by Ian Rankin
Rebus saw Gray’s face sag. “You lost the lot?” he guessed. Now he knew why they’d been so keen on the idea of the heist. And something else . . . “Bothered to tell Allan yet?”
Nobody said anything, and Rebus had his answer.
“We can’t prove,” McCullough said at last, “that you killed Rico Lomax. But that needn’t stop us circulating the story. Just as you can’t prove any connection between us and Edward Marber.”
“So where does that leave us?” Gray asked. McCullough locked eyes with Rebus and shrugged his response.
“I think some tombs are best left undisturbed,” he said in the same quiet voice. Rebus knew what he was referring to: resurrection. “Don’t you, John? What do you say? Do we call it a draw?”
Rebus took a deep breath, then checked his watch. “I have to make a call.” Gray and McCullough were like statues as he pushed the buttons.
“Siobhan? It’s me.” He watched some of the tension leave either man. “Out in five.” Rebus ended the call.
McCullough patted his hands together in muffled applause. “She’s waiting for you in the car?” he guessed. “An insurance policy.”
“If I don’t walk out of here,” Rebus acknowledged, “she runs straight to the chief constable.”
“If we were chess players, we’d be shaking hands right now, happy to share a result.”
“But we’re not,” Rebus stated. “I’m a cop and you’ve killed two men.” He stood up, started to walk out. “See you in court,” he said.
He closed the door after him but didn’t make straight for the car. He walked briskly along the corridor, punching Siobhan’s number back into his phone. “I might need a couple more minutes,” he warned her, turning into the accommodation block. He thumped hard on one of the doors, eyes darting back along the corridor, in case either McCullough or Gray was following.
The door opened a crack and a pair of eyes, slitted against the light, appeared. “What the fuck do you want?” Allan Ward asked, his voice dry and rasping.
Rebus pushed him into the room, closed the door behind them. “We need to talk,” he said. “Or rather, I need to talk, you need to listen.”
“Get the hell out of here!”
Rebus shook his head. “Your pals have blown the money,” he said.
Ward’s eyes opened a fraction wider. “Look, I don’t know what you think you’re trying to pull . . .”
“Have they told you about Marber? I don’t suppose they have. Shows how much they trust you, Allan. Who was it asked you to pump Phyllida Hawes for information? Was it Jazz? Did he say it was because he’s been slipping one to Ellen Dempsey?” Rebus shook his head slowly. “He killed Marber. Marber’s the dealer who bought and sold all those paintings for you, building the investment . . . Only Jazz decided you could make faster money playing the market. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Allan, but the whole lot’s gone.”
“Fuck off.” But some of the force had left Ward’s voice.
“Marber decided he wanted another cut, and they didn’t have the money to pay him. They were worried he’d blab, so they killed him. And whether you like it or not, you’re implicated.”
Ward looked at him unblinking, then sat down on his unmade bed. He was dressed in a Travis T-shirt and boxer shorts. He rubbed both hands through his hair.
“I don’t know what they told you about the plan at the warehouse,” Rebus went on. “Maybe they said it would be easy money . . . But they needed it, because in under a year from now, when they started taking retirement, you were going to find out that there were no shares to divvy out. You could put all those dreams of yours on hold . . .”
Ward started shaking his head. “No,” he said. “No, no, no . . .”
Rebus opened the door an inch. “Talk to them, Allan. They’ll lie to you. Ask to see the money.” He nodded slowly. “Ask to see it . . . and look into their eyes when you do. There’s no money, Allan. Just a couple of corpses and some cops gone very, very bad.” He opened the door wider but paused again on the threshold. “You want to talk to me, you’ve got my number . . .”
He walked outside, expecting at any second to be grabbed, stabbed or bludgeoned. Saw that Siobhan was still in the car, and felt the first wave of relief. She slid over from the driver’s seat to the passenger side, and he opened the door and got in behind the wheel.
“So?” she asked, still sounding frustrated that she’d been left out.
He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose all we can do now is wait and see.” He turned the ignition.
