Resurrection Men

by Ian Rankin

  “These things happen, Bobby,” Rebus sought to reassure him. He was wondering now if the gun had been tucked into Diamond’s waistband when he’d been answering their questions in IR1 . . .

  With the body stripped of its clothing, the autopsy proper was beginning with the taking of body temperature. Rebus and Hogan knew what the pathologists would be looking for: alcohol levels; signs of injuries; head trauma . . . They would want to know whether Diamond had been alive or dead when he’d entered the water. Alive, and it could have been an accident — too much booze, maybe. Dead, and there was foul play involved. Everything from the state of the eyeballs to the contents of the lungs provided little clues. The body temperature would be used to calculate time of death, though immersion would make any exact calculations problematic.

  After twenty minutes as spectator, Rebus said he needed a cigarette. Hogan decided to join him. They went to the staff room and helped themselves to mugs of tea, then walked outside. The night was clear and chilly. An undertaker’s car had arrived to take charge of one of the “naturals.” The driver bowed his head to them in sleepy acknowledgment. At this time of night, in this location, you had a bond of sorts. You were dealing with things most people — those with their heads warm against pillows, dreaming the time away until morning — shied away from.

  “Undertaker,” Hogan mused. “You ever thought it a bloody odd word to use in the circumstances? Funeral director, I can understand, but undertaker . . . ?”

  “You getting philosophical on me, Bobby?”

  “No, I’m just saying . . . ach, forget it.”

  Rebus smiled. His own thoughts were of Dickie Diamond. Dickie had gifted them Chib Kelly’s name. They could have accepted his gift, presented the case to Tennant and left it at that. But Gray and Jazz — Jazz in particular — hadn’t been satisfied. Rebus was wondering if they’d decided to press Dickie further. They’d dumped Rebus at Haymarket, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t turned back. In fact, he was a damned good alibi. When last seen, the trio had been heading west out of town, while Dickie was found in the northeast corner of the city. The Wild Bunch had started life looking like an uneasy alliance of insubordinate officers who didn’t like authority and were as likely to ignore an order as carry it out. But now Rebus was wondering if there was something more dangerous, more lethal at work. Gray, Jazz and Ward had been all too ready to help rip off the warehouse consignment. Force would have been necessary, but that hadn’t seemed to bother them. Were they capable of killing Dickie Diamond? Then again, why would they have killed him? Rebus didn’t have an answer for that, not yet.

  He was leaning over the wall, watching the roadway, when he spotted the parked car. Movement within it. As the driver’s door opened and the interior light came on, he recognized Malky. He looked for Malky’s mother but didn’t see her. Malky was making to cross the road towards Rebus, but stopped at the centerline and stretched his arm, pointing.

  “You fucking killed him, ya bastard!”

  Hogan was at the wall now, too. “Calm down, Malky,” he called.

  “Dickie told me he was going to have a word with you!” Malky shouted hoarsely. His finger moved towards the mortuary building. “Is that what you call ‘a word’? Man comes to talk to you, you do him in!”

  “What’s he talking about, John?” Hogan said.

  Rebus shook his head. “Maybe Dickie did say he was coming to see me . . .”

  “But never got round to it?” Hogan guessed.

  “Or didn’t get the chance.”

  Hogan patted Rebus’s arm. “I’ll go talk to him,” he said, making for the street, hands held up in front of him. “Easy now, Malky, easy . . . It’s a bad time for you, I know, but let’s not go waking the neighbors, eh?”

  For a moment, Rebus had thought he was going to say “waking the dead” . . .

  He headed back indoors, depositing his empty mug in the sink in the staff room. As he turned to leave, Dr. Curt came in, no longer wearing his gown and boots.

  “Any tea going?” Curt asked.

  “Kettle’s not long boiled.”

  Curt busied himself with a fresh mug and tea bag. “He was dead when he went in the water,” he began. “Happened around midnight, and the body went in the water not long after. Forensics might be able to tell us more from the clothing.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Windpipe was crushed.”

  Rebus thought back to the interview room, the way Gray’s forearm had slid around Diamond’s throat . . .

