The Hanging Garden by Ian Rankin Page B

thought. Rebus got to his feet.
    ‘You’ve been very helpful, sir. Anything else you can tell me?’
    ‘Look, this has been off the record, Inspector.’
    ‘I’ve no problem with that. I don’t suppose you’ve got any names?’
    ‘Names?’
    ‘Of the diners that day.’
    Malahide shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, not even credit card details. Mr Telford paid cash as usual.’
    ‘Did he leave a big tip?’
    ‘Inspector,’ smiling, ‘some secrets are sacrosanct.’
    ‘Let’s keep this conversation that way, too, sir, all right?’
    Malahide looked at Candice. ‘She’s a prostitute, isn’t she? I thought as much the day they were here.’ There was revulsion in his voice. ‘Tarty little thing, aren’t you?’
    Candice stared at him, looked to Rebus for help, said a few words neither man understood.
    ‘What’s she saying?’ Malahide asked.
    ‘She says she once had a punter who looked just like you. He dressed in plus-fours and made her whack him with a mashie-niblick.’
    Malahide showed them out.

6
    Rebus telephoned Claverhouse from Candice’s room.
    ‘Could be something or nothing,’ Claverhouse said, but Rebus could tell he was interested, which was good: the longer he stayed interested, the longer he’d want to hang on to Candice. Ormiston was on his way to the hotel to resume babysitting duties.
    ‘What I want to know is, how the hell did Telford land something like this?’
    ‘Good question,’ Claverhouse said.
    ‘It’s way out of his previous sphere, isn’t it?’
    ‘As far as we know.’
    ‘A chauffeur service for Jap companies …’
    ‘Maybe he’s after the contract to supply their gaming machines.’
    Rebus shook his head. ‘I still don’t get it.’
    ‘Not your problem, John, remember that.’
    ‘I suppose so.’ There was a knock at the door. ‘Sounds like Ormiston.’
    ‘I doubt it. He’s just left.’
    Rebus stared at the door. ‘Claverhouse, wait on the line.’
    He left the receiver on the bedside table. The knock was repeated. Rebus motioned for Candice, who’d been flicking through a magazine on the sofa, to move into the bathroom. Then he crept up to the door and put his eye to the spy-hole. A woman: the day-shift receptionist. He unlocked the door.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Letter for your wife.’
    He stared at the small white envelope which she was trying to hand him.
    ‘Letter,’ she repeated.
    There was no name or address on the envelope, no stamp. Rebus took it and held it to the light. A single sheet of paper inside, and something flat and square, like a photograph.
    ‘A man handed it in at reception.’
    ‘How long ago?’
    ‘Two, three minutes.’
    ‘What did he look like?’
    She shrugged. ‘Tallish, short brown hair. He was wearing a suit, took the letter out of a briefcase.’
    ‘How do you know who it’s for?’
    ‘He said it was for the foreign woman. He described her to a T.’
    Rebus was staring at the envelope. ‘Okay, thanks,’ he mumbled. He closed the door, went back to the telephone.
    ‘What is it?’ Claverhouse asked.
    ‘Someone’s just dropped off a letter for Candice.’ Rebus tore open the envelope, holding the receiver between shoulder and chin. There was a Polaroid photo and a single sheet, handwritten in small capitals. Foreign words.
    ‘What does it say?’ Claverhouse asked.
    ‘I don’t know.’ Rebus tried a couple of words aloud. Candice had emerged from the bathroom. She snatched the paper from him and read it quickly, then fled back into the bathroom.
    ‘It means something to Candice,’ Rebus said. ‘There’s a photo, too.’ He looked at it. ‘She’s on her knees gamming some fat bloke.’
    ‘Description?’
    ‘The camera’s not exactly interested in his face. Claverhouse, we’ve got to get her away from here.’
    ‘Hang on till Ormiston arrives. They might be trying to panic you. If they want to snatch her, one cop in a car isn’t going to cause much of a problem. Two cops just might.’
    ‘How did they