by Ian Rankin
“I know what Jazz is thinking.”
“What?”
“He’s wondering if there could be any connection with that attack at the manse.”
Rebus shrugged. “Jazz has an active imagination.” Don’t give too much away, John, his brain was telling him. He had to convince Gray he was dirty without giving the man too much ammo. If he incriminated himself at any turn, it was something they — the trio and the High Hiedyins both — could use against him. But Gray’s mind was working away: Rebus could see it in the very way he was standing, head angled, hands in pockets.
“If you did have anything to do with the Rico case . . .”
“I’m not saying I did,” Rebus qualified. “I’m saying I knew Dickie Diamond.”
Gray accepted the point. “All the same, doesn’t it strike you as quite a coincidence that we’ve ended up working that exact same case?”
“Except that we haven’t: it’s Rico Lomax we’re investigating, not Dickie Diamond.”
“And there’s no connection between the two?”
“I don’t remember going quite that far,” Rebus said.
Gray looked at him and laughed, shaking his head slowly. “You think the brass have got an inkling and are out to get you?”
“What do you think?”
Rebus was pleased and disturbed that Gray’s mind was taking him down this road. Pleased because it deflected Gray’s thoughts from another coincidence: namely, that of him, Jazz and Ward being thrown together into Tulliallan, with Rebus a late and sudden recruit. Disturbed because Rebus himself was wondering about the Lomax case, too, and whether Strathern had some agenda that he was keeping to himself.
“I was talking to a couple of guys who’ve been on our course before,” Gray said. “Know what they told me?”
“What?”
“Tennant always uses the same case. Not an unsolved: a murder that happened in Rosyth a few years back. They got the guy. That’s the case he always uses for his syndicates.”
“But not for us,” Rebus stated.
Gray nodded. “Makes you think, eh? A case both you and I worked . . . what’re the chances?”
“Think we should ask him?”
“I doubt he’d tell us. But it does make you wonder, doesn’t it?” He came up close to Rebus. “How far do you trust me, John?”
“Hard to tell.”
“Should I trust you?”
“Probably not. Everyone will tell you what an arse I can be.”
Gray smiled for effect, but his eyes remained bright, calculating orbs. “Are you going to tell me what it was you couldn’t tell Jazz?”
“There’s a price attached.”
“And what’s that?”
“I want the tour first.”
Gray seemed to think he was joking, but then he started nodding slowly. “Okay,” he said. “You’ve got a deal.”
They walked back to the car, where someone had attached a parking ticket to Gray’s windshield. He tore it off.
“Merciless bastards!” he growled, looking around for the culprit. There was no one in view. The DOCTOR ON CALL badge was still visible on the dashboard. “That’s Glasgow for you, eh?” Gray said, unlocking the car and getting in. “A city full of Prods and Tims, each and every one of them a callous, godless bastard.”
It wasn’t what you’d call the city’s tourist route. Govan, Cardonald, Pollok and Nitshill . . . Dalmarnock, Bridgeton, Dennistoun . . . Possilpark and Milton . . . There was an almost hypnotic sameness to a lot of the streets. Rebus let his eyes drift out of focus. Tenement walls, playgrounds, corner shops. Kids watchful but bored. Now and then Gray would relate some story or incident — no doubt with embellishments collected over the years of telling. He provided thumbnail sketches of villains and heroes, hard men and their women. In Bridgeton, they passed the grounds of Celtic FC: Parkhead to civilians like Rebus; Paradise to the club’s supporters.
“This’ll be the Catholic end of town then,” Rebus commented. He knew that the Rangers stadium — Ibrox — was practically next door to Govan, where Gray was stationed. So he added: “And you’ll be a bluenose?”
“I support Rangers,” Gray agreed. “Have done all my life. Are you a Hearts man?”
“I’m not really anything.”
Gray looked at him. “You must be something.”
“I don’t go to games.”
