Resurrection Men ir-13

by Ian Rankin

  “Good night, John.”

  “Can I phone you tomorrow?”

  “You better had,” she warned, opening her door. “It’s rare that I give someone a second chance.”

  “Scout’s honor,” he said, lifting two fingers to his right temple. She smiled again and was gone. She didn’t look back, just climbed the steps to her front door, unlocked it and closed it after her. The hall light was already on — the lazy person’s deterrent. He waited till the lights came on upstairs — hallway and bedroom — then put the car into gear and moved off.

  There was no space for the Saab in Arden Street. He had a quick look to make sure Dickie Diamond wasn’t lurking, but there was no sign. He parked a two-minute walk away, enjoying the fresh air. The night was crisp, almost autumnal. The dinner had gone well, he decided. No interruptions: he’d switched off his mobile, and his pager hadn’t sounded. Trying his mobile now, he found that he had no new messages.

  “Thank Christ for that,” he said, pushing open his tenement door. He was going to have one more whiskey, albeit a large one. He was going to sit in his chair and listen to some music. He’d already penciled in Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti. He wanted something that would blow everything else away. He might even fall asleep in the chair, and that wouldn’t matter.

  Things were back on track with Jean. He thought so . . . hoped so. He’d phone her first thing in the morning, maybe again after work.

  He reached his landing, stared at his door.

  “For Christ’s sake . . .”

  The door was wide open, the hall dark within. Someone had used an implement of some kind to bust the lock. There were shards of freshly splintered wood. He peered into the hall. No signs of life . . . no sounds. Not that he was going to risk it. The memory of Diamond’s revolver was too recent. Diamond probably had the ammo hidden somewhere, maybe even in his car . . . Rebus called on his mobile, asked for backup. Then he stood on the landing and waited. Still no signs of life from within. He tried the light switch by the front door. Nothing happened.

  Five minutes had passed when, downstairs, the main door opened and closed. He’d heard a car screeching to a halt. Feet on the staircase. He leaned over to watch Siobhan Clarke climbing towards him.

  “You’re the backup?” he said.

  “I was in the station.”

  “This time of night?”

  She paused, four steps down from him. “I can always go home . . .” She half turned, as if to leave.

  “Might as well stay,” he said, “now you’re here. Don’t suppose you’ve got a flashlight on you?”

  She opened her bag. There was a large black flashlight inside. She clicked it on.

  “Fuse box is over there,” he said, pointing into the hall. Someone had turned the electricity off. Rebus flipped the switch and the lights came on. They moved through the rest of the flat as a team, quickly sensing that no one was there.

  “Looks like a straightforward break-in,” she commented. He didn’t respond. “You don’t agree?”

  “I’d feel happier with the diagnosis if anything were actually missing.”

  But nothing was, nothing he could see. The hi-fi, TV, his albums and CDs, his booze and books . . . all present and correct.

  “To be honest, I’m not sure I’d bother nicking anything either,” Siobhan said, picking up the cover of a Nazareth LP. “Do you want to call it in as a housebreaking?”

  Rebus knew what that would mean: a fingerprint team leaving dust everywhere; giving a statement to a bored woolly suit . . . And everyone at the station knowing he’d been turned over. He shook his head. Siobhan looked at him.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  She seemed only now to spot that he was wearing a better suit than usual. “How was the meal?”

  He looked at himself, started removing his tie. “Fine.” He popped the top button on his shirt and felt some of the pressure ease. “Thanks again for calling her.”

  “Anything to help.” She was studying the living room once more. “You’re sure nothing’s been taken?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Then why would someone break in?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Care to try a few guesses?”

  “No.” Dickie Diamond . . . Gray . . . the Weasel . . . Plenty of people seemed to know where he lived. But what would any of them be looking for? Maybe it was the students through the wall, desperate to play some decent music for a change . . .

  Siobhan sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “Why is it that when you say ‘no,’ I know you’ve already got some names in mind?”

  “Woman’s intuition?”

  “Not my finely honed detective’s skills then?”

