10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (338 page)

Suddenly he couldn’t be doing with Van the Man; put on Bowie instead,
Aladdin Sane
: nicely discordant, Mike Garson’s piano in key with his thoughts.

Empty juice cans and a dead pack of cigarettes stared up at him. He didn’t know Jack’s address. The only person who’d give it to him was Claverhouse, and he didn’t want to pick up their conversation. He took Bowie off halfway through side one, substituted
Quadrophenia
. Liner notes: ‘Schizophrenic? I’m bleeding Quadrophenic’. Which was just about right.

Quarter past midnight, the phone rang. It was Jack Morton.

‘Back home safe and sound?’ Rebus asked.

‘Right as nails.’

‘Have you spoken to Claverhouse?’

‘He can wait his turn. I said I’d phone you back.’

‘So what did you get?’

‘The third degree, basically. Some guy with dyed black hair, frizzy . . . tight jeans.’

‘Pretty-Boy.’

‘Wears mascara.’

‘Looks like. So what was the gist?’

‘Second hurdle passed. Nobody’s mentioned what the job is yet. Tonight was a sort of preface. Wanted to know all about me, told me my money worries could be over. If I could help them with a “little problem” – Pretty-Boy’s words.’

‘You asked what the problem was?’

‘He wasn’t saying. If you ask me, he goes to Telford, talks it through. Then there’s another meeting, and that’s where they tell me the plan.’

‘And you’ll be miked up?’

‘Yes.’

‘And if they strip you?’

‘Claverhouse has access to some miniaturised stuff, cuff-links and the like.’

‘And your character would obviously wear cuff-links.’

‘True enough. Maybe fit a transmitter into a bookie’s pencil.’

‘Now you’re thinking.’

‘I’m thinking I’m wiped out.’

‘What was the mood like?’

‘Fraught.’

‘Any sign of Tarawicz or Shoda?’

‘Nope, just Pretty-Boy and the Gruesome Twosome.’

‘Claverhouse calls them Tweedledum and Tweedledee.’

‘He’s obviously classically educated.’ Morton paused. ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

‘When you didn’t call back.’

‘I’m touched. Do you think he’s up to it?’

‘Claverhouse?’ Rebus thought about it. ‘I’d feel better if
I
was in charge. But that probably puts me in a minority.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You’re a pal, Jack.’

‘They’re running a check on me. But that’s all in place. With luck, I’ll pass.’

‘What did they say to your sudden arrival at Maclean’s?’

‘I’ve been transferred from another plant. If they go looking, I’m in the personnel files.’ Morton paused again. ‘One thing I want to know . . .’

‘What?’

‘Pretty-Boy handed me a hundred quid on account: what do I do with it?’

‘That’s between you and your conscience, Jack. See you soon.’

‘Night, John.’

For the first time in a while, Rebus actually made it as far as his bed. His sleep was deep and dreamless.

Doctors in white coats were doing things to Sammy when Rebus arrived at the hospital next morning: taking her pulse, shining lights in her eyes. They were setting up another scanner, a nurse trying to untangle the thin coloured leads. Rhona looked like she’d lost some sleep. She jumped up and ran towards him.

‘She woke up!’

It took him a second to take it in. Rhona was holding his arms, shaking him.

‘She woke
up
, John!’

He pushed his way to the bedside.

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘Why didn’t you phone me?’

‘I tried three, four times. You were engaged. I tried Patience, but there was no answer there.’

‘What happened?’ To him, Sammy looked the same as ever.

‘She just opened her eyes . . . No, first off, it was like she was moving her eyeballs. You know, with her eyelids closed. Then she opened her eyes.’

Rebus could see that the medical personnel were finding their work hampered. Half of him wanted to lash out –
We’re her fucking parents!
The other half wanted them to do all they could to bring her round again. He took Rhona by the shoulder and guided her out into the hallway.

‘Did she . . . Did she look at you? Did she say anything?’

‘She was just staring at the ceiling, where the strip-light is. Then I thought she was going to blink, but she closed her eyes again and they stayed shut.’ Rhona burst into tears. ‘It was like . . . I lost her all over again.’

Rebus took her in his arms. She hugged him back.

‘She did it once,’ he whispered into her ear, ‘she’ll do it again.’

‘That’s what one of the doctors said. He said they’re “very hopeful”. Oh, John, I wanted to tell you! I wanted to tell
every one
!’