“What about when you watch on TV?” Rebus just shrugged. “I mean, there’s only two teams playing at any one time . . . you must take sides?”
“Not really.”
“Say it was Rangers against Celtic . . .” Gray was growing annoyed. “You’re a Protestant, right?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well, Christ’s sake, man, you’d be on Rangers’ side, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know, they’ve never asked me to play.”
Gray let out a snort of frustration.
“See,” Rebus went on, “I didn’t realize it was meant to be religious warfare . . .”
“Fuck off, John.” Gray concentrated on his driving.
Rebus laughed. “At least I know now how to wind you up.”
“Just don’t wind the mechanism too tight,” Gray cautioned. He saw a sign for the M8. “Time to head back yet, or do you want to stop somewhere?”
“Let’s go back into town and find a pub.”
“Finding a pub should present no major difficulties,” Gray said, indicating right.
They ended up in the Horseshoe Bar. It was central and crowded with people who took their drinking seriously, the kind of place where no one looked askance at a tea-stained shirt, so long as the wearer had about him the price of his drink. Rebus knew immediately that it would be a place of rules and rituals, a place where regulars would know from the moment they walked through the door that their drink of preference was already being poured for them. It had gone twelve, and the fixed-price lunch of soup, pie and beans, and ice cream was doing a roaring trade. Rebus noticed that a drink was included in the price.
They each opted for pie and beans — no starters or dessert. There was a corner table just emptying, so they claimed it. Two pints of IPA: as Gray had argued, they could manage one pint apiece, surely.
“Cheers,” Rebus said. “And thanks for the tour.”
“Were you impressed?”
“I saw places I’d never been before. Glasgow’s a maze.”
“Jungle would be a better description.”
“You like working here, though.”
“I can’t imaging living anywhere else.”
“Not even when you retire?”
“Not really.” Gray took a mouthful of beer.
“You’ll be on full pension, I suppose.”
“Not long now.”
“I’ve thought about retiring,” Rebus confessed, “but I’m not sure what I’d do with myself.”
“They’ll turf you out one day.”
Rebus nodded. “I suppose they will.” He paused. “That’s why I’ve been thinking of supplementing my pension.”
Gray knew they were at long last coming to the point. “And how will you do that?”
“Not on my own.” Rebus looked around, as though someone in the noisy bar might be listening in. “Could be I’ll need some help.”
“Help to do what?”
“Knock off a couple of hundred grand’s worth of drugs.” There, it was out. The single, mad bloody scheme he could think of . . . something to snare the trio and maybe even maneuver them away from Rico Lomax . . .
Gray stared at him, then burst out laughing. Rebus’s face didn’t change. “Jesus, you’re serious,” Gray eventually said.
“I think it can be done.”
“You must have put your arse on backwards this morning, John: you’re supposed to be one of the good guys.”
“I’m one of the Wild Bunch, too.”
The smile had left Gray’s face by degrees. He stayed quiet, sipped at his drink. Their food arr
ived, and Rebus squirted brown sauce onto his piecrust.
“Christ, John,” Gray said. Rebus didn’t answer. He wanted to give Gray time. After he’d demolished half the pie, he put down his fork.
“You remember I got called out of class?” Gray nodded, not about to interrupt. “There were these two SDEA men downstairs. They took me back into Edinburgh. There was something they wanted to show me: a drug bust. They’ve got it tucked away in a warehouse. Thing is, they’re the only ones who know about it.”
Gray’s eyes narrowed. “How do you mean?”
“They haven’t told Customs. Or anyone else, for that matter.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“They’re trying to use it as leverage. There’s someone they want to get to.”
“Big Ger Cafferty?”
It was Rebus’s turn to nod. “They’re not going to get him, but they haven’t quite realized it yet. And meantime, the dope is just sitting there.”
“But protected?”
“I assume so. I don’t know what security’s like.”
Gray grew thoughtful. “They showed you this stuff?”
“A chemist was grading it at the time.”
“Why did they show it to you?”
