Resurrection Men (2002) (11 page)

“I’ve heard about Cafferty and DI Rebus.”

“What about them, Davie?”

“Just that they . . .” Hynds seemed finally to realize that he was digging himself into a hole. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? You sure about that?”

He stared at her. “Why didn’t you take me with you to see Dominic Mann?”

She scratched at her ear, looking around before focusing on Hynds. “Know what his first question to me was? ‘Where’s your homophobic friend?’ That’s why I didn’t take you. I thought I might get more out of him if you weren’t there.” She paused. “And I did.”

“Fair enough,” Hynds said, his shoulders dropping, hands seeking the shelter of his pockets.

“What are Neilson’s paintings like, do you know?” Siobhan asked, keen to change the subject.

Hynds’s right hand appeared from its pocket, clutching four postcards. They were works by Malcolm Neilson. They had titles like
First Impressions Count Last
and
Seeing How You Already Know.
The titles didn’t go with the paintings: field and sky; a beach with cliff face; moorland; a boat on a loch.

“What do you think?” Hynds asked.

“I don’t know . . . I suppose I’d expected something a bit more . . .”

“Abstract and angry?”

She looked at him. “Exactly.”

“Abstract and angry don’t sell,” Hynds explained. “Not to the people who decide which prints and postcards they’ll foist on the public.”

“How do you mean?”

Hynds took the postcards and waved them at her. “These are where the big money is. Greeting cards, framed prints, wrapping paper . . . Ask Jack Vettriano.”

“I would if I knew who he was.” She was thinking: hadn’t Dominic Mann mentioned him . . . ?

“He’s a painter. The couple dancing on the beach.”

“I’ve seen that one.”

“I’ll bet you have. He probably makes more from card sales and the like than he does from his paintings.”

“You’re joking.”

But Hynds shook his head, pocketing the postcards. “Art’s all about marketing. I was speaking to a journalist about it.”

“One of the ones from the viewing?”

Hynds nodded. “She’s art critic for the
Herald.
”

“And I wasn’t invited?” He looked at her, and she took the point:
just like her and Dominic Mann.
“Okay,” she said, “I asked for that. Go on about marketing.”

“You need to get artists’ names known. Plenty of ways to do that. The artist can cause a sensation of some kind.”

“Like whassername with her unmade bed?”

Hynds nodded. “Or you stir up interest in some new school or trend.”

“The New Scottish Colorists?”

“The timing couldn’t be better. There was a big retrospective last year of the original Colorists — Cadell, Peploe, Hunter and Fergusson.”

“You got all this from your art critic?”

He held up a single digit. “One phone call.”

“Speaking of which . . .” Siobhan dug into her pocket for her mobile, punched in a number and waited till it was answered. Hynds had taken the postcards out again and was flicking through them.

“Is anyone speaking to the competition?” Siobhan asked him.

Hynds nodded. “I think Silvers and Hawes did the interviews. They talked to Hastie, Celine Blacker and Joe Drummond.”

“Does this Hastie have a first name?”

“Not for professional purposes.”

There was no answer from the phone. Siobhan shut it off. “And did anything come of the interviews?”

“They went by the book.”

She looked at him. “Meaning?”

“Meaning they didn’t know what questions to ask.”

“Unlike you, you mean?”

Hynds rested a hand against Siobhan’s car. “I’ve taken a crash course in Scottish art. You know it and I know it.”

“So speak to DCS Templer; maybe she’ll let you do a fresh lot of interviews.” Siobhan noted some reddening on Hynds’s neck. “You already spoke to her?” she guessed.

“Saturday afternoon.”

“What did she say?”

“She said it looked like I thought I knew better than her.”

Siobhan muffled a smile. “You’ll get used to her,” she said.

“She’s a ball-breaker.”

The smile disappeared. “She’s just doing her job.”

Hynds’s lips formed an
O.
“I forgot she’s a friend of yours.”

“She’s my boss, same as she is yours.”

“Way I heard it, she’s grooming you.”

“I don’t
need
grooming . . .” Siobhan paused, sucked in some air. “Who’ve you been talking to? Derek Linford?”

