The Hanging Garden (42 page)

Then headed for the gatehouse. Jack Morton, in uniform but missing his cap, prone on the floor, covered by a glass shroud. The bullet had pierced his right breast-pocket. Pulse was weak.

‘Christ, Jack …’

There was a telephone in the booth. Rebus punched 999 and asked for ambulances.

‘Police officers down at the Maclean’s factory on Slateford Road!’ Staring down at his friend.

‘Whereabouts on Slateford Road?’

‘Believe me, they won’t be able to miss it.’

Five marksmen, dressed in black, aimed rifles at Rebus from outside. Saw him on the phone, saw him shake his head, moved on. Saw their targets out on the road, getting into a patrol car. Yelled the order to stop, warning that they would fire.

Response: muzzle-flash. Rebus ducked again. Fire was returned, the noise deafening but momentary.

Shouts from the road: ‘Got them!’

A plaintive wail: one of the gunmen wounded. Rebus looked. The other was lying quite still on the road. Marksmen yelling to the wounded man: ‘Drop the weapon, turn on to your front, hands behind your back.’

Response: ‘I’m shot!’

Rebus to himself: ‘Bastard’s only wounded. Finish him off.’

Jack Morton unconscious. Rebus knew better than to move him. He could staunch the bleeding, that was all. Removed his jacket, folded it and pressed it to his friend’s chest. Must’ve hurt, but Jack was out of it. Rebus dug the
fuel rod out of his own pocket, the tiny canister still warm. Pressed it into Jack’s right hand, curled the fingers around it.

‘Stick around, pal. Just keep sticking around.’

Siobhan Clarke at the doorway, tears welling in her eyes.

Rebus pushed past her, slid his way across the road to where the Armed Response Team were cuffing the wounded man. Nobody much bothering with his dead partner. A little group of onlookers, keeping their distance. Rebus walked right up to the corpse, prised the handgun from its fingers, walked back around the front of the car. Heard someone call out: ‘He’s got a gun!’

Rebus bending down until the barrel of the gun touched the back of the wounded man’s neck. Declan from the shop: breath coming in short gasps, hair matted with sweat, burrowing his face into the tarmac.

‘John …’

Claverhouse. No megaphone needed. Standing right behind him. ‘You really want to be like them?’

Like them … Like Mean Machine. Like Telford and Cafferty and Tarawicz. He’d crossed the line before, made several trips forth and back. His foot was on Declan’s neck, the gun barrel so hot it was singeing nape-skin.

‘Please, no … oh, Christ, please … don’t … don’t …’

‘Shut up,’ Rebus hissed. He felt Claverhouse’s hand close over his, flick on the safety.

‘My responsibility, John. My fuck-up, don’t make it yours, too.’

‘Jack …’

‘I know.’

Rebus’s vision blurred. ‘They’re getting away.’

Claverhouse shook his head. ‘Road blocks. Back-up are already on it.’

‘And Telford?’

Claverhouse checked his watch. ‘Ormie will be picking him up right about now.’

Rebus grabbed Claverhouse’s lapels. ‘Nail him!’

Sirens nearing. Rebus shouted for the drivers to move their cars, make room for the ambulance. Then he ran back to the gatehouse. Siobhan Clarke was kneeling beside Jack, stroking his forehead. Her face was streaked with tears. She looked up at Rebus and shook her head.

‘He’s gone,’ she said.

‘No.’ But he knew the truth. Which didn’t stop him saying the word over and over again.

They divided the gang between two different locations – Torphichen and Fettes – and took Telford and a few of his ‘lieutenants’ to St Leonard’s. Result: a logistical nightmare. Claverhouse was washing Pro-Plus down with double-strength coffee, part of him wanting to do things right, the other part knowing he was answerable for the blood-bath at Maclean’s. One officer dead, six wounded or otherwise injured – one of them seriously. One gunman dead, one wounded – not seriously enough to some people’s minds.

The getaway cars had been apprehended and arrests made – shots exchanged but no bloodshed. None of the gang was saying anything, not a single damned word.

Rebus was sitting in an empty Interview Room at St Leonard’s, arms on the table, head resting on arms. He’d been sitting there for a while, just thinking about loss, about how suddenly it could strike. A life, a friendship, just snatched away.

Irretrievable.

