Tommy Telford's nightclubs.
Gavin Tay: previous convictions for assault and reset. A persistent offender who'd finally gone straight… The room began to feel stuffy, Rebus's head clotted and aching. He decided to get out.
Walked through The Meadows and down George IV Bridge, took the Playfair Steps down to Princes Street. A group was sitting on the stone steps of the Scottish Academy: unshaven, dyed hair, torn clothes. The city's dispossessed, trying their best not to be ignored. Rebus knew he had things in common with them. In the course of his life, he'd failed to fit several niches: husband, father, lover. He hadn't fit in with the Army's ideas of what he should be, and wasn't exactly `one of the lads' in the police. When one of the group held out a hand, Rebus offered a fiver, before crossing Princes Street and heading for the Oxford Bar.
He settled into a corner with a mug of coffee, got out his mobile, and called Sammy's flat. She was home, all was well with Candice. Rebus told her he had a place for Candice, she could move out tomorrow.
`That's fine,' Sammy said. `Hold on a second.’
There was a rustling sound as the receiver was passed along.
`Hello, John, how are you?’
Rebus smiled. `Hello, Candice. That's very good.’
`Thank you. Sammy is… uh… I am teaching how to…’
She broke into laughter, handed the receiver back.
`I'm teaching her English,' Sammy said.
`I can tell.’
`We started with some Oasis lyrics, just went from there.’
`I'll try to come round later. What did Ned say?’
`He was so shattered when he came home, I think he barely noticed.’
`Is he there? I'd like to talk to him.’
`He's out working.’
`What did you say he was doing again?’
`I didn't.’
`Right. Thanks again, Sammy. See you later.’
He took a swig of coffee, washed it around his mouth. Abernethy: he couldn't just let it go. He swallowed the coffee and called the Roxburghe, asked for David Levy's room.
`Levy speaking.’
`It's John Rebus.’
`Inspector, how good to hear from you. Is there something I can do?’
`I'd like to talk to you.’
`Are you in your office?’
Rebus looked around. `In a manner of speaking. It's a two-minute walk from your hotel. Turn right out of the door, cross George Street, and walk down to Young Street. Far end, the Oxford Bar. I'm in the back room.’
When Levy arrived, Rebus bought him a half of eighty-bob. Levy eased himself into a chair, hanging his walking-stick on the back of it. `So what can I do for you?’
`I'm not the only policeman you've spoken to.’
`No, you're not.’
`Someone from Special Branch in London came to see me today.’
`And he told you I'd been travelling around?’
`Yes.’
`Did he warn you against speaking to me?’
`Not in so many words.’
Levy took off his glasses, began polishing them. `I told you, there are people who'd rather this was all relegated to history. This man, he came all the way from London just to tell you about me?’
`He wanted to see Joseph Lintz.’
`Ah.’
Levy was thoughtful. `Your interpretation, Inspector?’
`I was hoping for yours.’
`My utterly subjective interpretation?’
Rebus nodded. `He wants to be sure of Lintz. This man works for Special Branch, and as everyone knows Special Branch is the public arm of the secret services.’
`He wanted to be confident I wasn't going to get anything out of Lintz?’
Levy nodded, staring at the smoke from Rebus's cigarette. This case was like that: one minute you could see it, the next you couldn't. Like smoke.
`I have a little book with me,' Levy said, reaching into his pocket. `I'd like you to read it. It's in English, translated from the Hebrew. It's about the Rat Line.’
Rebus took the book. `Does it prove anything?’
`That depends on your terms.’
`Concrete proof.’
`Concrete proof exists, Inspector.’
`In this book?’
Levy shook his head. `Under lock and key in Whitehall, kept from scrutiny by the Hundred Year Rule.’
`So there's no way to prove anything.’
`There's one way…’
`What?’
`If someone talks. If we can get just one of them to talk…’
`That's what this is all about: wearing down their resistance? Looking for the weakest link?’
Levy smiled again. `We have learned patience, Inspector.’
He finished his drink. `I'm so grateful you called. This has been a much more satisfactory meeting.’
`Will you send your bosses a progress report?’
Levy chose to ignore this. `We'll talk again, when you've read the book.’
He stood up. `The Special Branch officer… I've forgotten his name?’
`I didn't give it.’
Levy waited a moment, then said, `Ah, that explains it then. Is he still in Edinburgh?’
He watched Rebus shake his head. `Then he's probably on his way to Carlisle, yes?’
Rebus sipped coffee, offered no comment.
`My thanks again, Inspector,' Levy said, undeterred.
`Thanks for dropping by.’
Levy took a final look around. `Your office,' he said, shaking his head.
The Rat Line was an 'underground railway', delivering Nazis – sometimes with the help of the Vatican – from their Soviet persecutors. The end of the Second World War meant the start of the Cold War. Intelligence was necessary, as were intelligent, ruthless individuals who could provide a certain level of expertise. It was said that Klaus Barbie, the `Butcher of Lyons', had been offered a job with British Intelligence. It was rumoured that high-profile Nazis had been spirited away to America. It wasn't until 1987 that the United Nations released its full list of fugitive Nazi and Japanese war criminals, forty thousand of them.
Why so late in releasing the list? Rebus thought he could understand. Modern politics had decreed that Germany and Japan were part of the global brotherhood of capitalism. In whose interests would it be to reopen old wounds? And besides, how many atrocities had the Allies themselves hidden? Who fought a war with clean hands? Rebus, who'd grown to adulthood in the Army, could comprehend this. He'd done things… He'd served time in Northern Ireland, seen trust disfigured, hatred replace fear.
Part of him could well believe in the existence of a Rat Line.
The book Levy had given him went into the mechanics of how such an operation might have worked. Rebus wondered: was it really possible to disappear completely, to change identity? And again, the recurring question: did any of it matter? There did exist sources of identification, and there had been court cases – Eichmann, Barbie, Demjanjuk with others ongoing. He read about war criminals who, rather than being tried or extradited, were allowed to return home, running businesses, growing rich, dying of old age. But he also read of criminals who served their sentences and became `good people', people who had changed. These men said war itself was the real culprit. Rebus recalled one of his first conversations with Joseph Lintz, in the drawing-room of Lintz's home. The old man's voice was hoarse, a scarf around his throat.
`At my age, Inspector, a simple throat infection can feel like death.’
There didn't seem to be many photographs around. Lintz had explained that a lot had gone missing during the war.
`Along with other mementoes. I do have these photos though.’
He'd shown Rebus half a dozen framed shots, dating back to the 1930s. As he'd explained who the subjects were, Rebus had suddenly thought: what if he's making it up? What if these are just a bunch of old photos he picked up somewhere and had framed? And the names, the identities he now gave to the faces – had he invented them? He'd seen in that instant, for the first time, how easy it might be to construct another life.
And then, later in their conversation that day, Lintz, sipping honeyed tea, had started discussing Villefranche.