Resurrection Men (2002) (27 page)

“It’s for your benefit as much as ours,” Siobhan had explained, this being the standard line. Allison made sure that there’d be two copies, one for CID and one for his client.

Then they got down to business. Siobhan switched the tape machines on and identified herself, asking the others present to do the same. She studied Malcolm Neilson as he spoke. The artist sat with eyebrows raised, as though surprised to find himself suddenly transported to such surroundings. His hair was its usual wild self, and he was wearing a thick, loose cotton shirt over a gray T-shirt. Whether by accident or design, he had buttoned the shirt wrongly, so one side was lower than the other at the neck.

“You’ve already told us, Mr. Neilson,” Siobhan kicked off, “that you were outside the gallery the night Edward Marber died.”

“Yes.”

“Remind us why you were there.”

“I was curious about the show.”

“No other reason?”

“Such as?”

“You only have to answer the questions, Malcolm,” Allison interrupted. “You don’t need to add your own.”

“Well, since Mr. Neilson
has
asked the question,” Siobhan said, “perhaps I can let my colleague answer.”

Hynds opened the slim manila folder in front of him and slid a photocopy of the check across the desk. “Would you care to enlighten us?” was all he said.

“DC Hynds,” Siobhan said, providing commentary for the tapes, “is showing Messrs. Neilson and Allison a copy of a check, made out in the sum of five thousand pounds to Mr. Neilson and dated one calendar month ago. The check is signed by Edward Marber and comes from his personal bank account.”

There was silence in the room when she finished.

“Might I consult with my client?” Allison asked.

“Interview paused at eleven-forty hours,” Siobhan said curtly, stopping the machine.

It was times like this she wished she smoked. She stood with Hynds outside IR2, tapping her foot against the floor and a pen against her teeth. Bill Pryde and George Silvers arrived back from Leith and were able to report on their first full interview with Donny Dow.

“He knows he’s going down for his wife,” Silvers said. “But he swears he didn’t kill Marber.”

“Do you believe him?” Siobhan asked.

“He’s a bad bastard . . . I never believe anything those kind tell me.”

“He’s in a bit of a state about his wife,” Pryde commented.

“That really tugs my heartstrings,” Siobhan said coldly.

“Are we going to charge him with Marber?” Hynds asked. “Only, we’ve got another suspect in there . . .”

“In which case,” a new voice added, “what are you doing out here?” It was Gill Templer. They’d told her they wanted to bring in Neilson, and she’d agreed. Now she stood with hands on hips, legs apart, a woman who wanted results.

“He’s consulting with his lawyer,” Siobhan explained.

“Has he said anything yet?”

“We’ve only just shown him the check.”

Templer shifted her focus to Pryde. “Any joy down in Leith?”

“Not exactly.”

She exhaled noisily. “We need to start making some progress.” She was keeping her voice low, so the lawyer and painter wouldn’t hear, but there was no missing the sense of urgency and frustration.

“Yes, ma’am,” Davie Hynds said, turning his head as the door to IR2 swung open. William Allison was standing there.

“We’re ready now,” he said. Siobhan and Hynds retreated back inside.

With door closed and tape running, they sat across the desk once more. Neilson was pushing his hands through his hair, making it stick up at ever more ungainly angles. They waited for him to speak.

“When you’re ready, Malcolm,” the lawyer prodded.

Neilson leaned back in his chair, eyes staring ceilingwards. “Edward Marber gave me five thousand pounds to stop being a nuisance to him. He wanted me to shut up and go away.”

“Why was that?”

“Because people were starting to listen to me when I spoke about him being a cheat.”

“Did you ask him for the money?”

Neilson shook his head.

“We need it out loud for the tape,” Siobhan prompted.

“I didn’t ask him for anything,” Neilson said. “It was him that came to me. He only offered a thousand at first, but eventually it went up to five.”

“And you were at the gallery that night because you wanted more?” Hynds asked.

“No.”

“You wanted to see how well the show was doing,” Siobhan stated. “That might suggest that you were wondering whether there was any more money to be made out of your nuisance value. After all, you’d accepted the money, and there you were still hassling Marber.”

“If I’d wanted to hassle him, I’d have gone in, wouldn’t I?”

“Then maybe all you wanted was a quiet word . . . ?”

Neilson was shaking his head vigorously. “I didn’t go near the man.”

“But you did.”

