The Hanging Garden Page 2

  A man sat in the driver’s seat, a woman next to him. They looked cold and bored. The woman was Detective Constable Siobhan Clarke, who had worked with Rebus at St Leonard’s until a recent posting to the Scottish Crime Squad. The man, a Detective Sergeant called Claverhouse, was a Crime Squad regular. They were part of a team keeping twenty-four-hour tabs on Tommy Telford and all his deeds. Their slumped shoulders and pale faces bespoke not only tedium but the sure knowledge that surveillance was futile.

  It was futile because Telford owned the street. Nobody parked here without him knowing who and why. The other two cars parked just now were Range Rovers belonging to Telford’s gang. Anything but a Range Rover stuck out. The Crime Squad had a specially adapted van which they usually used for surveillance, but that wouldn’t work in Flint Street. Any van parked here for longer than five minutes received close and personal attention from a couple of Telford’s men. They were trained to be courteous and menacing at the same time.

  ‘Undercover bloody surveillance,’ Claverhouse growled. ‘Only we’re not undercover and there’s nothing to survey.’ He tore at a Snickers wrapper with his teeth and offered the first bite to Siobhan Clarke, who shook her head.

  ‘Shame about those flats,’ she said, peering up through the windscreen. ‘They’d be perfect.’

  ‘Except Telford owns them all,’ Claverhouse said through a mouthful of chocolate.

  ‘Are they all occupied?’ Rebus asked. He’d been in the car a minute and already his toes were cold.

  ‘Some of them are empty,’ Clarke said. ‘Telford uses them for storage.’

  ‘But every bugger in and out of the main door gets spotted,’ Claverhouse added. ‘We’ve had meter readers and plumbers try to wangle their way in.’

  ‘Who was acting the plumber?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Ormiston. Why?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘Just need someone to fix a tap in my bathroom.’

  Claverhouse smiled. He was tall and skinny, with huge dark bags under his eyes and thinning fair hair. Slow-moving and slow-talking, people often underestimated him. Those who did sometimes discovered that his nickname of ‘Bloody’ Claverhouse was merited.

  Clarke checked her watch. ‘Ninety minutes till the changeover.’

  ‘You could do with the heating on,’ Rebus offered. Claverhouse turned in his seat.

  ‘That’s what I keep telling her, but she won’t have it.’

  ‘Why not?’ He caught Clarke’s eyes in the rearview. She was smiling.

  ‘Because,’ Claverhouse said, ‘it means running the engine, and running the engine when we’re not going anywhere is wasteful. Global warming or something.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Clarke said.

  Rebus winked at her reflection. It looked like she’d been accepted by Claverhouse, which meant acceptance by the whole team at Fettes. Rebus, the perennial outsider, envied her the ability to conform.

  ‘Bloody useless anyway,’ Claverhouse continued. ‘The bugger knows we’re here. The van was blown after twenty minutes, the plumber routine didn’t even get Ormiston over the threshhold, and now here we are, the only sods on the whole street. We couldn’t blend in less if we were doing panto.’

  ‘Visible presence as a deterrent,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Aye, right, a few more nights of this and I’m sure Tommy’ll be back on the straight and narrow.’ Claverhouse shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. ‘Any word of Candice?’

  Sammy had asked her father the same thing. Rebus shook his head.

  ‘You still think Tarawicz snatched her? No chance she did a runner?’

  Rebus snorted.

  ‘Just because you want it to be them doesn’t mean it was. My advice: leave it to us. Forget about her. You’ve got that Adolf thing to keep you busy.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘Did you ever track down Colquhoun?’

  ‘Sudden holiday. His office got a doctor’s line.’

  ‘I think we did for him.’

  Rebus realised one of his hands was caressing his breast pocket. ‘So is Telford in the café or what?’

  ‘Went in about an hour ago,’ Clarke said. ‘There’s a room at the back, he uses that. He seems to like the arcade, too. Those games where you sit on a motorbike and do the circuit.’

  ‘We need someone on the inside,’ Claverhouse said. ‘Either that or wire the place.’

  ‘We couldn’t even get a plumber in there,’ Rebus said. ‘You think someone with a fistful of radio mikes is going to fare any better?’

