Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“News travels.”

“It does in this city.”

Rebus thought back six years. Dickie Diamond telling him that the manse rapist was holed up in Lomax’s caravan . . . Rebus getting there too late . . . At the end of his tether, he’d torched the caravan and paid a visit to Barlinnie, not to ask Cafferty a favor but merely to tell him the story, hoping Cafferty’s contacts would succeed where he had failed. But that hadn’t happened. Instead, his men had attacked Rico Lomax, beating him mercilessly and leaving him to die. Which hadn’t been Rebus’s plan at all. Not that Cafferty had believed him. When Rebus had returned to Barlinnie to rage at him, Cafferty had laughed, sitting with arms folded.

We should be careful what we wish for, Strawman . . . The words ringing in Rebus’s ears all down the years . . .

“The Lomax case is closed,” he stated now.

Cafferty lifted the address, folded it into the pocket of his clean white shirt. “Funny the way things sometimes turn out,” he said.

“And is the Weasel busy laughing as we speak?” Rebus asked.

“He’s history,” Cafferty said, brushing toast crumbs from his fingers. “Think his son could have come up with a scheme like that? Weasel was about to make a move on me. Then he got cold feet, shopped Aly . . .” Cafferty made sure there were no crumbs on his shirtfront or trousers, then dabbed his mouth with a cotton napkin. He looked at Rebus and sighed. “Always nice to do business with you, Strawman . . .”

Rebus stood up, fearing at first that his legs might not support him. His whole body felt like it was turning to dust . . . the dull sensation of ashes in his mouth.

I’ve made a pact with the devil, he thought as his hands gripped the edge of the breakfast table. Resurrection would come only to those who deserved it; Rebus knew he was not among them. He could find a church and pray all he liked, or offer up his confession to Strathern. Neither would make a jot of difference. This was how the jobs got done: with a tainted conscience, guilty deals, and complicity. With grubby motives and a spirit grown corrupt. His steps were so shallow as he walked towards the door, he could have been wearing shackles.

“I’ll be seeing you in court one of these days, Cafferty,” he said, his words failing to have any effect. It was as though Cafferty had ceased to see him, his annihilation complete.

“One of these days,” he repeated under his breath, hoping to God that he meant it . . .

Allan Ward woke up late that morning. He was making his way to the dining room when Stu Sutherland, looking sprightly as the course neared its end, told him there was a “mysterious envelope” waiting for him at reception. Ward passed the dining room and opened the connecting door to the original baronial-style building, where a uniformed receptionist handed him a thick legal-sized packet. He opened it in front of her, knew at once what it was. A typed report of Rebus’s findings. Deciding to skip breakfast for once, Allan Ward headed back to his room. He had some reading to do . . .

Rebus spent the morning at St. Leonard’s, where nothing was happening. Siobhan had argued that they should talk to Gill Templer, persuade her to at least get Malcolm Neilson out on bail.

“Just a bit longer,” Rebus told her, shaking his head.

“Why?”

“I want to see what Allan Ward will do.”

He got his answer at midday when, about to pop out for some lunch, his mobile sounded. Caller ID: Allan Ward.

“Hello there, Allan,” Rebus said. “Had a chance to speak to your mates?”

“I’ve been too busy reading.” There was a lot of background noise: Ward was in his car.

“And?”

“And I don’t think I’ve really got anything to say to them. It’s you I want to talk to.”

“On the record?”

“If you like.”

“Do you want to come here?”

“Where are you?”

“St. Leonard’s.”

“No, not there. How about somewhere else? I want to get everything straight first, talk it through with you. Would your flat be all right? I’m just west of the city.”

“I’ll have the beers waiting.”

“Better make it soft drinks only. I’ve got a lot of talking to do . . . want to make sure it comes out right.”

“The Irn-Brus are on me,” Rebus said, ending the call.

He didn’t see Siobhan. Maybe she’d headed out to lunch already or was networking with the uniforms in the toilets. There was no sign of Derek Linford either. Word was, with the case wrapped up, he’d hightailed it back to HQ, to keep tabs on the future of his onetime mentor. Davie Hynds had sidled up to Rebus earlier, complaining that he felt Siobhan was freezing him out.

“Get used to it,” Rebus had advised coldly. “That’s the kind of cop she is.”

“I begin to see where she gets it from,” Hynds had muttered.

Rebus stopped at a corner shop, bought six cans of Irn-Bru and four of Fanta. Tuna mayonnaise roll for himself. He took two bites of it as he drove, but realized he wasn’t hungry. He thought of Siobhan. More and more, she reminded him of himself. He wasn’t sure it was necessarily a good thing, but was glad of it all the same . . .

There was a parking space outside his tenement: the rest of the day was going to be good to him. Red cone on the pavement, which might mean they were going to start laying cables or something. The council always seemed to be digging up Marchmont . . . He was just about to close his driver’s-side door when feet shuffled up behind him.

“You got here quick,” Allan Ward’s voice said.

“You too . . .” He had his head half turned, saw that Ward had brought some friends with him. Next thing, the doors to the Saab were open again and he was being bundled into the back, a knife pressing into his side with enough force to let him know Francis Gray wouldn’t need much of an excuse to use it.

Now the cone made sense: they’d used it to keep the parking bay free until he arrived.

Which didn’t exactly help the situation any.

The car was reversing at speed, McCullough turning the steering wheel hard. Allan Ward was in the front beside him, leaving Rebus in the back with Francis Gray. It was an evil-looking knife with a long black handle and a shining serrated edge.

“Christmas present, Francis?” Rebus asked.

“I could kill you now, save us some fucking hassle,” Gray spat, showing his teeth. A dull throb of pain told Rebus that the tip of the knife had already pierced his skin. When he dabbed with a finger, he found a large droplet of blood. Shock and adrenaline were doing their work; otherwise, he’d be feeling it more than he was.

“Made your peace then, Allan?” he called out. Ward didn’t reply. “This is insane, you must know that.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, John,” McCullough said softly. “Hasn’t that struck home yet?”

“Francis has tried making the point . . .” He caught McCullough’s eyes in the mirror. They seemed to be smiling. “Where are we heading?”

“If this was Glasgow,” Gray answered, “we’d be going for what we call a ‘short walk in the Campsies.’ ”

Rebus took his meaning. The Campsie Fells was a hill range outside the city.

“I’m sure we can find a suitable spot somewhere on Edinburgh’s equivalent,” McCullough added. “Somewhere a shallow grave won’t be disturbed . . .”

“You’ve got to get me there first,” Rebus said. He knew they’d be heading south out of the city, making for the wild expanse of the Pentland Hills.

“Alive or dead, makes no odds to me,” Gray hissed.

“That go for you too, Allan?” Rebus asked. “This’ll be the first killing you’ve actually participated in. Got to break your cherry sometime, I suppose . . .”