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`What do you see?’
He looked at her. `Sometimes I don't see anything at all.’
Later, they took a coffee-break, went to the machine.
`I lost her, you know,' Rhona said.
`What?’
'Sammy, I lost her. She came back here. She came back to you.’
`We hardly see one another, Rhona.’
`But she's here. Don't you get it? It's you she wants, not me.’
She turned away from him, fumbled for her handkerchief. He stood close behind her, then couldn't think of anything to say. He was all out of words; every line of sympathy rang hollow to him, just another cliche. He touched the back of her neck, rubbed it. She lowered her head a little, didn't resist. Massage: there'd been a lot of massage early on in their relationship. By the end, he hadn't even given her time for a handshake.
`I don't know why she came back, Rhona,' he said at last. `But I don't think she was ru
A couple of nurses ran past, urgency in their movements.
`I'd better get back,' Rhona said, rubbing a hand over her face, pulling it into something resembling composure.
Rebus went with her to the room, then said he had to be going. He bent down to kiss Sammy, feeling the breath from her nostrils against his cheek.
`Wake up, Sammy,' he cajoled. `You can't stay in bed all your life. Time to get up.’
When there was no movement, no response, he turned and left the room.
17
David Levy was no longer in Edinburgh. At least, he wasn't at the Roxburghe Hotel. Rebus could think of only one way of contacting him. Seated at his desk, he called the Holocaust Investigation Bureau in Tel Aviv and asked to speak with Solomon Mayerlink. Mayerlink wasn't available, but Rebus identified himself and said he needed to contact him as a matter of urgency. He got a home telephone number.
`Is there news on Linzstek, Inspector?’
Mayerlink's voice was a harsh rasp.
`Of a kind, yes. He's dead.’
Silence on the line, then a slow release of breath. `That's a pity.’
`It 1s?’
`People die, a little bit of history dies with them. We would have preferred to see him in court, Inspector. Dead, he's worthless.’ Mayerlink paused. `I take it this ends your inquiry?’
`It changes the nature of the investigation. He was murdered.’
Static on the line; an eight-beat pause. `How did it happen?’
`He was hung from a tree.’
There was a longer silence on the line. `I see,' Mayerlink said at last. There was a slight echo on his voice. `You think the allegations led to his murder?’
`What would you say?’
`I'm not a detective.’
But Rebus knew Mayerlink was lying: detection was exactly the role he'd chosen in life. A detective of history.
`I need to talk to David Levy,' Rebus said. `Do you have his address and phone number?’
`He came to see you?’
`You know he did.’
`It's not that simple with David. He doesn't work for the Bureau.
He's self-motivated. I ask him for help occasionally. Sometimes he helps, sometimes he doesn't.’
`But you do have some way of contacting him?’
It took Mayerlink a, full minute to come up with the details. An address in Sussex, plus telephone number.
`Is David your number one suspect, Inspector?’
`Why do you ask?’
`I could tell you you're barking up the wrong tree.’
`The same tree Joseph Lintz swung from?’
`Can you really see David Levy as a murderer, Inspector?’
Safari suit, walking stick. `It takes all sorts,' Rebus said, putting down the phone.
He tried Levy's number. It rang and rang. He gave it a couple of minutes, drank a coffee, tried again. Still no answer. He called British Telecom instead, explained what he needed, was finally put through to the right person.
`My name's Justine Graham, Inspector. How can I help?’
Rebus gave her Lintz's details. `He used to get itemised bills, then he switched.’
He heard her fingers hammer a keyboard. `That's right,' she told him. `The customer asked for itemised billing to be discontinued.’
`Did he say why?’
`.No record of that. You don't need to give an excuse, you know.’
`When was this?’
`A couple of months back. The customer had requested monthly billing several years previously.’
Monthly billing: because he was meticulous, kept his accounts by the month. A couple of months back – September the Lintz/ Linzstek story had blown up in the media. And, suddenly, he hadn't wanted his phone calls to be a matter of record.
`Do you have records of his calls, even the unitemised ones?’
`Yes, we should have that information.’
`I'd like to see a list. Everything from the first unitemised call through to this morning.’
`Is that when he died – this morning?’
`Yes.’
She was thoughtful. `Well, I'll need to check.’
`Please do. But remember, Ms Graham, this is a murder inquiry.’
`Yes, of course.’
`And your information could be absolutely crucial.’
`I'm quite aware of -'
`So if I could have that by the end of today…?’
She hesitated. `I'm not sure I can promise that.’
`And one last thing. The bill for September is missing. I'd like a copy of it. Let me give you the fax number here, speed things up.’
Rebus congratulated himself with another cup of coffee and a cigarette in the car park. She might or might not deliver later in the day, but he was confident she'd be trying her best. Wasn't that all you could ask of anybody? Another call: Special Branch in London. He asked for Abernethy. `I'll just put you through.’
Someone picked up: a grunt in place of an acknowledgement.
'Abernethy?’ Rebus asked. He heard liquid being swallowed. The voice became clearer.
`He's not here. Can I help?’
`I really need to speak to him.’
`I could have him paged, if it's urgent.’
`My name's DI Rebus, Lothian and Borders Police.’
`Oh, right. Have you lost him or something?’
Rebus's expression turned quizzical. His voice carried a false note of humour. `You know what Abernethy's like.’
A snort. `Don't I just.’
`So any help appreciated.’
`Yeah, right. Look, give me your number. I'll get him to call you.’
Have you lost him or something? `You've no idea where he is then?’
`It's your city, chum. Take your best shot.’
He's up here, Rebus thought. He's right here.
`I bet the office is quiet without him.’
Laughter on the line, then the sounds of a cigarette being lit. A long exhalation. `It's like being on holiday. Keep him as long as you like.’
`So how long have you been without him?’
A pause. As the silence lengthened, Rebus could feel the change of atmosphere.
`What did you say your name was?’
`DI Rebus. I -was only asking when he left London.’
`This morning, soon as he heard. So what have I won: the hatchback or the hostess trolley?’
Rebus's turn to laugh. `Sorry, I'm just nosy.’
`I'll be sure to tell him that.’
A single click, then the sound of an open line.
Later that afternoon, Rebus chased up British Telecom, then tried Levy's house again. This time he got through to a woman.
`Hello, Mrs Levy? My name's John Rebus. I was wondering if I could have a word with your husband?’
`You mean my father.’
`I'm sorry. Is your father there?’
`No, he's not.’
`Any idea when…?’
`Absolutely none.’
She sounded peeved. `I'm just his cook and cleaner. Like I don't have a life of my own.’
She caught herself. `Sorry, Mr…?’
`Rebus.’
`It's just that he never says how long he's going to be away.’
`He's away just now?’
`Has been for the best part of a fortnight. He rings two or three times a week, asks if there've been any calls or letters. If I'm lucky, he might remember to ask how I'm doing.’