Resurrection Men ir-13

by Ian Rankin

  “I’m assuming this isn’t your work?” Linford asked.

  Siobhan put the bag down. “No,” she said.

  “Do you think they mean me?”

  She prized the lid from her coffee and took a sip.

  “Who’s doing it, do you know?” Linford asked. She shook her head. “You’re not surprised, so I’m guessing this isn’t the first time . . .”

  “Correct. Now if you wouldn’t mind getting out of my chair.”

  Linford stood up. “Sorry,” he said.

  “That’s all right.” She sat down and hit the mouse so that the screen saver disappeared.

  “Did you switch the monitor off before you left last night?” Linford was standing too close to her for comfort.

  “Saves energy,” she told him.

  “So someone powered the system back up.”

  “Looks like.”

  “And knew your password.”

  “Everyone knows everyone else’s password,” she said. “Not enough computers to go round; we have to share.”

  “And by everyone, you mean . . . ?”

  She looked at him. “Let’s just drop it, Derek.” The office was filling up. DCI Bill Pryde was making sure the “bible” — the MMI —was up to date. Phyllida Hawes was halfway down a list of phone calls. The previous afternoon she’d rolled her eyes at Siobhan, indicating that cold-calling wasn’t the most thrilling part of an inquiry. Grant Hood had been called to DCS Templer’s office, probably so they could talk media liaison — Hood’s specialty.

  Linford took half a step back. “So what’s your schedule for the day?”

  Keeping you at arm’s length, she wanted to say. “Taxicabs” was the actual word that came out. “You?”

  Linford rested his hands against the side of her desk. “The deceased’s financial affairs. A bloody minefield they are, too . . .” He was studying her face. “You look tired.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Out carousing last night?”

  “Party animal, that’s me.”

  “Really? I don’t tend to go out much these days . . .” He waited for her to say something, but she was concentrating on blowing on her coffee, even though it was little more than lukewarm.

  “Yes,” Linford plowed on, “Mr. Marber’s financial wheeler-dealings will take some unpicking. Half a dozen bank accounts . . . investment portfolio . . . VCTs . . .”

  “Property?”

  “Just the house in Edinburgh, and his villa in Tuscany.”

  “All right for some.”

  “Mmm, a week in Tuscany would just about do me right now . . .”

  “I’d settle for a week at home on the sofa.”

  “You set your standards too low, Siobhan.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  He didn’t catch her tone. “One slight anomaly in the bank statements . . .”

  It was a tease, but she reacted anyway. “Yes?” she prompted. Phyllida Hawes was putting down the receiver, ticking off another name, starting to scribble some notes to herself.

  “Tucked away in one of his accounts,” Linford was saying. “Quarterly payments to a lettings agency.”

  “A lettings agency?” She watched Linford nod. “Which one?”

  Linford frowned. “Does it matter?”

  “It might. So happens I was at MGC Lettings yesterday, talking to the owner: Big Ger Cafferty.”

  “Cafferty? Wasn’t he one of Marber’s clients?”

  Siobhan nodded. “Which is why I’m curious.”

  “Yes, me too. I mean, why would someone with as much money as Marber need to rent a place anyway?”

  “And the answer is . . . ?”

  “I haven’t quite got there yet. Give me a second . . .” He retreated to his desk — Rebus’s old desk — and started shifting sheets of paper. Siobhan had some digging of her own to do, and DCI Pryde would have the answers.

  “What can I do for you, Siobhan?” he asked as she approached him.

  “The taxi that took the victim home, sir,” she said. “Which company was it?”

  Pryde didn’t even need to look it up: that was what she liked about him. She wondered if he did his homework every night, memorizing facts and figures. The man was a walking MMI.

  “Driver’s name is Sammy Wallace. He has a few priors: housebreaking, fencing. Years back, mind. We’ve checked him out. He looks clean.”

  “But which company does he work for?”

  “MG Private Hire.”

  “Owned by Big Ger Cafferty?”

  Pryde stared at her, unblinking. He had a clipboard held to his chest, fingers drumming against it. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “All right if I check?”

  “Go right ahead. You talked to Cafferty yesterday . . .”

  She nodded. “And now Linford’s come up with a lettings agency that was getting regular payments from Mr. Marber.”

  Pryde’s mouth opened in an O. “So go do your checking,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  She trawled the office, noticing that Linford was still sifting through paperwork. Grant Hood came up to her, holding a photocopied page from Marber’s guest book.

  “What do you reckon that says?” he asked.

  She examined the signature. “Could be Marlowe.”

  “Only there was no one called Marlowe on the guest list.” He exhaled noisily.

