Chapter 7 Chapter One

Seaside getaways: trailer parks, long walks, and sand castles.He sat on a deck chair and tried to read for a while.Although the sun is very good, the wind is still a bit cool.Lorna puts on sunscreen for Sammy and says don't be careless.She told him to keep an eye on Sammy, she was going back to their trailer to get a book to read.Sammy was trying to bury Dad's feet in the sand. He tried to read, but all he could think about was work.Every day of the holiday, he would sneak out, find a phone booth, and call back to the police station to check on the progress.Colleagues told him to take a good vacation and not think about anything else.He's halfway through his spy novel and has completely lost interest.

Rona really tried her best.She had wanted to go abroad, to find a charming place, warm and sunny.But the family's financial situation forced her to compromise.So they ended up on the Fife seafront, where he first met her.Is he expecting something?Rekindle some memories?He came here with his parents when he was a kid, played with Mike, met some other kids, and lost contact after the two-week vacation. He tried reading spy novels again, but his thoughts were once again occupied by the case.Then, a shadow fell over him. "What about her?" "What?" He looked down.His feet were buried in the sand, but Sammy wasn't there.How long has she been away?He stood up and scanned the beach.A few people who tried to go into the sea timidly did not enter the water more than knee depth.

"My God, John, where's she?" He turned around and saw the sand dunes not far away. "Those dunes..." They warned her.The sand dunes have been eroded by sea water, and there are many hollows in them.Those little dunes are a huge draw for little ones, but these dunes are extremely prone to collapse.Earlier, a ten-year-old boy was buried below.His parents were going crazy when he was dug up.He hasn't been completely suffocated by the sand yet... They ran.There is no shadow of her anywhere in the dunes and grasslands. "Sammy!" "Perhaps she ran off into the sea."

"You should have watched her!" "Sorry, I……" "Sammy!" A small shadow appeared in a sand hole, jumping up and down on its hands and knees.Rona ran over, pulled her out, and hugged her tightly. "Baby, we told you not to come here!" "I'm a little rabbit." Rebus looked at the crumbling top of the sand cave, where the sand had been hollowed out by the roots of plants and grasses.He punched it up and the top collapsed completely.Lorna looked at him.the holiday is over. John Rebus kissed his daughter. "See you later," he said, and watched her walk out of the coffee shop.An espresso, a caramel cookie—that's all she had time to eat—but they made a time to have dinner together.Nothing special, just pizza.

It was October 30th.If there is no abnormal weather, it will be winter in mid-November.Rebus had learned in school that a year was divided into four different seasons, and had painted them in bright and dark colors, but his home country didn't seem to know this.Winter is always endless and boring.The warmer seasons love to surprise, with T-shirts thrown on as soon as the first buds emerge, as if spring and summer have merged into one season.And before the leaves have completely turned brown, the first frost has arrived. Sammy waved to him through the glass window of the coffee shop and turned to leave.She seems to have grown up healthily.He had been carefully sniffing her out for evidence of emotional instability, the aftereffects of childhood trauma, or a family run of self-destructive tendencies.Maybe he should call Lorna one day and thank her for raising his daughter by herself.It's not an easy job - people say so.He also knew it would be nice if he could contribute to that success, but he wasn't so self-aware.In fact, he was completely absent from her upbringing.The same is true for his marriage: even if he shares a room with his wife, even if they go to the movies together, even if they sit around the same dining table... His mind is mostly occupied by other things.There was always a case to be done, a question to be answered, and there was no rest for him.

Rebus picked up the coat hanging from the back of the chair.He has nothing else to do but go back to the office.Sammy was back in her office, where she worked with ex-prisoners or ex-parole offenders.She declined his offer to give her a ride.Now that it was out, she wanted to talk to him about her boyfriend, Ned Farlow.Rebus tried his best to show interest in this topic, but in fact most of his thoughts were entangled in Joseph Linz—in other words, it was still the same old problem.When they received Linz's material, they said he was very suitable to handle the case.On the one hand he has a background in the military, on the other hand he also seems to have an interest in historical cases and it was Rebus's boss, "Farmer" Watson, who was referring to the earlier "Bible John" case case.

