Resurrection Men (2002) (26 page)

Gray ran a finger down the condensation on his glass. “What makes you think I’d help? Or Jazz, come to that?”

Rebus shrugged, tried to look disappointed. “I just thought . . . I don’t know. It’s a lot of money.”

“Maybe it is, if you can shift the drugs. Something like that, John . . . you’d have to range far and wide, selling a bit at a time. Very dangerous.”

“I could sit on them awhile.”

“And watch them go stale? Drugs are like pies: at their best when fresh.”

“I bow to your superior knowledge.”

Gray grew thoughtful again. “Have you ever tried anything like this before?”

Rebus shook his head, eyes fixing on Gray’s. “Have you?”

Gray didn’t answer. “And you just thought this up?”

“Not straightaway . . . I’ve been looking for something for a while, some way of making sure I could kiss the job good-bye in style.” Rebus noticed their glasses were empty. “Same again?”

“Better get me a softie if I’m driving.”

Rebus approached the bar. He had to work hard not to turn around and study Gray. He was trying to look nonchalant but excited. He was a cop who’d just stepped over the line. Gray had to
believe
him . . . had to believe in the
scheme.

It was the only one Rebus had.

He bought a whiskey for himself, something with which to toast his newfound bravado. Gray had wanted an orange and lemonade. Rebus placed it before him.

“There you go,” he said, sitting down.

“You’ll appreciate,” Gray said, “that this dream of yours is pure mental?”

Rebus shrugged, placed his glass to his nose and pretended to savor the aroma, even though his mind was so stretched he couldn’t smell anything.

“What if I say no?” Gray asked.

Rebus shrugged again. “Maybe I don’t need any help after all.”

Gray smiled sadly and shook his head. “I’m going to tell you something,” he began, lowering his voice a little. “I pulled off something a while back. Maybe not as grand as this . . . but I got away with it.”

Rebus felt his heart lift. “What was it?” he asked. But Gray shook his head, not about to answer. “Were you alone, or did you have help?” Gray’s head continued its slow arc: not telling.

Was it Bernie Johns and his millions?
Rebus ached to ask the question. Stop this stupid game and just
ask!
He was holding the glass, trying to appear relaxed, and all the time he felt it might splinter in his grasp. He stared down at the table, willing himself to place the glass there, nice and slow. But his hand didn’t move. Half his brain was warning him: you’ll smash it, you’ll drop it, your hand will shake the contents out of it . . .
Maybe not as grand as this
 . . . What did that mean? Was Johns’s stash disappointing, or did he just not want Rebus to know?

“You got away with it, that’s the main thing,” he said, his throat just loose enough to form recognizable words. He tried a cough. It felt like invisible fingers were busy squeezing, just beneath the skin.

I’m losing this,
he thought.

“You all right?” Gray asked.

Rebus nodded, finally putting down his glass. “It just feels . . . I’m a bit edgy. You’re the only person I’ve told — what if I can’t trust you?”

“Should’ve thought of that first.”

“I
did
think of it first. It’s just that I’m having second thoughts.”

“Bit late for that, John. It’s not your idea any longer. It’s out in the public domain.”

“Unless I take you outside . . .”

He left it for Gray to finish the thought: “And kill me with a baseball bat? Like what happened to Rico?” Gray broke off, gnawed his bottom lip. “What
did
happen to him, John?”

“I don’t know.”

Gray stared at him. “Come on . . .”

“I really don’t know, Francis. On my kid’s life.” Rebus held his hand to his heart.

“I thought you knew.” Gray seemed disappointed.

You bastard . . . did Strathern plant you? Are you feeding me a line about Bernie Johns so that I’ll spill the beans about Rico . . . ?

“Sorry” was all John Rebus said, sitting on his hands to stop them shaking.

Gray took a mouthful of the fizzy drink, stifled a belch. “Why me?”

“How do you mean?”

“Why tell me? Do I
look
that corruptible?”

“As it happens, yes.”

“And what if I run back to Archie Tennant, tell him what you’ve just said?”

“There’s nothing he can do,” Rebus guessed. “No law against having a dream, is there?”

“But this isn’t just a dream, is it, John?”

“That depends.”

Gray was nodding. Something in his face had changed. He’d come to some decision. “Tell you what,” he said. “I like listening to this dream of yours. What about if you fill in some of the spaces on the drive back to base?”

