Resurrection Men (2002) (14 page)

“Where?”

“Jazz’s.”

Gray looked at McCullough, who looked back at him. “Cat’s out the bag,” Gray said with a smile. Then, turning to Rebus: “We go back a ways, me and Jazz. I mean, it falls a long way short of a ménage à trois, but I’ve been to the house a couple of times.”

“Managed to keep that quiet,” Sutherland said. Rebus was glad others were joining in.

“Aye, what’s the score here?” Barclay asked.

“There’s no ‘score,’ ” McCullough said determinedly. Which caused Allan Ward to burst out laughing.

“Going to share it, Allan?” Rebus asked. He was wondering if Ward had laughed precisely because there
had
been a score . . . At the same time, he wondered whether it really mattered one way or the other. A few grand . . . even a few hundred grand . . . pocketed with no comebacks, no harm done. What did it matter in the wider scheme? Maybe it mattered if it was drugs. Drugs meant misery. But Strathern had been vague about just what the “rip-off” had entailed.

Shit!
Rebus had told Strathern he wanted the details of the Bernie Johns inquiry — tonight if possible. And here he was thirty-odd miles from Tulliallan, finishing a glass of malt and readying for a refill . . .

Ward was shaking his head. Gray was explaining that he’d been to McCullough’s house years back, and not since. Rebus hoped Sutherland or Barclay would run with it, keep up the questions, but they didn’t.

“Anything on the box?” Ward asked.

“We’re listening to the music,” Jazz chided him. He’d swapped the Led Zeppelin for a Jackie Leven CD: the very album Rebus would have chosen.

“Call that music?” Ward snorted. “Hey, John, got any videos? A bit of the old porn maybe?”

Rebus shook his head. “Not allowed in Knoxland,” he said, gaining a weak smile from Gray.

“How long you been here, John?” Sutherland asked.

“Twenty years plus.”

“Nice flat. Must be worth a few bob.”

“Over a hundred grand, I’d guess,” Gray said. Ward had lit a cigarette for himself and was now offering to Barclay and Rebus.

“Probably,” Rebus told Gray.

“You were married, weren’t you, John?” McCullough asked. He was studying the inner sleeve of Bad Company’s first album.

“For a time,” Rebus admitted. Was Jazz merely curious, or was there some agenda here?

“While since this place had a woman’s touch,” Gray added, looking around.

“Kids?” McCullough asked, putting the album back exactly where he’d found it, just in case Rebus had a system.

“I’ve got a daughter. She’s down in England. You’ve two sons, right?”

McCullough nodded. “Twenty and fourteen. . .” Thinking of them, his face broke into a smile.

I don’t want to put this man away,
Rebus thought. Ward was a prick, and Gray as sly as they came, but Jazz McCullough was different. Jazz McCullough he liked. It wasn’t just the marriage and kids, or the taste in music: Jazz had an inner calm, a sense that he knew what his role was in the world. Rebus, who had spent much of his life confused and questioning, was envious.

“And are they wild like their dad?” Barclay was asking.

McCullough didn’t bother answering. Stu Sutherland pulled himself forward on the sofa. “You’ll forgive me for saying so, Jazz, but you don’t seem the type to get himself in trouble with the High Hiedyins.” He looked around the room for confirmation.

“It’s the quiet ones you have to watch, though,” Francis Gray said. “Wouldn’t you agree, John?”

“The thing is, Stu,” Jazz answered, “someone gives me an order I don’t agree with, I just nod and say, ‘Yes, sir,’ then go on with my own way of doing things. Most of the time, they don’t even notice.”

Gray nodded. “Like I say, that’s the way to get away with it: keep smiling and kowtowing, but go your own way nevertheless. Kick up a big stink and they’ll fillet you like the day’s catch.” Gray’s eyes were on Allan Ward as he spoke. Not that Ward noticed. He was stifling a belch and reaching for a second can. Rebus got up to refill Gray’s glass.

“Sorry, Jazz,” he said, “you never got that coffee.”

“Black, one sugar, please, John.”

Gray frowned. “Since when did you stop taking milk?”

“Since the moment I realized there’s probably no milk in the house.”

Gray laughed. “We’ll make a detective of you yet, McCullough, mark my words.”

Rebus went to fetch the coffee.