"With all due respect, sir," Rebus said at the time, "assigning me to this case doesn't sound like a good idea. There are two reasons why I should be dumped on this mess: First, no pig would want to take a case like that." ;Secondly, it will distract me for a while." Farmer was unwilling to be easily provoked by Rebus: "Your task is to review the current materials in detail to see what can be used as evidence. If you think it is necessary, you can also talk to Mr. Linz. Take All measures you deem necessary, if you can gather enough information to prosecute..."

"Impossible. You know it can't be done." Rebus sighed. "Sir, we've talked about this before. That's why the War Crimes Unit was disbanded. Remember the one two years ago?" Case—that guy caused a lot of trouble." He shook his head, "Who wants to see the light of day but the paper itself?" "I formally transfer you from Mr. Testy's case to Bill Pride." So the matter is irreversible: Linz will be in charge of Rebus. Linz's story first appeared in a Sunday newspaper.Information obtained by the newspaper was provided by the Tel Aviv-based Holocaust Investigation Office.They revealed to the newspaper that there was a man named Joseph Linz who had lived in seclusion in Scotland under a pseudonym since the end of the war. His real name was Joseph Linzturk, a French Alsatian.In June 1944, Lieutenant Linzturk led the third company of a certain regiment of the 2nd SS Armored Division into the town of Franche in Arbalide, in the French province of Corish.Sanlian gathered all the men, women and children of the town together. The sick were carried out on bed boards, the elderly were pushed out in armchairs, and babies were carried out from their cribs.

There was a teenage girl who had taken refuge here from Lorraine, and she had witnessed German atrocities firsthand.She hid in the attic of the house where she lived and saw the outside through a small window on the roof.The whole town was driven to the square in the town.The girl saw her classmates find their families there.She happened to miss school that day because she had a strep throat.She wondered if anyone had told the Germans about it... There was an uproar in the square as the mayor and other important figures of the town—including the priest, lawyer, and doctor—attempted to protest the officers in charge.They were knocked to the ground by the butts of their guns, while the others were intimidated by machine guns.Someone brought a rope and hung it on the six trees beside the square.Those people were dragged to the edge of the tree, and their heads were forced into the noose.The officer gave an order, raised his hands and lowered them, and the soldiers pulled down the ropes until all six people were hoisted high, their bodies writhing in pain, their legs struggling in vain, and then they gradually stopped moving.

In the impression of that girl, those people struggled for a long time before they died.The whole square fell into a terrified silence, and the people in the town finally realized that it was not as simple as checking ID cards this time.The officers barked orders, and the men were taken away from the women and children and sent to Pudome's barn, and the others to the church.The square suddenly became empty, and there were only a dozen or so German soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders, chatting nonchalantly, kicking stones, telling jokes, and smoking cigarettes at the same time.A soldier came into the bar and turned on the radio, and jazz was in the air.The breeze pushed the dead bodies on the branches, bringing the rustling sound of leaves, singing together with the music.

