Rebus laughed, shaking his head. `It's nice though, isn't it? First they make Sammy look like a hit and run, and now they try to pin me for the same thing.’
`Who's "they"?’
`Telford and his men.’
`I thought you said they were doing business with Matsumoto?’
`They're all gangsters, Gill. Gangsters fall out.’
`What about Cafferty?’
Rebus frowned. `What about him?’
`He's got an old grudge against you. This way, he stitches you up and annoys Telford.’
`So you do think I'm being stitched up?’
`I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt.’
She paused. `Not everyone will. What was Matsumoto's business with Telford?’
`Something to do with a country club – on the surface at least. Some Japanese were buying it, and Telford was clearing the way:' He shivered: should have worn a coat over his jacket. He rubbed his arm where the blood sample had been taken to test his alcohol level. `Of course, a check of the deceased's hotel room might throw up something.’
`We've already been there,' Pryde said. `Nothing out of the ordinary.’
`Which deadbeat did you send?’
`I went myself,' Gill Templer said, voice as icy as the wind. Rebus bowed his head in apology. She had a point though: Matsumoto and Telford had been doing business. There had been nothing about their farewell to one another to suggest a break-up, and Matsumoto had seemed happy and confident at the casino. What had Telford to gain by bumping him off? Apart from maybe getting Rebus off his back.
Templer had mentioned Cafferty: was Big Ger capable of such a move? What did he stand to gain? Apart from settling a long-held grudge against Rebus, giving Telford a headache, and maybe gaining Poyntinghame and the Japanese deal for himself.
Balance the two – Telford against Cafferty. Cafferty's side tipped, went clunk as it hit the ground.
`Let's get back to the station,' Templer said. `I'm reaching the early stages of frostbite.’
`Can I go home then?’
`We're not done with you yet, John,' she said, getting into the car. `Not by a long chalk.’
But eventually they had to let him go. He wasn't being charged, not yet. There was work still to be done. He knew they could make a case against him if they wanted to, knew it only too well. He'd followed Matsumoto out of the club. He was the one with the grudge against Telford. He was the one who'd see poetic justice in sending Telford a message by driving over one of his associates.
He, John Rebus, was firmly in the frame. It was tightly constructed and quite elegant in its way. The scales suddenly tipped back towards Telford again, so much subtler than Cafferty.
Telford.
Rebus visited Farlowe in his cell. The reporter wasn't asleep.
`How long do I have to stay here?’ he asked.
`As long as possible.’
`How's Telford?’
`Minor burns. Don't expect him to press charges. He'll want you on the outside.’
`Then you'll have to let me go.’
`Don't bet on it, Ned. We can press charges. We don't need Telford.’
Farlowe looked at him. `You're going to prosecute me?’
`I saw the whole thing. Unwarranted attack on an innocent man.’
Farlowe snorted, then smiled. `Ironic, isn't it? Charging me for my own good.’
He paused. `I won't be able to see Sammy, will I?’
Rebus shook his head.
`I didn't think of that. Fact is, I didn't think.’
He looked up from his ledge. `I just did. And right up until the moment I did it, it felt… brilliant.’
`And afterwards?’
Farlowe shrugged. `What does afterwards matter? It's only the rest of my life.’
Rebus didn't go home, knew he wouldn't sleep. And he'd no car, so he couldn't go driving. Instead, he visited the hospital, sat down by Sammy's bedside. He took her hand, rested it against his face.
When a nurse came in and asked if he wanted anything, he asked if she'd any Paracetamol.
`In a hospital?’ she said, smiling. `I'll see what I can do.’
21
Rebus was due for further questioning at St Leonard's at ten o'clock, so when his pager sounded at eight-fifteen, he assummed it was a reminder. But the phone number it wanted him to call was the mortuary down in the Cowgate. He called from the hospital payphone, and was put through to Dr Curt.
`Looks like I've drawn the short straw,' Curt told him.
`You're about to start work on Matsumoto?’
`For my sins. Look, I've heard the stories… don't suppose there's any truth in them?’
`I didn't kill him.’
`Glad to hear it, John.’
Curt seemed to be struggling to say something. `There are questions of ethics, of course, so I can't suggest that you come down here…’
`There's something you think I should see?’
`That I can't say.’
Curt cleared his throat. `But if you happened to be here… and the place is always very quiet this time of the morning…’
`I'm on my way.’
The Infirmary to the mortuary: a ten-minute walk. Curt himself was waiting to lead Rebus to the body.
The room was all white tile, bright light and stainless steel. Two of the dissecting-tables lay empty. Matsumoto's naked body lay on the third. Rebus walked around it, stunned by what he saw.
Tattoos.
And not just the kilted piper on a sailor's arm. These were works of art, and they were massive. A scaly green dragon, breathing pink and red fire, covered one shoulder and crept down the arm towards the wrist. Its back legs reached around the body's neck, while its front ones rested on the chest. There were other smaller dragons, and a landscape Mount Fuji reflected in water. There were Japanese symbols and the visored face of a kendo champion. Curt put on rubber gloves, and had Rebus do the same. Then the two men rolled the body over, displaying a further gallery across Matsumoto's back. A masked actor, something out of a Noh play, and a warrior in full armour. Some delicate flowers. The effect was mesmerising.
`Stunning, aren't they?’ Curt said.
`Phenomenal.’
`I've visited Japan a few times, given papers at conferences.’
`So you recognise some of these?’
`A few of the references, yes. Thing is, tattoos – especially on this scale – usually mean you're a gang member.’
`Like the Triads?’
`The Japanese are called Yakuza. Look here.’
Curt held up the left hand. The pinkie had been severed at the first joint, the skin healed in a rough crust.
`That's what happens when they screw up, isn't it?’
Rebus said, the word `Yakuza' bouncing around in his head. `Someone cuts off a finger every time.’
`I think so, yes,' Curt said. `Just thought you might like to know.’
Rebus nodded, eyes glued to the corpse. `Anything else?’
`Well, I haven't started on him yet, really. All looks fairly standard: evidence of impact with a moving vehicle. Crushed ribcage, fractures to the arms and legs.’
Rebus noticed that a bone was protruding from one calf, obscenely white against the skin. `There'll be a lot of internal damage. Shock probably killed him.’
Curt was thoughtful. `I must let Professor Gates know. Doubt he'll have seen anything like it.’
`Can I use your phone?’ Rebus asked.
He knew one person who might know about the Yakuza – she'd seemed knowledgeable about every other country's criminal gangs. So he spoke to Miriam Kenworthy in Newcastle.
`Tattoos and missing fingers?’ she said.
`Bingo.’
`That's Yakuza.’
`Actually, it's only the top bit missing from one little finger. That's done to them when they step out of line, isn't it?’
`Not quite. They do it to themselves as a way of saying they're sorry. I'm not sure I know much more than that.’
There was the sound of papers being shifted. `I'm just looking for my notes.’
`What notes?’
`When I was connecting all these gangs, different cultures, I did some research. Might be something on the Yakuza… Look, can I call you back?’