  “You got a spare cigarette?” Curt was asking now. Rebus opened his pack, and Curt picked one out, tucking it behind his ear. “I’ll have it with my tea. Simple pleasures, eh, John?”

  “Where would we be without them?” Rebus said, his mind on the drive he was planning to take . . .

  It was nearly dawn when he reached Tulliallan. He saw another detective in front of him, sneaking back in after a night in someone else’s bed. Rebus recognized him, a young detective sergeant from the new City Center force. He’d be here on one of the specialist programs. Rebus drove around the car park, seeking Jazz’s Volvo. There was dew on it, as with the cars on either side, so it had been there awhile. He touched the hood. It was cold; again, same temperature as the cars either side.

  He did the same set of checks with Gray’s Lexus, once he’d found it. Nothing to suggest it had been used in the recent past. Then he realized he didn’t know what car Allan Ward drove. He supposed he could look for a dealer badge on the back windshield, something indicating purchase in Dumfries . . . but that would take time, and he was pretty sure it would be a waste of effort. Instead, he headed indoors and along to the bedrooms, walking right past his own door and knocking loudly on Gray’s, four along from him. When there was no answer, he knocked again.

  “Who is it?” the voice coughed from within.

  “It’s Rebus.”

  The door opened a crack, Gray squinting into the light. “Hell’s going on?” he asked. His hair was sticking up. He was dressed in a T-shirt and underpants. The room smelled stuffy.

  “Been in bed long, Francis?” Rebus asked.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Dickie Diamond’s just been found dead, windpipe crushed.”

  Gray didn’t say anything, just blinked a couple of times as if trying to wake from a dream.

  “Afterwards, he was dumped in Leith docks, the killer trying to muddy the waters, as it were . . .” Rebus narrowed his eyes. “Coming back to you now, is it, Francis? It was only four or five hours ago.”

  “Four or five hours ago I was tucked up in bed,” Gray stated.

  “Anyone see you come back?”

  “I don’t have to explain anything to you, Rebus.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Rebus pointed a finger. “Round up your pals and meet me in the bar. You’ve got a serious amount of convincing to do if you want me off your case.”

  Rebus went to the bar and waited. The place smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. There were a few glasses dotted around, left there by drinkers who’d stayed put after the place had closed. Most of the chairs had been stacked on tables. Rebus lifted one down and made himself comfortable. He was asking himself what the hell he was doing here. It wasn’t that he was afraid of what Dickie Diamond might have told anyone. It was more that he just didn’t care anymore. Everything seemed to be falling apart, and the subtle undercover work hadn’t accomplished anything, perhaps because subtlety had never been his strong point. Rather, he was going to shake things up, see how the trio reacted. What did he have to lose? That was a question he wasn’t about to answer.

  Five minutes later, the three men walked in. Gray had made some attempt to flatten his hair against his skull. Jazz looked wide awake and had dressed with his usual care. Allan Ward, wearing only a baggy T-shirt and gym shorts, was yawning and rubbing his face. He’d slipped sneakers on his feet, but no socks.

  “Has Francis filled you in?” Rebus asked as they sat in a row a
cross the table from him.

  “Dickie Diamond’s been found dead,” Jazz answered. “And you seem to think Francis had a hand in it.”

  “Maybe more of a forearm than a hand. Dickie’s windpipe was crushed. Same sort of maneuver Francis pulled in IR1.”

  “When did all this happen?” Jazz asked.

  “Pathologist thinks around midnight.”

  Jazz looked to Gray. “We were back here by then, weren’t we?”

  Gray shrugged.

  “You left me around eight,” Rebus said. “Doesn’t take four hours to drive from Haymarket to here.”

  “We didn’t come straight back,” Ward explained, still rubbing his face with both hands. “We stopped for something to eat and a few drinks.”

  “Where?” Rebus asked coldly.

  “John,” Jazz said quietly, “none of us went near Dickie Diamond.”

  “Where?” Rebus repeated.

  Jazz sighed. “That road out of town . . . the one we were on after we left you. We stopped for a curry. After all, we had things to talk about, didn’t we?” Now all three men looked at Rebus.

