Resurrection Men (2002) (36 page)

“Has Francis filled you in?” Rebus asked as they sat in a row across the table from him.

“Dickie Diamond’s been found dead,” Jazz answered. “And you seem to think Francis had a hand in it.”

“Maybe more of a forearm than a hand. Dickie’s windpipe was crushed. Same sort of maneuver Francis pulled in IR1.”

“When did all this happen?” Jazz asked.

“Pathologist thinks around midnight.”

Jazz looked to Gray. “We were back here by then, weren’t we?”

Gray shrugged.

“You left me around eight,” Rebus said. “Doesn’t take four hours to drive from Haymarket to here.”

“We didn’t come straight back,” Ward explained, still rubbing his face with both hands. “We stopped for something to eat and a few drinks.”

“Where?” Rebus asked coldly.

“John,” Jazz said quietly, “none of us went near Dickie Diamond.”

“Where?” Rebus repeated.

Jazz sighed. “That road out of town . . . the one we were on after we left you. We stopped for a curry. After all, we had things to talk about, didn’t we?” Now all three men looked at Rebus.

“We did,” Gray agreed.

“What was the restaurant called?” Rebus asked.

Jazz tried to laugh. “Give me a break, John . . .”

“And afterwards? Where did you drink?”

“Couple of pubs on that same road,” Ward stated. “Too good an opportunity, with Jazz driving . . .”

“Names?” Rebus said.

“Get stuffed,” Gray said. He leaned back and folded his arms. “We don’t need this paranoia of yours. Is it because you’re in the huff? We’d given you the hump, left you standing there? So now you try pulling this . . . ?”

“Francis has a point, John,” Jazz said.

“If you went trawling Leith for Dickie Diamond, someone will have spotted you,” Rebus pressed on.

Jazz shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “But no one’s going to come forward, because we were never there.”

“We’ll see.”

“Yes,” Jazz said, nodding his head without his eyes ever leaving Rebus’s, “we will. But meantime, any chance we can go get some sleep now? Something tells me tomorrow’s going to be a day and a half . . .”

Ward was already on his feet. “Paranoia,” he said, echoing Gray. Rebus doubted he knew what the word meant.

Gray stood up without saying anything. His eyes burned into Rebus. Jazz was the last to leave.

“I know you did it,” Rebus told him.

Jazz seemed about to say something, but shook his head instead, as if to acknowledge that no words were going to change Rebus’s mind.

“You need to admit it while there’s still time,” Rebus went on.

“Time for what?” Jazz asked, genuinely curious.

“For resurrection,” Rebus answered quietly. But Jazz just winked at him before turning to go.

Rebus sat for a few more minutes before returning to his room, making sure the door was locked behind him. He was aware of the proximity of the three men, three men he’d just accused of murder and accessory to murder. He thought of placing his chair against the door. He thought of heading out to the car park and driving home. In truth, he wasn’t sure they’d killed Dickie; he was only sure that they were capable of it. It all depended how much they knew and how much they suspected — about Rebus’s involvement with Dickie, how it had led to Rico Lomax’s murder and a burning caravan. But he’d wanted the trio shaken, and reckoned he’d succeeded — in spades. He considered who else might have have wanted Dickie dead. There was one name, but thinking of it took him right back to the Rico Lomax case.

The name of Morris Gerald Cafferty . . .

25

L
ate down to breakfast, Rebus found the other five members of the Wild Bunch seated at one of the tables. He squeezed in between Stu Sutherland and Tam Barclay.

“What’s this about Dickie Diamond?” Barclay said.

“Got himself throttled last night,” Rebus answered, concentrating on the plate in front of him.

Barclay whistled. “Got to be our shout, hasn’t it?”

“It’s a Leith call,” Rebus told him. “Body was fished out of the docks.”

“But it could tie in to the Lomax case,” Barclay argued. “Which belongs to
us.
”

Sutherland was nodding. “Bloody hell, we talked to him only yesterday.”

“Yes, funny coincidence,” Rebus said.

