Ian Rankin - The Hanging Garden

The ninth book in the Inspector Rebus series, 1998

`In a Hanging Garden/Change the past'

They were arguing in the living-room.

`Look, if your bloody job's so precious…’

`What do you want from me?’

`You know bloody well!' 'I'm working my arse off for the three of us!' 'Don't give me that crap.’

And then they saw her. She was holding her teddy bear, Pa Broon, by one well-chewed ear. She was peering round the doorway, thumb in her mouth. They turned to her.

`What is it, sweetie?’

'I had a bad dream.’

'Come here.’

The mother crouched down, opening her arms. But the girl ran to her,father, wrapped herself around his legs.

'Come on, pet, I'll take you back to bed.’

He tucked her in, started to read her a story.

'Daddy,' she said, 'what if I fall asleep and don't wake up? Like Snow White or Sleeping Beauty?’

'Nobody sleeps forever, Sammy. All it takes to wake them up is a kiss. There's nothing the witches and evil queens can do about that.’

He kissed her forehead.

'Dead people don't wake up, 'she said, hugging Pa Broon. 'Not even when you kiss them.’

John Rebus kissed his daughter. `Sure you don't want a lift?’

Samantha shook her head. `I need to walk off that pizza.’

Rebus put his hands in his pockets, felt folded banknotes beneath his handkerchief. He thought of offering her some money wasn't that what fathers did? – but she'd only laugh. She was twenty-four and independent; didn't need the gesture and certainly wouldn't take the money. She'd even tried to pay for the pizza, arguing that she'd eaten half while he'd chewed on a single slice. The remains were in a box under her arm.

`Bye, Dad.’ She pecked him on the cheek.

`Next week?’

`I'll phone you. Maybe the three of us…?’

By which she meant Ned Farlowe, her boyfriend. She was walking backwards as she spoke. One final wave, and she turned away from him, head moving as she checked the evening traffic, crossing the road without looking back. But on the opposite pavement she half-turned, saw him watching her, waved her hand in acknowledgment. A young man almost collided with her. He was staring at the pavement, the thin black cord from a pair of earphones dribbling down his neck. Turn round and look at her, Rebus commanded. Isn't she incredible? But the youth kept shuffling along the pavement, oblivious to her world.

And then she'd turned a corner and was gone. Rebus could only imagine her now: making sure the pizza box was secure beneath her left arm; walking with eyes fixed firmly ahead of her; rubbing a thumb behind her right ear, which she'd recently had pierced for the third time. He knew that her nose would twitch when she thought of something funny. He knew that if she wanted to concentrate, she might tuck the corner of one jacket-lapel into her mouth. He knew that she wore a bracelet of braided leather, three silver rings, a cheap watch with black plastic strap and indigo face. He knew that the brown of her hair was its natural colour. He knew she was headed for a Guy Fawkes party, but didn't intend staying long.

He didn't know nearly enough about her, which was why he'd wanted them to meet for dinner. It had been a tortuous process: dates rejigged, last-minute cancellations. Sometimes it was her fault, more often his. Even tonight he should have been elsewhere. He ran his hands down the front of his jacket, feeling the bulge in his inside breast pocket, his own little time-bomb. Checking his watch, he saw it was nearly nine o'clock. He could drive or he could walk – he wasn't going far.

He decided to drive.

Edinburgh on firework night, leaves blown into thick lines down the pavement. One morning soon he would find himself scraping frost from his car windscreen, feeling the cold like jabs to his kidneys. The south side of the city seemed to get the first frost earlier than the north. Rebus, of course, lived and worked on the south side. After a stint in Craigmillar, he was back at St Leonard 's. He could make for there now – he was still on shift after all – but he had other plans. He passed three pubs on his way to his car. Chat at the bar, cigarettes and laughter, a fug of heat and alcohol: he knew these things better than he knew his own daughter. Two out of the three bars boasted `doormen'. They didn't seem to be called bouncers these days. They were doormen or front-of-house managers, big guys with short hair and shorter fuses. One of them wore a kilt. His face was all scar tissue and scowl, the scalp shaved to abrasion. Rebus thought his name was Wattie or Wallie. He belonged to Telford. Maybe they all did. Graffiti on the wall further along: Won't Anyone Help? Three words spreading across the city.

Rebus parked around the corner from Flint Street and started walking. The street was in darkness at ground level, except for a cafe and amusement arcade. There was one lamppost, its bulb dead. The council had been asked by police not to replace it in a hurry – the surveillance needed all the help it could get. A few lights were shining in the tenement flats. There were three cars parked kerbside, but only one of them with people in it. Rebus opened the back door and got in.

A man sat in the driver's seat, a woman next to him. They looked cold and bored. The woman was Detective Constable Siobhan Clarke, who had worked with Rebus at St Leonard 's until a recent posting to the Scottish Crime Squad. The man, a Detective Sergeant called Claverhouse, was a Crime Squad regular. They were part of a team keeping twenty-four hour tabs on Tommy Telford and all his deeds. Their slumped shoulders and pale faces bespoke not only tedium but the sure knowledge that surveillance was futile.

It was futile because Telford owned the street. Nobody parked here without him knowing who and why. The other two cars parked just now were Range Rovers belonging to Telford 's gang. Anything but a Range Rover stuck out. The Crime Squad had a specially adapted van which they usually used for surveillance, but that wouldn't work in Flint Street. Any van parked here for longer than five minutes received close and personal attention from a couple of Telford 's men. They were trained to be courteous and menacing at the same time.

`Undercover bloody surveillance,' Claverhouse growled. `Only we're not undercover and there's nothing to survey.’

He tore at a Snickers wrapper with his teeth and offered the first bite to Siobhan Clarke, who shook her head.

`Shame about those flats,' she said, peering up through the windscreen. `They'd be perfect.’

`Except Telford owns them all,' Claverhouse said through a mouthful of chocolate.

`Are they all occupied?’ Rebus asked. He'd been in the car a minute and already his toes were cold.

`Some of them are empty,' Clarke said. ` Telford uses them for storage.’

`But every bugger in and out of the main door gets spotted,' Claverhouse added. `We've had meter readers and plumbers try to wangle their way in.’

`Who was acting the plumber?’ Rebus asked.

'Ormiston. Why?’

Rebus shrugged. `Just need someone to fix a tap in my bathroom.’

Claverhouse smiled. He was tall and skinny, with huge dark bags under his eyes and thinning fair hair. Slow-moving and slow talking, people often underestimated him. Those who did sometimes discovered that his nickname of `Bloody' Claverhouse was merited.