"It's strange," the girl said afterwards, "then they didn't look like corpses anymore, they seemed to have turned into something else, a part of a tree." Then, there was a loud explosion, and smoke and dust gushed out of the church.There was a moment of silence, as if an explosion had created a vacuum between heaven and earth.Then people screamed, followed by machine gun fire.When everything in front of her stopped, she could still hear the shouts and gunshots.Because the church is not the only place that is killing people. And the barn at Pudome not far away. When people from neighboring villages finally found her, she was completely naked except for a shawl she found in a box that belonged to her grandmother who had passed away last year.She wasn't the only one who survived the massacre that day.The soldiers aimed their guns low as they fired on Pudome's barn.When the men standing in the first row fell, they mainly injured their lower limbs, and the men who fell later pressed on top of them, blocking the bullets.Afterwards, soldiers spread straw over the pile of corpses and set fire to it.The survivors endured as much as they could, crawling out from among the bodies until the last moment, all the while guarding against incoming bullets.In the end, only four people managed to escape, two of whom had their hair and clothes on fire, and one who died of his injuries shortly afterward. Three men, a little girl: the only survivors of Franche. The death toll has not been determined.It is no longer possible to count how many people happened to visit relatives and friends in Franche that day, and how many people took refuge in the town at that time.A list of more than seven hundred people has been compiled so far, all estimated to have been killed that day. Rebus sat at his desk, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.The little girl of that year is still alive and has retired.All three male survivors are deceased, but they all lived to participate in the 1953 Bordeaux trials.Rebus had a summary of their evidence, but it was all in French.He has a lot of French material on his desk, but he doesn't understand French.So he has gone to the university's modern languages ​​department to find someone who speaks French to help.This person's name was Kirsten Mead, and she was a teacher of French and German, and she was just able to help, because the few parts of the materials that were not in French were written in German.He had in his hand a page from the English-language summary of the trial from "Nazi Hunter."The Bordeaux trials began in February 1953 and lasted less than a month.Although a total of seventy-five people were accused of taking part in the Franche massacre, only fifteen appeared in court.Among them were six Germans and nine French Alsaces.There were no officers among the fifteen.One German was sentenced to death, and others were sentenced to prison terms ranging from four to twelve years, but they were all released as soon as the trial was concluded.Alsace was very resistant to this trial. In order to promote the unity of the country, the French government granted amnesty to Alsace war criminals.The German war criminals were declared to have served their sentences. Survivors in Franche were shocked by the news. What is even more incomprehensible to Rebus is that the British had already arrested several German military officers involved in the massacre in Franche, but refused to extradite them to France, but sent them back to Germany, where they were raised. Every day, a long life ends.If Linzturk had been arrested then, he wouldn't have caused so much trouble now. politics.It's all about politics after all.Rebus looked up to see Kirsten Meade standing in front of him.She was tall, agile, and well-dressed, with the kind of heavy makeup you'd only see in TV commercials.She was wearing a plaid two-piece suit with a skirt that just touched her knees; long gold drop earrings dangled from her ears.She had opened her briefcase and taken out a pile of paper. "Closest translation," she said. "Thank you." Rebus looked down and flipped through his own notes. "Need a trip to Koris?" Well, Farmer says he'll do whatever he asks.He looked at Kirsten Mead and wondered if there would be enough