Hynds just shrugged. Problem was, it could have been anyone really: Linford, Silvers, Grant Hood . . . Siobhan punched the number back into her phone.

“DCS Templer’s got to be tough on you,” she said, controlling her voice. “Don’t you see? That’s her job. Would you call her a ball-breaker if she was a bloke?”

“I’d probably call her something worse,” Hynds said.

Siobhan’s call was picked up this time. “It’s Detective Sergeant Clarke here. I have an appointment with Mr. Cafferty . . . just wanted to check we were still okay.” She listened, glanced at her watch. “That’s great, thank you. I’ll be there.” She quit the call and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

“Morris Gerald Cafferty,” Hynds stated.

“Big Ger to those in the know.”

“Prominent local businessman.”

“With sidelines in drugs, protection and God knows what else.”

“You’ve had run-ins with him before?”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything. The run-ins had been between Cafferty and Rebus; at best she’d been a spectator.

“So what time are we seeing him?” Hynds asked.

“ ‘We’?”

“I assume you’ll want me to cast an expert eye over his art collection.”

Which made sense, even though Siobhan was loath to admit it. Hynds’s phone sounded now, and he answered it.

“Hello, Ms. Bessant,” he said, winking at Siobhan. Then he listened for a moment. “Are you sure?” He was staring at Siobhan now. “We’re not far away, actually. Yes, five minutes . . . see you there.” He finished the call.

“What is it?” Siobhan asked.

“One of Marber’s own paintings. Looks like someone’s walked off with it. And guess what: it’s a Vettriano . . .”

They drove to Marber’s gallery, where Cynthia Bessant was waiting for them, still dressed in black from the funeral and with her eyes reddened from crying.

“I drove Jan back here . . .” She nodded towards the back office, where Marber’s secretary was fussing with paperwork. “She said she wanted to get straight back to work. That’s when I noticed.”

“Noticed what?” Siobhan asked.

“Well, there was a painting Eddie liked. He’d kept it at home for a while, then decided to hang it in his office here. That’s where I thought it was, which is why I didn’t say anything when it wasn’t with the rest of his collection at home. But Jan says he decided it might get stolen from the gallery, so he took it home again.”

“Could he have sold it?” Hynds asked.

“I don’t think so, David,” Bessant said. “But Jan is checking . . .”

Hynds’s neck was reddening, knowing Siobhan’s eyes were on him, amused by Bessant’s use of his first name.

“What sort of painting was it?”

“Fairly early Vettriano . . . self-portrait with a nude behind him in the mirror.”

“How large?” Hynds had taken his notebook out.

“Maybe forty inches by thirty . . . Eddie bought it five or so years ago, just before Jack went stratospheric.”

“So what would it be worth now?”

She shrugged. “Maybe thirty . . . forty thousand. You think whoever killed Eddie stole it?”

“What do you think?” Siobhan asked.

“Well, Eddie had Peploes and Bellanys, a minor Klee and a couple of exquisite Picasso prints . . .” She seemed at a loss.

“So this painting wasn’t the most valuable in the collection?”

Bessant shook her head.

“And you’re sure it’s missing?”

“It’s not here, and it wasn’t in the house . . .” She looked at them. “I don’t see where else it could be.”

“Didn’t Mr. Marber have a place in Tuscany?” Siobhan asked.

“He only spent a month a year out there,” Bessant argued.

Siobhan was thoughtful. “We need to circulate this information. Would there be a photo of the painting anywhere?”

“In a catalogue probably . . .”

“And do you think you could go to Mr. Marber’s house again, Miss Bessant, just to make doubly sure?”

Cynthia Bessant nodded, then glanced in Hynds’s direction. “Would I need to go on my own?”

“I’m sure David would be happy to accompany you,” Siobhan told her, watching as the blood started creeping up Hynds’s neck all over again.

8

W
hen Rebus got back to the syndicate room, the team were gathered around Archie Tennant. Tennant was seated, the others standing behind him, peering over his shoulders at the sheaf of papers from which he was reading.

“What’s that?” Rebus said, shrugging his arms out of his jacket.

Tennant broke off his recital. “The file on Richard ‘Dickie’ Diamond. Your amigos at Lothian and Borders just faxed it over.”

