The Hanging Garden: An Inspector Rebus Novel (Inspector Rebus Series/Ian Rankin)
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Detective Inspector John Rebus is buried under a pile of paperwork generated by his investigations into a suspected war criminal. His immediate supervisors are more than happy to have him tucked away in a quiet backwater for several months, but the escalating dispute between the upstart Tommy Telford and Big Ger Cafferty's gang gives Rebus an escape clause.
Telford is known to have close ties to a man nicknamed Mr. Pink Eyes, a brutal gangster running a lucrative business bringing Chechen refugees into Britain to work as prostitutes. And when Rebus takes under his wing a distraught Bosnian call girl, it gives him a personal reason to make sure Telford takes the high road out of town.
Within days, Rebus's daughter is the victim of an all-too-professional hit-and-run, and Rebus knows that there's nothing he won't do to bring down prime suspect Tommy Telford-even if it means cutting a deal with the devil.
A chilling glimpse into the darkest extremes of human cruelty, a page-turning literary thriller, this ninth entry in Ian Rankin's award-winning series confirms his reputation as a writer of rare and lasting gifts.
looking a little shy, not sure what was going on. ‘Come in, please,’ Mrs Drinic said. ‘My husband is in the kitchen.’ They sat around the kitchen table. Mr Drinic was heavily built, with a thick brown moustache and wavy brown and silver hair. A pot of tea was produced, and Mrs Drinic drew her chair beside Candice’s and began talking again. ‘She’s explaining to the girl,’ Mr Drinic said. Rebus nodded, sipped the strong tea, listened to a conversation he could not understand. Candice, cautious
thanked the secretary and gave her back her key, then crawled through the city traffic. When the call came on his mobile, he nearly went off the road. Candice had disappeared. Mrs Drinic was distraught. They’d had dinner last night, breakfast this morning, and Karina had seemed fine. ‘There was a lot she said she couldn’t tell us,’ Mr Drinic said, standing behind his seated wife, hands stroking her shoulders. ‘She said she wanted to forget.’ And then she’d gone out for a walk down to the
going to fare any better?’ ‘Couldn’t do any worse.’ Claverhouse switched on the radio, seeking music. ‘Please,’ Clarke pleaded, ‘no country and western.’ Rebus stared out at the café. It was well-lit with a net curtain covering the bottom half of its window. On the top half was written ‘Big Bites For Small Change’. There was a menu taped to the window, and a sandwich board on the pavement outside, which gave the café’s hours as 6.30 a.m. – 8.30 p.m. The place should have been closed for an
lengthened, Rebus could feel the change of atmosphere. ‘What did you say your name was?’ ‘DI Rebus. I was only asking when he left London.’ ‘This morning, soon as he heard. So what have I won: the hatchback or the hostess trolley?’ Rebus’s turn to laugh. ‘Sorry, I’m just nosy.’ ‘I’ll be sure to tell him that.’ A single click, then the sound of an open line. Later that afternoon, Rebus chased up British Telecom, then tried Levy’s house again. This time he got through to a woman. ‘Hello, Mrs
‘Telford or Cafferty.’ ‘Cafferty?’ ‘Setting up Telford, the way someone tried to set me up for Matsumoto.’ ‘You know you’re not out of the woods?’ He looked at her. ‘An internal inquiry? The men with rubber soles?’ She nodded. ‘Bring them on.’ He sat forward in his chair, rubbed his temples. ‘No reason they should be left out of the party.’ ‘What party?’ ‘The one inside my head. The party that never stops.’ Rebus leaned across the desk to answer the phone. ‘No, he’s not here. Can I take a