Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

Gray’s eyes narrowed. “How do you mean?”

“They haven’t told Customs. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“They’re trying to use it as leverage. There’s someone they want to get to.”

“Big Ger Cafferty?”

It was Rebus’s turn to nod. “They’re not going to get him, but they haven’t quite realized it yet. And meantime, the dope is just sitting there.”

“But protected?”

“I assume so. I don’t know what security’s like.”

Gray grew thoughtful. “They showed you this stuff?”

“A chemist was grading it at the time.”

“Why did they show it to you?”

“Because they wanted to do a trade. I was the intermediary.” Rebus paused. “I don’t really want to get into it . . .”

“But if someone lifts the consignment, it has to be you. Who else have they shown it to?”

“I don’t know.” Rebus paused. “But I don’t think I’d be their number one suspect.”

“Why not?”

“Because word is, Cafferty knows about it too.”

“So he might make a bid to get to it first?”

“Which is why we’d have to act fast.”

Gray held up a hand, trying to stem Rebus’s enthusiasm. “Don’t go saying ‘we.’ ”

Rebus bowed his head in a show of repentance. “The beauty of it is, they’ll lift Cafferty for it. Especially if he finds himself with a kilo or so planted on him . . .”

Gray’s eyes widened. “You’ve got it all figured out.”

“Not all of it. But enough to be going on with. Are you in?”

Gray ran a finger down the condensation on his glass. “What makes you think I’d help? Or Jazz, come to that?”

Rebus shrugged, tried to look disappointed. “I just thought . . . I don’t know. It’s a lot of money.”

“Maybe it is, if you can shift the drugs. Something like that, John . . . you’d have to range far and wide, selling a bit at a time. Very dangerous.”

“I could sit on them awhile.”

“And watch them go stale? Drugs are like pies: at their best when fresh.”

“I bow to your superior knowledge.”

Gray grew thoughtful again. “Have you ever tried anything like this before?”

Rebus shook his head, eyes fixing on Gray’s. “Have you?”

Gray didn’t answer. “And you just thought this up?”

“Not straightaway . . . I’ve been looking for something for a while, some way of making sure I could kiss the job good-bye in style.” Rebus noticed their glasses were empty. “Same again?”

“Better get me a softie if I’m driving.”

Rebus approached the bar. He had to work hard not to turn around and study Gray. He was trying to look nonchalant but excited. He was a cop who’d just stepped over the line. Gray had to believe him . . . had to believe in the scheme.

It was the only one Rebus had.

He bought a whiskey for himself, something with which to toast his newfound bravado. Gray had wanted an orange and lemonade. Rebus placed it before him.

“There you go,” he said, sitting down.

“You’ll appreciate,” Gray said, “that this dream of yours is pure mental?”

Rebus shrugged, placed his glass to his nose and pretended to savor the aroma, even though his mind was so stretched he couldn’t smell anything.

“What if I say no?” Gray asked.

Rebus shrugged again. “Maybe I don’t need any help after all.”

Gray smiled sadly and shook his head. “I’m going to tell you something,” he began, lowering his voice a little. “I pulled off something a while back. Maybe not as grand as this . . . but I got away with it.”

Rebus felt his heart lift. “What was it?” he asked. But Gray shook his head, not about to answer. “Were you alone, or did you have help?” Gray’s head continued its slow arc: not telling.

Was it Bernie Johns and his millions? Rebus ached to ask the question. Stop this stupid game and just ask! He was holding the glass, trying to appear relaxed, and all the time he felt it might splinter in his grasp. He stared down at the table, willing himself to place the glass there, nice and slow. But his hand didn’t move. Half his brain was warning him: you’ll smash it, you’ll drop it, your hand will shake the contents out of it . . . Maybe not as grand as this . . . What did that mean? Was Johns’s stash disappointing, or did he just not want Rebus to know?

“You got away with it, that’s the main thing,” he said, his throat just loose enough to form recognizable words. He tried a cough. It felt like invisible fingers were busy squeezing, just beneath the skin.

I’m losing this, he thought.

“You all right?” Gray asked.

Rebus nodded, finally putting down his glass. “It just feels . . . I’m a bit edgy. You’re the only person I’ve told — what if I can’t trust you?”

“Should’ve thought of that first.”

“I did think of it first. It’s just that I’m having second thoughts.”

“Bit late for that, John. It’s not your idea any longer. It’s out in the public domain.”

“Unless I take you outside . . .”

He left it for Gray to finish the thought: “And kill me with a baseball bat? Like what happened to Rico?” Gray broke off, gnawed his bottom lip. “What did happen to him, John?”

“I don’t know.”

Gray stared at him. “Come on . . .”

“I really don’t know, Francis. On my kid’s life.” Rebus held his hand to his heart.

“I thought you knew.” Gray seemed disappointed.

You bastard . . . did Strathern plant you? Are you feeding me a line about Bernie Johns so that I’ll spill the beans about Rico . . . ?

“Sorry” was all John Rebus said, sitting on his hands to stop them shaking.

Gray took a mouthful of the fizzy drink, stifled a belch. “Why me?”

“How do you mean?”

“Why tell me? Do I look that corruptible?”

“As it happens, yes.”

“And what if I run back to Archie Tennant, tell him what you’ve just said?”

“There’s nothing he can do,” Rebus guessed. “No law against having a dream, is there?”

“But this isn’t just a dream, is it, John?”

“That depends.”

Gray was nodding. Something in his face had changed. He’d come to some decision. “Tell you what,” he said. “I like listening to this dream of yours. What about if you fill in some of the spaces on the drive back to base?”

“Which spaces exactly?”

“Where this warehouse is . . . who might be guarding it . . . what sorts of drugs we’re talking about.” Gray paused. “Those’ll do for starters.”

“Fair enough,” Rebus said.

Siobhan had slept in, phoning to apologize as she waited for the water in the shower to run hot. No one at the station seemed too worried by her absence. She told them she was coming in, no matter what. She’d forgotten about her scalp until the water hit it, after which her bathroom was filled with the sound of cursing.

Donny Dow had been transferred to Leith, and she made that her first stop. DI Bobby Hogan went over the statement she’d made last night. It didn’t need any changes.

“Do you want to see him?” he asked afterwards.

She shook her head.

“Two of your guys — Pryde and Silvers — will be sitting in on our interviews.” Hogan was pretending to busy himself writing a note. “They’re going to tie him to Marber.”

“Good for them.”

“You don’t agree?” He’d stopped writing, his eyes lifting to meet hers.

“If Donny Dow killed Marber, it was because he knew about Marber’s relationship with Laura. So why did Dow explode when told about it by Linford?”