  “Templer’s got you trying to sort out who was there that night?” Siobhan guessed.

  Hood nodded. “Most of the work’s been done, but there are some names we can’t put faces to, and vice versa. Come and take a look . . .”

  He led her to his computer and opened up a file. A floor plan of the gallery appeared on the screen, with little crosses representing the guests. Another click of the mouse, and the perspective changed. The crosses had become figures, moving in spasms around the room.

  “It’s the latest software,” he told her.

  “Very impressive, Grant. You worked over the weekend on this?”

  He nodded, proud of his achievement, like a kid showing off something he’d made.

  “And what exactly does it add to the sum of our knowledge?”

  He looked up at her, realizing she was mocking him. “Sod off, Siobhan,” he said. She just smiled.

  “Is one of these stick men meant to be Cafferty?”

  Another click and a list of witness descriptions appeared. “That’s Cafferty,” Hood said. Siobhan read down the column: stocky, silver-haired, black leather jacket more suited to a man half his age.

  “That’s him,” she agreed, patting Hood’s shoulder and moving off in search of a phone book. Davie Hynds had just come in, Pryde checking his watch and frowning. Hynds walked sheepishly into the room, catching Siobhan as she stood by George Silvers’s desk, a tattered copy of Yellow Pages in her hands.

  “I got stuck in traffic,” he explained. “They’re digging up George IV Bridge.”

  “I must remember that one for tomorrow.”

  He saw that the directory was open at taxi companies. “Doing a bit of moonlighting?”

  “MG Private Hire,” she said. “The driver who took Marber home after the show.”

  Hynds nodded, looked over her shoulder as her finger ran down the page.

  “MG Cabs,” she said, tapping the name. “Address in Lochend.”

  “Owned by Cafferty?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He’s got that one cab firm out in Gorgie. Exclusive Cars or something . . .” Her finger ran back up the page. “There they are.” Again her finger tapped the name. “What do you think the MG stands for?”

  “Maybe the cabs are actually sports cars.”

  “Wake up, Davie. Remember his lettings agency? MGC, it’s called. Look at the letters of MG Cabs.”

  “MGC again,” Hynds acknowledged.

  “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

  “It doesn’t prove the firm’s owned by Cafferty, of course.”


  “Maybe the quickest way is to ask Mr. Cafferty himself.” Siobhan walked back over to her desk and picked up the phone.

  “Is that Donna?” she said when the call was answered. “Donna, it’s DS Clarke, we met yesterday. Any chance I could have a word with your boss?” She looked up at Hynds, who was eyeing her coffee greedily. “Oh, is he? Could you maybe ask him to give me a call?” Siobhan gave the secretary her number. “Meantime, I don’t suppose you know if Mr. Cafferty happens to own an outfit called MG Cabs?” Siobhan pushed her coffee towards Hynds, nodding when he looked at her. He smiled gratefully and took a couple of sips. “Thanks anyway,” Siobhan was saying, putting down the receiver.

  “Don’t tell me he’s fled the country?” Hynds asked.

  “She’s not sure where he is. She’s already had to cancel his morning appointments.”

  “Should we be interested?”

  Siobhan shrugged. “Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. If he doesn’t call back, we’ll go looking.”

  Derek Linford was marching towards the desk, a sheet of paper in his hand.

  “Morning, Derek,” Hynds said. Linford ignored him.

  “Here it is,” he said, handing the sheet to Siobhan. The company was called Superlative Property Management. She showed Hynds the name.

  “Can you do anything with those letters?”

  He shook his head, and she turned her attention to Linford. “So why was Mr. Marber paying these people two thousand pounds a quarter?”

  “I don’t know that as yet,” Linford said. “I’m speaking to them today.”

  “I’ll be interested to hear what they say.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know.”

  The way he said it, Siobhan felt the color rising to her cheeks. She tried hiding behind her cup of coffee.

  “It would be useful to know who actually owns Superlative,” Hynds added.

  Linford glared at him. “Thanks for the advice, Detective Constable Hynds.”

  Hynds shrugged, rose up onto his toes and then down again.

  “We need to liaise on this,” Siobhan stated. “It looks like Cafferty might own the cab company which took Marber home. He also owns a lettings agency . . . Might be coincidence, but all the same . . .”

  Linford was nodding. “We’ll sit down together before the end of play today, see what we’ve got.”

  Siobhan nodded back. It was enough for Linford, who turned away and strode back to his desk.

  “I can’t believe how nice he is,” Hynds said in an undertone. “I really think he’s fallen head over heels for me.”

