The Hanging Garden

`Brain damage,' he said.

`Nobody's told us anything,' she said, sounding snubbed.

Aiming for her. Didn't anyone say that? No, none of the other onlookers had even hinted as much, but then they hadn't had Renton 's grandstand view.

`Has nobody been in?’

`Not since I got here.’

`And I was here before Rhona,' Mickey added. `Haven't seen a soul.’

It was enough. Rebus strode from the room. A doctor and two nurses were standing chatting at the end of the corridor. One of the nurses was leaning against a wall.

`What's going on?’

Rebus exploded. `Nobody's been near my daughter all morning!' The doctor was young, male. Blond hair cut short with a parting.

`We're doing everything we can.’

`What does that mean?’

`I can appreciate that you're -' `Fuck you, pal. Why hasn't the big man been to look at her? Why's she just lying there like a -' Rebus choked back the words.

`Your daughter was seen by two specialists this morning,' the doctor said quietly. `We're waiting for some test results to determine whether to operate again. There's some brain swelling. The tests take a little time to process, there's nothing we can do about it.’

Rebus felt cheated: still angry, but nothing to feel angry about, not here. He nodded, turned away.

Back in the room, he explained the situation to Rhona. A suitcase and large holdall were sitting behind one of the machines.

`Listen,' he told her, `it'd make sense if you stayed at the flat. It's only ten minutes away, and I could let you have the car.’

She was shaking her head. `We're booked into the Sheraton.’

`The flat's nearer, and I tend not to charge…’

We? Rebus looked at Mickey, whose eyes were on the bed. Then the door opened and a man came in. Short, thickly built, breathing hard. He was rubbing his hands to let everyone know he'd been to the toilet. Loose folds of flesh furrowed his brow and bulged from his shirt collar. His hair was thick and black, like an oil-slick. He stopped when he saw Rebus.

`John,' Rhona said, `this is a friend of mine, Jackie.’

'Jackie Platt,' the man said, reaching out a plump hand.

`When Jackie heard, he insisted on driving me up.’

Platt shrugged, his head almost disappearing into his shoulders. `Couldn't have her training it up on her ownio.’

`Hell of a drive,' Mickey said, his tone hinting at repetition.

`Could have done without the roadworks,' Jackie Platt agreed. Rebus's eyes caught Rhona's; she looked away quickly, dodging reproach.

To Rebus, this bulk didn't belong. It was as if a character had wandered on to the wrong set. Platt hadn't been in the script.

`She looks so peaceful, don't she?’ the Londoner was saying, making for the bed. He touched her arm, Sammy's bandaged arm, grazing it with the back of his hand. Rebus's fingernails dug into his palms.

Then Platt yawned. `You know, Rhona, it might not be good ma

She nodded, relieved. Platt picked up the suitcase. As he passed her, his hand went into his trouser pocket, came out with a fold of banknotes.

`Get a cab back, all right?’

`All right, Jackie. See you later.’

`Cheers, pet.’

And he squeezed her hand. `Take care, Mickey. All the best, John.’

A huge, face-creasing wink, then he was gone. They waited in silence for a few seconds. Rhona held up her free hand, the one without the wad of notes.

`Not a word, okay?’

`Furthest thing from my mind,' Rebus said, sitting down. `"Think I'm about to crash". Tactful or what?’

`Come on, Joh

`Why the cases?’ Rebus asked Rhona.

`What?’

`You're going to a hotel, why not leave them in his car?’

`I thought about staying here. They said I could if I wanted to. Only then I saw her… and I changed my mind.’

Tears started down her face, smudging already-smudged mascara. Mickey had a handkerchief ready.

`John, what if she…? Oh, Jesus Christ, why did this have to happen?’

She was wailing now. Rebus went over to her chair, crouched in front of it, his hands resting on hers. `She's all we've got, John. She's all we ever had.’

`She's still here, Rhona. She's right here.’

'But why her? Why Samantha?’

`I'll ask him when I find him, Rhona.’

He kissed her hair, his eyes on Mickey. `And believe me, I'm going to find him.’

Later, when Ned Farlowe visited, Rebus took him outside. There was drizzle falling, but the air felt good.

`One of the eye-witnesses,' Rebus said, `thinks it was deliberate.’

`I don't understand.’

`He thinks the driver meant to hit Sammy.’

`I still don't get it.’

`Look, there are two scenarios. One, he was intent on hitting a pedestrian, and anyone would have done. Two, Sammy was his target. He'd been following her, saw his chance when she crossed the road, only the lights were against him so he had to jump them. Then she was so close to the kerb he had to switch lanes.’

`But why?’

Rebus stared at him. `This is Sammy's dad and her lover, right? For the purposes of what follows, I want you to stop being a reporter.’

Farlowe stared back, nodded slowly.

`I've had a few run-ins with Tommy Telford,' Rebus said. He was seeing teddy bears: Pa Broon, and the one Telford kept in his car. `This might have been a message for me.’

Telford or Tarawicz: flip a coin. `Or for you, if you've been asking questions about Telford.’

`You think my book…’

`I'm keeping an open mind. I've been working the Lintz case… and so have you.’

`Someone warning us off Lintz?’

Rebus thought of Abernethy, shrugged. `Then there's Sammy's job, working with ex-cons. Maybe one of them had a grudge.’

`Jesus.’

`She hadn't mentioned anyone following her? Nobody odd in the area?’

Same question he'd put to the Petrecs, only different victim…

Farlowe shook his head. `Look,' he said, `until five minutes ago I thought this was an accident. Now you're saying it was attempted murder. Are you sure?’

`I'm trusting a witness.’

But he knew what Bill Pryde thought: a drunk driver, a crazy man. And a grandstand spectator who wore glasses and had read it wrong. He took out the drawing again.

`What's that?’

Rebus handed it over. `This is what someone saw last night.’

`What kind of car is it?’

`Rover 600, Ford Mondeo, something like that. Dark green. Ring any bells?’

Ned Farlowe shook his head, then looked at Rebus. `Let me help. I can ask around.’

`One kid in a coma's enough.’

The rest of the office had packed up and gone home. Now there were only Rebus and Sammy's boss, a woman called Mae Crumley. The light from half a dozen desk-lamps illuminated the haphazard office, which was on the top floor of an old four-storey building off Palmerston Place. Rebus knew Palmerston Place: there was a church there where the AA held meetings. He'd been to a couple. He could still taste whisky at the back of his throat. Not that he'd had any so far today, not in daylight hours. But then he hadn't phoned Jack Morton either.

The address might have been posher than Rebus was expecting, but the accommodation was cramped. The office was in the eaves of the building, so that you couldn't stand up in half the available space, which hadn't stopped desks being sited in the most awkward corners.

`Which is hers?’ Rebus asked.

Mae Crumley pointed to the desk next to her own. There was a computer there somewhere, but only its screen was showing. Loose sheets of paper, books and pamphlets and reports, the whole lot spilled on to the chair and from there down on to the floor.