by Ian Rankin
“The one ordering a car for Mr. Marber.”
“I assume he made it himself.”
“There’s no record of it. We’ve checked his calls with the phone company.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“A man’s dead, Ms. Dempsey.”
“Plenty more clients out there, DS Clarke . . .”
“Well, thanks again for your help,” Siobhan said coldly. “Good-bye.” She ended the call, placed the phone on the desk between her hands. Wallace had his own hands spread across it, palms down, fingers as wide apart as they would go.
“Well?” he said.
Siobhan picked up a pen and played with it. “I think that’s everything for now, Mr. Wallace. DC Hynds, maybe you could show Mr. Wallace out . . .”
When Hynds came back, he wanted to know what Ellen Dempsey had said, so Siobhan told him.
He snorted with laughter. “And I thought I was making a joke . . .”
She shook her head slowly. “MGs are fast and sporty, you see.”
“That’s as may be,” Hynds said, “but Mr. Wallace’s car is a K-reg Ford rustbucket. Added to which, when he got outside he was just getting a ticket.”
“Don’t suppose that thrilled him.”
Hynds sat down. “No, I don’t suppose it did.” He watched Siobhan turning the pen over in her hands. “So where do we go now?”
A uniform was standing in the open doorway. “Wherever it is,” he said, “you’ve got about five minutes to move.” He then started dragging a stack of four tubular metal chairs into the already cramped space.
“What’s going on?” Hynds asked.
“I think we’re about to be invaded,” Siobhan told him. Moreover, she suddenly remembered who and why . . .
12
Rebus had driven to Tulliallan that morning only to turn around and drive back again, this time taking Stu Sutherland and Tam Barclay with him. He’d watched the maneuverings concerning who should travel with whom. Gray had offered to take the Lexus, and Allan Ward had immediately volunteered to be one of the passengers.
“You better come along too, Jazz,” Gray had said. “My sense of direction’s hopeless.” Then he’d looked towards Rebus. “You all right with Stu and Tam?”
“Fine,” Rebus had said, wishing there was some way to bug Gray’s car.
On the drive and between hungover yawns, Barclay kept talking about the National Lottery.
“Wouldn’t like to think how much I’ve wasted on it these past years.”
“All for good causes, though,” Sutherland told him while trying to pick bits of breakfast bacon from between his teeth with a thumbnail.
“Thing is,” Barclay went on, “once you’ve started, how can you stop? Week you don’t put a line on is the week you’ll win it.”
“You’re trapped,” Sutherland agreed. Rebus was checking his rearview mirror. The Lexus was right behind him. Nobody inside it seemed to be speaking. Gray and Jazz in the front, Ward slouched in the rear.
“Eight or nine million, that’s all I want,” Barclay was saying. “It’s not like I’m greedy . . .”
“Guy I know won just over a million,” Sutherland confided. “He didn’t even stop working, can you credit that?”
“Thing about the rich,” Barclay offered, “they never seem to have any money. It’s all tied up in stocks and stuff. You’ve got a guy who owns a castle, but hasn’t got the price of a pack of smokes.”
Sutherland laughed from the backseat. “True enough, Tam,” he said.
Rebus was wondering about that . . . about rich men who couldn’t spend their money because it was tied up, or because as soon as they started to spend, they’d also look conspicuous . . .
“How much d’you think that Lexus costs?” Rebus asked, eyes again on the rearview. “Reckon Francis had a wee lottery win himself?”
Sutherland turned his neck to peer out of the back window. “Maybe thirty grand,” he said. “Be honest, it’s not exactly outrageous on a DI’s salary . . .”
“Then how come I’m driving a fourteen-year-old Saab?” Rebus said.
“Maybe you’re not careful with your money,” Sutherland offered.
“Oh aye,” Rebus came back, “you saw as much last night — every penny poured into the interior of my palatial bachelor pad.”
Sutherland snorted and went back to picking his teeth.
“Ever totted up what you spend on booze and ciggies?” Barclay asked. “You could probably buy a new Lexus every year.”
