The Hanging Garden Page 7

  ‘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?’

  ‘She’s …’ Colquhoun mopped his face. ‘She’s saying something about Japanese people … Oriental businessmen.’

  Rebus shared a look with Ormiston, who shrugged.

  ‘Where was this?’ Claverhouse asked.

  ‘In a car … more than one car. You know, a sort of convoy.’

  ‘She was in one of the cars?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘They headed out of town, stopping once or twice.’

  ‘Juniper Green,’ Candice said, quite clearly.

  ‘Juniper Green,’ Colquhoun repeated.

  ‘They stopped there?’

  ‘No, they stopped before that.’

  ‘To do what?’

  Colquhoun spoke with Candice again. ‘She doesn’t know. She thinks one of the drivers went into a shop for some cigarettes. The others all seemed to be looking at a building, as if they were interested in it, but not saying anything.’

  ‘What building?’

  ‘She doesn’t know.’

  Claverhouse looked exasperated. She wasn’t giving him much of anything, and Rebus knew that if there was nothing she could trade, Crime Squad would dump her straight back on the street. Colquhoun was all wrong for this job, completely out of his depth.

  ‘Where did they go after Juniper Green?’

  ‘Just drove around the countryside. For two or three hours, she thinks. They would stop sometimes and get out, but just to look at the scenery. Lots of hills and …’ Colquhoun checked something. ‘Hills and flags.’

  ‘Flags? Flying from buildings?’

  ‘No, stuck into the ground.’

  Claverhouse gave Ormiston a look of hopelessness.

  ‘Golf courses,’ Rebus said. ‘Try describing a golf course to her, Dr Colquhoun.’

  Colquhoun did so, and she nodded agreement, beaming at Rebus. Claverhouse was looking at him, too.

  ‘Just a guess,’ Rebus said with a shrug. ‘Japanese businessmen, it’s what they like about Scotland.’

  Claverhouse turned back to Candice. ‘Ask her if she … accommodated any of these men.’

  Colquhoun cleared his throat again, colour flooding his cheeks as he spoke. Candice looked down at the table, moved her head in the affirmative, started to speak.

  ‘She says that’s why she was there. She was fooled at first. She thought maybe they just wanted a pretty woman to look at. They had a nice lunch … the beautiful drive … But then they came back into town, dropped the Japanese off at a hotel, and she was taken up to one of the hotel rooms. Three of them … she, as you put it yourself, DS Claverhouse, she “accommodated” three of them.’

  ‘Does she remember the name of the hotel?’

  She didn’t.

  ‘Where did they have lunch?’

  ‘A restaurant next to flags and �
��’ Colquhoun corrected himself. ‘Next to a golf course.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Two or three weeks.’

  ‘And how many of them were there?’

  Colquhoun checked. ‘The three Japanese, and maybe four other men.’

  ‘Ask her how long she’s been in Edinburgh,’ Rebus asked.

  Colquhoun did so. ‘She thinks maybe a month.’

  ‘A month working the street … funny we haven’t picked her up.’

  ‘She was put there as a punishment.’

  ‘For what?’ Claverhouse asked. Rebus had the answer.

  ‘For making herself ugly.’ He turned to Candice. ‘Ask her why she cuts herself.’

  Candice looked at him and shrugged.

  ‘What’s your point?’ Ormiston asked.

  ‘She thinks the scars will deter punters. Which means she doesn’t like the life she’s been leading.’

  ‘And helping us is her only sure ticket out?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  So Colquhoun asked her again, then said: ‘They don’t like that she does it. That’s why she does it.’

  ‘Tell her if she helps us, she won’t ever have to do anything like that again.’

  Colquhoun translated, glancing at his watch.

  ‘Does the name Newcastle mean anything to her?’ Claverhouse asked.

  Colquhoun tried the name. ‘I’ve explained to her that it’s a town in England, built on a river.’

  ‘Don’t forget the bridges,’ Rebus said.

