Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“We should hit a nightclub some evening,” Barclay said. “Kirkcaldy maybe . . . see if we can get a lumber.”

“You make that sound so appetizing,” Allan Ward muttered.

“So the rest of you were in the bar at Tulliallan?” Rebus persisted.

“Pretty much,” Barclay said. “We weren’t pining for you.”

“Why the interest, John?” Gray asked.

“If you’re afraid of being left out,” Sutherland added, “you should move back there with us.”

Rebus knew he daren’t push it any further. He’d got back to his flat around midnight. If the intruder had come from Tulliallan, they’d have had to leave the college around half past ten, eleven o’clock at the latest. That would have given them time to drive into Edinburgh, search the flat and get out again before he arrived home. How had they known he would be out? Something else to think about . . . Dickie Diamond had known he was headed for a rendezvous, reinforcing his position as most likely culprit. Rebus half hoped one of the patrols would call in a sighting. If Diamond was still in Edinburgh, Rebus had a few things to put to him . . .

“So what’s the schedule today?” Jazz McCullough asked, closing the newspaper he’d been reading.

“Leith, I suppose,” Gray informed him. “See if we can track down any more of Diamond’s pals.” He looked at Rebus. “What do you think, John?”

Rebus nodded. “Anyone mind if I stay here for a bit? I’ve a couple of jobs to do.”

“Fine with me,” Gray said. “Anything we can help you with?”

Rebus shook his head. “Shouldn’t take too long, Francis. Thanks all the same.”

“Well, whatever happens,” Ward said, “if we don’t come up with something, Tennant’s going to have us back at Tulliallan pronto.”

They nodded agreement. It would happen . . . today or tomorrow, it would happen, and the Rico case would become paperwork again, and brainstorming sessions, and making a card index, and all the rest. No more side trips, no chances for breaks at the pub or the odd meal out.

The Rico case would have died.

Gray was staring at Rebus, but Rebus kept his eyes on the wall. He knew what Gray was thinking: he was thinking that John Rebus would like that state of affairs just fine . . .

“I’m only doing this because you asked so nicely.”

“What’s that, Mr. Cafferty?” Siobhan asked.

“Letting you bring me here.” Cafferty looked around IR2. “To be honest, I’ve had prison cells bigger than this.” He folded his arms. “So how can I help you, Detective Sergeant Clarke?”

“It’s the Edward Marber case. Your name seems to be cropping up at all sorts of tangents . . .”

“I think I’ve told you everything I can about Eddie.”

“Is that the same as telling us everything you know? ”

Cafferty’s eyes narrowed appraisingly. “Now you’re just playing games.”

“I don’t think so.”

Cafferty had shifted his attention to Davie Hynds, who was standing with his back against the wall opposite the desk.

“You all right there, son?” He seemed pleased when Hynds failed to respond. “How do you like working under a woman, DC Hynds? Does she give you a rough ride?”

“You see, Mr. Cafferty,” Siobhan went on, ignoring everything he’d said, “we’ve charged Donny Dow — your driver — with the murder of Laura Stafford.”

“He’s not my driver.”

“He’s on your payroll,” Siobhan countered.

“Diminished responsibility anyway,” Cafferty stated with conviction. “Poor bugger didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Believe me, he knew exactly what he was doing.” When she saw Cafferty’s smile, Siobhan cursed herself for letting him push her buttons. “The woman Dow murdered worked in the Sauna Paradiso. I think if I dig deep enough, I’ll find that you’re its owner.”

“Better buy a big shovel then.”

“You see how already you connect to both the murderer and his victim?”

“He’s not a murderer till he’s convicted,” Cafferty reminded her.

“You speak with a wealth of experience in that area, don’t you?”

Cafferty shrugged. He still had his arms folded, and looked relaxed, almost as if he were enjoying himself.

“Then there’s Edward Marber,” Siobhan pressed on. “You were at the private viewing the night he was killed. You were one of his clients. And ironically, he was one of yours. He met Laura Stafford at the Sauna Paradiso. He rented a flat for her and her son . . .”

“Your point being . . . ?”

“My point being that your name keeps cropping up.”

“Yes, you said. I think the phrase you used was ‘at all sorts of tangents.’ That’s what we’re talking about here, DS Clarke: tangents, coincidences. That’s all we’re ever going to be talking about, because I didn’t kill Eddie Marber.”

“Did he cheat you, Mr. Cafferty?”

“There’s no proof he cheated anyone. Way I hear it, it was one man’s word against his.”

“Marber paid that man five thousand pounds to shut up.”

Cafferty grew thoughtful. Siobhan realized she had to be careful how much she gave away to this man. She got the feeling Cafferty coveted information the way other people did jewelry or fast cars. She already had one small result, however: when she’d slipped a mention of the Paradiso into the conversation, Cafferty hadn’t denied ownership.

A knock came at the door. It opened and a head appeared round it. Gill Templer.

“DS Clarke? Can I have a word?”

Siobhan rose from her chair. “DC Hynds, look after Mr. Cafferty, will you?”

Out in the corridor, Templer was waiting, looking around at the officers, who moved with more efficiency once they’d spotted her. “My office,” she told Siobhan.

Siobhan was hitting the mental REWIND button, trying to think what she’d done that might have merited a chewing out. But Templer seemed to relax once she was in her own room. She didn’t ask Siobhan to sit, and stayed standing herself, hands behind her, gripping the edge of her desk.

“I think we might try charging Malcolm Neilson,” she announced. “I’ve been talking it through with the Fiscal’s office. You’ve done a thorough job, Siobhan.”

Meaning the dossier Siobhan had compiled on the painter. She could see it on the desk.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Siobhan said.

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

“Maybe I just think there are some loose ends . . .”

“Dozens, probably, but look at what we’ve got. He’d fallen out with Marber, a very public and bitter argument. He’d taken money — either that or extorted it. He was hanging around outside the gallery on the night in question — witnesses have placed him there.” Templer counted off on her fingers: “Means, motive and opportunity.”

Siobhan remembered Neilson himself saying much the same thing.

“At the very least we can get a search warrant,” Templer was saying, “see if it throws up any tidbits. I want you to organize it, Siobhan. That missing painting could be hanging in Neilson’s bedroom for all we know.”

“I don’t think it would be to his taste,” Siobhan commented, knowing it sounded lame.

Templer stared at her. “Why is it that every time I try to do you a good turn, you try to pull the rug out from under me?”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

Templer studied her, then sighed. “Any luck with Cafferty?”

“At least he didn’t bring a lawyer with him.”

“Might just mean he doesn’t rate the competition.”

Siobhan pursed her lips. “If that’s everything, ma’am . . . ?”

“Well, it isn’t. I want to go through the warrant for Neilson’s arrest. Shouldn’t take us too long. Let Mr. Cafferty sweat for a while . . .”