money for the case to allow him to take a guide with him.She was sitting opposite him, with half-moon glasses on the bridge of her nose. "Would you like some coffee?" he asked. "I'm in a bit of a rush today. Just wanted to ask you to look at this." She spread two pages on the desk facing him, one of which was a copy of a typewritten German report, the other One page is her translation.Rebus looked at the German. "After the retaliatory action began," he read, "morale improved significantly, and everyone's mental state was greatly relaxed." "This should be Linzturk's report to his commander," she explained. "But without his signature?" "Only typed names, with underlines." "That's not enough to identify Linzturk." "Indeed, but don't you remember what we said earlier? With this evidence we can raid him." "Let the lads smash and rob?" She stared straight at him. "I'm sorry," he held up a hand in apology, "I used the wrong word. You're right, and it's pretty much clear that the lieutenant is trying to justify what happened." "For future generations?" "Maybe. After all, they were just beginning to lose." He looked at the other files again. "What else?" "There are other reports, nothing particularly interesting. There are also some eyewitness testimony," she looked up at him with light gray eyes, "you will be affected by these things after a long time of exposure, yes Bar?" Rebus looked her in the eyes and nodded. The female survivor of the massacre in the town of Franche now lives in the city of Juillac in the department of Corish. Recently, the local police questioned her again about the German commander who participated in the massacre.Her testimony was the same as at the trial: she saw his face for only a few seconds, and she looked down from the attic of a three-story building.They showed her a recent photo of Joseph Linz, and she just shrugged. "Maybe," she said, "maybe." Rebus knew in his heart that such an argument would be dismissed by the D.A., because he knew very well that any defense attorney who had no brains knew how to attack such testimony. "How's the case going?" asked Kirsten Mead.She probably read something from his expression. "Progress is slow. The problem is with this pile of stuff." He waved his hand wildly at the desk full of papers. Old man, but the two can't get together." "Have you seen him?" "Once or twice." "What does he look like?" What was Joseph Linz like?He was a gentle man, a respected linguist.In the early 1970s, he worked as a professor in a university, but only for a year or two.His own explanation is: "At that time, I was only in this position temporarily. Once the school finds a person who is more suitable for the teaching position than me, of course I will let him go." The course he teaches is German.He claimed to have settled in Scotland around 1945-1946--when it comes to specific dates, he is always vague, saying that he has a bad memory.His early life experiences are also unclear.He claimed that the relevant supporting documents had been destroyed by the war, and the Allies had prepared copies of the entire set of documents for him.However, there is no basis for the words, and it is entirely possible that those documents only recorded some lies fabricated by Linz and accepted by the Allies-born in Alsace, all parents died, and he was forced to join the SS.Rebus admired the words "Join the SS". This kind of half-hearted admission just made the officials think that he confessed to the fact that he joined the SS, and he should have told the truth about other details. .In fact, there is no written record to prove that Linz served in any regiment of the SS, but when the decline of the Axis powers became apparent, the SS also destroyed a large number of its own documents.Linz's memories of the war are vague.He claimed to suffer from shell shock to explain the gaps in his memory.But he has always vehemently denied ever using the name Linzturk, or ever performing any missions in the French region of Corish. "I was stationed in the East," he said. "That's where the Allies got me, East." The problem is that there has never been a convincing explanation for how Linz came to Britain.He claimed to have asked to go to England to start a new life.He didn't want to go back