Страница 34 из 78
Cafferty was thoughtful. `I don't pick on civilians.’
Yes, Rebus thought, but she wasn't a civilian, because he had lured her on to the battlefield.
`Convince me,' Rebus said.
`Why should I bother?’
`The conversation we had… What you asked me to do.’
`Telford?’
A whisper. Cafferty sat back for a moment to consider. When he leaned forward again, his eyes bored into Rebus's. `There's something you've forgotten. I lost a son, remember. Think I could do that to another father? I'd do a lot of things, Rebus, but not that, never that.’
Rebus held the stare. `All right,' he said.
`You want me to find who did it?’
Rebus nodded slowly.
`That's your price?’
Rhona's words: I want to look him in the face.
Rebus shook his head. `I want them delivered to me. I want you to do that, whatever it takes.’
Cafferty placed his hands on his knees, seemed to take his time positioning them just so. `You know it's probably Telford?’
`Yes. If it's not you.’
`You'll be going after him then?’
`Any way I can.’
Cafferty smiled. `But your ways aren't my ways.’
`You might get to him first. I want him alive.’
`And meantime, you're my man?’
Rebus stared at him. `I'm your man,' he said.
15
Rebus got a phone call early the next morning from Leith CID, telling him Joseph Lintz was dead. The bad news was, it looked like murder: the body found hanging from a tree in Warriston Cemetery.
By the time Rebus appeared at the scene, they were cordoning it off, the doctor having concluded that most suicides wouldn't have bothered administering a violent blow to their own head before commencing with operations.
The corpse of Joseph Lintz was being zipped into a body bag. Rebus got a look at the face. He'd seen elderly corpses before, and mostly they'd looked wonderfully at peace, their faces shiny and child-like. But Joseph Lintz looked like he'd suffered. He didn't look to be at rest at all.
`You'll have come to thank us, no doubt,' a man said, walking towards Rebus. His shoulders were hunched inside a navy raincoat and he walked with head bowed, hands in pockets. His hair was thick and silver and wiry, his skin an almost jaundiced yellow – the remains of an autumn holiday tan.
`Hiya, Bobby,' Rebus said.
Bobby Hogan was Leith CID.
`To get back to my initial observation, John…’
`What am I supposed to be thanking you for?’
Hogan nodded towards the body bag. `Taking Mr Lintz off your hands. `Don't tell me you were enjoying digging into all that?’
`Not exactly.’
`Any idea who might have wanted him dead?’
Rebus puffed out his cheeks. `Where do you want me to start?’
`I mean, I'm right to rule out the usual, aren't I?’
Hogan held up three fingers. `It wasn't suicide, muggers aren't quite this creative, and it surely wasn't an accident.’
`Someone was making a point, no doubt about it.’
`But what sort of point?’
Scene of Crime officers were busying themselves, filling the locus with noise and movement. Rebus gestured for Hogan to walk with him. They were deep in the cemetery, the part Lintz had loved so much. As they walked, the place grew wilder, more overgrown.
`I was here with him yesterday morning,' Rebus said. `I don't know if he had a routine exactly, but he came here most days.’
`We found a bag of gardening tools.’
`He planted flowers.’
`So if someone knew he'd be coming, they could have been waiting?’
Rebus nodded. `An assassination.’
Hogan was thoughtful. `Why hang him?’
`It's what happened at Villefranche. The town elders were strung up in the square.’
`Jesus.’
Hogan stopped walking. `I know you've got other stuff on the go, but can you help out on this, John?’
`Any way I can.’
`A list of possibles would do for a start.’
`How about an old woman living in France, and a Jewish historian who walks with a stick?’
`Is that all you've got?’
`Well, there's always me. Yesterday I as good as accused him of trying to kill my daughter.’ Hogan stared at him. `I don't think he did it.’
Rebus paused, thinking of Sammy: he'd called the hospital first thing. She was still unconscious; they still weren't using the word `coma'. `One more thing,' he said. `Special Branch, a guy called Abernethy. He was here talking to Lintz.’
`What's the co
'Abernethy's co-ordinating the various war crimes investigations. He's street-tough, not your typical desk-jockey.’
`A strange choice for the job?’
Rebus nodded. `Which hardly makes him a suspect.’
`I'm doing my best, Bobby. We could check Lintz's house, see if we can turn up any of the hate mail he claimed he'd been getting.’
"`Claimed"?’
Rebus shrugged. `You were never sure where you were with Lintz. Do you have any idea what happened?’
`From what you've told me, I'd guess he came down here as usual to do his gardening stint – he's certainly dressed for it. Someone was waiting. They smacked him over the head, stuck his neck in a noose, and hauled him up into the tree. The rope was tied around a headstone.’
`Did the hanging kill him?’
`Doctor says yes. Haemorrhages in the eyes. What do you call them?’
`Tardieu spots.’
`That's it. The blow to the head was just to knock him out. Something else – bruising and cuts on the face. Looks like someone kicked him when he was down.’
`Knock him cold, thump him in the face, then string him up.’
`Big-time grudge.’
Rebus looked around. `Someone with a flair for theatre.’
`And not afraid to take risks. This place might never get exactly crowded, but it's a public space and that tree's in open view. Anyone could have walked past.’
`What time are we talking about?’
`Eight, eight-thirty. I'm guessing Mr Lintz would have wanted to do his digging in daylight.’
`Could have been earlier,' Rebus suggested. `A pre-arranged meeting.’
`Then why the tools?’
`Because by the time it got light, the meeting would be over.’
Hogan looked doubtful.
`And if it was a meeting,' Rebus said, `there might be some record of it at Lintz's home.’
Hogan looked at him, nodded. `My car or yours?’
`Better get his keys first.’
They started back up the slope.
`Searching through a dead man's pockets,' Hogan said to himself. `Why is that never mentioned during recruitment?’
`I was here yesterday,' Rebus said. `He invited me back for tea.’
`No family?’
`None.’
Hogan looked around the hallway. `Big place. What happens to the money when it's sold?’
Rebus looked at him. `We could split it two ways.’
`Or we could just move ourselves in. Basement and ground for me, you can have first and second.’
Hogan smiled, tried one of the doors off the hall. It opened on to an office. `This could be my bedroom,' he said, going in.
`When I came here before, he always took me upstairs.’
`On you go. We'll take a floor each, then swop.’
Rebus headed up the staircase, ru
`If you find a chequebook,' he called down to Hogan, `look for regular payments to a Mrs Mop.’
Four doors led off the first-floor landing. Two were bedrooms, one a bathroom. The last door led into the huge drawingroom, where Rebus had asked his questions and listened to the stories and philosophy that Lintz had used in place of answers.
`Do you think guilt has a genetic component, Inspector?’ he'd asked one time. `Or are we taught it?’
`Does it matter, so long as it's there?’
Rebus had said, and Lintz had nodded and smiled, as if the pupil had given some satisfactory answer.
The room was big, not too much furniture. Huge sash windows recently cleaned – looked down on to the street. There were framed prints and paintings on the walls. They could have been priceless originals or junk-store stuff – Rebus was no expert. He liked one painting. It showed a ragged white-haired man seated on a rock, surrounded by a barren plain. He had a book open on his lap, but was staring skywards in horror or awe as a shining light appeared there, picking him out. It had a Biblical look, but Rebus couldn't quite place it. He knew the look on the man's face though. He'd seen it before when some suspect's carefully crafted alibi had suddenly come tumbling down.