The Hanging Garden Read Free

‘Either that or wire the place.’
    ‘We couldn’t even get a plumber in there,’ Rebus said. ‘You think someone with a fistful of radio mikes is going to fare any better?’
    ‘Couldn’t do any worse.’ Claverhouse switched on the radio, seeking music.
    ‘Please,’ Clarke pleaded, ‘no country and western.’
    Rebus stared out at the café. It was well-lit with a net curtain covering the bottom half of its window. On the top half was written ‘Big Bites For Small Change’. There was a menu taped to the window, and a sandwich board on the pavement outside, which gave the café’s hours as 6.30 a.m. – 8.30 p.m. The place should have been closed for an hour.
    ‘How are his licences?’
    ‘He has lawyers,’ Clarke said.
    ‘First thing we tried,’ Claverhouse added. ‘He’s applied for a late-night extension. I can’t see the neighbours complaining.’
    ‘Well,’ Rebus said, ‘much as I’d love to sit around here chatting …’
    ‘End of liaison?’ Clarke asked. She was keeping her humour, but Rebus could see she was tired. Disrupted sleep pattern, body chill, plus the boredom of a surveillance you know is going nowhere. It was never easy partnering Claverhouse: no great fund of stories, just constant reminding that they had to do everything ‘the right way’, meaning by the book.
    ‘Do us a favour,’ Claverhouse said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘There’s a chippy across from the Odeon.’
    ‘What do you want?’
    ‘Just a poke of chips.’
    ‘Siobhan?’
    ‘Irn-Bru.’
    ‘Oh, and John?’ Claverhouse added as Rebus stepped out of the car. ‘Ask them for a hot-water bottle while you’re at it.’
    A car turned into the street, speeding up then screeching to a halt outside the café. The back door nearest the kerb opened, but nobody got out. The car accelerated away, door still hanging open, but there was something on the pavement now, something crawling, trying to push itself upright.
    ‘Get after them!’ Rebus shouted. Claverhouse had already turned the ignition, slammed the gear-shift into first. Clarke was on the radio as the car pulled away. As Rebus crossed the street, the man got to his feet. He stood with one hand against the café window, the other held to his head. As Rebus approached, the man seemed to sense his presence, staggered away from the café into the road.
    ‘Christ!’ he yelled. ‘Help me!’ He fell to his knees again, both hands scrabbling at his scalp. His face was a mask of blood. Rebus crouched in front of him.
    ‘We’ll get you an ambulance,’ he said. A crowd had gathered at the window of the café. The door had been pulled open, and two young men were watching, like they were onlookers at a piece of street theatre. Rebus recognised them: Kenny Houston and Pretty-Boy. ‘Don’t just stand there!’ he yelled. Houston looked to Pretty-Boy, but Pretty-Boy wasn’t moving. Rebus took out his mobile, called in the emergency, his eyes fixing on Pretty-Boy: black wavy hair, eyeliner. Black leather jacket, black polo-neck, black jeans. Stones: ‘Paint it Black’. But the face chalk-white, like it had been powdered. Rebus walked up to the door. Behind him, the man was beginning to wail, a roar of pain echoing into the night sky.
    ‘We don’t know him,’ Pretty-Boy said.
    ‘I didn’t ask if you knew him, I asked for help.’
    Pretty-Boy didn’t blink. ‘The magic word.’
    Rebus got right up into his face. Pretty-Boy smiled and nodded towards Houston, who went to fetch towels.
    Most of the customers had returned to their tables. One was studying the bloody palmprint on the window. Rebus saw another group of people, watching from the doorway of a room to the back of the café. At their centre stood Tommy Telford: tall, shoulders straight, legs apart. He looked almost soldierly.
    ‘I thought you took care of your lads, Tommy!’ Rebus called to him. Telford looked straight through him, then turned back into the room. The door closed. More screams from outside.