Resurrection Men ir-13

by Ian Rankin

  Odds on him making it to the weekend in one piece?

  He’d give no better than even money.

  The case against Malcolm Neilson was proceeding nicely. Colin Stewart from the Procurator Fiscal’s office had arrived at St. Leonard’s that morning for a progress report. It would be Stewart and his team of lawyers who’d decide whether there was enough evidence to justify a trial. So far he seemed satisfied. Siobhan had been called into Gill Templer’s office to answer a few of his procedural questions regarding the search of the house in Inveresk. Siobhan had countered with a few questions of her own.

  “We’ve no actual physical evidence yet, have we?”

  Stewart had removed his glasses, seeming to study the lenses for smears, while Gill Templer sat stone-faced beside him.

  “We’ve the painting,” he commented.

  “Yes, but it was found in an unlocked shed. Anyone could have put it there. Aren’t there more tests we could be doing to see whether anyone else handled it?”

  Stewart glanced towards Templer. “We appear to have a doubting Thomas in our midst.”

  “DS Clarke likes to play devil’s advocate,” Templer explained. “She knows as well as we do that further tests would take time and money — especially money — and probably wouldn’t add anything to what we already know.”

  It was something the officers on an inquiry were never allowed to forget: each case had to fall within a strict budget. Bill Pryde probably spent as much time adding up columns of figures as he did on actual detective work. It was another thing he was good at: bringing cases in under budget. The High Hiedyins at the Big House perceived this as a strength.

  “I’m just saying that Neilson would be an easy target. He’d already had a very public falling-out with Marber. Then there was the hush money and . . .”

  “The only people who know about the hush money, DS Clarke,” Stewart said, “are the investigation team themselves.” He slipped his glasses back on. “You’re not implying that one of your own officers could have had some involvement . . . ?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well then . . .”

  And that had been that. Back at her desk, she called Bobby Hogan in Leith. It was something she’d been meaning to do. She wanted to know whether Alexander had been told about his mother’s death, and how he was bearing up. She’d even considered paying the grandmother a visit, but knew there could be no easy conversation between them. Thelma Dow had to contend with the loss of Laura and the jailing of her own son. Siobhan hoped she would be able to cope, able to give Alexander what he needed. She’d even briefly considered contacting a pal in social work, someone who could check that both carer and grandson were going to manage. Staring at the office around her, she saw the case winding down. The telephones had stopped being busy. People were standing around, catching up on gossip. She’d seen Grant Hood on last night’s TV news, acknowledging that a man had been charged, a house searched, and certain contents taken away for examination. It all had to be very coy now, so as not to jeopardize the legal case. The murder of Laura Stafford hadn’t even made the front page of the tabloids. RED-LIGHT STAB HORROR was the headline Siobhan had seen, with a daytime photograph of the Paradiso’s exterior and a much smaller photo of Laura, looking younger and with longer, bubble-permed hair.

  Bobby Hogan was taking a while to come to the phone. Eventually, another officer answered for him.

  “He’s swamped right now, Siobhan. Is it anything I can help with?”

  “Not really . . . They’re keeping you busy down there then?”

  “We had a murder last night. Rogue called Dickie Diamond.”

  They chatted for a couple more minutes, then Siobhan hung up. She walked across to where George Silvers and Phyllida Hawes were sharing a joke.

  “Hear what happened to Dickie Diamond?” she asked.

  “Who’s he when he’s at home?” Silvers responded. But Hawes was nodding.

  “That lot from Tulliallan had him in here only yesterday,” she said. “Bobby Hogan was in first thing this morning, asking questions.”

  “As long as he’s not after poaching a few extra bodies,” Silvers commented, folding his arms. “I think we all deserve a bit of a rest, don’t you?”

  “Oh, aye, George,” Siobhan told him, “you’ve been breaking your neck on this one . . .”

  His glare followed her back to her desk. WPC Toni Jackson entered the room, saw Siobhan and smiled.

