Resurrection Men (2002) (12 page)

“Okay, so it turns out that Rico’s pub, the one he’d been drinking in the night he died, was owned at the time by a certain Chib Kelly, who we know started winching Rico’s widow soon after.”

“How soon after?”

“Does it matter?”

“Did the investigation know at the time . . . ?”

The questions were coming thick and fast, and once again Tennant had to appeal for quiet. He looked to Gray.

“Well, Francis,
did
the original inquiry team know about this?”

“Search me,” Gray said.

“Do any of you remember coming across this fact in any of the files?” Tennant looked around, received only shakes of the head. “Big question then: is it material to the case?”

“Could be.”

“Got to be.”

“Crime of passion.”

“Absolutely.”

Tennant grew thoughtful again, letting the voices wash over him.

“Could be we need to talk to Chib himself, sir.” Tennant looked to the speaker: John Rebus.

“Yeah, sure,” Ward was saying. “He’s definitely going to incriminate himself.” The sneer reappeared.

“It’s the proper course of action,” Rebus said, repeating a phrase they’d had drummed into them at the MMI talk.

“John’s right,” Gray said, his eyes on Tennant. “In a
real
investigation, we’d be out there asking questions, getting in people’s faces, not sitting here like schoolkids on detention.”

“I thought getting in people’s faces was your precise problem, DI Gray,” Tennant said coolly.

“Could be. But it’s been getting me results these past twenty-odd years.”

“Maybe not for much longer, though.” The threat lay in the air between the two men.

“Seems logical to at least talk to the man,” Rebus said. “After all, this isn’t just a test, it’s a real, flesh-and-blood case.”

“You weren’t half as keen to follow up the Edinburgh angle, John,” Jazz McCullough stated, slipping his hands into his pockets.

“Jazz has got a point,” Gray said, turning his head to face Rebus. “Something you’re not telling us, DI Rebus?”

Rebus wanted to grab Gray and hiss at him:
How much do you know?
Instead, he pocketed his mobile and rested his elbows on his knees. “Maybe I just fancy a trip to the wild west,” he said.

“Who says
you’re
going?” Allan Ward asked.

“I can’t see us all in a room with Chib Kelly,” Stu Sutherland commented.

“What? Too much like hard work for you, Stu?” Ward taunted.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Tennant piped up. “Since DI Rebus is suddenly all hot and bothered about ‘proper courses of action,’ the first thing we need to do is see whether this really is new ground. And that means plowing back through the files, seeing if Chib Kelly’s mentioned anywhere as landlord . . . What was the pub called anyway?”

“The Claymore,” Gray offered. “It’s since become the Dog and Bone, gone a bit upmarket.”

“Still owned by Kelly?” Rebus asked.

Gray shook his head. “Some English chain: all book-lined walls and clutter. More like walking into a junk shop than a pub.”

“The thing to do,” Tennant was saying, “is get back into those files, see what we can come up with.”

“We could maybe manage an hour or two,” Gray offered, looking at his watch.

“Plans for tonight, Francis?” Tennant asked.

“John’s shipping us through to Edinburgh for a night on the town.” Gray’s hand landed heavily on Rebus’s shoulder. “Make a change from the lounge, eh, John?”

Rebus didn’t say anything, didn’t hear the rest of the group saying things like “Nice one” and “Good idea.” He was concentrating too hard on Francis Gray, wondering what the hell he was up to.

9

W
hat the hell are you up to?”

It was a snarling question, and it came from behind the closed door. There was a muffled reply. The secretary smiled up at Siobhan and Hynds. She had the telephone receiver to her ear. Siobhan could hear the phone buzzing somewhere behind the door. Then it appeared to be snatched up.

“What?”

The secretary actually flinched. “Two police officers to see you, Mr. Cafferty. They did make an appointment . . .” Sounding apologetic, a slight tremble in her voice. She listened to whatever her employer was telling her, then put the receiver down. “He’ll be with you in a moment, if you’ll take a seat . . .”

“Must be a joy to work for.”