Rebus didn’t trust himself to do the calculation. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said instead. A legal-sized packet had been waiting for him at Tulliallan: Strathern’s notes on Bernie Johns. He hadn’t had time to open it yet, but was wondering if it would show any evidence at all that Jazz, Gray and Ward were high rollers. Maybe they had big houses or took expensive holidays . . . Or maybe they were biding their time, the payoff awaiting them on retirement.
Could that be why each man was having trouble with authority? Was it all a ruse to get them kicked off the force? Simpler surely just to tender your resignation . . . Rebus was aware of movement in his rearview: the Lexus was indicating and pulling out to overtake, cruising past Rebus’s Saab with a blare of its horn and Allan Ward’s face smirking at the rear window.
“Look at that silly sod,” Barclay laughed. Jazz and Gray were smiling and offering little waves.
“Tennant’s not behind us, is he?” Sutherland said, turning his head again.
“I don’t know,” Rebus admitted. “What car does he drive?”
“No idea,” Barclay said. DCI Tennant was due to follow them to Edinburgh. He wouldn’t be able to monitor them throughout, but would be kept informed.
“It’ll be good to get away from those bloody closed-circuit cameras,” Barclay said now. “I hate the things, always think they’re going to catch me scratching my balls or something . . .”
“Maybe they’ll have cameras where we’re going,” Sutherland said.
“At St. Leonard’s?” Rebus shook his head. “We’re still at the stage of cave paintings, Stu . . . Jesus Christ!”
The Lexus’s brake lights had suddenly come on, causing Rebus to slam his foot on the brake. In the back, Sutherland was thrown forwards, his face connecting with Rebus’s headrest. Barclay placed both hands on the dashboard, as if preparing for impact. Now the Lexus was speeding away, red lights still glowing.
“Bastard’s got his fog lights on” was Barclay’s explanation.
Rebus’s heart was racing. The cars had come within three or four feet of one another. “You okay, Stu?”
Sutherland was rubbing his chin. “Just about,” he said.
Rebus shifted down into second and pressed the accelerator, his whole right leg trembling.
“We’ve got to get them for that,” Barclay was saying.
“Don’t be stupid, Tam,” Sutherland replied. “If John’s brakes hadn’t been in good nick, we’d have hit them.”
But Rebus knew what he had to do. He had to show willing. He pressed further on the accelerator, the Saab’s engine urging him to go up a gear. Then, just as it looked like he would ram the pristine Lexus, he pulled out so that the two cars were side by side. The three men in the other car were smiling, watching his performance. Tam Barclay had gone very pale in the passenger seat, and Stu Sutherland was searching in vain for the rear seat belt, which, Rebus knew, was trapped somewhere beneath the upholstery.
“You’re as bad as they are!” Sutherland called from the back, struggling to make himself heard above the whine from the engine.
That’s the plan, Rebus felt like telling him. Instead, he pressed a little harder on the accelerator and, when his nose was ahead of the Lexus, turned the steering wheel hard, cutting across Gray’s bow.
It was down to Gray: he could brake, he could go off the road, or he could allow Rebus’s car to hit him.
He hit the brakes, and suddenly Rebus was in front again, the Lexus flashi
ng its lights, horn sounding. Rebus gave a wave before acceding to the Saab’s wishes and finally moving into third gear, then fourth.
The Lexus dropped its speed a little, and they were a convoy again. Rebus, eyes on the rearview, knew that the three men were talking . . . they were talking about him.
“We could have died back there, John,” Barclay complained, a tremor in his voice.
“Cheer up, Tam,” Rebus reassured him. “If we had, your lottery numbers would have come up next week.”
Then he started laughing. It took a while for the laughter to cease.
They got practically the last two parking spots at St. Leonard’s. The car park was to the rear of the actual station. “Not very prepossessing, is it?” Tam Barclay said, studying the building.
“It’s not much, but I call it home,” Rebus told him.
“John Rebus!” Gray called, emerging from the Lexus. “You are one mad, bad bastard!” He was still grinning. Rebus shrugged.
