Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“You okay, John?” Jazz asked.

“Maybe getting cold feet,” Gray guessed.

“No, no, it’s not that,” Rebus managed to say. “It’s just . . . you know, it’s one thing to think about it . . .”

“But quite another to actually do it?” Jazz nodded his understanding.

If you bastards have got Bernie Johns’s money . . . what do you want this for?

“Any chance you could give the premises a quick recon?” Gray was asking. “We need a floor plan, that sort of thing.”

“No problem,” Rebus said.

“Let’s start with that then. You never know, John. It could still end up being pie in the sky.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Rebus said, recovering some composure. “Maybe we need a fourth man. What do you think of Tam Barclay?”

“Tam’s okay,” Jazz said, with little enthusiasm. “But maybe young Allan is better.” He was sharing a look with Gray, who started nodding.

“Allan’s our man,” Gray agreed.

“So who’ll talk to him?” Rebus asked.

“Leave that side of things to us, John — just you concentrate on the warehouse . . .”

“Fine by me,” Rebus said, lifting his own cup from the machine. He stared at its surface, trying to remember if he’d pressed the button for tea, coffee or self-destruct. He had to tell Strathern. Tell him what exactly? No way the “heist” was going to happen . . . no possible way. So what was there to tell?

At 4:10 P.M, Malcolm Neilson was arrested on suspicion of the murder of Edward Marber. DC Grant Hood, who’d been placed in charge of media liaison, was in his element. Two murders, two suspects in custody, both charged. The newspapers and TV wanted to know all about it, and he was the person they needed to charm. Hood knew what questions they would ask, and was scuttling around the inquiry room in search of answers. He’d nipped home and changed into a dark-gray suit which he’d had made for him at Ede and Ravenscroft. The sleeves had been shortened so as to expose a few inches of shirt cuff, emphasizing the gold cuff links.

Hood would tell you that it was all for the cameras. You had to look professional. Others had a different view.

“Is he a nancy boy or something?” Allan Ward asked Rebus.

“Don’t worry, Allan,” Rebus assured him. “You’re not his type.” They were in the car park: cigarette break. The team in IR1 was still brooding over Dickie Diamond’s statement. Opinions ranged from “not worth the paper it’s printed on” to “Chib Kelly’s our man for sure.”

“What do you reckon?” Ward asked Rebus now.

“I’m with Tennant. Our job’s to compile the evidence. It’s down to someone else to decide if it’s a pack of lies or not.”

“Not like you to side with Half-Pint,” Ward commented.

That nickname again: Half-Pint. Rebus wondered if any of the others knew about it.

“Tell me, Allan . . . have Jazz and Francis had a chance to speak to you yet?”

“What about?”

“That sort of answers my question.” Rebus took pity on Ward’s look of befuddlement. “A wee scheme we’ve got going. You might qualify for a share.”

“What sort of scheme?”

Rebus tapped his nose. “Tell me . . . how welcome would a bit of cash be?”

Ward shrugged. “Depends whose cash it is.”

Rebus nodded but kept quiet. Ward was about to press him when the door burst open and a bunch of uniforms streamed out towards their cars, followed by Hynds, Hawes and Siobhan. Hawes cast a glance in Ward’s direction, causing him to concentrate on his cigarette. The smile she’d been preparing melted away. Ward just wasn’t interested.

“Off on a jaunt?” Rebus asked Siobhan.

“Search warrant came through.”

“Got room for one more?”

She looked at him. “You’re not part of —”

“Come on, Siobhan. Don’t give me that routine.”

“Why the interest?”

“Who said I’m interested? I just want a break from this place.” He turned towards Ward. “Can you square it with the others?”

Ward nodded with little enthusiasm. He still had questions for Rebus, and now he was being left hanging.

“Go talk to Jazz and Francis,” Rebus advised him. Then he stubbed out his cigarette and made for Siobhan’s car. She’d already said something to Phyllida Hawes, who was vacating the passenger seat and joining Hynds in the back instead.

“Cheers, Phyl,” Rebus said, taking her place. “So where are we off to?”

“Inveresk. Malcolm Neilson has a house there.”

“I thought he lived in Stockbridge?”

Hynds leaned forward. “He mostly uses that as a studio. Something to do with the quality of the light . . .”

Rebus ignored this. “So Inveresk first, Stockbridge next?”

Siobhan was shaking her head. “Linford and Silvers are in charge of another team. They’re headed for Stockbridge.”

“Leaving Neilson to stew back in the cells?”

“He’s got Gill Templer and Bill Pryde for company.”

“Those two haven’t conducted a decent interview in years.”

“Haven’t let a prisoner escape either,” Phyllida Hawes added. Rebus looked in the rearview, returned her smile.

“What exactly is it we’re hoping to find?” he asked Siobhan.

“God knows,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Maybe he kept some sort of diary,” Hynds offered.

“Why I’m a Cold-Blooded Killer?” Hawes suggested as a title.

“Inveresk’s nice, though,” Rebus mused. “Must be a few bob in this painting lark.”

“He has a place in France, too,” Hawes added. “Though I notice we’re not getting the chance to search that. ”

Siobhan turned towards Rebus. “Local gendarmes will do the job for us, just as soon as we can find someone who knows enough French to submit the request.”

“Could take a while then.” Rebus glanced into the rearview. “Maybe that’s where your diary is.”

“Pourquoi Je Suis un Tueur Avec le Sang Froid?” Hynds offered. Everything went very still in the car. Siobhan was first to speak.

“Why didn’t you say you spoke French?”

“Nobody asked. Besides, I didn’t want to be left off the search.”

“Soon as we get back,” Siobhan said coldly, “you’re going to tell DCI Pryde.”

“I’m not sure I know enough to write something as specific as —”

“We’ll buy you a dictionary,” Siobhan stated.

“I’ll help if I can,” Rebus offered.

“And how much French do you have?”

“How about nul points? ”

There was laughter from the backseat. Siobhan’s face tightened, and she seemed to grip the steering wheel harder than ever, as though right now it was the only thing in her life that was under her control.

They’d driven through the rougher outskirts of Edinburgh — Craigmillar and Niddrie — crossing the city boundary and making for Musselburgh, the self-proclaimed “Honest Toun.” Hynds asked how it had come by the title, but no one in the car could answer. Inveresk was a wealthy enclave on the edge of the town. New housing was encroaching only slowly. Most of the homes here were old, large and detached, hidden behind high walls or at the ends of long, meandering driveways. It was a place where politicians and TV celebrities could tuck themselves away from the public gaze.

“This is new to me,” Hynds said, peering out his side of the car.

“Me too,” Hawes admitted.

There wasn’t much to Inveresk, and they soon found Neilson’s house. Two patrol cars stood at its entrance — the local station had been alerted to their arrival. The media were there too, wanting photos of whatever trove was produced. The house itself was not large. Siobhan would have called it a cottage, albeit an extremely pretty one. The small front garden was well tended, consisting mostly of rose beds. Though the building was a single-story construction, dormer windows protruded from the tiled roof. Siobhan had the keys, offered up by Neilson himself once he’d been told that without them, police would force an entry. She ordered Hynds to fetch the roll of trash bags from the trunk.