Resurrection Men (2002) (28 page)

What are you contemplating, John?

The game was changing. He still didn’t know much about the three men, but now Gray knew that Rebus knew something about Dickie Diamond.
John knows where the bodies are buried.
The slap Gray had given him on the shoulder had been a warning, letting him know who was in charge.

Suddenly Linford was behind him. “You using that machine or just counting your savings?”

Rebus couldn’t think of a comeback, so simply stepped aside.

“Any chance of another ringside seat?” Linford said, slotting his coins home.

“What?”

“You and Allan Ward — have you made your peace?” Linford pressed the button for tea, then cursed himself. “Should have made that coffee. Tea has a way of flying around here.”

“Just crawl back into your fucking hole,” Rebus said.

“CID’s a lot quieter without you: any chance of making it permanent?”

“Not much hope of that,” Rebus told him. “I promised I’d retire when you lost your cherry.”

“
I’ll
have retired before that happens,” Siobhan said, walking towards the two men. She was smiling, but with little amusement.

“And who was it deflowered
you,
DS Clarke?” Linford smiled right back at her, before shifting his gaze to Rebus. “Or is that something we don’t want to get into?”

He started walking away. Rebus moved a step closer to Siobhan. “That’s what the women say about Derek’s bed, you know,” he said, loud enough for Linford to hear.

“What?” Siobhan asked, playing along.

“That it’s something they don’t want to get into . . .”

After Linford had disappeared, Siobhan got herself a drink. “Not having anything?” she asked.

“Gone off the idea,” Rebus stated, dropping the coins back into his pocket. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Really?”

“Well, mostly,” she confided. “And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I wasn’t going to offer.”

She straightened up, maneuvering the hot plastic cup. “That’s what I like about you,” she said. Then: “Got a minute? I need to pick your brains . . .”

They went down to the car park, Rebus lighting a cigarette. Siobhan made sure there were no other smokers around, no one to eavesdrop.

“All very mysterious,” Rebus said.

“Not really. It’s just something that’s niggling me about your friends in IR1.”

“What about them?”

“Allan Ward took Phyllida out last night.”

“And?”

“And she’d nothing to report. Ward was quite the gentleman . . . took her home but wouldn’t go upstairs when she offered.” She paused. “He’s not married or anything?” Rebus shook his head. “Not going steady?”

“If he is, it doesn’t show.”

“I mean, Phyl’s a bonny enough girl, wouldn’t you say?” Rebus nodded his agreement. “And he’d been paying her plenty of attention all night . . .”

The way she said this made Rebus focus on her. “What sort of attention?”

“Asking her how the Marber case was coming along.”

“It’s a natural enough question. Aren’t women’s magazines always saying men should do more listening?”

“I wouldn’t know, I never read them.” She looked at him archly. “Didn’t realize you were such an expert.”

“You know what I mean, though.”

She nodded. “The thing is, it made me think about the way DI Gray has been mooching around the inquiry room . . . and that other one . . . McCullen?”

“McCullough,” Rebus corrected her. Jazz, Ward and Gray, spending time in the inquiry room . . .

“Probably doesn’t mean anything,” Siobhan said.

“What could it mean?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Something they wanted . . . someone they were interested in . . . ?” She thought of something else. “The case you’re working on, did anything happen last night?”

He nodded. “Someone we wanted to speak to, he was rushed into hospital.” Part of him wanted to tell her more . . . tell her everything. He knew she was one person he
could
trust. But he held back, because there was no way of knowing whether telling her would put her in danger, somewhere down the line.

“The reason Ward didn’t go upstairs with Phyl,” she was saying, “was because he got a call on his mobile and had to head back to the college.”

“That could have been him hearing about it.”

Rebus remembered that when he’d arrived at Tulliallan himself, pretty late on, Gray, Jazz and Ward had still been awake, sitting in the lounge bar with the dregs of their drinks in front of them. The bar itself had stopped serving, no one else about, and with most of the lights extinguished.

But the three of them, still awake and seated around the table . . .

Rebus wondered if they’d summoned Ward back so they could discuss what to do about Rebus, the chat he’d had with Jazz . . . Gray coming up with the idea to take Rebus as his partner to Glasgow, maybe quiz him further. When Rebus had walked in, Gray had told him about Chib Kelly and repeated that he wanted Rebus with him. Rebus hadn’t really questioned the decision . . . He remembered asking Ward how his date with Phyllida Hawes had gone. Ward had shrugged, saying little. It hadn’t sounded like there was going to be a repeat performance . . .

Siobhan was nodding thoughtfully. “There’s something I’m not getting, isn’t there?”

“Such as?”

“I’ll know that only when you tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

She stared at him. “Yes there is. Something else you need to know about women, John: we can read you lot like a book.”

He was about to say something, but his mobile was trilling. He checked the number, held a finger up to let Siobhan know he needed this to be private.