“That’s strangely efficient of them.” Rebus watched from the window as a car drove down the access road. It could have been Strathern, heading home. Driver in front, passenger in the back.

“A bit of a lad, your Dickie,” Francis Gray said.

“He wasn’t my Dickie,” Rebus responded.

“You knew him, though? Pulled him in a few times?”

Rebus nodded. No use denying it. He sat down at the opposite side of the table from the others.

“I thought you said you’d hardly heard of him, John?” Gray said, eyes twinkling. Tennant turned another sheet.

“I hadn’t finished that,” Tam Barclay said.

“That’s because you’ve the reading age of a Muppet,” Gray complained as Tennant handed the sheet to Barclay.

“I think I said I barely knew him,” Rebus stated, answering Gray’s question.

“You arrested him twice.”

“I’ve arrested a lot of people, Francis. They don’t all become bosom buddies. He stabbed some guy in a nightclub, then poured petrol into someone else’s letter-box. Except the latter never made it as far as court.”

“You’re not telling us anything we don’t know,” Jazz McCullough commented.

“Maybe that’s because you’re so fucking brainy, Jazz.”

McCullough looked up. They
all
looked up.

“What’s wrong, John? Is it your time of the month or something?” This from Stu Sutherland.

“Maybe Andrea’s not falling for John’s charms after all,” Francis Gray offered.

Rebus looked at the eyes watching him, then released a pent-up breath, following it with a smile of contrition. “Sorry, lads, sorry. I was out of order.”

“Which is why you’re here in the first place,” Tennant reminded him. He prodded the file with a finger. “This guy never turned up again?”

Rebus shrugged.

“And did a runner just before the Glasgow CID could come calling?”

Rebus shrugged again.

“Did a runner
or
got himself disappeared,” Allan Ward said.

“You still here, Allan?” Gray said. Rebus studied both men. There didn’t seem to be much love lost. He wondered if Allan Ward was ripe to rat out his fellow conspirators. He doubted it. On the other hand, of the three supposed miscreants, he was definitely the wettest behind the ears . . .

“Allan’s right,” Tam Barclay said. “Diamond could have got himself killed. But whichever it was, it looks likely that he knew something . . . or was scared someone would think he did.”

Rebus had to concede, Barclay had taken his brainy pills this morning. Tennant was prodding the file again.

“This is just deadwood. It doesn’t tell us anything about what’s happened to Diamond in the years since.”

“We could circulate his description, see if he’s turned up on another force’s turf.” The suggestion came from Jazz McCullough.

“Good thinking,” Tennant conceded.

“The one thing this file
does
tell us, though,” Francis Gray said, “is who Dickie Diamond hung around with. Someone like him goes walkies, there’s always someone who knows. Back then, they may not have wanted to say anything, but time’s passed . . .”

“You want to talk to his accomplices?” Tennant said.

“Can’t do any harm. Years go by, stories start to get told . . .”

“We could ask Lothian and Borders to —”

Stu Sutherland’s suggestion was cut short by Gray. “I believe our friends in the east are a bit tied up.” He glanced towards Rebus. “Isn’t that right, John?”

Rebus nodded. “The Marber inquiry’s on the go.”

“Pretty high-profile, too,” Gray added. “Which turned out not to be John’s cup of tea.”

There were smiles at this. Gray had come around the table so that he could lock eyes with Tennant.

“So what do you reckon, sir? Is it worth a day or two in Auld Reekie? It has to be your call in the end, not ours.” He opened his arms and gave a shrug.

“Maybe a couple of half days,” Tennant agreed at last. “Now what else have we got to go on . . . ?”

As it turned out, they did have something else by the end of that day’s play. But first, there were classes to attend. The canteen was noisy at lunchtime, everyone relieved that the top brass had come and gone. Tennant seemed strangely subdued, and Rebus wondered if secretly he’d wanted them to come to watch his “show.” It had crossed Rebus’s mind that Tennant had to be in on it. Much easier to smooth Rebus’s way into the course as a latecomer if the chief constables had someone on the inside. Then there was that niggling doubt about the “coincidence” that their unsolved case just happened to be one Rebus had worked . . .

