Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“And how’s your love life, Claverhouse?” she countered. “Ormie treating you okay?”

Claverhouse sneered, immune to such jibes.

“And don’t call me Shiv,” she added. She could hear a phone trilling distantly. It was hers, tucked deep down in her bag. She wrestled it out and held it to her ear.

“Clarke,” she said.

“You wanted me to call you,” the voice said. She placed it immediately: Cafferty. She took a second to compose herself.

“I was wondering about MG Cabs,” she said.

“MG? Ellen Dempsey’s outfit?”

“One of their drivers took Edward Marber home.”

“So?”

“So it seemed like a strange coincidence, MG Cabs having the same initials as your lettings agency.” Siobhan had forgotten about the people around her. She was focusing on Cafferty’s words, his phrasing and tone of voice.

“That’s what it is, though: a coincidence. I noticed it myself a while back, even thought of stealing the name.”

“Why didn’t you, Mr. Cafferty?” Siobhan, with the phone tucked into her chin, couldn’t see behind her, but Bain was suddenly staring over her shoulder. She glanced round and saw that Claverhouse was as rigid as a statue.

Because he knew now who was on the phone.

“Ellen’s got friends, Siobhan,” Cafferty was saying.

“What sort of friends?”

“The sort it’s not worth crossing.” She could almost see his cruel, cold smile.

“I doubt there’s anyone you wouldn’t cross, Mr. Cafferty,” she offered. “You’re saying you have no dealings with MG Cabs?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Out of curiosity, who was it called a cab that night?”

“Not me.”

“I’m not saying it was.”

“Probably Marber himself.”

“You didn’t see him do it?”

“You reckon MG Cabs had something to do with it?”

“I don’t ‘reckon’ anything, Mr. Cafferty. I’m just going by the book.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“What do you mean?”

“All that time with Rebus, didn’t anything rub off on you?”

She chose not to answer. Something else had occurred to her. “How did you get this number?”

“I called the station . . . one of your colleagues gave me it.”

“Which one?” She didn’t like the idea of Cafferty having access to her mobile.

“The one I spoke to . . . I don’t remember the name.” She knew he was lying. “I’m not about to start stalking you, Siobhan.”

“Just as well for you.”

“You’ve got more balls than Tynecastle, did you know that?”

“Good-bye, Mr. Cafferty.” She cut off the call, sat and watched the display for a moment, wondering if he’d call back.

“ Mr. Cafferty she calls him!” Claverhouse exploded. “What was all that about?”

“He was returning a call.”

“Did he happen to know where you were?”

“I don’t think so.” She paused. “Only Davie Hynds knew I was coming here.”

“And me,” Bain added.

“And you,” she conceded. “But he got my mobile number from someone at St. Leonard’s. I don’t think he knew I was here.”

Claverhouse was pacing the room, while Ormiston rested his bulk against the edge of one of the desks, hands still in his pockets. It took more than a call from Cafferty to fire him up.

“Cafferty!” Claverhouse exclaimed. “Right here in this room!”

“You should have said hello,” Ormiston suggested, his voice a quiet growl.

“It’s like he’s infected this fucking place,” Claverhouse spat, but his pace was slowing. “What’s your interest in him?” he finally got round to asking.

“He was one of Edward Marber’s clients,” Siobhan explained. “He was at the gallery the night Marber was killed.”

“That’s your man then,” Claverhouse decreed. “Look no further.”

“It would be nice to have some proof, though,” Siobhan told him.

“Is that what Brains is helping you with?” Ormiston asked.

“I wanted to know about Cafferty’s relationship with the Sauna Paradiso,” she admitted.

“Why?”

“Because the deceased may have been a client.” She was hedging her bets, not wanting to give away too much. It wasn’t just the Rebus connection; even between cops on the same force, there was this mistrust, this unwillingness to dilute information by spreading it around.

“Blackmail then,” Claverhouse said. “That’s your motive.”

“I don’t know,” Siobhan said. “There’s a rumor Marber might have been cheating clients.”

“Bing!” Claverhouse said, snapping his fingers. “Every frame you put on the wall, Cafferty fits it perfectly.”

“An interesting image, under the circs,” Bain commented.

Siobhan was thoughtful. “Who would Cafferty not want to tangle with?” she asked.

“You mean apart from us?” Ormiston said with the beginnings of a smile. For a while, he’d sported a bushy black mustache, but had shaved it off. Siobhan noticed that the difference made him seem younger.

“Apart from you, Ormie,” she said.

“Why?” Claverhouse asked. “What did he say?” He’d stopped pacing, but couldn’t get comfortable, standing legs apart in the middle of the room, arms folded.

“Some vague mention of people he didn’t want to cross.”

“He was probably bullshitting,” Ormiston said.

Bain scratched his nose. “Anybody out there we don’t know about?”

Claverhouse shook his head. “Cafferty’s got Edinburgh sewn up tight.”

Siobhan was only half listening. She was wondering if Ellen Dempsey maybe had friends outside Edinburgh . . . wondering if it would be worthwhile taking a look at the owner of MG Cabs. If Dempsey wasn’t fronting for Cafferty, was it possible she was doing it for someone else, someone trying to break Cafferty’s grip on the city?

A little warning bell went off in her head, because if this was true, then wouldn’t Cafferty have every reason for framing Dempsey? Ellen’s got friends, Siobhan . . . the sort it’s not worth crossing. His voice had been seductive, intimate, almost reduced to a murmur. He’d been trying to get her interested. She doubted he would do that without a reason, without some ulterior motive.

Was Cafferty trying to use her?

Only one way to find out: take a closer look at MG Cabs and Ellen Dempsey.

As she zoned back in on the conversation, Ormiston was saying something about how Claverhouse and he should try to get some shut-eye.

“Surveillance op?” Bain guessed.

Ormiston nodded, but when Bain pressed for details he just tapped his nose.

“Top secret,” Claverhouse stated, backing up his colleague. His eyes were on Siobhan as he spoke. It was as if he suspected — knew even — that she wasn’t telling him the full story about herself and Cafferty. She thought back to the time she’d spent at Fettes as part of the Crime Squad team. Claverhouse had referred to her as “Junior,” but that seemed like a lifetime ago. She returned his stare confidently. When Claverhouse blinked first, it almost seemed like a victory.

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

The woman shook her head. She was seated in her fifth-floor flat in the Fort, a high-rise on the edge of Leith. There would have been great coastal views from the windows of the cramped living room, if they hadn’t been so filthy. The room smelled of cat pee and leftovers, not that Rebus could see any physical evidence of cats. The woman’s name was Jenny Bell and she had been Dickie Diamond’s girlfriend at the time he’d disappeared.

When the door had been answered by Bell, Barclay had given Rebus a look which seemed to suggest that he could see why Diamond had done a midnight flit. Bell wore no makeup, and her clothes were shapeless and gray. The seams of her slippers had given way, and so had her teeth — leaving her mouth shrunken and lacking the dentures she probably wore when expecting company. This made her speech difficult to understand, especially for Allan Ward, who sat now on the arm of the sofa, a frown of concentration drawing his eyebrows together.