“Hello,” he said, moving across the car park. “I was hoping I’d hear from you.”

“The mood I was in, believe me, you
didn’t
want to hear from me.”

“I’m glad you’re calling now.”

“Are you busy?”

“I’m always busy, Jean. That night on the High Street . . . I was roped into that. Group of guys from the college.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” Jean Burchill said. “I’m phoning to thank you for the flowers.”

“You got them?”

“I did . . . along with two phone calls, one from Gill, one from Siobhan Clarke.”

Rebus stopped and looked back, but Siobhan had already retreated indoors.

“They both said the same thing,” Jean was telling him.

“And what was it?”

“That you’re a pigheaded lout, but you’ve got a good heart.”

“I’ve been trying to call you, Jean . . .”

“I know.”

“And I want to make it up to you. How about dinner tonight?”

“Where?”

“You choose.”

“How about Number One?
If
you can get us a table . . .”

“I’ll get us a table.” He paused. “I’m assuming it’s expensive?”

“John, you muck me about, it’s always going to cost. Lucky for you, this time it’s only money.”

“Seven-thirty?”

“And don’t be late.”

“I won’t be.”

They finished the call and he headed back inside, stopping at the comms room to find a phone number for the restaurant. He was in luck: they’d just had a cancellation. The restaurant was part of the Balmoral Hotel on Princes Street. Rebus didn’t bother to ask how much it was likely to cost. Number One was a special-occasion place; people
saved
to dine there. Atonement wasn’t going to come cheap. Nevertheless, he was in good spirits as he walked back to the interview room.

“Someone looks frisky,” Tam Barclay commented.

“And wasn’t that the fragrant DS Clarke we saw coming back from the car park?” Allan Ward added.

They started whistling and laughing. Rebus didn’t bother to say anything. One man in the room wasn’t smiling: Francis Gray. He was seated at the table with a pen clenched between his teeth, playing out a rhythm on it with his fingernails. He wasn’t so much watching Rebus as
studying
him.

When it comes to Edinburgh, John knows where the bodies are buried.

Said metaphorically? Rebus didn’t think so . . .

20

B
y six that evening, the inquiry room had emptied. Siobhan was glad to see them go. Derek Linford had been giving her foul looks ever since the drinks machine. Davie Hynds had spent the afternoon writing up the report on Malcolm Neilson’s payoff. The only break he’d taken had been to interview — with Silvers as his partner — a good-looking woman who turned out to be Sharon Burns, the art collector. Siobhan had asked Silvers afterwards who she’d been. He’d explained, then grinned.

“Davie said you’d be jealous . . .”

Phyllida Hawes had been sitting moonfaced and anxious ever since lunch, checking her watch and the doorway, wanting Allan Ward to pay another visit. But no one from IR1 had come near. Eventually Hawes had asked Siobhan if she fancied a drink after work.

“Sorry, Phyl,” Siobhan had lied, “I’ve got a prior engagement.” Last thing she wanted was Hawes crying on
her
shoulder because Ward was giving her the cold one. But Silvers and Grant Hood were up for a pint, and Hawes had joined them. Hynds had waited to be asked, and eventually he was.

“I could probably manage one,” he’d said, trying not to sound too desperate.

“Might join you,” Linford had said, “if that’s all right.”

“More the merrier,” Hawes had told him. “Sure you can’t come, Siobhan?”

“Thanks anyway,” Siobhan had replied.

Leaving her alone in the office at six o’clock, the sudden silence relieved only by the hum of the strip lighting. Templer had left much earlier to attend some meeting at the Big House. The brass would want to know what progress was being made on the Marber case. As her eyes drifted over the Wall of Death, Siobhan could have told them: precious little.

They’d be keen for a result. Which was precisely when mistakes could be made, shortcuts taken. They’d be wanting Donny Dow or Malcolm Neilson to fit the frame, even if it meant reshaping them . . .

One of her teachers at college had told her years back: it wasn’t the result that mattered, it was how you got there. He’d meant that you had to play fair, stay open-minded; make sure the case lacked any slow punctures, so the Procurator Fiscal wouldn’t kick it straight back at you. It was up to the courts to decide guilt and innocence, the job of CID was merely to stitch the pieces together into a ball . . .

She looked down at her desk. Her notepad was a mass of doodles and squiggles, some in blue ink, some in black, not all of them hers. She knew she drew little tornadoes when she was on the phone. And cubes sometimes. And rectangles that looked like Union Jacks. One of the designs belonged to “Hi-Ho” Silvers: arrows and cacti were his specialties. Some people never doodled. She couldn’t remember Rebus ever doing it, or Derek Linford. It was as if they might give too much away. She wondered what her own graffiti would reveal to an expert. The tornado could be her way of giving some shape to the chaos of an investigation. The cubes and flags? Same thing, more or less. Arrows and cacti she wasn’t so sure about . . .

