Resurrection Men

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus looked at him. “Cafferty’ll have you killed.”

  “If he can, yes, I don’t doubt it.”

  “You and Aly must be pretty close.”

  “His mum died when he was twelve. Shouldn’t happen to someone that young.” The way he was staring out over the narrow, debris-strewn stretch of water, he might have been a tourist in Venice. A bicycle came towards them along the path, the rider nodding a greeting as they made room for her to pass.

  At twelve, Rebus’s own daughter had been living with her mother, the marriage over.

  “I always did the best I could,” the Weasel was saying. There was no emotion in the voice, but Rebus didn’t think the man was acting any longer.

  “Did you know he was dealing?”

  “Course not. I’d have stopped him otherwise.”

  “Bit hypocritical in the circs?”

  “Fuck you, Rebus.”

  “I mean, least you could have done was give him a job in the firm. Your boss has always got a vacancy for a pusher.”

  “Aly doesn’t know about me and Mr. Cafferty,” the Weasel hissed.

  “No?” Rebus smiled without humor. “Big Ger’s not going to be too happy, is he? Either way you’re shafted.” He nodded to himself. If the Weasel ratted out his boss, he was dead meat. But when Cafferty found out that his most trusted servant’s son had been dealing on his turf . . . well, the Weasel was a marked man either way. “I wouldn’t like to be there,” Rebus went on, lighting a cigarette. He crushed the empty packet and tossed it onto the ground, then toed it into the canal.

  The Weasel looked at it, then crouched down and fished it out, slipping it still wet into a greasy coat pocket. “I always seem to be picking up other people’s shite,” he said.

  Rebus knew what he meant: he meant Sammy in her wheelchair, the hit-and-run driver . . .

  “I don’t owe you anything,” Rebus said quietly.

  “Don’t fret, that’s not the way I work.”

  Rebus stared at him. Whenever he’d met the Weasel in the past he’d seen . . . what exactly? Cafferty’s henchman, a piece of lowlife — someone who served a certain function in the big picture, fixed, unchanging. But now he was being offered glimpses of the father, the human being. Until today, he hadn’t even known the Weasel had a son. Now he knew the man had lost a wife, raised the kid himself through the difficult teenage years. In the distance, a pair of swans were busy preening themselves. There’d always been swans on the canal. Story was, the pollution kept killing them, and the brewery kept replacing them so no one would be any the wiser. They were only ever apparently changeless.

  “Let’s go get a drink,” Rebus said.

  The Diggers wasn’t really called the Diggers. Its given name was the Athletic Arms, but because of its proximity to a cemetery, the name had stuck. The place took pride in its beer, a polished brass advert for the nearby brewery. Initially, the barman had looked on the Weasel’s request as a joke, but when Rebus shrugged he went and filled the order anyway.

  “Pint of Eighty and a Campari soda,” the barman said now, placing the drinks before them. The Campari sported a little paper umbrella and maraschino cherry.

  “Trying to be funny, son?” the Weasel said, fishing both out and depositing them in the ashtray. A second later, the rescued cigarette packet joined them there.

  They found a quiet corner and sat down. Rebus took two long gulps from his glass and licked foam from his top lip. “You’re really going to do it?”

  “It’s family, Rebus. You’d do anything for your family, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Mind you, you put your own brother away, didn’t you?”

  Rebus glanced towards him. “He put himself away.”

  The Weasel just shrugged. “Whatever you say.” They concentrated on their drinks for half a minute, Rebus thinking of his brother Michael, who’d been a small-time dealer. He was clean now, had been for a while . . . The Weasel spoke first. “Aly’s been a bloody fool. Doesn’t mean I won’t stand by him.” He lowered his head, pinched the bridge of his nose. Rebus heard him mutter something that sounded like “Christ.” He remembered the way he’d felt when he’d seen his daughter Sammy in the hospital, hooked up to machines, her body broken like a puppet’s.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  Head still down, the Weasel nodded. The crown of his head was bald, the flesh pink and flaky. Rebus noticed that the man’s fingers were curled, almost like an arthritic’s. He had barely touched his drink, while Rebus was finishing his.

