Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“One of them is; other caught on fire.”

“Caught on fire or was set on fire?”

Ward shrugged a response.

“You see why I’m impressed?” Tennant announced. “So bring me glad tidings from dear old Glasgow town.”

It took Gray and Rebus only five minutes to summarize their trip, leaving out everything except the hospital visit. At the end of it, Tennant looked less than cheered.

“If I didn’t know better,” he told them, “I’d say you lot were pissing into the wind.”

“We’ve hardly started,” Sutherland complained.

“My point exactly.” Tennant wagged a finger at him. “Too busy enjoying the good life, not busy enough doing the work you’re supposed to be here for.” He paused. “Maybe it’s not your fault; maybe there’s nothing here for us to find.”

“Back to Tulliallan?” Tam Barclay guessed.

Tennant was nodding. “Unless you can think of a reason to stay put.”

“Dickie Diamond, sir,” Sutherland said. “There are friends of his we still need to talk to. We’ve got feelers out with a local snitch . . .”

“Meaning all you’re doing here is waiting?”

“There’s one other avenue, sir,” Jazz McCullough said. “At the time Diamond went AWOL, there was that rape case at the manse.” Rebus concentrated hard on the room’s mud-colored carpet tiles.

“And?” Tennant prodded.

“And nothing, sir. It’s just a coincidence that might be worth following up.”

“You mean in case Diamond had anything to do with it?”

“I know it sounds thin, sir . . .”

“Thin? You could use it as a pizza topping.”

“Maybe just another day or two, sir,” Gray advised. “There are some loose ends we could do with tying up, and since we’re already here,” he glanced towards Rebus, “with an expert to guide us . . .”

“Expert?” Tennant’s eyes narrowed.

Gray had slapped a hand onto Rebus’s shoulder. “When it comes to Edinburgh, sir, John knows where the bodies are buried. Isn’t that right, John?”

Tennant considered this, while Rebus said nothing. Then Tennant unfolded his arms, stuck his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

After Tennant had left the room, Rebus turned to Gray. “I know where the bodies are buried?”

Gray shrugged, gave a little laugh. “Isn’t that what you told me? Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Unless you know different . . . ?”

Later that afternoon, Rebus stood by the drinks machine, considering his options. He had a handful of change, but his mind was on other things. He was wondering who to tell about the heist scheme. The chief constable, for instance. Strathern wouldn’t know about the warehouse stash, he was sure of that. Claverhouse had gone to Carswell, the assistant chief. The two of them were mates, and Carswell would have given his blessing to the project, without feeling the need to bother the Big Chief. If Rebus told Strathern about it, the Chief would most likely blow his top, not liking the notion of having been sidelined on such an important bust. Rebus wasn’t sure what the result would be, but he couldn’t see it doing his heist scheme any good.

What he needed at the moment was for the knowledge of the bust’s existence to remain as secret as possible. It wasn’t as if he was actually going to carry out any heist. It was a smoke screen, a way to infiltrate the trio and hopefully glean some information on Bernie Johns’s missing millions. He wasn’t sure that Gray and Co. would go for it . . . in fact, it worried him that Gray had proved so attentive. Why would Gray consider such a scheme when he already had much more salted away than any raid on the warehouse would bring him? All Rebus had wanted the story to do was prove to the trio that he too could be tempted, that he, like them, could fall.

Now he had to consider a further possibility: that the trio would want to take it further, make the plan a reality.

And why would they do that if they were so stinking rich on their ill-gotten gains? The only answer Rebus could think of was that there were no gains. In which case he was back to square one. Or, even worse, he was square one: instigator of a plot to steal several hundred grand’s worth of dope from under the noses of his own force.

Then again . . . if Gray and Co. had gotten away with it . . . maybe all they’d learned was that they could do it again. Could greed stop them thinking straight? The worry was, Rebus knew they probably could do it. The security around the warehouse wasn’t overzealous: last thing Claverhouse wanted was for the site to start looking heavily guarded. All that would do was attract attention. A gate, a couple of guards, maybe a padlocked warehouse . . . So what if there was an alarm? Alarms could be dealt with. Guards could be dealt with. A decent-sized station wagon would accommodate the haul . . .

What are you contemplating, John?

The game was changing. He still didn’t know much about the three men, but now Gray knew that Rebus knew something about Dickie Diamond. John knows where the bodies are buried. The slap Gray had given him on the shoulder had been a warning, letting him know who was in charge.

Suddenly Linford was behind him. “You using that machine or just counting your savings?”

Rebus couldn’t think of a comeback, so simply stepped aside.

“Any chance of another ringside seat?” Linford said, slotting his coins home.

“What?”

“You and Allan Ward — have you made your peace?” Linford pressed the button for tea, then cursed himself. “Should have made that coffee. Tea has a way of flying around here.”

“Just crawl back into your fucking hole,” Rebus said.

“CID’s a lot quieter without you: any chance of making it permanent?”

“Not much hope of that,” Rebus told him. “I promised I’d retire when you lost your cherry.”

“ I’ll have retired before that happens,” Siobhan said, walking towards the two men. She was smiling, but with little amusement.

“And who was it deflowered you, DS Clarke?” Linford smiled right back at her, before shifting his gaze to Rebus. “Or is that something we don’t want to get into?”

He started walking away. Rebus moved a step closer to Siobhan. “That’s what the women say about Derek’s bed, you know,” he said, loud enough for Linford to hear.

“What?” Siobhan asked, playing along.

“That it’s something they don’t want to get into . . .”

After Linford had disappeared, Siobhan got herself a drink. “Not having anything?” she asked.

“Gone off the idea,” Rebus stated, dropping the coins back into his pocket. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Really?”

“Well, mostly,” she confided. “And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I wasn’t going to offer.”

She straightened up, maneuvering the hot plastic cup. “That’s what I like about you,” she said. Then: “Got a minute? I need to pick your brains . . .”

They went down to the car park, Rebus lighting a cigarette. Siobhan made sure there were no other smokers around, no one to eavesdrop.

“All very mysterious,” Rebus said.

“Not really. It’s just something that’s niggling me about your friends in IR1.”

“What about them?”

“Allan Ward took Phyllida out last night.”

“And?”

“And she’d nothing to report. Ward was quite the gentleman . . . took her home but wouldn’t go upstairs when she offered.” She paused. “He’s not married or anything?” Rebus shook his head. “Not going steady?”