“Because they wanted to do a trade. I was the intermediary.” Rebus paused. “I don’t really want to get into it . . .”
“But if someone lifts the consignment, it has to be you. Who else have they shown it to?”
“I don’t know.” Rebus paused. “But I don’t think I’d be their number one suspect.”
“Why not?”
“Because word is, Cafferty knows about it too.”
“So he might make a bid to get to it first?”
“Which is why we’d have to act fast.”
Gray held up a hand, trying to stem Rebus’s enthusiasm. “Don’t go saying ‘we.’ ”
Rebus bowed his head in a show of repentance. “The beauty of it is, they’ll lift Cafferty for it. Especially if he finds himself with a kilo or so planted on him . . .”
Gray’s eyes widened. “You’ve got it all figured out.”
“Not all of it. But enough to be going on with. Are you in?”
Gray ran a finger down the condensation on his glass. “What makes you think I’d help? Or Jazz, come to that?”
Rebus shrugged, tried to look disappointed. “I just thought . . . I don’t know. It’s a lot of money.”
“Maybe it is, if you can shift the drugs. Something like that, John . . . you’d have to range far and wide, selling a bit at a time. Very dangerous.”
“I could sit on them awhile.”
“And watch them go stale? Drugs are like pies: at their best when fresh.”
“I bow to your superior knowledge.”
Gray grew thoughtful again. “Have you ever tried anything like this before?”
Rebus shook his head, eyes fixing on Gray’s. “Have you?”
Gray didn’t answer. “And you just thought this up?”
“Not straightaway . . . I’ve been looking for something for a while, some way of making sure I could kiss the job good-bye in style.” Rebus noticed their glasses were empty. “Same again?”
“Better get me a softie if I’m driving.”
Rebus approached the bar. He had to work hard not to turn around and study Gray. He was trying to look nonchalant but excited. He was a cop who’d just stepped over the line. Gray had to believe him . . . had to believe in the scheme.
It was the only one Rebus had.
He bought a whiskey for himself, something with which to toast his newfound bravado. Gray had wanted an orange and lemonade. Rebus placed it before him.
“There you go,” he said, sitting down.
“You’ll appreciate,” Gray said, “that this dream of yours is pure mental?”
Rebus shrugged, placed his glass to his nose and pretended to savor the aroma, even though his mind was so stretched he couldn’t smell anything.
“What if I say no?” Gray asked.
Rebus shrugged again. “Maybe I don’t need any help after all.”
Gray smiled sadly and shook his head. “I’m going to tell you something,” he began, lowering his voice a little. “I pulled off something a while back. Maybe not as grand as this . . . but I got away with it.”
Rebus felt his heart lift. “What was it?” he asked. But Gray shook his head, not about to answer. “Were you alone, or did you have help?” Gray’s head continued its slow arc: not telling.
Was it Bernie Johns and his millions? Rebus ached to ask the question. Stop this stupid game and just ask! He was holding the glass, trying to appear relaxed, and all the time he felt it might splinter in his grasp. He stared down at the table, willing himself to place the glass there, nice and slow. But his hand didn’t move. Half his brain was warning him: you’ll smash it, you’ll drop it, your hand will shake the contents out of it . . . Maybe not as grand as this . . . What did that mean? Was Johns’s stash disappointing, or did he just not want Rebus to know?
“You got away with it, that’s the main thing,” he said, his throat just loose enough to form recognizable words. He tried a cough. It felt like invisible fingers were busy squeezing, just beneath the skin.
I’m losing this, he thought.
“You all right?” Gray asked.
Rebus nodded, finally putting down his glass. “It just feels . . . I’m a bit edgy. You’re the only person I’ve told — what if I can’t trust you?”
“Should’ve thought of that first.”
“I did think of it first. It’s just that I’m having second thoughts.”
“Bit late for that, John. It’s not your idea any longer. It’s out in the public domain.”
“Unless I take you outside . . .”
