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`I open them a bit in the summer,' Mrs Hetherington said, `and when they need washing. But I always lock them again afterwards.’
`One thing I should warn you about, and that's bogus officials. People coming to your door, telling you they're so-andso. Always ask to see some ID, and don't open up until you're satisfied.’
`How can I see it without opening the door?’
`Ask them to push it through the letterbox.’
`I didn't see your identification, did I?’
Rebus smiled. `No, you didn't.’
He took it out and showed her. `Sometimes the fake stuff can look pretty convincing. If you're unsure, keep the door locked and call the police.’
He looked around. `You have a phone?’
`In the bedroom.’
`Any windows in there?’
`Yes.’
`Can I take a look?’
The bedroom window also looked out on to Flint Street. Rebus noticed travel brochures on the dressing-table, a small suitcase standing near the door.
`Off on holiday, eh?’
With the flat empty, maybe he could move the surveillance in.
`Just a long weekend,' she said.
`Somewhere nice?’
`Holland. Wrong time of year for the bulb-fields, but I've always wanted to go. It's a nuisance flying from Inverness, but so much cheaper. Since my husband died… well, I've done a bit of travelling.’
`Any chance of taking me with you?’
Rebus smiled. `This window's fine, too. I'll just check your door, see if it could do with more locks.’
They went into the narrow hall.
`You know,' she said, `we've always been very lucky here, no break-ins or anything like that.’
Hardly surprising with Tommy Telford as proprietor.
`And with the panic button, of course…’
Rebus looked at the wall next to the front door. A large red button. He'd assumed it was for the stairhead lights or something.
`Anyone who calls, anyone at all, I'm supposed to press it.’
Rebus opened the door. `And, do you?’
Two very large men were standing right outside.
`Oh, yes,' Mrs Hetherington said. `I always do.’
For thugs, they were very polite. Rebus showed them his warrant card and explained the nature of his visit. He asked them who they were, and they told him they were `representatives of the building's owner'. He knew the faces though: Ke
Rebus ran across the road, pulled the pedestrian round: Ned Farlowe. A bottle dropped from Farlowe's hand. Telford's men were closing in. Rebus held tight to Farlowe.
`I'm placing this man under arrest,' he said. `He's mine, understood?’
A dozen faces glaring at him. And Tommy Telford down on his knees. `Get your boss to the hospital,' Rebus said. `I'm taking this one to St Leonard's…’
Ned Farlowe sat on the ledge in one of the cells. The walls were blue, smeared brown near the toilet-pan. Farlowe was looking pleased with himself.
`Acid?’
Rebus said, pacing the cell. `Acid? All this research must have gone to your head.’
`It's what he deserved.’
Rebus glared at him. `You don't know what you've done.’
`I know exactly what I've done.’
`He'll kill you.’
Farlowe shrugged. `Am I under arrest?’
`You'd better believe it, son. I want you kept out of harm's way. If I hadn't been there…’
But he didn't want to think about that. He looked at Farlowe. Looked at Sammy's lover, who'd just staged a full-frontal assault on Telford, the kind of assault Rebus knew wouldn't work.
Now Rebus would have to redouble his efforts. Because otherwise, Ned Farlowe was a dead man… and when Sammy came round, he didn't want news like that to be waiting for her.
He drove back towards Flint Street, parked at a distance from it, and headed there on foot. Telford had the place sewn up, no doubt about it. Letting his flats to old folk might have been a charitable act but he'd made damned sure it served its purpose. Rebus wondered if, given the same circumstances, Cafferty would have been clever enough to think of panic-buttons. He suspected not. Cafferty wasn't thick, but most of what he did he did by instinct. Rebus wondered if Tommy Telford had ever made a rash move in his life.
He was staking out Flint Street because he needed an in, needed to find the weak link in the chain around Telford. After ten minutes of wind chill, he thought of a better idea. On his mobile, he called one of the city's taxi firms. Identified himself and asked if Henry Wilson was on shift. He was. Rebus told the switchboard to put a call out to Henry. It was as simple as that.
Ten minutes later, Wilson turned up. He drank in the Ox occasionally, which was his problem really. Drunk in charge of a taxi-cab. Luckily Rebus had been around to smooth things over, as a result of which Wilson owed him a lifetime of favours. He was tall, heavily built, with short black hair and a long black beard. Ruddy faced, and he always wore check shirts. Rebus thought of him as `The Lumberjack'. `Need a lift?’
Wilson said, as Rebus got into the front passenger seat.
`First thing I need is a blast of the heater.’
Wilson obliged. `Second thing I need is to use your taxi as cover.’
`You mean, sit here?’
`That's what I mean.’
`With the meter ru
`You've got an engine problem, Henry. Your cab's out of the game for the rest of the afternoon.’
`I'm saving up for Christmas,' Wilson complained. Rebus stared him out. The big man sighed and lifted a newspaper from the side of his seat. `Help me pick a few wi
They sat for over an hour at the end of Flint Street, and Rebus stayed in the front of the cab. His reasoning: a cab parked with a passenger in the back looked suspicious. A cab parked with two guys in the front, and you'd just think they were on their break, or at shift's end – two cabbies sharing stories and a flask of tea.
Rebus took one sip from the plastic cup and winced. Half a bag of sugar in the flask.
`I've always had a sweet tooth,' Wilson explained. He had a packet of crisps open on his lap: pickled onion flavour.
Finally, Rebus saw two Range Rovers being driven into Flint Street. Sean Haddow – Telford's money man – was driving the lead car. He got out and went into the arcade. On the passenger seat, Rebus could see a huge yellow teddy bear. Haddow was coming out again, bringing Telford with him. Telford: back from the hospital already, hands bandaged, gauze patches on his face like he'd had a particularly ropey shave. But not about to let a little thing like an acid attack get in the way of business. Haddow held the back door open, and Telford got in.
`This is us, Henry,' Rebus said. `You're going to be following those two Range Rovers. Stay back as far as you like. Those things are so high off the ground, we'll be able to see them over anything smaller than a double-decker.’
Both Range Rovers headed out of Flint Street. The second car carried three of Telford's `soldiers'. Rebus recognised Pretty-Boy. The other two were younger recruits, well-dressed with groomed hair. One hundred percent business.
The convoy headed for the city centre, stopped outside a hotel. Telford had a word with his men, but entered the building alone. The cars stayed where they were.
`Are you going in?’
Wilson asked.
`I think I'd be noticed,' Rebus said. The drivers of both Range Rovers had got out and were enjoying a smoke, but keeping a keen eye on people entering and leaving the hotel. A couple of prospects looked into the cab, but Wilson shook his head.