Resurrection Men ir-13

by Ian Rankin

  “Well, they didn’t.”

  Rebus folded his arms. “Sounds like it was your partner, then.”

  Ormiston smiled without humor. “He thinks you told your pal Cafferty.” He’d turned to watch from the cabin’s window as Claverhouse marched across the compound towards them.

  “The team were in and out of there in under ten minutes, Ormie,” Rebus explained patiently. “They knew which box they were looking for.”

  Claverhouse appeared at the cabin’s open door. “I was just explaining to Ormie here,” Rebus informed him, “how it had to be you.”

  Claverhouse stared at him, but Rebus wasn’t blinking, so the SDEA man turned towards his partner.

  “Don’t go blaming me,” Ormiston said. “We’ve been through this a dozen times . . .”

  It looked like there might be a dozen more in the future, too. Rebus squeezed out of the booth.

  “Well,” he said, “I think I’ll leave you gentlemen to grind and gnash your teeth. Some of us have got the last precious hours of the weekend to look forward to.”

  “You’re going nowhere,” Claverhouse told him. “Not until you’ve made your report.”

  Rebus stopped. “What report?”

  “Everything you know.”

  “Everything? Even the little chat you wanted me to have with the Weasel?”

  “Strathern already knows about it, John,” Ormiston told him.

  “And he knows about the late-night visit the Weasel paid to you,” Claverhouse added, grim satisfaction bringing the ghost of a smile to his pale lips.

  Just then, one of the doors to Strathern’s car opened and Carswell stepped out, crossing briskly to the gatehouse.

  “Your turn,” he told Rebus.

  The smile was lingering on Claverhouse’s face.

  “You didn’t think it worth telling me any of this?” Strathern said. He held a notebook open on his lap, tapping it with a silver pen. They were seated in the back of his car. It smelled of leather and polished wood. Strathern looked annoyed, and his cheeks were tinged red. Rebus knew he was going to be a lot more annoyed by the end of their talk . . .

  “Sorry for that, sir.”

  “What’s this about Cafferty’s man?”

  “DI Claverhouse asked me to speak with him.”

  “Why you?”

  Rebus shrugged. “I suppose because I’ve had a few run-ins with him in the past.”

  “Claverhouse thinks you’re in Cafferty’s pocket.”

  “He’s entitled to his opinion. It happens to be untrue.” Rebus watched as the SDEA men, accompanied by Carswell, disappeared inside the warehouse again.

  “You didn’t say anything to Cafferty’s man?”

  “Nothing DI Claverhouse didn’t want me to say.”

  “But he sought you out?”

  “He came to my home, yes. We spoke for a few minutes.”

  “About what?”

  “He was still worried about his son.”

  “And thought you could help?”

  “I’m not really sure, sir.”

  Strathern looked over some handwritten notes. “You visited the warehouse twice?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And your second visit was . . . ?”

  “Thursday, sir.”

  “Why were you there? Claverhouse says you weren’t invited.”

  “That’s not strictly true, sir. I went to HQ to speak to him. He was at the warehouse, and DS Ormiston was headed down here . . . DI Claverhouse knew I was coming. I think he was pleased at the prospect. It meant he could show off his little idea.”

  “The crates? Bloody idiotic . . .” Strathern paused. “He says you came to offer an apology. Doesn’t sound like you, John.”

  “It isn’t,” Rebus said. His stomach tightened. Things were about to get uncomfortable. “It was a pretext.”

  “A pretext?”

  “I’d come to the warehouse because Gray, McCullough and Ward asked me to.”

  There was a long silence. The two men fixed eyes. Strathern twisted in his seat, trying to face Rebus as best he could in the cramped confines.

  “Proceed,” he said.

  So Rebus told him. The planned heist . . . his way into the gang . . . how it was never meant to come to anything . . . the way they’d dumped him once he’d gone cold on the idea.

  “They knew about the crates?” Strathern asked, voice ominously quiet.

  “Yes.”

  “Because you told them?”

  “I was trying to make them see how impossible the whole thing was . . .”

