by Ian Rankin
“Maybe it’s because too much of it gives you a bitch of a hangover.”
He smiled with half his mouth. “Maybe,” he echoed, but she could tell he was thinking otherwise.
“Bit late to go dropping in on Miss Meikle, isn’t it?” Siobhan said, angling her watch towards the intruder lights.
“You don’t think she’s a night owl?”
“Cocoa and a bedside radio,” Siobhan predicted. “When do I get to know what you were doing in your flat?”
“When we see Miss Meikle.”
“Then let’s go see her.”
“I was planning on doing just that . . .”
30
Jan Meikle lived in the top half of a house conversion facing Leith Links. Siobhan liked the area. When they’d turned an old bonded warehouse nearby into flats, she’d visited a couple of times, and the only thing that had stopped her buying was the thought of moving all her stuff. She was reminded of Cynthia Bessant, Edward Marber’s closest friend, and the warehouse she lived in not more than a third of a mile from here. Would Bessant have known if Marber was thinking of a move to Tuscany? Probably. Yet she hadn’t said anything — no doubt mindful of his good name. She would probably have known he was wanting to take Laura Stafford with him, too — he confided in her, trusted her. It was a plan Bessant would not have been able to agree with.
Siobhan thought of sharing her ideas with Rebus but didn’t want him to think she was showing off. He would ask her how she knew, and she’d have to shrug and tell him: “intuition.” He’d smile at that and understand, having relied on his own instincts many a time in the past.
“No lights on,” he was saying. But he pressed the buzzer anyway. A face appeared at an upstairs window, and Siobhan waved.
“She’s in,” she said.
The next moment, the intercom crackled into life. “Yes?”
“DI Rebus and DS Clarke.” Rebus spoke into the grille. “There’s one thing we forgot to ask earlier.”
“Yes . . . ?”
“I need to show you something first. Can we come up?”
“I’m not dressed.”
“We won’t be staying, Miss Meikle. Two minutes will do it . . .”
There was a pause, then another crackle. “Very well,” the tinny voice said. The door buzzed to let them know the lock was off. They walked into the reception hall, then had to wait for Jan Meikle to unlock her door and lead them up a narrow flight of stairs. She was wearing a baggy yellow jumper over gray leggings. With her hair untied and falling in straggles either side of her face, she seemed younger. She’d applied a layer of night cream, making her cheeks and forehead glow. The upstairs was cluttered. Meikle was obviously something of a collector herself. Rebus could imagine her spending long hours rummaging in junk shops and haunting garage sales, buying eclectic pieces which appealed to her. There was no particular style or period on display — just masses of stuff. Rebus stubbed his toe on a plinth, atop which sat a large carved bird of prey. Lighting was provided only by a series of wall-mounted lamps, throwing long shadows in odd directions.
“It’s the Bates Motel,” Rebus muttered to Siobhan, who had to stifle a snort of laughter as Miss Meikle turned towards her.
“Just admiring your collection,” she managed to say.
“A few gewgaws,” Meikle answered. Rebus and Siobhan looked at one another, each wondering if the other knew what the word meant.
The living room was three parts Edwardian parlor to one part sixties kitsch and one part contemporary Scandinavian. Siobhan recognized the sofa as Ikea, but was that a lava lamp sitting in the ornately tiled fireplace? There was no carpet as such, just eight or nine rugs of different sizes and designs, causing bumps in the floor where they intersected.
Rebus walked over to the window, which had neither curtains nor shutters. All he could see was the darkened expanse of the links, a drunk meandering home, hands in pockets, stiff-legged.
“What is it you have to show me?” Meikle was asking. Good question, Siobhan thought. She, too, was keen to know. Rebus reached into his pocket and produced five photographs. They were passport-sized head-and-shoulders shots. Men unused to smiling were trying hard. Siobhan recognized them.
Francis Gray.
Jazz McCullough.
Allan Ward.
Stu Sutherland.
Tam Barclay.
They’d been cut from larger sheets, probably handed out at the start of the Tulliallan course. She knew now what Rebus had been doing during the Arden Street stopover. He’d been busy with a pair of scissors.
Rebus laid the five photos out on a round three-legged table, the kind their ancestors might have played a hand of cards at. There was a crystal fruit bowl there now, sitting on a white lace doily, but still room for the tiny photos. Miss Meikle peered at them closely.
“Ever seen any of these men?” Rebus was asking. “Take your time.”
