Yes, Rebus could imagine: a lone, bleary-eyed Customs official, wits not at their sharpest…
`So the bags change planes at Heathrow, but no one checks them there?’
`That's about it.’
`And if you were flying from Holland to Inverness via London?’
`Same deal.’
Rebus knew now, knew the brilliance of Tommy Telford's thinking. He was supplying drugs for Tarawicz, and Christ knew how many others. His little old ladies and men were bringing them in past early-morning or late-night Customs posts. How difficult would it be to slip something into a piece of luggage? Then Telford's men would be on hand to take everyone back to Edinburgh, carry their luggage upstairs… and surreptitiously remove each package.
Old age pensioners as unwitting drugs couriers. It was stunning.
And Shoda hadn't flown into Inverness so he could check out the local tourist amenities. He'd flown in so he could see how easy it was, what a brilliant route Telford had found, quick and efficient with a minimum of risk. Rebus had to laugh again. The Highlands had its own drugs problem these days: bored teenagers and cash-rich oil-workers. Rebus had smashed one north-east ring back in early summer, only to have Tommy Telford come along…
Cafferty would never have thought of it. Cafferty would never have been so daring. But Cafferty would have kept it quiet. He wouldn't have sought to expand, wouldn't have brought partners into the scheme.
Telford was still a kid in some respects. The passenger-seat teddy bear was proof of that.
Rebus thanked the Customs official and went in search of food. Parked in the middle of town and grabbed a burger, sat at a window table and thought it all through. There were still aspects that didn't make sense, but he could cope with that.
He made two calls: one to the hospital; one to Bobby Hogan. Sammy hadn't woken up again. Hogan was interviewing Pretty-Boy at seven o'clock. Rebus said he'd be there.
The weather was kind on the trip south, the traffic manageable. The Saab seemed to enjoy long drives, or maybe it was just that at seventy miles an hour the engine noise disguised all the rattles and bumps: He drove straight to Leith cop-shop, looked at his watch and found he was quarter of an hour late. Which didn't matter, since they were just starting the interview. Pretty-Boy was there with Charles Groal, all-purpose solicitor. Hogan was sitting with another CID officer, DC James Preston. A tape-recorder had been set up. Hogan looked nervous, realising how speculative this whole venture was, especially with a lawyer present. Rebus gave him a reassuring wink and apologised for having been detained. The burger had given him indigestion, and the coffee he'd had with it had done nothing for his frayed nerves. He had to shake his head clear of Inverness and all its implications and concentrate on Pretty-Boy and Joseph Lintz.
Pretty-Boy looked calm. He was wearing a charcoal suit with a yellow t-shirt, black suede winkle-picker boots. He smelt of expensive aftershave. In front of him on the desk: a pair of tortoiseshell Ray-Bans and his car keys. Rebus knew he'd own a Range Rover – it was mandatory for Telford employees – but the key-ring boasted the Porsche marque, and on the street outside Rebus had parked behind a cobalt blue 944. Pretty-Boy showing a touch of individuality…
Groal had his briefcase open on the floor beside him. On the desk in front of him: an A4 pad of ruled paper, and a fat black Mont Blanc pen.
Lawyer and client oozed money easily made and just as easily spent. Pretty-Boy used his money to buy class, but Rebus knew his background: working-class Paisley, a granite-hard introduction to life.
Hogan identified those present for the benefit of the taperecorder, then looked at his own notes.
`Mr Summers…’
Pretty-Boy's real name: Brian Summers. `Do you know why you're here?’
Pretty-Boy made an O of his glossy lips and stared ceilingwards.
`Mr Summers,' Charles Groal began, `has informed me that he is willing to co-operate, Inspector Hogan, but that he'd like some indication of the accusations against him and their validity.’
Hogan stared at Groal, didn't blink. `Who said he's accused of anything?’
`Inspector, Mr Summers works for Thomas. Telford, and your police force's harassment of that individual is on record…’
`Nothing to do with me, Mr Groal, or this station.’
Hogan paused. `Nothing at all to do with my present inquiries.’
Groal blinked half a dozen times in quick succession. He looked at Pretty-Boy, who was now studying the tips of his boots.
`You want me to say something?’
Pretty-Boy asked the lawyer.
`I'm just… I'm not sure if…’
Pretty-Boy cut him off with a wave of his hand, then looked at Hogan.
`Ask away.’
Hogan made show of studying his notes again. `Do you know why you're here, Mr Summers?’
`General vilification as part of your witch-hunt against my employer.’
He smiled at the three CID men. `Bet you didn't think I'd know a word like 'vilification'.’
His gaze rested on Rebus, then he turned to Groal.
`DI Rebus isn't based at this station.’
Groal took the hint. `That's true, Inspector. Might I ask by what authority you've been allowed to sit in on this interview?’
`That will become clear,' Hogan said, `if you'll allow us to begin?’
Groal cleared his throat, but said nothing. Hogan let the silence lie for a few moments, then began.
`Mr Summers, do you know a man called Joseph Lintz?’
`No.’
The silence stretched out. Summers recrossed his feet. He looked up at Hogan, and blinked, the blink deteriorating into a momentary twitch of one eye. He sniffed, rubbed at his nose – trying to make out that the twitch meant nothing.
`You've never met him?’
`No.’
`The name means nothing to you?’
`You've asked me about him before. I'll tell you same as I told you then: I never knew the cat.’
Summers sat up a bit straighter in his chair.
`You've never spoken to him by telephone?’
Summers looked at Groal.
`Hasn't my client made himself clear, Inspector?’
`I'd like an answer.’
`I don't know him,' Summers said, forcing himself to relax again, `I've never spoken to him.’
He gave Hogan his stare again, and this time held it. There was nothing behind the eyes but naked self interest. Rebus wondered how anyone could ever think him `pretty', when his whole outlook on life was so fundamentally ugly.
`He didn't phone you at your… business premises?’
`I don't have any business premises.’
`The office you share with your employer.’
Pretty-Boy smiled. He liked those phrases: `business premises'; `your employer'. They all knew the truth, yet played this little game… and he liked playing games.
`I've already said, I never spoke to him.’
`Funny, the phone company says differently.’
`Maybe they made a mistake.’
`I doubt that, Mr Summers.’
`Look, we've been through this before.’
Summers sat forward in his chair. `Maybe it was a wrong number. Maybe he spoke to one of my associates, and they told him he had a wrong number.’