“Yes.” The secretary forced a smile. “Yes, he is.”

“Plenty secretarial jobs going. Friday’s
Scotsman
’s the place I’d start looking.”

Siobhan retreated to the line of three chairs, taking Hynds with her. There wasn’t space in the outer office for a coffee table. Two desks: one currently occupied by the secretary, the other a shambles of paperwork. The place had probably been a shop until fairly recently. It was sandwiched between a baker’s and a stationer’s, its large window looking onto the nondescript street. They were west and south of the city center, not far from Tollcross. The area held no fond memories for Siobhan, who had crashed her car once, years back, while confused by the range of options at the Tollcross road junction. Five routes crisscrossing at the lights, and her having not long passed her test, the car a gift from her parents . . .

“I couldn’t work here,” Hynds was telling the secretary. He nodded in the direction of the street. “That smell from the baker’s.” Then he patted his stomach and smiled. The secretary smiled back, more from relief, Siobhan thought, than anything else — relief that Hynds wasn’t meaning her employer . . .

The onetime shop was now MGC Lettings. Across the window was printed the legend
THE ANSWER TO YOUR PROPERTY NEEDS
. When they’d arrived, Hynds had asked why a “criminal genius” would need such a boring front. Siobhan couldn’t answer that. She knew Cafferty had other interests in the city, predominantly a minicab firm out at Gorgie. The fresh paintwork and new carpet led her to believe that MGC Lettings was a recent venture.

“Hope that’s not one of his tenants he’s got in there,” Hynds said now. If the secretary heard him, she pretended otherwise. She’d slipped on a pair of headphones and looked to be typing out a letter from a dictation machine. Siobhan had picked up some of the sheets from the messy table. They were listings of properties to let. Most were tenement flats in the less salubrious parts of town. She handed one to Hynds.

“A lot of agencies, they’ll say things like ‘No DSS.’ No mention of that here.”

“So?”

“Ever heard of landlords cramming their flats with people from Social Security, then ripping them off?” Hynds looked blank. “The claimants have to hand over their benefit books. Landlord meantime gets the rent money from the DSS. He’s quids in.”

“But this is a lettings agency. Anyone can walk in wanting a flat . . .”

“Doesn’t mean everyone gets one.”

Hynds took time digesting this, then looked around the walls. Two calendars and a week planner. No original works of art.

The door to the inner office opened and a ratty-looking man shuffled quickly towards the exit. Then a figure filled the doorway. He was wearing a white shirt, near-luminous in its newness, and a silk tie the color of spilled blood. His sleeves were rolled up, the arms thick and hairy. The head was large and round, like a bowling ball, the wiry silver hair cropped short. The eyes sparkled darkly.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the mouth said. “I’m Mr. Cafferty. How can I help you?”

As Siobhan and Hynds stood up, Cafferty asked if they wanted tea or coffee. They shook their heads.

“Donna can fetch it from the baker’s,” he assured them. “No trouble.”

Still no takers, so he led them into his office. There wasn’t much to it: a desk, with nothing but a telephone on it; a gray four-drawer filing cabinet; a small window of frosted glass. The lights were on, but the place felt like a clean, well-lit cave. A dog had risen to its feet. It was a brown and white spaniel, and it made straight for Siobhan, sniffing her feet, wiping its wet nose against her hand when she held it out.

“Sit, Claret!” Cafferty snapped. The dog retreated to its corner.

“Nice dog,” Siobhan commented. “Why Claret?”

“I’m a fiend for red wine,” Cafferty said with a smile.

Against one wall, still shrouded in bubble wrap, were what looked like three or four framed pictures or paintings, reminding Siobhan of the ones in Marber’s house. Hynds made straight for them, though Cafferty had directed him towards one of the chairs in front of the desk.

“Not got round to putting these up yet?” Hynds asked.

“Don’t know that I ever will,” Cafferty replied.

Siobhan had seated herself, and, as intended, Cafferty didn’t know whether to focus his attention on her or Hynds. He couldn’t keep an eye on both at once.

