The Hanging Garden

Three men and a young woman in a dark blue Ford Orion, heading south out of the city. It was late now, past midnight, black taxis cruising. Students were spilling from pubs.

`They get younger every year.’

Claverhouse was never short of a cliche.

`And more of them end up joining the force,' Rebus commented.

Claverhouse smiled. `I meant prossies, not students. We pulled one in last week, said she was fifteen. Turned out she was twelve, on the run. All grown up about it.’

Rebus tried to remember Sammy at twelve. He saw her scared, in the clutches of a madman with a grievance against Rebus. She'd had lots of nightmares afterwards, till her mother had taken her to London. Rhona had phoned Rebus a few years later. She just wanted to let him know he'd robbed Sammy of her childhood.

`I phoned ahead,' Claverhouse said. `Don't worry, we've used this place before. It's perfect.’

`She'll need some clothes,' Rebus said.

'Siobhan can fetch her some in the morning.’

`How is Siobhan?’

`Seems fine. Hasn't half cut into the jokes and the language though.’

`Ach, she can take a joke,' Ormiston said. `Likes a drink, too.’

This last was news to Rebus. He wondered how much Siobhan Clarke would change in order to blend with her new surroundings.

`It's just off the bypass,' Claverhouse said, meaning their destination. `Not far now.’

The city ended suddenly. Green belt, plus the Pentland Hills. The bypass was quiet, Ormiston doing the ton between exits. They came off at Colinton and signalled into the hotel. It was a motorist's stop, one of a nationwide chain: same prices, same rooms. The cars which crowded the parking area were salesmen's specials, cigarette packets littering the passenger seats. The reps would be sleeping, or lying in a daze with the TV remote to hand.

Candice seemed reluctant to get out of the car, until she saw that Rebus was coming, too.

`You light up her life,' Ormiston offered.

At reception, they signed her in as one half of a couple – Mrs Angus Campbell. The two Crime Squad cops had the routine off pat. Rebus watched the hotel clerk, but a wink from Claverhouse told him the man was okay.

`Make it the first floor, Malcolm,' Ormiston said. `Don't want anyone peeking in the windows.’

Room number 20. `Will someone be with her?’

Rebus asked as they climbed the stairs.

`Right there in the room,' Claverhouse said. `The landing's too obvious, and we'd freeze our bums off in the car. Did you give me Colquhoun's number?’

'Ormiston has it.’

Ormiston was unlocking the door. `Who's on first watch?’

Claverhouse shrugged. Candice was looking towards Rebus, seeming to sense what was being discussed. She snatched at his arm, jabbering in her native tongue, looking first to Claverhouse and then to Ormiston, all the time waving Rebus's arm.

`It's okay, Candice, really. They'll take care of you.’

She kept shaking her head, holding him with one hand and pointing at him with the other, prodding his chest to make her meaning clear.

`What do you say, John?’

Claverhouse asked. `A happy witness is a willing witness.’

`What time's Siobhan expected?’

`I'll hurry her up.’

Rebus looked at Candice again, sighed, nodded. `Okay.’

He pointed to himself, then to the room. `Just for a little while, okay?’

Candice seemed satisfied with this, and went inside. Ormiston handed Rebus the key.

`I don't want you young things waking the neighbours now…’

Rebus closed the door on his face.

The room was exactly as expected. Rebus filled the kettle and switched it on, dumped a tea-bag into a cup. Candice pointed to the bathroom, made turning motions with her hands.

`A bath?’

He gestured with his arm. `Go ahead.’

The curtain over the window was closed. He parted it and looked out. A grassy slope, occasional lights from the bypass. He made sure the curtains were closed tight, then tried adjusting the heating. The room was stifling. There didn't seem to be a thermostat, so he went back to the window and opened it a fraction. Cold night air, and the swish of nearby traffic. He opened the pack of custard creams, two small biscuits. Suddenly he felt ravenous. He'd seen a snack machine in -the lobby. Plenty of change in his pockets. He made the tea, added milk, sat down on the sofa. For want of any other distractions, he turned the TV on. The tea was fine. The tea was absolutely fine, no complaints there. He picked up the phone and called Jack Morton.

`Did I wake you?’

`Not really. How's it going?’

`I wanted a drink today.’

`So what's new?’

Rebus could hear his friend making himself comfortable. Jack had helped Rebus get off the booze. Jack had said he could phone any time he liked.

`I had to talk to this scumbag, Tommy Telford.’

`I know the name.’

Rebus lit a cigarette. `I think a drink would have helped.’

`Before or after?’

`Both.’

Rebus smiled. `Guess where I am now?’

Jack couldn't, so Rebus told him the story.

`What's your angle?’ Jack asked.

`I don't know.’ Rebus thought about it. `She seems to need me. It's been a long time since anyone's felt like that.’

As he said the words, he feared they didn't tell the whole story. He remembered another argument with Rhona, her screaming that he'd exploited every relationship he'd ever had.

`Do you still want that drink?’ Jack was asking.

`I'm a long way from one.’

Rebus stubbed out his cigarette. `Sweet dreams, Jack.’

He was on his second cup of tea when she came back in, wearing the same clothes, her hair wet and hanging in ratstails.

`Better?’ he asked, making the thumbs-up sign. She nodded, smiling. `Do you want some tea?’

He pointed to the kettle. She nodded again, so he made her a cup. Then he suggested a trip to the snack machine. Their haul included crisps, nuts, chocolate, and a couple of cans of Coke. Another cup of tea finished off the tiny cartons of milk. Rebus lay along the sofa, shoes off, watching soundless television. Candice lay on the bed, fully-clothed, sliding the occasional crisp from its packet, flicking cha

He must have fallen asleep. The touch of her fingers on his knee brought him awake. She was standing in front of him, wearing the tshirt and nothing else. She stared at him, fingers still resting on his knee. He smiled, shook his head, led her back to bed. Made her lie down. She lay on her back, arms stretched. He shook his head again and pulled the duvet over her.

`That's not you any more,' he told her. `Goodnight, Candice.’

Rebus retreated to the sofa, lay down again, and wished she would stop saying his name.

The Doors: `Wishful Sinful'…

A tapping at the door brought him awake. Still dark outside. He'd forgotten to close the window, and the room was cold. The TV was still playing, but Candice was asleep, duvet kicked off, chocolate wrappers strewn around her bare legs and thighs. Rebus covered her up, then tiptoed to the door, peered through the spyhole, and opened up.

`For this relief, much thanks,' he whispered to Siobhan Clarke.

She was carrying a bulging polythene bag. `Thank God for the twenty-four-hour shop.’

They went inside. Clarke looked at the sleeping woman, then went over to the sofa and started unpacking the bag.

`For you,' she whispered, `a couple of sandwiches.’

`God bless the child.’

`For sleeping beauty, some of my clothes. They'll do till the shops open.’

Rebus was already biting into the first sandwich. Cheese salad on white bread had never tasted finer.

`How am I getting home?’ he asked.

`I called you a cab.’

She checked her watch. `It'll be here in two minutes., 'What would I do without you?’