  ‘Couldn’t do any worse.’ Claverhouse switched on the radio, seeking music.

  ‘Please,’ Clarke pleaded, ‘no country and western.’

  Rebus stared out at the café. It was well-lit with a net curtain covering the bottom half of its window. On the top half was written ‘Big Bites For Small Change’. There was a menu taped to the window, and a sandwich board on the pavement outside, which gave the café’s hours as 6.30 a.m. – 8.30 p.m. The place should have been closed for an hour.

  ‘How are his licences?’

  ‘He has lawyers,’ Clarke said.

  ‘First thing we tried,’ Claverhouse added. ‘He’s applied for a late-night extension. I can’t see the neighbours complaining.’

  ‘Well,’ Rebus said, ‘much as I’d love to sit around here chatting …’

  ‘End of liaison?’ Clarke asked. She was keeping her humour, but Rebus could see she was tired. Disrupted sleep pattern, body chill, plus the boredom of a surveillance you know is going nowhere. It was never easy partnering Claverhouse: no great fund of stories, just constant reminding that they had to do everything ‘the right way’, meaning by the book.

  ‘Do us a favour,’ Claverhouse said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a chippy across from the Odeon.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just a poke of chips.’

  ‘Siobhan?’

  ‘Irn-Bru.’

  ‘Oh, and John?’ Claverhouse added as Rebus stepped out of the car. ‘Ask them for a hot-water bottle while you’re at it.’

  A car turned into the street, speeding up then screeching to a halt outside the café. The back door nearest the kerb opened, but nobody got out. The car accelerated away, door still hanging open, but there was something on the pavement now, something crawling, trying to push itself upright.

  ‘Get after them!’ Rebus shouted. Claverhouse had already turned the ignition, slammed the gear-shift into first. Clarke was on the radio as the car pulled away. As Rebus crossed the street, the man got to his feet. He stood with one hand against the café window, the other held to his head. As Rebus approached, the man seemed to sense his presence, staggered away from the café into the road.

  ‘Christ!’ he yelled. ‘Help me!’ He fell to his knees again, both hands scrabbling at his scalp. His face was a mask of blood. Rebus crouched in front of him.

  ‘We’ll get you an ambulance,’ he said. A crowd had gathered at the window of the café. The door had been pulled open, and two young men were watching, like they were onlookers at a piece of street theatre. Rebus recognised them: Kenny Houston and Pretty-Boy. ‘Don’t just stand there!’ he yelled. Houston looked to Pretty-Boy, but Pretty-Boy wasn’t moving. Rebus took out his mobile, called in the emergency, his eyes fixing on Pretty-Boy: black wavy hair, eyeliner. Black leather jacket, black polo-neck, black jeans. Stones: ‘Paint it Black’. But the face chalk-white, like it had been powdered. Rebus walked up to the door. Behind him, the man was beginning to wail, a roar of pain echoing into the night sky.

  ‘We don’t know him,’ Pretty-Boy said.

  ‘I didn’t ask if you knew him, I asked for help.’

  Pretty-Boy didn’t blink. ‘The magic word.’

  Rebus got right up into his face. Pretty-Boy smiled and nodded towards Houston, who went to fetch towels.

  Most of the customers had returned to their tables. One was studying the bloody palmprint on the window. Rebus saw anothe
r group of people, watching from the doorway of a room to the back of the café. At their centre stood Tommy Telford: tall, shoulders straight, legs apart. He looked almost soldierly.

  ‘I thought you took care of your lads, Tommy!’ Rebus called to him. Telford looked straight through him, then turned back into the room. The door closed. More screams from outside. Rebus grabbed the dishtowels from Houston and ran. The bleeder was on his feet again, weaving like a boxer in defeat.

  ‘Take your hands down for a sec.’ The man lifted both hands from his matted hair, and Rebus saw a section of scalp rise with them, like it was attached to the skull by a hinge. A thin jet of blood hit Rebus in the face. He turned away and felt it against his ear, his neck. Blindly he stuck the towel on to the man’s head.

  ‘Hold this.’ Rebus grabbing the hands, forcing them on to the towel. Headlights: the unmarked police car. Claverhouse had his window down.

  ‘Lost them in Causewayside. Stolen car, I’ll bet. They’ll be hoofing it.’