  Strathern leaned forward, placed his head in his hands. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered. Then he sat back up, took a deep breath.

  “There were five of them,” Rebus said as Strathern struggled to regain his composure. “Maybe even six.”

  “What?”

  “Four men in the van . . . the CCTV footage. Plus at least one other in the second van.”

  “So?”

  “So who were the others?”

  “Maybe one of them was you, John. Maybe that’s why I’m getting this story. You’re setting up your co-conspirators.”

  “I was at a hotel on the west coast.”

  “Convenient alibi. Girlfriend with you?” Rebus nodded. “Just the two of you, alone in the room all night? As I say, a convenient alibi.”

  “Sir . . . supposing I was involved, why would I have told you any of it?”

  “To set them up.”

  “Fine,” Rebus said grimly. “It was you and your cronies who wanted them . . . go get them. And arrest me while you’re at it.” Rebus opened his door.

  “We’ve not finished here, DI Rebus . . .”

  But Rebus was already out of the car. He leaned back down into it. “Better to get the air cleared, sir. Let’s have all of it out in the open: the Bernie Johns case . . . bent cops . . . dope kept hidden from Customs . . . and a coven of chief constables who managed to fuck everything up!”

  Rebus slammed the door closed after him and stalked towards his own car, then thought better of it. He needed a pee, so walked around the side of the warehouse. There, in the narrow, weed-filled conduit between the security fence and corrugated-aluminum wall, he saw a distant figure. The man was at the far corner of the building, hands in pockets, head bowed forward as his whole body seemed to convulse.

  It was Colin Carswell, the assistant chief constable.

  Kicking the fence with all his might.

  28

  “You’re not going to get away with it.”

  Monday morning at Tulliallan. While parking his Saab, Rebus had seen McCullough getting out of his own car. McCullough had been reaching into the backseat for his carryall. He turned at the sound of Rebus’s voice, but then decided to ignore him. There was a folder he wanted, farther along the backseat. He stretched for it.

  Rebus planted a knee in the small of his back, ducked down so he wouldn’t hit his head on the top of the door. McCullough was stuck, writhing in the confined space.

  “You’re not going to get away with it,” Rebus repeated.

  “Get off me!”

  “Think you can pull a stunt like that?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “The hit on the warehouse.”

  McCullough stopped moving. “Let me up and we’ll talk.”

  “You’ll do more than that, McCullough: you’ll hand the whole fucking lot back.”

  Rebus heard a car screech to a stop behind him, a door opening with the motor still running. Gray’s fist caught him in his right kidney, then grabbed him by the collar. Rebus stumbled backwards, off McCullough and out of the car, falling to his knees but rising quickly.

  “Come on, you bastard!” Gray was shouting. He had both fists up, knees bent, feet shuffling. A bare-knuckle fighter who fancied his chances. Rebus was grimacing in pain. McCullough was extracting himself from the backseat, face red, hair disheveled.

  “He says we’ve turned over the wareh
ouse,” he told his friend.

  “What?” Gray’s eyes darted from one man to the other. Abruptly, he stopped acting the boxer.

  “I just want to know how you knew which crate to open,” Rebus hissed, one hand rubbing his side.

  “You trying to stick us in the frame?” McCullough said accusingly. “Was that the plan all along?” He pointed a finger. “Anyone’s got hold of the dope, it’s you.”

  “I was on the other side of the country.” Rebus’s eyes were blazing. “What about you, McCullough? Will Ellen Dempsey give you an alibi? That why you’ve been cozying up to her?”

  McCullough didn’t say anything, just shared a look with his partner. Rebus felt like wincing, because now he’d really blown it, letting them know he knew about Dempsey. But the look which passed between Gray and McCullough was curious. There was fear . . . fear mixed in there with everything else.

  Fear of what?

  What was it that was lurking there? Rebus got the feeling it had nothing to do with the warehouse.

  Siobhan . . . ?

  “So you know about Ellen,” Jazz was saying, trying to sound offhand. He shrugged. “No big deal. I left my wife weeks back.”

