Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“Anything on the box?” Ward asked.

“We’re listening to the music,” Jazz chided him. He’d swapped the Led Zeppelin for a Jackie Leven CD: the very album Rebus would have chosen.

“Call that music?” Ward snorted. “Hey, John, got any videos? A bit of the old porn maybe?”

Rebus shook his head. “Not allowed in Knoxland,” he said, gaining a weak smile from Gray.

“How long you been here, John?” Sutherland asked.

“Twenty years plus.”

“Nice flat. Must be worth a few bob.”

“Over a hundred grand, I’d guess,” Gray said. Ward had lit a cigarette for himself and was now offering to Barclay and Rebus.

“Probably,” Rebus told Gray.

“You were married, weren’t you, John?” McCullough asked. He was studying the inner sleeve of Bad Company’s first album.

“For a time,” Rebus admitted. Was Jazz merely curious, or was there some agenda here?

“While since this place had a woman’s touch,” Gray added, looking around.

“Kids?” McCullough asked, putting the album back exactly where he’d found it, just in case Rebus had a system.

“I’ve got a daughter. She’s down in England. You’ve two sons, right?”

McCullough nodded. “Twenty and fourteen. . .” Thinking of them, his face broke into a smile.

I don’t want to put this man away, Rebus thought. Ward was a prick, and Gray as sly as they came, but Jazz McCullough was different. Jazz McCullough he liked. It wasn’t just the marriage and kids, or the taste in music: Jazz had an inner calm, a sense that he knew what his role was in the world. Rebus, who had spent much of his life confused and questioning, was envious.

“And are they wild like their dad?” Barclay was asking.

McCullough didn’t bother answering. Stu Sutherland pulled himself forward on the sofa. “You’ll forgive me for saying so, Jazz, but you don’t seem the type to get himself in trouble with the High Hiedyins.” He looked around the room for confirmation.

“It’s the quiet ones you have to watch, though,” Francis Gray said. “Wouldn’t you agree, John?”

“The thing is, Stu,” Jazz answered, “someone gives me an order I don’t agree with, I just nod and say, ‘Yes, sir,’ then go on with my own way of doing things. Most of the time, they don’t even notice.”

Gray nodded. “Like I say, that’s the way to get away with it: keep smiling and kowtowing, but go your own way nevertheless. Kick up a big stink and they’ll fillet you like the day’s catch.” Gray’s eyes were on Allan Ward as he spoke. Not that Ward noticed. He was stifling a belch and reaching for a second can. Rebus got up to refill Gray’s glass.

“Sorry, Jazz,” he said, “you never got that coffee.”

“Black, one sugar, please, John.”

Gray frowned. “Since when did you stop taking milk?”

“Since the moment I realized there’s probably no milk in the house.”

Gray laughed. “We’ll make a detective of you yet, McCullough, mark my words.”

Rebus went to fetch the coffee.

They finally left just after one, Rebus calling a cab to take them back to Jazz’s car. He watched from the window as Barclay tripped over the curb and nearly head-butted the taxi’s passenger-side window. His living room smelled of beer and cigarettes: no mystery there. The last thing they’d listened to on the hi-fi was Saint Dominic’s Preview. The TV was playing silently — a sop to Allan Ward. Rebus turned it off, but put the Van Morrison album back on, turning the volume down until it was just audible. He wondered if it was too late to phone Jean.

He knew it was too late, but wondered if he should do it anyway. He had the phone in his hand, stared at it for a while. When it started ringing, he nearly dropped it. It would be one of those silly buggers, calling from Jazz’s car. Maybe they’d forgotten something . . . His eyes strayed to the sofa as he held the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Who’s speaking?”

“You are,” Rebus said.

“What?”

“Never mind: it’s an old Tommy Cooper line. What can I do for you, Siobhan?”

“I just thought maybe someone had broken in.”

“Broken in where?”

“When I saw your lights on.”

Rebus went to the window and looked out. Her car was double-parked, engine still running.

“Is this some new kind of Neighborhood Watch?”

“I was just passing.”

“You want to come up?” Rebus took in the night’s detritus. Jazz had offered to help clear up . . .

“If you like.”

“On you come then.”

When he opened the door to her, she sniffed the air. “Mmm, testosterone,” she said. “Did you do that all by yourself?”

“Not quite. Some of the lads from the college . . .”

She wafted her hand in front of her as she entered the living room. “Maybe if you opened a window . . . ?”

“Late-night tips on housekeeping . . . ,” Rebus muttered, but he opened the window a couple of inches anyway. “What the hell are you doing out at this hour?”

“Just driving around.”

“Arden Street’s a bit off anyone’s route.”

“I was on the Meadows . . . thought I’d take a look.”

“The lads wanted me to show them the sights.”

“And were they duly impressed?”

“I think the city fell a bit short.”

“That’s Edinburgh for you.” She settled on the sofa. “Ooh, still warm,” she said, wriggling her bottom. “I feel like Goldilocks.”

“Sorry I can’t offer any porridge.”

“I’ll settle for coffee.”

“Black?”

“Something tells me I better say yes.”

When he came back through with the mugs, she’d swapped the Van Morrison for Mogwai.

“That’s the album you gave me,” he said.

“I know. I was wondering what you thought.”

“I like the lyrics. How’s the Marber case?”

“I had a very interesting talk this afternoon with your friend Cafferty.”

“People keep calling him my ‘friend.’ ”

“And he’s not?”

“Take away the r and you’re getting close.”

“He was giving his lieutenant a bollocking when we arrived.”

Rebus, who’d just got comfortable in his chair, leaned forward. “The Weasel?” She nodded. “What for?”

“Couldn’t tell. I get the feeling Cafferty’s that way inclined with all his staff. His secretary was so jumpy, her nickname’s probably Skippy.” Siobhan squirmed. “This coffee’s awful.”

“Did you learn anything from Cafferty?”

“He likes Hastie’s paintings.” When Rebus looked blank, she kept going. “According to gallery records, he hadn’t bought anything from Edward Marber for a while. He was there that night, arrived late and stayed till the end. He may even have helped Marber get a taxi . . .”

“One of Cafferty’s own?”

“I’m going to check in the morning.”

“That could be interesting.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “What about you? How’s Tulliallan treating you?”

“Like a prince. All mod cons and no stress.”

“So what have they got you doing?”

“Looking into an old case. An unsolved. We’re supposed to be learning the old-fashioned virtues of teamwork.”

“And are you?”

He shrugged. “We’re probably going to be in Edinburgh the next day or two, looking for leads.”

“Anything I can help with?”

Rebus shook his head. “Sounds to me like you’ve got your hands full as it is.”

“Where will you be working from?”

“I thought we might find a spare office at St. Leonard’s . . .”

Siobhan’s eyes widened. “You think Gill’s going to go for that?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” he lied. “But I can’t see a problem . . . can you?”