“Can’t let some weegie go cutting me up, Francis.”
“It was a close one, though,” Jazz said.
Rebus shrugged. “No adrenaline otherwise, is there?”
Gray slapped Rebus’s back. “Maybe we’re not such a mild bunch after all.”
Rebus took a little bow. Accept me, he was thinking.
The high spirits evaporated the minute they saw their “office.” It was one of the interview rooms, equipped with two tables and six chairs, leaving no space for anything else. High on one wall, a video camera was aimed at the main table. It was there to record the various interviews, rather than the Wild Bunch, but Barclay scowled at it anyway.
“No phones?” Jazz commented.
“We’ve always got our mobiles,” Gray said.
“Which we pay for,” Sutherland reminded him.
“Stop griping for two seconds and let’s think about this.” Jazz folded his arms. “John, is there any office space at all?”
“To be honest, I don’t think so. We’ve a murder inquiry going on, remember. It’s pretty much taken over the CID suite.”
“Look,” Gray was saying, “we’re only here for a day or two, right? We don’t need computers or anything . . .”
“Maybe, but we could suffocate in here,” Barclay complained.
“We’ll open a window,” Gray told him. There were two narrow windows high up on the outer wall. “If all goes well, we’ll be spending most of our time on the street anyway: talking to people, tracking them down.”
Jazz was still taking the measure of the room. “Not much space for all the files.”
“We don’t need the files.” Gray sounded ready to lose his temper. “We need about half a dozen sheets of paper from the files — that’s it.” His hand chopped the air.
Jazz sighed. “I don’t suppose we’ve much option.”
“It was us that asked to come to Edinburgh,” Ward admitted.
“This isn’t the only cop shop in town,” Sutherland said. “We could look around, see if someone else can offer better.”
“Let’s just get on with it,” Jazz said, his eyes meeting Sutherland’s, and somehow finally gaining a shrug of acceptance.
“Might as well,” Rebus said. “It’s not like we’re going to find anything new on Dickie Diamond.”
“Great,” Jazz said caustically. “Let’s try and keep those positive vibes flowing, eh, lads?”
“ ‘Positive vibes’?” Ward mimicked. “I think you spent too long with John’s record collection last night.”
“Aye, you’ll be wearing beads and sandals next, Jazz,” Barclay added with a smile.
Jazz gave him two fingers. Then they arranged the chairs to their liking and got down to work. They had compiled a list of people they wanted to talk to. A couple of names had been crossed off because Rebus knew they were already dead. He’d considered not letting on . . . leading them down blind alleys . . . but couldn’t really see the point. Cross-referencing and the computer at Tulliallan had thrown up the nugget that one name — Joe Daly — was an informant belonging to DI Bobby Hogan. Hogan was Leith CID; Rebus and he went back a ways. Hogan was to be their first stop. They’d been in the interview room only half an hour but already there was a bad smell about the place, even with door and windows open.
“Dickie Diamond used to hang out at the Zombie Bar,” Jazz said, reading from the notes. “That’s in Leith too, right, John?”
“I don’t know if it’s still open. They were always in trouble with their license.”
“Isn’t Leith where the working girls hang out?” Allan Ward asked.
“Don’t you go getting ideas, young Allan,” Gray said, reaching over to ruffle his hair.
There were voices in the corridor, coming closer: “. . . best we could do, under the circs . . .”
“They won’t mind roughing it . . .”
DCI Tennant stepped into the doorway, eyes widening at the scene within.
“Better stay where you are, sir,” Tam Barclay warned. “One more in here and the oxygen runs out.”
Tennant turned to the figure beside him — Gill Templer.
“I did warn you it was small,” she said.
“You did,” he admitted. “Settling in all right, men?”
“Could hardly be cozier,” Stu Sutherland said, folding his arms like a man not best pleased with his lot.
“We thought we’d put the coffee machine in the corner,” Allan Ward said, “next to the mini-bar and Jacuzzi.”
“Good idea,” Tennant told him, straight-faced.