“Which spaces exactly?”

“Where this warehouse is . . . who might be guarding it . . . what sorts of drugs we’re talking about.” Gray paused. “Those’ll do for starters.”

“Fair enough,” Rebus said.

19

S
iobhan had slept in, phoning to apologize as she waited for the water in the shower to run hot. No one at the station seemed too worried by her absence. She told them she was coming in, no matter what. She’d forgotten about her scalp until the water hit it, after which her bathroom was filled with the sound of cursing.

Donny Dow had been transferred to Leith, and she made that her first stop. DI Bobby Hogan went over the statement she’d made last night. It didn’t need any changes.

“Do you want to see him?” he asked afterwards.

She shook her head.

“Two of your guys — Pryde and Silvers — will be sitting in on our interviews.” Hogan was pretending to busy himself writing a note. “They’re going to tie him to Marber.”

“Good for them.”

“You don’t agree?” He’d stopped writing, his eyes lifting to meet hers.

“If Donny Dow killed Marber, it was because he knew about Marber’s relationship with Laura. So why did Dow explode when told about it by Linford?”

Hogan shrugged. “If I put my mind to it, I could come up with a dozen explanations.” He paused. “You can’t deny, it would be nice and neat.”

“And how often does a case end like that?” she said skeptically, rising to her feet.

At St. Leonard’s, the talk was all about Dow . . . except for Phyllida Hawes. Siobhan bumped into her in the corridor, and Hawes signaled towards the women’s toilets.

When the door had closed behind them, Hawes confessed that she had gone out with Allan Ward the previous evening.

“How did it go?” Siobhan asked quietly, lowering her voice and hoping Hawes would follow suit. She was remembering Derek Linford, listening outside the door.

“I had a really good time. He’s pretty hunky, isn’t he?” Hawes had ceased to be a CID detective: they were supposed to be two women now, gossiping about men.

“Can’t say I’ve noticed,” Siobhan stated. Her words had no effect on Hawes, who was studying her own face in the mirror.

“We went to that Mexican place, then a couple of bars.”

“And did he see you home like a gentleman?”

“Actually, he did . . .” She turned to Siobhan and grinned. “The swine. I was just about to invite him up for coffee, and his mobile rang. He said he had to hotfoot it back to Tulliallan.”

“Did he say why?”

Hawes shook her head. “I think he was pretty close to not going. But all I got was a peck on the cheek.”

Known, Siobhan couldn’t help thinking, as the kiss-off. “You seeing him again?”

“Hard not to when we’re both in the same station.”

“You know what I mean.”

Hawes giggled. Siobhan had never known her so . . . was
coquettish
the right word? She seemed suddenly ten years younger, and distinctly prettier. “We’re going to arrange something,” she admitted.

“So what did the pair of you find to talk about?” Siobhan was curious to know.

“The job mostly. The thing is, Allan’s a really good listener.”

“So mostly you were talking about you?”

“Just the way I like it.” Hawes was leaning back against the sink, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, looking pleased with herself. “I told him about Gayfield, and how I’d been seconded to St. Leonard’s. He wanted to know all about the case . . .”

“The Marber case?”

Hawes nodded. “What part I was playing . . . how it was all going . . . We drank margaritas — you could buy them by the jug.”

“How many jugs did you get through?”

“Just the one. Didn’t want him taking advantage, did I?”

“Phyllida, I’d say you
definitely
wanted him taking advantage.”

Both women were smiling. “Yeah, definitely,” Hawes agreed, giggling again. Then she gave a long sigh, before a look of shock came over her face and she slapped a hand to her mouth.

“Oh God, Siobhan, I haven’t asked about
you!
”

“I’m okay,” Siobhan said. It was the reason she thought Hawes had brought her in here: Laura’s murder.

“But it must have been horrible . . .”

“I don’t really want to think about it.”

“Have they offered you counseling?”

“Christ, Phyl, why would I need that?”

“To stop you bottling things up.”

“But I’m
not
bottling things up.”

“You just said you didn’t want to think about it.”

Siobhan was becoming irritated. The reason she didn’t want to think about Laura’s death was that she had something else niggling away at her now: Allan Ward’s interest in the Marber case.

“Why do you think Allan was so interested in your work?” she asked.