“John thinks one of us did it,” Allan Ward blurted out. Sutherland’s jaw dropped, revealing chewed-up bacon and egg yolk. He turned to Rebus.

“He’s right,” Rebus conceded. “Diamond had the same neck hold put on him that Francis used in the interview room.”

“I’d say you’re leaping to conclusions,” Jazz said.

“Aye,” Barclay added, “the kind of leap Superman used to make in the cartoons.”

“Just think for a minute, John,” Jazz pleaded. “Try to rationalize it . . .”

Rebus sneaked a glance at Gray, who was working away at a crust of toast. “What do you say, Francis?” he asked. Gray stared back at him as he answered.

“I say the pressure’s got to you . . .you’ve stopped thinking straight. Maybe a few extra sessions with wee Andrea are in order.” He reached for his coffee, preparing to wash down the mouthful of toast.

“Man’s got a point, John,” Barclay argued. “Why the hell would any of us want to do away with Dickie Diamond?”

“Because he was holding something back.”

“Such as?” Stu Sutherland asked.

Rebus shook his head slowly.

“If there’s something you know,” Gray intoned, “maybe now’s the time to spit it out.”

Rebus thought of the little confession he’d made to Gray, the hint that he’d not only known Dickie better than he’d admitted but also knew something about Rico Lomax’s demise. Gray’s threat was implicit: keep accusing me, I start talking. But Rebus had considered this, and didn’t think anything Gray could say would do him much harm.

Unless he’d wrenched some confession out of the Diamond Dog . . .

“Morning, sir,” Jazz said suddenly, looking over Rebus’s shoulder. Tennant was standing there. He tapped two fingers against Rebus’s upper arm.

“I hear the situation has changed somewhat, gentlemen. DI Rebus, as you were present at the postmortem examination, perhaps you could fill us in. From what I’ve been told, DI Hogan has yet to apprehend any suspects, and he’s keen for whatever input we can provide.”

“With respect, sir,” Barclay spoke up, “we should be in charge of this one, seeing how it might connect to Lomax.”

“But we’re not an active unit, Barclay.”

“We’ve been doing a pretty good impersonation,” Jazz stated.

“That’s as may be . . .”

“And you’re not saying Leith wouldn’t welcome a few extra pairs of hands?”

“Always supposing they were there to help,” Rebus muttered.

“What’s that?” Tennant asked.

“No point in us being there if an ulterior motive’s involved, sir. Hindering rather than helping.”

“I’m not sure I see what you’re getting at.”

Rebus was aware of three pairs of eyes glowering at him. “I mean, sir, that Dickie Diamond was strangled, and when we brought him in for questioning, DI Gray got a bit carried away and started throttling him.”

“Is this true, DI Gray?”

“DI Rebus is exaggerating, sir.”

“Did you touch the witness?”

“He was bullshitting us, sir.”

“With respect, sir,” Stu Sutherland piped up, “I think John’s making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“A molehill can trip us as surely as any mountain,” Tennant told him. “What do you have to say, DI Gray?”

“John’s getting carried away, sir. He’s got a bit of a rep for letting cases get beneath his skin. I was out last night with DI McCullough and DC Ward. They’ll vouch for me.”

His two witnesses were already nodding.

“John,” Tennant said quietly, “is your accusation against DI Gray based on anything other than what you say you saw in the interview room?”

Rebus thought of all the things he could say. But he shook his head instead.

“Are you willing to withdraw the accusation?”

Rebus nodded slowly, eyes still on his untouched plate of food.

“You sure? If Leith CID
do
ask us to help, I have to be sure we’re heading there as a team.”

“Yes, sir,” Rebus said dully.

Tennant pointed to Gray. “Meet me upstairs in five minutes. The rest of you, finish your breakfast and we’ll convene in fifteen. I’ll talk to DI Hogan and see what the state of play is.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jazz McCullough said. Tennant was already on his way.

