Rebus counted off on his fingers. `The drug shipments, the war with Cafferty, the Newcastle connection, the Yakuza, the prostitutes.’
He paused again, drained his tea. `Tall order, I know. Your boss had a meteoric rise, Brian, and he nearly made it. But that's all over. Best thing you can do now is talk. It's either that or spend the rest of your days waiting for the bullet or the machete to strike…’
The lawyer started to protest. Rebus held up a hand.
`We'll need all of it, Brian. Including Lintz.’
'Lintz,' Pretty-Boy said dismissively. 'Lintz is nothing.’
`So where's the harm?’
The look in Pretty-Boy's eyes was a mix of anger, fear and disorientation. Rebus stood up.
`I need something else to drink. What about you gentlemen?’
`Coffee,' the lawyer said, `black, no sugar.’
Pretty-Boy hesitated, then said, `Get me a Coke.’
And at that point – for the very first time – Rebus knew a deal might be done. He stopped the interview, Hogan switched off the tapes, and both men left the room. Hogan patted him on the back.
Farmer Watson was coming along the corridor towards them. Rebus moved to meet him, leading them away from the door.
`I think we might be in with a shout, sir,' Rebus said. `He'll try to twist the deal, give us less than we want, but I think there's a chance.’
Watson beamed a smile, as Rebus leaned against the wall, eyes closed. `I feel about a hundred years old.’
`Experience tells,' Hogan said.
Rebus growled at him, then they went to fetch the drinks.
`Mr Summers,' the lawyer said, as Rebus handed him his cup, `would like to tell you the story of his relationship with Joseph Lintz. But first we'll need some assurances.’
`What about everything else I mentioned?’
`These can be negotiated.’
Rebus stared at Pretty-Boy. `You don't trust me?’
Pretty-Boy picked up his can, said `No', and drank.
`Fine.’
Rebus walked over to the far wall. `In that case, you're free to go.’
He checked his watch. `Soon as you've finished your drinks, I want you out of here. Interview Rooms are at a premium tonight. DI Hogan, mark up the tapes, will you?’
Hogan ejected both cassettes. Rebus sat down beside him and they started discussing work, as though Pretty-Boy had been dismissed from their minds. Hogan examined a sheet of paper, checking who was due to be interviewed next.
From the corner of his eye, Rebus saw Pretty-Boy leaning in towards his lawyer, whispering something. He turned on them.
`Can you do that outside, please? We need to vacate this room.’
Pretty-Boy knew Rebus was bluffing… knew the policeman needed him. But he realised, too, that Rebus was not bluffing about giving the file to Shoda, and he was far too intelligent not to be scared. He didn't move from the chair, and held his lawyer's arm so he had to stay and listen. Eventually the lawyer cleared his throat.
`Inspector, Mr Summers is willing to answer your questions.’
'All my questions?’
The lawyer nodded. `But I must insist on hearing more of the "deal" you're proposing.’
Rebus looked at Hogan. `Go get the Chief Super.’
Rebus left the room, stood in the hallway while Hogan was away. Cadged a cigarette off a passing uniform. He'd just got it lit when Farmer Watson came barrelling towards him, Hogan behind as though attached to Watson by an invisible leash.
`No smoking, John, you know that.’
`Yes, sir,' Rebus said, crimping the tip. `I was just holding it for Inspector Hogan.’
Watson nodded towards the door. `What do they want?’
`We've been talking possible immunity from prosecution. At the very least, he'll want a soft sentence, and a safe one, plus new ID afterwards.’
Watson was thoughtful. `We haven't had a cheep out of any of them. Not that it matters greatly. There's the gang we caught redhanded, plus Telford on the audio tape…’
`Summers is a real insider, knows Telford's organisation.’
`So how come he's willing to spill?’
`Because he's scared, and his fear is overwhelming his loyalty. I'm not saying we'll get every last detail out of him, but we'll probably get enough to start pressing the other members. Once they know someone's yapping, they'll all want a trade.’
`What's his lawyer like?’
`Expensive.’
`No point shilly-shallying then.’
`I couldn't have put it better myself, sir.’
The Chief Super pinned back his shoulders. `All right, let's do a deal.’
`When did you first meet Joseph Lintz?’
Pretty-Boy's arms were no longer folded. He was resting them on the desk, head in his hands. His hair flopped forward, making him look younger than ever.
`About six months ago. We'd spoken on the phone before that.’
`He was a punter?’
`Yes.’
`Meaning what exactly?’
Pretty-Boy looked at the turning spools. `You want me to explain for all our listeners?’
`That's right.’
`Joseph Lintz was a client of the escort service for which I worked.’
`Come on, Brian, you were a bit more than a flunkey. You ran it, didn't you?’
`If you say so.’
`Anytime you want to walk, Brian…’
Eyes burning. `Okay, I ran it for my employer.’
`And Mr Lintz phoned wanting an escort?’
`He wanted one of our girls to go to his home.’
`And?’
`And that was it. He'd sit there opposite her and just stare for half an hour.’
`Both of them fully clothed?’
`Yes.’
`Nothing else?’
`Not at first.’
`Ah.’
Rebus paused. `You must have been curious.’
Pretty-Boy shrugged. `Takes all sorts, doesn't it?’
`I suppose it does. So how did your business relationship progress?’
`Well, on a gig like that, there's always a chaperone.’
`Yourself?’
`Yes.’
`You didn't have better things to do?’
Another shrug. `I was curious.’
`About what?’
`The address: Heriot Row.’
`Mr Lintz had… class?’
`Coming out his ears. I mean, I've met plenty fat cats, corporate types looking for a shag in their hotel, but Lintz was a long way from that.’
`He just wanted to look at the girls.’
`That's right. And this huge house he had…’
`You went in? You didn't just wait in the car?’
`Told him it was company policy.’
A smile. `Really, all I wanted was to snoop.’
`Did you talk to him?’
`Later, yes.’
`You became friends?’
`Not really… maybe. He knew things, had a real brain on him.’
`You were impressed.’
Pretty-Boy nodded. Yes, Rebus could imagine. His previous role model had always been Tommy Telford, but Pretty Boy had aspirations. He wanted class. He wanted people to acknowledge him for his mind. Rebus knew how seductive Lintz's storytelling could be. How much more seductive would Pretty-Boy have found it? `Then what happened?’
Pretty-Boy shifted. `His tastes changed.’
`Or his real tastes started to emerge?’
`That's what I wondered.’
`So what did he want?’
`He wanted the girls… he had this length of rope… he'd made it into a noose.’
Pretty-Boy swallowed. His lawyer had stopped writing, was listening intently. `He wanted the girls to slip it over their heads, then lie down like they were dead.’
`Dressed or naked?’
`Naked.’
`And?’
`And he'd… he'd sit on his chair and get off. Some of the girls wouldn't go along. He wanted the works: bulging eyes, tongue sticking out, neck twisted…’
Pretty-Boy rubbed his hands through his hair.
`Did you ever talk about it?’
`With him? No, never.’
`So what did you talk about?’
`All sorts of things.’
Pretty-Boy looked up at the ceiling, laughed. `He told me once, he believed in God. Said the problem was, he wasn't sure God believed in him. That seemed clever at the time… he always managed to get me thinking. And this was the same guy who tossed himself off over bodies with ropes round their necks.’