  “Those, too, of course.”

  “Have you got a joiner you can phone?” She meant the door: emergency repair needed.

  “I’ll wait till morning. They charge an arm and a leg otherwise.”

  “And what if someone comes tiptoeing in here through the night?”

  “I’ll hide under the bed till they’ve gone.”

  She came forwards till she was standing directly in front of him, slowly lifted her hand. Rebus didn’t know what she was going to do. But he didn’t shy away. Her forefinger touched his brow.

  “How did that happen?”

  “It’s just a graze.”

  “A fresh one, though. Wasn’t Jean, was it?”

  “I just fell into something.” They locked eyes. “And I wasn’t drunk, God’s honest truth.” He paused. “But speaking of drink . . .” He picked up the bottle. “Care to join me, now you’re here?”

  “Can’t have you drinking alone, can we?”

  “I’ll fetch a couple of glasses.”

  “Any chance of a coffee to go with it?”

  “I’ve no milk.”

  She went into her bag again, producing a small carton. “I was saving this for home,” she said, “but in the circumstances . . .”

  He retreated to the kitchen and Siobhan slipped off her coat. She was thinking that she would redecorate this room, given the chance. A lighter carpet, for definite, and junk the 1960s light fixtures.

  Through in the kitchen, Rebus took two glasses from the cupboard, found a milk jug and poured some cold water into it, just in case Siobhan felt the need. Then he opened the freezer compartment of his fridge, lifted out a half bottle of vodka, a packet of venerable fish fingers and a shriveled morning roll. There was a polythene shopping bag beneath, and in it the chief constable’s report on Bernie Johns. Rebus was fairly sure no one had tampered with it. He put it back, along with the fish fingers and the roll. Filled the kettle and switched it on.

  “You can have vodka instead if you prefer,” he called.

  “Whiskey’s fine.”

  Rebus smiled and closed the freezer door.

  “Did you ever listen to that Arab Strap tape I made you?” Siobhan asked as he returned to the living room.

  “It was good,” he said. “Drunk guy from Falkirk, right? Lyrics all about getting his end away?” He poured, handed her the glass. Offered water, but she shook her head.

  They both sat down on the sofa, sipped their drinks. “There’s a saying, isn’t there?” Rebus asked. “Something about drinking and friendship?”

  “Misery loves company?” Siobhan guessed mischievously.

  “That’s it,” Rebus said with a smile, raising his glass. “Here’s to misery!”

  “To misery,” Siobhan echoed. “Where would we be without it?”

  He looked at her. “You mean it’s part and parcel of human life?”

  “No,” she said. “I mean you and me would be out of a job . . .”

  21

  As soon as he woke up, Rebus called Jean. He’d actually made it as far as his bed last night, but when he walked through to the living room the hi-fi was still playing. Wishbone Ash’s There’s the Rub — he must have pressed the REPEAT button by mistake. The whiskey
glasses were on the dining table. Siobhan had left a good half inch untouched. Rebus thought about finishing it, but dribbled it back into the bottle instead. Then he reached for the telephone.

  Jean was still asleep. He imagined her: tousled hair, sun streaming in through her cream burlap curtains. Sometimes when she woke up there were fine white accumulations at the corners of her mouth.

  “I said I’d call,” he told her.

  “I was hoping it might be at a civilized hour.” But she was good-humored about it. “I take it you didn’t manage to pick up any unsuitable women on your way home?”

  “And what sort of woman do you think would be unsuitable for me?” he asked, smiling. He’d already decided that she needn’t know about the break-in . . . or about Siobhan’s little visit.

  They chatted for five minutes, then Rebus placed another call — this time to a joiner he knew, a man who owed him a favor — after which he made himself coffee and a bowl of cereal. There wasn’t quite enough milk for both, so he watered the carton down from the cold tap. By the time he’d eaten, showered and got dressed, the joiner had arrived.

