think about touching her.’
‘Not with a bargepole, pal. Myself, I’m a clean-living sort of individual. I say my prayers last thing at night.’
‘And kiss your cuddly bear?’
Telford looked at him again. ‘Don’t believe all the stories, Inspector. Here, grab a bacon sarnie on your way out, I think there’s one going spare.’ Rebus stood his ground a few moments longer, then turned away. ‘And tell the mugs out front I said hello.’
Rebus walked back through the arcade and out into the night, heading for Nicolson Street. He was wondering what he was going to do with Candice. Simple answer: let her go, and hope she had the sense to keep moving. As he made to pass a parked car, its window slid down.
‘Fucking well get in,’ a voice ordered from the passenger seat. Rebus stopped, looked at the man who’d spoken, recognised the face.
‘Ormiston,’ he said, opening the back door of the Orion. ‘Now I know what he meant.’
‘Who?’
‘Tommy Telford. I’m to tell you he said hello.’
The driver stared at Ormiston. ‘Rumbled again.’ He didn’t sound surprised. Rebus recognised the voice.
‘Hello, Claverhouse.’
DS Claverhouse, DC Ormiston: Scottish Crime Squad, Fettes’s finest. On surveillance. Claverhouse: as thin as ‘twa ply o’ reek’, as Rebus’s father would have said. Ormiston: freckle-faced and with Mick McManus’s hair – slick, pudding-bowl cut, unfeasibly black.
‘You were blown before I walked in there, if that’s any consolation.’
‘What the fuck were you doing?’
‘Paying my respects. What about you?’
‘Wasting our time,’ Ormiston muttered.
The Crime Squad were out for Telford: good news for Rebus.
‘I’ve got someone,’ he said. ‘She works for Telford. She’s frightened. You could help her.’
‘The frightened ones don’t talk.’
‘This one might.’
Claverhouse stared at him. ‘And all we’d have to do is …?’
‘Get her out of here, set her up somewhere.’
‘Witness relocation?’
‘If it comes to that.’
‘What does she know?’
‘I’m not sure. Her English isn’t great.’
Claverhouse knew when he was being sold something. ‘Tell us,’ he said.
Rebus told them. They tried not to look interested.
‘We’ll talk to her,’ Claverhouse said.
Rebus nodded. ‘So how long has this been going on?’
‘Ever since Telford and Cafferty squared off.’
‘And whose side are we on?’
‘We’re the UN, same as always,’ Claverhouse said. He spoke slowly, measuring each word and phrase. A careful man, DS Claverhouse. ‘Meantime, you go charging in like some bloody mercenary.’
‘I’ve never been a great one for tactics. Besides, I wanted to see the bastard close up.’
‘And?’
‘He looks like a kid.’
‘And he’s as clean as a whistle,’ Claverhouse said. ‘He’s got a dozen lieutenants who’d take the fall for him.’
At the word ‘lieutenants’, Rebus’s mind flashed to Joseph Lintz. Some men gave orders, some carried them out: which group was the more culpable?
‘Tell me something,’ he said, ‘the teddy bear story … is it true?’
Claverhouse nodded. ‘In the passenger seat of his RangeRover. A fucking huge yellow thing, sort they raffle in the pub Sunday lunchtime.’
‘So what’s the story?’
Ormiston turned in his seat. ‘Ever hear of Teddy Willocks? Glasgow hardman. Carpentry nails and a claw-hammer.’
Rebus nodded. ‘You welched on someone, Willocks came to see you with the carpentry bag.’
‘But then,’ Claverhouse took over, ‘Teddy got on the wrong side of some Geordie bastard. Telford was young, making a name for himself, and he very badly wanted an in with this Geordie, so he took care of Teddy.’
‘And that’s why he carries a teddy around with him,’ Ormiston said. ‘A reminder to everyone.’
Rebus was thinking. Geordie meant someone from Newcastle. Newcastle, with its bridges over the Tyne …
‘Newcastle,’ he said softly, leaning forward in his
‘Not with a bargepole, pal. Myself, I’m a clean-living sort of individual. I say my prayers last thing at night.’
