Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

Gray was holding the knife at stomach level, so it wouldn’t be seen from passing cars. Rebus doubted there was any way he could escape from the Saab without Gray doing him some serious damage before he got out. There was a mad gleam to the man’s eyes. Maybe that was what McCullough had meant: it didn’t matter anymore . . . they’d crossed the line permanently. With Rebus out of the way, suspicion would fall on them, but still with no concrete proof they’d done anything. Strathern and his colleagues had suspected them for years, and nothing had come of it. Maybe they really believed they could take Rebus out of the game with impunity . . .

And maybe they were right.

“I had a wee look at the notes you sent Allan,” McCullough was saying, as though following Rebus’s train of thought. “I don’t see that you’ve got much of a case.”

“Then why take the risk of killing me?”

“Because it’ll be fun,” Gray replied.

“For you maybe,” Rebus told him, “but I still don’t see what Jazz and Allan get out of it. Except that it binds you all together, makes sure one of you can never rat out the others . . .” He was staring at the back of Allan Ward’s head, willing him to turn round, make eye contact. Finally, Ward did turn, but only to speak to Gray.

“Do me a favor, will you, Francis? Kill him now so we don’t have to listen to any more of his squawking.”

Gray chuckled. “Nice to have friends, eh, Rebus? Speaking of which, maybe it’ll be your pal DS Clarke next. Three murders . . . four . . . stops making any difference after a while.”

“I know who’s got the stuff from the warehouse,” Rebus said, holding his side as the pain increased. “We could take it from him.”

“Who?” McCullough asked.

“Big Ger Cafferty.”

Gray snorted. “I like this game better.”

Rebus looked at him. “The one where you end up no better off, but with a few corpses littered across your conscience?”

“Bingo,” Gray said with a grin.

They’d left Marchmont and Mayfield behind. A few more minutes and they’d be within reach of the Pentlands.

“I seem to remember there’s a pub car park with a golf course behind it,” McCullough was saying. Rebus looked out at the weather. Rain had started falling about an hour ago, and was turning heavy. “Probably pretty quiet this time of year. Lots of people go walking there . . . not so unusual to see four men out for a hike.”

“In suits? In the rain?”

McCullough stared at him in the mirror. “If it isn’t quiet enough, we’ll go someplace else.” He paused. “But thanks for your concern.”

Gray let out a cold chuckle, shoulders shaking. Rebus was running out of ploys. It was hard to think beyond the pain in his side. His whole palm was damp with blood now. He’d taken a handkerchief out, but the blood had seeped through its folded layers, too.

“A nice slow death,” Gray assured him. Rebus leaned back against the headrest. This is ridiculous, he thought. Any second now, I’ll be unconscious. There was sweat on the back of his neck, but his arms felt icy. His knees ached, too: there never had been enough room for passengers in the back of the Saab . . .

“Could you slide your chair forward?” he asked Ward.

“Fuck you,” Ward replied, not turning round.

“Could be his last request,” Gray commented. After a minute or two, Ward found the lever and suddenly Rebus had a few more inches in which to stretch his legs.

Then he drifted away . . .

“This is the place.”

McCullough was signaling, making a hard turn into a gravel car park. Rebus knew the pub — he’d brought Jean here, the place got busy at weekends. But this was a midweek afternoon with rain falling. The car park was deserted.

“Thought we’d lost you there,” Gray said, pushing his face close to Rebus’s. McCullough was directing them to a spot at the far corner of the car park, next to a grassy slope. A public footpath wound its way around the playing area of the golf course and up into the hills. They’d walked off their lunch, Jean and him, until the climb had started making them breathless and they’d turned to start their descent . . .

It was only as Ward was climbing out that Rebus noticed he was carrying something. It was a small spade, folded into two or three. Rebus had seen them in camping shops . . . maybe the same sort of place which had furnished Gray with the hunting knife.

“Going to take a while to dig a hole big enough for me,” Rebus said to no one in particular. He made to slap his stomach, but found his shirtfront sticky with blood. Gray had taken off his own jacket and was wrapping it around Rebus.

“Don’t want people to see you in that state,” he said. Rebus felt ready to agree.

Then they were out of the car, hands grabbing his arms to help him up the slope. Pain seared down his side with every step he took.

“How far?” Ward was asking.

“Need to get off the beaten track,” McCullough advised. He was looking around to ensure they were alone. Rebus’s blurred vision told him they were . . .

Quite, quite alone.

“Here, drink this . . .” Someone was tipping a hip flask into his mouth. Whiskey. Rebus swallowed, but McCullough wanted him to drink more. “Come on, John, finish it off. Eases the aches and pains.”

Yes, Rebus thought, and makes me even easier to deal with. But he swallowed anyway, coughing some of it down his shirt, more dribbling from his nose. His eyes were growing so tearful, nothing was staying in focus. They were having to hold him upright now, almost dragging him . . . One of his shoes came off, and Ward stooped to pick it up, carrying it with him.

One shoe off and one shoe on, diddle-diddle-dumpling, my son John . . .

Could he really remember his mother reading out nursery rhymes at his bedside? The rain was dripping down from his hair, stinging his eyes, running down into his shirtfront. Cold, cold rain. Dozens of songs about rain . . . hundreds . . . he couldn’t recall a single one . . .

“What were you doing at Tulliallan, John?” McCullough was asking.

“I threw a mug of tea . . .”

“No . . . that was just your story. Someone put you there to spy on us, didn’t they?”

“Is that why you broke into my flat?” Rebus took a deep, painful breath. “Didn’t find anything, did you?”

“You were too good for us, John. Who was it put you up to it?”

Rebus shook his head slowly.

“You want to take it to the grave, that’s fine. But just remember: it was no accident they had us working the Lomax case. So don’t think you owe them anything.”

“I know,” Rebus said. He’d already worked it out. There must have been something in the files, something pointing to his involvement in the murder of Rico Lomax, the disappearance of Dickie Diamond. Gray had said it himself: Tennant always used the same case, a murder in Rosyth, solved years back. There had to be some reason for the use of the Lomax case, and Rebus was that reason. The High Hiedyins had nothing to lose after all, and at best they’d be killing two birds with one stone: Rebus might solve his puzzle; the Wild Bunch might solve theirs . . .

“How much farther?” he could hear Ward complaining.

“This’ll do,” McCullough said.

“Allan,” Rebus spluttered. “I feel really sorry for you.”

“Don’t,” Ward snapped back. He’d taken the spade from its plastic sleeve and was straightening it out, tightening the connecting nuts. “Who wants to start?” he asked.

“I wish you could have been spared this, Allan,” Rebus persisted.

“You’re a lazy bastard sometimes, Allan,” Gray snarled.

“Correction: I’m a lazy bastard all the time.” Ward grinned and handed the spade to Gray, who snatched hold of it.