  “It’s Friday,” she said, leaning against the side of the desk. Silvers had spotted her and was giving a sycophantic wave, still believing her to be related to someone famous. She waved back. “Silly sod,” she muttered under her breath. Then, to Siobhan: “You still got that date lined up?”

  Siobhan nodded. “Sorry, Toni.”

  Jackson shrugged. “It’s your loss, not ours.” She gave a sly look. “Still keeping lover boy’s name under wraps?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, that’s your prerogative, I suppose.” Jackson eased herself off the desk. “Oh, nearly forgot.” She handed over the sheet of paper she’d been carrying. “Marked for your attention. Came through to our fax machine by mistake.” She wagged a finger. “I want to hear all about it on Monday.”

  “Right down to the forensic detail,” Siobhan promised, offering a smile as Jackson moved away. The smile melted as she studied the cover sheet of the lengthy fax. It was from Dundee CID, responding to her request for the lowdown on Ellen Dempsey. Just as she was starting to read, a voice interrupted her.

  “No rest for the wicked, eh, Siobhan?”

  It was Derek Linford. He seemed even better groomed than usual, with a pristine shirt, new-looking suit, and dapper tie.

  “Going to a wedding, Derek?”

  He looked down at himself. “Nothing wrong with being presentable, is there?”

  Siobhan shrugged. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with the rumor that we’re in line for a visit from the chief constable?”

  Linford raised an eyebrow. “Are we?”

  She gave a wry smile. “You know damned well we are. Bit of a fillip for the troops, telling us how hard we’ve all been working.”

  Linford sniffed. “Well, it happens to be true, doesn’t it?”

  “Speaking of which, some of us still have work to be getting on with.”

  Linford angled his head, trying to read the fax. Siobhan turned it facedown on her desk. “Hiding something from your colleagues, Siobhan?” he teased. “That’s hardly being a team player, is it?”

  “So?”

  “So maybe you’ve been learning all the wrong lessons from DI Rebus. Make sure you don’t end up like him, kicked into rehab . . .”

  He turned to go, but she called him back. “When you’re having your hand shaken by the Chief, just remember . . .” She pointed a finger at him. “It was Davie Hynds who found the money Marber paid to Malcolm Neilson. You’d already been through Marber’s bank statements and hadn’t spotted it. Bear that in mind when you’re taking all the credit for solving the case, Derek.”

  He gave her a cold smile, said nothing. When he was gone, she tried getting back to her reading but found it impossible to concentrate. Scooping up the fax, she decided she wanted to be elsewhere when the brass from the Big House came calling.

  Settling for the Engine Shed, she bought herself some herbal tea and sat at a table by the window. A couple of mums were feeding jars of food to their infants. Otherwise, the place was quiet. Siobhan had turned off her mobile, pulled out a pen, and was preparing to mark any interesting snippets.

  Having read the fax through once, she found that she’d underlined just about the whole damned thing. She realized that her hand was trembling slightly as she poured out more tea. Taking a deep breath, trying to clear her head, she started reading again.

  The money to fund Ellen Dempsey’s cab company hadn’t come from shady businessmen; it had come from a few years’ work as a prostitute. She’d been employed in at least two saunas, un
dergoing a single arrest in each when they were visited by police. The busts had been eighteen months apart. There was an additional note to the effect that Dempsey had also worked for an escort agency and had been questioned after a foreign businessman “mislaid” his cash and credit cards after a visit by Dempsey to his hotel room in the city. She was never charged. Siobhan looked for evidence that one or both of the saunas had been owned by Cafferty, but couldn’t find any. Names were given, but they were the names of local entrepreneurs, one Greek in origin, one Italian. After the police raids, HM Inland Revenue and Customs and Excise had opened their own inquiries, looking into profits and VAT left undeclared. The owners had shut up shop and moved on.