They finally left just after one, Rebus calling a cab to take them back to Jazz’s car. He watched from the window as Barclay tripped over the curb and nearly head-butted the taxi’s passenger-side window. His living room smelled of beer and cigarettes: no mystery there. The last thing they’d listened to on the hi-fi was
Saint Dominic’s Preview.
The TV was playing silently — a sop to Allan Ward. Rebus turned it off, but put the Van Morrison album back on, turning the volume down until it was just audible. He wondered if it was too late to phone Jean.

He
knew
it was too late, but wondered if he should do it anyway. He had the phone in his hand, stared at it for a while. When it started ringing, he nearly dropped it. It would be one of those silly buggers, calling from Jazz’s car. Maybe they’d forgotten something . . . His eyes strayed to the sofa as he held the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Who’s speaking?”

“You are,” Rebus said.

“What?”

“Never mind: it’s an old Tommy Cooper line. What can I do for you, Siobhan?”

“I just thought maybe someone had broken in.”

“Broken in where?”

“When I saw your lights on.”

Rebus went to the window and looked out. Her car was double-parked, engine still running.

“Is this some new kind of Neighborhood Watch?”

“I was just passing.”

“You want to come up?” Rebus took in the night’s detritus. Jazz had offered to help clear up . . .

“If you like.”

“On you come then.”

When he opened the door to her, she sniffed the air. “Mmm, testosterone,” she said. “Did you do that all by yourself?”

“Not quite. Some of the lads from the college . . .”

She wafted her hand in front of her as she entered the living room. “Maybe if you opened a window . . . ?”

“Late-night tips on housekeeping . . . ,” Rebus muttered, but he opened the window a couple of inches anyway. “What the hell are you doing out at this hour?”

“Just driving around.”

“Arden Street’s a bit off anyone’s route.”

“I was on the Meadows . . . thought I’d take a look.”

“The lads wanted me to show them the sights.”

“And were they duly impressed?”

“I think the city fell a bit short.”

“That’s Edinburgh for you.” She settled on the sofa. “Ooh, still warm,” she said, wriggling her bottom. “I feel like Goldilocks.”

“Sorry I can’t offer any porridge.”

“I’ll settle for coffee.”

“Black?”

“Something tells me I better say yes.”

When he came back through with the mugs, she’d swapped the Van Morrison for Mogwai.

“That’s the album you gave me,” he said.

“I know. I was wondering what you thought.”

“I like the lyrics. How’s the Marber case?”

“I had a very interesting talk this afternoon with your friend Cafferty.”

“People keep calling him my ‘friend.’ ”

“And he’s not?”

“Take away the
r
and you’re getting close.”

“He was giving his lieutenant a bollocking when we arrived.”

Rebus, who’d just got comfortable in his chair, leaned forward. “The Weasel?” She nodded. “What for?”

“Couldn’t tell. I get the feeling Cafferty’s that way inclined with all his staff. His secretary was so jumpy, her nickname’s probably Skippy.” Siobhan squirmed. “This coffee’s awful.”

“Did you learn anything from Cafferty?”

“He likes Hastie’s paintings.” When Rebus looked blank, she kept going. “According to gallery records, he hadn’t bought anything from Edward Marber for a while. He was there that night, arrived late and stayed till the end. He may even have helped Marber get a taxi . . .”

“One of Cafferty’s own?”

“I’m going to check in the morning.”

“That could be interesting.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “What about you? How’s Tulliallan treating you?”

“Like a prince. All mod cons and no stress.”

“So what have they got you doing?”

“Looking into an old case. An unsolved. We’re supposed to be learning the old-fashioned virtues of teamwork.”

“And are you?”

He shrugged. “We’re probably going to be in Edinburgh the next day or two, looking for leads.”

“Anything I can help with?”

Rebus shook his head. “Sounds to me like you’ve got your hands full as it is.”

“Where will you be working from?”

“I thought we might find a spare office at St. Leonard’s . . .”

Siobhan’s eyes widened. “You think Gill’s going to go for that?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” he lied. “But I can’t see a problem . . . can you?”

“Do the words ‘tea,’ ‘mug’ and ‘lob’ mean anything to you?”

“Tea mug lob? Is that a Cocteau Twins track?” He won a smile from her. “So you really were just driving around?”

She nodded. “It’s something I do when I can’t sleep. Why are you shaking your head?”

“It’s just that I do the same thing. Or I used to. I’m that bit older and lazier these days.”

“Maybe there are dozens of us out there, only we don’t know about each other.”

“Maybe,” he conceded.