  “I’ll get us another,” he said.

  The Weasel looked up, eyes reddened so that more than ever he resembled the animal which had given him his nickname. “My shout,” he said determinedly.

  “It’s okay,” Rebus assured him.

  But the Weasel was shaking his head. “That’s not the way I work, Rebus.” And he got up, kept his back straight as he walked to the bar. He came back with a pint, handed it over.

  “Cheers,” Rebus said.

  “Good health.” The Weasel sat down again, took another sip of his drink. “What do you suppose they want from me anyway, these friends of yours?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call them friends.”

  “I’m assuming the next step is a meeting between me and them?”

  Rebus nodded. “They’ll want you to feed them everything you can get on Cafferty.”

  “Why? What good will it do them? The man’s got cancer. That’s why they let him out of the Bar-L in the first place.”

  “All Cafferty’s got are some doctored X rays. Build up a case against him, and we can ask for a new set of tests. When they show up negative, he goes back inside again.”

  “And suddenly there’s no crime in Edinburgh? No drugs on the street, no moneylending . . . ?” The Weasel offered a weak smile. “You know better than that.”

  Rebus didn’t say anything, concentrated on his beer instead. He knew the Weasel was right. He licked more foam from his lip and made up his mind. “Look,” he said, “I’ve been thinking . . .” The Weasel looked at him, eyes suddenly interested. “The thing is . . .” Rebus shifted in his seat, as if trying to get comfortable. “I’m not sure you need to do anything right now.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean you shouldn’t agree to anything, not straightaway. Aly needs a lawyer, and that lawyer can start asking questions.”

  The Weasel’s eyes widened. “What sort of questions?”

  “The way the drugs boys found the lorry and searched it . . . it might not have been entirely aboveboard. They’ve kept the whole thing quiet from the likes of Customs and Excise. Could be there’s some technicality somewhere . . .” Rebus held up his hands at the look of hope which had bloomed on the Weasel’s face. “I’m not saying there is, mind.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I can’t say one way or the other.”

  “Understood.” The Weasel rubbed his chin, nails rasping over the bristles. “If I go to a lawyer, how do I stop Big Ger finding out?”

  “It can be kept quiet; I doubt the SDEA will want to make a noise.”

  The Weasel had brought his face a little closer to Rebus’s, as if they were conspirators. “But if they ever got a whiff that you’d said anything . . . ?”

  Rebus leaned back. “And what exactly have I said?”

  A smile spread across the Weasel’s face. “Nothing, Mr. Rebus. Nothing whatsoever.” He reached out a hand. Rebus took it, felt soft pressure as the two men shook. They didn’t say anything, but the eye contact was enough.

  Claverhouse’s words: Just two fathers having a little chat . . .

  Claverhouse and Ormiston dropped him off at Tulliallan. There hadn’t been much conversation on the trip back.

  Rebus: “I don’t think he’s up for it.”

  Claverhouse: “Then his son’s going to jail.”

  It was a point Claverhouse reiterated angrily and often, until Rebus reminded him that he was trying to
convince the wrong man.

  “Maybe I’ll talk to him,” Claverhouse had said. “Me and Ormie, maybe we could be more persuasive.”

  “Maybe you could.”

  When Ormiston pulled on the hand brake, it sounded like a trapdoor opening. Rebus got out and walked across the car park, listening to the cab moving away. When he stepped into the college, he headed straight for the bar. Work had finished for the day.

  “Did I miss anything?” he asked the circle of officers.

  “A lecture on the importance of exercise,” Jazz McCullough replied. “It helps work off feelings of aggression and frustration.”

  “Which is why you’re all doing some circuit training?” Rebus pointed at the group and made a stirring motion, ready to take their drinks orders. Stu Sutherland was, as usual, the first to reply. He was a brawny, red-faced son of a Highlander, with thick black hair and slow, careful movements. Determined to hang in until pension time, he’d long since grown tired of the job — and wasn’t afraid to admit as much.