to Alsace, and he hoped to be as far away from Germany as possible, preferably with the sea in between.Yet this remains completely undocumented.Meanwhile, the Holocaust Investigators found their own "evidence" that Linz had been involved with the Rat Line. "Have you ever heard of the 'rat line'?" Rebus asked straight to the point when they first met. "Of course," Linz replied at the time, "but I have nothing to do with it." Linz sat in his studio.The house, in the Heriott Road, was an elegant little Georgian house of four storeys.It was a bit too big for an old man who lived alone all his life.Rebus truthfully stated his thoughts—where did he get so much money?But Linz just shrugged his shoulders, as if forgiving Rebus for his reckless remarks. "I've been working diligently, Inspector." Maybe.But Linz bought the house in the late 1950s, when he was still living on a university lecturer's salary.His colleagues at the time told Rebus that everyone in the department suspected that Linz had other ways to make money.Linz categorically denies this. "It wasn't so expensive to buy a house in those days, Inspector. It was very fashionable to buy country estates or bungalows in those days." Joseph Linz, under five feet tall, wears spectacles; his parchment-crumpled hands are speckled with tawny, and on one wrist he wears a pre-war Ingersoll watch.There are bookcases with glass doors on all sides of the studio.The man in the charcoal suit has an air of elegance, almost feminine: the way he raises a glass to his lips, or the way he brushes dust off his trousers. "I don't blame the Jews," he said. "They would implicate everyone if they could. They want the whole world to feel guilty about them. Maybe they're right." "What do you say, sir?" "Who doesn't have secrets? Those things we are ashamed of." A smile appeared on Linz's face, "You have fallen into their rules of the game, and you still don't know it." Rebus put on pressure: "These two names are very close, aren't they? Linz, Linz Turk." "Indeed, if it weren't for that, they would have no reason at all to accuse me. Think about it, Inspector, if I were to change my name, wouldn't it be more radical? Do you think I'm a man of limited intelligence?" “Far more than limited.” Framed diplomas and honorary degrees hang on the wall with photos of university presidents and politicians.Farmer reminded Rebus to be "extremely cautious" after getting acquainted with Joseph Linz.Linz is an art lover and loves opera museums and galleries; in addition, his investment in philanthropy should not be underestimated.This is a man with a wide range of friends, but at the same time reclusive.His favorite thing to do is sweep the graveyards at Walliston Cemetery.There are two large dark circles under his thin cheeks.Did he sleep well at night? "Like a lamb, Inspector." Another smile, "The kind that was sacrificed. Actually, I don't blame you, it's just your duty." "You seem to be very tolerant, Mr. Lintz, forgiving anyone." Linz shrugged cautiously. "You know Blake's line, Inspector? 'In eternity we forgive each other.' But I can't possibly forgive the press." There was a certain malice in that last line, and the muscles of his face followed the words. And twitched. "Is that why you have lawyers against them?" "The word 'arrangement' is said as if I were a hunter, Inspector. We're talking about a newspaper with an expensive legal team on call. How can I stand against them by myself?" "Then why bother?" Linz clenched his fists and hammered hard on the armrests on both sides of the chair. "This is a matter of principle, sir!" Such emotional outbursts are rare on Linz, and they are fleeting, but the few times Rebus has seen them are enough to convince him that Linz is not without temper ... "Hey!" Kirsten Mead stuck his head in the direction where his gaze was fixed. "What's wrong?" She laughed: "You're out of your mind." "It's still in the sky." He replied. Pointing to the papers on the table, she said, "I'll leave these with you, okay? If you have any questions..." "Okay, thank you very much." Rebus stood up. "It's okay, I know the way out." But Rebus insisted. "I'm sorry, I have a little, alas..." He circled his head with his hands. "Didn't I say that it will be affected