by Ian Rankin
Afterwards, Hynds and Siobhan bought themselves a late lunch at a baker’s. Filled rolls, cans of drink from the fridge. The day was warm, overcast. Siobhan felt like taking another shower, but really it was the inside of her head she wanted to sluice, ridding it of all the confusion. They decided to walk back to St. Leonard’s the long way round, eating as they went.
“Take your pick,” Hynds said. “Donny Dow or Neilson.”
“Why not both of them?” Siobhan mused. “Neilson watching Edward Marber, alerting Dow when Marber’s taxi arrived.”
“The two of them in cahoots?”
“And while we’re stirring the pot, let’s add Big Ger Cafferty, not a man you want to be found ripping off.”
“I can’t see Marber conning Cafferty. Like you say, it’s too fraught.”
“Anyone else with a grudge?”
“What about Laura Stafford? Maybe she got sick of their arrangement . . . maybe Marber wanted to take things a bit further.” Hynds paused. “What about Donny Dow as Laura’s pimp?”
Siobhan’s face fell. “That’s enough,” she snapped.
Hynds realized he’d said the wrong thing. He watched as she tossed the rest of her roll into a bin, brushed crumbs and flour from her front.
“You should talk to someone,” he said quietly.
“Counseling, you mean? Do me a favor . . .”
“I’m trying to. Seems like you don’t want to listen.”
“I’ve seen people killed before, Davie. How about you?” She had stopped to face him.
“We’re supposed to be partners,” he said, sounding aggrieved.
“We’re supposed to be senior and junior officer . . . sometimes I think you get muddled over who’s who.”
“Christ, Shiv, I was only —”
“And don’t call me Shiv!”
He made to say something further, but seemed to think better of it, took a swig of his drink instead. After a dozen paces, he took a deep breath.
“Sorry.”
She looked at him. “Sorry for what?”
“For making jokes about Laura.”
Siobhan nodded slowly; a little of the tension left her face. “You’re learning, Davie.”
“I’m trying.” He paused. “Truce?” he suggested.
“Truce,” she agreed. After which, they resumed their walk in a silence that could almost have been called companionable.
When Rebus and Gray got back to the station, IR1 was full. The rest of the team had split into two pairs, spent the day hitting the east coast’s caravan parks, talking to the site owners, long-term users and residents. Now they were back . . . and weary.
“Didn’t know there were static parks,” Allan Ward said. “People living in these four-berth jobs like they were proper houses, little flower beds outside and a kennel for the Alsatian.”
“Way house prices are going,” Stu Sutherland added, “could be the wave of the future.”
“Must be freezing in winter, though,” Tam Barclay said.
DCI Tennant was listening to all this with arms folded, as he leaned against the wall. He turned slowly towards Rebus and Gray. “I hope to Christ you two have got something more for me than property speculation and gardening tips.”
Gray ignored him. “You didn’t get anything?” he asked Jazz McCullough.
“Bits and pieces,” Jazz answered. “It was six years ago. People move on . . .”
“We spoke to the owner of one site,” Ward said. “He hadn’t been there when Rico was around, but he’d heard stories: all-night parties, boozed-up arguments. Rico used two caravans on that site . . . supposedly with another two or three elsewhere.”
“Are the caravans still there?” Gray asked.
“One of them is; other caught on fire.”
“Caught on fire or was set on fire?”
Ward shrugged a response.
“You see why I’m impressed?” Tennant announced. “So bring me glad tidings from dear old Glasgow town.”
It took Gray and Rebus only five minutes to summarize their trip, leaving out everything except the hospital visit. At the end of it, Tennant looked less than cheered.
“If I didn’t know better,” he told them, “I’d say you lot were pissing into the wind.”
“We’ve hardly started,” Sutherland complained.
“My point exactly.” Tennant wagged a finger at him. “Too busy enjoying the good life, not busy enough doing the work you’re supposed to be here for.” He paused. “Maybe it’s not your fault; maybe there’s nothing here for us to find.”
