Claverhouse lost it. `You're only here because I tolerate you! So let's get that straight for a start. I snap my fingers and you're out of the game, understood?’
Rebus just stared at him. A line of sweat was running down Claverhouse's left temple. Ormiston was looking up from his desk. Siobhan Clarke, briefing another officer beside a wall-chart, stopped talking.
`I promise I'll be a good boy,' Rebus said quietly, `if you'll promise to stop with the broken record routine.’
Claverhouse's jaw was working, but eventually he produced a near-smile of apology.
`Let's get on with it then.’
Not that there was much for them to do. Jack Morton was working a double shift, wouldn't start till three o'clock. They'd be watching the place from then on, just in case Telford changed the game-plan. This meant personnel were going to miss the big match: Hibs against Hearts at Easter Road. Rebus had his money on a 3-2 home win.
Ormiston's summing-up: `Easiest quid you'll ever lose.’
Rebus retired to one of the computers and got back to work. Siobhan Clarke had already come round snooping.
`Writing it up for one of the tabloids?’
`No such luck.’
He tried to keep it simple, and when he was happy with the finished product he printed off two copies. Then he went out to buy a couple of nice, bright folders…
He dropped off one of the folders, then returned home, too restless to be much use at Fettes. Three men were waiting in his tenement stairwell. Two more came in behind him, blocking the only escape route. Rebus recognised Jake Tarawicz and one of his muscle-men from the scrapyard. The others were new to him.
`Up the stairs,' Tarawicz ordered. Rebus was a prisoner under escort as they climbed the steps.
`Unlock the door.’
`If I'd known you were coming, I'd have got in some beers,' Rebus said, searching his pockets for keys. He was wondering which was safer: let them in, or keep them out? Tarawicz made the decision for him, nodded some signal. Rebus's arms were grabbed, hands went into his jacket and trousers, found his keys. He kept his face blank, eyes on Tarawicz.
`Big mistake,' he said.
`In,' Tarawicz ordered. They pushed Rebus into the hallway, walked him to the living room.
`Sit.’
Hands pushed Rebus on to the sofa.
`At least let me make a pot of tea,' he said. Inside he was trembling, knowing everything he couldn't afford to give away.
`Nice place,' Mr Pink Eyes was saying. `Lacks the feminine touch though.’
He turned to Rebus. `Where is she?’
Two of the men had peeled off to search the place.
`Who?’
`I mean, who else would she turn to? Not your daughter… not now she's in a coma.’
Rebus stared at him. `What do you know about that?’
The two men returned, shook their heads.
`I hear things.’
Tarawicz pulled out a dining-chair and sat down. There were two men behind the sofa, two in front.
`Make yourselves at home, lads. Where's the Crab, Jake?’
Reasoning: a question he might be expected to ask.
`Down south. What's it to you?’
Rebus shrugged.
`Shame about your daughter. Going to make a recovery, is she?’
Rebus didn't answer. Tarawicz smiled. `National Health Service… I wouldn't trust it myself.’
He paused. `Where is she, Rebus?’
`Using my finely honed detective's skills, I'll assume you mean Candice.’
Meaning she'd done a runner. Trusting to herself for once. Rebus was proud of her.
Tarawicz snapped his fingers. Arms grabbed Rebus from behind, pinning back his shoulders. One man stepped forward and punched him solidly on the jaw. Stepped back again. Second man forward: gut punches. A hand tugged his hair, forcing his eyes up to the ceiling. He didn't see the flat-handed chop aiming for his throat. When it came, he thought he was going to cough out his voice-box. They let him go, and he pitched forward, hands going to his throat, retching for breath. A couple of teeth felt loose, and the skin inside his cheek had burst. He got out a handkerchief, spat blood.
`Unfortunately,' Tarawicz was saying, `I have no sense of humour. So I hope you'll understand I'm not joking when I say that I'll kill you if I have to.’
Rebus shook his head free of all the secrets he knew, all the power he held over Tarawicz. He told himself: you don't know anything.
He told himself you're not going to die.
`Even… if… I did know…’
Fighting for breath. `I wouldn't tell you. If the two of us were standing in a minefield, I wouldn't let you know. Want me… to tell you why?’
`Sticks and stones, Rebus.’
`It's not because of who you are, it's what you are. You trade in human beings.’
Rebus dabbed at his mouth. `You're no better than the Nazis.’
Tarawicz put a hand to his chest. `I'm struck to the quick.’
`Chance would be a fine thing.’ Rebus coughed again. `Tell me, why do you want her back?’
Rebus knowing the answer: because he was about to head south, leaving Telford in Shit Street. Because to return to Newcastle without her was a small but palpable defeat. Tarawicz wanted it all. He wanted every last crumb on the plate.
`My business,' Tarawicz said. Another signal, and the hands grabbed him again, Rebus resisting this time. Packing-tape was being wound around his mouth.
`Everybody tells me how genteel Edinburgh is,' Tarawicz was saying. `Can't have the neighbours complaining about the screams. Put him on a chair.’
Rebus was lifted up. He struggled. A kidney punch buckled his knees. They forced him down on to a dining-chair. Tarawicz was removing his jacket, undoing gold cufflinks so he could roll up the sleeves of his pink and blue striped shirt. His arms were hairless, thick, and the same mottled colour as his face.
`A skin complaint,' he explained, removing his blue-tinted glasses. `Some distant cousin of leprosy, they tell me.’
He loosened his top button. `I'm not as pretty as Tommy Telford, but I think you'll find me his master in every other respect.’
A smile to his troops, a smile Rebus wasn't supposed to understand. `We can start anywhere you want, Rebus. And you get to choose when we stop. Just nod your head, tell me where she is, and I walk out of your life forever.’
He got in close to Rebus, the sheen on his face like a protective seal. His pale blue eyes had tiny black pupils. Rebus thought: consumer as well as pusher. Tarawicz waited for a nod which didn't come, then retreated. Found an anglepoise lamp next to Rebus's chair. Planted both feet on its base and yanked on the mains cable, ripping it free.
`Bring him over here,' he ordered. Two men pulled both Rebus and chair over towards where Tarawicz was checking that the cable was plugged into the wall and that the socket was switched on. Another man closed the curtains: no free show for the kids across the way. Tarawicz was dangling the cable, letting Rebus see the loose wires – the very live wires. Two-hundred-and-forty volts just waiting to make his acquaintance.
`Believe me,' Tarawicz said, `this is nothing. The Serbs had torture down to a fine art. Much of the time, they weren't even looking for a confession. I've helped a few of the more intelligent ones, the ones who knew when it was time to run. There was money to be made in the early days, power for the taking. Now the politicians are moving in, bringing trial-judges with them.’
He looked at Rebus. `The intelligent ones always know when it's time to quit. One last chance, Rebus. Remember, a nod of the head…’
The wires were inches from his cheek. Tarawicz changed his mind, moved them towards his nostrils, then his eyeballs.
`A nod of the head…’
Rebus was twisting, arms holding him down – his legs, arms, shoulders. Hands holding his head, chest. Wait! The shock would pass straight through Tarawicz's men! Rebus saw it for a bluff. His eyes met Tarawicz's, and they both knew. Tarawicz pulled back.
`Tape him to the chair.’