He woke up to breakfast TV. Checked out of the hotel and had breakfast in a cafe, then called Miriam Kenworthy's office, relieved to find she was an early starter.
`Come right round,' she said, sounding bemused. `You're only a couple of minutes away.’
She was younger than her telephone voice, face softer than her attitude. It was a milkmaid's face, rounded, the cheeks pink and plump. She studied him, swivelling slightly in her chair as he told her the story.
`Tarawicz,' she said when he'd finished. `Jake Tarawicz. Real name Joachim, probably.’
Kenworthy smiled. `Some of us around here call him Mr Pink Eyes. He's had dealings – meetings anyway with this guy Telford.’
She opened the brown folder in front of her. `Mr Pink Eyes has a lot of European connections. You know Chechnia?’
`In Russia?’
`It's Russia 's Sicily, if you know what I mean.’
`Is that where Tarawicz comes from?’
`It's one theory. The other is that he's Serbian. Might explain why he set up the convoy.’
`What convoy?’
`Running aid lorries to former Yugoslavia. A real humanitarian, our Mr Pink.’
`But also a way of smuggling people out?’
Kenworthy looked at him. `You've been doing your homework.’
`Call it an educated guess.’
`Well, it gets him noticed. He got a papal blessing six months ago. Married to an Englishwoman – not for love. She was one of his girls.’
`But it gives him residency here.’
She nodded. `He hasn't been around that long, five or six years…’
Like Telford, Rebus thought.
`But he's built himself a rep, muscled in where there used to be Asians, Turks… Story is, he started with a nice line in stolen icons. A ton of stuff has been lifted out of the Soviet bloc. And when that operation started drying, he moved into prossies. Cheap girls, and he could keep them docile with a bit of crack. The crack comes up from London – the Yardies control that particular scene. Mr Pink spreads their goods around the north-east. He also deals heroin for the Turks and sells some girls to Triad brothels.’
She looked at Rebus, saw she had his attention. `No racial barriers when it comes to business.’
`So I see.’
`Probably also sells drugs to your friend Telford, who distributes them through his nightclubs.’
"`Probably"?’
`We've no hard proof. There was even a story going around that Pink wasn't selling to Telford, he was buying.’
Rebus blinked. ` Telford 's not that big.’
She shrugged.
`Where would he get the stuff?’
'It was a story, that's all.’
But it had Rebus thinking, because it might help explain the relationship between Tarawicz and Telford…
`What does Tarawicz get out of it?’ he asked, making his thoughts flesh.
`You mean apart from money? Well, Telford trains a good bouncer. Jock bouncers get respect down here. Then, of course, Telford has shares in a couple of casinos.’
`A way for Tarawicz to launder his cash?’
Rebus thought about this. `Is there anything Tarawicz doesn't have a finger in?’
`Plenty. He likes businesses which are fluid. And he's still a relative newcomer.’
Eagles: `New Kid in Town'.
`We think he's been dealing arms: a lot of stuff crossing into Western Europe. The Chechens seem to have weaponry to spare.’
She sniffed, gathered her thoughts.
`Sounds like he's one step ahead of Tommy Telford.’
Which would explain why Telford was so keen to do business with him. He was on a learning curve, learning how to fit into the bigger picture. Yardies and Asians, Turks and Chechens, and all the others. Rebus saw them as spokes on a huge wheel which was trundling mercilessly across the world, breaking bones as it went.
`Why "Mr Pink Eyes"?’ he asked.
She'd been awaiting the question, slid a colour photo towards him.
It was the close-up of a face, the skin pink and blistered, white lesions running through it. The face was puffy, bloated, and in its midst sat eyes hidden by blue-tinted glasses. There were no eyebrows. The hair above the jutting forehead was thin and yellow. The man looked like some monstrous shaved pig.
`What happened to him?’ he asked.
`We don't know. That's the way he looked when he arrived.’
Rebus remembered the description Candice had given: sunglasses, looks like a car-crash victim. Dead ringer.
`I want to talk to him,' Rebus said.
But first, Kenworthy gave him a guided tour. They took her car, and she showed him where the street girls worked. It was mid-morning, no action to speak of. He gave her a description of Candice, and she promised she'd put the word out. They spoke with the few women they met. They all seemed to know Kenworthy, weren't hostile towards her.
`They're the same as you or me,' she told him, driving away. `Working to feed their kids.’
`Or their habit.’
`That too, of course.’
`In Amsterdam, they've got a union.’
`Doesn't help the poor sods who're shipped there.’
Kenworthy signalled at a junction. `You're sure he has her?’
`I don't think Telford does. Someone knew addresses back in Sarajevo, addresses that were important to her. Someone shipped her out of there.’
`Sounds like Mr Pink all right.’
`And he's the only one who can send her back.’
She looked at him. `Why would he do a thing like that?’
Just as Rebus was thinking their surroundings couldn't get any grimmer – all industrial decay, gutted buildings and potholes Kenworthy signalled to turn in at the gates of a scrapyard.
`You're kidding?’ he said.
Three Alsatians, tethered by thirty-foot chains, barked and bounded towards the car. Kenworthy ignored them, kept driving. It was like being in a ravine. Either side of them stood precarious canyon walls of car wrecks.
`Hear that?’
Rebus heard it: the sound of a collision. The car entered a wide clearing, and he saw a yellow crane, dangling a huge grab from its arm, pluck up the car it had dropped and lift it high, before dropping it again on to the carcass of another. A few men were standing at a safe distance, smoking cigarettes and looking bored. The grab dropped on to the roof of the top car, denting it badly. Glass shimmered on the oily ground, diamonds against black velvet.
Jake Tarawicz – Mr Pink Eyes – was in the crane, laughing and roaring as he picked up the car again, worrying it the way a cat might play with a mouse without noticing it was dead. If he'd seen the new additions to his audience, it didn't show. Kenworthy hadn't got out of her car immediately. First, she'd fixed on a face from her repertoire. When finally she was ready, she nodded to Rebus and they opened their doors simultaneously.
As Rebus stood upright, he saw that the grab had dropped the car and was swinging towards them. Kenworthy folded her arms and stood her ground. Rebus was reminded of those arcade games where you had to pick up a prize. He could see Tarawicz in the cab, manipulating the controls like a kid with a toy. He remembered Tommy Telford on his arcade bike, and saw at once something the two men had in common: neither had ever really grown up.
The motorised hum stopped suddenly, and Tarawicz dropped from the cab. He was wearing a cream suit and emerald shirt, open at the neck. He'd borrowed a pair of green wellies from somewhere, so as to keep his trousers clean. As he walked towards the two detectives, his men stepped into line behind him.
'Miriam,' he said, `always a pleasure.’
He paused. `Or so the rumour goes.’
A couple of his men grinned. Rebus recognised one face: `The Crab', that's what he'd been called in central Scotland. His grip could crush bones. Rebus hadn't seen him in a long time, and had never seen him so smartly groomed and dressed.
`All right, Crab?’
Rebus said.
This seemed to disconcert Tarawicz, who half-turned towards his minion. The Crab stayed quiet, but colour had risen, to his neck.