The Hanging Garden

Bobby Hogan was on his way. He lived in Portobello. He said to give him half an hour. Bill Pryde came over to Rebus's desk and said how sorry he was about Jack Morton, how he knew the two of them had been old friends.

`Just don't get too close to me, Bill,' Rebus told him. `The people closest to me tend to lose their health.’

He got a message from reception: someone there to see him. He headed downstairs, found Patience Aitken.

`Patience?’

She had all her clothes on, but not necessarily in the right order, like she'd dressed in a power-cut.

`I heard on the radio,' she said. `I couldn't sleep, so I had the radio on, and they said about this police raid and how people were dead… And you weren't in your flat, so I…’

He hugged her. `I'm okay,' he whispered. `I should have called you.’

`It's my fault, I…’

She looked at him. `You were there, I can see it on your face.’

He nodded. `What happened?’

`I lost a friend.’

`Oh, Christ, John.’

She hugged him again. She was still warm from the bedclothes. He could smell shampoo on her hair, perfume on her neck. The people closest to me… He pulled away gently, planted a kiss on her cheek.

`Go get some sleep,' he told her.

`Come for breakfast.’

`I just want to go home and crash.’

`You could sleep at my place. It's Sunday. We could stay in bed.’

`I don't know what time I'll finish here.’

She found his eyes. `Don't feed on it, John. Don't keep it all inside.’

`Okay, Doc.’

He pecked her cheek again. `Now vamoose.’

He managed a smile and a wink: both felt treacherous. He stood at the door and watched her leave, A lot of times while he'd been married, he'd thought of just walking. There were times when all the responsibilities and the shite at work and the pressure and the need would make him dream of escape.

He was tempted again now. Push open the door and head off to somewhere that wasn't here, to do something that wasn't this. But that, too, would be treachery. He had scores to settle, and a reason to settle them. He knew Telford was somewhere in the building, probably consulting with Charles Groal, saying nothing to anyone else. He wondered how the team were playing it. When would they let Telford know about the tape? When would they tell him the security guard had been a plant? When would they tell him that same man was now dead? He hoped they were being clever. He hoped they were rattling Telford's cage.

He couldn't help wondering – and not for the first time – if it was all worth it. Some cops treated it like a game, others like a crusade, and for most of the rest it was neither, just a way of earning their daily bread. He asked himself why he'd invited Jack Morton in. Answers: because he'd wanted a friend involved, someone who'd keep him in the game; because he'd thought Jack was bored, and would enjoy the challenge; because tactics had demanded an outsider. There were plenty of reasons. Claverhouse had asked if Morton had any family, anyone who should be informed. Rebus had told him: divorced, four kids.

Did Rebus blame Claverhouse? Easy to be wise after the event, but then Claverhouse's reputation had been built on being wise before the event. And he'd failed… monumentally.

Icy roads: they'd needed the gates closed. The blockade had been too easy to move with the horsepower available to a truck.

Marksmen in the building: fine in the enclosed space of the yard, but they'd failed to keep the truck there, and the marksmen had been ineffectual once the truck had reversed out.

More armed officers behind the truck: producing little but a crossfire hazard.

Claverhouse should have got them to turn off the ignition, or better still – waited for it to be turned off before making his presence known.

Jack Morton should have kept his head down.

And Rebus should have warned him.

Only, a shout would have turned the gunmen's attention towards him. Cowardice:' was that what was at the bottom of his feelings? Simple human cowardice. Like in the bar in Belfast, when he hadn't said anything, fearing Mean Machine's wrath, fearing a rifle-butt turned on him. Maybe that was why – no, of course that was why Lintz had got beneath Rebus's skin. Because when it came down to it, if Rebus had been in Villefranche… drunk on failure, the dream of conquest over… if he'd been under orders, just a lackey with a gun… if he'd been primed by racism and the loss of comrades… who was to say what he'd have done? `Christ, John, how long have you been out here?’

It was Bobby Hogan, touching his face, prising the folder from frozen fingers.

`You're like ice, man, let's get you inside.’

`I'm fine,' Rebus breathed. And it had to be true: how else to explain the sweat on his back and his brow? How else to explain that he only started shivering after Bobby led him indoors? Hogan got two mugs of sweet tea into him. The station was still buzzing: shock, rumour, theories. Rebus filled Hogan in.

`They'll have to' let Telford walk, if nobody talks.’

`What about the tape?’

`They'll want to spring that later… if they're being ca

`Who's in with him?’

Rebus shrugged. `Farmer Watson himself, last time I heard. He was doing a double-act with Bill Pryde, but I saw Bill later, so they've either taken a break or else done a swop.’

Hogan shook his head. `What a fucking business.’

Rebus stared at his tea. `I hate sugar.’

`You drank the first mug all right.’

`Did I?’

He took a mouthful, squirmed.

`What the hell did you think you were doing out there?’

`Catching a breath.’

`Catching your death more like.’

Hogan patted down an unruly clump of hair. `I had a visit from a man called Harris.’

`What are you going to do?’

Hogan shrugged. `Let it go, I suppose.’

Rebus stared at him. `You might not have to.’

36

Colquhoun didn't look happy to be there. `Thanks for coming in,' Rebus told him.

`I didn't have much choice.’

He had a solicitor sitting beside him, a middle-aged man: one of Telford's? Rebus couldn't have cared less.

`You might have to get used to not having choices, Dr Colquhoun. Know who else is in here tonight? Tommy Telford; Brian Summers.’

`Who?’

Rebus shook his head. `You're getting your script wrong. It's okay for you to know who they are: we talked about them in front of Candice.’

Colquhoun's face flushed.

`You remember Candice, don't you? Her real name's Dunya: did I ever tell you that? She's got a son somewhere, only they took him away. Maybe she'll find him one day, maybe not.’

`I don't see what this -'

`Telford and Summers are going to be spending a while behind bars.’

Rebus sat back. `If I want to, I could have a damned good go at putting you in there with them. How would you like that, Dr Colquhoun? Conspiracy to pervert, et cetera.’

Rebus could feel himself relaxing into his work; doing it for Jack.

The solicitor was about to say something, but Colquhoun got in first. `It was a mistake.’

`A mistake?’

Rebus hooted. `One way of putting it, I suppose.’

He sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. `Time to talk, Dr Colquhoun. You know what they say about confession…’

Brian `Pretty-Boy' Summers looked immaculate.

He had a lawyer with him, too, a senior partner who looked like an undertaker and wasn't taking kindly to being kept waiting. As they settled at the table in the Interview Room, and Hogan slotted tapes into cassette machine and video recorder, the lawyer started the protest he'd spent the past hour or two preparing in his head.

`On behalf of my client, Inspector, I feel duty bound to say that this is some of the most appalling behaviour I've -'

`You think you've seen appalling behaviour?’