The Hanging Garden Read Free Page B

– airbrushed blood, smudged by footprints.
    ‘Do we have a name?’
    ‘He’s not offered one. Nothing in his pockets to identify him. Over two hundred in cash, so we can rule out a mugging. What do you reckon for a weapon? Hammer?’
    Rebus shrugged. ‘A hammer would dent the skull. That flap looked too neat. I think they went for him with a cleaver.’
    ‘Or a machete,’ Claverhouse added. ‘Something like that.’
    Clarke stared at him. ‘I smell whisky.’
    Claverhouse put a finger to his lips.
    ‘Anything else?’ Rebus asked. It was Clarke’s turn to shrug.
    ‘Just one observation.’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘I like the t-shirt.’
    Claverhouse put money in the machine, got out three coffees. He’d called his office, told them the surveillance was suspended. Orders now were to stay at the hospital, see if the victim would say anything. The very least they wanted was an ID. Claverhouse handed a coffee to Rebus.
    ‘White, no sugar.’
    Rebus took the coffee with one hand. In the other heheld a polythene laundry-bag, inside which was his shirt. He’d have a go at cleaning it. It was a good shirt.
    ‘You know, John,’ Claverhouse said, ‘there’s no point you hanging around.’
    Rebus knew. His flat was a short walk away across The Meadows. His large, empty flat. There were students through the wall. They played music a lot, stuff he didn’t recognise.
    ‘You know Telford’s gang,’ Rebus said. ‘Didn’t you recognise the face?’
    Claverhouse shrugged. ‘I thought he looked a bit like Danny Simpson.’
    ‘But you’re not sure?’
    ‘If it’s Danny, a name’s about all we can hope to get out of him. Telford picks his boys with care.’
    Clarke came towards them along the corridor. She took the coffee from Claverhouse.
    ‘It’s Danny Simpson,’ she confirmed. ‘I just got another look, now the blood’s been cleaned off.’ She took a swallow of coffee, frowned. ‘Where’s the sugar?’
    ‘You’re sweet enough already,’ Claverhouse told her.
    ‘Why did they pick on Simpson?’ Rebus asked.
    ‘Wrong place, wrong time?’ Claverhouse suggested.
    ‘Plus he’s pretty low down the pecking order,’ Clarke added, ‘making it a gentle hint.’
    Rebus looked at her. Short dark hair, shrewd face with a gleam to the eyes. He knew she worked well with suspects, kept them calm, listened carefully. Good on the street, too: fast on her feet as well as in her head.
    ‘Like I say, John,’ Claverhouse said, finishing his coffee, ‘any time you want to head off …’
    Rebus looked up and down the empty corridor. ‘Am I in the way or something?’
    ‘It’s not that. But your job’s
liaison
– period. I know theway you work: you get attached to cases, maybe even over-attached. Look at Candice. I’m just saying …’
    ‘You’re saying, don’t butt in?’ Colour rose to Rebus’s cheeks:
Look at Candice
.
    ‘I’m saying it’s our case, not yours. That’s all.’
    Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t get it.’
    Clarke stepped in. ‘John, I think all he means is –’
    ‘Whoah! It’s okay, Siobhan. Let the man speak for himself.’
    Claverhouse sighed, screwed up his empty cup and looked around for a bin. ‘John, investigating Telford means keeping half an eye on Big Ger Cafferty and his crew.’
    ‘And?’
    Claverhouse stared at him. ‘Okay, you want it spelling out? You went to Barlinnie yesterday – news travels in our business. You met Cafferty. The two of you had a chinwag.’
    ‘He asked me to go,’ Rebus lied.
    Claverhouse held up his hands. ‘Fact is, as you’ve just said, he asked you and you went.’ Claverhouse shrugged.
    ‘Are you saying I’m in his pocket?’ Rebus’s voice had risen.
    ‘Boys, boys,’ Clarke said.
    The doors at the end of the corridor had swung open. A young man in dark business suit, briefcase swinging, was coming towards the drinks machine. He was humming some tune. He stopped humming as he reached them, put down his case and searched