And he’d been busy with work: Claverhouse, Jack Morton. And he’d got Sammy into all this in the first place. Sammy and Candice – pebbles dropped into a pool. And now the ripples had grown so that he’d all but forgotten about the centre, the starting point. Just like when he was married, work consuming him, becoming an end in itself. And Rhona’s words:
You’ve exploited every relationship you ever had
.

To be born again
. . .

‘I’m sorry, Rhona,’ he said.

‘Can you let Ned know?’ She started crying again.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get some breakfast. Have you been here all night?’

‘I couldn’t leave.’

‘I know.’ He kissed her cheek.

‘The person in the car . . .’

‘What?’

She looked at him. ‘I don’t care any more. I don’t care who they were or whether they get caught. All I want is for her to wake up.’

Rebus nodded, told her he understood. Told her breakfast was on him. He kept the talk going, his mind not really on it. Instead, her words bounced around in his head:
I don’t care who they were or whether they get caught
. . .

Whichever stress he put on it, he couldn’t make it sound like surrender.

At St Leonard’s, he broke the news to Ned Farlowe. Farlowe wanted to go to the hospital, but Rebus shook his head. Farlowe was crying as Rebus left his cell. Back at his desk, the files on the Crab were waiting.

The Crab: real name, William Andrew Colton. He had form going back to his teens, celebrated his fortieth birthday on Guy Fawkes Day. Rebus hadn’t had many dealings with him during his time in Edinburgh. Looked like the Crab had lived in the city for a couple of years in the early-80s, and again in the early-90s. 1982: Rebus gave evidence against him in a conspiracy trial. Charges dropped. 1983: he was in trouble again – a fight in a pub left one man in a coma and his girlfriend needing sixty stitches to her face. Sixty stitches: you could knit a pair of mittens with less.

The Crab had held various jobs: bouncer, bodyguard, general labourer. The Inland Revenue had a go at him in 1986. By ’88, he was on the West Coast, which was presumably where Tommy Telford had found him. Knowing good muscle when he saw it, he’d put the Crab on the doors of his club in Paisley. More blood-spilling; more accusations. Nothing came of them. The Crab had lived a charmed life, the sort of life that niggled at cops the world over: witnesses too scared to testify; withdrawing or refusing to give evidence. The Crab didn’t often make it to trial. He’d served three adult sentences – a total of twenty-seven months – in a career that was now entering its fourth decade. Rebus went through the paperwork again, picked up the phone and called CID in Paisley. The man he wanted to speak to had been transferred to Motherwell. Rebus made the call, eventually got through to Detective Sergeant Ronnie Hannigan, and explained his interest.

‘It’s just that reading between the lines, you suspected the Crab of a lot more than ever got put down on paper.’

‘You’re right.’ Hannigan cleared his throat. ‘Never got close to proving anything though. You say he’s south of the border now?’

‘Telford placed him with a gangster in Newcastle.’

‘Have criminal tendencies, will travel. Well, let’s hope they keep him. He was a one-man reign of terror, and that’s no exaggeration. Probably why Telford palmed him off on someone else: the Crab was getting out of control. My theory is, Telford tried him out as a hit-man. Crab wasn’t suitable, so Telford needed to jettison him.’

‘What was the hit?’

‘Down in Ayr. Must’ve been . . . four years ago? Lot of drugs swilling around, most of them inside a dance-club . . . can’t remember its name. I don’t know what happened: maybe a deal went sour, maybe someone was skimming. Whatever, there was a hit outside the club. Guy got his face half torn off with a carving knife.’

‘You put the Crab in the frame?’

‘He had an alibi, of course, and the eye-witnesses all seemed to have suffered temporary blindness. Could be a plot for the
X-Files
in that.’

A knife attack outside a nightclub . . . Rebus tapped his desk with a pen. ‘Any idea how the attacker got away?’

‘On a motorbike. The Crab likes bikes. Crash helmet makes a good disguise.’

‘We had an almost identical attack recently. Guy on a motorbike went for a drug dealer outside one of Tommy Telford’s nightclubs. Killed a bouncer instead.’

And Cafferty denied any involvement . . .

‘Well, like you say, the Crab’s in Newcastle.’

Yes, and staying put . . .
scared
to come north. Warned off by Tarawicz. Because Edinburgh was too dangerous . . . people might
remember
him.

‘Do you know how far away Newcastle is?’

‘A couple of hours?’

‘No distance at all by bike. Anything else I should know?’

‘Well, Telford tried the Crab in the van, but he wasn’t much good.’

