And now a woman was emerging. Short black dress and black tights, fur jacket keeping out the chills. Tarawicz rubbed a hand over her backside; Telford kissed her on the neck. She smiled, eyes slightly glazed. Then Tarawicz and Telford turned towards the Range Rover. They were both staring at Rebus.
‘Trip’s over, Inspector,’ Pretty-Boy said, telling Rebus it was time to get out. He did so, his eyes on Candice. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was snuggling into Mr Pink Eyes, head on his chest. He was still rubbing her backside, the dress rising and falling. He was watching Rebus, eyes alight, face pulled into a latex grin. Rebus walked over to them, and now Candice saw him, and looked frightened.
‘Inspector,’ Tarawicz said, ‘good to see you again. Come to whisk the damsel away to safety?’
Rebus ignored him. ‘Come on, Candice.’ His hand, not quite steady, held out towards her.
She looked at him and shook her head. ‘Why would I want that?’ she said, and was rewarded with another kiss from Tarawicz.
‘You were abducted. You can press charges.’
Tarawicz was laughing, leading her into the café.
‘Candice.’ Rebus reached for her arm, but she pulled away and followed her master inside.
Two of Telford’s men were blocking the door. Pretty-Boy was behind Rebus.
‘No cheap heroics?’ he asked, making to pass the policeman.
Back at St Leonard’s, Rebus took Farlowe his food and newspapers, then hitched a lift in a patrol car to Torphichen. The man he wanted was DI ‘Shug’ Davidson, and Davidson was in the CID office, looking frazzled.
‘Somebody torched a taxi rank,’ he told Rebus.
‘Any idea who?’
Davidson’s eyes narrowed. ‘The rank was owned by Jock Scallow. Is there something you’re trying to tell me?’
‘Who really owned the outfit, Shug?’
‘You know damned well.’
‘And who’s muscling in on Cafferty’s patch?’
‘I’ve heard rumours.’
Rebus rested against Davidson’s desk. ‘Tommy Telford’s going into combat, unless we can stop him.’
‘“We”?’
‘I want you to take me somewhere,’ Rebus said.
Shug Davidson was happily married to an understanding wife, and had kids who didn’t see as much of him as they deserved. A year back, he’d won forty grand on the Lottery. Everyone in his station got a drink. The rest of the money had been salted away.
Rebus had worked with him before. He wasn’t a bad cop, maybe lacking a little in imagination. They had to work their way around the scene of the fire. A further mile and a half on, Rebus told him to stop.
‘What is it?’ Davidson asked.
‘That’s what I want you to tell me.’ Rebus was looking towards the brick building, the same one which so interested Tommy Telford.
‘It’s Maclean’s,’ Davidson said.
‘And what’s Maclean’s when it’s at home?’
Davidson smiled. ‘You really don’t know?’ He opened his car door. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’
They had to have their identities checked at the main entrance. Rebus noticed a lot of security, albeit subtle: cameras trained down from the corners of the building, catching every angle of approach. A phone call was made, and a man in a white coat came down to sign them in. They pinned visitor’s badges to their jackets, and the tour began.
‘I’ve been here before,’ Davidson confided. ‘If you ask me, it’s the best kept secret in the city.’
They climbed steps, walked down passageways. Everywhere there was security: guards checked their badges; doors had to be unlocked; cameras charted their progress. Which puzzled Rebus, for it was such an unassuming building, really. And nothing spectacular was happening.
‘What is it, Fort Knox?’ he asked. But then their guide handed them white coats to put on, before pushing open the door to a laboratory, and Rebus started to understand.
People were working with chemicals, examining test-tubes, writing notes. There were all sorts of weird and wonderful machines, but in essence it was a school chemistry-lab on a slightly grander scale.
‘Welcome,’ Davidson said, ‘to the world’s biggest drugs factory.’
Which wasn’t quite correct, for Maclean’s was only the world’s largest legal producer of heroin and cocaine, something the guide explained.
‘We’re licensed by the government. Back in 1961 there was an international agreement: every country in the world was allowed just one producer, and we’re it for Britain.’