after a long time." Rebus felt a pair of eyes watching them as they passed through the CIS offices.Bill Pride got to his feet, adjusted his clothes, eager to get acquainted with the lady.With his fair curly hair, thick golden eyelashes, a large nose with freckles on the bridge, and a small mouth with a ginger mustache—his fashion was a bit superfluous. "It's an honor," he said, taking Kirsten Mead's hand, and turning to Rebus. "I would have traded jobs with you if I had known." Pride was working on Mr. Testy's case: the ice cream seller died in his van, the engine was still running, the compartment was locked, and it was initially judged to be a suicide. Rebus walked past Pride, guarding Kirsten Meade, without stopping.He wants to ask her out.He knew she wasn't married, but guessed she might have a boyfriend.Rebus wondered: What would she like to eat?French or Italian?She speaks both languages.Or do something neutral: Indian or Chinese.Maybe she's vegetarian, maybe she doesn't like eating out.How about a drink?But Rebus didn't drink now. "……what do you think?" Rebus was taken aback.Kirsten Mead asked him a question. "What did you say?" She laughed, realizing he wasn't listening at all.He apologized to her, and she shook her head indifferently. "I know," she said, "you have a little..." She circled her head with her hands.He smiles.They stopped in unison and stood facing each other, her briefcase under her arm.This was the time to ask her out, any kind of date—it was her choice. "What noise?" she said suddenly.She was referring to the scream just now, which Rebus had also heard.The cry came from behind the door closest to them, the door to the ladies' room.Another scream followed, followed by a few words they could make out. "Is anyone there? Save someone!" Rebus pushed open the door and rushed in.A female police officer was trying to push the door of a compartment with her shoulders, and there was a breathless voice behind the door. "What's going on?" he asked. "It was brought in twenty minutes ago, and she said she needed to go to the toilet." The policewoman's face flushed red with anger and embarrassment. Rebus pulled the upper edge of the door to prop himself up, and looked into the compartment.Inside was a woman, very young, with heavy makeup on her face.She sat on the toilet with her back against the water tank, staring at him, but her eyes were loose.Her hands were busy pulling the toilet paper out of the roll and stuffing it into her mouth desperately. "She's choking." Rebus said as he slid down, "Get out of the way." He slammed his shoulder on the door, but failed twice in a row. He took a step back and kicked the lock with the heel of his shoe.The door swung open, hitting the seated woman's knee.He pushed open the door and broke in.The woman's face turned purple. "Grab her hand," he told the policewoman.Then he started shoveling toilet paper out of her mouth, a steady stream that felt like a cheap magic show.Rebus pulled out almost half a roll of toilet paper.When he turned his head and met the policewoman's eyes, both of them laughed almost involuntarily.The woman was no longer struggling, her wispy brunette hair looked greasy, she was wearing a black ski jacket and tight black skirt, there were patches of pink on her bare legs, the knee where the door hit A bruise.The bright red lipstick on her lips had been wiped off by Rebus' fingers.It seems that she has been crying for a long time, and she hasn't stopped until now.Rebus felt quite guilty for his own laughter just now, leaned over and squatted in front of her, looking directly at the eyes hidden under the thick eye makeup.She blinked and looked at him, the last piece of toilet paper was finally taken out of her mouth, and she couldn't help coughing. "She's a foreigner," the policewoman explained, "and doesn't seem to speak English." "Then why did she tell you she was going to the bathroom?" "There's always a way to explain it, isn't there?" "Where did you find her?" "Festival Theater District, as debauched as the rest." "I didn't expect that." "me too." "Is anyone with her?" "I didn't see anyone else." Rebus took the woman's hands.He was still squatting in front of her, feeling her knee brush against his chest. "Are you okay?" She