“Or maybe it’s just you and me.” She rested her head against the back of the sofa. “So tell me about the others on this course.”

“What’s to tell?”

“What are they like?”

“What would you expect them to be like?”

She shrugged. “Mad, bad and dangerous to know?” she suggested.

“Bad for relationships, certainly,” he confessed.

She caught his meaning immediately. “Uh-oh. What happened?”

So he told her.

11

W
hen Siobhan arrived at work on Tuesday morning, clutching a bag of paperwork and a cup of coffee, someone was seated at her desk, staring at her computer screen. The someone was Derek Linford. There was a new message scrolling across the screen itself:
I SEE LOVER BOY’S BACK
.

“I’m assuming this isn’t your work?” Linford asked.

Siobhan put the bag down. “No,” she said.

“Do you think they mean me?”

She prized the lid from her coffee and took a sip.

“Who’s doing it, do you know?” Linford asked. She shook her head. “You’re not surprised, so I’m guessing this isn’t the first time . . .”

“Correct. Now if you wouldn’t mind getting out of my chair.”

Linford stood up. “Sorry,” he said.

“That’s all right.” She sat down and hit the mouse so that the screen saver disappeared.

“Did you switch the monitor off before you left last night?” Linford was standing too close to her for comfort.

“Saves energy,” she told him.

“So someone powered the system back up.”

“Looks like.”

“And knew your password.”

“Everyone knows everyone else’s password,” she said. “Not enough computers to go round; we have to share.”

“And by everyone, you mean . . . ?”

She looked at him. “Let’s just drop it, Derek.” The office was filling up. DCI Bill Pryde was making sure the “bible” — the MMI —was up to date. Phyllida Hawes was halfway down a list of phone calls. The previous afternoon she’d rolled her eyes at Siobhan, indicating that cold-calling wasn’t the most thrilling part of an inquiry. Grant Hood had been called to DCS Templer’s office, probably so they could talk media liaison — Hood’s specialty.

Linford took half a step back. “So what’s your schedule for the day?”

Keeping you at arm’s length,
she wanted to say. “Taxicabs” was the actual word that came out. “You?”

Linford rested his hands against the side of her desk. “The deceased’s financial affairs. A bloody minefield they are, too . . .” He was studying her face. “You look tired.”

“Thanks.”

“Out carousing last night?”

“Party animal, that’s me.”

“Really? I don’t tend to go out much these days . . .” He waited for her to say something, but she was concentrating on blowing on her coffee, even though it was little more than lukewarm.

“Yes,” Linford plowed on, “Mr. Marber’s financial wheeler-dealings will take some unpicking. Half a dozen bank accounts . . . investment portfolio . . . VCTs . . .”

“Property?”

“Just the house in Edinburgh, and his villa in Tuscany.”

“All right for some.”

“Mmm, a week in Tuscany would just about do me right now . . .”

“I’d settle for a week at home on the sofa.”

“You set your standards too low, Siobhan.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He didn’t catch her tone. “One slight anomaly in the bank statements . . .”

It was a tease, but she reacted anyway. “Yes?” she prompted. Phyllida Hawes was putting down the receiver, ticking off another name, starting to scribble some notes to herself.

“Tucked away in one of his accounts,” Linford was saying. “Quarterly payments to a lettings agency.”

“A lettings agency?” She watched Linford nod. “Which one?”

Linford frowned. “Does it matter?”

“It might. So happens I was at MGC Lettings yesterday, talking to the owner: Big Ger Cafferty.”

“Cafferty? Wasn’t he one of Marber’s clients?”

Siobhan nodded. “Which is why I’m curious.”

“Yes, me too. I mean, why would someone with as much money as Marber need to rent a place anyway?”

“And the answer is . . . ?”

“I haven’t quite got there yet. Give me a second . . .” He retreated to his desk — Rebus’s old desk — and started shifting sheets of paper. Siobhan had some digging of her own to do, and DCI Pryde would have the answers.

“What can I do for you, Siobhan?” he asked as she approached him.

“The taxi that took the victim home, sir,” she said. “Which company was it?”

Pryde didn’t even need to look it up: that was what she liked about him. She wondered if he did his homework every night, memorizing facts and figures. The man was a walking MMI.

“Driver’s name is Sammy Wallace. He has a few priors: housebreaking, fencing. Years back, mind. We’ve checked him out. He looks clean.”

“But which company does he work for?”

“MG Private Hire.”