He hadn’t cried, and didn’t think he would. Instead, he felt numb, as if his soul had been spiked with novocaine. The world seemed to have slowed, like the mechanism was running down. He wondered if the sun would have the energy to rise again.

And I got him into it
.

He had wallowed before in feelings of guilt and inadequacy, but nothing to measure up to this. This was overwhelming. Jack Morton, a copper with a quiet patch in
Falkirk … murdered in Edinburgh because a friend had asked a favour. Jack Morton, who’d brought himself back to life by swearing off cigarettes and booze, getting into shape, eating right, taking
care
of himself … Lying in the mortuary, deep-body temperature dropping.

And I put him there
.

He jumped up suddenly, threw the chair at the wall. Gill Templer walked into the room.

‘All right, John?’

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Fine.’

‘My office is empty if you want to get your head down.’

‘No, I’ll be fine. Just …’ He looked around. ‘Is this place needed?’

She nodded.

‘Right. Okay.’ He picked up the chair. ‘Who is it?’

‘Brian Summers,’ she said.

Pretty-Boy. Rebus straightened his back.

‘I can make him talk.’

Templer looked sceptical.

‘Honest, Gill.’ Hands trembling. ‘He doesn’t know what I’ve got on him.’

She folded her arms. ‘And what’s that?’

‘I just need …’ He checked his watch. ‘An hour or so; two hours tops. Bobby Hogan needs to be here. And I want Colquhoun brought in pronto.’

‘Who’s he?’

Rebus found the business card and handed it over. ‘Pronto,’ he repeated. He worked at his tie, making himself presentable. Smoothed back his hair. Said nothing.

‘John, I’m not sure you’re in any state to …’

He pointed at her, turned it into a wagging finger. ‘Don’t presume, Gill. If I say I can break him, I mean it.’

‘No one else has said a single word.’

‘Summers will be different.’ He stared at her. ‘Believe me.’

Looking back at him, she believed. ‘I’ll hold him back till Hogan gets here.’

‘Thanks, Gill.’

‘And, John?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m really sorry about Jack Morton. I didn’t know him, but I’ve heard what everyone’s saying.’

Rebus nodded.

‘They’re saying he’d be the last one to blame you.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Right at the back of the queue.’

‘There’s only one person in the queue, John,’ she said quietly. ‘And you’re it.’

Rebus phoned the night-desk at the Caledonian Hotel, learned that Sakiji Shoda had checked out unexpectedly, less than two hours after Rebus had dropped off the green folder which had cost him fifty-five pence at a stationer’s on Raeburn Place. Actually, the folders had come in three-packs at one sixty-five. He had the other two in his car, only one of them empty.

Bobby Hogan was on his way. He lived in Portobello. He said to give him half an hour. Bill Pryde came over to Rebus’s desk and said how sorry he was about Jack Morton, how he knew the two of them had been old friends.

‘Just don’t get too close to me, Bill,’ Rebus told him. ‘The people closest to me tend to lose their health.’

He got a message from reception: someone there to see him. He headed downstairs, found Patience Aitken.

‘Patience?’

She had all her clothes on, but not necessarily in the right order, like she’d dressed in a power-cut.

‘I heard on the radio,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I had
the radio on, and they said about this police raid and how people were dead … And you weren’t in your flat, so I …’

He hugged her. ‘I’m okay,’ he whispered. ‘I should have called you.’

‘It’s my fault, I …’ She looked at him. ‘You were there, I can see it on your face.’ He nodded. ‘What happened?’

‘I lost a friend.’

‘Oh, Christ, John.’ She hugged him again. She was still warm from the bedclothes. He could smell shampoo on her hair, perfume on her neck.
The people closest to me
… He pulled away gently, planted a kiss on her cheek.

‘Go get some sleep,’ he told her.

‘Come for breakfast.’

‘I just want to go home and crash.’

‘You could sleep at my place. It’s Sunday. We could stay in bed.’

‘I don’t know what time I’ll finish here.’

She found his eyes. ‘Don’t feed on it, John. Don’t keep it all inside.’

‘Okay, Doc.’ He pecked her cheek again. ‘Now vamoose.’

He managed a smile and a wink: both felt treacherous. He stood at the door and watched her leave. A lot of times while he’d been married, he’d thought of just walking. There were times when all the responsibilities and the shite at work and the pressure and the
need
would make him dream of escape.