just blinked.He put on a polite and caring look: "Are you better?" She nodded slightly: "Okay." Her voice was hoarse.Rebus touched her fingers, cold.He was thinking: Junkie?Plenty of prostitutes took drugs, but he had never met one who couldn't even speak English.He turned her hand over and saw several recent cuts on the wrist.He rolled up one of her sleeves and she didn't resist.His arms were covered with similar scars. "Slit wrists many times." The woman began to speak, in broken murmurs.Kirsten Mead had been standing not far away watching, when she came closer.Rebus looked at her. "I don't understand either... I don't understand much. It seems to be an Eastern European language." "Try a few words with her." So Meade asked a question in French, and three or four other languages.The woman seemed to know what they were doing too. "There might be someone at the university who can help," Mead said. Rebus prepared to stand up.The woman suddenly grabbed his knee and pulled him so hard that he nearly fell.She held on to him tightly, put her face on his lap, and mumbled something while crying. "I think she likes you, sir," said the policewoman.They pulled her hands away hard, and Rebus took a few steps back, but she threw herself forward immediately, as if begging for something, her voice raised.At this time, six or seven police officers had gathered in the corridor to watch them.As soon as Rebus moved, she followed with hands and feet.Rebus looked behind him, all escape routes were blocked.Cheap magic shows have turned into corny comedy shows.The policewoman grabbed the woman, pulled her to her feet, and twisted one of her arms behind her back. "Come on," she said through gritted teeth, "back to your room. Show's over, boys." There was sparse applause from the audience as the prisoner was led away.She turned to Rebus, pleading eyes.What to beg, Rebus didn't know.He turned to Kirsten Mead. "Anyone interested in having curry when?" She looked at him like he was crazy. "Two things: one, she's a Bosnian Muslim. Two, she wants to see you." Rebus stared at the man in front of him who was invited by Kirsten Mead from the university's Slavic department.They were speaking in the corridors of St Leonards Police Station. "Bosnia?" Dr. Corhorn nodded.He was short and almost bulbous; the long black hair combed back on the sides of his head did not cover the bald top.His fat face was pockmarked, and he wore an old brown suit that was stained.He wore Hush Puppies sheepskin shoes, the same color as his suit.Rebus couldn't help thinking that this is what a so-called special researcher should look like.Corhoun was terribly nervous, trembling, and had yet to look Rebus directly. "I'm not an expert on Bosnia," he continued, "but she said she was from Sarajevo." "Did she say how she came to Edinburgh?" "I didn't ask." "Would you mind asking her now?" Rebus motioned back down the corridor.The two walked side by side, Corhoun keeping his eyes on the floor. "Sarajevo was devastated by the war," he said. "Oh, yes, she was twenty-two, she told me." She looks older than that.Maybe she was really twenty-two, maybe she was lying.But when the door of the conference room opened and Rebus saw her again, he was surprised to find that her face was not formed at all, so he mentally lowered her age by a few years.When she saw him enter the room, she stood up suddenly, as if she was about to rush towards him.Immediately he raised a hand in a forbidden gesture, pointing to the chair.She sat down again, holding a cup of black tea with sugar in both hands, staring at him intently. "She's your admirer," said the policewoman.This is the policeman who was in the bathroom at the time, his name was Ellen Sharp.She sat on another chair in the room.The space in the conference room is not very large, a table and two chairs can fill it up.There are two VCRs and a dual card recorder on the table.A camera hangs on one side of the wall, looking down into the house.Rebus motioned for Sharp to give Colhoun his chair. "Did she say her name?" he asked the scholar. "She said her name was Candice," Corhoun replied. "you do not believe?" "That's not very professional, Inspector." Candace said something. "She said you were her protector." "What am I going