Nobody said anything to Rebus during the rest of the meal. Gray was first to go, followed by Ward and Barclay. Jazz seemed to be waiting for Stu Sutherland to leave them alone, but Sutherland got himself a refill of coffee. As he rose to go, Jazz kept his eyes on Rebus, but Rebus focused on the remains of his egg white. Sutherland settled back down with his replenished cup and took a loud slurp.

“Friday today,” he commented. “POETS day.”

Rebus knew what he meant: Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. The team were due a weekend’s break, followed by the final four days of the course.

“Think I’ll go to my room and start packing,” Sutherland said, getting up again. Rebus nodded, and Sutherland paused, as if preparing for some carefully considered speech.

“Cheers, Stu,” Rebus said, hoping to spare him the effort. It worked. Sutherland smiled as though Rebus were responding to something he’d said, some valuable contribution to Rebus’s well-being.

Back in his room, Rebus was checking for messages on his mobile when it started to ring. He studied the number on the LCD display, and decided to take the call.

“Yes, sir?” he said.

“All right to talk?” Sir David Strathern asked.

“I’ve got a couple of minutes before I need to be somewhere else.”

“How’s it going, John?”

“I think I’ve blown it big-time, sir. No way I’m going to regain their trust.”

Strathern made a noise of irritation. “What happened?”

“I’d rather not go into details, sir. But for the record, whatever they did with Bernie Johns’s millions, I don’t think they’ve got much of it left. Always supposing they had it in the first place.”

“You’re not convinced?”

“I’m convinced they’re not on the straight and narrow. I don’t know if they’ve pulled any other scams, but if one presented itself, they’d be happy to take it on.”

“None of which gets us any further.”

“Not really, sir, no.”

“Not your fault, John. I’m sure you did what you could.”

“Maybe even a bit more than that, sir.”

“Don’t worry, John, I won’t forget your efforts.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I suppose you’ll want to be pulled out now? No use staying . . .”

“Actually, sir, I’d rather stick it out. Only a few more days to go, and they’d rumble me if I suddenly disappeared.”

“Good point. We’d be breaking your cover.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well then. If you’re okay with that . . .”

“I’ll just have to grin and bear it, sir.”

Rebus ended the call and thought about the lie he’d just told: he was staying put not because he feared being rumbled but because he still had work to do. He decided to phone Jean, let her know they’d have the weekend to themselves. Her response: “Always supposing nothing comes up.”

He couldn’t disagree . . .

The Wild Bunch reconvened in the Lomax inquiry room. It seemed like they’d been away from it a long time; longer still since they’d first met around its table. Tennant was seated at the head, hands clasped in front of him.

“Leith CID would like our help, gentlemen,” he began. “Or more properly,
your
help. You won’t be running the case — it’s not your bailiwick, after all. But you will share any and all information with DI Hogan and his team. You will pass on to them your notes on the procedures you’ve followed, the progress you’ve made on the Lomax case. And especially anything pertaining to Mr. Diamond and his circle. Clear enough?”

“Will we be based in Leith, sir?” Jazz McCullough asked.

“For today, yes. Make sure you take everything with you. There’s a weekend coming up, and after that you’ll be back here for four days of intensive final analysis. The plan was to retrain you and prepare you to work once more as effective team players . . .” Rebus felt Tennant’s eyes rest on him as he spoke these words. “Your respective forces will need evidence that you have learned from this course.”

“How are we doing so far, boss?” Sutherland piped up.

“You really want to know, DS Sutherland?”

“Actually, now you mention it, I think I can wait.”

There were smiles at this, from everyone in the room but Rebus and Gray. Gray looked chastened after his little chat with Tennant, while Rebus was deep in thought, trying to gauge how safe he would be down in Leith. At least he’d be in Edinburgh — on home turf — and he’d have Bobby Hogan to watch his back.

Odds on him making it to the weekend in one piece?

He’d give no better than even money.

