10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (339 page)

‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ Rebus said. He put down
the phone, looked around the office. ‘Anyone got a set of overalls?’

‘Nice disguise,’ Claverhouse said, as Rebus squeezed into the front seat.

Ormiston was in the driver’s seat, plastic piece-box open in front of him. A flask of tea had been opened, steaming up the windscreen. The back of the van was full of paint-tins, brushes and other paraphernalia. A ladder was strapped to the roof, and another was leaning against the wall of the tenement beside which the van had been parked. Claverhouse and Ormiston were in white overalls, daubed with swatches of old paint. The best Rebus could come up with was a blue boilersuit, tight at the waist and chest. He pulled the first few studs open as he settled in.

‘Anything happening?’

‘Jack’s been in twice this morning.’ Claverhouse looked towards the shop. ‘Once for ciggies and a paper, once for a can of juice and a filled roll.’

‘He doesn’t smoke.’

‘He does for this operation: perfect excuse to nip to the shop.’

‘He hasn’t given you any signal?’

‘You expecting him to put the flags out?’ Ormiston exhaled fish-paste.

‘Just asking.’ Rebus checked his watch. ‘Either of you want a break?’

‘We’re fine,’ Claverhouse said.

‘What’s Siobhan up to?’

‘Paperwork,’ Ormiston said with a smile. ‘Ever come across a woman house painter?’

‘Done much house painting yourself, Ormie?’

This brought a smile from Claverhouse. ‘So, John,’ he said, ‘what is it you’ve got for us?’

Rebus filled them in quickly, noting Claverhouse’s mounting interest.

‘So Tarawicz is planning to double-cross Telford?’ Ormiston said at the end.

Rebus shrugged. ‘That’s my guess.’

‘Then why the hell are we bothering to set up a sting? Just let them get on with it.’

‘That wouldn’t give us Tarawicz,’ Claverhouse said, his eyes slitted in concentration. ‘If he sets up Telford for a fall,
he’s
home and dry. Telford gets put away, and all we’ve done is replace one villain with another.’

‘And an altogether nastier species at that,’ Rebus said.

‘What? And Telford’s Robin Hood?’

‘No, but at least with him, we know what we’re dealing with.’

‘And the old dears in his flats love him,’ Claverhouse said.

Rebus thought of Mrs Hetherington, readying herself for her trip to Holland. The only drawback: she had to fly from Inverness . . . Sakiji Shoda had flown from London to Inverness . . .

Rebus started laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’

He shook his head, still laughing, wiping his eyes. It wasn’t funny, not really.

‘We could let Telford know what we know,’ Claverhouse said, studying Rebus. ‘Set him against Tarawicz, let them eat each other alive.’

Rebus nodded, took a deep breath. ‘That’s certainly one option.’

‘Give me another.’

‘Later,’ Rebus said. He opened the door.

‘Where are you off to?’ Claverhouse asked.

‘Got to fly.’

But in fact he was driving. A long drive, too. North through Perth and from there into the Highlands, taking a route which could be cut off during the worst of the winter. It wasn’t a bad road, but traffic was heavy. He’d get past one slow-moving lorry only to catch up with another. He knew he should be thankful for small mercies: in the summer, caravans could end up fronting mile-long tailbacks.

He did pass a couple of caravans outside Pitlochry. They were from the Netherlands. Mrs Hetherington had said it was out of season for a trip to Holland. Most people her age would go in the spring, ready to fill their senses with the bulb-fields. But not Mrs Hetherington. Telford’s offer: go when I say. Telford probably provided spending money, too. Told her to have a good time, not worry about a thing . . .

As he neared Inverness, Rebus hit dual carriageway again. He’d been on the road well over two hours. Sammy might be coming round again; Rhona had his mobile number. Inverness Airport was signposted from the road into town. Rebus parked and got out, stretched his legs and arched his back, feeling the vertebrae pop. He went into the terminal and asked for security. He got a small balding man with glasses and a limp. Rebus introduced himself. The man offered coffee, but Rebus was jumpy enough after the drive. Hungry though: no lunch. He gave the man his story, and eventually they tracked down a representative of
Her Majesty’s Customs. During his tour of the facilities, Rebus got the impression of a low-key operation. The Customs official was in her early thirties, rosy-cheeked and with black curly hair. There was a purple birthmark, the size of a small coin, in the middle of her forehead, looking for all the world like a third eye.