  Colquhoun added a few words, but Candice only shrugged. She looked upset that she was failing them. Rebus gave her another smile.

  ‘What about the man she worked for?’ Claverhouse asked. ‘The one before she came to Edinburgh.’

  She seemed to have plenty to say about this, and kept touching her face with her fingers while she talked. Colquhoun nodded, made her stop from time to time so he could translate.

  ‘A big man … fat. He was the boss. Something about his skin … a birthmark maybe, certainly something distinctive. And glasses, like sunglasses but not quite.’

  Rebus saw Claverhouse and Ormiston exchange another look. It was all too vague to be much use. Colquhoun checked his watch again. ‘And cars, a lot of cars. This man crashed them.’

  ‘Maybe he got a scar on his face,’ Ormiston offered.

  ‘Glasses and a scar aren’t going to get us very far,’ Claverhouse added.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Colquhoun said, while Candice looked towards Rebus, ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave.’

  ‘Any chance of coming back in later, sir?’ Claverhouse asked.

  ‘You mean today?’

  ‘I thought maybe this evening …?’

  ‘Look, I do have other commitments.’

  ‘We appreciate that, sir. Meantime, DC Ormiston will run you back into town.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Ormiston said, all charm. They needed Colquhoun, after all. They had to keep him sweet.

  ‘One thing,’ Colquhoun said. ‘There’s a refugee family in Fife. From Sarajevo. They’d probably take her in. I could ask.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Claverhouse said. ‘Maybe later on, eh?’

  Colquhoun seemed disappointed as Ormiston led him away.

  Rebus walked over to Claverhouse, who was shuffling his photos together.

  ‘Bit of an oddball,’ Claverhouse commented.

  ‘Not used to the real world.’

  ‘Not much help either.’

  Rebus looked towards Candice. ‘Mind if I take her out?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just for an hour.’ Claverhouse stared at him. ‘She’s been cooped up here, and only her hotel room to look forward to. I’ll drop her back there in an hour, hour and a half.’

  ‘Bring her back in one piece, preferably with a smile on her face.’

  Rebus motioned for Candice to join him.

  ‘Japanese and golf courses,’ Claverhouse mused. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Telford’s a businessman, we know that. Businessmen do deals with other businessmen.’

  ‘He runs bouncers and slot machines: what’s the Japanese connection?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘I leave the hard questions to the likes of you.’ He opened the door.

  ‘And, John?’ Claverhouse warned, nodding towards Candice. ‘She’s Crime Squad property, okay? And remember, you came to us.’

  ‘No bother, Claverhouse. And by the way, I’m your B Division liaison.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘With immediate effect. If you don’t believe me, ask your boss. This might be your case, but Telford works out of my territory.’

  He took Candice by the arm and marched her from the room.

  He stopped the car on the corner of Flint Street.

  ‘It’s okay, Candice,’ he said, seeing her agitation. ‘We’re staying in the car. Everything’s all right.’ Her eyes were darting around, looking for faces she didn’t want to see. Rebus started the car again and drove off. ‘Look,’ he told her, ‘we’re leaving.’ Knowing she couldn’t understand. ‘I’m guessing this is where you started from that day.’ He looked at her. ‘The day you went to Juniper Green. The Japanese would be staying in a central hotel, somewhere pricey. You picked them up, then headed east. Along Dalry Road maybe?’ He was speaking for his own benefit. ‘Christ, I don’t know. Look, Candice, anything you see, anything that looks familiar, just let me know, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Had she understood? No, she was smiling. All she’d heard was that final word. All she knew was that they were heading away from Flint Street. He took her down on to Princes Street first.

  ‘Was it a hotel here, Candice? The Japanese? Was it here?’ She gazed from the window with a blank look.

