Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“Father Joe was just about to tell us about Rico,” Rebus explained to Hogan, who was sitting down now.

“Well,” Daly began, “Rico was from the west coast, wasn’t he? Gave a good party, so the story went. Of course, I was never invited.”

“But Dickie was?”

“Oh, assuredly.”

“This was over in Glasgow?” Barclay asked, his face more bloodless than ever.

“I suppose there would have been parties there,” Daly admitted.

“But that’s not what you meant, is it?” Rebus asked.

“Well, no . . . I meant out at the caravans. There was a site in East Lothian, Rico stayed there sometimes.”

“Caravans, plural?” Rebus checked.

“He owned more than one; rented them out to tourists and the like.”

And the like . . . They already knew Rico’s reputation, bad men from Glasgow sheltering beside east coast beaches . . . Rebus noticed that Malky the barman was busying himself wiping down the already pristine tables in their vicinity.

“They were pretty close then, Rico and Dickie?” Ward asked.

“I don’t know that I’d say that. Rico probably only came to Leith three or four times a year.”

“Did you think it strange,” Rebus asked, “that Dickie did a bunk around the same time Rico was murdered?”

“Can’t say I connected the two,” Daly said. He hoisted the glass to his mouth, drained the whiskey.

“I don’t think that’s quite true, Father Joe,” Rebus stated quietly.

The glass was placed back on the table. “Well, maybe you’re right. I suppose I did wonder about it, same as everyone else in Leith.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what conclusion did you draw?”

“None at all,” Daly said with a shrug. “Except that Our Lord moves in mysterious ways.”

“Amen to that,” said Hogan. Allan Ward rose to his feet, said he’d get another round.

“When you’ve finished polishing that ashtray . . . ,” he remarked to Malky. So he’d noted the barman’s actions, too. Maybe he was sharper than Rebus had given him credit for . . .

Linford was not to be deflected from his pursuit of Donny Dow. He’d called up what records they had, and was poring over them. Alongside them on his desk was a slim file with Laura Stafford’s name on it. Siobhan had taken a peek at the latter. The usual cautions and arrests: two sauna busts, one brothel bust. The brothel had been a flat above a video rental shop. The guy who owned the video shop, it was his girlfriend ran the operation upstairs. Laura had been one of the girls on duty the night the police, acting on a tip-off, had paid a visit. Bill Pryde had worked the case. His handwriting was in the margin of one page of the report: “tip-off anonymous, probably the sauna down the road . . .”

“The deep-throat business can be cutthroat, too” was Derek Linford’s comment.

He was having more joy with Donny Dow, who had been fighting since the age of ten. Arrests for vandalism and drunkenness, then Dow had taken up a healthy physical activity: Thai kickboxing. It had failed to keep him out of trouble: one charge of housebreaking — later dropped — several assaults, one drug bust.

“What sort of drugs?”

“Cannabis and speed.”

“A kickboxing headcase on speed? The mind boggles.”

“He worked as a bouncer for a time.” Linford pointed to the relevant line of the typed report. “His employer wrote a letter defending him.” He turned the page. The signature at the bottom of the letter was that of Morris G. Cafferty.

“Cafferty owned a security firm in the city,” Linford added. “Parted company with it a few years back.” He looked at Siobhan. “Still don’t think he could have clouted our art dealer?”

“I’m beginning to wonder,” Siobhan admitted.

Back at her desk, Davie Hynds had pulled his chair up alongside and was drumming a pen against his teeth.

“At a loose end?” Siobhan asked.

“I feel like the spare prick at an orgy.” He paused. “Sorry . . . that wasn’t a good way of putting it.”

Siobhan thought for a moment. “Wait here,” she said. She turned back towards Linford’s desk, but another man had entered the room and was shaking Linford’s hand. Linford nodded, as though the two knew each other, but not well. Frowning, Siobhan walked over.

“Hello,” she said. The man had picked up a sheet from Donny Dow’s file and was reading it. “I’m a DS here. Name’s Siobhan Clarke.”

“Francis Gray,” the man said. “Detective inspector.” He shook her hand, almost swamping it in his own. He was tall and broad, with a thick neck and salt-and-pepper hair, cut short.

“You two know one another?” she asked.

“We met once . . . a while back, at Fettes, right?” Gray said.

“Right,” Linford confirmed. “We’ve helped each other out by phone a couple of times.”

“I was just wondering how the inquiry was going,” Gray added.

“It’s fine,” Siobhan said. “You’re part of the Tulliallan crew?”

“For my sins.” Gray put down the sheet of paper, picked up another. “Looks like Derek here may be winding things up for you.”

“Oh, he’s a great windup merchant,” Siobhan said, crossing her arms. Gray laughed, and Linford himself joined in.

“Siobhan’s a bit of a doubting Thomas,” he stated.

Gray’s eyes widened. “Means, motive, opportunity. Looks to me like you’ve got two out of three. Least you can do now is interview the suspect.”

“Thank you, DI Gray, maybe we’ll take your advice.” The words came from behind Gray: Gill Templer had entered the room. Gray dropped the sheet. It wafted back to the desk. “Might I ask what you’re doing here?”

“Nothing, ma’am. Just out for a stroll. We have to take ten minutes every hour to stave off oxygen starvation.”

“I think you’ll find the station has plenty of corridors. There’s even a world outside, if you’d care to explore it. This, on the other hand, is the center of a murder inquiry. Last thing we need are unnecessary interruptions.” She paused. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Absolutely, ma’am.” He glanced from Siobhan to Derek. “My apologies for keeping you from your noble efforts.” And with a wink he was off. Templer watched him leave. Then, saying nothing, but with a twinkle in her eye, she headed back to her own office.

Siobhan felt like cheering. She’d been about to have a go at Gray herself, but doubted she could have scored so palpable a hit. DCS Gill Templer had just risen like a rocket in Siobhan’s estimation.

“She can be a cold bitch, can’t she?” Linford muttered. Siobhan didn’t respond: she wanted a favor from Linford and upsetting him wasn’t going to help.

“Derek,” she said, “since you’re hell for leather on Donny Dow, mind if Hynds takes a look at Marber’s cash flow? I know you’ve covered the ground already, but it’ll give the poor sod something to do.”

She stood there, hands behind her back, hoping she didn’t look and sound too drippy.

Linford gazed in Hynds’s forlorn direction. “Go ahead,” he said, reaching down to pull the relevant folder from the box on the floor beside him.

“Thanks,” Siobhan cooed, skipping back to her desk.

“Here you go,” she said to Hynds, her voice back to normal.

“What’s this?” Hynds asked, staring at the folder but not touching it.

“Marber’s finances. Laura Stafford seemed to think he had some big money coming to him. I want to know the why, when and how much.”

“And his records will tell me?”

Siobhan shook her head. “But his accountant might. The name and phone number are in there.” She tapped the file. “And don’t say I’m not generous.”