Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“Sure?”

Barclay unfolded the arms again while attempting to find space beneath the table to cross his legs. “It’s just that this is the first we’ve heard of it.”

“Heard of Mrs. Lomax and Chib Kelly?” Tennant waited until Barclay had nodded, then turned his attention to Gray.

“Well, DI Gray? Isn’t this supposed to be a team effort?”

Francis Gray made a point of not looking at Barclay. “Didn’t think it pertinent, sir. There’s nothing to show that Fenella and Chib knew one another when Rico was around.”

Tennant pushed out his lips. “Satisfied, DI Barclay?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“What about the rest of you? Was DI Gray right to hold back on you?”

“I can’t see that it did any harm,” Jazz McCullough said, to nods of agreement.

“Any chance we can question Mrs. Lomax?” Allan Ward piped up.

Tennant was standing right behind him. “I don’t think so.”

“Not much chance of us getting a result then, is there?”

Tennant leaned down over Ward’s shoulder. “I didn’t think results were your forte, DC Ward.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ward was beginning to rise to his feet, but Tennant slapped a restraining hand on the back of his neck.

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.” When Ward was seated again, Tennant left his hand where it was for a few seconds, then moved away, once more circling the table. “This case might be dormant, but it’s not extinct. You prove to me that you need to check on something, maybe interview someone, and I’ll fix it up. But I will need to be persuaded. In the past, DC Ward, you’ve been a mite overenthusiastic as far as interview technique is involved.”

“That was a piece of lying junkie scum,” Ward spat.

“And since his complaint was not upheld, we must naturally concede that you did nothing wrong.” Though Tennant beamed a smile in Ward’s direction, Rebus had seldom seen a face look less amused. Then Tennant clapped his hands together. “To work, gentlemen! Today I’d like to see you get through the interview transcripts. Work in pairs if it makes it easier.” He pointed to where a clean white marker board had been placed against the wall. “I want the path of the original inquiry laid out for me, along with comments and criticisms. Anything they missed, all the side roads, especially ones you feel they should maybe have ventured down a little farther.” As Stu Sutherland let out a perceptible groan, Tennant fixed him with a stare. “Anyone who doesn’t see the point of this can head back downstairs.” He checked his watch. “The uniformed recruits will be starting their three-mile run in the next quarter of an hour. Plenty of time to change into your vest and shorts, DS Sutherland.”

“I’m fine, sir,” Sutherland said, making a show of patting his stomach. “Bit of indigestion, that’s all.”

Tennant glowered at him, then left the room. Slowly, the six men turned back into a team again, sharing out the piles of paperwork. Rebus noticed that Tam Barclay kept his head down, keen to avoid eye contact with Francis Gray. Gray was working with Jazz McCullough. At one point, Rebus thought he heard Gray say, “Know what ‘Barclays’ is rhyming slang for down south?” but McCullough didn’t take the bait.

After almost an hour had passed, Stu Sutherland closed another file and slapped it down onto the pile in front of him, then got up to stretch his legs and back. He was over by the window when he turned to face the room.

“We’re wasting our time,” he said. “The one thing we need is the one thing we’ll never get.”

“And what’s that, Sherlock?” Allan Ward asked.

“The names of whoever it was Rico was hiding in his various caravans and safe houses at the time he got whacked.”

“Why would they have anything to do with it?” McCullough asked quietly.

“Stands to reason. Rico helped gangsters disappear — if someone wanted to find one of them, he’d have to go through Rico.”

“And before they got round to asking the whereabouts, they decided to smash his brains in?” McCullough was smiling.

“Maybe they underestimated how hard they’d hit him . . .” Sutherland stretched out his arms, looking for someone to back him up.

“Or maybe he’d already told them,” Tam Barclay added.

“Just came out with it, did he?” Francis Gray growled.

“Threatened with a baseball bat, maybe that’s just what he did,” Rebus said, trying to direct Gray’s flak away from Barclay. “I haven’t seen anything in here” — he jabbed a report — “saying Rico wouldn’t give in to threats and intimidation. Could be he gave up the name, thinking it would save his neck.”

“What name?” Gray asked. “Anyone turn up dead about the same time?” He looked around the table but received only a few shrugs for his trouble. “We don’t even know he was protecting anyone back then.”

“The very point I was trying to make,” Stu Sutherland said quietly.

“If Rico’s job was helping people disappear,” Tam Barclay said, “and someone got to them, chances are they just stayed disappeared permanently. Meaning we’ve hit a brick wall.”

“You put your feet up if you want to,” Gray said, stabbing a finger in Barclay’s direction. “It’s not like we’re hanging on your every brilliant deduction.”

“At least I don’t hide information from the group.”

“Difference is, in the big bad city we actually do stuff like this all day. What keeps you busy in Falkirk, Barclay — having a quick chug with the lavvy door locked? Or maybe you like to live dangerously, keep it open while you’re on the job?”

“You’re full of it, aren’t you?”

“That’s right, champ, I am. While you, on the other hand, are practically drained. ”

There was a moment’s silence, then Allan Ward started laughing, joined by Stu Sutherland. Tam Barclay’s face darkened, and Rebus knew what was going to happen. Barclay leapt from his chair, sending it flying back. He had one knee up on the table and was readying to launch himself across it, straight at Francis Gray. Rebus reached out an arm to stop him, giving Stu Sutherland time to lunge forward and hold him in a bear hug. Gray just sat back, smirking, pen tapping against the tabletop. Allan Ward was slapping his hand against his thigh, as if he had a front-row seat at Barnum and Bailey. It took them a while to notice that the door was open, and Andrea Thomson was standing there. She folded her arms slowly as something like order was restored to the room. Rebus was reminded of a classroom settling at the approach of authority.

Difference was, these were men in their thirties, forties and fifties; men with mortgages and families; men with careers.

Rebus didn’t doubt that there had been enough to analyze in that momentary scene to keep Thomson busy for the next few months.

And she was looking at him.

“Phone call for DI Rebus,” she said.

“I won’t ask,” she said, “what was going on back there.”

They were walking along the corridor towards her office. “That’s probably wise,” he told her.

“I don’t know how the call ended up coming through to my phone. I thought it was easier just to come and fetch you . . .”

“Thanks.” Rebus was watching the way her body moved, shifting from side to side as she walked. It reminded him of a very awkward person trying to do the twist. Maybe she’d been born with some slight spinal deformity, maybe a car crash in her teens . . .

“What is it?”

He pulled his eyes back, but too late. “You walk funny,” he stated.

She looked at him. “I hadn’t noticed. Thanks for pointing it out.” She opened her door. The phone was off the hook, lying on the desk. Rebus picked it up.