The Hanging Garden (8 page)

‘Better?’ he asked, making the thumbs-up sign. She nodded, smiling. ‘Do you want some tea?’ He pointed to the kettle. She nodded again, so he made her a cup. Then he suggested a trip to the snack machine. Their haul included crisps, nuts, chocolate, and a couple of cans of Coke. Another cup of tea finished off the tiny cartons of milk. Rebus lay along the sofa, shoes off, watching soundless television. Candice lay on the bed, fully-clothed, sliding the occasional crisp from its packet, flicking channels. She seemed to have forgotten he was there. He took this as a compliment.

He must have fallen asleep. The touch of her fingers on his knee brought him awake. She was standing in front of him, wearing the t-shirt and nothing else. She stared at him, fingers still resting on his knee. He smiled, shook his head, led her back to bed. Made her lie down. She lay on her back, arms stretched. He shook his head again and pulled the duvet over her.

‘That’s not you any more,’ he told her. ‘Goodnight, Candice.’

Rebus retreated to the sofa, lay down again, and wished she would stop saying his name.

The Doors: ‘Wishful Sinful’ …

A tapping at the door brought him awake. Still dark outside. He’d forgotten to close the window, and the room was cold. The TV was still playing, but Candice was asleep, duvet kicked off, chocolate wrappers strewn around her bare legs and thighs. Rebus covered her up, then tiptoed to the door, peered through the spyhole, and opened up.

‘For this relief, much thanks,’ he whispered to Siobhan Clarke.

She was carrying a bulging polythene bag. ‘Thank God for the twenty-four-hour shop.’ They went inside. Clarke looked at the sleeping woman, then went over to the sofa and started unpacking the bag.

‘For you,’ she whispered, ‘a couple of sandwiches.’

‘God bless the child.’

‘For sleeping beauty, some of my clothes. They’ll do till the shops open.’

Rebus was already biting into the first sandwich. Cheese salad on white bread had never tasted finer.

‘How am I getting home?’ he asked.

‘I called you a cab.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’ll be here in two minutes.’

‘What would I do without you?’

‘It’s a toss-up: either freeze to death or starve.’ She closed the window. ‘Now go on, get out of here.’

He looked at Candice one last time, almost wanting to wake her to let her know he wasn’t leaving for good. But she was sleeping so soundly, and Siobhan could take care of everything.

So he tucked the second sandwich into his pocket, tossed the room-key on to the sofa, and left.

Four-thirty. The taxi was idling outside. Rebus felt hungover. He went through a mental list of all the places he could get a drink at this time of night. He didn’t know how many days it had been since he’d had a drink. He wasn’t counting.

He gave his address to the cabbie, and settled back, thinking again of Candice, so soundly asleep, and protected for now. And of Sammy, too old now to need anything from her father. She’d be asleep too, snuggling into Ned Farlowe. Sleep was innocence. Even the city looked innocent in sleep. He looked at the city sometimes and saw
a beauty his cynicism couldn’t touch. Someone in a bar – recently? years back? – had challenged him to define romance. How could he do that? He’d seen too much of love’s obverse: people killed for passion and from lack of it. So that now when he saw beauty, he could do little but respond to it with the realisation that it would fade or be brutalised. He saw lovers in Princes Street Gardens and imagined them further down the road, at the crossroads where betrayal and conflict met. He saw valentines in the shops and imagined puncture wounds, real hearts bleeding.

Not that he’d voiced any of this to his public bar inquisitor.

‘Define romance,’ had been the challenge. And Rebus’s response? He’d picked up a fresh pint of beer and kissed the glass.

He slept till nine, showered and made some coffee. Then he phoned the hotel, and Siobhan assured him all was well.

‘She was a bit startled when she woke up and saw me instead of you. Kept saying your name. I told her she’d see you again.’

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘Shopping – one quick swoop on The Gyle. After that, Fettes. Dr Colquhoun’s coming in at noon for an hour. We’ll see what we get.’

Rebus was at his window, looking down on a damp Arden Street. ‘Take care of her, Siobhan.’

‘No problem.’

Rebus knew there’d be no problem, not with Siobhan. This was her first real action with the Crime Squad, she’d be doing her damnedest to make it a success. He was in the kitchen when the phone rang.

‘Is that Inspector Rebus?’

‘Who’s speaking?’ A voice he didn’t recognise.