  ‘We need to get this one to Emergency.’ Rebus pulled open the back door. Clarke had found a box of paper hankies and was pulling out a wad.

  ‘I think he’s beyond Kleenex,’ Rebus said as she handed them over.

  ‘They’re for you,’ she said.

  2

  It was a three-minute drive to the Royal Infirmary. Accident & Emergency was gearing up for firework casualties. Rebus went to the toilets, stripped, and rinsed himself off as best he could. His shirt was damp and cold to the touch. A line of blood had dried down the front of his chest. He turned to look in the mirror, saw more blood on his back. He had wet a clump of blue paper towels. There was a change of clothes in his car, but his car was back near Flint Street. The door of the toilets opened and Claverhouse came in.

  ‘Best I could do,’ he said, holding out a black t-shirt. There was a garish print on the front, a zombie with demon’s eyes, wielding a scythe. ‘Belongs to one of the junior doctors, made me promise to get it back to him.’

  Rebus dried himself off with another wad of towels. He asked Claverhouse how he looked.

  ‘There’s still some on your brow.’ Claverhouse wiped the bits Rebus had missed.

  ‘How is he?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘They reckon he’ll be okay, if he doesn’t get an infection on the brain.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Message to Tommy from Big Ger.’

  ‘Is he one of Tommy’s men?’

  ‘He’s not saying.’

  ‘So what’s his story?’

  ‘Fell down a flight of steps, cracked his head at the bottom.’

  ‘And the drop-off?’

  ‘Says he can’t remember.’ Claverhouse paused. ‘Eh, John …?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One of the nurses wanted me to ask you something.’

  His tone told Rebus all he needed to know. ‘AIDS test?’

  ‘They just wondered.’

  Rebus thought about it. Blood in his eyes, his ears, running down his neck. He looked himself over: no scratches or cuts. ‘Let’s wait and see,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe we should pull the surveillance,’ Claverhouse said, ‘leave them to get on with it.’

  ‘And have a fleet of ambulances standing by to pick up the bodies?’

  Claverhouse snorted. ‘Is this sort of thing Big Ger’s style?’

  ‘Very much so,’ Rebus said, reaching for his jacket.

  ‘But not that nightclub stabbing?’

  ‘No.’

  Claverhouse started laughing, but there was no humour to the sound. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Never got those chips, did we? Christ, I could use a drink.’

  Rebus reached into his jacket for the quarter-bottle of Bell’s.

  Claverhouse didn’t seem surprised as he broke the seal. He took a gulp, chased it down with another, and handed the bottle back. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’

  Rebus started screwing the top back on.

  ‘Not having one?’

  ‘I’m on the wagon.’ Rebus rubbed a thumb over the label.

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘The summer.’

  ‘So why carry a bottle around?’

  Rebus looked at it. ‘Because that’s not what it is.’

  Claverhouse looked puzzled. ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘A bomb.’ Rebus tucked the bottle back into his pocket. ‘A little suicide bomb.’

  They walked back to A&E. Siobhan Clarke was waiting for them outside a closed door.

  ‘They’ve had to sedate him,’ she said. ‘He was up on his feet again, reeling all over the place.’ She pointed to marks on the floor – airbrushed blood, smudged by footprints.

  ‘Do we have a name?’

  ‘He’s not offered one. Nothing in his pockets to identify him. Over two hundred in cash, so we can rule out a mugging. What do you reckon for a weapon? Hammer?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘A hammer would dent the skull. That flap looked too neat. I think they went for him with a cleaver.’

  ‘Or a machete,’ Claverhouse added. ‘Something like that.’

  Clarke stared at him. ‘I smell whisky.’

  Claverhouse put a finger to his lips.

  ‘Anything else?’ Rebus asked. It was Clarke’s turn to shrug.

  ‘Just one observation.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I like the t-shirt.’

  Claverhouse put money in the machine, got out three coffees. He’d called his office, told them the surveillance was suspended. Orders now were to stay at the hospital, see if the victim would say anything. The very least they wanted was an ID. Claverhouse handed a coffee to Rebus.

  ‘White, no sugar.’

  Rebus took the coffee with one hand. In the other he held a polythene laundry-bag, inside which was his shirt. He’d have a go at cleaning it. It was a good shirt.