“You mean see if they try to kill us too?”
“We write up everything we know . . . every step we’ve just taken. Copies to be kept in safe places.”
“Tonight?” she frowned.
“Has to be,” Rebus said, sliding the gearshift into first. “Your place or mine?”
“Mine,” she sighed. “And you can keep me awake on the drive by telling me a story.”
“What kind would you like?”
“The kind where you walk into Tulliallan leaving me outside in the cold.”
He smiled. “You mean a courtroom drama then? So be it . . .”
31
Tuesday morning, Morris Gerald Cafferty was enjoying breakfast at his kitchen table, feeding pieces of glistening sausage to an attentive Claret. Rebus sat opposite him, nursing his second glass of orange juice. He’d managed four hours’ sleep on Siobhan’s sofa, tiptoeing out without waking her. At quarter to seven, he was at Tulliallan, and now, just over an hour later, he was having to endure the smell of Cafferty’s fry-up. A bustling middle-aged woman had cooked it and, Rebus refusing the offer of a helping, looked ready to start on the washing-up until Cafferty told her to come back later.
“See if you can hoover some of Claret’s hair off the sofa, will you, Mrs. Prentice?” Cafferty asked. She nodded brusquely and left them alone.
“You don’t get many like Mrs. Prentice to the pound,” Cafferty commented, biting into a crisp half-slice of toast. “Bring your trunks this time, Strawman?”
“I know it was you that hit the warehouse. Weasel told you about it, didn’t he?”
Rebus had worked it out. Claverhouse hadn’t just stumbled on the lorry — he’d been pointed in its direction by the Weasel, the man shopping his own son because otherwise Aly’s life would have been short indeed. But having delivered him into police custody, he’d realized that Cafferty would still want blood when he found out. Rebus had offered short-term deliverance, but in the end there was only one way to save Aly: take Cafferty out of the picture. Which meant setting him up — telling him about the drugs in the hope that he would be tempted. But Cafferty had plotted the hit without telling the Weasel, and the Weasel’s hint to Rebus that night in the tenement garden hadn’t clicked quite hard enough. The Weasel had been left out of the loop, and the heist had succeeded, leaving him — rather than his son — as the wanted man . . .
Cafferty was shaking his head. “Don’t you ever rest for a second? What about some coffee to go with that juice?”
“I even know how you did it.”
Cafferty dropped another chunk of sausage into Claret’s mouth.
“I need a favor,” Rebus continued. He took out his notebook and wrote down an address, tearing out the page and sliding it across the table. “If some of the merchandise found its way here, you might find the heat dissipating a bit.”
“I didn’t know there was any heat,” Cafferty said with a smile.
Rebus lifted his glass. “Want me to tell you something I know about claret?”
“The wine or the dog?”
“Both, I suppose. You can tell their quality by their good nose. When I saw your dog last night, nosing its way up and down the path and across the lawn, I knew.” Rebus’s eyes shifted from Claret to her owner. “She’s a sniffer dog, isn’t she?”
Cafferty’s smile broadened, and he leaned down to pat Claret’s side. “Customs and Excise pensioned her off. I don’t
like my staff doing drugs, so I thought she might come in handy.”
Rebus nodded. He remembered the video footage: the van going into the warehouse . . . then a wait as they realized they didn’t know where the consignment was. A quick call, and Claret had been driven there in another van. A few minutes later, it was mission accomplished.
“You didn’t have time to steal another van,” Rebus said, “so I’m guessing you used one of your own . . . that’s why you blacked out the license plate . . .”
Cafferty waved his fork at him. “As it happens, one of my vans was stolen Saturday night . . . found it burnt out in Wester Hailes . . .” There was silence between them for a moment, then Cafferty sniffed and slid the piece of notepaper closer to himself, reading it upside down. “Another favor, eh?” His eyes gleamed. “Made any progress on the Rico Lomax case, Strawman?”
“News travels.”
“It does in this city.”
