Pretty-Boy shifted, as if trying to get comfortable. ‘This could take a while,’ he said.

‘Take as long as you like,’ Rebus told him.

37

They got it all, in time.

Pretty-Boy had to rest, and so did they. Other teams came in, worked on different areas. The tapes were filling up, being listened to elsewhere, notes and transcripts made. Back-up questions were forwarded to the Interview Room. Telford wasn’t talking. Rebus went and took a look at him, sat across from him. Telford didn’t blink once. He sat ramrod-straight, hands on knees. And all the while, Pretty-Boy’s confession was being used to squeeze other gang members - without letting slip who was singing.

The ranks broke, slowly at first and then in a cataract of accusation, self-defence and denial. And they got it all.

Telford and Tarawicz: European prostitutes heading north; muscle and dope heading south.

Mr Taystee: taking more than his fair share; dealt with accordingly.

The Japanese: using Telford as their introduction to Scotland, finding it a good base of operations.

Only now Rebus had scuppered that. In his folder to Shoda he’d warned the gangster to leave Poyntinghame alone, or he’d be ‘implicated in ongoing criminal investigations’. The Yakuza weren’t stupid. He doubted they’d be back ... for a while at least.

His last trip of the night: Rebus went down to the cells, unlocked one of the doors and told Ned Farlowe he was free. Told him he had nothing to fear ...

Unlike Mr Pink Eyes. The Yakuza had a score to settle. And it didn’t stay unsettled long. He was found in his carcrusher, seatbelt welded shut. His men had started running.

Some of them were running still.

Rebus sat in his living-room, staring at the door Jack Morton had stripped and varnished. He was thinking about the funeral, about how the juice Church would be there in force. He wondered if they’d blame him. Jack’s kids would be there, too. Rebus had never met them; didn’t think he wanted to see them.

Wednesday morning, he was back in Inverness, meeting Mrs Hetherington off her flight. She’d been delayed in Holland, answering Customs questions. They’d laid a little trap, caught a man called De Gier - a known trafficker planting the kilo package of heroin in Mrs Hetherington’s luggage: a secret compartment in her suitcase, the suitcase itself a gift from her landlord. Several of Telford’s other elderly tenants were enjoying short breaks in Belgium. They’d be questioned by local police.

Home again, Rebus telephoned David Levy.

‘Lintz committed suicide,’ he told him.

‘That’s your conclusion?’

‘It’s the truth. No conspiracy, no cover-up.’

A sigh. ‘It’s of little consequence, Inspector. What matters is that we’ve lost another one.’

‘Villefranche doesn’t mean a thing to you, does it? The Rat Line, that’s all you care about.’

‘There’s nothing we can do about Villefranche.’

Rebus took a deep breath. ‘A man called Harris came to see me. He works for British Intelligence. They’re protecting some big names, high-level people. Rat Line survivors, maybe their children. Tell Mayerlink to keep digging.’