The Hanging Garden

`All this personal attention you were giving him,' Rebus said, `you were sizing him up, weren't you?’

Pretty-Boy looked into his lap, nodded.

`For the tape, please.’

`Tommy always wanted to know if a punter was worth squeezing.’

`And…?’

Pretty-Boy shrugged. `We found out about the Nazi stuff, realised we couldn't hurt him any more than he was already being hurt. Turned into a bit of a joke. There we were, thinking of threatening him with exposure as a perv, and at the same time the papers were saying he was a mass murderer.’

He laughed again.

`So you dropped that idea?’

`Yes.’

`But he paid you five grand?’

Rebus fishing.

Pretty-Boy licked his lips. `He'd tried topping himself. He told me that. Tying the rope to the top of his banister and jumping off. Only it didn't work. Banister snapped and he fell half a flight.’

Rebus remembering: the broken stair-rail.

Rebus remembering: Lintz with a scarf around his neck, his voice hoarse. Telling Rebus he had a throat bug.

`He told you this?’

`He phoned the office, said we had to meet. That was unusual. In the past, he'd always used phone boxes and got me on my mobile. Safe old bugger, I'd always thought. Then he calls from home, right to the office.’

`Where did you meet?’

`In a restaurant. He bought me lunch.’

The young woman… `Told me he'd tried killing himself and couldn't do it. He kept saying he'd proved himself a "moral coward", whatever that means.’

`So what did he want?’

Pretty-Boy stared up at Rebus. `He needed someone to help him.’

`You?’

Pretty-Boy shrugged.

`And the price was right?’

`No haggling necessary. He wanted it done in Warriston Cemetery.’

`Did you ask him why?’

`I knew he liked the place. We met at his house, really early. I drove him down there. He seemed the same as ever, except he kept thanking me for my "resolve". I wasn't sure what he meant by that. To me, Resolve is something you take after a hard night.’

Rebus smiled, as was expected. `Go on,' he said.

`Not much more to tell, is there? He put the noose over his head. He told me to pull on the rope. I had a last go at talking him out of it, but the bugger was determined. It's not murder, is it? Assisted suicide: a lot of places, it's legal.’

`How did the dent get on his head?’

`He was heavier than I thought. First time I hauled him up, the rope slipped and he fell, thumped himself on the ground.’

Bobby Hogan cleared his throat. `Brian, did he say anything… right at the end?’

`Famous last words and all that?’

Pretty-Boy shook his head. `All he said was "thank you". Poor old sod. One thing: he wrote it all down.’

`What?’

`About me helping him. A sort of insurance, in case anyone ever linked us. Letter says he paid me, begged me to help.’

`Where is this?’

`In a safe. I can get it for you.’

Rebus nodded, stretched his back. `Did you ever talk about Villefranche?’

`A little bit, mostly about the way the papers and TV were hounding him, how difficult it made it when he wanted… company.’

`But not the massacre itself?’

Pretty-Boy shook his head. `Know something else? Even if he had told me, I wouldn't tell you.’

Rebus tapped his pen against the desk. He knew the Lintz story was as closed as it was ever going to be. Bobby Hogan knew it, too. They had the secret at last, the story of how Lintz had died. They knew he'd been helped by the Rat Line, but they'd never know whether he'd been Josef Linzstek or not. The circumstantial evidence was overwhelming, but so was the evidence that Lintz had been hounded to death. He'd started putting the escorts into nooses only after the accusations had been made.

Hogan caught Rebus's eye and shrugged, as if to say: what does it matter? Rebus nodded back. Part of him wanted to take a break, but now that Pretty-Boy was rolling it was important to keep up the steam.

`Thanks for that, Mr Summers. We may come back to Mr Lintz if we think of any more questions. But meantime, let's move on to the relationship between Thomas Telford and Jake Tarawicz.’

Pretty-Boy shifted, as if trying to get comfortable. `This could take a while,' he said.

`Take as long as you like,' Rebus told him.

37

They got it all, in time.

Pretty-Boy had to rest, and so did they. Other teams came in, worked on different areas. The tapes were filling up, being listened to elsewhere, notes and transcripts made. Back-up questions were forwarded to the Interview Room. Telford wasn't talking. Rebus went and took a look at him, sat across from him. Telford didn't blink once. He sat ramrod-straight, hands on knees. And all the while, Pretty-Boy's confession was being used to squeeze other gang members – without letting slip who was singing.

The ranks broke, slowly at first and then in a cataract of accusation, self-defence and denial. And they got it all.

Telford and Tarawicz: European prostitutes heading north; muscle and dope heading south.

Mr Taystee: taking more than his fair share; dealt with accordingly.

The Japanese: using Telford as their introduction to Scotland, finding it a good base of operations.

Only now Rebus had scuppered that. In his folder to Shoda he'd warned the gangster to leave Poyntinghame alone, or he'd be `implicated in ongoing criminal investigations'. The Yakuza weren't stupid. He doubted they'd be back… for a while at least.

His last trip of the night: Rebus went down to the cells, unlocked one of the doors and told Ned Farlowe he was free. Told him he had nothing to fear…

Unlike Mr Pink Eyes. The Yakuza had a score to settle. And it didn't stay unsettled long. He was found in his carcrusher, seatbelt welded shut. His men had started ru

Some of them were ru

Rebus sat in his living-room, staring at the door Jack Morton had stripped and varnished. He was thinking about the funeral, about how the juice Church would be there in force. He wondered if they'd blame him. Jack's kids would be there, too. Rebus had never met them; didn't think he wanted to see them.

Wednesday morning, he was back in Inverness, meeting Mrs Hetherington off her flight. She'd been delayed in Holland, answering Customs questions. They'd laid a little trap, caught a man called De Gier – a known trafficker planting the kilo package of heroin in Mrs Hetherington's luggage: a secret compartment in her suitcase, the suitcase itself a gift from her landlord. Several of Telford's other elderly tenants were enjoying short breaks in Belgium. They'd be questioned by local police.

Home again, Rebus telephoned David Levy.

'Lintz committed suicide,' he told him.

`That's your conclusion?’

`It's the truth. No conspiracy, no cover-up.’

A sigh. `It's of little consequence, Inspector. What matters is that we've lost another one.’

`Villefranche doesn't mean a thing to you, does it? The Rat Line, that's all you care about.’

`There's nothing we can do about Villefranche.’

Rebus took a deep breath. `A man called Harris came to see me. He works for British Intelligence. They're protecting some big names, high-level people. Rat Line survivors, maybe their children. Tell Mayerlink to keep digging.’

There was silence for a moment. `Thank you, Inspector.’

Rebus was in a car. It was the Weasel's Jag. The Weasel was in the back with him. Their driver was missing a big chunk of his left ear. The shape made him resemble a pixie – but only from the side, and you wouldn't want to tell him to his face.

`You did well,' the Weasel was saying. `Mr Cafferty's pleased.’

`How long have you been holding him?’

The Weasel smiled. `Nothing gets past you, Rebus.’

`Rangers have offered me a trial in goal. How long have you had him?’