  “Yeah,” Gray added belligerently. Rebus looked at him.

  “That the best you can do, Francis? Don’t tell me I’ve got you at a loss for words.”

  “I’ve always let actions do the talking for me.” Gray rubbed his fist with his palm.

  “If you think I’m going to let you get away with this . . .”

  “Get away with what?” Gray spat. “It’s your word against ours. Like Jazz says, you’re the fucker who set it up in the first place. And that’s precisely what we’ll tell anyone who comes asking.”

  Rebus had to admit, they didn’t seem worried by his accusations. Angered, yes; worried, no. His mention of Ellen Dempsey had touched a rawer nerve. He decided to save it . . . think it over. Turned away and walked back towards his car.

  “See you inside,” Gray called to him, and Rebus couldn’t know if he meant inside the college building or in one of Her Majesty’s many fine Scottish prisons. He leaned against the Saab. Gray’s punch still throbbed. He hoped there wouldn’t be any damage. He watched a procession of other cars heading along the driveway towards him. Some might be fresh probationers, preparing for their first tentative steps on the career path. Others might be senior officers, coming to hone their skills and learn new tricks.

  I can’t go back in there, Rebus told himself. He couldn’t stay, not for another minute. The idea of sitting around Tennant’s table, avoiding eye contact with Gray and McCullough . . . keeping up with the sham . . . surrounded by hundreds of recruits for whom Tulliallan was teacher and nourisher, friend and mentor . . .

  “Fuck it,” he said, sliding back behind the Saab’s steering wheel. He wouldn’t even bother calling in sick. Let them ask questions, phone Gill Templer. He’d deal with it when he had to — if he had to.

  If he felt like it.

  Right now, he couldn’t get that solitary moment out of his mind, Gray and McCullough sharing a look . . . a look as if they’d come one step closer to the edge. A step too close for either man.

  Protecting Ellen Dempsey . . . or being protected by her? Rebus was starting to get an inkling, but he’d need help if he was going to prove any of it. Help, and one hell of a lot of luck. As he started away down the drive, he saw Gray in his rearview. The man was standing in the road, legs apart. He’d made a pistol of his right hand and was aiming it at the Saab, wrist recoiling as he fired the imaginary bullet, his mouth opening silently.

  Bang.

  “You don’t think Neilson did it, do you?” Rebus whispered.

  Siobhan locked eyes with him and shook her head. She was seated at her desk, Rebus leaning down over her. He could see that on her computer, she’d been writing a report on the connection between McCullough and Dempsey, without mentioning Friday night’s unapproved surveillance.

  “I need to take another look at the case.”

  “You can’t,” she whispered back. “You’re still persona non grata as far as Gill’s concerned.”

  He was about to tell her that this wasn’t the case anymore. One call to Strathern, and the boss would inform Gill that Rebus was back on board. But then he looked around the room. Eyes were staring at him, curious as to his sudden appearance there, and the way he was trying to talk in private with Siobhan. Hawes, Linford, Hood and Silvers . . . Rebus wasn’t sure how far he could trust any of them. Hadn’t Gray worked a case once with Linford? Could Hawes still fall under Allan Ward’s spell?

  “You’re right,” he whispered. “I am a nonperson. And IR1 is probably still empty.” He nodded slowly, hoping she’d understand, then pushed himself back upright. “See you,” he told her, reverting to his normal speaking voice.

  “Bye,” she said, watching him leave.

  Interview Room 1 had yet to be cleared of the desks and chairs used by the Wild Bunch, meaning that in the interim all interviews would be conducted next door in IR2.

  There was a knock at the door and it opened. Siobhan sidled in, carrying a thick manila folder. Rebus was seated at one of the desks, nursing a coffee from the machine.

  “Anyone see you come in?” she asked him.

  “Nope. Anyone notice you leaving the office with that lot?”

  “Hard not to.” She shrugged. “I don’t think I was followed, though.” She placed the folder on his desk. “So what are we looking for?”

  “Sure you can spare the time?”