‘And kiss your cuddly bear?’
Telford looked at him again. ‘Don’t believe all the stories, Inspector. Here, grab a bacon sarnie on your way out, I think there’s one going spare.’ Rebus stood his ground a few moments longer, then turned away. ‘And tell the mugs out front I said hello.’
Rebus walked back through the arcade and out into the night, heading for Nicolson Street. He was wondering what he was going to do with Candice. Simple answer: let her go, and hope she had the sense to keep moving. As he made to pass a parked car, its window slid down.
‘Fucking well get in,’ a voice ordered from the passenger seat. Rebus stopped, looked at the man who’d spoken, recognised the face.
‘Ormiston,’ he said, opening the back door of the Orion. ‘Now I know what he meant.’
‘Who?’
‘Tommy Telford. I’m to tell you he said hello.’
The driver stared at Ormiston. ‘Rumbled again.’ He didn’t sound surprised. Rebus recognised the voice.
‘Hello, Claverhouse.’
DS Claverhouse, DC Ormiston: Scottish Crime Squad, Fettes’s finest. On surveillance. Claverhouse: as thin as ‘twa ply o’ reek’, as Rebus’s father would have said. Ormiston: freckle-faced and with Mick McManus’s hair – slick, pudding-bowl cut, unfeasibly black.
‘You were blown before I walked in there, if that’s any consolation.’
‘What the fuck were you doing?’
‘Paying my respects. What about you?’
‘Wasting our time,’ Ormiston muttered.
The Crime Squad were out for Telford: good news for Rebus.
‘I’ve got someone,’ he said. ‘She works for Telford. She’s frightened. You could help her.’
‘The frightened ones don’t talk.’
‘This one might.’
Claverhouse stared at him. ‘And all we’d have to do is …?’
‘Get her out of here, set her up somewhere.’
‘Witness relocation?’
‘If it comes to that.’
‘What does she know?’
‘I’m not sure. Her English isn’t great.’
Claverhouse knew when he was being sold something. ‘Tell us,’ he said.
Rebus told them. They tried not to look interested.
‘We’ll talk to her,’ Claverhouse said.
Rebus nodded. ‘So how long has this been going on?’
‘Ever since Telford and Cafferty squared off.’
‘And whose side are we on?’
‘We’re the UN, same as always,’ Claverhouse said. He spoke slowly, measuring each word and phrase. A careful man, DS Claverhouse. ‘Meantime, you go charging in like some bloody mercenary.’
‘I’ve never been a great one for tactics. Besides, I wanted to see the bastard close up.’
‘And?’
‘He looks like a kid.’
‘And he’s as clean as a whistle,’ Claverhouse said. ‘He’s got a dozen lieutenants who’d take the fall for him.’
At the word ‘lieutenants’, Rebus’s mind flashed to Joseph Lintz. Some men gave orders, some carried them out: which group was the more culpable?
‘Tell me something,’ he said, ‘the teddy bear story … is it true?’
Claverhouse nodded. ‘In the passenger seat of his RangeRover. A fucking huge yellow thing, sort they raffle in the pub Sunday lunchtime.’
‘So what’s the story?’
Ormiston turned in his seat. ‘Ever hear of Teddy Willocks? Glasgow hardman. Carpentry nails and a claw-hammer.’
Rebus nodded. ‘You welched on someone, Willocks came to see you with the carpentry bag.’
‘But then,’ Claverhouse took over, ‘Teddy got on the wrong side of some Geordie bastard. Telford was young, making a name for himself, and he very badly wanted an in with this Geordie, so he took care of Teddy.’
‘And that’s why he carries a teddy around with him,’ Ormiston said. ‘A reminder to everyone.’
Rebus was thinking. Geordie meant someone from Newcastle. Newcastle, with its bridges over the Tyne …
‘Newcastle,’ he said softly, leaning forward in his
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