One name on her pad had been ringed and then half obliterated by a phone number.

Ellen Dempsey.

What was it Cafferty had said . . . ? Ellen Dempsey had “friends.” What sort of friends? The kind Cafferty didn’t want to tangle with.

“Is this what promotion does to you?” Rebus said. He was leaning against the doorframe.

“How long have you been there?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not spying.” He walked into the room. “They’ve all buggered off then?”

“Full marks for spotting that.”

“The old powers of deduction haven’t quite left the building yet.” Rebus tapped his head. His chair was behind what was now Linford’s desk. He wheeled it out and placed it in front of Siobhan’s.

“Don’t let that ba’heid sit in my seat,” he complained.

“Your seat? I thought you stole it from the Farmer’s old office?”

“Gill didn’t want it,” Rebus said, defending himself as he sat down and got comfortable. “So what’s on the menu for tonight?”

“Beans on toast probably. How about you?”

He made a show of thinking it over, resting his feet on the desktop. “Boeuf en croûte, maybe, washed down with a good bottle of wine.”

Siobhan wasn’t slow. “Jean called?”

He nodded. “I wanted to thank you for interceding on my behalf.”

“So where are you taking her?”

“Number One.”

Siobhan whistled. “Any chance of a doggie bag?”

“There might be a bone or two left. What are you writing?”

She noticed what she was doing. “Ellen Dempsey’s name was down here, only it’s been written over. I just wanted to write it again, to remind myself . . .”

“Of what?”

“I think she’s worth looking at.”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that Cafferty said she has friends.”

“You don’t think it was Donny Dow who killed Marber?”

She shook her head. “I could be wrong, of course.”

“What about this artist guy? I hear you had him in for questioning, too . . .”

“We did. He took a payoff from Marber, promised to stop bad-mouthing him.”

“Didn’t exactly work.”

“No . . .”

“But you don’t see him for the killer either?”

She gave an exaggerated shrug. “Maybe nobody did it.”

“Maybe a big boy did it and ran away.”

She smiled. “Has anyone in the whole history of the world ever really used that as an alibi?”

“I’m sure I tried it, when I was a kid. Didn’t you?”

“I don’t suppose my mum and dad would have believed me.”

“I don’t suppose
any
parent’s been duped by it. Doesn’t mean a kid wouldn’t try it . . .”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Neither Dow nor Neilson has an alibi for the night Marber was killed. Even Cafferty’s story’s a bit shaky . . .”

“You think Cafferty was involved?”

“I’m beginning to lean that way. He probably owns the Paradiso . . . he could have known about Laura and Marber . . . His driver happened to be Laura’s ex,
and
Cafferty’s a collector, someone Marber could have cheated.”

“Then bring him in.”

She looked at him. “He’s hardly likely to burst into tears and confess.”

“Bring him in anyway, just for the hell of it.”

She stared down at Ellen Dempsey’s name. “Why do I get the feeling that would be for
your
benefit, rather than mine?”

“Because you’ve a suspicious nature, DS Clarke.” Rebus checked his watch, rose to his feet.

“Got to go make yourself look pretty?” Siobhan guessed.

“Well, a change of shirt anyway.”

“Better find time for a shave, too, if you want Jean to get up close and personal.”

Rebus ran a hand over his chin. “A shave it is,” he said.

Siobhan watched him go, thinking: men and women, when did it all get so complicated? And why?

She opened her notepad at a fresh sheet and lifted her pen. A few moments later, Ellen Dempsey’s name was written there, at the still center of an ink tornado.

Rebus had washed his hair, shaved, brushed his teeth. He had dusted off his good suit and found a brand-new shirt. Having removed its packaging and all the pins, he’d tried it on. It needed ironing, but he didn’t know where the iron was . . . or whether he owned such an object, come to that. If he kept his jacket on, no one would see the creases. Pink tie . . . no. Dark blue . . . yes. No stains on it that he could see.

He gave his shoes a quick wipe with the dishcloth, dried them on the tea towel.

Looked at himself in the mirror. His hair had dried a bit spiky, and he tried flattening it. His face was flushed. He realized he was nervous.

He decided to get there early. A chance to check out the prices, so he wouldn’t look shocked in front of Jean. Besides, once he’d reconned the place, he would feel more comfortable in general. Maybe time for a quick whiskey just to steady him. The bottle peered at him from floor level. Not here, he thought: I’ll have one when I get there. He decided to take the car. Jean didn’t drive, and on the off chance that they might end up at her place in Portobello, a car would be handy. It also gave him an excuse not to order too much wine, let her drink for both of them.

And if he
did
drink, he could leave the car in town, fetch it later.

