`So what's Telford looking for?’
Ormiston asked. Siobhan Clarke turned to him.
`A mole,' she said.
`Makes sense,' Davidson went on. `That place is well-protected, but not impregnable. We all know any break-in's going to be a lot easier with someone on the inside.’
`So what do we do?’ Clarke asked.
`We fight Telford's sting with our own,' Rebus explained. `He wants a man on the inside, me give him one.’
`I'm seeing the head of Maclean's later on tonight,' Davidson said.
`I'll come with you,' Claverhouse said, keen not to be left out.
`So we put someone of our own inside the factory.’
Clarke was working it out for herself. `And they shoot their mouth off in the shop, making them an attractive proposition. And we sit and pray that Telford approaches them rather than: anyone else?’
`The less luck we have to rely on the better,' Claverhouse said. `Got to do this right.’
`Which is why we work it like this.’
Rebus said. `There's a bookie called Marty Jones. He owes me one big favour. Say our man's just been into Telford's shop. As he's coming out, a car pulls up. Marty and a couple of his men. Marty wants some bets paid off. Big argy-bargy, and a punch in the guts as warning.’
Clarke could see it. `He stumbles back into the shop, sits down to catch his breath. Dec and Ken ask him what's going on.’
`And he gives them the whole sorry story: gambling debts, broken marriage, whatever.’
`To make him more attractive still,' Davidson said, `we make him a security guard.’
Ormiston looked at him. `You think Maclean's will go for it?’
`We'll persuade them,' Claverhouse said quietly.
`More importantly,' Clarke asked, `will Telford go for it?’
`Depends how desperate he is,' Rebus answered.
`A man on the inside…’
Ormiston's eyes were alight. `Working for Telford – it's what we've always wanted.’
Claverhouse nodded. `Just one thing.’
He looked at Rebus and Davidson. `Who's it going to be? Telford knows us.’
`We get someone from outside,' Rebus said. `Someone I've worked with before. Telford won't have heard of him. He's a good man.’
`Is he willing?’
There was silence around the table.
`Depends who's asking,' a voice called from the doorway. A stocky man with thick, well-groomed hair and narrow eyes. Rebus got up, shook Jack Morton's hand, made the introductions.
`I'll need a history,' Morton said, all business. `John's explained the deal, and I like it. But I'll need a flat, something scruffy and local.’
`First thing tomorrow,' Claverhouse said. `Look, we need to talk to our bosses about this, make sure it's cleared.’
He looked at Morton. `What did you tell your own boss, Jack?’
`I've got a few days off, didn't think it was worth mentioning.’
Claverhouse nodded. `I'll talk to him as soon as we get the go-ahead.’
`We need that go-ahead tonight,' Rebus said. `Telford's men may already have lined someone up. If we hang around, we might lose it.’
`Agreed,' Claverhouse said, checking his watch. `I'll make a few phone calls, interrupt a few post-prandial whiskies.’
`I'll back you up if need be,' Davidson said.
Rebus looked at Jack Morton – his friend – and mouthed the word `thanks'. Morton shrugged it off. Then Rebus got to his feet.
`I'm going to have to leave you to it,' he told the assembly. `You've got my pager number and mobile if you need me.’
He was halfway down the hall when Siobhan Clarke caught him.
`I just wanted to say thanks.’
Rebus blinked. `What for?’
`Ever since you got Claverhouse excited, the tape machine's stayed off.’
24
Supper was fine. He talked to Patience about Sammy, Rhona, his obsession with sixties music, his ignorance of fashion. She talked about work, an experimental cookery class she'd been taking, a trip to Orkney she was thinking of. They ate fresh pasta with a homemade mussel and prawn sauce, and shared a bottle of Highland Spring. Rebus tried his damnedest to forget about the sting operation, Tarawicz, Candice, Lintz… She could see at least half his mind was elsewhere; tried not to feel betrayed. She asked him if he was going home.
`Is that an invitation?’
`I'm not sure… I suppose so.’
`Let's pretend it wasn't, then I won't feel like complete scum when I turn it down.’
`That sounds reasonable. Things on your mind?’
`I'm surprised you can't see them leaking out of my ears.’
`Do you want to talk about any of it? I mean, you may not have noticed, but we've talked about practically everything tonight except us.) 'I don't think talking would help.’
`But bottling it up does?’
She threw out an arm. `Behold the Scottish male, at his happiest when in denial.’
`What am I denying?’
`For a start, you're denying me access to your life.’
`Sorry.’
`Christ, John, get the word put on a t-shirt.’
`Thanks, maybe I Will.’
He got up from the sofa.
`Oh, hell, I'm sorry.’
She smiled. `Look, you've got me at it now.’
`Yes, it's catching, all right.’
She stood up, touched his arm. `You're worried about taking the test?’
`Right now, believe it or not, that's the least of my worries.’
`It should be. Everything's going to be fine.’
`Hunky dory.’
`Hunky dory,' she repeated, smiling again. She pecked him on the cheek. `You know, I've never quite understood what that meant.’
`Hunky Dory?’
She nodded.
`It's a David Bowie album.’
He kissed her brow.
He would never know what instinct made him decide on the detour, but he was glad he'd made it. For there, parked outside the Morvena casino, stood the white stretch limo. The driver leaned against it, smoking a cigarette, looking bored. From time to time he took out a mobile phone and had a short conversation. Rebus stared at the Morvena, thinking: Tommy Telford has a slice of the place; the hostesses come from Eastern Europe, provided by Mr Pink Eyes. Rebus wondered how closely entwined the two empires – Telford's and Tarawicz's – really were. And add a third strand: the Yakuza. Something refused to add up.
What was Tarawicz getting out of it?
Miriam Kenworthy had suggested muscle: Scottish hardmen trained in Telford's organisation then shipped south. But it wasn't enough of a trade. There had to be more. Was Mr Pink Eyes due a share of the Maclean's pay-out? Was Telford tempting him with some Yakuza action? What about the theory that Telford was Tarawicz's supplier? At quarter to midnight, another phone call had the driver springing into action. He flicked his cigarette on to the road, started opening doors. Tarawicz and his entourage breezed out of the casino looking like they owned the world. Candice was wearing a black full length coat over a shimmering pink dress which didn't quite reach her knees. She was carrying a bottle of champagne. Rebus counted three of Tarawicz's men, remembering them from the scrapyard. Two no-shows: the lawyer, and the Crab. Telford was there, too, with a couple of minders, one of them Pretty-Boy. Pretty-Boy was making sure his jacket hung right, trying to decide whether it would look better buttoned. But his eyes raked the darkened street. Rebus had parked away from the street-lights, confident he was invisible. They were piling into the limo. Rebus watched it move off, waited until it had signalled and turned a corner before switching on his own headlamps and starting the engine.
They drove to the same hotel Matsumoto had stayed at. Telford's Range Rover was parked outside. Pedestrians – late night couples hurrying home from the pub – turned to stare at the limo. Saw the entourage spill out, probably mistook them for pop stars or film people. Rebus as casting director: Candice's startlet being mauled by sleazy producer Tarawicz. Telford a sleek young operator on his way up, looking to learn from the producer before toppling him. The others were bit players, except maybe Pretty-Boy, who was hanging on to his boss's coattails, maybe readying himself for his own big break…