One Francis Gray had worked, too.

Gray as a mole, sent in by Strathern. . . ? Rebus couldn’t get thoughts of the double bluff out of his head. The lasagna on his plate had flattened itself out, a swirl of yellow and red, rimmed with orange grease. The more he stared at it, the more the colors seemed to blur.

“Lost your appetite?” Allan Ward asked.

“You want it?” Rebus replied. But Ward shook his head.

“Frankly, it looks like afterbirth.”

As the description took effect, Allan Ward smirked from behind a forkful of ham.

Straight after lunch, some of the probationers took to one of the football pitches. Others took a stroll around the grounds. But up in Crime Management, the Wild Bunch were being taught how to put together a Manual of Murder Investigation, the MMI being, in the words of their tutor, “the bible of a good, tight inquiry.” It had to detail avenues taken and procedures followed. It showed that the investigating team had done their utmost.

To Rebus, it was paperwork.

And it was followed by Forensic Entomology, at the end of which they streamed out of the classroom.

“Gives me butterflies just thinking of it,” Tam Barclay said, referring to some of the slides they’d been shown. Then he winked and smiled. Down in the break-out area, they sprawled on the sofas, rubbing their foreheads, eyes squeezed shut. Rebus and Ward headed down a farther flight and outside for a ciggie.

“Does your head in, that stuff,” Ward said, nodding thanks as Rebus produced a lighter.

“Certainly makes you think,” Rebus agreed. They’d been shown close-ups of putrefying corpses and the bugs and insects found on them. They’d been told how maggots could help pinpoint time of death. They’d been shown floaters and bloaters and human forms reduced to something more akin to melted raspberry ripple.

Rebus thought of his uneaten lasagna and took another drag on his cigarette.

“Thing is, Allan, we let a lot of shite get in the way. We get cynical and maybe even a bit lazy. All we can see are brass breathing down our necks and another load of paperwork to be completed. We forget what the job’s supposed to be about.” Rebus looked at the younger man. “What do you think?”

“It’s a job, John. I joined because no other profession would have me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

Ward thought about it, then flicked ash into the air. “Ach, maybe not. It feels that way sometimes, though.”

Rebus nodded. “You seem to have Francis on your back a lot of the time.”

When Ward looked up sharply, Rebus wondered if he’d introduced the subject too rapidly. But Ward just gave a wry smile.

“That stuff’s like water off a duck’s back.”

“You two know one another?”

“Not really.”

“It’s just that I’m not sure Francis would try it with everyone . . .”

Ward wagged a finger. “You’re not so daft, are you? We did work one case. I mean, we weren’t close or anything.”

“Understood. But you’re not complete strangers, so he feels he can rag you a bit, right?”

“Right.”

Rebus took another draw on the cigarette, then exhaled. He was staring into the distance, as though maybe there was something of interest to him in the football match. “What was the case?” he asked, finally.

“Some Glasgow drug dealer . . . gangster sort of thing.”

“Glasgow?”

“This guy had tentacles everywhere.”

“Even as far south as your patch?”

“Oh, aye. Stranraer, you know — gateway to and from Ireland. Guns, drugs and cash bouncing backwards and forwards like a Ping-Pong ball.”

“What was the guy’s name? Would I know him?”

“Not now you wouldn’t. He’s dead.” Rebus watched for some sign from Ward — a pause, or a hooding of the eyes. But there was nothing. “Name was Bernie Johns.”

Rebus made a show of running the name through his memory. “Died in jail?” he offered.

Ward nodded. “Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving bloke.”

“We’ve got one just like him in Edinburgh.”

“Cafferty?” Ward guessed. “Yeah, I’ve heard of that bastard. Didn’t you help put him away?”

“Problem was, they didn’t keep him there.” Rebus squashed the remains of his cigarette underfoot. “So you don’t mind the ribbing Francis is giving you?”

