He went through the other numbers: a couple of restaurants, a wine shop, and the local radio station. Rebus told the receptionist what he was after, and she said she'd do her best. Then he went back to the restaurants, asked them to check if Lintz had been making a reservation.
Within half an hour, the calls started coming in. First restaurant: a booking for dinner, just the one cover. The radio station: they'd asked Lintz to appear on a programme. He'd said he'd consider it, then had called back to decline. Second restaurant: a lunch reservation, two covers.
`Two?’
`Mr Lintz and one other.’
`Any idea who the 'other' might have been?’
`Another gentleman, quite elderly, I think… I'm sorry, I don't really remember.’
`Did he walk with a stick?’
`I wish I could help, but it's a madhouse here at lunchtime.’
`You remember Lintz though?’
`Mr Lintz is a regular… was a regular.’
`Did he usually eat alone, or with company?’
`Mostly alone. He didn't seem to mind. He'd bring a book with him.’
`Do you happen to recall any of his other guests?’
`I remember a young woman… his daughter maybe? Or granddaughter?’
`So when you say 'young'…?’
`Younger than him.’
A pause. `Maybe much younger.’
`When was this?’
`I really don't remember.’
The voice impatient now.
`I appreciate your help, sir. Just one more minute of your time… This woman, did he bring her more than once?’
`I'm sorry, Inspector. The kitchen needs me.’
`Well, if you think of anything else…’
`Of course. Goodbye.’
Rebus put the phone down, made some notes. Just one number left. He waited for an answer.
`Yeah?’
The voice grudging.
`Who's this?’
`This is Malky. Who the fuck are you?’
A voice in the background: `Tommy says that new machine's fucked.’
Rebus put the phone down. His hand was shaking. That new machine… Tommy Telford on his arcade motorbike. He remembered The Family mugshots: Malky Jordan. Tiny nose and eyes in a balloon of a face. Joseph Lintz talking to one of Telford's men? Phoning Telford's offce?? Rebus found the number of Hogan's mobile.
`Bobby,' he said. `If you're driving, better slow down right now…’
Hogan's notion: five in cash was just Telford's style. Blackmail? But where was the connection? Something else…? Hogan's play: he'd talk to Telford.
Rebus's notion: five was a bit steep for a hit-man. All the same, he wondered about Lintz… paying five thou' to Telford to set up the `accident'. Motive: give Rebus a fright, scare him off? It put Lintz back in the frame, potentially.
Rebus had fixed up another meeting, one he didn't want anyone knowing about. Haymarket Station was nice and anonymous. The bench on platform one. Ned Farlowe was already waiting. He looked tired: worry over Sammy. They talked about her for a couple of minutes. Then Rebus got down to business.
`You know Lintz has been murdered?’
`I didn't think this was a social call.’
`We're looking at a blackmail angle.’
Farlowe looked interested. `And he didn't pay up?’
Oh, he paid up all right, Rebus thought. He paid up, and someone still took him out of the game.
`Look, Ned, this is all off the record. By rights I should take you in for questioning.’
`Because I followed him for a few days?’
`Yes.’
`And that makes me a suspect?’
`It makes you a possible witness.’
Farlowe thought about it. `One evening. Lintz left his house, walked down the road, made a call from a phone-box, then went straight back home.’
Not wanting to use his home phone… afraid it was bugged? Afraid of the number being traced? Telephone bugging: a favourite ploy of Special Branch.
`And something else,' Farlowe was saying. `He met this woman on his doorstep. Like she was waiting for him. They had a few words. I think she was crying when she left.’
`What did she look like?’
`Tall, short dark hair, well-dressed. She had a briefcase with her.’
`Wearing?’
Farlowe shrugged. `Skirt and jacket… matching. Black and white check. You know… elegant.’
He was describing Kirstin Mede. Her phone message to Rebus: I can't do this any more…
`There's something I want to ask you,' Farlowe was saying. `That girl Candice.’
`What about her?’
`You asked me if anything unusual had happened just before Sammy got hit.’
`Yes?’
`Well, she happened, didn't she?’
Farlowe's eyes narrowed. `Does she have anything to do with it?’
Rebus looked at Farlowe, who started nodding.
`Thanks for the confirmation. Who was she?’
`One of Telford's girls.’
Farlowe leaped to his feet, paced the platform. Rebus waited for him to sit down again. When he did, there could be no doubting the fury in his eyes.
`You hid one of Telford's girls with your own daughter?’
`I didn't have much choice. Telford knows where I live. I…’
`You were using us!' He paused. `Telford did this, didn't he?’
`I don't know,' Rebus said. Farlowe leaped to his feet again. `Look, Ned, I don't want you -‘
'Quite frankly, Inspector, I don't think you're in any position to give advice.’
He started walking, and though Rebus called after him, he never once looked back.
As Rebus walked into the Crime Squad office, a paper plane glided past and crashed into the wall. Ormiston had his feet up on the desk. Country and western music was playing softly in the background, its source a tape player on the window ledge behind Claverhouse's desk. Siobhan Clarke had pulled a chair over beside him. They were poring over some report.
`Not exactly the 'A-Team' in here, is it?’
Rebus retrieved the plane, straightened its crumpled nose, and sent it back to Ormiston, who asked what he was doing there.
`Liaising,' Rebus told him. `My boss wants a progress report.’
Ormiston glanced towards Claverhouse, who was tipping himself back in his chair, hands behind his head.
`Want to take a guess at the headway we've made?’
Rebus sat down opposite Claverhouse, nodded a greeting to Siobhan.
`How's Sammy?’ she asked.
`Just the same,' Rebus answered. Claverhouse looked abashed, and Rebus suddenly realised that he could use Sammy as a lever, play on people's sympathy. Why not? Hadn't he used her in the past? Wasn't Ned Farlowe on the