Meikle showed every sign of taking him at his word. She studied each face as though this were an examination she must not only pass but score high marks in. Siobhan had lost interest in the room now. She could see all of a sudden where Rebus had been leading her. How much of it he’d known and how much was intuitive she couldn’t say. But he’d obviously felt for some time that the crew from Tulliallan were somehow connected to Edward Marber’s murder. And she got the feeling it went further than McCullough and Ellen Dempsey: Rebus had hinted as much. McCullough and Dempsey weren’t Bonnie and Clyde . . . so there had to be some other explanation.
“He was at the gallery that night,” Miss Meikle stated. She was touching the edge of one of the photos.
“Brown jacket?” Rebus guessed.
“I’m not sure what he was wearing, but I remember his face. He spent most of the time looking at the paintings. He had this smile on his face, but I got the feeling he didn’t really like any of them. He definitely wasn’t going to be buying . . .”
Siobhan leaned closer. It was DI Francis Gray. Similar in build and hairstyle to Big Ger Cafferty, but taller. Gray had managed more of a smile for the camera than his colleagues, pretending he hadn’t a care in the world. Siobhan looked at Rebus. The look on his face was one of grim satisfaction.
“Thank you, Miss Meikle,” he said, beginning to gather up the photos.
“Wait,” she ordered. Then she pointed to Jazz McCullough. “He’s been to the gallery, too. A very pleasant gentleman. I remember him well.”
“When did you last see him?”
She considered his question with the same amount of care she’d given to the photographs. “Probably a year ago.”
“Around the time Mr. Montrose was selling his collection?” Rebus guessed.
“I’m not sure . . . I suppose, yes, it would have been around the same time . . .”
“McCullough is Montrose?” Siobhan said when they got back outside.
“Montrose is all three of them.”
“Three?”
“Gray, McCullough, Ward.” He paused. “Though how much Ward has had to do with any of it I’m not sure . . .”
“The money from Bernie Johns bought all those paintings?”
Rebus nodded. “Hellish hard to prove it, though.”
“And Gray killed Marber?”
Rebus shook his head. “That wasn’t Gray’s job. All he had to do was keep an eye on Marber, see what his plans were after the show. When Marber said he needed a taxi, Gray called one for him . . .”
“Making sure it was an MG cab?”
Rebus nodded. “Then all Ellen Dempsey had to do was dispatch one of her drivers and let someone else know Marber was on his way home.”
Siobhan had it now. “McCullough was waiting for him?”
“Yes . . . Jazz McCullough.” Rebus tried to visualize it. Marber at the front door. Jazz calling to him. Marber recognizing both face and voice, relaxing. Maybe he’d been expecting a visit, because Jazz had some money for him. What had McCullough used? A rock? An implement of some kind? He would have got rid of it
afterwards, knowing how to dispose of a weapon in such a way that it would very likely never be found. But before that, he had taken Marber’s keys, unlocked the door and turned off the alarm long enough to take the Vettriano. A matter of principle with him . . .
“Where do we begin?” Siobhan was asking.
“I’ve always favored the direct approach.”
She wasn’t sure she agreed, but she got in the car anyway.
At quarter to midnight, Francis Gray got a call on his mobile. He was in the bar at the police college. His tie was off, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. And he was smoking. He still had the cigarette in his mouth when he walked along the corridor and climbed the single flight of stairs to the mock-up courtroom. This was where fledgling officers learned how to present evidence and deal with hostile questions. It was scaled down, but correct in every detail. Rebus was sitting alone on the public benches.
“Bit melodramatic, John. You could have come and had a drink.”
“I tend not to mix with murderers if I can avoid it.”
“Jesus, not back to all that again . . .” Gray turned as if to leave.
“I don’t mean Dickie Diamond,” Rebus said coldly. The door opened and Jazz McCullough came in. “Not sleeping over at North Queensferry tonight?” Rebus asked him.
“No.” McCullough had the look of a man who’d been roused from bed, dressing quickly. He walked over to the desk beneath which sat the room’s recording apparatus — controls for video cameras and microphones.
“None of it’s switched on,” Rebus assured him.
“Nobody hiding under the benches?” McCullough said. Gray bent down to look.
“Clean,” he reported.
“You’re smoking again, Francis,” Rebus noticed.
“It’s all the stress,” Gray answered. “Are you here to divvy up your little drug heist with us?”