The case against Malcolm Neilson was proceeding nicely. Colin Stewart from the Procurator Fiscal’s office had arrived at St. Leonard’s that morning for a progress report. It would be Stewart and his team of lawyers who’d decide whether there was enough evidence to justify a trial. So far he seemed satisfied. Siobhan had been called into Gill Templer’s office to answer a few of his procedural questions regarding the search of the house in Inveresk. Siobhan had countered with a few questions of her own.

“We’ve no actual physical evidence yet, have we?”

Stewart had removed his glasses, seeming to study the lenses for smears, while Gill Templer sat stone-faced beside him.

“We’ve the painting,” he commented.

“Yes, but it was found in an unlocked shed. Anyone could have put it there. Aren’t there more tests we could be doing to see whether anyone else handled it?”

Stewart glanced towards Templer. “We appear to have a doubting Thomas in our midst.”

“DS Clarke likes to play devil’s advocate,” Templer explained. “She knows as well as we do that further tests would take time and money — especially money — and probably wouldn’t add anything to what we already know.”

It was something the officers on an inquiry were never allowed to forget: each case had to fall within a strict budget. Bill Pryde probably spent as much time adding up columns of figures as he did on actual detective work. It was another thing he was good at: bringing cases in under budget. The High Hiedyins at the Big House perceived this as a strength.

“I’m just saying that Neilson would be an easy target. He’d already had a very public falling-out with Marber. Then there was the hush money and . . .”

“The only people who know about the hush money, DS Clarke,” Stewart said, “are the investigation team themselves.” He slipped his glasses back on. “You’re not implying that one of your own officers could have had some involvement . . . ?”

“Of course not.”

“Well then . . .”

And that had been that. Back at her desk, she called Bobby Hogan in Leith. It was something she’d been meaning to do. She wanted to know whether Alexander had been told about his mother’s death, and how he was bearing up. She’d even considered paying the grandmother a visit, but knew there could be no easy conversation between them. Thelma Dow had to contend with the loss of Laura and the jailing of her own son. Siobhan hoped she would be able to cope, able to give Alexander what he needed. She’d even briefly considered contacting a pal in social work, someone who could check that both carer and grandson were going to manage. Staring at the office around her, she saw the case winding down. The telephones had stopped being busy. People were standing around, catching up on gossip. She’d seen Grant Hood on last night’s TV news, acknowledging that a man had been charged, a house searched, and certain contents taken away for examination. It all had to be very coy now, so as not to jeopardize the legal case. The murder of Laura Stafford hadn’t even made the front page of the tabloids.
RED-LIGHT STAB HORROR
was the headline Siobhan had seen, with a daytime photograph of the Paradiso’s exterior and a much smaller photo of Laura, looking younger and with longer, bubble-permed hair.

Bobby Hogan was taking a while to come to the phone. Eventually, another officer answered for him.

“He’s swamped right now, Siobhan. Is it anything I can help with?”

“Not really . . . They’re keeping you busy down there then?”

“We had a murder last night. Rogue called Dickie Diamond.”

They chatted for a couple more minutes, then Siobhan hung up. She walked across to where George Silvers and Phyllida Hawes were sharing a joke.

“Hear what happened to Dickie Diamond?” she asked.

“Who’s he when he’s at home?” Silvers responded. But Hawes was nodding.

“That lot from Tulliallan had him in here only yesterday,” she said. “Bobby Hogan was in first thing this morning, asking questions.”

“As long as he’s not after poaching a few extra bodies,” Silvers commented, folding his arms. “I think we all deserve a bit of a rest, don’t you?”

“Oh, aye, George,” Siobhan told him, “you’ve been breaking your neck on this one . . .”

His glare followed her back to her desk. WPC Toni Jackson entered the room, saw Siobhan and smiled.

“It’s Friday,” she said, leaning against the side of the desk. Silvers had spotted her and was giving a sycophantic wave, still believing her to be related to someone famous. She waved back. “Silly sod,” she muttered under her breath. Then, to Siobhan: “You still got that date lined up?”

Siobhan nodded. “Sorry, Toni.”

Jackson shrugged. “It’s your loss, not ours.” She gave a sly look. “Still keeping lover boy’s name under wraps?”