“Owned by Big Ger Cafferty?”

Pryde stared at her, unblinking. He had a clipboard held to his chest, fingers drumming against it. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“All right if I check?”

“Go right ahead. You talked to Cafferty yesterday . . .”

She nodded. “And now Linford’s come up with a lettings agency that was getting regular payments from Mr. Marber.”

Pryde’s mouth opened in an
O.
“So go do your checking,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

She trawled the office, noticing that Linford was still sifting through paperwork. Grant Hood came up to her, holding a photocopied page from Marber’s guest book.

“What do you reckon that says?” he asked.

She examined the signature. “Could be Marlowe.”

“Only there was no one called Marlowe on the guest list.” He exhaled noisily.

“Templer’s got you trying to sort out who was there that night?” Siobhan guessed.

Hood nodded. “Most of the work’s been done, but there are some names we can’t put faces to, and vice versa. Come and take a look . . .”

He led her to his computer and opened up a file. A floor plan of the gallery appeared on the screen, with little crosses representing the guests. Another click of the mouse, and the perspective changed. The crosses had become figures, moving in spasms around the room.

“It’s the latest software,” he told her.

“Very impressive, Grant. You worked over the weekend on this?”

He nodded, proud of his achievement, like a kid showing off something he’d made.

“And what exactly does it add to the sum of our knowledge?”

He looked up at her, realizing she was mocking him. “Sod off, Siobhan,” he said. She just smiled.

“Is one of these stick men meant to be Cafferty?”

Another click and a list of witness descriptions appeared. “That’s Cafferty,” Hood said. Siobhan read down the column: stocky, silver-haired, black leather jacket more suited to a man half his age.

“That’s him,” she agreed, patting Hood’s shoulder and moving off in search of a phone book. Davie Hynds had just come in, Pryde checking his watch and frowning. Hynds walked sheepishly into the room, catching Siobhan as she stood by George Silvers’s desk, a tattered copy of Yellow Pages in her hands.

“I got stuck in traffic,” he explained. “They’re digging up George IV Bridge.”

“I must remember that one for tomorrow.”

He saw that the directory was open at taxi companies. “Doing a bit of moonlighting?”

“MG Private Hire,” she said. “The driver who took Marber home after the show.”

Hynds nodded, looked over her shoulder as her finger ran down the page.

“MG Cabs,” she said, tapping the name. “Address in Lochend.”

“Owned by Cafferty?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He’s got that one cab firm out in Gorgie. Exclusive Cars or something . . .” Her finger ran back up the page. “There they are.” Again her finger tapped the name. “What do you think the MG stands for?”

“Maybe the cabs are actually sports cars.”

“Wake up, Davie. Remember his lettings agency? MGC, it’s called. Look at the letters of MG Cabs.”

“MGC again,” Hynds acknowledged.

“I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

“It doesn’t prove the firm’s owned by Cafferty, of course.”

“Maybe the quickest way is to ask Mr. Cafferty himself.” Siobhan walked back over to her desk and picked up the phone.

“Is that Donna?” she said when the call was answered. “Donna, it’s DS Clarke, we met yesterday. Any chance I could have a word with your boss?” She looked up at Hynds, who was eyeing her coffee greedily. “Oh, is he? Could you maybe ask him to give me a call?” Siobhan gave the secretary her number. “Meantime, I don’t suppose you know if Mr. Cafferty happens to own an outfit called MG Cabs?” Siobhan pushed her coffee towards Hynds, nodding when he looked at her. He smiled gratefully and took a couple of sips. “Thanks anyway,” Siobhan was saying, putting down the receiver.

“Don’t tell me he’s fled the country?” Hynds asked.

“She’s not sure where he is. She’s already had to cancel his morning appointments.”

“Should we be interested?”

Siobhan shrugged. “Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. If he doesn’t call back, we’ll go looking.”

Derek Linford was marching towards the desk, a sheet of paper in his hand.

“Morning, Derek,” Hynds said. Linford ignored him.

“Here it is,” he said, handing the sheet to Siobhan. The company was called Superlative Property Management. She showed Hynds the name.

“Can you do anything with those letters?”

He shook his head, and she turned her attention to Linford. “So why was Mr. Marber paying these people two thousand pounds a quarter?”

“I don’t know that as yet,” Linford said. “I’m speaking to them today.”

“I’ll be interested to hear what they say.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know.”

