Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“You all right?” he asked.

Head still down, the Weasel nodded. The crown of his head was bald, the flesh pink and flaky. Rebus noticed that the man’s fingers were curled, almost like an arthritic’s. He had barely touched his drink, while Rebus was finishing his.

“I’ll get us another,” he said.

The Weasel looked up, eyes reddened so that more than ever he resembled the animal which had given him his nickname. “My shout,” he said determinedly.

“It’s okay,” Rebus assured him.

But the Weasel was shaking his head. “That’s not the way I work, Rebus.” And he got up, kept his back straight as he walked to the bar. He came back with a pint, handed it over.

“Cheers,” Rebus said.

“Good health.” The Weasel sat down again, took another sip of his drink. “What do you suppose they want from me anyway, these friends of yours?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call them friends.”

“I’m assuming the next step is a meeting between me and them?”

Rebus nodded. “They’ll want you to feed them everything you can get on Cafferty.”

“Why? What good will it do them? The man’s got cancer. That’s why they let him out of the Bar-L in the first place.”

“All Cafferty’s got are some doctored X rays. Build up a case against him, and we can ask for a new set of tests. When they show up negative, he goes back inside again.”

“And suddenly there’s no crime in Edinburgh? No drugs on the street, no moneylending . . . ?” The Weasel offered a weak smile. “You know better than that.”

Rebus didn’t say anything, concentrated on his beer instead. He knew the Weasel was right. He licked more foam from his lip and made up his mind. “Look,” he said, “I’ve been thinking . . .” The Weasel looked at him, eyes suddenly interested. “The thing is . . .” Rebus shifted in his seat, as if trying to get comfortable. “I’m not sure you need to do anything right now.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean you shouldn’t agree to anything, not straightaway. Aly needs a lawyer, and that lawyer can start asking questions.”

The Weasel’s eyes widened. “What sort of questions?”

“The way the drugs boys found the lorry and searched it . . . it might not have been entirely aboveboard. They’ve kept the whole thing quiet from the likes of Customs and Excise. Could be there’s some technicality somewhere . . .” Rebus held up his hands at the look of hope which had bloomed on the Weasel’s face. “I’m not saying there is, mind.”

“Of course not.”

“I can’t say one way or the other.”

“Understood.” The Weasel rubbed his chin, nails rasping over the bristles. “If I go to a lawyer, how do I stop Big Ger finding out?”

“It can be kept quiet; I doubt the SDEA will want to make a noise.”

The Weasel had brought his face a little closer to Rebus’s, as if they were conspirators. “But if they ever got a whiff that you’d said anything . . . ?”

Rebus leaned back. “And what exactly have I said?”

A smile spread across the Weasel’s face. “Nothing, Mr. Rebus. Nothing whatsoever.” He reached out a hand. Rebus took it, felt soft pressure as the two men shook. They didn’t say anything, but the eye contact was enough.

Claverhouse’s words: Just two fathers having a little chat . . .

Claverhouse and Ormiston dropped him off at Tulliallan. There hadn’t been much conversation on the trip back.

Rebus: “I don’t think he’s up for it.”

Claverhouse: “Then his son’s going to jail.”

It was a point Claverhouse reiterated angrily and often, until Rebus reminded him that he was trying to convince the wrong man.

“Maybe I’ll talk to him,” Claverhouse had said. “Me and Ormie, maybe we could be more persuasive.”

“Maybe you could.”

When Ormiston pulled on the hand brake, it sounded like a trapdoor opening. Rebus got out and walked across the car park, listening to the cab moving away. When he stepped into the college, he headed straight for the bar. Work had finished for the day.

“Did I miss anything?” he asked the circle of officers.

“A lecture on the importance of exercise,” Jazz McCullough replied. “It helps work off feelings of aggression and frustration.”

“Which is why you’re all doing some circuit training?” Rebus pointed at the group and made a stirring motion, ready to take their drinks orders. Stu Sutherland was, as usual, the first to reply. He was a brawny, red-faced son of a Highlander, with thick black hair and slow, careful movements. Determined to hang in until pension time, he’d long since grown tired of the job — and wasn’t afraid to admit as much.

“I’ll do my share,” he’d told the group. “Nobody can complain about me not doing my share.” The extent of this “share” had never really been explained, and no one had bothered to ask. It was easier just to ignore Stu, which was probably the way he liked it, too . . .

“Nice big whiskey,” he said now, handing Rebus his empty glass. Having ascertained the rest of the order, Rebus went up to the bar, where the barman had already starting pouring. The group were sharing some joke when Francis Gray put his head round the door. Rebus was ready to add to the order, but Gray spotted him and shook his head, then pointed back into the hallway before disappearing. Rebus paid for the drinks, handed them out and then walked to the door. Francis Gray was waiting for him.

“Let’s go walkies,” Gray said, sliding his hands into his pockets. Rebus followed him down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. They ended up in a sub-post office. It was a pretty accurate mock-up of the real thing, with a range of shelves filled with newspapers and magazines, packets and boxes, and the glass-fronted wall of the post office itself. They used it for hostage exercises and arrest procedures.

“What’s up?” Rebus asked.

“See this morning, Barclay having a go at me for keeping information back?”

“Not still eating you, is it?”

“Credit me with some sense. No, it’s something I’ve found.”

“Something about Barclay?”

Gray just looked at him, picked up one of the magazines. It was three months out of date. He tossed it back down.

“Francis, I’ve a drink waiting for me. I’d like to get back before it evaporates . . .”

Gray slid a hand from his pocket. It was holding a folded sheet of paper.

“What’s this?” Rebus asked.

“You tell me.”

Rebus took the sheet and unfolded it. It was a short, typewritten report, detailing a visit to Edinburgh by two CID officers from the Rico Lomax inquiry. They’d been sent to track down “a known associate,” Richard Diamond, but had spent a fruitless few days in the capital. By the last sentence of the report, the author’s feelings had got the better of him, and he proffered “grateful thanks to our colleague, DI John Rebus (St. Leonard’s CID), for endeavors on our behalf which can only be described as stinting in the extreme.”

“Maybe he meant ‘unstinting,’ ” Rebus said blithely, making to hand the sheet back. Gray kept his hands in his pockets.

“Thought you might want to keep it.”

“Why?”

“So no one else finds it and starts to wonder, like me, why you didn’t say anything.”

“About what?”

“About being involved in the original inquiry.”

“What’s to tell? A couple of lazy bastards from Glasgow, all they wanted was to know the good boozers. Headed back after a couple of days and had to write something.” Rebus shrugged.

“Doesn’t explain why you didn’t bring it up. But maybe it does explain why you were so keen to sift through all the paperwork before the rest of us had a chance.”