  She pulled out a chair. “What are we looking for?”

  “Ties that bind,” he answered.

  “Dempsey and McCullough?”

  He nodded. “For starters. By the way, I blew it this morning, told McCullough I knew about the pair of them.”

  “I don’t suppose he was thrilled.”

  “No. But it means they’ll both be ready for us. We need to have some ammunition.”

  “And you think it’s hiding somewhere in here?” She patted the folder.

  “I hope so.”

  She blew air from her cheeks. “No time like the present,” she said, opening the folder. “Do we each take a chunk of the inquiry . . . ?”

  Rebus was shaking his head, getting up and moving to the chair next to her. “We work as partners, Siobhan. That means reading each and every page together, seeing what ideas we come up with.”

  “I’m not the world’s fastest reader.”

  “All the better. Something tells me you know this case back to front anyhow. This way, I get the chance to read everything through twice to your once.”

  He slid the first stapled set of sheets out of the folder and placed it on the desk between them. Then, like kids at primary school sharing a textbook, they started to read.

  By lunchtime, Rebus’s head was pounding. He’d covered six sides of lined legal paper with comments and questions. No one had disturbed their session. Siobhan was standing up and stretching. “Can we take a break?”

  He nodded, checking his watch. “Forty minutes for lunch. Can you fetch a bag from upstairs?”

  She stopped in the middle of a neck stretch. “What for?”

  Rebus had his hand on the folder. “This goes with us,” he said. “I’ll meet you outside in five.”

  He was smoking a cigarette when she came out. Something was weighing down her shoulder bag, and he nodded his satisfaction.

  “Tell me we’re not working through lunch?”

  “I just don’t want anyone else to know what we’re up to,” he explained.

  “Well, since it’s your idea . . .” She handed him the shoulder bag. “You get to be in charge.”

  They went to a sandwich bar near The Meadows, sat on high stools at the window, chewing their purchases. Neither spoke. Their heads were still cluttered, the passing world a good excuse to stare unblinking and unthinkingly. Both sipped from cans of Irn-Bru. Afterwards, on the way back to St. Leonard’s, Siobhan asked Rebus how his f
illed roll had been.

  “It was fine,” he told her.

  She nodded. “What was the filling again?”

  He thought for a moment. “Can’t honestly remember.” He looked at her. “What was in yours?”

  Watching her shrug, his face broke into a smile, which Siobhan returned.

  There was no sign that anyone had been in IR1 in their absence. They’d brought extra cans of juice with them, and placed these on the desk, along with the folder and the lined pad of notes.

  “Remind me,” Siobhan said, opening her drink, “what are we looking for?”

  “Whatever it is that was missed first time round.”

  She nodded, and they got back to work. Half an hour later, they were in discussion about the missing painting.

  “It means something,” Rebus was saying. “Maybe not to us, but to someone . . . When did Marber buy it again?” Rebus waited while Siobhan flipped through the sheets, finding the right one.

  “Five and a half years back.”

  Rebus tapped the desk with his pen. “We’ve been talking about Neilson trying to blackmail Marber . . . What if it works both ways?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Maybe Marber was putting the squeeze on someone else.”

  “Neilson?”

  Rebus shook his head. “The big money he was expecting . . .”

  “We only had Laura’s word for that. Marber could just have been trying to impress her.”

  “Fair enough, but let’s say he did have money coming . . . or thought he did.”

  “Blackmail money?”

  Rebus was nodding. “From someone he had no need to fear . . .”

  “Can’t be too many people out there wimpier than Edward Marber.”

  Rebus held up a finger. “Exactly. But maybe Marber wasn’t going to be around for much longer . . .”

  “Because he was going to be dead?” Siobhan was frowning, feeling she was failing to understand Rebus’s train of thought.

  He shook his head. “He wasn’t going to be around, Siobhan. The empty self-storage unit, the paintings all wrapped up as though ready to be shipped out . . .”

  “Going somewhere?”

  Now Rebus nodded. “This place of his in Tuscany. Maybe he was thinking of persuading Laura to go there with him.”