Resurrection Men (2002) (30 page)

“You can have vodka instead if you prefer,” he called.

“Whiskey’s fine.”

Rebus smiled and closed the freezer door.

“Did you ever listen to that Arab Strap tape I made you?” Siobhan asked as he returned to the living room.

“It was good,” he said. “Drunk guy from Falkirk, right? Lyrics all about getting his end away?” He poured, handed her the glass. Offered water, but she shook her head.

They both sat down on the sofa, sipped their drinks. “There’s a saying, isn’t there?” Rebus asked. “Something about drinking and friendship?”

“Misery loves company?” Siobhan guessed mischievously.

“That’s it,” Rebus said with a smile, raising his glass. “Here’s to misery!”

“To misery,” Siobhan echoed. “Where would we be without it?”

He looked at her. “You mean it’s part and parcel of human life?”

“No,” she said. “I mean you and me would be out of a job . . .”

21

A
s soon as he woke up, Rebus called Jean. He’d actually made it as far as his bed last night, but when he walked through to the living room the hi-fi was still playing. Wishbone Ash’s
There’s the Rub
— he must have pressed the
REPEAT
button by mistake. The whiskey glasses were on the dining table. Siobhan had left a good half inch untouched. Rebus thought about finishing it, but dribbled it back into the bottle instead. Then he reached for the telephone.

Jean was still asleep. He imagined her: tousled hair, sun streaming in through her cream burlap curtains. Sometimes when she woke up there were fine white accumulations at the corners of her mouth.

“I said I’d call,” he told her.

“I was hoping it might be at a civilized hour.” But she was good-humored about it. “I take it you didn’t manage to pick up any unsuitable women on your way home?”

“And what sort of woman do you think would be unsuitable for me?” he asked, smiling. He’d already decided that she needn’t know about the break-in . . . or about Siobhan’s little visit.

They chatted for five minutes, then Rebus placed another call — this time to a joiner he knew, a man who owed him a favor — after which he made himself coffee and a bowl of cereal. There wasn’t quite enough milk for both, so he watered the carton down from the cold tap. By the time he’d eaten, showered and got dressed, the joiner had arrived.

“Pull the door shut after you, Tony,” Rebus told him, making his way out onto the landing. As he walked downstairs, he wondered again who might have been behind the break-in. Diamond was the obvious candidate. Maybe he’d wanted to wait for Rebus but had got fed up. As Rebus drove to St. Leonard’s, he replayed the scene on Bruntsfield Links. He was furious that Diamond had pulled a gun on him. Loaded or not, it didn’t matter. He tried to recall how he’d felt. Not scared exactly . . . in fact, fairly calm. When someone aimed a gun at you, it was pointless to worry — either you were going to get shot or you weren’t. He remembered that his whole body had tingled, almost vibrating with an electric energy. Dickie Diamond . . . the Diamond Dog . . . thinking he could get away with something like
that . . .

He parked the car and decided to skip his usual cigarette. Instead, he went to the comms room and gave the word that he wanted patrols to be on the lookout for a certain motor vehicle. He gave the description and license plate.

“Nobody’s to go near it: all I want is the whereabouts.”

The uniform had nodded, then started speaking into the mike. Rebus was hoping Diamond would have heeded his warning to clear out of town. All the same, he needed to be sure.

It was another half hour before the rest of the Wild Bunch arrived. They’d come in the one car. Rebus could tell which three had been squeezed into the backseat — Ward, Sutherland and Barclay. They were doing stretching exercises as they walked into the room.

Gray and Jazz: driver and front-seat passenger. Once again, Rebus wondered about Allan Ward, about how he felt being so often the odd man out. He was yawning, his back clicking as he raised and lowered his shoulders.

“So what did you lot get up to last night?” Rebus asked, trying to make it sound like a casual inquiry.

“A few drinks,” Stu Sutherland said. “And early to bed.”

Rebus looked around. “What?” he asked in apparent disbelief. “All of you?”

“Jazz nipped home to see his missus,” Tam Barclay admitted.

“See
to
her more like,” Sutherland added with a leering grin.

“We should hit a nightclub some evening,” Barclay said. “Kirkcaldy maybe . . . see if we can get a lumber.”

“You make that sound so appetizing,” Allan Ward muttered.

“So the rest of you were in the bar at Tulliallan?” Rebus persisted.

“Pretty much,” Barclay said. “We weren’t pining for you.”

“Why the interest, John?” Gray asked.

“If you’re afraid of being left out,” Sutherland added, “you should move back there with us.”

