The Crab had held various jobs: bouncer, bodyguard, general labourer. The Inland Revenue had a go at him in 1986. By '88, he was on the West Coast, which was presumably where Tommy Telford had found him. Knowing good muscle when he saw it, he'd put the Crab on the doors of his club in Paisley. More bloodspilling; more accusations. Nothing came of them. The Crab had lived a charmed life, the sort of life that niggled at cops the world over: witnesses too scared to testify; withdrawing or refusing to give evidence. The Crab didn't often make it to trial. He'd served three adult sentences – a total of twenty-seven months – in a career that was now entering its fourth decade. Rebus went through the paperwork again, picked up the phone and called CID in Paisley. The man he wanted to speak to had been transferred to Motherwell. Rebus made the call, eventually got through to Detective Sergeant Ronnie Hannigan, and explained his interest.
`It's just that reading between the lines, you suspected the Crab of a lot more than ever got put down on paper.’
`You're right.’ Hannigan cleared his throat. `Never got close to proving anything though. You say he's south of the border now?’
`Telford placed him with a gangster in Newcastle.’
`Have criminal tendencies, will travel. Well, let's hope they keep him. He was a one-man reign of terror, and that's no exaggeration. Probably why Telford palmed him off on someone else: the Crab was getting out of control. My theory is, Telford tried him out as a hit-man. Crab wasn't suitable, so Telford needed to jettison him.’
`What was the hit?’
`Down in Ayr. Must've been… four years ago? Lot of drugs swilling around, most of them inside a dance-club… can't remember its name. I don't know what happened: maybe a deal went sour, maybe someone was skimming. Whatever, there was a hit outside the club. Guy got his face half torn off with a carving knife.’
`You put the Crab in the frame?’
`He had an alibi, of course, and the eye-witnesses all seemed to have suffered temporary blindness. Could be a plot for the X-Files in that.’
A knife attack outside a nightclub… Rebus tapped his desk with a pen. `Any idea how the attacker got away?’
`On a motorbike. The Crab likes bikes. Crash helmet makes a good disguise.’
`We had an almost identical attack recently. Guy on a motorbike went for a drug dealer outside one of Tommy Telford's nightclubs. Killed a bouncer instead.’
And Cafferty denied any involvement…
`Well, like you say, the Crab's in Newcastle.’
Yes, and staying put… scared to come north. Warned off by Tarawicz. Because Edinburgh was too dangerous… people might remember him.
`Do you know how far away Newcastle is?’
`A couple of hours?’
`No distance at all by bike. Anything else I should know?’
`Well, Telford tried the Crab in the van, but he wasn't much good.’
`What van?’
`The ice-cream van.’
Rebus nearly dropped the phone. Explain,' he said.
`Easy: Telford's boys were selling dope from an ice-cream van. The 'five-pound special', they called it. You handed over a fiver and got back a cone or wafer with a wee plastic bag tucked inside…’
Rebus thanked Hannigan and terminated the call. Five-pound specials: Mr Taystee with his clients who ate ice-cream in all weathers. His daytime pitches: near schools. His nighttime pitches: outside Telford's clubs. Five- pound specials on the menu, Telford taking his cut… The new Merc: Mr Taystee's big mistake. Telford's moneymen wouldn't have taken long to work out their boy was skimming. Telford would have decided to turn Mr Taystee into a lesson…
It was coming together. He spun his pen, caught it, and made another call, this time to Newcastle.
`Nice to hear from you,' Miriam Kenworthy said. `Any sign of your lady friend?’
`She's turned up here.’
`Great.’
`In tow with Mr Pink Eyes.’
`Not so great. I wondered where he'd gone.’
`And he's not here to see the sights.’
`I'll bet he isn't.’
`Which is really why I'm calling.’
`Mmm?’
`I'm just wondering if he's ever been linked to machete attacks.’
`Machetes? Let me think…’
She was so quiet for so long, he thought the connection had failed. `You know, that does ring a bell. Let me put it up on the screen.’
Clackety-clack of her keyboard. Rebus was biting his bottom lip, almost drawing blood.
`God, yes,' she said. `A year or so back, a battle on an estate. Rival gangs, that was the story, but everyone knew what was behind it: namely, drugs and pitch incursions.’
`And where there's drugs, there's Tarawicz?’
`There was a rumour his men were involved.’
`And they used machetes?’
`One of them did. His name's Patrick Kenneth Moynihan, known to all and sundry as 'PK'.’
`Can you give me a description?’
`I can fax you his picture. But meantime: tall, heavy build, curly black hair and a black beard.’
He wasn't part of the Tarawicz retinue. Two of Mr Pink's best muscle-men had been left behind in Newcastle. For safety's sake. Rebus pint PK down as one of the Paisley attackers – Cafferty again in the clear.
`Thanks, Miriam. Listen, about that rumour…’
`Remind me.’
`Telford supplying Tarawicz rather than the other way round: anything to back it up?’
`We tracked Pink Eyes and his men. A couple of jaunts to the continent; only they came back clean.’
`Leading you up the garden path?’
`Which made us start reassessing.’
`Where would Telford be getting the stuff?’
`We didn't reassess that far.’
`Well, thanks again…’
`Hey, don't leave me hanging: what's the story?’
`Morning Glory. Cheers, Miriam.’
Rebus went and got a coffee, put sugar in it without realising, had finished half the cup before he noticed. Tarawicz was attacking Telford. Telford was blaming Cafferty. The resulting war would destroy Cafferty and weaken Telford. Then Telford would pull off the Maclean's break-in but be grassed up…
And Tarawicz would fill the vacuum. That had been the plan all along. Bluesbreakers: `Double-Crossing Time'. Christ, it was beautiful: set the two rivals against one another and wait for the carnage to end…
The prize: something Rebus didn't yet know. There had to be something big. Tarawicz, the theory went, was sourcing his drugs not from London but from Scotland. From Tommy Telford.
What did Telford know? What was it that made his supply so valuable? Did it have something to do with Maclean's? Rebus got another coffee, washed down three Paracetamol with it. His head felt ready to explode. Back at his desk, he tried Claverhouse, couldn't get him. Paged him instead, and got an immediate call back.
`I'm in the van,' Claverhouse said.
`I've something to tell you.’
`What?’
Rebus wanted to know what was happening. Wanted in on the action. `It's got to be face to face. Where are you parked?’
Claverhouse sounded suspicious. `Down from the shop.’
