`Setting up Telford, the way someone tried to set me up for Matsumoto.’
`You know you're not out of the woods?’
He looked at' her. `An internal inquiry? The men with rubber soles?’
She nodded. `Bring them on.’
He sat forward in his chair, rubbed his temples. `No reason they should be left out of the party.’
`What party?’
`The one inside my head. The party that never stops.’
Rebus leaned across the desk to answer the phone. `No, he's not here. Can I take a message? This is DI Rebus.’
A pause; he was looking at Gill Tempter. `Yes, I'm working that case.’
He found pen and paper, started writing. `Mmm, I see. Yes, sounds like. I'll let him know when he gets back.’
Eyes boring into hers. Then the punchline:
`How many did you say were dead?’
Just the one. Another fled the scene, holding his arm, all but severed from the shoulder. He turned up at a local hospital later, needing surgery and a huge transfusion of blood.
In broad daylight. Not in Edinburgh, but Paisley. Telford's hometown, the town he still ruled. Four men, dressed in council work jackets, like a road team. But in place of picks and shovels, they'd toted machetes and a large- calibre revolver. They'd chased two men into a housing scheme. Kids playing on tricycles; kicking a ball up the street. Women hanging out of their windows. And grown men itching to hurt one another. A machete swung overhead, coming down hard. The wounded man kept running. His friend tried hurdling a fence, wasn't agile enough. Three inches higher and he'd have made it. As it was, his toe caught, and he fell. He was pushing himself back up when the barrel of the gun touched the back of his head. Two shots, a fine drizzle of blood and brain. The children not playing any more, the women screaming for them to run. But something had been satisfied by those two shots. The chase was over. The four men turned and jogged back down the street, towards a waiting van.
A public execution, in Tommy Telford's heartland.
The two victims: known money-lenders. The one in hospital was called `Wee' Stevie Murray, age twenty-two. The one in the mortuary was Donny Draper – known since childhood as `Curtains'. They'd be making jokes about that. Curtains was two weeks shy of his twenty-fifth birthday. Rebus hoped he'd made the most of his short time on the planet.
Paisley police knew about Telford's move to Edinburgh, knew there were some problems there. A courtesy call had been placed to Chief Superintendent Watson.
The caller said: the men were two of Telford's brightest and best. The caller said: descriptions of the attackers were vague.
The caller said: the children weren't talking. They were being shielded by their parents, fearful of reprisals. Well, they might not be talking to the police, but Rebus doubted they'd be so reticent when Tommy Telford came calling, armed with his own questions and determined to have answers.
This was bad. This was escalation. Fire-bombings and beatings: these could be remedied. But murder… murder put the grudgematch on to a much higher plane.
`Is it worth talking to them again?’ Gill Tempter asked. They were in the canteen, sandwiches untouched in front of them.
`What do you think?’
He knew what she thought. She was talking because she thought talking was better than doing nothing. He could have told her to save her breath.
`They used a machete,' he said.
`Same thing they took to Danny Simpson's scalp.’
Rebus nodded. `I've got to ask…’ she said.
`What?’
`About Lintz… what you said?’
He drained the last inch of his cold coffee. `Fancy another?’
`John…’
He looked at her. 'Lintz had some phone calls he was trying to hide. One of them was to Tommy Telford's office in Flint Street. We don't know how it ties in, but we think it does tie in.’
`What could Lintz and Telford have had in common?’
`Maybe Lintz went to him for help. Maybe he rented prossies off him. Like I say, we don't know. Which is why we're keeping it under the table.’
`You want Telford very badly, don't you?’
Rebus stared at her, thought about it. `Not as much as I did. He's not enough any more.’
`You want Cafferty, too?’
`And Tarawicz… and the Yakuza… and anybody else who's along for the ride.’
She nodded. `This is the party you were talking about?’
He tapped his head. 'They're all in here, Gill. I've tried kicking them out, but they won't leave.’
`Maybe if you stopped playing their kind of music?’
He smiled tiredly. `Now there's an idea. What do you reckon: ELP? The Enid? How about a Yes triple album?’
`Your department, not mine, thank God.’
`You don't know what you're missing.’
`Yes, I do: I was there first time round.’
Old Scottish proverb: he who has had knuckles rapped will want to rap someone else's. Which is why Rebus found himself back in Watson's office. The Farmer's cheeks were still red from his meeting with the Chief Constable. When Rebus made to sit, Watson told him to get back on his feet.
`You'll sit when you're told and not before.’
`Thank you, sir.’
`What the bloody hell's going on, John?’
`Pardon, sir?’
The Farmer looked at the note Rebus had left on his desk. `What's this?’
`One dead, one seriously wounded in Paisley, sir. Telford's men. Cafferty's hitting him where it hurts. Probably reckons that Telford's territory's spun a bit thin. Leaves him open to breaches.’
`Paisley.’
The Farmer stuffed the note in his drawer. `Not our problem.’
`It will be, sir. When Telford hits back, it'll be right here.’
`Never mind that, Inspector. Let's talk about Maclean's Pharmaceuticals.’
Rebus blinked, relaxed his shoulders. `I was going to tell you, sir.’
`But instead I had to hear it from the Chief Constable?’
`Not really my baby, sir. Crime Squad are pushing the pram.’
`But who put the baby in the pram?’
`I was going to tell you, sir.’
`Know how it makes me look? I walk into Fettes and I don't know something one of my junior officers knows? I look like a mug.’
`With respect, sir, I'm sure that's not the case.’
`I look like a mug!' The Farmer slammed the desk with both palms. `And it's not as though this was the first time. I've always tried to do my best for you, you know that.’
`Yes, sir.’
`Always been fair.’
`Absolutely, sir.’
`And you pay me back like this?’
`It won't happen again, sir.’
The Farmer stared at him; Rebus held it, returned it.
`I bloody well hope not.’