  “I’ll do my share,” he’d told the group. “Nobody can complain about me not doing my share.” The extent of this “share” had never really been explained, and no one had bothered to ask. It was easier just to ignore Stu, which was probably the way he liked it, too . . .

  “Nice big whiskey,” he said now, handing Rebus his empty glass. Having ascertained the rest of the order, Rebus went up to the bar, where the barman had already starting pouring. The group were sharing some joke when Francis Gray put his head round the door. Rebus was ready to add to the order, but Gray spotted him and shook his head, then pointed back into the hallway before disappearing. Rebus paid for the drinks, handed them out and then walked to the door. Francis Gray was waiting for him.

  “Let’s go walkies,” Gray said, sliding his hands into his pockets. Rebus followed him down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. They ended up in a sub-post office. It was a pretty accurate mock-up of the real thing, with a range of shelves filled with newspapers and magazines, packets and boxes, and the glass-fronted wall of the post office itself. They used it for hostage exercises and arrest procedures.

  “What’s up?” Rebus asked.

  “See this morning, Barclay having a go at me for keeping information back?”

  “Not still eating you, is it?”

  “Credit me with some sense. No, it’s something I’ve found.”

  “Something about Barclay?”

  Gray just looked at him, picked up one of the magazines. It was three months out of date. He tossed it back down.

  “Francis, I’ve a drink waiting for me. I’d like to get back before it evaporates . . .”

  Gray slid a hand from his pocket. It was holding a folded sheet of paper.

  “What’s this?” Rebus asked.

  “You tell me.”

  Rebus took the sheet and unfolded it. It was a short, typewritten report, detailing a visit to Edinburgh by two CID officers from the Rico Lomax inquiry. They’d been sent to track down “a known associate,” Richard Diamond, but had spent a fruitless few days in the capital. By the last sentence of the report, the author’s feelings had got the better of him, and he proffered “grateful thanks to our colleague, DI John Rebus (St. Leonard’s CID), for endeavors on our behalf which can only be described as stinting in the extreme.”

  “Maybe he meant ‘unstinting,’ ” Rebus said blithely, making to hand the sheet back. Gray kept his hands in his pockets.

  “Thought you might want to keep it.”

  “Why?”

  “So no one else finds it and starts to wonder, like me, why you didn’t say anything.”

  “About what?”

  “About being involved in the original inquiry.”

  “What’s to tell? A couple of lazy bastards from Glasgow, all they wanted was to know the good boozers. Headed back after a couple of days and had to write something.” Rebus shrugged.

  “Doesn’t explain why you didn’t bring it up. But maybe it does explain why you were so keen to sift through all the paperwork before the rest of us had a chance.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning maybe you wanted to make sure your name wasn’t there . . .”

  Rebus just shook his head slowly, as if dealing with a stubborn child.

  “Where did you disappear to today?” Gray asked.

  “A wild-goose chase.”

  Gray waited a few seconds, but could see he wasn’t going to get any more. He took the sheet from Rebus and started folding it. “So, do I slip this back into the case notes?”

  “I think you better.”

  “I’m not so sure. This Richard Diamond, he ever turn up again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If he’s back in circulation, he’s someone we should be talking to, isn’t he?”

  “Could be.” Rebus was studying the sheet, watching the way Gray was sliding his fingers along its sharp edges. He reached out his own hand and took it, folded it into his pocket. Gray gave a little smile.

  “You were a late entrant to our little gang, weren’t you, John? The sheet they sent me with all our names on it . . . yours wasn’t there.”

  “My chief wanted rid of me in a hurry.”

  Gray smiled again. “It’s just coincidence then: Tennant coming up with a case that both you and me worked?”

  Rebus shrugged. “How can it be anything else?”

  Gray looked thoughtful. He gave one of the cereal boxes a shake. It was empty, as he’d expected. “Story is, only reason you’re still on the force is that you know where the bodies are buried.”

  “Any bodies in particular?” Rebus asked.

  “Now how would I know a thing like that?”

  It was Rebus’s turn to smile. “Francis,” he said, “I even have the photographs.” And with a wink, he turned back and headed for the bar.

