Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“The sports car.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I like them. MG means you’re going to get a cab fast. ”

“And that’s it?”

“I don’t see what this has to —”

“Ever heard of a man called Morris Gerald Cafferty — Big Ger?”

“He’s got a cab outfit in the west end: Exclusive Cars. Does a lot of top-end business.”

“Top-end?”

“Executives . . . businesspeople. They need Mercs to collect them at the airport.”

Siobhan looked at Sammy Wallace. She was trying to visualize him in a peaked cap and white gloves . . .

“Well, thanks for your help.”

“I still don’t see what this —”

“Any idea who made the call to MG Cabs?”

“Which call?”

“The one ordering a car for Mr. Marber.”

“I assume he made it himself.”

“There’s no record of it. We’ve checked his calls with the phone company.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“A man’s dead, Ms. Dempsey.”

“Plenty more clients out there, DS Clarke . . .”

“Well, thanks again for your help,” Siobhan said coldly. “Good-bye.” She ended the call, placed the phone on the desk between her hands. Wallace had his own hands spread across it, palms down, fingers as wide apart as they would go.

“Well?” he said.

Siobhan picked up a pen and played with it. “I think that’s everything for now, Mr. Wallace. DC Hynds, maybe you could show Mr. Wallace out . . .”

When Hynds came back, he wanted to know what Ellen Dempsey had said, so Siobhan told him.

He snorted with laughter. “And I thought I was making a joke . . .”

She shook her head slowly. “MGs are fast and sporty, you see.”

“That’s as may be,” Hynds said, “but Mr. Wallace’s car is a K-reg Ford rustbucket. Added to which, when he got outside he was just getting a ticket.”

“Don’t suppose that thrilled him.”

Hynds sat down. “No, I don’t suppose it did.” He watched Siobhan turning the pen over in her hands. “So where do we go now?”

A uniform was standing in the open doorway. “Wherever it is,” he said, “you’ve got about five minutes to move.” He then started dragging a stack of four tubular metal chairs into the already cramped space.

“What’s going on?” Hynds asked.

“I think we’re about to be invaded,” Siobhan told him. Moreover, she suddenly remembered who and why . . .

Rebus had driven to Tulliallan that morning only to turn around and drive back again, this time taking Stu Sutherland and Tam Barclay with him. He’d watched the maneuverings concerning who should travel with whom. Gray had offered to take the Lexus, and Allan Ward had immediately volunteered to be one of the passengers.

“You better come along too, Jazz,” Gray had said. “My sense of direction’s hopeless.” Then he’d looked towards Rebus. “You all right with Stu and Tam?”

“Fine,” Rebus had said, wishing there was some way to bug Gray’s car.

On the drive and between hungover yawns, Barclay kept talking about the National Lottery.

“Wouldn’t like to think how much I’ve wasted on it these past years.”

“All for good causes, though,” Sutherland told him while trying to pick bits of breakfast bacon from between his teeth with a thumbnail.

“Thing is,” Barclay went on, “once you’ve started, how can you stop? Week you don’t put a line on is the week you’ll win it.”

“You’re trapped,” Sutherland agreed. Rebus was checking his rearview mirror. The Lexus was right behind him. Nobody inside it seemed to be speaking. Gray and Jazz in the front, Ward slouched in the rear.

“Eight or nine million, that’s all I want,” Barclay was saying. “It’s not like I’m greedy . . .”

“Guy I know won just over a million,” Sutherland confided. “He didn’t even stop working, can you credit that?”

“Thing about the rich,” Barclay offered, “they never seem to have any money. It’s all tied up in stocks and stuff. You’ve got a guy who owns a castle, but hasn’t got the price of a pack of smokes.”

Sutherland laughed from the backseat. “True enough, Tam,” he said.

Rebus was wondering about that . . . about rich men who couldn’t spend their money because it was tied up, or because as soon as they started to spend, they’d also look conspicuous . . .

“How much d’you think that Lexus costs?” Rebus asked, eyes again on the rearview. “Reckon Francis had a wee lottery win himself?”

Sutherland turned his neck to peer out of the back window. “Maybe thirty grand,” he said. “Be honest, it’s not exactly outrageous on a DI’s salary . . .”

“Then how come I’m driving a fourteen-year-old Saab?” Rebus said.

“Maybe you’re not careful with your money,” Sutherland offered.

“Oh aye,” Rebus came back, “you saw as much last night — every penny poured into the interior of my palatial bachelor pad.”

Sutherland snorted and went back to picking his teeth.

“Ever totted up what you spend on booze and ciggies?” Barclay asked. “You could probably buy a new Lexus every year.”

Rebus didn’t trust himself to do the calculation. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said instead. A legal-sized packet had been waiting for him at Tulliallan: Strathern’s notes on Bernie Johns. He hadn’t had time to open it yet, but was wondering if it would show any evidence at all that Jazz, Gray and Ward were high rollers. Maybe they had big houses or took expensive holidays . . . Or maybe they were biding their time, the payoff awaiting them on retirement.

Could that be why each man was having trouble with authority? Was it all a ruse to get them kicked off the force? Simpler surely just to tender your resignation . . . Rebus was aware of movement in his rearview: the Lexus was indicating and pulling out to overtake, cruising past Rebus’s Saab with a blare of its horn and Allan Ward’s face smirking at the rear window.

“Look at that silly sod,” Barclay laughed. Jazz and Gray were smiling and offering little waves.

“Tennant’s not behind us, is he?” Sutherland said, turning his head again.

“I don’t know,” Rebus admitted. “What car does he drive?”

“No idea,” Barclay said. DCI Tennant was due to follow them to Edinburgh. He wouldn’t be able to monitor them throughout, but would be kept informed.

“It’ll be good to get away from those bloody closed-circuit cameras,” Barclay said now. “I hate the things, always think they’re going to catch me scratching my balls or something . . .”

“Maybe they’ll have cameras where we’re going,” Sutherland said.

“At St. Leonard’s?” Rebus shook his head. “We’re still at the stage of cave paintings, Stu . . . Jesus Christ! ”

The Lexus’s brake lights had suddenly come on, causing Rebus to slam his foot on the brake. In the back, Sutherland was thrown forwards, his face connecting with Rebus’s headrest. Barclay placed both hands on the dashboard, as if preparing for impact. Now the Lexus was speeding away, red lights still glowing.

“Bastard’s got his fog lights on” was Barclay’s explanation.

Rebus’s heart was racing. The cars had come within three or four feet of one another. “You okay, Stu?”

Sutherland was rubbing his chin. “Just about,” he said.

Rebus shifted down into second and pressed the accelerator, his whole right leg trembling.

“We’ve got to get them for that,” Barclay was saying.

“Don’t be stupid, Tam,” Sutherland replied. “If John’s brakes hadn’t been in good nick, we’d have hit them.”

But Rebus knew what he had to do. He had to show willing. He pressed further on the accelerator, the Saab’s engine urging him to go up a gear. Then, just as it looked like he would ram the pristine Lexus, he pulled out so that the two cars were side by side. The three men in the other car were smiling, watching his performance. Tam Barclay had gone very pale in the passenger seat, and Stu Sutherland was searching in vain for the rear seat belt, which, Rebus knew, was trapped somewhere beneath the upholstery.