Rebus thought back six years. Dickie Diamond telling him that the manse rapist was holed up in Lomax’s caravan . . . Rebus getting there too late . . . At the end of his tether, he’d torched the caravan and paid a visit to Barlinnie, not to ask Cafferty a favor but merely to tell him the story, hoping Cafferty’s contacts would succeed where he had failed. But that hadn’t happened. Instead, his men had attacked Rico Lomax, beating him mercilessly and leaving him to die. Which hadn’t been Rebus’s plan at all. Not that Cafferty had believed him. When Rebus had returned to Barlinnie to rage at him, Cafferty had laughed, sitting with arms folded.
We should be careful what we wish for, Strawman . . . The words ringing in Rebus’s ears all down the years . . .
“The Lomax case is closed,” he stated now.
Cafferty lifted the address, folded it into the pocket of his clean white shirt. “Funny the way things sometimes turn out,” he said.
“And is the Weasel busy laughing as we speak?” Rebus asked.
“He’s history,” Cafferty said, brushing toast crumbs from his fingers. “Think his son could have come up with a scheme like that? Weasel was about to make a move on me. Then he got cold feet, shopped Aly . . .” Cafferty made sure there were no crumbs on his shirtfront or trousers, then dabbed his mouth with a cotton napkin. He looked at Rebus and sighed. “Always nice to do business with you, Strawman . . .”
Rebus stood up, fearing at first that his legs might not support him. His whole body felt like it was turning to dust . . . the dull sensation of ashes in his mouth.
I’ve made a pact with the devil, he thought as his hands gripped the edge of the breakfast table. Resurrection would come only to those who deserved it; Rebus knew he was not among them. He could find a church and pray all he liked, or offer up his confession to Strathern. Neither would make a jot of difference. This was how the jobs got done: with a tainted conscience, guilty deals, and complicity. With grubby motives and a spirit grown corrupt. His steps were so shallow as he walked towards the door, he could have been wearing shackles.
“I’ll be seeing you in court one of these days, Cafferty,” he said, his words failing to have any effect. It was as though Cafferty had ceased to see him, his annihilation complete.
“One of these days,” he repeated under his breath, hoping to God that he meant it . . .
Allan Ward woke up late that morning. He was making his way to the dining room when Stu Sutherland, looking sprightly as the course neared its end, told him there was a “mysterious envelope” waiting for him at reception. Ward passed the dining room and opened the connecting door to the original baronial-style building, where a uniformed receptionist handed him a thick legal-sized packet. He opened it in front of her, knew at once what it was. A typed report of Rebus’s findings. Deciding to skip breakfast for once, Allan Ward headed back to his room. He had some reading to do . . .
32
Rebus spent the morning at St. Leonard’s, where nothing was happening. Siobhan had argued that they should talk to Gill Templer, persuade her to at least get Malcolm Neilson out on bail.
“Just a bit longer,” Rebus told her, shaking his head.
“Why?”
“I want to see what Allan Ward will do.”
He got his answer at midday when, about to pop out for some lunch, his mobile sounded. Caller ID: Allan Ward.
“Hello there, Allan,” Rebus said. “Had a chance to speak to your mates?”
“I’ve been too busy reading.” There was a lot of background noise: Ward was in his car.
“And?”
“And I don’t think I’ve really got anything to say to them. It’s you I want to talk to.”
“On the record?”
“If you like.”
“Do you want to come here?”
“Where are you?”
“St. Leonard’s.”
“No, not there. How about somewhere else? I want to get everything straight first, talk it through with you. Would your flat be all right? I’m just west of the city.”
“I’ll have the beers waiting.”
“Better make it soft drinks only. I’ve got a lot of talking to do . . . want to make sure it comes out right.”
“The Irn-Brus are on me,” Rebus said, ending the call.
He didn’t see Siobhan. Maybe she’d headed out to lunch already or was networking with the uniforms in the toilets. There was no sign of Derek Linford either. Word was, with the case wrapped up, he’d hightailed it back to HQ, to keep tabs on the future of his onetime mentor. Davie Hynds had sidled up to Rebus earlier, complaining that he felt Siobhan was freezing him out.
