The Hanging Garden

`I want to talk to you,' Rebus said.

`So talk.’

`Without the audience.’

Rebus pointed to Pretty-Boy. `That one can stay.’

Telford took his time, but finally nodded, and the room began to empty. Pretty-Boy stood against a wall, hands behind his back. Telford had his feet up on his desk, leaning back in his chair. They were relaxed, confident. Rebus knew what he looked like: a caged bear.

`I want to know where she is.’

`Who?’

'Candice.’

Telford smiled. `Still on about her, Inspector? How should I know where she is?’

`Because a couple of your boys grabbed her.’

But as he spoke, Rebus realised he was making a mistake. Telford's gang was a family: they'd grown up together in Paisley. Not many Dunfermline supporters that distant from Fife. He stared at Pretty-Boy, who ran Telford 's prostitutes. Candice had arrived in Edinburgh from a city of bridges, maybe Newcastle. Telford had Newcastle co

A Newcastle strip. A Newcastle car.

Telford was talking, but Rebus wasn't listening. He walked straight out of the office and back to the Saab. Drove to Fettes – the Crime Squad offices – and started looking. He found a contact number for a DS Miriam Kenworthy. Tried the number but she wasn't there.

`Fuck it,' he told himself, getting back into his car.

The A1 was hardly the country's fastest road – Abernethy was right about that. Still, without the daytime traffic Rebus made decent time on his way south. It was late evening when he arrived in Newcastle, pubs emptying, queues forming outside clubs, a few United shirts on display, looking like prison bars. He didn't know the city. Drove around it in circles, passing the same signs and landmarks, heading further out, just cruising.

Looking for Candice. Or for girls who might know her.

After a couple of hours, he gave up, headed back into the centre. He'd had the idea of sleeping in his car, but when he found a hotel with an empty room, the thought of en-suite facilities suddenly seemed too good to miss.

He made sure there was no mini-bar.

A long soak with his eyes closed, mind and body still racing from the drive. He sat in a chair by his window and listened to the night: taxis and yells, delivery lorries. He couldn't sleep. He lay on the bed, watching soundless TV, remembering Candice in the hotel room, asleep under sweet wrappers. Deacon Blue: `Chocolate Girl.’

He woke up to breakfast TV. Checked out of the hotel and had breakfast in a cafe, then called Miriam Kenworthy's office, relieved to find she was an early starter.

`Come right round,' she said, sounding bemused. `You're only a couple of minutes away.’

She was younger than her telephone voice, face softer than her attitude. It was a milkmaid's face, rounded, the cheeks pink and plump. She studied him, swivelling slightly in her chair as he told her the story.

`Tarawicz,' she said when he'd finished. `Jake Tarawicz. Real name Joachim, probably.’

Kenworthy smiled. `Some of us around here call him Mr Pink Eyes. He's had dealings – meetings anyway with this guy Telford.’

She opened the brown folder in front of her. `Mr Pink Eyes has a lot of European co

`In Russia?’

`It's Russia 's Sicily, if you know what I mean.’

`Is that where Tarawicz comes from?’

`It's one theory. The other is that he's Serbian. Might explain why he set up the convoy.’

`What convoy?’

`Ru

`But also a way of smuggling people out?’

Kenworthy looked at him. `You've been doing your homework.’

`Call it an educated guess.’

`Well, it gets him noticed. He got a papal blessing six months ago. Married to an Englishwoman – not for love. She was one of his girls.’

`But it gives him residency here.’

She nodded. `He hasn't been around that long, five or six years…’

Like Telford, Rebus thought.

`But he's built himself a rep, muscled in where there used to be Asians, Turks… Story is, he started with a nice line in stolen icons. A ton of stuff has been lifted out of the Soviet bloc. And when that operation started drying, he moved into prossies. Cheap girls, and he could keep them docile with a bit of crack. The crack comes up from London – the Yardies control that particular scene. Mr Pink spreads their goods around the north-east. He also deals heroin for the Turks and sells some girls to Triad brothels.’

She looked at Rebus, saw she had his attention. `No racial barriers when it comes to business.’

`So I see.’

`Probably also sells drugs to your friend Telford, who distributes them through his nightclubs.’

"`Probably"?’

`We've no hard proof. There was even a story going around that Pink wasn't selling to Telford, he was buying.’

Rebus blinked. ` Telford 's not that big.’

She shrugged.

`Where would he get the stuff?’

'It was a story, that's all.’

But it had Rebus thinking, because it might help explain the relationship between Tarawicz and Telford…

`What does Tarawicz get out of it?’ he asked, making his thoughts flesh.

`You mean apart from money? Well, Telford trains a good bouncer. Jock bouncers get respect down here. Then, of course, Telford has shares in a couple of casinos.’

`A way for Tarawicz to launder his cash?’

Rebus thought about this. `Is there anything Tarawicz doesn't have a finger in?’

`Plenty. He likes businesses which are fluid. And he's still a relative newcomer.’

Eagles: `New Kid in Town'.

`We think he's been dealing arms: a lot of stuff crossing into Western Europe. The Chechens seem to have weaponry to spare.’

She sniffed, gathered her thoughts.

`Sounds like he's one step ahead of Tommy Telford.’

Which would explain why Telford was so keen to do business with him. He was on a learning curve, learning how to fit into the bigger picture. Yardies and Asians, Turks and Chechens, and all the others. Rebus saw them as spokes on a huge wheel which was trundling mercilessly across the world, breaking bones as it went.

`Why "Mr Pink Eyes"?’ he asked.

She'd been awaiting the question, slid a colour photo towards him.

It was the close-up of a face, the skin pink and blistered, white lesions ru

`What happened to him?’ he asked.

`We don't know. That's the way he looked when he arrived.’

Rebus remembered the description Candice had given: sunglasses, looks like a car-crash victim. Dead ringer.

`I want to talk to him,' Rebus said.

But first, Kenworthy gave him a guided tour. They took her car, and she showed him where the street girls worked. It was mid-morning, no action to speak of. He gave her a description of Candice, and she promised she'd put the word out. They spoke with the few women they met. They all seemed to know Kenworthy, weren't hostile towards her.

`They're the same as you or me,' she told him, driving away. `Working to feed their kids.’

`Or their habit.’

`That too, of course.’

`In Amsterdam, they've got a union.’

`Doesn't help the poor sods who're shipped there.’

Kenworthy signalled at a junction. `You're sure he has her?’

`I don't think Telford does. Someone knew addresses back in Sarajevo, addresses that were important to her. Someone shipped her out of there.’

`Sounds like Mr Pink all right.’

`And he's the only one who can send her back.’

She looked at him. `Why would he do a thing like that?’