“This’ll do us fine, sir,” Francis Gray said. He slid his chair back and managed to squash one of Tam Barclay’s toes under the leg. “We won’t be here long. You could almost look on our surroundings as an incentive.” He was on his feet now, beaming a smile at Gill Templer. “I’m DI Gray, since no one’s seen fit . . .”
“DCS Templer,” Gill said, taking the proffered hand. Gray introduced her to the other men, leaving Rebus till last. “This one you’ll already know.” Gill glared at Rebus, and Rebus looked away, hoping it was just part of the act.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve a murder inquiry to run . . .”
“Us too,” Ward said. Gill pretended not to hear, and headed down the corridor, calling back to Tennant that he might want to join her for coffee in her office. Tennant looked back into the room.
“Any problems, you’ve got my mobile number,” he reminded them. “And remember: I’ll be expecting progress. Anybody not pulling their weight, I’ll find out.” He held a finger up in warning, then set off to follow Gill.
“Jammy bastard,” Ward muttered. “And I bet her office is bigger than this.”
“Slightly smaller, actually,” Rebus said. “But then there’s only one of her.”
Gray was chuckling. “Notice she didn’t offer you a cup, John.”
“That’s because John can’t hold his beverages,” Sutherland said.
“Nice one, Stu.”
“Maybe,” Jazz broke in, “we could think about doing a bit of work? And just to show willing, I’ll use my mobile to phone DI Hogan.” He looked at Rebus. “John, he’s your mate . . . do you want to do the talking?”
Rebus nodded.
“You know his number?” Jazz asked. Again, Rebus nodded his head.
“Well then,” Jazz said, slipping his own phone back into his jacket, “might as well use your mobile, eh?”
Francis Gray’s face went pink with laughter, the color reminding Rebus of a baby being lifted from its bathtub.
He didn’t mind making the call actually. After all, he reckoned he’d had a pretty good morning so far. The only thing he was wondering was: when would he get a minute to himself to delve into Strathern’s report?
13
Siobhan was splashing water on her face when one of the uniforms, WPC Toni Jackson, came into the women’s toilets.
“Will we see you Friday night?” Jackson said.
“Not sure,” Siobhan told her.
“Yellow card if you miss three weeks on the trot,” Jackson warned her. She went to one of the cubicles, locked the door after her. “There’s no paper towels, by the way,” she called. Siobhan checked the dispenser: nothing inside but fresh air. There was an electric dryer on the other wall, but it had been broken for months. She went to the cubicle next to Jackson’s, pulled at a clump of toilet paper and started dabbing at her face.
Jackson and some of the other uniforms went for a drink every Friday. Sometimes it went beyond a drink: a meal, then a club, dancing away all the frustrations of the week. They pulled the occasional bloke: never any shortage of takers. Siobhan had been invited along one time, honored to have been asked. Hers was the only CID face. They seemed to accept her, found they could gossip freely in front of her. But Siobhan had started skipping weeks, and now she’d skipped two in a row. It was that old Groucho Marx thing about not wanting to be part of any club that would have her. She didn’t know why exactly. Maybe because it felt like a routine, and with it the job became a routine, too . . . something to be endured for the sake of a salary check and the Friday-night dance with a stranger.
“What have they got you doing?” Siobhan called.
“Foot patrol.”
“Who with?”
“Perry Mason.”
Siobhan smiled. “Perry” was actually John Mason, only recently out of Tulliallan. Everyone had started calling him Perry. George Silvers even had a name for Toni Jackson: he called her “Tony Jacklin,” or had done until a rumor had spread that Toni was sister to footballer Darren Jackson. Silvers had treated her with a bit of respect after that. Siobhan had asked Toni if it was true.
“It’s bollocks,” she’d said. “But I’m not going to let that worry me.”
As far as Siobhan knew, Silvers still thought Toni was related to Darren Jackson, and he still treated her with respect . . .
The “Toni” was short for Antonia: “I never call myself that,” Toni had said one night, seated at the bar in the Hard Rock Café, looking around to see what “talent” might be lurking. “Sounds too posh, doesn’t it?”