He left it for Gray to finish the thought: “And kill me with a baseball bat? Like what happened to Rico?” Gray broke off, gnawed his bottom lip. “What did happen to him, John?”
“I don’t know.”
Gray stared at him. “Come on . . .”
“I really don’t know, Francis. On my kid’s life.” Rebus held his hand to his heart.
“I thought you knew.” Gray seemed disappointed.
You bastard . . . did Strathern plant you? Are you feeding me a line about Bernie Johns so that I’ll spill the beans about Rico . . . ?
“Sorry” was all John Rebus said, sitting on his hands to stop them shaking.
Gray took a mouthful of the fizzy drink, stifled a belch. “Why me?”
“How do you mean?”
“Why tell me? Do I look that corruptible?”
“As it happens, yes.”
“And what if I run back to Archie Tennant, tell him what you’ve just said?”
“There’s nothing he can do,” Rebus guessed. “No law against having a dream, is there?”
“But this isn’t just a dream, is it, John?”
“That depends.”
Gray was nodding. Something in his face had changed. He’d come to some decision. “Tell you what,” he said. “I like listening to this dream of yours. What about if you fill in some of the spaces on the drive back to base?”
“Which spaces exactly?”
“Where this warehouse is . . . who might be guarding it . . . what sorts of drugs we’re talking about.” Gray paused. “Those’ll do for starters.”
“Fair enough,” Rebus said.
19
Siobhan had slept in, phoning to apologize as she waited for the water in the shower to run hot. No one at the station seemed too worried by her absence. She told them she was coming in, no matter what. She’d forgotten about her scalp until the water hit it, after which her bathroom was filled with the sound of cursing.
Donny Dow had been transferred to Leith, and she made that her first stop. DI Bobby Hogan went over the statement she’d made last night. It didn’t need any changes.
“Do you want to see him?” he asked afterwards.
She shook her h
ead.
“Two of your guys — Pryde and Silvers — will be sitting in on our interviews.” Hogan was pretending to busy himself writing a note. “They’re going to tie him to Marber.”
“Good for them.”
“You don’t agree?” He’d stopped writing, his eyes lifting to meet hers.
“If Donny Dow killed Marber, it was because he knew about Marber’s relationship with Laura. So why did Dow explode when told about it by Linford?”
Hogan shrugged. “If I put my mind to it, I could come up with a dozen explanations.” He paused. “You can’t deny, it would be nice and neat.”
“And how often does a case end like that?” she said skeptically, rising to her feet.
At St. Leonard’s, the talk was all about Dow . . . except for Phyllida Hawes. Siobhan bumped into her in the corridor, and Hawes signaled towards the women’s toilets.
When the door had closed behind them, Hawes confessed that she had gone out with Allan Ward the previous evening.
“How did it go?” Siobhan asked quietly, lowering her voice and hoping Hawes would follow suit. She was remembering Derek Linford, listening outside the door.
“I had a really good time. He’s pretty hunky, isn’t he?” Hawes had ceased to be a CID detective: they were supposed to be two women now, gossiping about men.
“Can’t say I’ve noticed,” Siobhan stated. Her words had no effect on Hawes, who was studying her own face in the mirror.
“We went to that Mexican place, then a couple of bars.”
“And did he see you home like a gentleman?”
“Actually, he did . . .” She turned to Siobhan and grinned. “The swine. I was just about to invite him up for coffee, and his mobile rang. He said he had to hotfoot it back to Tulliallan.”
“Did he say why?”
Hawes shook her head. “I think he was pretty close to not going. But all I got was a peck on the cheek.”
Known, Siobhan couldn’t help thinking, as the kiss-off. “You seeing him again?”
“Hard not to when we’re both in the same station.”
“You know what I mean.”
Hawes giggled. Siobhan had never known her so . . . was coquettish the right word? She seemed suddenly ten years younger, and distinctly prettier. “We’re going to arrange something,” she admitted.