‘Inspector, my name is David Levy. We’ve never met. I
apologise for calling you at home. I was given this number by Matthew Vanderhyde.’

Old man Vanderhyde: Rebus hadn’t seen him in a while.

‘Yes?’

‘I must say, I was astonished when it transpired he knew you.’ The voice was tinged with a dry humour. ‘But by now nothing about Matthew should surprise me. I went to him because he knows Edinburgh.’

‘Yes?’

Laughter on the line. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I can’t blame you for being suspicious when I’ve made such a mess of the introductions. I am a historian by profession. I’ve been contacted by Solomon Mayerlink to see if I might offer assistance.’

Mayerlink … Rebus knew the name. Placed it: Mayerlink ran the Holocaust Investigation Bureau.

‘And exactly what “assistance” does Mr Mayerlink think I need?’

‘Perhaps we could discuss it in person, Inspector. I’m staying in a hotel on Charlotte Square.’

‘The Roxburghe?’

‘Could we meet there? This morning, ideally.’

Rebus looked at his watch. ‘An hour?’ he suggested.

‘Perfect. Goodbye, Inspector.’

Rebus called into the office, told them where he’d be.

They sat in the Roxburghe’s lounge, Levy pouring coffee. An elderly couple in the far corner, beside the window, pored over sections of newspaper. David Levy was elderly, too. He wore black-rimmed glasses and had a small silver beard. His hair was a silver halo around a scalp the colour of tanned leather. His eyes seemed constantly moist, as if he’d just chewed on an onion. He sported a dun-coloured safari suit with blue shirt and tie beneath. His walking-stick rested against his chair. Now retired, he’d worked in Oxford, New York State, Tel Aviv itself, and several other locations around the globe.

‘I never came into contact with Joseph Lintz, however. No reason why I should, our interests being different.’

‘So why does Mr Mayerlink think you can help me?’

Levy put the coffee pot back on its tray. ‘Milk? Sugar?’ Rebus shook his head to both, then repeated his question.

‘Well, Inspector,’ Levy said, tipping two spoonfuls of sugar into his own cup, ‘it’s more a matter of moral support.’

‘Moral support?’

‘You see, many people before you have been in the same position in which you now find yourself. I’m talking about objective people, professionals with no axe to grind, and no real stake in the investigation.’

Rebus bristled. ‘If you’re suggesting I’m not doing my job …’

A pained look crossed Levy’s face. ‘Please, Inspector,
I’m not making a very good job of this, am I? What I mean is that there will be times when you will doubt the validity of what you are doing. You’ll doubt its worth.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Perhaps you’ve already had doubts?’

Rebus said nothing. He had a drawerful of doubts, especially now that he had a real, living, breathing case – Candice. Candice, who might lead to Tommy Telford.

‘You could say I’m here as your conscience, Inspector.’ Levy winced again. ‘No, I didn’t put that right, either. You already have a conscience, that’s not under debate.’ He sighed. ‘The question you’ve no doubt been pondering is the same one I’ve asked myself on occasions: can time wash away responsibility? For me, the answer would have to be no. The thing is this, Inspector.’ Levy leaned forward. ‘You are not investigating the crimes of an old man, but those of a young man who now happens to be old. Focus your mind on that. There have been investigations before, half-hearted affairs. Governments wait for these men to die rather than have to try them. But each investigation is an act of remembrance, and remembrance is never wasted. Remembrance is the only way we learn.’

‘Like we’ve learned with Bosnia?’

‘You’re right, Inspector, as a species we’ve always been slow to take in lessons. Sometimes they have to be hammered home.’

‘And you think I’m your carpenter? Were there Jews in Villefranche?’ Rebus couldn’t remember reading of any.

‘Does it matter?’

‘I’m just wondering, why the interest?’

‘To be honest, Inspector, there is a slight ulterior motive.’ Levy sipped coffee, considering his words. ‘The Rat Line. We’d like to show that it existed, that it operated to save Nazis from possible tormentors.’ He paused. ‘That it worked with the tacit approval – the
more
than tacit
approval – of several western governments and even the Vatican. It’s a question of general complicity.’

‘What you want is for everyone to feel guilty?’

‘We want recognition, Inspector. We want the truth. Isn’t that what you want? Matthew Vanderhyde would have me believe it is your guiding principle.’

‘He doesn’t know me very well.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Meantime, there are people out there who want the truth to stay hidden.’