  By which time Ellen Dempsey was already running her small-time cab company. There were a couple of minor cases: a driver assaulted by a passenger who’d refused to pay the fare. The passenger — ready for an argument at the end of a long night’s drinking — had found in the driver a willing sparring partner. The result had made it as far as an overnight stay in the cells, but had fallen short of a court appearance. The second case was similar, only Ellen Dempsey had been the driver, and she’d sprayed the client with mace. As mace was banned in Scotland, it was Ellen who’d ended up being charged, the passenger claiming that he’d only wanted a good-night kiss and that the two of them “knew one another of old.”

  Though this last phrase wasn’t explored, Siobhan got an inkling of what had really happened. One of Ellen’s old punters, probably not believing that she’d given up the sauna life, deciding that if he pressed, she’d be willing.

  But she’d reached for the mace instead.

  It might explain the move to Edinburgh. How could she operate a legitimate business from Dundee without the threat of more ghosts appearing? Impossible to escape her old life, her old self . . . So she’d set up in Edinburgh instead, and bought herself a house in Fife, somewhere she wouldn’t be recognized, somewhere she could hide from the world.

  Siobhan poured more tea, though it was tepid now and too strong. But it gave her something to do while she collected her thoughts. She flicked back four or five sheets, found the page she was looking for. There was a name not only underlined there, but circled, too. It cropped up a couple of times, once in connection with the raid on the sauna, once to do with the mace case.

  A detective sergeant called James McCullough.

  Or Jazz, as everyone seemed to call him.

  Siobhan wondered if Jazz might be able to shed more light on Ellen Dempsey, always supposing there was light to shed. She thought back to Cafferty’s words. There was no indication in the fax of any “friends” Dempsey might have. She’d never been married, had no children. She seemed always to have supported herself . . .

  Pictures flickered across Siobhan’s vision: Jazz McCullough, visiting the Marber inquiry, keeping up with developments . . . Francis Gray, seated on one of the desks, reading transcripts . . . Allan Ward buying Phyl dinner and pumping her for information.

  Ellen Dempsey . . . tangential to the case . . . maybe worried, contacting her friends. Jazz McCullough and Ellen Dempsey . . . ?

  Coincidence or connection? Siobhan turned her mobile on, called Rebus on his. He picked up.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said.

  “Where are you?”

  “St. Leonard’s. You?”

  “Leith. Supposedly helping with the Diamond killing.”

  “Are the others there with you?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I want to ask you about Jazz McCullough.”

  “What about him?”

  “It may be nothing . . .”

  “You’ve got me curious. Want to meet?”

  “Where?”

  “Can you come down to Leith?”

  “That would make sense. I can ask McCullough a few questions while I’m there . . .”

  “Don’t expect me to be much use in that department.”

  She drew her eyebrows together. “Why not?”

  “I don’t think Jazz is talking to me. Nor is anyone else, for that matter.”

  “Hang in there,” Siobhan said. “I’m on my way.”

  Sutherland and Barclay had traveled to Leith in Rebus’s car. A period of uncomfortable silence had been broken by some stilted conversation, before Barclay plucked up courage and asked Rebus if it was maybe worth reconsidering his accusations.

  Rebus had just shaken his head slowly.

  “No use arguing with the man,” Sutherland had muttered. “Thank Christ for the weekend . . .”

  At Leith police station, the atmosphere had been hardly less strained. They’d presented a report to Hogan and one of his colleagues, Rebus saying little as he concentrated on spotting anything the trio might be trying to leave out. Hogan had been aware of the tension in the room, his eyes requesting some sort of explanation from Rebus. None had been forthcoming.

  “We don’t mind sticking around,” Jazz had said at the end of the report. “If you feel we’ve a contribution to make. . .” Then he’d shrugged. “You’d be doing us a favor, keeping us away from Tulliallan.”

  Hogan had smiled. “All I can promise is office grind.”

  “Better than classroom lessons,” Gray had opined, speaking, it seemed, for all of them.

  Hogan had nodded. “Fair enough then, maybe just for today.”