“Back to Tulliallan?” Tam Barclay guessed.
Tennant was nodding. “Unless you can think of a reason to stay put.”
“Dickie Diamond, sir,” Sutherland said. “There are friends of his we still need to talk to. We’ve got feelers out with a local snitch . . .”
“Meaning all you’re doing here is waiting?”
“There’s one other avenue, sir,” Jazz McCullough said. “At the time Diamond went AWOL, there was that rape case at the manse.” Rebus concentrated hard on the room’s mud-colored carpet tiles.
“And?” Tennant prodded.
“And nothing, sir. It’s just a coincidence that might be worth following up.”
“You mean in case Diamond had anything to do with it?”
“I know it sounds thin, sir . . .”
“Thin? You could use it as a pizza topping.”
“Maybe just another day or two, sir,” Gray advised. “There are some loose ends we could do with tying up, and since we’re already here,” he glanced towards Rebus, “with an expert to guide us . . .”
“Expert?” Tennant’s eyes narrowed.
Gray had slapped a hand onto Rebus’s shoulder. “When it comes to Edinburgh, sir, John knows where the bodies are buried. Isn’t that right, John?”
Tennant considered this, while Rebus said nothing. Then Tennant unfolded his arms, stuck his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket. “I’ll think about it,” he said.
“Thank you, sir.”
After Tennant had left the room, Rebus turned to Gray. “I know where the bodies are buried?”
Gray shrugged, gave a little laugh. “Isn’t that what you told me? Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Unless you know different . . . ?”
Later that afternoon, Rebus stood by the drinks machine, considering his options. He had a handful of change, but his mind was on other things. He was wondering who to tell about the heist scheme. The chief constable, for instance. Strathern wouldn’t know about the warehouse stash, he was sure of that. Claverhouse had gone to Carswell, the assistant chief. The two of them were mates, and Carswell would have given his blessing to the project, without feeling the need to bother the Big Chief. If Rebus told Strathern about it, the Chief would most likely blow his top, not liking the notion of having been sidelined on such an important bust. Rebus wasn’t sure what the result would be, but he couldn’t see it doing his heist scheme any good.
What he needed at the moment was for the knowledge of the bust’s existence to remain as secret as possible. It wasn’t as if he was actually going to carry out any heist. It was a smoke screen, a way to infiltrate the trio and hopefully glean some information on Bernie Johns’s missing millions. He wasn’t sure that Gray and Co. would go for it . . . in fact, it worried him that Gray had proved so attentive. Why would Gray consider such a scheme when he already had much more salted away than any raid on the warehouse would bring him? All Rebus had wanted the story to do was prove to the trio that he too could be tempted, that he, like them, could fall.
Now he had to consider a further possibility: that the trio would want to take it further, make the plan a reality.
And why would they do that if they were so stinking rich on their ill-gotten gains? The only answer Rebus could think of was that there were no gains. In which case he was back to square one. Or, even worse, he was square one: instigator of a plot t
o steal several hundred grand’s worth of dope from under the noses of his own force.
Then again . . . if Gray and Co. had gotten away with it . . . maybe all they’d learned was that they could do it again. Could greed stop them thinking straight? The worry was, Rebus knew they probably could do it. The security around the warehouse wasn’t overzealous: last thing Claverhouse wanted was for the site to start looking heavily guarded. All that would do was attract attention. A gate, a couple of guards, maybe a padlocked warehouse . . . So what if there was an alarm? Alarms could be dealt with. Guards could be dealt with. A decent-sized station wagon would accommodate the haul . . .
What are you contemplating, John?
The game was changing. He still didn’t know much about the three men, but now Gray knew that Rebus knew something about Dickie Diamond. John knows where the bodies are buried. The slap Gray had given him on the shoulder had been a warning, letting him know who was in charge.
