`Does this counselling service come free?’
`My fee cancels out when you answer a few questions. You know Lintz is dead?’
`I've heard.’
`Where were you when you heard?’
`I've told you, I had business… Inspector, am I a suspect?’
`Practically the only one we've got.’
Levy gave a harsh laugh. `This is preposterous. I'm not a…’
He couldn't say the word. Rebus guessed his daughter was within hearing distance. `Hold on a moment, please.’
The receiver was muffled: Levy ordering his daughter out of the room. He came back on, voice lower than before.
`Inspector, for the record, I feel I must let you know how angry I felt when I heard the news. Justice may have been done or not done – I can't argue those points just now – but what is absolutely certain is that history has been cheated here!'
`Of the trial?’
`Of course! And the Rat Line, too. With each suspect who dies, we're that much less likely to prove its existence. Lintz isn't the first, you know. One man, the brakes failed on his car. Another fell from an upstairs window. There've been two apparent suicides, six more cases of what look like natural causes.’
`Am I going to get the full conspiracy theory?’
`This isn't a joke, Inspector.’
`Did you hear me laughing? What about you, Mr Levy? When did you leave Edinburgh?’
`Before Lintz died.’
`Did you see him?’ Rebus knowing he had, but seeking a lie.
Levy paused. `Confronted would be a more apposite term.’
`Just the once?’
`Three times. He wasn't keen to talk about himself, but I stated my case nonetheless.’
`And the phone call?’
Levy paused. `What phone call?’
`When he called you at the Roxburghe.’
`I wish I'd recorded it for posterity. Rage, Inspector. Foulmouthed rage. I'm positive he was mad.’
`Mad?’
`You didn't hear him. He's very good at seeming perfectly normal – he must be, or he wouldn't have gone undetected for so long. But the man is… was… mad. Truly mad.’
Rebus was remembering the crooked little man in the cemetery, and how he'd suddenly let fly at a passing dog. Poise, to rage, to poise again. `The story he told…’
Levy sighed. `Was this in the restaurant?’
`What restaurant?’
`Sorry, I thought the two of you went out to lunch.’
`I can assure you we didn't.’
`So what story is this then?’
`These men, Inspector, they come to justify their actions by blanking them out, or by transference. Transference is the more common.’
`They tell themselves someone else did it?’
`Yes.’
`And that was Lintz's story?’
`Less believable than most. He said it was all a case of mistaken identity.’
`And who did he think you were mistaking him for?’
`A colleague at the university… a Dr Colquhoun.’
Rebus called Hogan, gave him the story. `I told Levy you'd want to speak to him.’
`I'll phone him right now.’
`What do you think?’
'Colquhoun a war criminal?’
Hogan snorted. `Me, too,' Rebus said. `I asked Levy why he didn't think any of this worth telling us.’
`And?’
`He said as he gave it no credence, it was worthless.’
`All the same, we'd better talk to Colquhoun again. Tonight.’
`I've other plans for tonight, Bobby.’
`Fair enough, John. Look, I really appreciate all your help.’
`You're going to talk to him alone?’
`I'll have someone with me.’
Rebus hated being left out. If he cancelled that late supper… `Let me know how you get on.’
Rebus put the telephone down. On the hi-fi: Eddie Harris, upbeat and melodic. He went and soaked in a bath, facecloth across his eyes. Everyone, it seemed to him, lived their lives out of little boxes, opening different ones for different occasions. Nobody ever gave their whole self away. Cops were like that, each box a safety mechanism. Most people you met in the course of your life, you never even learned their names. Everybody was boxed off from everybody else. It was called society.
He was wondering about Joseph Lintz, always questioning, turning every conversation into a philosophy lesson. Stuck in his own little box, identity blocked off elsewhere, his past a necessary mystery… Joseph Lintz, furious when cornered, possibly clinically mad, driven there by… what? Memories? Or the lack of them? Driven there by other people? The Eddie Harris CD was on its last track by the time he emerged from the bathroom. He put on the clothes he'd be wearing to Patience's. Only he had a couple of stops to make first: check on, Sammy at the hospital, and then a meeting at Torphichen.
`The gang's all here,' he said, walking into the CID room.
Shug Davidson, Claverhouse, Ormiston, and Siobhan Clarke, all seated around the one big desk, drinking coffee from identical Rangers mugs. Rebus pulled a chair over.
`Have you filled them in, Shug?’ Davidson nodded.
`What about the shop?’
`I was just getting to that.’
Davidson picked up a pen, played with it. `The last owner went out of business, not enough passing trade. The shop was shut the best part of a year, then suddenly reopened under new management and with prices that stopped the locals looking elsewhere.’
`And got the workers at Maclean's interested, too,' Rebus added. `So how longs it been going?’
`Five weeks, selling cut-price everything.’
`No profit motive, you see.’
Rebus looked around the table. This was mostly for the benefit of Ormiston and Clarke; he'd given Claverhouse the story already.
`And the owners?’ Clarke asked.
`Well, the shop's run by a couple of lads called Declan Delaney and Ken Wilkinson. Guess where they come from?’
`Paisley,' Claverhouse said, keen to hurry things on.
`So they're part of Telford's gang?’ Ormiston asked.
`Not in so many words, but they're connected to him, no doubt about that.’
Davidson blew his nose loudly. `Of course, Dec and Ken are running the shop, but they don't own it.’
`Telford does,' Rebus stated.
`Okay,' Claverhouse said. `So we've got Telford owning a lossmaking business, in the hope of gathering intelligence.’
`I think it goes further than that,' Rebus said. `I mean, listening in on gossip is one thing, but I don't suppose any of the workers are standing around talking about the various security systems and how to beat them. Dec and Ken are garrulous, perfect for the job Telford's given them. But it's going to look suspicious if they start asking too many questions.’
`So what's Telford looking for?’
Ormiston asked. Siobhan Clarke turned to him.
`A mole,' she said.
`Makes sense,' Davidson went on. `That place is well-protected, but not impregnable. We all know any break-in's going to be a lot easier with someone on the inside.’
`So what do we do?’ Clarke asked.
`We fight Telford's sting with our own,' Rebus explained. `He wants a man on the inside, me give him one.’
`I'm seeing the head of Maclean's later on tonight,' Davidson said.
`I'll come with you,' Claverhouse said, keen not to be left out.
`So we put someone of our own inside the factory.’
Clarke was working it out for herself. `And they shoot their mouth off in the shop, making them an attractive proposition. And we sit and pray that Telford approaches them rather than: anyone else?’
`The less luck we have to rely on the better,' Claverhouse said. `Got to do this right.’
`Which is why we work it like this.’
Rebus said. `There's a bookie called Marty Jones. He owes me one big favour. Say our man's just been into Telford's shop. As he's coming out, a car pulls up. Marty and a couple of his men. Marty wants some bets paid off. Big argy-bargy, and a punch in the guts as warning.’
Clarke could see it. `He stumbles back into the shop, sits down to catch his breath. Dec and Ken ask him what's going on.’
`And he gives them the whole sorry story: gambling debts, broken marriage, whatever.’