She took Rebus into the Customs area and found a room they could use for their conversation.

‘They’ve just started direct international flights,’ she said, in answer to his question. ‘It’s shocking really.’

‘Why?’

‘Because at the same time, they’ve cut back on manpower.’

‘You mean in Customs?’

She nodded.

‘You’re worried about drugs?’

‘Of course.’ She paused. ‘And everything else.’

‘Are there flights to Amsterdam?’

‘There will be.’

‘But as of now . . . ?’

She shrugged. ‘You can fly to London, make the connection there.’

Rebus was thoughtful. ‘There was a guy a few days ago, flew from Japan to Heathrow, then got a flight to Inverness.’

‘Did he stop off in London?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Caught the first connection.’

‘That counts as an international connection.’

‘Meaning?’

‘His luggage would be put on the plane in Japan, and he wouldn’t see it again until Inverness.’

‘So you’d be the first Customs point?’

She nodded.

‘And if his flight came in at some horrible hour . . .?’

She shrugged again. ‘We do what we can, Inspector.’

Yes, Rebus could imagine: a lone, bleary-eyed Customs official, wits not at their sharpest . . .

‘So the bags change planes at Heathrow, but no one checks them there?’

‘That’s about it.’

‘And if you were flying from Holland to Inverness via London?’

‘Same deal.’

Rebus knew now, knew the brilliance of Tommy Telford’s thinking.
He
was supplying drugs for Tarawicz, and Christ knew how many others. His little old ladies and men were bringing them in past early-morning or late-night Customs posts. How difficult would it be to slip something into a piece of luggage? Then Telford’s men would be on hand to take everyone back to Edinburgh, carry their luggage upstairs . . . and surreptitiously remove each package.

Old age pensioners as unwitting drugs couriers. It was stunning.

And Shoda hadn’t flown into Inverness so he could check out the local tourist amenities. He’d flown in so he could see how easy it was, what a brilliant route Telford had found, quick and efficient with a minimum of risk. Rebus had to laugh again. The Highlands had its own drugs problem these days: bored teenagers and cash-rich oil-workers. Rebus had smashed one north-east ring back in early summer, only to have Tommy Telford come along . . .

Cafferty would never have thought of it. Cafferty would never have been so daring. But Cafferty would have kept it quiet. He wouldn’t have sought to expand, wouldn’t have brought partners into the scheme.

Telford was still a kid in some respects. The passenger-seat teddy bear was proof of that.

Rebus thanked the Customs official and went in search of food. Parked in the middle of town and grabbed a
burger, sat at a window table and thought it all through. There were still aspects that didn’t make sense, but he could cope with that.

He made two calls: one to the hospital; one to Bobby Hogan. Sammy hadn’t woken up again. Hogan was interviewing Pretty-Boy at seven o’clock. Rebus said he’d be there.

The weather was kind on the trip south, the traffic manageable. The Saab seemed to enjoy long drives, or maybe it was just that at seventy miles an hour the engine noise disguised all the rattles and bumps.

He drove straight to Leith cop-shop, looked at his watch and found he was quarter of an hour late. Which didn’t matter, since they were just starting the interview. Pretty-Boy was there with Charles Groal, all-purpose solicitor. Hogan was sitting with another CID officer, DC James Preston. A tape-recorder had been set up. Hogan looked nervous, realising how speculative this whole venture was, especially with a lawyer present. Rebus gave him a reassuring wink and apologised for having been detained. The burger had given him indigestion, and the coffee he’d had with it had done nothing for his frayed nerves. He had to shake his head clear of Inverness and all its implications and concentrate on Pretty-Boy and Joseph Lintz.

Pretty-Boy looked calm. He was wearing a charcoal suit with a yellow t-shirt, black suede winkle-picker boots. He smelt of expensive aftershave. In front of him on the desk: a pair of tortoiseshell Ray-Bans and his car keys. Rebus knew he’d own a Range Rover – it was mandatory for Telford employees – but the key-ring boasted the Porsche marque, and on the street outside Rebus had parked behind a cobalt blue 944. Pretty-Boy showing a touch of individuality . . .

Groal had his briefcase open on the floor beside him. On the desk in front of him: an A4 pad of ruled paper, and a fat black Mont Blanc pen.

Lawyer and client oozed money easily made and just as easily spent. Pretty-Boy used his money to buy class, but Rebus knew his background: working-class Paisley, a granite-hard introduction to life.