Suddenly Linford was behind him. “You using that machine or just counting your savings?”
Rebus couldn’t think of a comeback, so simply stepped aside.
“Any chance of another ringside seat?” Linford said, slotting his coins home.
“What?”
“You and Allan Ward — have you made your peace?” Linford pressed the button for tea, then cursed himself. “Should have made that coffee. Tea has a way of flying around here.”
“Just crawl back into your fucking hole,” Rebus said.
“CID’s a lot quieter without you: any chance of making it permanent?”
“Not much hope of that,” Rebus told him. “I promised I’d retire when you lost your cherry.”
“I’ll have retired before that happens,” Siobhan said, walking towards the two men. She was smiling, but with little amusement.
“And who was it deflowered you, DS Clarke?” Linford smiled right back at her, before shifting his gaze to Rebus. “Or is that something we don’t want to get into?”
He started walking away. Rebus moved a step closer to Siobhan. “That’s what the women say about Derek’s bed, you know,” he said, loud enough for Linford to hear.
“What?” Siobhan asked, playing along.
“That it’s something they don’t want to get into . . .”
After Linford had disappeared, Siobhan got herself a drink. “Not having anything?” she asked.
“Gone off the idea,” Rebus stated, dropping the coins back into his pocket. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“Well, mostly,” she confided. “And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I wasn’t going to offer.”
She straightened up, maneuvering the hot plastic cup. “That’s what I like about you,” she said. Then: “Got a minute? I need to pick your brains . . .”
They went down to the car park, Rebus lighting a cigarette. Siobhan made sure there were no other smokers around, no one to eavesdrop.
“All very mysterious,” Rebus said.
“Not really. It’s just something that’s niggling me about your friends in IR1.”
“What about them?”
“Allan Ward took Phyllida out last night.”
“And?”
“And she’d nothing to report. Ward was quite the gentleman . . . took her home but wouldn’t go upstairs when she offered.” She paused. “He’s not married or anything?” Rebus shook his head. “Not going steady?”
“If he is, it doesn’t show.”
“I mean, Phyl’s a bonny enough girl, wouldn’t you say?” Rebus nodded his agreement. “And he’d been paying her plenty of attention all night . . .”
The way she said this made Rebus focus on her. “What sort of attention?”
“Asking her how the Marber case was coming along.”
“It’s a natural enough question. Aren’t women’s magazines always saying men should do more listening?”
“I wouldn’t know, I never read them.” She looked at him archly. “Didn’t realize you were such an expert.”
“You know what I mean, though.”
She nodded. “The thing is, it made me think about the way DI Gray has been mooching around the inquiry room . . . and that other one . . . McCullen?”
“McCullough,” Rebus corrected her. Jazz, Ward and Gray, spending time in the inquiry room . . .
“Probably doesn’t mean anything,” Siobhan said.
“What could it mean?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Something they wanted . . . someone they were interested in . . . ?” She thought of something else. “The case you’re working on, did anything happen last night?”
He nodded. “Someone we wanted to speak to, he was rushed into hospital.” Part of him wanted to tell her more . . . tell her everything. He knew she was one person he could trust. But he held back, because there was no way of knowing whether telling her would put her in danger, somewhere down the line.
“The reason Ward didn’t go upstairs with Phyl,” she was saying, “was because he got a call on his mobile and had to head back to the college.”
“That could have been him hearing about it.”
Rebus remembered that when he’d arrived at Tulliallan himself, pretty late on, Gray, Jazz and Ward had still been awake, sitting in the lounge bar with the dregs of their drinks in front of them. The bar itself had stopped serving, no one else about, and with most of the lights extinguished.
But the three of them, still awake and seated around the table . . .
