Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“They don’t act like they’ve got riches salted away.”

“How do you expect them to act? Drive around in Bentleys?”

“Have their bank accounts been checked?”

The chief constable was shaking his head. “There’s nothing tucked away in their bank accounts.”

“Maybe in a wife’s name . . . ?”

“Nothing,” Strathern stated.

“How long have they been under investigation?”

Strathern looked at him. “Is that any concern of yours?”

Rebus shrugged. “I just wondered if I was the straw you were clutching at.”

“We’re close to losing them,” Strathern admitted at last. “Gray’s up for retirement in less than a year; McCullough probably won’t be far behind him. And Allan Ward’s disciplinary record . . .”

“You think he’s looking for the early bath?”

“Maybe.” The chief constable was checking his watch, sliding the metal casing up and down his wrist. “I should be getting back.”

“There’s just one thing, sir . . .”

“About time.” Strathern took a deep breath. “Go on then.”

“They’ve got us working an old case.”

“Trying you out as a syndicate, eh? I dare say Archie Tennant’s in charge.”

“He is, yes. Thing is . . .” Rebus paused, considering just how much to tell his boss. “Well, both Gray and me tie to the case.”

Strathern looked interested.

“Gray worked it from his end, and I was liaison when two of Glasgow’s finest came through to Edinburgh on a recce. This was in ’ninety-five, same year as Bernie Johns . . .”

Strathern looked thoughtful. “It’s coincidence,” he said. “Pure and simple.”

“Tennant doesn’t know about . . . ?”

Strathern shook his head.

“And this case wasn’t foisted on him?”

Another shake of the head. “Is that why you wanted to see me?”

“Gray might think it’s more than just coincidence.”

“I agree, it’s awkward. On the other hand, if you play it right, it could get you closer to him. The pair of you already have something in common. D’you see what I mean?”

“Yes, sir. Do you think maybe somebody could ask?”

“Ask?”

“Ask DCI Tennant why he happened to choose that particular case.”

Strathern looked thoughtful again, pursing his lips. “I’ll see what I can do. That good enough for you?”

“That’s fine, sir,” Rebus said, but he wasn’t sure he believed his own words.

Strathern looked satisfied, and got up from the chair. The two men met by the door. “You first,” the chief constable said. Then he raised a hand and patted Rebus’s shoulder. “Templer’s mad at you, you know.”

“Because without my insights, the Marber case is doomed?”

Strathern accepted the joke. “Because of how hard you threw that mug. She’s taking it personally.”

“All part of the act, sir,” Rebus said, pulling open the door.

As he walked back along the corridor, he thought better of it and wandered downstairs instead to the break-out area. He needed a cigarette, but there were none in his pockets. Looking outside, he noted a distinct shortage of fellow addicts. There was a packet in his room, if he could be bothered walking there. Or he could linger in the hope that some Good Samaritan would come by.

The meeting had failed to put his mind at rest. He wanted to be sure that the Rico Lomax case was just a coincidence. And he couldn’t shrug off the niggling suspicion that perhaps there was less to this than met the eye.

No cabal of worried chief constables.

No drug money.

No conspiracy between Gray, McCullough and Ward.

Just the Rico Lomax case . . . and his own involvement in it. Because John Rebus knew more about Rico Lomax than he was telling.

A hell of a lot more.

Did Strathern know? Was Gray working for Strathern . . . ?

Rebus took the stairs back up to CID two at a time, breathing hard as he made his way back down the corridor. He pushed open the door without knocking, but the chief constable wasn’t there. Andrea Thomson’s office was empty.

Strathern had to be headed to the original building, the castle itself. Rebus knew the way. Moved quickly, ignoring the young uniforms with their clipped “Sir”s. Strathern had paused for a moment to study one of the display cases which lined the main corridor, the corridor facing the now empty parade ground. No chair or parachute; no X-marks-the-spot.

“A moment of your time, sir,” Rebus said quietly.

Strathern’s eyes widened. He pushed open the nearest door. It led to a conference room, empty save for rows of chairs with writing trays attached.

“You want your cover blown?” Strathern spluttered.

“I need more background,” Rebus stated. “On all three of them.”

“I thought we’d discussed all that. The more you know, the more likely they are to suspect —”

“When did they take the money? How did they know about it? How come the three of them ended up working together?”

“John, nothing like that has exactly gone on the record . . .”

“But there must be notes. There must be something. ”

Strathern looked wildly about him, as though fearing eavesdroppers. One thing Rebus knew: if the whole Bernie Johns story was a front, there could be no background, no notes . . .

“All right,” Strathern said, almost in a whisper. “I’ll get you what I can.”

“By tonight,” Rebus added.

“John, that might not —”

“I need it tonight, sir.”

Strathern almost winced. “Tomorrow at the latest.”

The two men locked eyes. Eventually, Rebus nodded. He wondered if he was giving Strathern enough time to concoct a fantasy case. He didn’t think so.

By tomorrow, he could be sure.

“Tonight if possible,” he said, heading for the door. This time, he made straight for his room and those cigarettes.

“Where’s your homophobic friend?” Dominic Mann asked.

Siobhan and Mann were seated opposite one another at a tiny window table in a west end café. He was stirring his skimmed decaf latte while she’d already sunk one shot of her double espresso. The inside of her mouth felt coated with a fine residue, and she reached into her bag for the bottle of water she kept there.

“You noticed,” she said.

“I noticed he didn’t want to make eye contact with me.”

“Maybe he’s just shy,” Siobhan offered. She took a mouthful of water, rinsed and swallowed. Mann was glancing at his watch, the face of which he kept on the inside of his wrist. She remembered that her father had done the same, and when she’d asked him why he’d said it was to stop the face getting scratched. Yet the glass itself had been almost opaque with abrasions.

“I have to open at ten,” the art dealer said.

“You didn’t feel like going to the funeral?” By which she meant Edward Marber’s funeral, which had started almost half an hour ago at Warriston Crematorium.

Mann shuddered. “I can’t stand them. I was actually relieved to have an excuse.”

“Glad to be of help.”

“So what is it I can do for you?” The top two buttons of Mann’s yellow shirt were undone, and he’d hooked a finger into the opening.

“I’m wondering about Edward Marber. If he’d been cheating . . . how would he have gone about it?”

“Depends who he was cheating: clients or artists?”

“Let’s try both.”

Mann took a deep breath and raised one eyebrow. “ Five minutes, you said?”

Siobhan smiled. “Maybe it depends how fast you talk.”

Mann unhooked the finger from his shirt and went back to stirring his latte. It looked like he had no intention of actually drinking it. As he spoke, his eyes drifted to the window. Office staff were dragging their feet to work.