“He wanted to know all about me.”

“But specifically the Marber case?”

Hawes looked at her. “What are you getting at?”

Siobhan shook her head. “Nothing, Phyl.” But Hawes was looking curious, and a little worried. Would she go straight to Ward and start blabbing? “Maybe you’re right,” Siobhan pretended to concede. “I’m getting worked up about stuff . . . I think it’s because of what happened.”

“Of course it is.” Hawes took her arm. “I’m here if you need someone to talk to, you know that.”

“Thanks,” Siobhan said, offering what she hoped was a convincing smile.

As they walked back to the office together, her mind turned again to the scene outside the Paradiso. The lock clicking: she hadn’t said anything to Ricky Ponytail about it . . . but she would. She’d replayed the event so many times in the past few hours, wondering how she could have helped. Maybe leaning over to the passenger-side door, pushing it open for Laura, so that she could simply fall backwards into the car before Dow got to her . . . being faster out of the driving seat herself, faster across the hood . . . tackling Dow more effectively. She should have disabled him straightaway . . . Shouldn’t have let Laura lose so much blood . . .

Got to push it all aside,
she thought.

Think about Marber . . . Edward Marber. Another victim seeking her attention. Another ghost in need of justice. Rebus had confessed to her once, after too many late-night drinks in the Oxford Bar, that he saw ghosts. Or didn’t see them so much as sense them. All the cases, the innocent — and not so innocent — victims . . . all those lives turned into CID files . . . They were always more than that to him. He’d seemed to see it as a failing, but Siobhan hadn’t agreed.

We wouldn’t be human if they didn’t get to us,
she’d told him. His look had stilled her with its cynicism, as if he were saying that “human” was the one thing they weren’t supposed to be.

She looked around the inquiry room. The team was hard at work: Hood, Linford, Davie Hynds . . . When they saw her, they asked how she was. She fended off their concern, noting that Phyllida Hawes was blushing: ashamed not to have had the same reaction. Siobhan wanted to tell her it was okay. But Hynds was hovering by her desk, needing a word. Siobhan sat down, slipping her jacket over the back of the chair.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s the money you asked me to look for.”

She stared at him.
Money? What money?

“Laura Stafford thought Marber was in line for some big payout,” Hynds explained, seeing her confusion.

“Oh, right.” She was noting that someone had been using her desk in her absence: coffee rings, a few loose paper clips. Her in-tray was full, but looked as though it had been disturbed. She remembered Gray, flicking through case notes . . . and others from Rebus’s team, wandering through the room . . . And Allan Ward, asking Phyllida about the inquiry . . .

Her computer monitor was switched off. When she switched it on, little fish swam across the screen. A new screen saver — not the scrolling message. It looked as if her anonymous gremlin had taken pity on her.

She realized that Hynds had been saying something only when he stopped. The silence drew her attention back to him.

“Sorry, Davie, I didn’t catch that.”

“I can come back,” he said. “Can’t be easy for you, coming in today like this . . .”

“Just tell me what it was you were saying.”

“You sure?”

“Bloody hell, Davie . . .” She picked up a pencil. “Have I got to stab you with this?” He stared at her, and she stared back, suddenly aware of what she’d said. She watched the way her hand was holding the pencil . . . holding it like a knife. “Christ,” she gasped, “I’m sorry . . .”

“Don’t be.”

She dropped the pencil, picked up the receiver instead. She signaled for Hynds to wait while she made the call to Bobby Hogan.

“It’s Siobhan Clarke,” she said into the mouthpiece. “Something I forgot: the blade Dow used . . . there’s a DIY shop next door to here. Maybe that’s where he bought it. They’ll have security cameras . . . could be staff will recognize him.” She listened to Hogan’s response. “Thank you,” she said, putting the receiver down again.

“Have you had any breakfast?” Hynds asked.

“I was just about to ask the same thing.” It was Derek Linford. The look of concern on his face was so exaggerated, Siobhan had to suppress a shiver.

“I’m not hungry,” she told both men. Her phone buzzed and she picked it up. The switchboard wanted to transfer a call. It was from someone called Andrea Thomson.

“I’ve been asked to call you,” Thomson said. “I’m a . . . well, I hesitate to use the word ‘counselor.’ ”

“You’re supposed to be a career analyst,” Siobhan said, stopping Thomson in her tracks.