to protect her from?" Corhoun and Candice spoke a few more words, in odd and vague tones. "She said at first you protected her from hurting yourself. She said now you have to keep going." "Continue to protect her?" "She says she's yours now." Rebus looked at the scholar, whose eyes were fixed on Candace's arm.She had taken off her ski jacket, revealing the ribbed short-sleeved shirt underneath, and her breasts could be seen underneath.Her bare arms were folded, but the scratches and cuts were too obvious to hide. "Ask her if she did these injuries herself." Kerhoun stuttered and translated. "I'm better at literature and film...well, this one's not so..." "what did she say?" "She said she did it herself." Rebus looked at her, seeking confirmation, and she nodded slowly, slightly ashamed. "Who made her stand on the street?" "You mean..." "Who's in charge of her? Who's her manager?" The two chatted briefly again. "She said she didn't understand you." "She doesn't admit she's a whore?" "She said she didn't understand you." Rebus turned to policewoman Sharp: "How?" "I saw a few cars pull up and she leaned over the window to talk to the driver and they drove away. Doesn't that seem to be the case?" "How can she 'talk' to the driver if she can't even speak English?" "There is always a way." Rebus looked at Candace, and said to her in a very soft tone, "Just do it, fifteen, twenty for oral sex, and five dollars for unprotected sex." He paused, "How much is anal sex, Candy S?" Her cheeks flushed red all of a sudden.Rebus smiled. "Not exactly a college education, Dr. Corhoun, but someone taught her a few words of English, just enough for her to work. Ask her how she got here." Corhoun wiped his face before asking a question.Candice answered with her head bowed. "She said she left Sarajevo as a refugee, went first to Amsterdam and then to England. The first thing she remembered was being in a place with many bridges." "Many bridges?" "She's been there for a while." Corhoun, looking impressed by the story, handed her a handkerchief to wipe her eyes.She smiled back at him, then looked at Rebus again. "Hamburger fries, okay?" "Are you hungry?" Rebus touched his stomach.She nodded and laughed.他对夏普说：“你去看看食堂里还有什么可吃的，好吗？” 女警严厉地瞪了他一眼，不愿意离开。“科尔洪博士，您要点什么吗？” He shook his head.雷布思又要了一杯咖啡。夏普离开后，雷布思俯下身靠到桌边，看着坎迪斯。 “问问她怎么来爱丁堡的。” 科尔洪依言问了，她回答了长长的一大段话。科尔洪在一张折起来的纸上记了一些笔记。 “她说，那个有很多桥的城市，她并没有真正见到，因为一直被关在屋子里。有时会有人开车送她去赴约……您必须原谅我，警督，我虽然算是个语言学者，但实在谈不上是研究俚语的专家。” “您做得很好，先生。” “好吧，总之她当时是被人当成妓女在使唤，这一点我能够确定。后来有一天，他们把她塞进车后座，她以为是要去宾馆或是办公室。” “办公室？” “根据她的描述，我认为她的部分……唉，工作……是在办公室里进行的。私人公寓或住宅也有，但大部分是在宾馆里。” “她被关在哪里？” “在一栋房子里。她自己有一间卧室，但门一直是锁上的。”科尔洪捏了捏鼻梁，“有一天，他们把她塞进车里，她就这样来到了爱丁堡。” “车开了多久？” “她不确定，在路上她睡着了一阵子。” “告诉她，会没事的。”雷布思顿了一下，又说，“再问问她现在为谁工作。” 坎迪斯的脸上重新浮现出恐惧。她结结巴巴，说不出话，一个劲地摇头，声音比刚才更含糊了。科尔洪一脸没办法翻译下去的为难表情。 “她不能告诉您。”他说。 “告诉她，她已经安全了。”科尔洪说了。“再说一次。”雷布思说。他表情沉稳，这是一张能够让她信赖的面孔。她向他伸出手。他握住，轻轻地捏了一下。 “再问一次，她在为谁工作。” “她不能告诉您，警督，他们会杀了她的。她听过这样的故事。” 雷布思决定试一下那个他脑海中浮起的名字，那个掌管着这城市里一半姑娘的男人。 “卡弗蒂，”他吐出这个名字，留意着她的反应。no response. “长枪。长枪卡弗蒂。”她仍然面无表情。雷布思又轻捏了一下她的手。还有一个名字……一个最近常常听到的名字。 “泰尔福特，”他说，“汤米·泰尔福特。” 坎迪斯猛然把手抽了回去，歇斯底里地哭闹起来。女警夏普刚好在此刻推门而入。 雷布思把科尔洪博士送到警署外。当初正是这段路将他带向目前这个境地的。 “非常感谢您，先生。如果我再有需要麻烦您时，您不介意我打电话给您吧？” “如果您非打不可，您自然会打。”科尔洪不情愿地说。 “没办法，周围懂得斯拉夫语的人实在有限。”雷布思说，他手里拿着科尔洪的名片，背面写着他家的号码。他伸出另一只手：“再次感谢您。”他们握手的时候，雷布思又想起了一些事情。 “约瑟夫·林兹在贵校任德语系教授时，您在学校里吗？” 科尔洪似乎颇为吃惊，愣了一下才说：“是的。” “您认识他吗？” “我们任职的部门关系并不是很紧密，我只在几次社交性质的场合中见过他，有时候一起参加讲座。” “您觉得这个人怎么样？” 科尔洪眨眨眼，但仍然没有直视雷布思。“有人说他以前是纳粹。” “没错，但是在当时……” “我刚才已经说了，我们关系并不紧密。您在调查他？” “只是好奇而已，先生。多谢您费心了。” 回到警署里，雷布思看见埃伦夏普站在审讯室门外。 “我们要怎么处理她？”她问。 “把她留在这里。” “您是说要拘留她？” 雷布思摇摇头：“当做保护性看守好了。” “她自己知道吗？” “她还能跟谁投诉？整个爱丁堡就只有一个家伙听得懂她在说什么，那家伙刚刚被我打发回家了。” “如果那个管理她的男人来接她走怎么办？” “你觉得会吗？” 她想了一下。“估计不会。” “不会的，对他来说，只需要等我们把她放出来就行了，我们总不能永远关着她。与此同时，她又不会说英语，也不能给我们提供什么线索。再说，她显然是非法入境的，如果她开口，我们十有八九会把她驱逐出境。泰尔福特是个聪明人……我之前还没发现，但他确实聪明。用非法入境的外国人当妓女，有一套。” “我们要关她多久？” Rebus shrugged. “那我跟我的老板怎么说？” “让他们有问题就来找雷布思警督。”他说着，淮备推门。 “我觉得很了不起，长官。” “什么东西了不起？”他停下动作。 “您对妓女收费的了解。” “工作而已。”他说，脸上浮起微笑。 “最后一个问题，长官？” “请说，夏普。” “为什么要这么做？有什么原因吗？” 雷布思考虑了一下，抽抽鼻子，最后说了一句：“这是个好问题。”然后推开门走了进去。 那一刹那，他明白了原因。她长得很像萨米。把脸上的化妆品和眼泪都擦干淨，穿上像样的衣服，简直就是萨米的模样。 而且她此刻非常害怕。 他或许可以帮助她。 “我怎么称呼你，坎迪斯？你的本名叫什么？” 她抓住他的手，把脸颊贴了上去。他指了指自己。 “约翰。”他说。 “园。” “约翰。” “余禾。” “约翰。”他微笑，她也笑了。“约翰。” “约翰。” He nods. “没错。你呢？”他转而指着她，“你叫什么名字？” 她停顿了一下，说：“坎迪斯。”眼睛里有一点亮光暗了下去。