  “We did,” Gray agreed.

  “What was the restaurant called?” Rebus asked.

  Jazz tried to laugh. “Give me a break, John . . .”

  “And afterwards? Where did you drink?”

  “Couple of pubs on that same road,” Ward stated. “Too good an opportunity, with Jazz driving . . .”

  “Names?” Rebus said.

  “Get stuffed,” Gray said. He leaned back and folded his arms. “We don’t need this paranoia of yours. Is it because you’re in the huff? We’d given you the hump, left you standing there? So now you try pulling this . . . ?”

  “Francis has a point, John,” Jazz said.

  “If you went trawling Leith for Dickie Diamond, someone will have spotted you,” Rebus pressed on.

  Jazz shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “But no one’s going to come forward, because we were never there.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Yes,” Jazz said, nodding his head without his eyes ever leaving Rebus’s, “we will. But meantime, any chance we can go get some sleep now? Something tells me tomorrow’s going to be a day and a half . . .”

  Ward was already on his feet. “Paranoia,” he said, echoing Gray. Rebus doubted he knew what the word meant.

  Gray stood up without saying anything. His eyes burned into Rebus. Jazz was the last to leave.

  “I know you did it,” Rebus told him.

  Jazz seemed about to say something, but shook his head instead, as if to acknowledge that no words were going to change Rebus’s mind.

  “You need to admit it while there’s still time,” Rebus went on.

  “Time for what?” Jazz asked, genuinely curious.

  “For resurrection,” Rebus answered quietly. But Jazz just winked at him before turning to go.

  Rebus sat for a few more minutes before returning to his room, making sure the door was locked behind him. He was aware of the proximity of the three men, three men he’d just accused of murder and accessory to murder. He thought of placing his chair against the door. He thought of heading out to the car park and driving home. In truth, he wasn’t sure they’d killed Dickie; he was only sure that they were capable of it. It all depended how much they knew and how much they suspected — about Rebus’s involvement with Dickie, how it had led to Rico Lomax’s murder and a burning caravan. But he’d wanted the trio shaken, and reckoned he’d succeeded — in spades. He considered who else might have have wanted Dickie dead. There was one name, but thinking of it took him right back to the Rico Lomax case.

  The name of Morris Gerald Cafferty . . .

  25

  Late down to breakfast, Rebus found the other five members of the Wild Bunch seated at one of the tables. He squeezed in between Stu Sutherland and Tam Barclay.

  “What’s this about Dickie Diamond?” Barclay said.

  “Got himself throttled last night,” Rebus answered, concentrating on the plate in front of him.

  Barclay whistled. “Got to be our shout, hasn’t it?”

  “It’s a Leith call,” Rebus told him. “Body was fished out of the docks.”

  “But it could tie in to the Lomax case,” Barclay argued. “Which belongs to us.”

  Sutherland was nodding. “Bloody hell, we talked to him only yesterday.”

  “Yes, funny coincidence,” Rebus said.

  “John thinks one of us did it,” Allan Ward blurted out. Sutherland’s jaw dropped, revealing chewed-up bacon and egg yolk. He turned to Rebus.

  “He’s right,” Rebus conceded. “Diamond had the same neck hold put on him that Francis used in the interview room.”

  “I’d say you’re leaping to conclusions,” Jazz said.

  “Aye,” Barclay added, “the kind of leap Superman used to make in the cartoons.”

  “Just think for a minute, John,” Jazz pleaded. “Try to rationalize it . . .”

  Rebus sneaked a glance at Gray, who was working away at a crust of toast. “What do you say, Francis?” he asked. Gray stared back at him as he answered.

  “I say the pressure’s got to you . . .you’ve stopped thinking straight. Maybe a few extra sessions with wee Andrea are in order.” He reached for his coffee, preparing to wash down the mouthful of toast.

  “Man’s got a point, John,” Barclay argued. “Why the hell would any of us want to do away with Dickie Diamond?”

  “Because he was holding something back.”

  “Such as?” Stu Sutherland asked.

