?’

‘Telford placed him with a gangster in Newcastle.’

‘Have criminal tendencies, will travel. Well, let’s hope they keep him. He was a one-man reign of terror, and that’s no exaggeration. Probably why Telford palmed him off on someone else: the Crab was getting out of control. My theory is, Telford tried him out as a hit-man. Crab wasn’t suitable, so Telford needed to jettison him.’

‘What was the hit?’

‘Down in Ayr. Must’ve been … four years ago? Lot of drugs swilling around, most of them inside a dance-club … can’t remember its name. I don’t know what happened: maybe a deal went sour, maybe someone was skimming. Whatever, there was a hit outside the club. Guy got his face half torn off with a carving knife.’

‘You put the Crab in the frame?’

‘He had an alibi, of course, and the eye-witnesses all seemed to have suffered temporary blindness. Could be a plot for the
X-Files
in that.’

A knife attack outside a nightclub … Rebus tapped his desk with a pen. ‘Any idea how the attacker got away?’

‘On a motorbike. The Crab likes bikes. Crash helmet makes a good disguise.’

‘We had an almost identical attack recently. Guy on a motorbike went for a drug dealer outside one of Tommy Telford’s nightclubs. Killed a bouncer instead.’

And Cafferty denied any involvement …

‘Well, like you say, the Crab’s in Newcastle.’

Yes, and staying put …
scared
to come north. Warned off by Tarawicz. Because Edinburgh was too dangerous … people might
remember
him.