Rebus knew he daren’t push it any further. He’d got back to his flat around midnight. If the intruder had come from Tulliallan, they’d have had to leave the college around half past ten, eleven o’clock at the latest. That would have given them time to drive into Edinburgh, search the flat and get out again before he arrived home. How had they known he would be out? Something else to think about . . . Dickie Diamond had known he was headed for a rendezvous, reinforcing his position as most likely culprit. Rebus half hoped one of the patrols would call in a sighting. If Diamond was still in Edinburgh, Rebus had a few things to put to him . . .

“So what’s the schedule today?” Jazz McCullough asked, closing the newspaper he’d been reading.

“Leith, I suppose,” Gray informed him. “See if we can track down any more of Diamond’s pals.” He looked at Rebus. “What do you think, John?”

Rebus nodded. “Anyone mind if I stay here for a bit? I’ve a couple of jobs to do.”

“Fine with me,” Gray said. “Anything we can help you with?”

Rebus shook his head. “Shouldn’t take too long, Francis. Thanks all the same.”

“Well, whatever happens,” Ward said, “if we don’t come up with something, Tennant’s going to have us back at Tulliallan pronto.”

They nodded agreement. It would happen . . . today or tomorrow, it would happen, and the Rico case would become paperwork again, and brainstorming sessions, and making a card index, and all the rest. No more side trips, no chances for breaks at the pub or the odd meal out.

The Rico case would have died.

Gray was staring at Rebus, but Rebus kept his eyes on the wall. He knew what Gray was thinking: he was thinking that John Rebus would like that state of affairs just fine . . .

“I’m only doing this because you asked so nicely.”

“What’s that, Mr. Cafferty?” Siobhan asked.

“Letting you bring me here.” Cafferty looked around IR2. “To be honest, I’ve had prison cells bigger than this.” He folded his arms. “So how can I help you, Detective Sergeant Clarke?”

“It’s the Edward Marber case. Your name seems to be cropping up at all sorts of tangents . . .”

“I think I’ve told you everything I can about Eddie.”

“Is that the same as telling us everything you
know?
”

Cafferty’s eyes narrowed appraisingly. “Now you’re just playing games.”

“I don’t think so.”

Cafferty had shifted his attention to Davie Hynds, who was standing with his back against the wall opposite the desk.

“You all right there, son?” He seemed pleased when Hynds failed to respond. “How do you like working under a woman, DC Hynds? Does she give you a rough ride?”

“You see, Mr. Cafferty,” Siobhan went on, ignoring everything he’d said, “we’ve charged Donny Dow — your driver — with the murder of Laura Stafford.”

“He’s not
my
driver.”

“He’s on
your
payroll,” Siobhan countered.

“Diminished responsibility anyway,” Cafferty stated with conviction. “Poor bugger didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Believe me, he knew
exactly
what he was doing.” When she saw Cafferty’s smile, Siobhan cursed herself for letting him push her buttons. “The woman Dow murdered worked in the Sauna Paradiso. I think if I dig deep enough, I’ll find that you’re its owner.”

“Better buy a big shovel then.”

“You see how already you connect to both the murderer and his victim?”

“He’s not a murderer till he’s convicted,” Cafferty reminded her.

“You speak with a wealth of experience in that area, don’t you?”

Cafferty shrugged. He still had his arms folded, and looked relaxed, almost as if he were enjoying himself.

“Then there’s Edward Marber,” Siobhan pressed on. “You were at the private viewing the night he was killed. You were one of his clients. And ironically,
he
was one of yours. He met Laura Stafford at the Sauna Paradiso. He rented a flat for her and her son . . .”

“Your point being . . . ?”

“My point being that your name keeps cropping up.”

“Yes, you said. I think the phrase you used was ‘at all sorts of tangents.’ That’s what we’re talking about here, DS Clarke: tangents, coincidences. That’s all we’re ever going to be talking about, because I didn’t kill Eddie Marber.”

“Did he cheat you, Mr. Cafferty?”

“There’s no proof he cheated anyone. Way I hear it, it was one man’s word against his.”

“Marber paid that man five thousand pounds to shut up.”

Cafferty grew thoughtful. Siobhan realized she had to be careful how much she gave away to this man. She got the feeling Cafferty coveted information the way other people did jewelry or fast cars. She already had one small result, however: when she’d slipped a mention of the Paradiso into the conversation, Cafferty hadn’t denied ownership.

A knock came at the door. It opened and a head appeared round it. Gill Templer.

“DS Clarke? Can I have a word?”

Siobhan rose from her chair. “DC Hynds, look after Mr. Cafferty, will you?”

