Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“You’re as bad as they are!” Sutherland called from the back, struggling to make himself heard above the whine from the engine.

That’s the plan, Rebus felt like telling him. Instead, he pressed a little harder on the accelerator and, when his nose was ahead of the Lexus, turned the steering wheel hard, cutting across Gray’s bow.

It was down to Gray: he could brake, he could go off the road, or he could allow Rebus’s car to hit him.

He hit the brakes, and suddenly Rebus was in front again, the Lexus flashing its lights, horn sounding. Rebus gave a wave before acceding to the Saab’s wishes and finally moving into third gear, then fourth.

The Lexus dropped its speed a little, and they were a convoy again. Rebus, eyes on the rearview, knew that the three men were talking . . . they were talking about him.

“We could have died back there, John,” Barclay complained, a tremor in his voice.

“Cheer up, Tam,” Rebus reassured him. “If we had, your lottery numbers would have come up next week.”

Then he started laughing. It took a while for the laughter to cease.

They got practically the last two parking spots at St. Leonard’s. The car park was to the rear of the actual station. “Not very prepossessing, is it?” Tam Barclay said, studying the building.

“It’s not much, but I call it home,” Rebus told him.

“John Rebus!” Gray called, emerging from the Lexus. “You are one mad, bad bastard!” He was still grinning. Rebus shrugged.

“Can’t let some weegie go cutting me up, Francis.”

“It was a close one, though,” Jazz said.

Rebus shrugged. “No adrenaline otherwise, is there?”

Gray slapped Rebus’s back. “Maybe we’re not such a mild bunch after all.”

Rebus took a little bow. Accept me, he was thinking.

The high spirits evaporated the minute they saw their “office.” It was one of the interview rooms, equipped with two tables and six chairs, leaving no space for anything else. High on one wall, a video camera was aimed at the main table. It was there to record the various interviews, rather than the Wild Bunch, but Barclay scowled at it anyway.

“No phones?” Jazz commented.

“We’ve always got our mobiles,” Gray said.

“Which we pay for,” Sutherland reminded him.

“Stop griping for two seconds and let’s think about this.” Jazz folded his arms. “John, is there any office space at all?”

“To be honest, I don’t think so. We’ve a murder inquiry going on, remember. It’s pretty much taken over the CID suite.”

“Look,” Gray was saying, “we’re only here for a day or two, right? We don’t need computers or anything . . .”

“Maybe, but we could suffocate in here,” Barclay complained.

“We’ll open a window,” Gray told him. There were two narrow windows high up on the outer wall. “If all goes well, we’ll be spending most of our time on the street anyway: talking to people, tracking them down.”

Jazz was still taking the measure of the room. “Not much space for all the files.”

“We don’t need the files.” Gray sounded ready to lose his temper. “We need about half a dozen sheets of paper from the files — that’s it.” His hand chopped the air.

Jazz sighed. “I don’t suppose we’ve much option.”

“It was us that asked to come to Edinburgh,” Ward admitted.

“This isn’t the only cop shop in town,” Sutherland said. “We could look around, see if someone else can offer better.”

“Let’s just get on with it,” Jazz said, his eyes meeting Sutherland’s, and somehow finally gaining a shrug of acceptance.

“Might as well,” Rebus said. “It’s not like we’re going to find anything new on Dickie Diamond.”

“Great,” Jazz said caustically. “Let’s try and keep those positive vibes flowing, eh, lads?”

“ ‘Positive vibes’?” Ward mimicked. “I think you spent too long with John’s record collection last night.”

“Aye, you’ll be wearing beads and sandals next, Jazz,” Barclay added with a smile.

Jazz gave him two fingers. Then they arranged the chairs to their liking and got down to work. They had compiled a list of people they wanted to talk to. A couple of names had been crossed off because Rebus knew they were already dead. He’d considered not letting on . . . leading them down blind alleys . . . but couldn’t really see the point. Cross-referencing and the computer at Tulliallan had thrown up the nugget that one name — Joe Daly — was an informant belonging to DI Bobby Hogan. Hogan was Leith CID; Rebus and he went back a ways. Hogan was to be their first stop. They’d been in the interview room only half an hour but already there was a bad smell about the place, even with door and windows open.

“Dickie Diamond used to hang out at the Zombie Bar,” Jazz said, reading from the notes. “That’s in Leith too, right, John?”

“I don’t know if it’s still open. They were always in trouble with their license.”

“Isn’t Leith where the working girls hang out?” Allan Ward asked.

“Don’t you go getting ideas, young Allan,” Gray said, reaching over to ruffle his hair.

There were voices in the corridor, coming closer: “. . . best we could do, under the circs . . .”

“They won’t mind roughing it . . .”

DCI Tennant stepped into the doorway, eyes widening at the scene within.

“Better stay where you are, sir,” Tam Barclay warned. “One more in here and the oxygen runs out.”

Tennant turned to the figure beside him — Gill Templer.

“I did warn you it was small,” she said.

“You did,” he admitted. “Settling in all right, men?”

“Could hardly be cozier,” Stu Sutherland said, folding his arms like a man not best pleased with his lot.

“We thought we’d put the coffee machine in the corner,” Allan Ward said, “next to the mini-bar and Jacuzzi.”

“Good idea,” Tennant told him, straight-faced.

“This’ll do us fine, sir,” Francis Gray said. He slid his chair back and managed to squash one of Tam Barclay’s toes under the leg. “We won’t be here long. You could almost look on our surroundings as an incentive.” He was on his feet now, beaming a smile at Gill Templer. “I’m DI Gray, since no one’s seen fit . . .”

“DCS Templer,” Gill said, taking the proffered hand. Gray introduced her to the other men, leaving Rebus till last. “This one you’ll already know.” Gill glared at Rebus, and Rebus looked away, hoping it was just part of the act.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve a murder inquiry to run . . .”

“Us too,” Ward said. Gill pretended not to hear, and headed down the corridor, calling back to Tennant that he might want to join her for coffee in her office. Tennant looked back into the room.

“Any problems, you’ve got my mobile number,” he reminded them. “And remember: I’ll be expecting progress. Anybody not pulling their weight, I’ll find out.” He held a finger up in warning, then set off to follow Gill.

“Jammy bastard,” Ward muttered. “And I bet her office is bigger than this.”

“Slightly smaller, actually,” Rebus said. “But then there’s only one of her.”

Gray was chuckling. “Notice she didn’t offer you a cup, John.”

“That’s because John can’t hold his beverages,” Sutherland said.

“Nice one, Stu.”

“Maybe,” Jazz broke in, “we could think about doing a bit of work? And just to show willing, I’ll use my mobile to phone DI Hogan.” He looked at Rebus. “John, he’s your mate . . . do you want to do the talking?”

Rebus nodded.

“You know his number?” Jazz asked. Again, Rebus nodded his head.