  He headed up Lothian Road. ‘Usher Hall,’ he said. ‘Sheraton … Any of it ring a bell?’ Nothing did. Out along the Western Approach Road, Slateford Road, and on to Lanark Road. Most of the lights were against them, giving her plenty of time to study the buildings. Each newsagent’s they passed, Rebus pointed it out, just in case the convoy had paused there to buy cigarettes. Soon they were out of town and entering Juniper Green.

  ‘Juniper Green!’ she said, pointing at the signpost, delighted to have something to show him. Rebus attempted a smile. There were plenty of golf courses around the city. He couldn’t hope to take her to every one of them, not in a week never mind an hour. He stopped for a few moments by the side of a field. Candice got out, so he followed, lit a cigarette. There were two stone gateposts next to the road, but no sign of a gate between them, or any sort of path behind them. Once there might have been a track, and a house at the end of it. Atop one of the pillars sat the badly worn representation of a bull. Candice pointed towards the ground behind the other pillar, where another lump of carved stone lay, half-covered by weeds and grass.

  ‘Looks like a serpent,’ Rebus said. ‘Maybe a dragon.’ He looked at her. ‘It’ll all mean something to somebody.’ She looked back at him blankly. He saw Sammy’s features, reminded himself that he wanted to help her. He was in danger of letting that slip, of focusing on how she might help them get to Telford.

  Back in the car, he branched off towards Livingston, intending to head for Ratho and from there back into town. Then he noticed that Candice had turned to look out of the back window.

  ‘What is it?’

  She came out with a stream of words, her tone uncertain. Rebus turned the car anyway, and drove slowly back the way they’d just come. He stopped at the side of the road, opposite a low dry-stone wall, beyond which lay the undulations of a golf course.

  ‘Recognise it?’ She mumbled more words. Rebus pointed. ‘Here? Yes?’

  She turned to him, said something which sounded apologetic.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he told her. ‘Let’s take a closer look anyway.’ He drove to where a vast iron double-gate stood open. A sign to one side read POYNTINGHAME GOLF AND COUNTRY CLUB. Beneath it: ‘Bar Lun
ches and A La Carte, Visitors Welcome’. As Rebus drove through the gates, Candice started nodding again, and when an oversized Georgian house came into view she almost bounced in her seat, slapping her hands against her thighs.

  ‘I think I get the picture,’ Rebus said.

  He parked outside the main entrance, squeezing between a Volvo estate and a low-slung Toyota. Out on the course, three men were finishing their round. As the final putt went in, hands went to wallets and money changed hands.

  Two things Rebus knew about golf: one, to some people it was a religion; two, a lot of players liked a bet. They’d bet on final tally, each hole, even every shot if they could.

  And didn’t the Japanese have a passion for gambling?

  He took Candice’s arm as he escorted her into the main building. Piano music from the bar. Panatella smoke and oak-panelling. Huge portraits of self-important unknowns. A few old wooden putters, framed behind glass. A poster advertised a Halloween dinner-dance for that evening. Rebus walked up to reception, explained who he was and what he wanted. The receptionist made a phone call, then led them to the Chief Executive’s office.

  Hugh Malahide, bald and thin, mid-forties, already had a slight stammer, which intensified when Rebus asked his first question. By throwing it back at the questioner, he seemed to be playing for time.

  ‘Have we had any Japanese visitors recently? Well, we do get a few golfers.’

  ‘These men came to lunch. Maybe a fortnight, three weeks back. There were three of them, plus three or four Scottish men. Probably driving Range Rovers. The table may have been reserved in the name of Telford.’

  ‘Telford?’

  ‘Thomas Telford.’

  ‘Ah, yes …’ Malahide wasn’t enjoying this at all.

  ‘You know Mr Telford?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  Rebus leaned forward in his chair. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, he’s … look, the reason I seem so reticent is because we don’t want this made common knowledge.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Mr Telford is acting as go-between.’

  ‘Go-between?’

  ‘In the negotiations.’

  Rebus saw what Malahide was getting at. ‘The Japanese want to buy Poyntinghame?’