  Siobhan tried stifling a grin, but it happened anyway. She looked across towards Linford, hoping he wouldn’t see it. He was staring straight at her. Seeing what looked like a radiant smile, he returned it.

  Oh, Christ, Siobhan thought. How the hell did I get into this?

  “Remember those flats we saw yesterday at MGC Lettings?” she asked Hynds. “They averaged four hundred a month, twelve hundred a quarter.”

  “Marber’s rent cost a lot more,” Hynds agreed. “Wonder what the hell it is.”

  “Not a storage unit, that’s for certain.” She paused. “I’m sure Derek will let us know.”

  “He’ll let you know,” Hynds said, failing to hide an edge of bitterness . . . maybe even jealousy.

  Oh, Christ, Siobhan thought again.

  “How many times do you need to hear this?”

  The cabdriver, Sammy Wallace, was in one of the interview rooms at St. Leonard’s. The sleeves of his check shirt were rolled up to show arms covered in tattoos, ranging from faded blue-ink jobs to professional renderings of eagles and thistles. His greasy black hair curled over his ears and hung down past his neck at the back. He was broad-shouldered and sported scar tissue on his face and the backs of his hands.

  “How long since you did time, Mr. Wallace?” Hynds asked.

  Wallace stood up abruptly. “Whoah! Just stop the horses fucking dead! I’m not having you lot dredge up shite on me just because you can’t find any other bastard to stick in the frame.”

  “Eloquently put,” Siobhan said calmly. “Would you care to sit down again, Mr. Wallace?”

  Wallace did so, with a show of reluctance. Siobhan was skimming his file, not really reading it.

  “How long have you worked at MG Cabs?”

  “Three years.”

  “So you got the job pretty soon after your release?”

  “Well, there was a dearth of vacancies for brain surgeons that week.”

  Siobhan squeezed out a smile thinner than a prison cigarette. “Mr. Cafferty’s good that way, isn’t he? Likes to help ex-offenders.”

  “Who?”

  “I mean, he’s been in jail himself, so it’s natural he would . . .” Siobhan broke off, as though she’d only just digested Wallace’s question. “Your employer,” she said. “Mr. Cafferty. He’s the one gave you the job, right?”

  Wallace looked from Siobhan to Hynds and back again. “I don’t know anyone called Cafferty.”

  “Morris Gerald Cafferty,” Hynds said. “MG Cabs has his initials.”

  “And I’ve got Stevie Wonder’s initials — doesn’t make me a blind piano player.”

  Siobhan smiled again, with even less humor than before. “With respect, Mr. Wallace, you played it all wrong. Anyone who’s served time will have heard of Big Ger Cafferty. Pretending not to recognize his name, that’s where you got it wrong.”

  “Big Ger? Of course I’ve heard of Big Ger . . . not someone called ‘Morris.’ Not even sure I ever knew his surname . . .”

  “He never comes to the cab office?”

  “Look, as far as I know, MG is run by my boss — Ellen Dempsey. She’s the one gives me my jobs.”

  “Your boss is a woman?” Hynds asked. Wallace just looked at him, and Hynds cleared his throat, as if to acknowledge that it had been a stupid question.

  Siobhan had her mobile out. “What’s the number?”

  “Whose number?” Wallace asked.

  “MG’s.” Wallace gave it to her and she pushed the buttons. Her call was answered immediately.

  “MG Cabs, how may we help?”

  “Is that Ms. Dempsey?” Siobhan asked.

  There was a pause, and the voice became less welcoming. “Who is this?”

  “Ms. Dempsey, my name is Detective Sergeant Clarke, St. Leonard’s CID. I’m currently interviewing one of your drivers, Samuel Wallace.”

  “Christ, not again: how often do you need to hear the story?”

  “Until we’re satisfied that we have all the information we need.”

  “So how can I help?”

  “You could tell me how MG Cabs got its name.”

  “What?”

  “The letters MG: what do they stand for?”

  “The sports car.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “I like them. MG means you’re going to get a cab fast.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “I don’t see what this has to —”

  “Ever heard of a man called Morris Gerald Cafferty — Big Ger?”

  “He’s got a cab outfit in the west end: Exclusive Cars. Does a lot of top-end business.”

  “Top-end?”

  “Executives . . . businesspeople. They need Mercs to collect them at the airport.”

  Siobhan looked at Sammy Wallace. She was trying to visualize him in a peaked cap and white gloves . . .

  “Well, thanks for your help.”

  “I still don’t see what this —”

  “Any idea who made the call to MG Cabs?”

  “Which call?”

  “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.