Hogan identified those present for the benefit of the tape-recorder, then looked at his own notes.

‘Mr Summers . . .’ Pretty-Boy’s real name: Brian Summers. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’

Pretty-Boy made an O of his glossy lips and stared ceilingwards.

‘Mr Summers,’ Charles Groal began, ‘has informed me that he is willing to co-operate, Inspector Hogan, but that he’d like some indication of the accusations against him and their validity.’

Hogan stared at Groal, didn’t blink. ‘Who said he’s accused of anything?’

‘Inspector, Mr Summers works for Thomas Telford, and your police force’s harassment of that individual is on record . . .’

‘Nothing to do with me, Mr Groal, or this station.’ Hogan paused. ‘Nothing at all to do with my present inquiries.’

Groal blinked half a dozen times in quick succession. He looked at Pretty-Boy, who was now studying the tips of his boots.

‘You want me to say something?’ Pretty-Boy asked the lawyer.

‘I’m just . . . I’m not sure if . . .’

Pretty-Boy cut him off with a wave of his hand, then looked at Hogan.

‘Ask away.’

Hogan made show of studying his notes again. ‘Do you know why you’re here, Mr Summers?’

‘General vilification as part of your witch-hunt against my employer.’ He smiled at the three CID men. ‘Bet you
didn’t think I’d know a word like “vilification”.’ His gaze rested on Rebus, then he turned to Groal.

‘DI Rebus isn’t based at this station.’

Groal took the hint. ‘That’s true, Inspector. Might I ask by what authority you’ve been allowed to sit in on this interview?’

‘That will become clear,’ Hogan said, ‘
if
you’ll allow us to begin?’

Groal cleared his throat, but said nothing. Hogan let the silence lie for a few moments, then began.

‘Mr Summers, do you know a man called Joseph Lintz?’

‘No.’

The silence stretched out. Summers recrossed his feet. He looked up at Hogan, and blinked, the blink deteriorating into a momentary twitch of one eye. He sniffed, rubbed at his nose – trying to make out that the twitch meant nothing.

‘You’ve never met him?’

‘No.’

‘The name means nothing to you?’

‘You’ve asked me about him before. I’ll tell you same as I told you then: I never knew the cat.’ Summers sat up a bit straighter in his chair.

‘You’ve never spoken to him by telephone?’

Summers looked at Groal.

‘Hasn’t my client made himself clear, Inspector?’

‘I’d like an answer.’

‘I don’t know him,’ Summers said, forcing himself to relax again, ‘I’ve never spoken to him.’ He gave Hogan his stare again, and this time held it. There was nothing behind the eyes but naked self-interest. Rebus wondered how anyone could ever think him ‘pretty’, when his whole outlook on life was so fundamentally ugly.

‘He didn’t phone you at your . . . business premises?’

‘I don’t have any business premises.’

‘The office you share with your employer.’

Pretty-Boy smiled. He liked those phrases: ‘business premises’; ‘your employer’. They all knew the truth, yet played this little game . . . and he liked playing games.

‘I’ve already said, I never spoke to him.’

‘Funny, the phone company says differently.’

‘Maybe they made a mistake.’

‘I doubt that, Mr Summers.’

‘Look, we’ve been through this before.’ Summers sat forward in his chair. ‘Maybe it was a wrong number. Maybe he spoke to one of my associates, and they
told
him he had a wrong number.’ He opened his arms. ‘This is going nowhere.’

‘I agree with my client, Inspector,’ Charles Groal said, scribbling something down. ‘I mean, is this leading anywhere?’

‘It’s leading, Mr Groal, to an identification of Mr Summers.’

‘Where and by whom?’

‘In a restaurant with Mr Lintz. The same Mr Lintz he claims never to have met, never to have spoken to.’

Rebus saw hesitation cross Pretty-Boy’s face.
Hesitation
, rather than surprise. He made no immediate denial.

‘An identification made by a member of staff at the restaurant,’ Hogan continued. ‘Corroborated by another diner.’

Groal looked to his client, who wasn’t saying anything, but the way he was staring at the table, Rebus wondered a smoking hole didn’t start appearing in it.

‘Well,’ Groal went on, ‘this is fairly irregular, Inspector.’

Hogan wasn’t interested in the lawyer. It was Pretty-Boy and him now.

‘What about it, Mr Summers? Care to revise your version of events? What were you talking about with Mr
Lintz? Was he looking for female company? I believe that’s your particular area of expertise.’