“DC Hynds is a bit of an aficionado,” Siobhan explained, as Hynds peered at each canvas in turn.

“Is he now?” Cafferty growled. His jacket was over the back of his chair, and he was sitting forward, as if fearful of crushing it in some way. His shoulders seemed massive. Siobhan thought he looked like a caged predator, not quite hiding its ability to pounce.

“Here’s a Hastie,” Hynds said, lifting the painting so Siobhan could see. Covered in polythene as it was, she could just make out swatches of color and a thick white frame. “Did you buy this at the preview, Mr. Cafferty?”

“No.”

Siobhan looked over to Hynds. “None of the paintings have been moved from the exhibition,” she said, as if reminding him.

“Oh, yes,” he said, nodding, then he shook his head almost imperceptibly, letting her know the Vettriano wasn’t there.

Siobhan turned her attention to Cafferty. “Did you happen to buy anything on the night?”

“I didn’t, as it happens.”

“Nothing there you fancied?”

Cafferty rested his forearms on the edge of the desk. “You’re Siobhan Clarke, aren’t you?” He smiled. “I’d forgotten, but now I remember.”

“And what exactly is it you remember, Mr. Cafferty?”

“You work with Rebus. Only I hear he’s been stuck back in training school.” He made a tutting sound. “And Detective Constable Hynds here . . . his first name is David, correct?”

Hynds straightened up. “That’s right, sir.”

Cafferty was nodding.

“I’m impressed,” Siobhan said, keeping her voice level. “You know who we are. So you should know why we’re here.”

“Same reason you visited Madame Cyn: you want to ask me about Eddie Marber.” Cafferty watched as Hynds walked around to the front of the desk and sat down next to Siobhan. “It was Cyn told me your name, DC Hynds,” he said with a wink.

“You were at the private view, the night Edward Marber was killed.”

“I was, yes.”

“You didn’t sign the guest book,” Hynds stated.

“Didn’t see any reason to.”

“How long did you stay at the party?”

“I arrived late, stayed till just about the end. A few people were heading on to dinner. They wanted Eddie to go with them, but he said he was tired. I . . . he called for a taxi.” Cafferty shifted his arms slightly. The hesitation interested Siobhan, and she knew Hynds had caught it as well. Neither of them filled the silence. Eventually, Cafferty continued. “I think we all left the gallery around eight or quarter past. I went out for a few drinks.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“That new hotel in the Scotsman Building. I wanted to see what it was like. And after that, the Royal Oak, listened to a bit of folk music . . .”

“Who was playing?” Siobhan asked.

Cafferty shrugged. “People just turn up and play.”

Hynds had his notebook out. “Were you with anyone, Mr. Cafferty?”

“A couple of business associates.”

“And their names?”

But Cafferty shook his head. “That’s a private matter. And before you go saying anything, I know you’re going to try to set me up for this, but it won’t work. I liked Eddie Marber, liked him a lot. I felt as miserable as anyone when I heard what happened.”

“You don’t know of any enemies he might have had?” Siobhan asked.

“Not one,” Cafferty said.

“Not even the people he’d cheated?” Claret’s ears suddenly pricked up, as though comprehending this last word.

Cafferty’s eyes narrowed. “Cheated?”

“We hear tell Mr. Marber might have been cheating his artists and clients alike: charging over the odds, paying too little . . . You haven’t heard anything of those allegations?”

“News to me.”

“Feel any different about your old friend now?” Hynds asked.

Cafferty glared at him. Siobhan was on her feet. She saw Claret watching her, saw the dog’s tail beginning to thump the floor. “You realize,” she said, “we’re not going to be able to verify your alibi unless you can give us your friends’ names?”

“I didn’t say friends, I said ‘business associates.’ ” Cafferty had risen to his feet too. Claret sat up.

“And I’m sure they’re all upstanding citizens,” Hynds said.

“I’m a businessman these days.” Cafferty wagged a finger. “A
respectable
businessman.”

“Who’s unwilling to help himself with an alibi.”

“Maybe that’s because I don’t need one.”