“Don’t you worry about me, John,” Ward said, patting him on the shoulder. “Francis Gray will know when he’s crossed the line . . . I’ll make sure of that.” He made to turn away, but stopped. Rebus felt a tingling in his shoulder from where he’d been touched. “You going to show us a good time in Edinburgh, John?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Ward nodded. There was still some steel in his eyes. Rebus doubted it was ever completely absent. He knew it wouldn’t do to underestimate Ward. But he still wondered if he could somehow turn him into an ally . . .

“You coming?”

“I’ll catch you up,” Rebus said. He thought about another cigarette but dismissed the idea. There were roars from the football pitch, arms raised high on the sideline. One of the players seemed to be rolling around on the ground.

“They’re coming to Edinburgh,” Rebus said quietly to himself. Then he shook his head slowly.
He
was supposed to be the one keeping tabs on the Wild Bunch, and now they’d be trespassing on
his
patch instead. They’d be sniffing around, asking questions about Dickie Diamond. Rebus blew the idea away with a wave of his hand, then got his mobile out and put in a call to Siobhan, who wasn’t answering.

“Typical,” he muttered. So instead he called Jean. She was shopping at Napier’s the Herbalist, which made him smile. Jean trusted in homeopathy, and had a bathroom cabinet full of herbal medicines. She’d even made him use some when he’d felt flu coming on, and they’d seemed to work. But every time he looked in her cabinet, he felt he could use half the jars for cooking up a curry or a stew.

“Laugh all you like,” she’d told him more than once. “Then tell me which of us is the healthier.”

Now Jean wanted to know when she’d see him. He told her he wasn’t sure. He didn’t mention that his work would be bringing him back into the city sooner than expected, didn’t want that sense of expectation. If they made some arrangement, chances were he’d have to cancel at the last minute. Better for her not to know.

“I’m going round to Denise’s tonight anyway,” she informed him.

“Good to see you’re not pining.”

“You’re the one who’s done a runner, not me.”

“Part of the job, Jean.”

“Sure it is.” He heard her sigh. “How was your weekend anyway?”

“Quiet. I tidied the flat, did some washing . . .”

“Drank yourself into a stupor?”

“That accusation wouldn’t stand up in court.”

“How tough would it be to find witnesses?”

“No comment, Your Honor. How did the wedding go?”

“I wish you’d been there. Will I see you next time you’re in town?”

“Of course.”

“And will that be anytime soon?”

“Hard to say, Jean . . .”

“Well . . . take care of yourself.”

“Don’t I always?” he said, ending the call with a “bye” before she could answer the question.

Back inside, there was excitement in the break-out area. Archie Tennant stood with arms folded, chin tucked into his chest, as though deep in thought. Tam Barclay was waving his arms around as if trying to attract attention to the point he was making. Stu Sutherland and Jazz McCullough were wanting their own say. Allan Ward looked to have walked into the middle of it, and wanted an explanation, while Francis Gray was an oasis of calm, seated on one of the sofas, one leg crossed over the other, a black polished shoe moving from side to side like a baton controlling the performers.

Rebus didn’t say anything. He just squeezed past Ward and took a seat next to Gray. A ray of low sunshine was coming in through the windows, throwing an exaggerated silhouette of the group onto the far wall. Rebus wasn’t reminded of an orchestra anymore, but of some puppet show.

With only one man pulling the strings.

Still Rebus said nothing. He noticed the mobile phone nestled in Gray’s expansive crotch, took out his own phone again and decided that it was heavier and older. Probably obsolete. He’d taken an earlier model to a shop because of a fault, only to be told it would be cheaper to replace than fix.

Gray was studying Rebus’s phone, too. “I got a call,” he said.

Rebus looked up at the tumult. “Must’ve been a good one.”

Gray nodded slowly. “I had a few favors outstanding, so I put the word around Glasgow that we were looking at Rico Lomax.”

“And?”

“And I got a call . . .”

“Whoah, whoah,” Archie Tennant suddenly called out, unfolding his arms and raising them. “Let’s all slow down here, okay?”

The noise ceased. Tennant took in each man with his gaze, then lowered his arms. “Okay, so we’ve got new information . . .” He broke off, fixing his stare on Gray. “Your informant’s one hundred percent?”

Gray shrugged. “He’s reliable.”

“What new information?” Ward asked. Sutherland and Barclay started answering, until Tennant told them to shut up.