Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“I know that,” Rebus conceded. Then: “Okay, I’ll talk to them.” He grew thoughtful. “We need to discuss the split.”

“The split?” Gray growled.

“It was my idea,” Rebus stressed, “and so far I’m the only one doing anything about it . . .”

Jazz’s air of absolute calm now seemed almost threatening. “The split will be in your favor, John,” he said. “Don’t fret.”

Gray looked set to dispute this, but the words failed to come out. As Rebus turned towards the door, however, Jazz’s hand landed softly on his arm.

“Just don’t go getting greedy on us,” he said. “Remember: you invited us in. We’re here because you asked.”

Rebus nodded, made good his escape. Outside in the corridor, he could feel his heart pounding, the blood sizzling in his ears. They didn’t trust him, yet they were ready to follow him.

Why? Were they setting him up? And when was the time to tell Strathern? His head told him “now,” but his gut said otherwise. Still, he decided to pay a little trip to the Big House.

It was past six, and he half expected that the SDEA offices would be empty, but Ormiston was hunched over a computer, the keys of the keyboard just too small for his oversized fingers to manage. As he cursed and pressed the DELETE key, Rebus walked into the room.

“Hiya, Ormie.” Trying to sound chatty, breezy. “They’ve got you working late.”

The big man grunted, didn’t raise his eyes from the screen.

“Is Claverhouse about?” Rebus went on, leaning his backside against a desk.

“Warehouse.”

“Oh, aye? Still got the stuff stashed there?” Rebus had picked up a stick of gum from the desk and unwrapped it, folding it into his mouth.

“What’s it to you?”

Rebus shrugged. “Just wondered if you wanted me to have another go at the Weasel.”

Ormiston glared at him, then turned back to his work.

“Fair enough,” Rebus said. Ormiston’s look meant they’d given up on the Weasel. “Bet Claverhouse would love to know why the Weasel visited me that night.”

“Maybe.”

Rebus had started pacing the room. “Would you like to know, Ormie? I’d tell you before I’d tell your partner.”

“That gives me a warm glow all over.”

“Not that it was anything much . . .” Ormiston wasn’t about to take the bait. Rebus decided to sweeten the hook. “It was just something about Cafferty and the warehouse.”

Ormiston stopped typing but kept his eyes on the screen.

“You see,” Rebus pressed on, “the Weasel says Cafferty might be planning a hit on the warehouse.”

“We know he knows about it.”

“But that’s just the word on the street.”

Ormiston turned his head, but it was no good. Rebus had stopped directly behind him. The big man had to swing around 180 degrees in his chair.

“On the other hand,” Rebus continued, “ I got it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t the horse’s arse?”

Rebus just shrugged. “That’s for you and your compadre to decide.”

Ormiston folded his arms. “And why in God’s name would the Weasel rat his boss out to you? ”

“That’s what I want to talk to Claverhouse about.” Rebus paused. “I want to apologize.”

Ormiston’s eyebrows rose slowly. Then he unfolded his arms and reached for the phone.

“This I have to see,” he said.

“You’re shipping it out?” Rebus guessed. He was in the warehouse. The carcass of the lorry had already been removed. Now the warehouse was more than half filled with new-looking wooden packing crates. They were nailed closed and stacked two high across most of the floor. “Does that mean you’re splitting the glory with Customs and Excise?”

“Rules are rules,” Claverhouse said. Rebus ran his palm over the surface of one crate, then made a fist and rapped on it. Claverhouse smiled. “Bet you can’t guess which crate they’re in.”

“Crate or crates?”

“That would be telling.”

There was the smell of fresh wood in the air. “You’re expecting someone to try taking them?” Rebus surmised.

“Not exactly, but we know the word is out. There’s only so much you can do with security, but . . .”

“But this way at least it’ll take them an hour or two to find the right boxes?” Rebus was nodding, actually quite impressed with Claverhouse’s thinking. “Why not just shift the drugs?”

“And they’d be safer where exactly . . . ?”

“I don’t know . . . Fettes or somewhere.”

“The Big House? All open windows and no alarms?”

“Maybe not,” Rebus agreed.

“Anyway, you’re right, they’re going to be shifted. Just as soon as we’ve squared everything with Customs . . .” Claverhouse thought of something. “Ormie said you had some apology you wanted to make?”

Rebus nodded again. “About Weasel. I think I was too soft on him. You told me it would be two fathers having a talk, and I let that happen . . . stopped thinking like a cop. So I wanted to apologize.”

“And that’s why he came to your flat that night?”

“He came to warn me that Cafferty knew about the haul.”

“Information you decided to hold back from us?”

“You already knew, didn’t you?”

“We knew word was out.”

“Well, anyway . . .” Rebus sniffed, gazed around him. “You’ve got this place sewn up, right? Cafferty would have wanted to catch you unawares . . .”

“Security’s round the clock,” Claverhouse confirmed. “Padlocks on the gates, razor-wire fences . . . And my little puzzle to contend with at the end of it all.”

Rebus looked at Ormiston. “Do you know which crates the stuff’s in?”

Ormiston stared back, unblinking.

“Stupid question,” Rebus muttered aloud. Claverhouse smiled. “I want you to know,” Rebus told him, “that I really do feel bad about not snaring the Weasel for you. I gave him far too easy a ride. That sent the wrong message: he thought I was doing it on purpose, which meant he owed me.”

“And fed you the news on Cafferty to even things up?” Claverhouse was nodding.

“But now that I’ve opened a line of communication with him,” Rebus went on, “maybe I can still bring him over to our side.”

“Too late for that now,” Claverhouse informed him. “Looks like the Weasel has jumped ship. He hasn’t been seen since the night he went to your flat.”

“What?”

“I think he panicked.”

“Which was what we wanted,” Ormiston admitted. The look he received from his partner shut him up.

“We put word out,” Claverhouse explained, “that we were readying to charge Weasel’s son with the whole shebang.”

“You thought if he got scared enough, he’d come in?”

Claverhouse nodded.

“And he ran instead?” Rebus was trying to make sense of it. The Weasel had shown no sign at all that he was planning flight.

“Would he have flown, without taking Aly with him?”

Claverhouse seemed to contort his whole body into a shrug, letting Rebus know the subject was closed. “Takes a big man to admit when he’s wrong,” he said instead, addressing Rebus. “I didn’t think you had it in you.” Then he stuck out a hand, which Rebus, after only a moment’s debate, accepted. He was still thinking of the Weasel, trying to assess whether the man could do any harm to Rebus and his plans. He came up blank. Whatever had happened to him, Rebus couldn’t spare the time or space for conjecture. He had to focus, draw all his energy together.

Look after number one.

The six o’clock headlines were just ending when Siobhan switched off her engine. She was parked in the forecourt of MG Cabs. The large tarmac parking area boasted half a dozen assorted Vauxhalls, and a single brand-new, flame-red MG sports car. There was a white flagpole, from which drooped a St. Andrew’s Cross. The office was a prefab building, with a garage next to it, where a solitary mechanic in gray overalls was working on the engine of an Astra. Lochend wasn’t far from Easter Road — home of Hibernian, Siobhan’s chosen football team — but she didn’t know the area at all. It seemed to be mostly low-rise and terraced housing with a smattering of neighborhood shops. She hadn’t really expected anyone to be here, but the cab business was round-the-clock, she now realized. All the same, she doubted Ellen Dempsey would still be on duty. That was fine: all she wanted was a feel for the place, maybe ask a couple of questions of the mechanic or anyone else she could find.