‘The truth being …?’

‘That known war criminals were brought back to Britain – and elsewhere – and offered new lives, new identities.’

‘In exchange for what?’

‘The Cold War was starting, Inspector. You know the old saying: My enemy’s enemy is my friend. These murderers were protected by the secret services. Military Intelligence offered them jobs. There are people who would rather this did not become general knowledge.’

‘So?’

‘So a trial, an open trial, would expose them.’

‘You’re warning me about spooks?’

Levy put his hands together, almost in an attitude of prayer. ‘Look, I’m not sure this has been a completely satisfactory meeting, and for that I apologise. I’ll be staying here for a few days, maybe longer if necessary. Could we try this again?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, think about it, won’t you?’ Levy extended his right hand. Rebus took it. ‘I’ll be right here, Inspector. Thank you for seeing me.’

‘Take care, Mr Levy.’

‘
Shalom
, Inspector.’

At his desk, Rebus could still feel Levy’s handshake. Surrounded by the Villefranche files, he felt like the curator
of some museum visited only by specialists and cranks. Evil had been done in Villefranche, but had Joseph Lintz been responsible? And even if he had, had he perhaps atoned during the past half-century? Rebus phoned the Procurator-Fiscal’s office to let them know how little progress he was making. They thanked him for calling. Then he went to see the Farmer.

‘Come in, John, what can I do for you?’

‘Sir, did you know the Crime Squad had set up a surveillance on our patch?’

‘You mean Flint Street?’

‘So you know about it?’

‘They keep me informed.’

‘Who’s acting as liaison?’

The Farmer frowned. ‘As I say, John, they keep me informed.’

‘So there’s no liaison at street level?’ The Farmer stayed silent. ‘By rights there should be, sir.’

‘What are you getting at, John?’

‘I want the job.’

The Farmer stared at his desk. ‘You’re busy on Villefranche.’

‘I want the job, sir.’

‘John, liaison means diplomacy. It’s never been your strongest suit.’

So Rebus explained about Candice, and how he was already tied into the case. ‘And since I’m already in, sir,’ he concluded, ‘I might as well act as liaison.’

‘What about Villefranche?’

‘That remains a priority, sir.’

The Farmer looked into his eyes. Rebus didn’t blink. ‘All right then,’ he said at last.

‘You’ll let Fettes know?’

‘I’ll let them know.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Rebus turned to leave.

‘John …?’ The Farmer was standing behind his desk. ‘You know what I’m going to say.’

‘You’re going to tell me not to tread on too many toes, not to go off on my own little crusade, to keep in regular contact with you, and not betray your trust in me. Does that just about do it, sir?’

The Farmer shook his head, smiling. ‘Bugger off,’ he said.

Rebus buggered off.

When he walked into the room, Candice rose so quickly from her chair that it fell to the floor. She came forward and gave him a hug, while Rebus looked at the faces around them – Ormiston, Claverhouse, Dr Colquhoun, and a WPC.

They were in an Interview Room at Fettes, Lothian and Borders Police HQ. Colquhoun was wearing the same suit as the previous day and the same nervous look. Ormiston was picking up Candice’s chair. He’d been standing against one wall. Claverhouse was seated at the table beside Colquhoun, a pad of paper in front of him, pen poised above it.

‘She says she’s happy to see you,’ Colquhoun translated.

‘I’d never have guessed.’ Candice was wearing new clothes: denims too long for her and turned up four inches at the ankle; a black woollen v-neck jumper. Her skiing jacket was hanging over the back of her chair.

‘Get her to sit down again, will you?’ Claverhouse said. ‘We’re pushed for time.’

There was no chair for Rebus, so he stood next to Ormiston and the WPC. Candice went back to the story she’d been telling, but glanced regularly towards him. He noticed that beside Claverhouse’s pad of paper sat a brown folder and an A4-sized envelope. On top of the envelope sat a black and white surveillance shot of Tommy Telford.

‘This man,’ Claverhouse asked, tapping the photo, ‘she knows him?’

Colquhoun asked, then listened to her answer. ‘She …’ He cleared his throat. ‘She hasn’t had any direct dealings with him.’ Her two-minute commentary reduced to this. Claverhouse dipped into the envelope, spread more photos before her. Candice tapped one of them.

‘Pretty-Boy,’ Claverhouse said. He picked up the photo of Telford again. ‘But she’s had dealings with this man, too?’