  5

  Cynthia Bessant’s flat made up the entire top floor of a bonded warehouse conversion near Leith Links. One huge room took up most of the space. There was a cathedral ceiling with large skylights. An enormous painting dominated the main wall. It was maybe twenty feet high and six wide, an airbrushed spectrum of colors. Looking around, Siobhan noted that it was the only painting on display. There were no books in the room, no TV or hi-fi. Two of the facing walls comprised sliding windows, giving views down onto Leith docks and west towards the city. Cynthia Bessant was in the kitchen area, pouring herself a glass of wine. Neither officer had accepted the invitation to join her. Davie Hynds sat in the center of a white sofa meant to accommodate a football team. He was making a show of studying his notebook; Siobhan hoped he wasn’t going to sulk. They’d had words on the stairwell, starting when Hynds had mentioned his relief that Marber hadn’t been, in his words, “an arse-bandit.”

  “What the hell difference does it make?” Siobhan had snapped.

  “I just . . . I prefer it, that’s all.”

  “Prefer what?”

  “That he wasn’t an —”

  “Don’t.” Siobhan had raised her hand. “Don’t say it again.”

  “What?”

  “Davie, let’s just drop this.”

  “You’re the one who started it.”

  “And I’m finishing it, okay?”

  “Look, Siobhan, it’s not that I’m —”

  “It’s finished, Davie, okay?”

  “Fine by me,” he’d grunted.

  And now he sat with his nose in his notebook, taking in nothing.

  Cynthia Bessant sauntered over to the sofa and joined him there, proffering a smile. She took a slug from her glass, swallowed and exhaled.

  “Much better,” she said.

  “Hard day?” Siobhan asked, deciding at last to sit down on one of the matching chairs.

  Bessant started counting off on her fingers. “The taxman, the VAT man, three exhibitions to organize, a greedy ex-husband and a nineteen-year-old son who’s suddenly decided he can paint.” She peered over the rim of her glass, not at Si
obhan but at Hynds. “Is that enough to be going on with?”

  “Plenty, I’d have said,” Hynds agreed, his face breaking into a smile as he suddenly realized he was being flirted with. He glanced towards Siobhan to gauge her annoyance.

  “Not forgetting Mr. Marber’s death,” Siobhan said.

  Bessant’s face creased in pain. “God, yes.” The woman’s reactions were slightly exaggerated. Siobhan was wondering if art dealers always put on a performance.

  “You live by yourself?” Hynds was asking Bessant now.

  “When I so choose,” she replied, dredging up a smile.

  “Well, we’re grateful you put aside some time to talk to us.”

  “Not at all.”

  “It’s just that we have a few more questions,” Siobhan said. “To do with Mr. Marber’s private life.”

  “Oh?”

  “Could you tell us how often he resorted to prostitutes, Mrs. Bessant?”

  Siobhan thought she could see the woman flinch. Hynds glared at her. His eyes seemed to say, Don’t use her to get at me. But now Bessant was speaking.

  “Eddie didn’t ‘resort to’ anything.”

  “Well, how would you put it?”

  There were tears in Bessant’s eyes, but she straightened her back, trying for resilience.

  “It was how Eddie chose to order his life. Relationships always got messy, that’s what he said . . .” She seemed about to say more, but stopped herself.

  “So did he cruise Coburg Street, or what?”

  She looked at Siobhan in mild distaste, and Siobhan felt a little of her own hostility ebb away. Hynds’s eyes were still on her, but she refused to meet them.

  “He used a sauna,” Bessant said quietly.

  “Regularly?”

  “As often as he needed. We weren’t quite so close that he felt he had to share every detail.”

  “Did he shop around?”

  Bessant took a deep breath, then sighed. She remembered she was holding a glass of wine and tipped it to her mouth, swallowed.

  “Best way to get through this is to tell us everything, Cynthia,” Hynds said quietly.

  “But Eddie was always so . . . so private in that way . . .”

  “I understand. You’re not breaking any confidences, you know.”