“‘Probably”?’

‘We’ve no hard proof. There was even a story going around that Pink wasn’t selling to Telford, he was buying.’

Rebus blinked. ‘Telford’s not that big.’

She shrugged.

‘Where would he get the stuff?’

‘It was a story, that’s all.’

But it had Rebus thinking, because it might help explain the relationship between Tarawicz and Telford ...

‘What does Tarawicz get out of it?’ he asked, making his thoughts flesh.

‘You mean apart from money? Well, Telford trains a good bouncer. Jock bouncers get respect down here. Then, of course, Telford has shares in a couple of casinos.’

‘A way for Tarawicz to launder his cash?’

Rebus thought about this. ‘Is there anything Tarawicz doesn’t have a finger in?’

‘Plenty. He likes businesses which are fluid. And he’s still a relative newcomer.’

Eagles: ‘New Kid in Town’.

‘We think he’s been dealing arms: a lot of stuff crossing into Western Europe. The Chechens seem to have weaponry to spare.’

She sniffed, gathered her thoughts.

‘Sounds like he’s one step ahead of Tommy Telford.’

Which would explain why Telford was so keen to do business with him. He was on a learning curve, learning how to fit into the bigger picture. Yardies and Asians, Turks and Chechens, and all the others. Rebus saw them as spokes on a huge wheel which was trundling mercilessly across the world, breaking bones as it went.

‘Why “Mr Pink Eyes”?’ he asked.

She’d been awaiting the question, slid a colour photo towards him.

It was the close-up of a face, the skin pink and blistered, white lesions running through it. The face was puffy, bloated, and in its midst sat eyes hidden by blue-tinted glasses. There were no eyebrows. The hair above the jutting forehead was thin and yellow. The man looked like some monstrous shaved pig.

‘What happened to him?’ he asked.

‘We don’t know. That’s the way he looked when he arrived.’

Rebus remembered the description Candice had given: sunglasses, looks like a car-crash victim. Dead ringer.

‘I want to talk to him,’ Rebus said.

But first, Kenworthy gave him a guided tour. They took her car, and she showed him where the street girls worked. It was mid-morning, no action to speak of. He gave her a description of Candice, and she promised she’d put the word out. They spoke with the few women they met. They all seemed to know Kenworthy, weren’t hostile towards her.

‘They’re the same as you or me,’ she told him, driving away. ‘Working to feed their kids.’

‘Or their habit.’

‘That too, of course.’

‘In Amsterdam, they’ve got a union.’

‘Doesn’t help the poor sods who’re shipped there.’

Kenworthy signalled at a junction. ‘You’re sure he has her?’

‘I don’t think Telford does. Someone knew addresses back in Sarajevo, addresses that were important to her. Someone shipped her out of there.’

‘Sounds like Mr Pink all right.’

‘And he’s the only one who can send her back.’

She looked at him. ‘Why would he do a thing like that?’