  ‘You know, John,’ Claverhouse said, ‘there’s no point you hanging around.’

  Rebus knew. His flat was a short walk away across The Meadows. His large, empty flat. There were students through the wall. They played music a lot, stuff he didn’t recognise.

  ‘You know Telford’s gang,’ Rebus said. ‘Didn’t you recognise the face?’

  Claverhouse shrugged. ‘I thought he looked a bit like Danny Simpson.’

  ‘But you’re not sure?’

  ‘If it’s Danny, a name’s about all we can hope to get out of him. Telford picks his boys with care.’

  Clarke came towards them along the corridor. She took the coffee from Claverhouse.

  ‘It’s Danny Simpson,’ she confirmed. ‘I just got another look, now the blood’s been cleaned off.’ She took a swallow of coffee, frowned. ‘Where’s the sugar?’

  ‘You’re sweet enough already,’ Claverhouse told her.

  ‘Why did they pick on Simpson?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Wrong place, wrong time?’ Claverhouse suggested.

  ‘Plus he’s pretty low down the pecking order,’ Clarke added, ‘making it a gentle hint.’

  Rebus looked at her. Short dark hair, shrewd face with a gleam to the eyes. He knew she worked well with suspects, kept them calm, listened carefully. Good on the street, too: fast on her feet as well as in her head.

  ‘Like I say, John,’ Claverhouse said, finishing his coffee, ‘any time you want to head off …’

  Rebus looked up and down the empty corridor. ‘Am I in the way or something?’

  ‘It’s not that. But your job’s liaison – period. I know the way you work: you get attached to cases, maybe even over-attached. Look at Candice. I’m just saying …’

  ‘You’re saying, don’t butt in?’ Colour rose to Rebus’s cheeks: Look at Candice.

  ‘I’m saying it’s our case, not yours. That’s all.’

  Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t get it.’

  Clarke stepped in. ‘John, I think all he means is –’

  ‘Whoah! It’s okay, Siobhan. Let the man speak for himself.’

  Claverhouse sighed
, screwed up his empty cup and looked around for a bin. ‘John, investigating Telford means keeping half an eye on Big Ger Cafferty and his crew.’

  ‘And?’

  Claverhouse stared at him. ‘Okay, you want it spelling out? You went to Barlinnie yesterday – news travels in our business. You met Cafferty. The two of you had a chinwag.’

  ‘He asked me to go,’ Rebus lied.

  Claverhouse held up his hands. ‘Fact is, as you’ve just said, he asked you and you went.’ Claverhouse shrugged.

  ‘Are you saying I’m in his pocket?’ Rebus’s voice had risen.

  ‘Boys, boys,’ Clarke said.

  The doors at the end of the corridor had swung open. A young man in dark business suit, briefcase swinging, was coming towards the drinks machine. He was humming some tune. He stopped humming as he reached them, put down his case and searched his pockets for change. He smiled when he looked at them.

  ‘Good evening.’

  Early-thirties, black hair slicked back from his forehead. One kiss-curl looped down between his eyebrows.

  ‘Anyone got change of a pound?’

  They looked in their pockets, couldn’t find enough coins.

  ‘Never mind.’ Though the machine was flashing EXACT MONEY ONLY he stuck in the pound coin and selected tea, black, no sugar. He stooped down to retrieve the cup, but didn’t seem in a hurry to leave.

  ‘You’re police officers,’ he said. His voice was a drawl, slightly nasal: Scottish upper-class. He smiled. ‘I don’t think I know any of you professionally, but one can always tell.’

  ‘And you’re a lawyer,’ Rebus guessed. The man bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Here to represent the interests of a certain Mr Thomas Telford.’

  ‘I’m Daniel Simpson’s legal advisor.’

  ‘Which adds up to the same thing.’

  ‘I believe Daniel’s just been admitted.’ The man blew on his tea, sipped it.

  ‘Who told you he was here?’

  ‘Again, I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Detective …?’

  ‘DI Rebus.’

  The man transferred his cup to his left hand so he could hold out his right. ‘Charles Groal.’ He glanced at Rebus’s t-shirt. ‘Is that what you call “plain clothes”, Inspector?’