Rebus ran across the road, pulled the pedestrian round: Ned Farlowe. A bottle dropped from Farlowe's hand. Telford's men were closing in. Rebus held tight to Farlowe.
`I'm placing this man under arrest,' he said. `He's mine, understood?’
A dozen faces glaring at him. And Tommy Telford down on his knees. `Get your boss to the hospital,' Rebus said. `I'm taking this one to St Leonard's…’
Ned Farlowe sat on the ledge in one of the cells. The walls were blue, smeared brown near the toilet-pan. Farlowe was looking pleased with himself.
`Acid?’
Rebus said, pacing the cell. `Acid? All this research must have gone to your head.’
`It's what he deserved.’
Rebus glared at him. `You don't know what you've done.’
`I know exactly what I've done.’
`He'll kill you.’
Farlowe shrugged. `Am I under arrest?’
`You'd better believe it, son. I want you kept out of harm's way. If I hadn't been there…’
But he didn't want to think about that. He looked at Farlowe. Looked at Sammy's lover, who'd just staged a full-frontal assault on Telford, the kind of assault Rebus knew wouldn't work.
Now Rebus would have to redouble his efforts. Because otherwise, Ned Farlowe was a dead man… and when Sammy came round, he didn't want news like that to be waiting for her.
He drove back towards Flint Street, parked at a distance from it, and headed there on foot. Telford had the place sewn up, no doubt about it. Letting his flats to old folk might have been a charitable act but he'd made damned sure it served its purpose. Rebus wondered if, given the same circumstances, Cafferty would have been clever enough to think of panic-buttons. He suspected not. Cafferty wasn't thick, but most of what he did he did by instinct. Rebus wondered if Tommy Telford had ever made a rash move in his life.
He was staking out Flint Street because he needed an in, needed to find the weak link in the chain around Telford. After ten minutes of wind chill, he thought of a better idea. On his mobile, he called one of the city's taxi firms. Identified himself and asked if Henry Wilson was on shift. He was. Rebus told the switchboard to put a call out to Henry. It was as simple as that.
Ten minutes later, Wilson turned up. He drank in the Ox occasionally, which was his problem really. Drunk in charge of a taxi-cab. Luckily Rebus had been around to smooth things over, as a result of which Wilson owed him a lifetime of favours. He was tall, heavily built, with short black hair and a long black beard. Ruddy faced, and he always wore check shirts. Rebus thought of him as `The Lumberjack'. `Need a lift?’
Wilson said, as Rebus got into the front passenger seat.
`First thing I need is a blast of the heater.’
Wilson obliged. `Second thing I need is to use your taxi as cover.’
`You mean, sit here?’
`That's what I mean.’
`With the meter running?’
`You've got an engine problem, Henry. Your cab's out of the game for the rest of the afternoon.’
`I'm saving up for Christmas,' Wilson complained. Rebus stared him out. The big man sighed and lifted a newspaper from the side of his seat. `Help me pick a few winners then,' he said, turning to the racing pages.
They sat for over an hour at the end of Flint Street, and Rebus stayed in the front of the cab. His reasoning: a cab parked with a passenger in the back looked suspicious. A cab parked with two guys in the front, and you'd just think they were on their break, or at shift's end – two cabbies sharing stories and a flask of tea.
Rebus took one sip from the plastic cup and winced. Half a bag of sugar in the flask.
`I've always had a sweet tooth,' Wilson explained. He had a packet of crisps open on his lap: pickled onion flavour.
Finally, Rebus saw two Range Rovers being driven into Flint Street. Sean Haddow – Telford's money man – was driving the lead car. He got out and went into the arcade. On the passenger seat, Rebus could see a huge yellow teddy bear. Haddow was coming out again, bringing Telford with him. Telford: back from the hospital already, hands bandaged, gauze patches on his face like he'd had a particularly ropey shave. But not about to let a little thing like an acid attack get in the way of business. Haddow held the back door open, and Telford got in.
`This is us, Henry,' Rebus said. `You're going to be following those two Range Rovers. Stay back as far as you like. Those things are so high off the ground, we'll be able to see them over anything smaller than a double-decker.’
Both Range Rovers headed out of Flint Street. The second car carried three of Telford's `soldiers'. Rebus recognised Pretty-Boy. The other two were younger recruits, well-dressed with groomed hair. One hundred percent business.
The convoy headed for the city centre, stopped outside a hotel. Telford had a word with his men, but entered the building alone. The cars stayed where they were.
`Are you going in?’
Wilson asked.
`I think I'd be noticed,' Rebus said. The drivers of both Range Rovers had got out and were enjoying a smoke, but keeping a keen eye on people entering and leaving the hotel. A couple of prospects looked into the cab, but Wilson shook his head.
`I could be making a mint here,' he muttered. Rebus offered him a Polo. Wilson accepted with a snort.
`Brilliant,' Rebus said. Wilson looked back towards the hotel. A parking warden was talking to Haddow and Pretty Boy. She had her notebook out. They were tapping their watches, attempting charm. Double yellow lines kerbside: no parking any time.
Haddow and Pretty-Boy held up their hands in surrender, had a quick confab, then it was back into the Range Rovers. Pretty-Boy made circling motions with one hand, letting his passengers know they were going to circle the block. The warden stood her ground till they'd moved off. Haddow was on his mobile: doubtless letting his boss know the score.
Interesting: they hadn't tried to strongarm the warden, or bribe her, nothing like that. Law-abiding citizens. Telford's rules, no doubt. Again, Rebus couldn't see any of Cafferty's men giving in so quickly.
`You going in then?’ Wilson asked.
`Not much point, Henry. Telford will already be in a bedroom or somebody's suite. If he's doing business, it'll be behind closed doors.’
`So that was Tommy Telford?’
`You've heard of him?’
`I'm a taxi driver, we hear things. He's after Big Ger's cab business.’
Wilson paused. `Not that Big Ger has a cab business, you understand.’
`Any idea how Telford plans to wrest it away from Cafferty?’
`Scare off the drivers, or get them to switch sides.’
`What about your company, Henry?’
`Honest, legal and decent, Mr Rebus.’
`No approach by Telford?’
`Not yet.’
`Here they come again.’
They watched as the two Range Rovers turned back into the street. There was no sign of the warden. A couple of minutes later, Telford emerged from the hotel, bringing with him a Japanese man with spiky hair and a shiny aquamarine suit. He carried a briefcase but didn't look like a businessman. Maybe it was the sunglasses, worn in late-afternoon twilight; maybe it was the cigarette slouching from the corner of the downturned mouth. Both men got into the back of the lead car. The Japanese leaned forward and ruffled the teddy bear's ears, making some joke. Telford didn't look amused.
`Do we follow them?’ Wilson asked. He saw the look on Rebus's face, turned the key in the ignition.