A Saab 900, its identity known to half the Lothian and Borders force.
The interior reeked of whisky, the screw-top from a bottle lying on the passenger seat. No sign of the bottle, no sign of the driver. Just the car, and two hundred yards further back, the body of the Japanese businessman, growing cold by the roadside.
Nobody had seen anything. Nobody had heard anything. Rebus could believe it: never one of the city centre's busier routes, at this hour the place was dead.
`When I followed him from his hotel, he didn't come this way,' Rebus told Templer. She stood with shoulders hunched, hands deep in her coat pockets, keeping out the cold.
`So?’ she asked.
`Long way round for a short-cut.’
`Maybe he wanted to see the sights,' Pryde suggested.
`What time's this supposed to have happened?’ Rebus asked.
Templer hesitated. `There's a margin of error.’
`Look, Gill, I know this is awkward. You shouldn't have brought me here, you shouldn't answer my questions. I'm the number one suspect, after all.’
Rebus knew how much she had to lose. Over two hundred male Chief Inspectors in Scotland; only five women. Bad odds, and a lot of people waiting for her to fail. He held up his hands. `Look, if I was blind drunk and I hit somebody, think I'd leave the car at the scene?’
`You might not know you'd hit anyone. You hear a thunk, lose control and mount the kerb, and some survival instinct tells you it's time to get out and walk.’
`Only I hadn't been drinking. I left the car near Flint Street, and that's where they took it from. Any signs it was broken into?’
She didn't say anything.
`I'll guess not,' Rebus went on. `Because professionals don't leave marks. But to get it started, they must have wired it or got into the steering column. That's what you should be looking for.’
The car had been towed. First thing in the morning, forensics would be all over it.
Rebus laughed, shaking his head. `It's nice though, isn't it? First they make Sammy look like a hit and run, and now they try to pin me for the same thing.’
`Who's "they"?’
`Telford and his men.’
`I thought you said they were doing business with Matsumoto?’
`They're all gangsters, Gill. Gangsters fall out.’
`What about Cafferty?’
Rebus frowned. `What about him?’
`He's got an old grudge against you. This way, he stitches you up and annoys Telford.’
`So you do think I'm being stitched up?’
`I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt.’
She paused. `Not everyone will. What was Matsumoto's business with Telford?’
`Something to do with a country club – on the surface at least. Some Japanese were buying it, and Telford was clearing the way:' He shivered: should have worn a coat over his jacket. He rubbed his arm where the blood sample had been taken to test his alcohol level. `Of course, a check of the deceased's hotel room might throw up something.’
`We've already been there,' Pryde said. `Nothing out of the ordinary.’
`Which deadbeat did you send?’
`I went myself,' Gill Templer said, voice as icy as the wind. Rebus bowed his head in apology. She had a point though: Matsumoto and Telford had been doing business. There had been nothing about their farewell to one another to suggest a break-up, and Matsumoto had seemed happy and confident at the casino. What had Telford to gain by bumping him off? Apart from maybe getting Rebus off his back.
Templer had mentioned Cafferty: was Big Ger capable of such a move? What did he stand to gain? Apart from settling a long-held grudge against Rebus, giving Telford a headache, and maybe gaining Poyntinghame and the Japanese deal for himself.
Balance the two – Telford against Cafferty. Cafferty's side tipped, went clunk as it hit the ground.
`Let's get back to the station,' Templer said. `I'm reaching the early stages of frostbite.’
`Can I go home then?’
`We're not done with you yet, John,' she said, getting into the car. `Not by a long chalk.’
But eventually they had to let him go. He wasn't being charged, not yet. There was work still to be done. He knew they could make a case against him if they wanted to, knew it only too well. He'd followed Matsumoto out of the club. He was the one with the grudge against Telford. He was the one who'd see poetic justice in sending Telford a message by driving over one of his associates.
He, John Rebus, was firmly in the frame. It was tightly constructed and quite elegant in its way. The scales suddenly tipped back towards Telford again, so much subtler than Cafferty.
Telford.
Rebus visited Farlowe in his cell. The reporter wasn't asleep.
`How long do I have to stay here?’ he asked.
`As long as possible.’
`How's Telford?’
`Minor burns. Don't expect him to press charges. He'll want you on the outside.’
`Then you'll have to let me go.’
`Don't bet on it, Ned. We can press charges. We don't need Telford.’
Farlowe looked at him. `You're going to prosecute me?’
`I saw the whole thing. Unwarranted attack on an innocent man.’
Farlowe snorted, then smiled. `Ironic, isn't it? Charging me for my own good.’
He paused. `I won't be able to see Sammy, will I?’
Rebus shook his head.
`I didn't think of that. Fact is, I didn't think.’
He looked up from his ledge. `I just did. And right up until the moment I did it, it felt… brilliant.’
`And afterwards?’
Farlowe shrugged. `What does afterwards matter? It's only the rest of my life.’
Rebus didn't go home, knew he wouldn't sleep. And he'd no car, so he couldn't go driving. Instead, he visited the hospital, sat down by Sammy's bedside. He took her hand, rested it against his face.
When a nurse came in and asked if he wanted anything, he asked if she'd any Paracetamol.
`In a hospital?’ she said, smiling. `I'll see what I can do.’
21
Rebus was due for further questioning at St Leonard's at ten o'clock, so when his pager sounded at eight-fifteen, he assummed it was a reminder. But the phone number it wanted him to call was the mortuary down in the Cowgate. He called from the hospital payphone, and was put through to Dr Curt.
`Looks like I've drawn the short straw,' Curt told him.
`You're about to start work on Matsumoto?’
`For my sins. Look, I've heard the stories… don't suppose there's any truth in them?’
`I didn't kill him.’
`Glad to hear it, John.’
Curt seemed to be struggling to say something. `There are questions of ethics, of course, so I can't suggest that you come down here…’
`There's something you think I should see?’
`That I can't say.’
Curt cleared his throat. `But if you happened to be here… and the place is always very quiet this time of the morning…’
`I'm on my way.’
The Infirmary to the mortuary: a ten-minute walk. Curt himself was waiting to lead Rebus to the body.
The room was all white tile, bright light and stainless steel. Two of the dissecting-tables lay empty. Matsumoto's naked body lay on the third. Rebus walked around it, stunned by what he saw.
Tattoos.
And not just the kilted piper on a sailor's arm. These were works of art, and they were massive. A scaly green dragon, breathing pink and red fire, covered one shoulder and crept down the arm towards the wrist. Its back legs reached around the body's neck, while its front ones rested on the chest. There were other smaller dragons, and a landscape Mount Fuji reflected in water. There were Japanese symbols and the visored face of a kendo champion. Curt put on rubber gloves, and had Rebus do the same. Then the two men rolled the body over, displaying a further gallery across Matsumoto's back. A masked actor, something out of a Noh play, and a warrior in full armour. Some delicate flowers. The effect was mesmerising.