“Let’s hope that’s the case, Mr. Cafferty.” Siobhan shot out her hand. “Thanks for taking the time to see us.” Cafferty stared at the hand, then shook it, a smile flitting across his face.

“Are you as hard as you seem, Siobhan?”

“It’s Detective Sergeant Clarke to you,
Mr.
Cafferty.”

Hynds felt obliged to offer his hand too, and Cafferty shook it. A little game between the three of them, pretending to be polite and objective, to be on the same side, cut from the same human cloth.

Out on the pavement, Hynds clicked his tongue against his teeth. “So much for the infamous Big Ger Cafferty.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Siobhan said quietly. She knew Hynds had been listening to the voice, seeing the shirt and tie . . . But she’d been concentrating on Cafferty’s eyes, and they’d seemed to belong to some alien species, predatory and cruel. What’s more, he had confidence now — the confidence that no prison could ever hold him.

Siobhan was staring back in through the window, and was being watched in turn by Donna, until a bark from the inner office had the secretary leaping to her feet, running in and closing the door behind her. The bark had been human . . .

“He only made that one slip,” Siobhan commented.

“About calling the taxi?”

Siobhan nodded. “Know what I’m wondering? I’m wondering just who exactly it was called for the cab.”

“You think Cafferty did?”

She started nodding, turning to face Hynds. “And which company do you think he would call?”

“His own?” Hynds guessed.

She kept on nodding, then noticed an old-style Jag parked across the road. She didn’t know the driver, but the small figure in the back was the ratty figure who’d been getting an earful from Cafferty when they’d arrived. She thought he was called the Weasel . . . something like that.

“Hang on here a second,” she told Hynds, then walked to the edge of the pavement, checking right and left for traffic. But something had been said to the driver, and by the time she reached the middle of the carriageway, the Jag was moving off, the Weasel’s eyes staying on her through the rear window. It took the horn of an approaching moped to bring Siobhan back to life. She trotted back to where Hynds was waiting.

“Someone you know?” he asked.

“Cafferty’s right-hand man.”

“Something you wanted to ask him?”

She thought about this, and had to suppress a smile. There hadn’t been anything she’d wanted to say to the Weasel . . . no reason for her to head off into the traffic.

Except that it was something Rebus would have done.

Back at the station, there was interest in the news of the missing painting. Marber’s secretary had unearthed a color photograph, which was now being copied, while DCI Bill Pryde itemized the expense. The reports from that morning’s cremation were being collated. No one was claiming any great breakthrough. The Vettriano was as solid a piece of news as they had. Hynds was heading off to Marber’s house, where he was due to meet Cynthia Bessant.

“Want to hook up for a drink later?” he asked Siobhan.

“Sure Madame Cyn will let you drag yourself away?” He smiled, but she was shaking her head. “Quiet night for me,” she told him. She said much the same thing half an hour later when Derek Linford asked her out to dinner — “nothing fancy . . . just somewhere local. A few of us are going . . .” When she gave him the brush-off, his face hardened. “I’m trying to be nice here, Siobhan.”

“A few more lessons needed, Derek . . .”

Gill Templer wanted a report on the missing painting. Siobhan kept it succinct. Templer looked thoughtful. When her phone rang, she picked it up, broke the connection and left the receiver off the hook.

“Where do we go from here?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Siobhan admitted. “It gives us something to look for. More than that, it gives us a question to work on. Namely: why
that
painting?”

“Spur of the moment?” Templer guessed. “Grab the first thing that came to hand . . . ?”

“And remember to reset the alarm and lock up after you?”

Templer conceded that Siobhan had a point. “You want to chase it down?” she asked.

“If there’s anything to chase, I’ll bring my running shoes. For now, I think we file it under ‘Interesting.’ ”

Siobhan watched Templer’s face darken, and thought she knew the reason why: the chief super could hear John Rebus mouthing near-identical sentiments . . .

“Sorry,” Siobhan said, feeling color rise to her cheeks. “Bad habit.” She turned to leave.

“By the way,” Templer said, “how was Big Ger Cafferty?”