“Get used to it,” Rebus had advised coldly. “That’s the kind of cop she is.”
“I begin to see where she gets it from,” Hynds had muttered.
Rebus stopped at a corner shop, bought six cans of Irn-Bru and four of Fanta. Tuna mayonnaise roll for himself. He took two bites of it as he drove, but realized he wasn’t hungry. He thought of Siobhan. More and more, she reminded him of himself. He wasn’t sure it was necessarily a good thing, but was glad of it all the same . . .
There was a parking space outside his tenement: the rest of the day was going to be good to him. Red cone on the pavement, which might mean they were going to start laying cables or something. The council always seemed to be digging up Marchmont . . . He was just about to close his driver’s-side door when feet shuffled up behind him.
“You got here quick,” Allan Ward’s voice said.
“You too . . .” He had his head half turned, saw that Ward had brought some friends with him. Next thing, the doors to the Saab were open again and he was being bundled into the back, a knife pressing into his side with enough force to let him know Francis Gray wouldn’t need much of an excuse to use it.
Now the cone made sense: they’d used it to keep the parking bay free until he arrived.
Which didn’t exactly help the situation any.
The car was reversing at speed, McCullough turning the steering wheel hard. Allan Ward was in the front beside him, leaving Rebus in the back with Francis Gray. It was an evil-looking knife with a long black handle and a shining serrated edge.
“Christmas present, Francis?” Rebus asked.
“I could kill you now, save us some fucking hassle,” Gray spat, showing his teeth. A dull throb of pain told Rebus that the tip of the knife had already pierced his skin. When he dabbed with a finger, he found a large droplet of blood. Shock and adrenaline were doing their work; otherwise, he’d be feeling it more than he was.
“Made your peace then, Allan?” he called out. Ward didn’t reply. “This is insane, you must know that.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore, John,” McCullough said softly. “Hasn’t that struck home yet?”
“Francis has tried making the point . . .” He caught McCullough’s eyes in the mirror. They seemed to be smiling. “Where are we heading?”
“If this was Glasgow,” Gray answered, “we’d be going for what we call a ‘short walk in the Campsies.’ ”
Rebus took hi
s meaning. The Campsie Fells was a hill range outside the city.
“I’m sure we can find a suitable spot somewhere on Edinburgh’s equivalent,” McCullough added. “Somewhere a shallow grave won’t be disturbed . . .”
“You’ve got to get me there first,” Rebus said. He knew they’d be heading south out of the city, making for the wild expanse of the Pentland Hills.
“Alive or dead, makes no odds to me,” Gray hissed.
“That go for you too, Allan?” Rebus asked. “This’ll be the first killing you’ve actually participated in. Got to break your cherry sometime, I suppose . . .”
Gray was holding the knife at stomach level, so it wouldn’t be seen from passing cars. Rebus doubted there was any way he could escape from the Saab without Gray doing him some serious damage before he got out. There was a mad gleam to the man’s eyes. Maybe that was what McCullough had meant: it didn’t matter anymore . . . they’d crossed the line permanently. With Rebus out of the way, suspicion would fall on them, but still with no concrete proof they’d done anything. Strathern and his colleagues had suspected them for years, and nothing had come of it. Maybe they really believed they could take Rebus out of the game with impunity . . .
And maybe they were right.
“I had a wee look at the notes you sent Allan,” McCullough was saying, as though following Rebus’s train of thought. “I don’t see that you’ve got much of a case.”
“Then why take the risk of killing me?”
“Because it’ll be fun,” Gray replied.
“For you maybe,” Rebus told him, “but I still don’t see what Jazz and Allan get out of it. Except that it binds you all together, makes sure one of you can never rat out the others . . .” He was staring at the back of Allan Ward’s head, willing him to turn round, make eye contact. Finally, Ward did turn, but only to speak to Gray.
“Do me a favor, will you, Francis? Kill him now so we don’t have to listen to any more of his squawking.”