“Someone’s been talking,” she said after a long silence. “You work with DI Rebus, don’t you?”

Siobhan had to admit, Thomson was sharp. “He told me you’d denied being a counselor.”

“Some officers don’t like the idea.”

“Count me among them.” Siobhan glanced at Hynds, who was gesturing encouragement. Linford was still trying for the sympathetic look, not quite getting it right. Lack of practice, Siobhan guessed.

“You might find that it helps to talk through the issues,” Thomson was saying.

“There aren’t any issues,” Siobhan replied coldly. “Look, Ms. Thomson, I’ve got a murder case to be getting on with . . .”

“Let me give you my number, just in case.”

Siobhan sighed. “Okay then, if it’ll make you feel better.”

Thomson started reeling off two numbers: office and mobile. Siobhan just sat there, making no effort to record them. Thomson’s voice died away.

“You’re not writing them down, are you?”

“Oh, I’ve got them, don’t you worry.”

Hynds was shaking his head, knowing damned well what was going on. He lifted the pencil and held it out to her.

“Give them to me again,” Siobhan told the receiver. Call finished, she held up the scrap of paper for Hynds to see.

“Happy?”

“I’ll be happier if you eat something.”

“Me too,” Derek Linford said.

Siobhan looked at Andrea Thomson’s phone numbers. “Derek,” she said, “Davie and I have got to have a meeting. Can you take any messages for me?” She started shrugging her arms back into her jacket.

“Where will you be?” Linford asked, trying not to sound peeved. “In case we need you . . .”

“You’ve got my mobile number,” she told him. “That’s where I’ll be.”

They went around the corner of the station and into the Engine Shed. Hynds admitted he hadn’t known it was there.

“It really was an engine shed,” she told him, “Steam engines, I suppose. They pulled freight trains . . . coal or something. There are still bits of the railway line, they run down to Duddingston.”

In the café, they bought tea and cakes. Siobhan took one bite and realized she was starving.

“So what is it you’ve found?” she asked.

Hynds was primed to tell the story. She could see he’d been keeping it to himself, not wanting to dilute its effect before she heard it.

“I was talking to Marber’s various financial people: bank manager, accountant, bookkeeper . . .”

“And?”

“And no hint of any large amount about to accrue.” Hynds paused, as though uncertain whether
accrue
was the right word.

“And?”

“And I started looking at debits instead. These are listed in his bank statements by check number. No clue as to who each check was paid to.” Siobhan nodded her understanding. “Which is probably why one debit slipped by without us noticing.” He paused again, his meaning clear: for
us
read
Linford
 . . . “Five thousand pounds. The bookkeeper found the check stub but the only thing written there was the amount.”

“Business check or personal?”

“The money was drawn from one of Marber’s personal accounts.”

“And you know who it was to?” She decided to take a guess. “Laura Stafford?”

Hynds shook his head. “Remember our artist friend . . . ?”

She looked at him. “Malcolm Neilson?” Hynds was nodding. “Marber gave Neilson five grand? When was this?”

“Only a month or so back.”

“It could have been payment for a work.”

Hynds had already thought of this. “Marber doesn’t represent Neilson, remember? Besides, anything like that would have gone through the business. No need to tuck it away where no one would see it.”

Siobhan was thinking hard. “Neilson was outside the gallery that night.”

“Looking for more money?” Hynds guessed.

“You think he was blackmailing Marber?”

“Either that or selling him something. I mean, how often do you have a blazing row with someone, then pay them a four-figure sum for the privilege?”

“And what exactly was he selling him?” Siobhan had forgotten all about her hunger. Hynds nodded towards the cake, willing her to finish it.

“Maybe that’s the question we should be asking him,” he said. “Just as soon as you’ve cleared your plate . . .”

Neilson appeared at St. Leonard’s with his solicitor, as requested by Siobhan. Both interview rooms were empty: Rebus’s crew were said to be touring caravan sites. Siobhan sat down in IR2, taking the same seat Linford had been in yesterday when Donny Dow had made his escape.

Neilson and William Allison sat opposite her, Davie Hynds to her side. They’d decided to tape the meeting. It could put pressure on the subject; sometimes they got nervous around microphones . . . knew that whatever they said could come back to haunt them.