Hanging Garden by Ian Rankin

Author:Ian Rankin
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-10-18T13:55:26+00:00

19

Rebus went back to St Leonard’s, saw that the office was coping quite well without him, and headed over to the hospital with Dr Morrison’s Iron Maiden t-shirt in a plastic bag. A third bed had been moved into Sammy’s room. An elderly woman lay in it. Though awake, she stared fixedly at the ceiling. Rhona was at Sammy’s bedside, reading a book.

Rebus stroked his daughter’s hair. ‘How is she?’

‘No change.’

‘Any more tests planned?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘That’s it then? She just stays like this?’

He lifted a chair over, sat down. It had turned into a sort of ritual now, this bedside vigil. It felt almost ... the word he wanted to use was ‘comfortable’. He squeezed Rhona’s hand, sat there for twenty minutes, saying almost nothing, then went to find Kirstin Mede.

She was in her office at the French Department, marking scripts. She sat at a big desk in front of the window, but moved from this to a coffee-table with half a dozen chairs arranged around it.

‘Sit down,’ she said. Rebus sat down.

‘I got your message,’ he told her.

‘Hardly matters now, does it? The man’s dead.’

‘I know you spoke with him, Kirstin.’

She glanced towards him. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You waited for him outside his house. Did the two of you have a nice chat?’

Colour had risen to her cheeks. She crossed her legs, tugged the hem of her skirt towards her knee. ‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘I went to his house.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I wanted to see him close up.’

Her eyes were on his now, challenging him. ‘I thought maybe I could tell from his face ... the look in his eyes. Maybe something in his tone of voice.’

‘And could you?’

She shook her head. ‘Not a damned thing. No window to the soul.’

‘What did you say to him?’

‘I told him who I was.’

‘Any reaction?’

‘Yes.’

She folded her arms. ‘His words: “My dear lady, will you kindly piss off.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yes. Because I knew then. Not whether he was Linzstek or not, but something else.’

‘What?’

‘That he was at the end of his tether.’

She was nodding. ‘Absolutely at breaking point.’

She looked at Rebus again. ‘And capable of anything.’

The problem with the Flint Street surveillance was that it had been so open. A hidden operation - deep cover - that’s what was needed. Rebus had decided to scout out the territory.

The tenement flats across the road from Telford’s cafe and arcade were served by a single main door. It was locked, so Rebus chose a buzzer at random - marked HETHERINGTON. Waited, pushed again. An elderly voice came on the intercom.

‘Who is it, please?’

‘Mrs Hetherington? Detective Inspector Rebus, I’m your Community CID officer. Can I talk to you about home security? There’ve been a few break-ins around here, especially with elderly victims.’

‘Gracious, you’d better come up.’

‘Which floor?’

‘The first.’

The door buzzed, and Rebus pushed it open.

Mrs Hetherington was waiting for him in her doorway. She was tiny and frail-looking, but her eyes were lively and her movements assured. The flat was small, well-maintained. The sitting-room was heated by a two-bar electric fire.

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