Telford and Tarawicz: European prostitutes heading north; muscle and dope heading south.
Mr Taystee: taking more than his fair share; dealt with accordingly.
The Japanese: using Telford as their introduction to Scotland, finding it a good base of operations.
Only now Rebus had scuppered that. In his folder to Shoda he'd warned the gangster to leave Poyntinghame alone, or he'd be `implicated in ongoing criminal investigations'. The Yakuza weren't stupid. He doubted they'd be back… for a while at least.
His last trip of the night: Rebus went down to the cells, unlocked one of the doors and told Ned Farlowe he was free. Told him he had nothing to fear…
Unlike Mr Pink Eyes. The Yakuza had a score to settle. And it didn't stay unsettled long. He was found in his carcrusher, seatbelt welded shut. His men had started running.
Some of them were running still.
Rebus sat in his living-room, staring at the door Jack Morton had stripped and varnished. He was thinking about the funeral, about how the juice Church would be there in force. He wondered if they'd blame him. Jack's kids would be there, too. Rebus had never met them; didn't think he wanted to see them.
Wednesday morning, he was back in Inverness, meeting Mrs Hetherington off her flight. She'd been delayed in Holland, answering Customs questions. They'd laid a little trap, caught a man called De Gier – a known trafficker planting the kilo package of heroin in Mrs Hetherington's luggage: a secret compartment in her suitcase, the suitcase itself a gift from her landlord. Several of Telford's other elderly tenants were enjoying short breaks in Belgium. They'd be questioned by local police.
Home again, Rebus telephoned David Levy.
'Lintz committed suicide,' he told him.
`That's your conclusion?’
`It's the truth. No conspiracy, no cover-up.’
A sigh. `It's of little consequence, Inspector. What matters is that we've lost another one.’
`Villefranche doesn't mean a thing to you, does it? The Rat Line, that's all you care about.’
`There's nothing we can do about Villefranche.’
Rebus took a deep breath. `A man called Harris came to see me. He works for British Intelligence. They're protecting some big names, high-level people. Rat Line survivors, maybe their children. Tell Mayerlink to keep digging.’
There was silence for a moment. `Thank you, Inspector.’
Rebus was in a car. It was the Weasel's Jag. The Weasel was in the back with him. Their driver was missing a big chunk of his left ear. The shape made him resemble a pixie – but only from the side, and you wouldn't want to tell him to his face.
`You did well,' the Weasel was saying. `Mr Cafferty's pleased.’
`How long have you been holding him?’
The Weasel smiled. `Nothing gets past you, Rebus.’
`Rangers have offered me a trial in goal. How long have you had him?’
`A few days. Had to be sure we had the right one, didn't we?’
`And now you're sure?’
`Absolutely positive.’
Rebus looked out of the window at the passing parade of shops, pedestrians, buses. The car was heading down towards Newhaven and Granton. `You wouldn't be setting up some loser to take the blame?’
`He's genuine.’
`You could have spent the past few days making sure he was going to say the right things.’
The Weasel seemed amused. `Such as?’
`Such as that he was in Telford's pay.’
`Rather than Mr Cafferty's, you mean?’
Rebus glared at the Weasel, who laughed. `I think you'll find him a pretty convincing candidate.’
The way he said it made Rebus shiver. `He's still alive, isn't he?’
`Ah, yes. How long he remains so is entirely up to you.’
`You think I want him dead?’
`I know you do. You didn't go to Mr Cafferty because you wanted justice. You went out of revenge.’
Rebus stared at the Weasel. `You don't sound like yourself.’
`You mean I don't sound like my persona – different thing entirely.’
`And do many people get behind the persona?’
The Who: `Can You See the Real Me?’
The Weasel smiled again. `I thought you deserved it, after all the trouble you've gone to.’
`I didn't break Telford just to please your boss.’
`Nevertheless…’
The Weasel slid across his seat towards Rebus. `How's Sammy, by the way?’
`She's fine.’
`Recuperating?’
`Yes.’
`That's good news. Mr Cafferty will be pleased. He's disappointed you haven't been to see him.’
Rebus took a newspaper from his pocket. It was folded at a story: FATAL STABBING AT JAIL.
`Your boss?’ he said, handing the paper over.
The Weasel made show of reading it. '`Aged twenty-six, from Govan… stabbed through the heart in his cell… no witnesses, no weapon recovered despite a thorough search.”
'He tutted. `Bit careless.’
`He'd taken up the contract on Cafferty?’
`Had he?’
The Weasel looked amazed.
`Fuck off,' Rebus said, turning back to his window.
`By the way, Rebus, if you decide not to go to trial with the driver…’
The Weasel was holding something out. A homemade screwdriver, filed to a point, grip covered in packing- tape. Rebus looked at it in disgust.
`I washed the blood off,' the Weasel assured him. Then he laughed again. Rebus felt like he was being ferried straight to hell. In front of him he could see the grey expanse of the Firth of Forth, and Fife beyond it. They were coming into an area of docks, gas-plant and warehouses. It had been earmarked for a development spill-over from Leith. The whole city was changing. Traffic routes and priorities were altered overnight, cranes were kept busy on buildingsites, and the council, who always complained about being broke, had all manner of schemes underway to further alter the shape and scope of his chosen home.
`Nearly there,' the Weasel said.
Rebus wondered if there'd be any turning back.
They stopped at the gates to a warehouse complex. The driver undid the padlock, pulled the chain free. The gates swung open. In they went. The Weasel ordered the driver to park around the back. There was a plain white van there, more rust than metal. Its back windows had been painted over, turning it into a suitable hearse should occasion demand.
They got out into a salt wind. The Weasel shuffled over towards a door and banged once. The door was pushed open from within. They stepped inside.
A huge open space, filled with only a few packing cases, a couple of pieces of machinery covered with oil-cloth. And two men: the one who'd let them in, and another at the far end. This man was standing in front of a wooden chair. There was a figure tied to the chair, half-hidden by the man. The Weasel led the procession. Rebus tried to control his breathing, which was growing painfully shallow. His heart was racing, nerves jangling. He pushed back the anger, wasn't sure he could hold it.
When they were eight feet from the chair, the Weasel nodded and the man stood away, revealing to Rebus the terrified figure of a kid.
A boy.
Nine or ten, no older.