‘So what do you make?’ Rebus was staring at the rows of locked fridges.
‘All sorts of things: methadone for heroin addicts, pethedine for women in labour. Diamorphine to ease terminal illnesses and cocaine for use in medical procedures. The company started out supplying laudanum to the Victorians.’
‘And these days?’
‘We produce about seventy tonnes of opiates a year,’ the guide said. ‘And around two million pounds’ worth of pure cocaine.’
Rebus rubbed his forehead. ‘I begin to see the need for security.’
The guide smiled. ‘The MoD has asked us for advice – that’s how good our security is.’
‘No break-ins?’
‘A couple of attempts, nothing we couldn’t deal with.’
No, Rebus thought, but then you’ve never had to deal with Tommy Telford and the Yakuza ... not yet.
Rebus walked around the lab, smiled and nodded at a woman who just seemed to be standing there, not doing anything.
‘Who’s she?’ he asked the guide.
‘Our nurse. She’s on stand-by.’
‘What for?’
The guide nodded towards where a man was operating one of the machines. ‘Etorphine,’ he said. ‘Forty thousand pounds a kilo, and extremely potent. The nurse has the antidote, just in case.’
‘So what’s it used for, this etorphine?’
‘Knocking out rhinos,’ the guide said, like the answer should have been obvious.
The cocaine was produced from coca leaves flown in from Peru. The opium came from plantations in Tasmania and Australia. The pure heroin and cocaine were kept in a strongroom. Each lab had its share of locked safes. The storage warehouse boasted infrared detectors and movement sensors. Five minutes in the place told Rebus exactly why Tommy Telford was interested in Maclean’s. And he’d brought the Yakuza in on the plan either because he needed their help – which was unlikely – or to brag about the exploit.
Back at the car, Davidson asked the obvious question.
‘What’s this all about, John?’
Rebus pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I think Telford’s planning to hit this place.’
Davidson snorted. ‘He’d never get in. Like you said yourself, it’s Fort bloody Knox.’
‘It’s a prestige thing, Shug. If he can empty the place, it’ll make his name. He’ll have beaten Cafferty hands down.’ It was the same with the fire-bombings: they weren’t just a message to Cafferty, but a sort of ‘red carpet’ for Mr Pink Eyes – welcome to Edinburgh, and look what I can do.
‘I’m telling you,’ Davidson said, ‘there’s no way in. Christ, that’s cheap!’ Davidson’s attention had been diverted by signs on the window of the corner shop. Rebus looked, too. Cut-price cigarettes. Cheap sandwiches and hot rolls. Plus five pence off any morning paper.
‘Competition around here must be crippling,’ Davidson said. ‘Fancy a roll?’
Rebus was watching workers leaving the gates of Maclean’s. Afternoon break maybe. Saw them cross the road, dodging traffic. Counting small change from their pockets as they pushed open the door to the shop.
‘Yes,’ Rebus said quietly, ‘why not?’
The small shop was packed out. Davidson got in the queue, while Rebus looked at the rack of papers and magazines. The workers were sharing jokes and gossip. Two staff worked behind the counter – young males, mixing banter with less-than-efficient service.
‘W
hat do you fancy, John? Bacon?’
‘Fine,’ Rebus said. Remembered he hadn’t had lunch. ‘Make it two.’
Two bacon rolls came in at one pound exactly. They sat in the car to eat.
‘You know, Shug, the usual ploy with a shop like that is to take a beating on one or two necessities to get the punters in.’ Davidson nodded, attacked his roll. ‘But that place looked like Bargain City.’ Rebus had stopped eating. ‘Do us both a favour: find out the shop’s history, who owns it, who those two are behind the counter.’
Davidson’s chewing slowed. ‘You think ... ?’
‘Just check it out, all right?’
22
Back at St Leonard’s, his telephone was ringing. He sat down and prised the lid from a beaker of coffee. On the drive back he’d been thinking about Candice. Two swigs of coffee and he lifted the receiver.
‘DI Rebus,’ he said.
