Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

Ward just grinned and winked.

“She was old enough to be your mother,” Stu Sutherland commented.

“My auntie, maybe,” Ward conceded. “Some you win, some you lose . . .”

Rebus was suddenly aware of Gray standing by his side. “Someone you know, John?”

Rebus nodded.

“She didn’t look too happy with you. Jean, was that her name?”

Rebus nodded again.

Gray slid an arm around his shoulders. “John’s in the doghouse,” he announced. “Looks like he’s bumped into the one person he shouldn’t have.”

“That’s the trouble with this place,” Allan Ward stated. “It’s too bloody small! Capital city? Capital village, more like.”

“Cheer up, John,” Jazz McCullough said.

“Come on, let’s have a drink,” Sutherland mooted, pointing to the nearest pub.

“Good idea, Stu.” Gray gave Rebus a squeeze. “Maybe a drink would cheer you up, eh, John? Just the one . . .”

Rebus nodded slowly. “Just the one,” he repeated.

“Good man,” Francis Gray said, walking towards the door with his arm still around Rebus. Rebus felt a tightness across his shoulders which had nothing to do with the physical contact. He imagined himself after seven or eight pints, suddenly breaking down and yelling into Francis Gray’s ear the secret he’d kept all these years:

Rico Lomax’s murder . . . it’s all down to me . . .

And then asking Gray about Bernie Johns, a quid pro quo . . . and having Gray admit to nothing:

Smoke and mirrors, John, that’s all it ever was. You’re Strathern’s unfinished business, don’t you see?

Walking into the pub, Rebus was aware of Jazz and Ward directly behind him, as if to make sure he didn’t back out . . .

The taxi driver was loath to take six, but relented when a healthy tip was mentioned . . . that and the fact that they were cops. It was a tight squeeze but a short trip. They got out at Arden Street, and Rebus led them upstairs. He knew he had lager in the fridge, beer and whiskey in the cupboard. Plus tea and coffee. The milk might not be too healthy, but they could always do without.

“Nice stairwell,” Jazz McCullough commented. He meant the patterned wall tiles and mosaic floor, which Rebus hadn’t really paid any attention to in years. They climbed to the second floor and Rebus unlocked the door. There was some mail behind it, but not much.

“Living room’s down there,” he announced. “I’ll fetch the drinks.” He went into the kitchen and filled the kettle, then opened the fridge. He could hear their voices, sounding strange to him. Almost no one visited the flat. Jean sometimes . . . a few others. But never so many people all at once . . . not since Rhona had moved out. He poured himself a glass of water from the tap and gulped it down. Caught his breath and then downed another. What had possessed him to bring them back here? It was Gray who’d put forward the proposition: A wee nightcap at John’s. He tried to shake his head clear of the alcohol. Maybe . . . maybe having opened his home to them, they’d open up to him. It had been Gray’s idea. Was Francis Gray hoping to glean something about Rebus from the visit?

“Just be careful in there, John,” he muttered to himself.

Suddenly he heard music, becoming clearer as the volume was turned up. Well, that might give the students next door something to think about. It was Led Zeppelin, “Immigrant Song,” Robert Plant’s voice a wailing siren. By the time he arrived in the living room with the cans of beer and lager, Allan Ward was already asking for “that pish” to be turned off.

“It’s a classic,” Jazz McCullough informed him. McCullough, usually so poised in his movements, was down on all fours, arse to the group, as he scrutinized Rebus’s record collection.

“Ah, cheers, John,” Sutherland said, taking a beer. Ward snatched a lager with a nod of thanks. Tam Barclay asked where the toilet was.

“Some great stuff here, John,” McCullough said. “I’ve got a lot of it myself.” He’d pulled out Exile on Main Street. “Best album ever made.”

“What is it?” Gray asked. When told the title, he grinned. “Exiles on Arden Street, that’s us, eh?”

“I’ll drink to that,” Stu Sutherland said.

“Speaking of which . . . ?” Rebus held the cans towards Gray, who wrinkled his nose.

“A wee whiskey maybe?” Gray said. Rebus nodded.

“I might join you.”

“Not driving us back then?”

“I’ve had five pints, Francis. Reckon I’ll spend the night in my own bed.”

“Might as well . . . not much chance of spending it in Jean’s, eh?” Gray saw the look on Rebus’s face, and lifted a hand, palm out. “That was out of order. Sorry, John.”

Rebus just shook his head, asked Jazz what he wanted. Coffee was the reply.

“If John’s staying put, we can all squeeze into my car,” he announced.

Rebus had located the bottle of Bowmore and a couple of glasses. He poured and handed one to Gray. “Any water with that?”

“Don’t be daft,” Gray said, toasting him. “Here’s to the Mild Bunch.” He got a laugh from Tam Barclay, who was coming back into the room, zipping his fly.

“Mild Bunch,” he chuckled. “Good one, Francis.”

“Jesus, Tam,” Ward complained, “you ever think of zipping it shut before you leave the bathroom?”

Barclay ignored him, took one of the beers and opened it, then slumped on the sofa next to Sutherland. Rebus noticed that Gray was sitting in the chair he himself normally used. Gray looked at home in it, one leg slung over the side. Rebus’s phone and ashtray were on the floor beside him.

“Jazz,” Gray said, “you going to grace us with the pleasure of your backside’s company all night?”

McCullough half turned and sat himself down on the floor. Rebus had brought over one of the dining chairs for himself.

“Haven’t seen this one in years,” McCullough said, waving a copy of the first Montrose album.

“Jazz is like a pig in shit,” Gray announced. “One whole room of his house is full of records and tapes. Alphabetical order and everything.”

Rebus took a sip of whiskey, fixed a smile to his face. “You’ve been there then?” he asked.

“Where?”

“Jazz’s.”

Gray looked at McCullough, who looked back at him. “Cat’s out the bag,” Gray said with a smile. Then, turning to Rebus: “We go back a ways, me and Jazz. I mean, it falls a long way short of a ménage à trois, but I’ve been to the house a couple of times.”

“Managed to keep that quiet,” Sutherland said. Rebus was glad others were joining in.

“Aye, what’s the score here?” Barclay asked.

“There’s no ‘score,’ ” McCullough said determinedly. Which caused Allan Ward to burst out laughing.

“Going to share it, Allan?” Rebus asked. He was wondering if Ward had laughed precisely because there had been a score . . . At the same time, he wondered whether it really mattered one way or the other. A few grand . . . even a few hundred grand . . . pocketed with no comebacks, no harm done. What did it matter in the wider scheme? Maybe it mattered if it was drugs. Drugs meant misery. But Strathern had been vague about just what the “rip-off” had entailed.

Shit! Rebus had told Strathern he wanted the details of the Bernie Johns inquiry — tonight if possible. And here he was thirty-odd miles from Tulliallan, finishing a glass of malt and readying for a refill . . .

Ward was shaking his head. Gray was explaining that he’d been to McCullough’s house years back, and not since. Rebus hoped Sutherland or Barclay would run with it, keep up the questions, but they didn’t.