  “Pull the door shut after you, Tony,” Rebus told him, making his way out onto the landing. As he walked downstairs, he wondered again who might have been behind the break-in. Diamond was the obvious candidate. Maybe he’d wanted to wait for Rebus but had got fed up. As Rebus drove to St. Leonard’s, he replayed the scene on Bruntsfield Links. He was furious that Diamond had pulled a gun on him. Loaded or not, it didn’t matter. He tried to recall how he’d felt. Not scared exactly . . . in fact, fairly calm. When someone aimed a gun at you, it was pointless to worry — either you were going to get shot or you weren’t. He remembered that his whole body had tingled, almost vibrating with an electric energy. Dickie Diamond . . . the Diamond Dog . . . thinking he could get away with something like that . . .

  He parked the car and decided to skip his usual cigarette. Instead, he went to the comms room and gave the word that he wanted patrols to be on the lookout for a certain motor vehicle. He gave the description and license plate.

  “Nobody’s to go near it: all I want is the whereabouts.”

  The uniform had nodded, then started speaking into the mike. Rebus was hoping Diamond would have heeded his warning to clear out of town. All the same, he needed to be sure.

  It was another half hour before the rest of the Wild Bunch arrived. They’d come in the one car. Rebus could tell which three had been squeezed into the backseat — Ward, Sutherland and Barclay. They were doing stretching exercises as they walked into the room.

  Gray and Jazz: driver and front-seat passenger. Once again, Rebus wondered about Allan Ward, about how he felt being so often the odd man out. He was yawning, his back clicking as he raised and lowered his shoulders.

  “So what did you lot get up to last night?” Rebus asked, trying to make it sound like a casual inquiry.

  “A few drinks,” Stu Sutherland said. “And early to bed.”

  Rebus looked around. “What?” he asked in apparent disbelief. “All of you?”

  “Jazz nipped home to see his missus,” Tam Barclay admitted.

  “See to her more like,” Sutherland added with a leering grin.

  “We should hit a nightclub some evening,” Barclay said. “Kirkcaldy maybe . . . see if we can get a lumber.”

  “You make that sound so appetizing,” Allan Ward muttered.

  “So the rest of you were in the bar at Tulliallan?” Rebus persisted.

  “Pretty much,” Barclay said. “We weren’t pining for you.”

  “Why the interest, John?” Gray asked.

  “If you’re afraid of being left out,” Sutherland added, “you should move back there with us.”

  Rebus knew he daren’t push it any further. He’d got back to his flat around midnight. If the intruder had come from Tulliallan, they’d have had to leave the college around half past ten, eleven o’clock at the latest. That would have given them time to drive into Edinburgh, search the flat and get out again before he arrived home. How had they known he would be out? Something else to think about . . . Dickie Diamond had known he was headed for a rendezvous, reinforcing his position as most likely culprit. Rebus half hoped one of the patrols would call in a sighting. If Diamond was still in Edinburgh, Rebus had a few things to put to him . . .

  “So what’s the schedule today?” Jazz McCullough asked, closing the newspaper he’d been reading.

  “Leith, I suppose,” Gray informed him. “See if we can track down any more of Diamond’s pals.” He looked at Rebus. “What do you think, John?”

  Rebus nodded. “Anyone mind if I stay here for a bit? I’ve a couple of jobs to do.”

  “Fine with me,” Gray said. “Anything we can help you with?”

  Rebus shook his head. “Shouldn’t take too long, Francis. Thanks all the same.”

  “Well, whatever happens,” Ward said, “if we don’t come up with something, Tennant’s going to have us back at Tulliallan pronto.”

  They nodded agreement. It would happen . . . today or tomorrow, it would happen, and the Rico case would become paperwork again, and brainstorming sessions, and making a card index, and all the rest. No more side trips, no chances for breaks at the pub or the odd meal out.

  The Rico case would have died.

  Gray was staring at Rebus, but Rebus kept his eyes on the wall. He knew what Gray was thinking: he was thinking that John Rebus would like that state of affairs just fine . . .

  “I’m only doing this because you asked so nicely.”

  “What’s that, Mr. Cafferty?” Siobhan asked.