“I mean I didn’t
speak
to him.”

“You were happy with the five?” Hynds asked.

“I won’t say happy . . . but it was a kind of vindication. I took it because it represented five thousand of crooked money that
he
wouldn’t be spending.” The artist’s hands went to the sides of his face, making a rasping sound against a day’s growth of beard.

“How did you feel when you heard he was dead?” The question came from Siobhan. Neilson locked eyes with her.

“I got a bit of a kick out of it, if I’m being honest. I know that’s hardly the humane response, but all the same . . .”

“Did you wonder if we’d start looking into your relationship with Mr. Marber?” Siobhan asked.

Neilson nodded.

“Did you wonder if we’d find out about this payment?”

Another nod.

“So why didn’t you just tell us?”

“I knew how it would look.” Sounding sheepish now.

“And how do you think it looks?”

“It looks as though I had motive, means and whatever.” His eyes never left hers. “Isn’t that right?”

“If you didn’t do anything, there’s no reason to worry,” she said.

He angled his head. “You’ve got an interesting face, Detective Sergeant Clarke. Do you think I might paint you, when this is finished?”

“Let’s concentrate on the present, Mr. Neilson. Tell us about the check. How was the eventual sum reached? Was it posted to you or did you meet?”

Afterwards, Hynds and Siobhan bought themselves a late lunch at a baker’s. Filled rolls, cans of drink from the fridge. The day was warm, overcast. Siobhan felt like taking another shower, but really it was the inside of her head she wanted to sluice, ridding it of all the confusion. They decided to walk back to St. Leonard’s the long way round, eating as they went.

“Take your pick,” Hynds said. “Donny Dow or Neilson.”

“Why not both of them?” Siobhan mused. “Neilson watching Edward Marber, alerting Dow when Marber’s taxi arrived.”

“The two of them in cahoots?”

“And while we’re stirring the pot, let’s add Big Ger Cafferty, not a man you want to be found ripping off.”

“I can’t see Marber conning Cafferty. Like you say, it’s too fraught.”

“Anyone else with a grudge?”

“What about Laura Stafford? Maybe she got sick of their arrangement . . . maybe Marber wanted to take things a bit further.” Hynds paused. “What about Donny Dow as Laura’s pimp?”

Siobhan’s face fell. “That’s enough,” she snapped.

Hynds realized he’d said the wrong thing. He watched as she tossed the rest of her roll into a bin, brushed crumbs and flour from her front.

“You should talk to someone,” he said quietly.

“Counseling, you mean? Do me a favor . . .”

“I’m trying to. Seems like you don’t want to listen.”

“I’ve seen people killed before, Davie. How about you?” She had stopped to face him.

“We’re supposed to be partners,” he said, sounding aggrieved.

“We’re supposed to be senior and junior officer . . . sometimes I think you get muddled over who’s who.”

“Christ, Shiv, I was only —”

“And don’t call me Shiv!”

He made to say something further, but seemed to think better of it, took a swig of his drink instead. After a dozen paces, he took a deep breath.

“Sorry.”

She looked at him. “Sorry for what?”

“For making jokes about Laura.”

Siobhan nodded slowly; a little of the tension left her face. “You’re learning, Davie.”

“I’m trying.” He paused. “Truce?” he suggested.

“Truce,” she agreed. After which, they resumed their walk in a silence that could almost have been called companionable.

When Rebus and Gray got back to the station, IR1 was full. The rest of the team had split into two pairs, spent the day hitting the east coast’s caravan parks, talking to the site owners, long-term users and residents. Now they were back . . . and weary.

“Didn’t know there were static parks,” Allan Ward said. “People living in these four-berth jobs like they were proper houses, little flower beds outside and a kennel for the Alsatian.”

“Way house prices are going,” Stu Sutherland added, “could be the wave of the future.”

“Must be freezing in winter, though,” Tam Barclay said.

DCI Tennant was listening to all this with arms folded, as he leaned against the wall. He turned slowly towards Rebus and Gray. “I hope to Christ you two have got something more for me than property speculation and gardening tips.”

Gray ignored him. “You didn’t get anything?” he asked Jazz McCullough.

“Bits and pieces,” Jazz answered. “It
was
six years ago. People move on . . .”

“We spoke to the owner of one site,” Ward said. “He hadn’t been there when Rico was around, but he’d heard stories: all-night parties, boozed-up arguments. Rico used two caravans on that site . . . supposedly with another two or three elsewhere.”

