door.
`Don't go, Candice,' Rebus said.
She half-turned towards him. `Okay,' she said.
Then she opened the door and was gone.
Rebus grabbed Claverhouse's arm. `We've got to pull Telford in, warn him not to touch her.’
`You think he needs telling?’
`You think he'd listen?’
Ormiston added.
`I can't believe this. He scared her half to death, and as a result we let her walk? I really can't get my head round this.’
`She could always have gone to Fife,' Colquhoun said. With Candice out of the room, he seemed to have perked up a bit.
`Bit late now,' Ormiston said.
`He beat us this time, that's all,' Claverhouse said, his eyes on Rebus. `But we'll take him down, don't worry.’
He managed a thin, humourless smile. `Don't think we're giving up, John. It's not our style. Early days yet, pal. Early days…’
She was waiting for him out in the car park, standing by the passenger-door of his battered Saab 900.
`Okay?’ she said.
`Okay,' he agreed, smiling with relief as he unlocked the car. He could think of only one place to take her. As he drove through The Meadows, she nodded, recognising the tree-lined playing fields.
`You've been here before?’
She said a few words, nodded again as Rebus turned into Arden Street. He parked the car and turned to her.
`You've been here?’
She pointed upwards, fingers curled into the shape of binoculars.
`With Telford?’
` Telford,' she said. She made a show of writing something down, and Rebus took out his notebook and pen, handed them over. She drew a teddy bear.
`You came in Telford 's car?’
Rebus interpreted. `And he watched one of the flats up there?’
He pointed to his own flat.
`Yes, Yes.’
`When was this?’
She didn't understand the question. `I need a phrasebook,' he muttered. Then he opened his door, got out and looked around. The cars around him were all empty. No Range Rovers. He signalled for Candice to get out and follow him.
She seemed to like his living-room, went straight to the record collection but couldn't find anything she recognised. Rebus went into the kitchen to make coffee and to think. He couldn't keep her here, not if Telford knew about the place. Telford… why had he been watching Rebus's flat? The answer was obvious: he knew the detective was linked to Cafferty, and therefore a potential threat. He thought Rebus was in Cafferty's pocket. Know your enemy: it was another rule Telford had learned.
Rebus phoned a contact from the Scotland on Sunday business section.
`Japanese companies,' Rebus said. `Rumours pertaining to.’
`Can you narrow that down?’
`New sites around Edinburgh, maybe Livingston.’
Rebus could hear the reporter shuffling papers on his desk. `There's a whisper going round about a microprocessor plant.’
`In Livingston?’
`That's one possibility.’
`Anything else?’
`Nope. Why the interest?’
`Cheers, Tony.’
Rebus put down the receiver, looked across at Candice. He couldn't think where else to take her. Hotels weren't safe. One place came to mind, but it would be risky… Well, not so very risky. He made the call.
'Sammy?’ he said. `Any chance you could do me a favour…?’
Sammy lived in a `colonies' flat in Shandon. Parking was almost impossible on the narrow street outside. Rebus got as close as he could.
Sammy was waiting for them in the narrow hallway, and led them into the cramped living-room. There was a guitar on a wicker chair and Candice lifted it, setting herself on the chair and strumming a chord.
'Sammy,' Rebus said, `this is Candice.’
`Hello there,' Sammy said. `Happy Halloween.’
Candice was putting chords together now. `Hey, that's Oasis.’
Candice looked up, smiled. `Oasis,' she echoed.
`I've got the CD somewhere…’
Sammy examined a tower of CDs next to the hi-fi. `Here it is. Shall I put it on?’
`Yes, yes.’
Sammy switched the hi-fi on, told Candice she was going to make some coffee, and beckoned for Rebus to follow her into the kitchen.
`So who is she?’
The kitchen was tiny. Rebus stayed in the doorway.
`She's a prostitute. Against her will. I don't want her pimp getting her.’
`Where's she from again?’
` Sarajevo.’
`And she doesn't have much English?’
`How's your Serbo-Croat?’
`Rusty.’
Rebus looked around. `Where's your boyfriend?’
`Out working.’
`On the book?’
Rebus didn't like Ned Farlowe. Partly it was that name: `Neds' were what the Sunday Post called hooligans. They robbed old ladies of their pension books and walking-frames. Those were the Neds of this world. And Farlowe meant Chris Farlowe: `Out of Time', a number one that should have belonged to the Stones. Farlowe was researching a history of organised crime in Scotland.
`Sod's law,' Sammy said. `He needs money to buy the time to write the thing.’
`So what's he doing?’
`Just some freelance stuff. How long am I babysitting?’
`A couple of days at most. Just till I find somewhere else.’
`What will he do if he finds her?’
`I'm not that keen to find out.’
Sammy finished rinsing the mugs. `She looks like me, doesn't she?’
`Yes, she does.’
`I've got some time off coming. Maybe I'll phone in, see if I can stay here with her. What's her real name?’
`She hasn't told me.’
`Has she any clothes?’
`At a hotel. I'll get a patrol car to bring them.’
`She's really in danger?’
`She might be.’