  “Letting you bring me here.” Cafferty looked around IR2. “To be honest, I’ve had prison cells bigger than this.” He folded his arms. “So how can I help you, Detective Sergeant Clarke?”

  “It’s the Edward Marber case. Your name seems to be cropping up at all sorts of tangents . . .”

  “I think I’ve told you everything I can about Eddie.”

  “Is that the same as telling us everything you know?”

  Cafferty’s eyes narrowed appraisingly. “Now you’re just playing games.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Cafferty had shifted his attention to Davie Hynds, who was standing with his back against the wall opposite the desk.

  “You all right there, son?” He seemed pleased when Hynds failed to respond. “How do you like working under a woman, DC Hynds? Does she give you a rough ride?”

  “You see, Mr. Cafferty,” Siobhan went on, ignoring everything he’d said, “we’ve charged Donny Dow — your driver — with the murder of Laura Stafford.”

  “He’s not my driver.”

  “He’s on your payroll,” Siobhan countered.

  “Diminished responsibility anyway,” Cafferty stated with conviction. “Poor bugger didn’t know what he was doing.”

  “Believe me, he knew exactly what he was doing.” When she saw Cafferty’s smile, Siobhan cursed herself for letting him push her buttons. “The woman Dow murdered worked in the Sauna Paradiso. I think if I dig deep enough, I’ll find that you’re its owner.”

  “Better buy a big shovel then.”

  “You see how already you connect to both the murderer and his victim?”

  “He’s not a murderer till he’s convicted,” Cafferty reminded her.

  “You speak with a wealth of experience in that area, don’t you?”

  Cafferty shrugged. He still had his arms folded, and looked relaxed, almost as if he were enjoying himself.

  “Then there’s Edward Marber,” Siobhan pressed on. “You were at the private viewing the night he was killed. You were one of his clients. And ironically, he was one of yours. He met Laura Stafford at the Sauna Paradiso. He rented a flat for her and her son . . .”

  “Your point being . . . ?”

  “My point being that your name keeps cropping up.”

  “Yes, you said. I think the phrase you used was ‘at all sorts of tangents.’ That’s what we’
re talking about here, DS Clarke: tangents, coincidences. That’s all we’re ever going to be talking about, because I didn’t kill Eddie Marber.”

  “Did he cheat you, Mr. Cafferty?”

  “There’s no proof he cheated anyone. Way I hear it, it was one man’s word against his.”

  “Marber paid that man five thousand pounds to shut up.”

  Cafferty grew thoughtful. Siobhan realized she had to be careful how much she gave away to this man. She got the feeling Cafferty coveted information the way other people did jewelry or fast cars. She already had one small result, however: when she’d slipped a mention of the Paradiso into the conversation, Cafferty hadn’t denied ownership.

  A knock came at the door. It opened and a head appeared round it. Gill Templer.

  “DS Clarke? Can I have a word?”

  Siobhan rose from her chair. “DC Hynds, look after Mr. Cafferty, will you?”

  Out in the corridor, Templer was waiting, looking around at the officers, who moved with more efficiency once they’d spotted her. “My office,” she told Siobhan.

  Siobhan was hitting the mental REWIND button, trying to think what she’d done that might have merited a chewing out. But Templer seemed to relax once she was in her own room. She didn’t ask Siobhan to sit, and stayed standing herself, hands behind her, gripping the edge of her desk.

  “I think we might try charging Malcolm Neilson,” she announced. “I’ve been talking it through with the Fiscal’s office. You’ve done a thorough job, Siobhan.”

  Meaning the dossier Siobhan had compiled on the painter. She could see it on the desk.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Siobhan said.

  “You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

  “Maybe I just think there are some loose ends . . .”

  “Dozens, probably, but look at what we’ve got. He’d fallen out with Marber, a very public and bitter argument. He’d taken money — either that or extorted it. He was hanging around outside the gallery on the night in question — witnesses have placed him there.” Templer counted off on her fingers: “Means, motive and opportunity.”

  Siobhan remembered Neilson himself saying much the same thing.