He was tempted again now. Push open the door and head off to somewhere that wasn’t here, to do something that wasn’t this. But that, too, would be treachery. He had scores to settle, and a reason to settle them. He knew Telford was somewhere in the building, probably consulting with Charles Groal, saying nothing to anyone else. He wondered how the team were playing it. When would they let Telford know about the tape? When would they tell him
the security guard had been a plant? When would they tell him that same man was now dead?

He hoped they were being clever. He hoped they were rattling Telford’s cage.

He couldn’t help wondering – and not for the first time – if it was all worth it. Some cops treated it like a game, others like a crusade, and for most of the rest it was neither, just a way of earning their daily bread. He asked himself why he’d invited Jack Morton in. Answers: because he’d wanted a
friend
involved, someone who’d keep
him
in the game; because he’d thought Jack was bored, and would enjoy the challenge; because tactics had demanded an outsider. There were plenty of reasons. Claverhouse had asked if Morton had any family, anyone who should be informed. Rebus had told him: divorced, four kids.

Did Rebus blame Claverhouse? Easy to be wise after the event, but then Claverhouse’s reputation had been built on being wise
before
the event. And he’d failed … monumentally.

Icy roads: they’d needed the gates closed. The blockade had been too easy to move with the horsepower available to a truck.

Marksmen in the building: fine in the enclosed space of the yard, but they’d failed to keep the truck there, and the marksmen had been ineffectual once the truck had reversed out.

More armed officers
behind
the truck: producing little but a crossfire hazard.

Claverhouse should have got them to turn off the ignition, or – better still – waited for it to be turned off before making his presence known.

Jack Morton should have kept his head down.

And Rebus should have warned him.

Only, a shout would have turned the gunmen’s attention towards him. Cowardice: was that what was at the bottom
of his feelings? Simple human cowardice. Like in the bar in Belfast, when he hadn’t said anything, fearing Mean Machine’s wrath, fearing a rifle-butt turned on
him
. Maybe that was why – no,
of course
that was why – Lintz had got beneath Rebus’s skin. Because when it came down to it, if Rebus had been in Villefranche … drunk on failure, the dream of conquest over … if he’d been under orders, just a lackey with a gun … if he’d been primed by racism and the loss of comrades … who was to say what he’d have done?

‘Christ, John, how long have you been out here?’

It was Bobby Hogan, touching his face, prising the folder from frozen fingers.

‘You’re like ice, man, let’s get you inside.’

‘I’m fine,’ Rebus breathed. And it had to be true: how else to explain the sweat on his back and his brow? How else to explain that he only started shivering
after
Bobby led him indoors?

Hogan got two mugs of sweet tea into him. The station was still buzzing: shock, rumour, theories. Rebus filled Hogan in.

‘They’ll have to let Telford walk, if nobody talks.’

‘What about the tape?’

‘They’ll want to spring that later … if they’re being canny.’

‘Who’s in with him?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Farmer Watson himself, last time I heard. He was doing a double-act with Bill Pryde, but I saw Bill later, so they’ve either taken a break or else done a swop.’

Hogan shook his head. ‘What a fucking business.’

Rebus stared at his tea. ‘I hate sugar.’

‘You drank the first mug all right.’

‘Did I?’ He took a mouthful, squirmed.

‘What the hell did you think you were doing out there?’

‘Catching a breath.’

‘Catching your death more like.’ Hogan patted down an unruly clump of hair. ‘I had a visit from a man called Harris.’

‘What are you going to do?’

Hogan shrugged. ‘Let it go, I suppose.’

Rebus stared at him. ‘You might not have to.’

Colquhoun didn’t look happy to be there.

‘Thanks for coming in,’ Rebus told him.

‘I didn’t have much choice.’ He had a solicitor sitting beside him, a middle-aged man: one of Telford’s? Rebus couldn’t have cared less.

‘You might have to get used to not having choices, Dr Colquhoun. Know who else is in here tonight? Tommy Telford; Brian Summers.’

‘Who?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘You’re getting your script wrong. It’s okay for you to know who they are: we talked about them in front of Candice.’

Colquhoun’s face flushed.

‘You remember Candice, don’t you? Her real name’s Karina: did I ever tell you that? She’s got a son somewhere, only they took him away. Maybe she’ll find him one day, maybe not.’

‘I don’t see what this –’