‘What the fuck is that little shite up to?’ The voice of Big Ger Cafferty.
‘Where are you?’
‘Where do you think I am?’
‘Sounds like a mobile.’
‘Amazing the things that find their way into Barlinnie. Now tell me, what is happening over there?’
‘You’ve heard then.’
‘He torched my house! My house! Am I supposed to let him get away with that?’
‘Look, I think I may have found a way to get to him.’
Cafferty calmed a little. ‘Tell me?’
‘Not yet, I want to –’
‘And all my taxis,’ Cafferty exploded again. ‘The little bastard!’
‘Look, the point is: what’s he expecting you to do? He’s waiting for instant retaliation.’
‘And he’s going to get it.’
‘He’ll be ready. Wouldn’t it be better to catch him off-guard?’
‘That little bastard hasn’t been off-guard since he was lifted from the cradle.’
‘Shall I tell you why he did it?’
Cafferty’s anger ebbed again. ‘Why?’
‘Because he says you killed Matsumoto.’
‘Who?’
‘A business acquaintance. Whoever did it made it look like I was behind the wheel.’
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘Try telling Telford that. He thinks you ordered me to do it.’
‘We know differently.’
‘That’s right. We know someone was setting me up, trying to get me out of the way.’
‘What was his name again, the dead one?’
‘Matsumoto.’
‘Is that Japanese?’
Rebus wished he could see Cafferty’s eyes. Even then, it was hard to tell when the man was playing games.
‘He was Japanese,’ Rebus stated.
‘What the hell did he have to do with Telford?’
‘Sounds to me like your intelligence has gone to pot.’
There was silence on the line. ‘About your daughter ...’
Rebus froze. ‘What about her?’
‘A secondhand shop in Porty.’ Meaning Portobello. ‘The owner bought some stuff from a seller. Including opera tapes and Roy Orbison. Stuck in his mind. They don’t naturally go together.’
Rebus’s hand tightened on the receiver. ‘Which shop? What did the seller look like?’
Cold laughter. ‘We’re working on it, Strawman, just leave everything to us. Now, about this Japanese fellow ...?’
‘I said I’d put Telford out of the game. That was the agreement.’
‘I’ve yet to see any action.’
‘I’m working on it!’
‘I want to hear about him anyway.’
Rebus paused.
‘How is Samantha anyway?’ Cafferty asked. ‘That’s her name, isn’t it?’
‘She’s ...’
‘Because it looks like I’ll be fulfilling my side of our bargain any day. While you, on the other hand ...’
‘Matsumoto was Yakuza: heard of them?’
A moment’s silence. ‘I’ve heard of them.’
‘Telford’s helping them buy a country club.’
‘What in God’s name do they want with that?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Cafferty was silent again. Rebus almost thought his mobile had died. Then: ‘He’s got big ideas, hasn’t he?’ Like there was just a touch of respect there, battling the sense of territorial breach.
‘We’ve both seen people overreach themselves.’ An idea formed in Rebus’s mind, a sudden notion of where everything was headed.
‘Looks like Telford’s got plenty of stretch left in him though,’ Cafferty was saying. ‘And me, I’m not even halfway through my stretch.’
‘Know something, Cafferty? Every time you start to sound beaten, that’s when I know you’re just coming to the boil.’
‘You know I’m going to have to retaliate, whether I want to or not. A little ritual we have to go through, like shaking hands.’
‘How many men have you got?’
‘More than enough.’
‘Listen, one last thing ...’ Rebus couldn’t believe he was telling his arch-enemy this. ‘Jake Tarawicz arrived here today. I think the fireworks were meant to impress him.’
‘Telford torched my house just so he’d have something to show that ugly Russian bastard?’
Like a kid showing off to his elders, Rebus was thinking. Overreaching himself ...
‘That’s it, Strawman!’ Cafferty was back to being furious. ‘All bets are off. Those two want to get dirty with Morris Gerald Cafferty, I’ll give them both anthrax. I’ll infect the pair of them. They’ll think they’ve caught full-blown fucking AIDS by the time I’m finished!’
