And now a woman was emerging. Short black dress and black tights, fur jacket keeping out the chills. Tarawicz rubbed a hand over her backside; Telford kissed her on the neck. She smiled, eyes slightly glazed. Then Tarawicz and Telford turned towards the Range Rover. They were both staring at Rebus.
`Trip's over, Inspector,' Pretty-Boy said, telling Rebus it was time to get out. He did so, his eyes on Candice. But she wasn't looking at him. She was snuggling into Mr Pink Eyes, head on his chest. He was still rubbing her backside, the dress rising and falling. He was watching Rebus, eyes alight, face pulled into a latex grin. Rebus walked over to them, and now Candice saw him, and looked frightened.
`Inspector,' Tarawicz said, `good to see you again. Come to whisk the damsel away to safety?’
Rebus ignored him. `Come on, Candice.’
His hand, not quite steady, held out towards her.
She looked at him and shook her head. `Why would I want that?’
she said, and was rewarded with another kiss from Tarawicz.
`You were abducted. You can press charges.’
Tarawicz was laughing, leading her into the cafe.
'Candice.’
Rebus reached for her arm, but she pulled away and followed her master inside.
Two of Telford's men were blocking the door. Pretty-Boy was behind Rebus.
`No cheap heroics?’ he asked, making to pass the policeman.
Back at St Leonard's, Rebus took Farlowe his food and newspapers, then hitched a lift in a patrol car to Torphichen. The man he wanted was DI `Shug' Davidson, and Davidson was in the CID office, looking frazzled.
`Somebody torched a taxi rank,' he told Rebus.
`Any idea who?’
Davidson's eyes narrowed. `The rank was owned by Jock Scallow. Is there something you're trying to tell me?’
`Who really owned the outfit, Shug?’
`You know damned well.’
`And who's muscling in on Cafferty's patch?’
`I've heard rumours.’
Rebus rested against Davidson's desk. `Tommy Telford's going into combat, unless we can stop him.’
'"We"?’
`I want you to take me somewhere,' Rebus said.
Shug Davidson was happily married to an understanding wife, and had kids who didn't see as much of him as they deserved. A year back, he'd won forty grand on the Lottery. Everyone in his station got a drink. The rest of the money had been salted away.
Rebus had worked with him before. He wasn't a bad cop, maybe lacking a little in imagination. They had to work their way around the scene of the fire. A further mile and a half on, Rebus told him to stop.
`What is it?’
Davidson asked.
`That's what I want you to tell me.’
Rebus was looking towards the brick building, the same one which so interested Tommy Telford.
`It's Maclean's,' Davidson said.
`And what's Maclean's when it's at home?’
Davidson smiled. `You really don't know?’
He opened his car door. `Come on, I'll show you.’
They had to have their identities checked at the main entrance. Rebus noticed a lot of security, albeit subtle: cameras trained down from the corners of the building, catching every angle of approach. A phone call was made, and a man in a white coat came down to sign them in. They pinned visitor's badges to their jackets, and the tour began.
`I've been here before,' Davidson confided. `If you ask me, it's the best kept secret in the city.’
They climbed steps, walked down passageways. Everywhere there was security: guards checked their badges; doors had to be unlocked; cameras charted their progress. Which puzzled Rebus, for it was such an unassuming building, really. And nothing spectacular was happening.
`What is it, Fort Knox?’ he asked. But then their guide handed them white coats to put on, before pushing open the door to a laboratory, and Rebus started to understand.
People were working with chemicals, examining test-tubes, writing notes. There were all sorts of weird and wonderful machines, but in essence it was a school chemistry-lab on a slightly grander scale.
`Welcome,'. Davidson said, `to the world's biggest drugs factory.’
Which wasn't quite correct, for Maclean's was only the world's largest legal producer of heroin and cocaine, something the guide explained.
`We're licensed by the government. Back in 1961 there was an international agreement: every country in the world was allowed just one producer, and we're it for Britain.’
`So what do you make?’
Rebus was staring at the rows of locked fridges.
`All sorts of things: methadone for heroin addicts, pethedine for women in labour. Diamorphine to ease terminal illnesses and cocaine for use in medical procedures. The company started out supplying laudanum to the Victorians.’
`And these days?’
`We produce about seventy tonnes of opiates a year,' the guide said. `And around two million pounds' worth of pure cocaine.’
Rebus rubbed his forehead. `I begin to see the need for security.’
The guide smiled. `The MoD has asked us for advice – that's how good our security is.’
`No break-ins?’
`A couple of attempts, nothing we couldn't deal with.’
No, Rebus thought, but then you've never had to deal with Tommy Telford and the Yakuza… not yet.
Rebus walked around the lab, smiled and nodded at a woman who just seemed to be standing there, not doing anything.
`Who's she?’ he asked the guide..
`Our nurse. She's on stand-by.’
`What for?’
The guide nodded towards where a man was operating one of the machines. `Etorphine,' he said. `Forty thousand pounds a kilo, and extremely potent. The nurse has the antidote, just in case.’
`So what's it used for, this etorphine?’
`Knocking out rhinos,' the guide said, like the answer should have been obvious.
The cocaine was produced from coca leaves flown in from Peru. The opium came from plantations in Tasmania and Australia. The pure heroin and cocaine were kept in a strongroom. Each lab had its share of locked safes. The storage warehouse boasted infrared detectors and movement sensors. Five minutes in the place told Rebus exactly why Tommy Telford was interested in Maclean's. And he'd brought the Yakuza in on the plan either because he needed their help – which was unlikely – or to brag about the exploit.
Back at the car, Davidson asked the obvious question.
`What's this all about, John?’
Rebus pinched the bridge of his nose. `I think Telford's planning to hit this place.’
Davidson snorted. `He'd never get in. Like you said yourself, it's Fort bloody Knox.’
`It's a prestige thing, Shug. If he can empty the place, it'll make his name. He'll have beaten Cafferty hands down.’
It was the same with the fire-bombings: they weren't just a message to Cafferty, but a sort of `red carpet' for Mr Pink Eyes – welcome to Edinburgh, and look what I can do.
`I'm telling you,' Davidson said, `there's no way in. Christ, that's cheap!' Davidson's attention had been diverted by signs on the window of the corner shop. Rebus looked, too. Cut-price cigarettes. Cheap sandwiches and hot rolls. Plus five pence off any morning paper.
`Competition around here must be crippling,' Davidson said. `Fancy a roll?’
Rebus was watching workers leaving the gates of Maclean's. Afternoon break maybe. Saw them cross the road, dodging traffic. Counting small change from their pockets as they pushed open the door to the shop.
`Yes,' Rebus said quietly, `why not?’
The small shop was packed out. Davidson got in the queue, while Rebus looked at the rack of papers and magazines. The workers were sharing jokes and gossip. Two staff worked behind the counter young males, mixing banter with less-than-efficient service.
`What do you fancy, John? Bacon?’
`Fine,' Rebus said. Remembered he hadn't had lunch. `Make it two.’
Two bacon rolls came in at one pound exactly. They sat in the car to eat.