The way he said it, Siobhan felt the color rising to her cheeks. She tried hiding behind her cup of coffee.

“It would be useful to know who actually owns Superlative,” Hynds added.

Linford glared at him. “Thanks for the advice, Detective
Constable
Hynds.”

Hynds shrugged, rose up onto his toes and then down again.

“We need to liaise on this,” Siobhan stated. “It looks like Cafferty might own the cab company which took Marber home. He also owns a lettings agency . . . Might be coincidence, but all the same . . .”

Linford was nodding. “We’ll sit down together before the end of play today, see what we’ve got.”

Siobhan nodded back. It was enough for Linford, who turned away and strode back to his desk.

“I can’t believe how
nice
he is,” Hynds said in an undertone. “I really think he’s fallen head over heels for me.”

Siobhan tried stifling a grin, but it happened anyway. She looked across towards Linford, hoping he wouldn’t see it. He was staring straight at her. Seeing what looked like a radiant smile, he returned it.

Oh, Christ,
Siobhan thought.
How the hell did I get into this?

“Remember those flats we saw yesterday at MGC Lettings?” she asked Hynds. “They averaged four hundred a month, twelve hundred a quarter.”

“Marber’s rent cost a lot more,” Hynds agreed. “Wonder what the hell it is.”

“Not a storage unit, that’s for certain.” She paused. “I’m sure Derek will let us know.”

“He’ll let
you
know,” Hynds said, failing to hide an edge of bitterness . . . maybe even jealousy.

Oh, Christ,
Siobhan thought again.

“How many times do you need to hear this?”

The cabdriver, Sammy Wallace, was in one of the interview rooms at St. Leonard’s. The sleeves of his check shirt were rolled up to show arms covered in tattoos, ranging from faded blue-ink jobs to professional renderings of eagles and thistles. His greasy black hair curled over his ears and hung down past his neck at the back. He was broad-shouldered and sported scar tissue on his face and the backs of his hands.

“How long since you did time, Mr. Wallace?” Hynds asked.

Wallace stood up abruptly. “Whoah! Just stop the horses fucking dead! I’m not having you lot dredge up shite on me just because you can’t find any other bastard to stick in the frame.”

“Eloquently put,” Siobhan said calmly. “Would you care to sit down again, Mr. Wallace?”

Wallace did so, with a show of reluctance. Siobhan was skimming his file, not really reading it.

“How long have you worked at MG Cabs?”

“Three years.”

“So you got the job pretty soon after your release?”

“Well, there was a dearth of vacancies for brain surgeons that week.”

Siobhan squeezed out a smile thinner than a prison cigarette. “Mr. Cafferty’s good that way, isn’t he? Likes to help ex-offenders.”

“Who?”

“I mean, he’s been in jail himself, so it’s natural he would . . .” Siobhan broke off, as though she’d only just digested Wallace’s question. “Your employer,” she said. “Mr. Cafferty. He’s the one gave you the job, right?”

Wallace looked from Siobhan to Hynds and back again. “I don’t know anyone called Cafferty.”

“Morris Gerald Cafferty,” Hynds said. “MG Cabs has his initials.”

“And I’ve got Stevie Wonder’s initials — doesn’t make me a blind piano player.”

Siobhan smiled again, with even less humor than before. “With respect, Mr. Wallace, you played it all wrong. Anyone who’s served time will have heard of Big Ger Cafferty. Pretending not to recognize his name,
that’s
where you got it wrong.”

“Big Ger? Of course I’ve heard of Big Ger . . . not someone called ‘Morris.’ Not even sure I ever knew his surname . . .”

“He never comes to the cab office?”

“Look, as far as I know, MG is run by my boss — Ellen Dempsey. She’s the one gives me my jobs.”

“Your boss is a woman?” Hynds asked. Wallace just looked at him, and Hynds cleared his throat, as if to acknowledge that it had been a stupid question.

Siobhan had her mobile out. “What’s the number?”

“Whose number?” Wallace asked.

“MG’s.” Wallace gave it to her and she pushed the buttons. Her call was answered immediately.

“MG Cabs, how may we help?”

“Is that Ms. Dempsey?” Siobhan asked.

There was a pause, and the voice became less welcoming. “Who is this?”

“Ms. Dempsey, my name is Detective Sergeant Clarke, St. Leonard’s CID. I’m currently interviewing one of your drivers, Samuel Wallace.”

“Christ, not again: how often do you need to hear the story?”