  The inquiry room was old-fashioned and high-ceilinged, with peeling paint and chipped desks. The kettle seemed to be on constantly, with the most junior officers on a milk-buying roster. There wasn’t much room for the Tulliallan contingent, which suited Rebus, as it meant they had to split up, sharing desk space with disgruntled locals. Rebus waited a good twenty minutes after Siobhan’s call before she put her head around the door. He got up, joined her in the corridor, having signaled to Hogan with his palm spread, meaning he was taking five. He knew Hogan would relish the chance of a word, realizing something was up and wanting to know what it was. But Hogan was in charge of the team, his time at a premium. So far, they hadn’t managed a moment alone.

  “Let’s go walkies,” Rebus told Siobhan. When they got outside it was drizzling. Rebus pulled his jacket around him and took out his cigarettes. He gestured with his head, letting her know they were walking down towards the docks. He didn’t know exactly where the Diamond Dog’s body had been discovered, but it couldn’t have been too far from here . . .

  “I heard about Diamond,” Siobhan said. “How come no one’s talking to you?”

  “Just a little falling-out.” He shrugged, concentrating on his cigarette. “These things happen.”

  “To you more than most.”

  “Years of practice, Siobhan. So what’s your interest in McCullough?”

  “His name came up.”

  “Where?”

  “I was looking at Ellen Dempsey. She owns the cab that dropped Marber home that night. Dempsey moved her company here from Dundee. In a past life, she worked in a sauna.”

  Rebus thought of Laura Stafford. “Interesting coincidence,” he mused.

  “And here’s another one: Jazz McCullough arrested her a couple of times.”

  Rebus seemed to concentrate harder than ever on his cigarette.

  “And then I started remembering the way McCullough and Gray spent so much time flipping through the transcripts and notes in the inquiry room.”

  Rebus nodded. He’d been there, seen them . . .

  “And Allan Ward dating Phyl,” Siobhan was saying.

  “Asking her questions,” Rebus added, still nodding. He’d stopped walking. Jazz, Gray and Ward . . . “How do you think it plays?”

  She shrugged. “I just wondered if there was some connection between McCullough and Dempsey. Maybe they’ve kept in touch . . .”

  “And he kept tabs on the Marber case at her behest?”

  “Maybe.” Siobhan paused. “Maybe because she didn’t want her past to come up. I think she’s tried hard to build a new life.”

  “Could be,” Rebus said, not sounding
entirely convinced. He’d started walking again. They were close to the docks now, heavy lorries passing them almost continuously, spewing out fumes, kicking up dust and grit. They walked with their faces turned to one side. Rebus could see Siobhan’s unprotected neck. It was long and slender, a line of muscle running down it. He knew that when they reached the dockside the water would be oily and dotted with jetsam. No place for a body to end up. He touched her arm and took a detour, leading them down an alley. It would connect with one of the roads eventually, leading them back towards the station.

  “What are you going to do about it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I thought I’d get McCullough’s response.”

  “I’m not sure about that, Siobhan. Maybe you’d be better off doing a bit more digging first.”

  “Why?”

  Rebus shrugged. What could he tell her? That to his mind Jazz McCullough, quiet and charming family man, was perhaps mixed up in murder and criminal conspiracy?

  “I just think it might be safer.”

  She stared at him. “Care to elucidate?”

  “It’s nothing concrete . . . just a feeling.”

  “A feeling that asking McCullough a few questions might not be safe?”

  Rebus shrugged again. They’d come out of the alley. By turning right, they’d be heading towards the rear of the police station.

  “I’m guessing this ‘feeling’ of yours has something to do with the fact that nobody’s talking to you?”

  “Look, Siobhan . . .” He ran a hand down his face, as if trying to brush away a layer of skin. “You know I wouldn’t say anything if I didn’t think it mattered.”

  She considered this, then nodded her agreement. They were walking around the side of the station, a pavement drunk causing them to step onto the road. Rebus pulled Siobhan back to safety as a car hurtled past, horn blaring. Someone in a hurry.

  “Thanks,” Siobhan said.

  “I do what I can,” Rebus informed her. The drunk was making for the opposite pavement, stumbling blindly across the road. They both knew he’d make it. He was carrying a bottle: no way a motorist would want that flying through his windshield.