  Rebus shook his head slowly.

  “If there’s something you know,” Gray intoned, “maybe now’s the time to spit it out.”

  Rebus thought of the little confession he’d made to Gray, the hint that he’d not only known Dickie better than he’d admitted but also knew something about Rico Lomax’s demise. Gray’s threat was implicit: keep accusing me, I start talking. But Rebus had considered this, and didn’t think anything Gray could say would do him much harm.

  Unless he’d wrenched some confession out of the Diamond Dog . . .

  “Morning, sir,” Jazz said suddenly, looking over Rebus’s shoulder. Tennant was standing there. He tapped two fingers against Rebus’s upper arm.

  “I hear the situation has changed somewhat, gentlemen. DI Rebus, as you were present at the postmortem examination, perhaps you could fill us in. From what I’ve been told, DI Hogan has yet to apprehend any suspects, and he’s keen for whatever input we can provide.”

  “With respect, sir,” Barclay spoke up, “we should be in charge of this one, seeing how it might connect to Lomax.”

  “But we’re not an active unit, Barclay.”

  “We’ve been doing a pretty good impersonation,” Jazz stated.

  “That’s as may be . . .”

  “And you’re not saying Leith wouldn’t welcome a few extra pairs of hands?”

  “Always supposing they were there to help,” Rebus muttered.

  “What’s that?” Tennant asked.

  “No point in us being there if an ulterior motive’s involved, sir. Hindering rather than helping.”

  “I’m not sure I see what you’re getting at.”

  Rebus was aware of three pairs of eyes glowering at him. “I mean, sir, that Dickie Diamond was strangled, and when we brought him in for questioning, DI Gray got a bit carried away and started throttling him.”

  “Is this true, DI Gray?”

  “DI Rebus is exaggerating, sir.”

  “Did you touch the witness?”

  “He was bullshitting us, sir.”

  “With respect, sir,” Stu Sutherland piped up, “I think John’s making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “A molehill can trip us as surely as any mountain,” Tennant told him. “What do you have to say, DI Gray?”

  “John’s getting carried away, sir. He’s got a bit of a rep for letting cases get beneath his skin. I was out last night with DI McCullough and DC Ward. They
’ll vouch for me.”

  His two witnesses were already nodding.

  “John,” Tennant said quietly, “is your accusation against DI Gray based on anything other than what you say you saw in the interview room?”

  Rebus thought of all the things he could say. But he shook his head instead.

  “Are you willing to withdraw the accusation?”

  Rebus nodded slowly, eyes still on his untouched plate of food.

  “You sure? If Leith CID do ask us to help, I have to be sure we’re heading there as a team.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rebus said dully.

  Tennant pointed to Gray. “Meet me upstairs in five minutes. The rest of you, finish your breakfast and we’ll convene in fifteen. I’ll talk to DI Hogan and see what the state of play is.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jazz McCullough said. Tennant was already on his way.

  Nobody said anything to Rebus during the rest of the meal. Gray was first to go, followed by Ward and Barclay. Jazz seemed to be waiting for Stu Sutherland to leave them alone, but Sutherland got himself a refill of coffee. As he rose to go, Jazz kept his eyes on Rebus, but Rebus focused on the remains of his egg white. Sutherland settled back down with his replenished cup and took a loud slurp.

  “Friday today,” he commented. “POETS day.”

  Rebus knew what he meant: Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. The team were due a weekend’s break, followed by the final four days of the course.

  “Think I’ll go to my room and start packing,” Sutherland said, getting up again. Rebus nodded, and Sutherland paused, as if preparing for some carefully considered speech.

  “Cheers, Stu,” Rebus said, hoping to spare him the effort. It worked. Sutherland smiled as though Rebus were responding to something he’d said, some valuable contribution to Rebus’s well-being.

  Back in his room, Rebus was checking for messages on his mobile when it started to ring. He studied the number on the LCD display, and decided to take the call.

  “Yes, sir?” he said.

  “All right to talk?” Sir David Strathern asked.

  “I’ve got a couple of minutes before I need to be somewhere else.”