“Are the caravans still there?” Gray asked.

“One of them is; other caught on fire.”

“Caught on fire or was
set
on fire?”

Ward shrugged a response.

“You see why I’m impressed?” Tennant announced. “So bring me glad tidings from dear old Glasgow town.”

It took Gray and Rebus only five minutes to summarize their trip, leaving out everything except the hospital visit. At the end of it, Tennant looked less than cheered.

“If I didn’t know better,” he told them, “I’d say you lot were pissing into the wind.”

“We’ve hardly started,” Sutherland complained.

“My point exactly.” Tennant wagged a finger at him. “Too busy enjoying the good life, not busy
enough
doing the work you’re supposed to be here for.” He paused. “Maybe it’s not your fault; maybe there’s nothing here for us to find.”

“Back to Tulliallan?” Tam Barclay guessed.

Tennant was nodding. “Unless you can think of a reason to stay put.”

“Dickie Diamond, sir,” Sutherland said. “There are friends of his we still need to talk to. We’ve got feelers out with a local snitch . . .”

“Meaning all you’re doing here is waiting?”

“There’s one other avenue, sir,” Jazz McCullough said. “At the time Diamond went AWOL, there was that rape case at the manse.” Rebus concentrated hard on the room’s mud-colored carpet tiles.

“And?” Tennant prodded.

“And nothing, sir. It’s just a coincidence that might be worth following up.”

“You mean in case Diamond had anything to do with it?”

“I know it sounds thin, sir . . .”

“Thin? You could use it as a pizza topping.”

“Maybe just another day or two, sir,” Gray advised. “There are some loose ends we could do with tying up, and since we’re already here,” he glanced towards Rebus, “with an expert to guide us . . .”

“Expert?” Tennant’s eyes narrowed.

Gray had slapped a hand onto Rebus’s shoulder. “When it comes to Edinburgh, sir, John knows where the bodies are buried. Isn’t that right, John?”

Tennant considered this, while Rebus said nothing. Then Tennant unfolded his arms, stuck his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

After Tennant had left the room, Rebus turned to Gray. “I know where the bodies are buried?”

Gray shrugged, gave a little laugh. “Isn’t that what you told me? Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Unless you know different . . . ?”

Later that afternoon, Rebus stood by the drinks machine, considering his options. He had a handful of change, but his mind was on other things. He was wondering who to tell about the heist scheme. The chief constable, for instance. Strathern wouldn’t know about the warehouse stash, he was sure of that. Claverhouse had gone to Carswell, the assistant chief. The two of them were mates, and Carswell would have given his blessing to the project, without feeling the need to bother the Big Chief. If Rebus told Strathern about it, the Chief would most likely blow his top, not liking the notion of having been sidelined on such an important bust. Rebus wasn’t sure what the result would be, but he couldn’t see it doing his heist scheme any good.

What he needed at the moment was for the knowledge of the bust’s existence to remain as secret as possible. It wasn’t as if he was actually going to carry out any heist. It was a smoke screen, a way to infiltrate the trio and hopefully glean some information on Bernie Johns’s missing millions. He wasn’t sure that Gray and Co. would go for it . . . in fact, it worried him that Gray had proved so attentive. Why would Gray consider such a scheme when he already had much more salted away than any raid on the warehouse would bring him? All Rebus had wanted the story to do was prove to the trio that he too could be tempted, that he, like them, could fall.

Now he had to consider a further possibility: that the trio would want to take it further, make the plan a reality.

And why would they do that if they were so stinking rich on their ill-gotten gains? The only answer Rebus could think of was that there
were
no gains. In which case he was back to square one. Or, even worse, he
was
square one: instigator of a plot to steal several hundred grand’s worth of dope from under the noses of his own force.

Then again . . . if Gray and Co.
had
gotten away with it . . . maybe all they’d learned was that they could do it again. Could greed stop them thinking straight? The worry was, Rebus knew they probably
could
do it. The security around the warehouse wasn’t overzealous: last thing Claverhouse wanted was for the site to start looking heavily guarded. All that would do was attract attention. A gate, a couple of guards, maybe a padlocked warehouse . . . So what if there was an alarm? Alarms could be dealt with. Guards could be dealt with. A decent-sized station wagon would accommodate the haul . . .