`Have you spoken to Claverhouse?’
`He can wait his turn. I said I'd phone you back.’
`So what did you get?’
`The third degree, basically. Some guy with dyed black hair, frizzy… tight jeans.’
`Pretty-Boy.’
`Wears mascara.’
`Looks like. So what was the gist?’
`Second hurdle passed. Nobody's mentioned what the job is yet. Tonight was a sort of preface. Wanted to know all about me, told me my money worries could be over. If I could help them with a 'little problem' – Pretty- Boy's words.’
`You asked what the problem was?’
`He wasn't saying. If you ask me, he goes to Telford, talks it through. Then there's another meeting, and that's where they tell me the plan.’
`And you'll be miked up?’
`Yes.’
`And if they strip you?’
'Claverhouse has access to some miniaturised stuff, cuff-links and the like.’
`And your character would obviously wear cuff-links.’
`True enough. Maybe fit a transmitter into a bookie's pencil.’
`Now you're thinking.’
`I'm thinking I'm wiped out.’
`What was the mood like?’
`Fraught.’
`Any sign of Tarawicz or Shoda?’
`Nope, just Pretty-Boy and the Gruesome Twosome.’
'Claverhouse calls them Tweedledum and Tweedledee.’
`He's obviously classically educated.’
Morton paused. `You've spoken to him?’
`When you didn't call back.’
`I'm touched. Do you think he's up to it?’
'Claverhouse?’
Rebus thought about it. `I'd feel better if I was in charge. But that probably puts me in a minority.’
`I didn't say that.’
`You're a pal, Jack.’
`They're running a check on me. But that's all in place. With luck, I'll pass.’
`What did they say to your sudden arrival at Maclean's?’
'I've been transferred from another plant. If they go looking, I'm in the personnel files.’
Morton paused again. `One thing I want to know…’
`What?’
`Pretty-Boy handed me a hundred quid on account: what do I do with 1t?’
`That's between you and your conscience, Jack. See you soon.’
`Night, John.’
For the first time in a while, Rebus actually made it as far as his bed. His sleep was deep and dreamless.
31
Doctors in white coats were doing things to Sammy when Rebus arrived at the hospital next morning: taking her pulse, shining lights in her eyes. They were setting up another scanner, a nurse trying to untangle the thin coloured leads. Rhona looked like she'd lost some sleep. She jumped up and ran towards him.
`She woke up!' It took him a second to take it in. Rhona was holding his arms, shaking him.
`She woke up, John!' He pushed his way to the bedside.
`When?’
`Last night.’
`Why didn't you phone me?’
`I tried three, four times. You were engaged. I tried Patience, but there was no answer there.’
`What happened?’
To him, Sammy looked the same as ever.
`She just opened her eyes… No, first off, it was like she was moving her eyeballs. You know, with her eyelids closed. Then she opened her eyes.’
Rebus could see that the medical personnel were finding their work hampered. Half of him wanted to lash out – We're her fucking parents! The other half wanted them to do all they could to bring her round again. He took Rhona by the shoulder and guided her out into the hallway.
`Did she… Did she look at you? Did she say anything?’
`She was just staring at the ceiling, where the strip-light is. Then I thought she was going to blink, but she closed her eyes again and they stayed shut.’
Rhona burst into tears. `It was like… I lost her all over again.’
Rebus took her in his arms. She hugged him back.
`She did it once,' he whispered into her ear, `she'll do it again.’
`That's what one of the doctors said. He said they're 'very hopeful'. Oh, John, I wanted to tell you! I wanted to tell everyone!' And he'd been busy with work: Claverhouse, Jack Morton. And he'd got Sammy into all this in the first place. Sammy and Candice pebbles dropped into a pool. And now the ripples had grown so that he'd all but forgotten about the centre, the starting point. Just like when he was married, work consuming him, becoming an end in itself. And Rhona's words: You've exploited every relationship you ever had.
To be born again…
`I'm sorry, Rhona,' he said.
`Can you let Ned know?’
She started crying again.
`Come on,' he said, `let's get some breakfast. Have you been here all night?’
`I couldn't leave.’
`I know.’
He kissed her cheek…
`The person in the car…’
`What?’
She looked at him. `I don't care any more. I don't care who they were or whether they get caught. All I want is for her to wake up.’
Rebus nodded, told her he understood. Told her breakfast was on him. He kept the talk going, his mind not really on it. Instead, her words bounced around in his head: I don't care who they were or whether they get caught…
Whichever stress he put on it, he couldn't make it sound like surrender.
At St Leonard's, he broke the news to Ned Farlowe. Farlowe wanted to go to the hospital, but Rebus shook his head. Farlowe was crying as Rebus left his cell. Back at his desk, the files on the Crab were waiting.
The Crab: real name, William Andrew Colton. He had form going back to his teens, celebrated his fortieth birthday on Guy Fawkes Day. Rebus hadn't had many dealings with him during his time in Edinburgh. Looked like the Crab had lived in the city for a couple of years in the early-80s, and again in the early-90s. 1982: Rebus gave evidence against him in a conspiracy trial. Charges dropped. 1983: he was in trouble again – a fight in a pub left one man in a coma and his girlfriend needing sixty stitches to her face. Sixty stitches: you could knit a pair of mittens with less.