“Wasn’t me.” Rebus paused. “Don’t worry, I don’t think it was you now either.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” McCullough was doing a circuit of the room, as though unconvinced that Rebus didn’t possess backup of some kind.
“You’ve got bigger things to worry about, Jazz,” Rebus informed him.
“John here,” Gray explained, “has another murder he wants to accuse us of.”
“You’re a single-minded little bastard, aren’t you?” McCullough said.
“I like to think so. I find it gets results.” Rebus was sitting very still, hands on knees.
“Tell me, John . . .” McCullough was close to him now, stopped three feet in front of him. “How many times have you stretched the truth a little in a place like this?” His eyes surveyed the courtroom.
“A few,” Rebus admitted.
McCullough nodded. “Ever gone further? Fabricated a case to put away someone you knew was guilty of something else?”
“No comment.”
McCullough smiled. Rebus gazed at him.
“You killed Edward Marber,” he stated quietly.
Gray snorted. “The accusations just get wilder and wilder . . .”
Rebus turned to him. “You were at the preview, Francis. It was you who phoned Marber the cab. That way, Ellen Dempsey could let Jazz here know it was on its way. I’ve got witnesses who can identify you. The call to MG Cabs will be listed on your phone account. Maybe that squiggle you used when you signed the guest book can be identified — amazing what these handwriting experts can do. Juries love all that stuff . . .”
“Maybe I needed a taxi for myself,” Gray speculated.
“But you signed yourself ‘Montrose,’ and that was a mistake. Because I have all the records of Mr. Montrose’s various purchases and sales. A third of a million at the last count. What happened to the rest of Bernie Johns’s millions?”
Gray snorted again. “There weren’t any millions!”
“I think you’ve said enough, Francis,” McCullough warned. “I don’t think John’s in any position to —”
“I’m just here to piece it together, for my own satisfaction. From what Francis has just said, I’m presuming Bernie Johns didn’t have as much salted away as expected? So much for the mythical millions. There was enough to give you an initial lump sum — not enough to arouse suspicion.” Rebus’s eyes met McCullough’s. “Did you use your share to help Ellen Dempsey set herself up in Edinburgh? No other way she could have gone from two cars to a fleet . . . had to be some kind of down payment.” He turned to Gray. “What about you, Francis? A new car every year . . . ?”
Gray said nothing.
“And the rest you invested in modern art. Whose idea was that?” Neither man spoke. Rebus kept his eyes on McCullough. “Had to be yours, Jazz. How about this as a theory: Marber happened to be in that sauna in Dundee the night you raided it. I reckon if I dug deep enough into the records, his name might pop up. Here’s another theory: Bernie Johns’s stash was hidden in or near the town of Montrose. Nice little joke there . . .” He paused. “How am I doing?”
“You’re not in a position to threaten us, John,” McCullough said quietly. He’d lowered himself onto one of the other benches. Gray had hefted himself onto the table used by the prosecuting counsel and was swinging his legs, looking desperate for his feet to connect with Rebus’s face.
“Diamond told us all about you,” Gray snarled. “The manse rapist . . . how Rico Lomax had hidden him away at the caravan, but by the time you got there it was too late. He’d scrammed. So you took it out on Lomax and told Diamond to vanish. You didn’t want to help those two cops when they came to Edinburgh looking for Diamond.” Gray laughed. “If we solved the Lomax case, it was your name we’d have in the frame!”
“He told you all that, and you still killed him?”
“Bastard drew a gun on me,” Gray complained. “I was just trying to stop him shooting the pair of us.”
“It was an accident, John,” McCullough drawled. “Not something that can be said of Rico Lomax’s fate.”
“I didn’t kill Rico Lomax.”
McCullough smiled benignly. “And we didn’t kill Edward Marber. You talk a good game, John, but I’m not seeing any evidence. So what if you can place Francis at the party? So what if he did phone MG Cabs?”
“Marber wanted money from you, didn’t he?” Rebus persisted. “He’d already had his cut — bought that painting with it. But now you’d sold all your paintings and taken your money elsewhere . . .” He broke off, realizing that Marber had concocted his scheme because of the way he himself felt he was being squeezed by Malcolm Neilson. “What was the plan? Keep it invested quietly till you and Francis reached retirement? That’s less than a year away . . . Ward still young enough to enjoy his share . . .”
“Problem was,” McCullough said, picking a thread from his trousers, “we got greedy, decided to play the stock market. New technologies . . .”
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 po
licy.”
“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.