Rebus wondered if they’d summoned Ward back so they could discuss what to do about Rebus, the chat he’d had with Jazz . . . Gray coming up with the idea to take Rebus as his partner to Glasgow, maybe quiz him further. When Rebus had walked in, Gray had told him about Chib Kelly and repeated that he wanted Rebus with him. Rebus hadn’t really questioned the decision . . . He remembered asking Ward how his date with Phyllida Hawes had gone. Ward had shrugged, saying little. It hadn’t sounded like there was going to be a repeat performance . . .
Siobhan was nodding thoughtfully. “There’s something I’m not getting, isn’t there?”
“Such as?”
“I’ll know that only when you tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
She stared at him. “Yes there is. Something else you need to know about women, John: we can read you lot like a book.”
He was about to say something, but his mobile was trilling. He checked the number, held a finger up to let Siobhan know he needed this to be private.
“Hello,” he said, moving across the car park. “I was hoping I’d hear from you.”
“The mood I was in, believe me, you didn’t want to hear from me.”
“I’m glad you’re calling now.”
“Are you busy?”
“I’m always busy, Jean. That night on the High Street . . . I was roped into that. Group of guys from the college.”
“Let’s not talk about it,” Jean Burchill said. “I’m phoning to thank you for the flowers.”
“You got them?”
“I did . . . along with two phone calls, one from Gill, one from Siobhan Clarke.”
Rebus stopped and looked back, but Siobhan had already retreated indoors.
“They both said the same thing,” Jean was telling him.
“And what was it?”
“That you’re a pigheaded lout, but you’ve got a good heart.”
“I’ve been trying to call you, Jean . . .”
“I know.”
“And I want to make it up to you. How about dinner tonight?”
“Where?”
“You choose.”
“How about Number One? If you can get us a table . . .”
“I’ll get us a table.” He paused. “I’m assuming it’s expensive?”
“John, you muck me about, it’s always going to cost. Lucky for you, this time it’s only money.”
“Seven-thirty?”
“And d
on’t be late.”
“I won’t be.”
They finished the call and he headed back inside, stopping at the comms room to find a phone number for the restaurant. He was in luck: they’d just had a cancellation. The restaurant was part of the Balmoral Hotel on Princes Street. Rebus didn’t bother to ask how much it was likely to cost. Number One was a special-occasion place; people saved to dine there. Atonement wasn’t going to come cheap. Nevertheless, he was in good spirits as he walked back to the interview room.
“Someone looks frisky,” Tam Barclay commented.
“And wasn’t that the fragrant DS Clarke we saw coming back from the car park?” Allan Ward added.
They started whistling and laughing. Rebus didn’t bother to say anything. One man in the room wasn’t smiling: Francis Gray. He was seated at the table with a pen clenched between his teeth, playing out a rhythm on it with his fingernails. He wasn’t so much watching Rebus as studying him.
When it comes to Edinburgh, John knows where the bodies are buried.
Said metaphorically? Rebus didn’t think so . . .
20
By six that evening, the inquiry room had emptied. Siobhan was glad to see them go. Derek Linford had been giving her foul looks ever since the drinks machine. Davie Hynds had spent the afternoon writing up the report on Malcolm Neilson’s payoff. The only break he’d taken had been to interview — with Silvers as his partner — a good-looking woman who turned out to be Sharon Burns, the art collector. Siobhan had asked Silvers afterwards who she’d been. He’d explained, then grinned.
“Davie said you’d be jealous . . .”
Phyllida Hawes had been sitting moonfaced and anxious ever since lunch, checking her watch and the doorway, wanting Allan Ward to pay another visit. But no one from IR1 had come near. Eventually Hawes had asked Siobhan if she fancied a drink after work.
“Sorry, Phyl,” Siobhan had lied, “I’ve got a prior engagement.” Last thing she wanted was Hawes crying on her shoulder because Ward was giving her the cold one. But Silvers and Grant Hood were up for a pint, and Hawes had joined them. Hynds had waited to be asked, and eventually he was.
“I could probably manage one,” he’d said, trying not to sound too desperate.
