Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“Are you not drinking?” Strathern asked at one point, noting Rebus’s still-full glass.

“I hardly touch the stuff,” Rebus told him.

Strathern looked at him. “That’s not exactly been your reputation.”

“Maybe you’ve been misinformed, sir.”

“I don’t think so. My sources are usually impeccable.”

There was little Rebus could say to this, though he did wonder who the Chief had been talking to. Assistant Chief Constable Colin Carswell, perhaps, who disliked Rebus intensely, or Carswell’s acolyte, DI Derek Linford. Neither would have painted Rebus in anything but the darkest shades.

“With respect, sir,” Rebus said, sitting back, food and drink untouched, “we can skip the foreplay if you like.”

He then watched his chief constable struggle to contain the anger mounting within him.

“John,” Strathern said at last, “I came to you today to ask a favor.”

“One which requires a certain level of insubordination.”

The chief constable nodded slowly. “I want you to get yourself kicked off a case.”

“The Marber case?” Rebus’s eyes narrowed.

“The case itself has nothing to do with it,” Strathern said, sensing Rebus’s suspicion.

“But you want me off it all the same?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Without thinking, Rebus had raised the flat half-pint of beer to his lips.

“Because I want you somewhere else. Tulliallan, to be precise. There’s a rehab course about to start there.”

“And I’ll need rehab because I’ve been kicked off a case?”

“I think DCS Templer will demand it.”

“She knows about this?”

“She’ll agree to it when I tell her.”

“Who else knows?”

“Nobody. Why do you ask?”

“Because I think you’re asking me to go undercover. I don’t know why yet, and I don’t know that I’ll do it, but that’s the feeling I get.”

“And?”

“And there are people at Fettes who don’t like me. I wouldn’t like to think that they’d . . .”

Strathern was already shaking his head. “Nobody would know except you and me.”

“And DCS Templer.”

“She’ll be told only as much as I need her to know.”

“Which leads to the big question, sir . . .”

“Namely?”

“Namely,” Rebus said, rising to his feet, empty glass in hand, “what’s this all about?” He lifted the glass. “I’d offer to get you another, sir, but you’re driving.”

“And you said you hardly touch the stuff.”

“I was lying,” Rebus said, with the ghost of a smile. “That’s what you need, isn’t it? A convincing liar . . .”

The way Strathern told it was: there was a drug dealer on the west coast, a man called Bernard Johns.

“Bernie Johns, as he’s more colloquially known. Or was until his untimely death.” The chief constable nursed his near-empty glass as he spoke. “He died in prison.”

“Still protesting his innocence, no doubt?”

“No, not exactly. But he was adamant he’d been ripped off. Not that he ever said as much to us. It would hardly have helped his case, would it? ‘You’re putting me away for eight kilos, but I had a lot more than that stashed away.’ ”

“I can see it would have been awkward.”

“But word got around about a large amount of missing stuff. Either drugs or cash, depending who you talked to.”

“And?”

“And . . . the operation against Johns was big: you probably remember it. Ran from the winter of ’ninety-four to spring ’ninety-five. Three forces, dozens of officers, a logistical nightmare . . .”

Rebus nodded. “But Lothian and Borders wasn’t involved.”

“That’s true, we weren’t.” He paused. “Not back then, at any rate.”

“So what’s happened?”

“What’s happened, John, is that three names keep coming up.” The chief constable leaned over the table, lowering his voice still further. “You might know some of them.”

“Try me.”

“Francis Gray. He’s a DI based in Govan. Knows the place like the back of his hand, invaluable for that reason. But he’s dirty, and everybody knows it.”

Rebus nodded. He’d heard of Gray, knew the man’s rep: not so dissimilar from his own. He wondered how much of it was bluff. “Who else?” he asked.

“A young DC called Allan Ward, works out of Dumfries. He’s learning fast.”

“Never heard of him.”

“The last one is James McCullough, a DI from Dundee. Basically clean, so far as anyone knows, but blows a fuse from time to time. They worked the case, John. Got to know each other.”

“And you think they took Bernie Johns’s swag?”

“We think it’s likely.”

“Who’s we?”

“My colleagues.” By which Strathern meant the other chief constables in Scotland. “It looks bad, something like that. Even if it is just a rumor. But it tarnishes everyone at the highest level.”

“And what’s your role in all of this, sir?” Rebus was halfway down the pint he’d bought himself. The beer seemed to be weighing down his gut, as if what was liquid had suddenly become solid. He was thinking of the Marber case, the grind of all those cold calls. His hands gripping a cold lamppost.

“The three regions involved . . . we couldn’t ask a detective from any one of them to act on our behalf.”

Rebus nodded slowly: because it might get back to the three men involved. So instead they’d asked Strathern if he could think of anyone.

And apparently he’d thought of Rebus.

“So these three,” Rebus said, “they’re going to be at Tulliallan?”

“By accident, yes, all three will be on the same course.” The way he said it, Rebus knew it was anything but an accident.

“And you want me in there with them?” Rebus watched Strathern nodding. “To do what exactly?”

“To find out what you can . . . gain their confidence.”

“You think they’ll suddenly open up to a complete stranger?”

“You won’t be a stranger to them, John. Your reputation precedes you.”

“Meaning I’m a bent cop, same as them?”

“Meaning your reputation precedes you,” Strathern repeated.

Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. “You and your . . . ‘colleagues’ . . . do you have any evidence at all?”

Strathern shook his head. “The little investigating we’ve been able to do, we can’t find any trace of drugs or money.”

“You’re not asking much of me, are you, sir?”

“I appreciate it’s a tall order, John.”

“Tall? We’re talking Jack and the beanstalk.” Rebus chewed his bottom lip. “Give me one good reason why I should do this.”

“I think you like a challenge. Plus, I’m hoping you dislike dirty cops as much as the rest of us.”

Rebus looked at him. “Sir, there are plenty of people out there who think I’m a dirty cop.” He was thinking of Francis Gray, curious to meet the man.

“But we know they’re wrong, don’t we, John?” the chief constable said, rising to fetch Rebus another pint.

Tulliallan: no more Marber inquiry . . . a short break from the blackouts . . . and a chance to catch up with the man he’d once heard called “the Glasgow Rebus.” The chief constable was studying him from the bar. Rebus knew Strathern didn’t have long to go, retirement looming. Maybe the man was still hungry; unfinished business and all that . . .

Maybe Rebus would do it after all.

Now, in Andrea Thomson’s room, Strathern sat with his hands clasped. “So what’s so urgent?” he asked.

“I haven’t made much headway, if that’s what you’re wondering. Gray, McCullough and Ward act like they barely know each other.”

“They do barely know each other. There was just that one case they worked together.”