them Pretty-Boy. Pretty-Boy was making sure his jacket hung right, trying to decide whether it would look better buttoned. But his eyes raked the darkened street. Rebus had parked away from the street-lights, confident he was invisible. They were piling into the limo. Rebus watched it move off, waited until it had signalled and turned a corner before switching on his own headlamps and starting the engine.
They drove to the same hotel Matsumoto had stayed at. Telford's Range Rover was parked outside. Pedestrians – late night couples hurrying home from the pub – turned to stare at the limo. Saw the entourage spill out, probably mistook them for pop stars or film people. Rebus as casting director: Candice's startlet being mauled by sleazy producer Tarawicz. Telford a sleek young operator on his way up, looking to learn from the producer before toppling him. The others were bit players, except maybe Pretty-Boy, who was hanging on to his boss's coattails, maybe readying himself for his own big break…
If Tarawicz had a suite, there might be room for them all. If not, they'd be in the bar. Rebus parked, followed them inside.
The lights hurt his eyes. The reception area was all mirrors and pine, brass and pot-plants. He tried to look like he'd been left behind by the party. They were settling down in the bar, through a double set of swing-doors with glass panels. Rebus hung back. Sitting target in the empty reception; bigger target in the bar. Retreat to the car? Someone was standing up, shrugging off along black coat. Candice. Smiling now, saying something to Tarawicz, who was nodding. Took her hand and planted a kiss in the palm. Went further: a slow lick across the palm and up her wrist. Everyone laughing, whistling. Candice looking numb. Tarawicz got to the inside of her elbow and took a bite. She squealed, pulled back, rubbed her arm. Tarawicz had his tongue out, playing to the gallery. Give Tommy Telford credit: he wasn't grinning along with everyone else.
Candice stood there, a stooge to her owner's little act. Then he waved her off with a flick of his hand. Permission granted, she started for the doors. Rebus moved back into a recess where the public telephones sat. She turned right out of the doors, disappeared into the ladies'. At the table, they were busy ordering more champagne – and an orange juice for Pretty-Boy.
Rebus looked around, took a deep breath. Walked into the ladies' toilets like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She was splashing her face with water. A little brown bottle sat next to the sink. Three yellow tablets lying ready. Rebus swept them on to the floor.
`Hey!' She turned, saw him, put a hand to her mouth. She tried backing away, but there was nowhere to go.
`Is this what you want, Dunya?’
Using her real name as a weapon: friendly fire.
She frowned, shook her head: incomprehension on her face. He grabbed her shoulders, squeezed.
'Sammy,' he hissed. 'Sammy's in hospital. Very ill.’
He pointed towards the hotel bar. `They tried to kill her.’
The gist got through. Candice shook her head. Tears were smudging her mascara.
`Did you tell Sammy anything?’
She frowned again.
`Anything about Telford or Tarawicz? Did you talk to Sammy about them?’
A slow, determined shake of the head. 'Sammy… hospital?’
He nodded. Turned his hands into a steering-wheel, made engine noises, then slammed a fist into his open palm. Candice turned away, grabbed the sink. She was crying, shoulders jerking. She scrabbled for more tablets. Rebus tore them from her hand.
`You want to blank it all out? Forget it.’
He threw them on to the floor, crushed them under his heel. She crouched down, licked a finger and dabbed at the powder. Rebus hauled her to her feet. Her knees wouldn't lock; he had to keep holding her upright. She wouldn't look him in the eyes.
`It's funny, we first met in a toilet, remember? You were scared. You hated your life so much you'd slashed your arms.’
He touched her scarred wrists. `That's how much you hated your life. And now you're straight back in it.’
Her face was against his jacket, tears dropping on to his shirt.
`Remember the Japanese?’ he cooed. `Remember Juniper Green, the golf club?’
She drew back, wiped her nose on her bare wrist. `Juniper Green,' she said.
'That's right. And a big factory… the car stopped, and everyone looked at the factory.’
She was nodding.
`Did anyone talk about it? Did they say anything?’
She was shaking her head. `John…’
Her hands on his lapels. She sniffed, swiped at her nose again. She slid down his jacket, his shirt. She was on her knees, looking up at him, blinking tears, while her damp fingers scored white powder from the tiles. Rebus crouched down in front of her.
`Come with me,' he said. `I'll help you.’
He pointed towards the door, towards the world outside, but she was busy in her own world now, fingers going to her mouth. Someone pushed open the door. Rebus looked up.
A woman: young, drunk, hair falling into her eyes. She stopped and studied the two people on the floor, then smiled and headed for a cubicle.
`Save some for me,' she said, sliding the lock.
`Go, John.’
There was powder at the corners of Candice's mouth. A tiny piece of tablet had lodged between her front two teeth. `Please, go now.’
`I don't want you getting hurt.’
He sought her hands, squeezed them.
`I do not hurt any more.’
She got to her feet and turned from him. Checked her face in the mirror, wiped away the powder and dabbed at her mascara. Blew her nose and took a deep breath.
Walked out of the toilets.
Rebus waited a moment, time enough for her to reach the table. Then he opened the door and made his exit. Walked back to his car on legs that seemed to belong to someone else.
Drove home, not quite crying.
But not quite not.
25
Four in the morning, the blessed telephone pulled him out of a nightmare.
Prison-camp prostitutes with teeth filed to points were kneeling in front of him. Jake Tarawicz, in full SS regalia, held him from behind, telling him resistance was useless. Through the barred window, Rebus could see black berets – the maquis, busy freeing the camp but leaving his billet till last. Alarm bells ringing, everything telling him that salvation was at hand…
… alarm becoming his telephone… he staggered from his chair, picked it up.
`Yes.’
`John?’
The Chief Super's voice: Aberdonian, instantly recognisable.
`Yes, sir?’
`We've got a spot of bother. Get down here.’
`What kind of bother?’
`I'll tell you when you get here. Now shift.’
Night shift, to be precise. The city asleep. St Leonard's was lit up, the tenements around it dark. No sign of the Farmer's `spot of bother'. The Chief Super's office: the Farmer in conference with Gill Tempter.