‘What van?’

‘The ice-cream van.’

Rebus nearly dropped the phone. ‘Explain,’ he said.

‘Easy: Telford’s boys were selling dope from an ice-cream van. The “five-pound special”, they called it. You handed over a fiver and got back a cone or wafer with a wee plastic bag tucked inside . . .’

Rebus thanked Hannigan and terminated the call. Five-pound specials: Mr Taystee with his clients who ate ice-cream in all weathers. His daytime pitches: near schools. His nighttime pitches: outside Telford’s clubs. Five-pound specials on the menu, Telford taking his cut . . . The new Merc: Mr Taystee’s big mistake. Telford’s moneymen wouldn’t have taken long to work out their boy was skimming. Telford would have decided to turn Mr Taystee into a lesson . . .

It was coming together. He spun his pen, caught it, and made another call, this time to Newcastle.

‘Nice to hear from you,’ Miriam Kenworthy said. ‘Any sign of your lady friend?’

‘She’s turned up here.’

‘Great.’

‘In tow with Mr Pink Eyes.’

‘Not so great. I wondered where he’d gone.’

‘And he’s not here to see the sights.’

‘I’ll bet he isn’t.’

‘Which is really why I’m calling.’

‘Mmm?’

‘I’m just wondering if he’s ever been linked to machete attacks.’

‘Machetes? Let me think . . .’ She was so quiet for so long, he thought the connection had failed. ‘You know, that
does
ring a bell. Let me put it up on the screen.’ Clackety-clack of her keyboard. Rebus was biting his bottom lip, almost drawing blood.

‘God, yes,’ she said. ‘A year or so back, a battle on an estate. Rival gangs, that was the story, but everyone knew what was behind it: namely, drugs and pitch incursions.’

‘And where there’s drugs, there’s Tarawicz?’

‘There was a rumour his men were involved.’

‘And they used machetes?’

‘One of them did. His name’s Patrick Kenneth Moynihan, known to all and sundry as “PK”.’

‘Can you give me a description?’

‘I can fax you his picture. But meantime: tall, heavy build, curly black hair and a black beard.’

He wasn’t part of the Tarawicz retinue. Two of Mr Pink’s best muscle-men had been left behind in Newcastle. For safety’s sake. Rebus put PK down as one of the Paisley attackers – Cafferty again in the clear.

‘Thanks, Miriam. Listen, about that rumour . . .’

‘Remind me.’

‘Telford supplying Tarawicz rather than the other way round: anything to back it up?’

‘We tracked Pink Eyes and his men. A couple of jaunts to the continent, only they came back clean.’

‘Leading you up the garden path?’

‘Which made us start reassessing.’

‘Where would Telford be getting the stuff?’

‘We didn’t reassess that far.’

‘Well, thanks again . . .’

‘Hey, don’t leave me hanging: what’s the story?’

‘Morning Glory. Cheers, Miriam.’

Rebus went and got a coffee, put sugar in it without realising, had finished half the cup before he noticed. Tarawicz was attacking Telford. Telford was blaming Cafferty. The resulting war would destroy Cafferty and weaken Telford. Then Telford would pull off the Maclean’s break-in but be grassed up . . .

And Tarawicz would fill the vacuum. That had been the plan all along. Bluesbreakers: ‘Double-Crossing Time’. Christ, it was beautiful: set the two rivals against one another and wait for the carnage to end . . .

The prize: something Rebus didn’t yet know. There had to be something big. Tarawicz, the theory went, was sourcing his drugs not from London but from Scotland. From Tommy Telford.

What did Telford know? What was it that made
his
supply so valuable? Did it have something to do with Maclean’s? Rebus got another coffee, washed down three Paracetamol with it. His head felt ready to explode. Back at his desk, he tried Claverhouse, couldn’t get him. Paged him instead, and got an immediate call back.

‘I’m in the van,’ Claverhouse said.

‘I’ve something to tell you.’

‘What?’

Rebus wanted to know what was happening. Wanted in on the action. ‘It’s got to be face to face. Where are you parked?’

Claverhouse sounded suspicious. ‘Down from the shop.’

‘White decorator’s van?’

‘This definitely isn’t a good idea . . .’

‘You want to hear what I’ve got?’

‘Sell me the idea.’

‘It clears everything up,’ Rebus lied.

Claverhouse waited for more, but Rebus wasn’t obliging. Theatrical sigh: life was hard on Claverhouse.