Keys . . . credit cards . . . what else? Maybe a change of clothes. He could always leave them in the car. That way, if he stayed the night at her place . . . no, no . . . if he suddenly announced that he had spare clothes in the trunk, she’d
know
he’d expected the night to end like that.

“No premeditation, John,” he warned himself. Last question: aftershave, yes or no? No. Same reasoning.

So . . . out of the flat, realizing halfway down the stairs that he hadn’t checked his phone messages. So what? He had his mobile and pager with him. The car was in a sweet parking space, almost directly outside. Shame to lose it . . . two minutes after he drove away, it would be taken. Still . . . Might not need a space tonight.

Stop thinking like that!

What if the menu was all in French? She’d have to order for both of them. Maybe that would be a good ruse; ask her straight off to order for him. Putting himself in her hands, et cetera. He was trying to think what else could go wrong. Credit card bouncing on him? Doubtful. Using the wrong spoon? Very possible. There seemed already to be patches of sweat beneath his arms.

Jesus, John . . .

Nothing was going to go wrong. He unlocked the car, slid into the driver’s seat. Turned the key in the ignition.

The engine was behaving itself. Into reverse and out of the space. He shifted into first and started down the road. Arden Street had been reduced to a narrow lane by cars parked either side. Suddenly, one of them reversed out of a space right in front of him. Rebus hit the brakes.

Bloody stupid . . .

He sounded the horn, but the driver just sat there. Rebus could see the shape of a head. No passengers.

“Come on!” he called, gesticulating. It was a twelve-year-old Ford with the exhaust practically hanging off. Rebus decided to memorize the license plate and make sure the bastard got some grief.

Still the car wasn’t budging.

Rebus undid his seat belt and got out, slammed shut his own door. Started walking towards the light-blue Ford. He was ninety percent of the way there when he suddenly thought:
Trap!
He looked around, but no one was coming up behind him. All the same, he stopped in his tracks, four feet from the driver’s door. The man was still sitting there, hands on the steering wheel. That was good. It meant he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

“Hey!” Rebus called. “Either move the car or let’s talk about it!”

The hands slid from the wheel. The door opened with a dry, grating clunk, the sound of unoiled hinges.

The man placed one foot on the road, eased himself halfway out of the car. “I want us to talk,” he said.

Rebus’s eyes widened. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.

This face . . . that voice . . .

This ghost.

“I can’t,” he managed to say. “I have to be somewhere in twenty minutes.”

“This’ll take ten,” the voice said. Rebus’s eyes were drawn to the mouth. There was new dental work there. Blackened teeth had been removed or polished.

The Diamond Dog was looking pretty good for a dead man.

“We can talk later,” Rebus pleaded.

Diamond shook his head, slid back into his car. He was reversing completely out of the parking spot. Rebus had to move aside so he wouldn’t be crushed between the Ford and his own Saab. A hand appeared from the window, motioning for him to follow.

Rebus glanced at his watch.
Fuck!

Looked up and saw the Ford trundling forwards, moving away from him.

Ten minutes. He could afford ten minutes. He’d still be at the restaurant ahead of time . . .

Fuck!

Rebus got back behind the wheel of his own car and started following Dickie Diamond.

They drove only the distance of two or three streets. Diamond parked on a single yellow — safe enough this time of the evening. Rebus stopped directly behind him. Diamond was already out of the Ford. They were next to Bruntsfield Links, a wide grassy slope where golfers occasionally practiced their pitch ’n’ putt skills. Recently, students had taken to holding barbecues on the links, using cheap disposable kits. The tin trays left charred rectangular marks on the grass. Diamond was testing one of these rectangles with his foot. He was dressed well. Nothing expensive or showy, but not bargain-basement either.

“Who’s the lady?” he asked, his eyes running the length of Rebus’s suit.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Diamond met Rebus’s less-than-happy gaze. Then he gave a rueful smile and started walking down the slope. Rebus hesitated, then followed.

“What sort of game are you playing?” he asked.

“That’s the question
I
should be asking!”

“I thought I told you never to set foot here.”

“That was before I got wind of what’s been happening.” In the six years since they’d last met, Diamond’s face had grown even thinner, as had his hair. What remained of the latter was an unnatural depth of black. There were dark half-moons beneath the eyes, but no sign of excess weight or any lessening of the faculties.

“And what exactly
has
been happening?” Rebus asked.

“You’ve got people looking for me.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re going to find you . . . unless, of course, you come charging back into town.” Rebus paused. “Who told you? Was it Jenny Bell?”

Diamond shook his head. “She doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

“It was Malky then?” Rebus was guessing, but it hit home. Diamond revealed as much by saying nothing. Malky in the Bar Z, hovering near the table . . . “My advice,” Rebus continued, “is that you get back in your car and hightail it out of town. I meant it when I told you to stay away.”

“And I’ve been good as my word until now.” Diamond had started rolling himself a cigarette. “So why the sudden interest?”