Which was about as much as Rebus could take. He put down the phone, drank his cold coffee, checked his messages. Patience wondered if he could make it to supper. Rhona said they’d carried out another scan. Bobby Hogan wanted a word.
He called the hospital first. Rhona said something about a new scan to assess the amount of damage done to the brain.
‘Then why the hell didn’t they give her that scan straight away?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you ask?’
‘Why don’t you come down here? Why don’t you ask? Seems like when I’m not here, you’re happy enough spending time with Samantha, even sleeping in the chair. What is it – do I scare you off?’
‘Look, Rhona, I’m sorry. It’s been a rough day.’
‘For you and everyone else.’
‘I know. I’m a selfish bastard.’
The rest of their conversation was predictable. It was a relief to say goodbye. He tried Patience, got her answering machine, and told it he’d be happy to accept the invitation. Then he called Bobby Hogan.
‘Hiya, Bobby, what’ve you got?’
‘Not much. I had a word with Telford.’
‘I know, he told me.’
‘You’ve been speaking to him?’
‘Says he never knew Lintz. Did you talk to The Family?’
‘The ones who frequent the office. Same story.’
‘Did you mention the five thou’?’
‘Think I’m stupid? Listen, I thought you might be able to help me.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Lintz’s address book, I found a couple of addresses for a Dr Colquhoun. Thought at first it must be his GP.’
‘He’s a Slavic Studies lecturer.’
‘Only Lintz seems to have been keeping track of him. Three changes of address, going back twenty years. First two addresses have phone numbers with them, but not the most recent. I checked, and Colquhoun’s only been at this latest address three years.’
‘So?’
‘So Lintz didn’t have his home phone number. So if he wanted to speak to him ...’
Rebus twigged. ‘He’d phone the university.’ The call on Lintz’s bill: twenty-odd minutes. Rebus was remembering what Colquhoun had said about Lintz.
I met him at a few social functions ... our departments weren’t that
close ... As I say, we weren’t close ...
‘They weren’t in the same department,’ Rebus said. ‘Colquhoun told me they’d barely met ...’
‘So how come Lintz has been keeping up with Colquhoun’s various moves around the city?’
‘Beats me, Bobby. Have you asked him?’
‘No, but I intend to.’
‘He’s lying low. I’ve been trying to talk to him for a week.’ Last seen at the Morvena: did Colquhoun link Telford to Lintz?
‘Well, he’s back now.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve an appointment with him at his office.’
‘Count me in,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet.
*
As Rebus parked in Buccleuch Place – he was in an unmarked Astra, courtesy of St Leonard’s – he saw the car in the neighbouring bay make to leave. He waved, but Kirstin Mede didn’t see him, and by the time he’d found the horn, she’d pulled away. He wondered how well she knew Colquhoun. After all, she’d been the one to suggest him as a translator ...
Hogan, standing by the railings, had seen Rebus’s attempts at communication.
‘Someone you know?’
‘Kirstin Mede.’
Hogan placed the name. ‘The one who did those translations?’
Rebus looked up at the Slavic Studies building. ‘Have you tracked down David Levy?’
‘Daughter still hasn’t heard from him.’
‘How long has that been?’
‘Long enough to seem suspicious in itself, only she doesn’t seem too bothered.’
‘How do you want to play this?’ Rebus asked.
‘Depends what he’s like.’
‘You ask your questions. Me, I just want to be there.’
Hogan looked at him, then shrugged and pushed open the door. They started to climb the worn stone steps. ‘Hope they haven’t put him in the penthouse.’
Colquhoun’s name was on a piece of card stuck to a door on the second floor. They pushed it open, and were confronted with a short hallway and another five or six doors. Colquhoun’s office was first on the right, and he was already standing in the doorway.
‘Thought I heard you. Sound carries in this place. Come in, come in.’ He wasn’t expecting Hogan to have company. His words dried up when he saw Rebus. He walked back into his office, motioned for both officers to sit, then fussed about moving their chairs around so they’d be facing his desk.