Out in the corridor, Templer was waiting, looking around at the officers, who moved with more efficiency once they’d spotted her. “My office,” she told Siobhan.

Siobhan was hitting the mental
REWIND
button, trying to think what she’d done that might have merited a chewing out. But Templer seemed to relax once she was in her own room. She didn’t ask Siobhan to sit, and stayed standing herself, hands behind her, gripping the edge of her desk.

“I think we might try charging Malcolm Neilson,” she announced. “I’ve been talking it through with the Fiscal’s office. You’ve done a thorough job, Siobhan.”

Meaning the dossier Siobhan had compiled on the painter. She could see it on the desk.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Siobhan said.

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

“Maybe I just think there are some loose ends . . .”

“Dozens, probably, but look at what we’ve got. He’d fallen out with Marber, a very public and bitter argument. He’d taken money — either that or extorted it. He was hanging around outside the gallery on the night in question — witnesses have placed him there.” Templer counted off on her fingers: “Means, motive and opportunity.”

Siobhan remembered Neilson himself saying much the same thing.

“At the very least we can get a search warrant,” Templer was saying, “see if it throws up any tidbits. I want you to organize it, Siobhan. That missing painting could be hanging in Neilson’s bedroom for all we know.”

“I don’t think it would be to his taste,” Siobhan commented, knowing it sounded lame.

Templer stared at her. “Why is it that every time
I
try to do you a good turn,
you
try to pull the rug out from under me?”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

Templer studied her, then sighed. “Any luck with Cafferty?”

“At least he didn’t bring a lawyer with him.”

“Might just mean he doesn’t rate the competition.”

Siobhan pursed her lips. “If that’s everything, ma’am . . . ?”

“Well, it isn’t. I want to go through the warrant for Neilson’s arrest. Shouldn’t take us too long. Let Mr. Cafferty sweat for a while . . .”

“I never could work with a woman boss,” Cafferty told Hynds. “Always needed to be my own man, know what I mean?”

Hynds had taken Siobhan’s seat. He was the one sitting with arms folded now, while Cafferty leaned over the desk, palms pressed downwards. Their faces were so close, Hynds could have taken a bet on which toothpaste the gangster used.

“Not a bad job, though, is it?” Cafferty ran on. “Being a copper, I mean. Don’t get as much respect as in the old days . . . maybe not as much fear either. Boil down to the same thing sometimes, don’t they, fear and respect?”

“I thought respect was something you earned,” Hynds commented.

“Same with fear, though, isn’t it?” Cafferty raised a finger to stress the point.

“You’d know better than me.”

“You’re right there, son. I can’t see you putting the frighteners on too many folk. I’m not saying that’s a fault, mind. It’s just by way of an observation. I should think DS Clarke’s a scarier proposition than you when she’s roused.”

Hynds thought back to the few times she’d snapped at him, the way she could suddenly change. He knew he was to blame; he had to think before he opened his trap . . .

“She’s had a pop at you, has she?” Cafferty was asking, almost conspiratorially. He leaned farther still across the desk, inviting some confidence or other.

“You don’t half talk a lot for a man who’s supposed to be under a death threat.”

Cafferty offered a rueful smile. “The cancer, you mean? Well, let me ask you something, Davie: if you had only so long to live, wouldn’t you want to make the most of every moment? In my case . . . maybe you’re right . . . maybe I do talk too much.”

“I didn’t mean . . .”

Hynds’s apology was cut short when the door burst open. He stood up, thinking it would be Siobhan.

It wasn’t.

“Well now,” John Rebus said, “isn’t this a surprise?” He looked at Hynds. “Where’s DS Clarke?”

Hynds frowned. “Isn’t she out there?” He thought for a moment. “DCS Templer wanted her. Maybe they’re in her office.”

Rebus put his face close to Hynds’s. “What’re you looking so guilty about?” he asked.

“I’m not.”

Rebus nodded towards Cafferty. “He’s the serpent in the tree, DC Hynds. Whatever he says, it isn’t worth hearing. Got that?”

Hynds gave a vague nod.

“Got that?”
Rebus repeated, baring his teeth. The nod this time was vigorous. Rebus patted Hynds’s shoulder, then took the seat he’d just vacated. “Morning, Cafferty.”

“Long time, no see.”

“You just keep popping up, don’t you?” Rebus said. “Like a greasy spot on some adolescent’s arse.”

“Would that make you the adolescent or the arse?” Cafferty asked. He was leaning back in his chair, spine straight, arms by his sides. Hynds noticed that the two men’s postures were almost identical.