The Hanging Garden by Ian Rankin Page A

Like they did this every day of the week. Like they didn’t live four hundred miles apart.
    ‘Abernethy, what the hell are you doing here?’
    ‘Feeding you, of course, same thing the English have always done for the Jocks. Got any butter?’
    ‘Try the butter-dish.’
    ‘Plates?’
    Rebus pointed to a cupboard.
    ‘Bet you drink instant: am I right?’
    ‘Abernethy …’
    ‘Let’s get this ready first, then talk, okay?’
    ‘The kettle boils quicker if you switch it on at the plug.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘And I think there’s some jam.’
    ‘Any honey?’
    ‘Do I look like a bee?’
    Abernethy smirked. ‘Old Georgie Flight sends his love, by the way. Word is, he’ll be retiring soon.’
    George Flight: another ghost from Rebus’s past. Abernethy had unscrewed the top from the coffee jar and was sniffing the granules.
    ‘How fresh is this?’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘No class, John.’
    ‘Unlike you, you mean? When did you get here?’
    ‘Hit town half an hour ago.’
    ‘From London?’
    ‘Stopped a couple of hours in a lay-by, got my head down. That A1 is murder though. North of Newcastle, it’s like coming into a third-world country.’
    ‘Did you drive four hundred miles just to insult me?’
    They took everything through to the table in the living-room, Rebus shoving aside books and notepads, stuff about the Second World War.
    ‘So,’ he said, as they sat down, ‘I’m assuming this isn’t a social call?’
    ‘Actually it is, in a way. I could have just telephoned, but I suddenly thought: wonder how the old devil’s getting on?Next thing I knew, I was in the car and heading for the North Circular.’
    ‘I’m touched.’
    ‘I’ve always tried to keep track of what you’re up to.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because last time we met … well, you’re different, aren’t you?’
    ‘Am I?’
    ‘I mean, you’re not a team player. You’re a loner, bit like me. Loners can be useful.’
    ‘Useful?’
    ‘For undercover, jobs that are a bit out of the ordinary.’
    ‘You think I’m Special Branch material?’
    ‘Ever fancied moving to London? It’s where the action is.’
    ‘I get action enough up here.’
    Abernethy looked out of the window. ‘You couldn’t wake this place with a fifty-megaton warhead.’
    ‘Look, Abernethy, not that I’m not enjoying your company or anything, but why
are
you here?’
    Abernethy brushed crumbs from his hands. ‘So much for the social niceties.’ He took a gulp of coffee, squirmed at its awfulness. ‘War Crimes,’ he said. Rebus stopped chewing. ‘There’s a new list of names. You know that, because you’ve got one of them living on your doorstep.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So I’m heading up the London HQ. We’ve established a temporary War Crimes Unit. My job’s to collate gen on the various investigations, create a central register.’
    ‘You want to know what I know?’
    ‘That’s about it.’
    ‘And you drove through the night to find out? There’s got to be more to it.’
    Abernethy laughed. ‘Why’s that?’
    ‘There just has. A collator’s job is for someone good at office work. That’s not you, you’re only happy in the field.’
    ‘What about you? I’d never have taken you for a historian.’ Abernethy tapped one of the books on the table.
    ‘It’s a penance.’
    ‘What makes you think it’s any different with me? So, what’s the score with Herr Lintz?’
    ‘There’s no score. So far all the darts have missed the board. How many cases are there?’
    ‘Twenty-seven originally, but eight of those are deceased.’
    ‘Any progress?’
    Abernethy shook his head. ‘We got one to court, trial collapsed first day. Can’t prosecute if they’re ga-ga.’
    ‘Well, for your information, here’s where the Lintz case stands. I can’t prove he was and is Josef Linzstek. I can’t disprove his story of his participation in the war, or how he came to Britain.’ Rebus shrugged.
    ‘Same tale I’ve been hearing up and down the