Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

It might explain the move to Edinburgh. How could she operate a legitimate business from Dundee without the threat of more ghosts appearing? Impossible to escape her old life, her old self . . . So she’d set up in Edinburgh instead, and bought herself a house in Fife, somewhere she wouldn’t be recognized, somewhere she could hide from the world.

Siobhan poured more tea, though it was tepid now and too strong. But it gave her something to do while she collected her thoughts. She flicked back four or five sheets, found the page she was looking for. There was a name not only underlined there, but circled, too. It cropped up a couple of times, once in connection with the raid on the sauna, once to do with the mace case.

A detective sergeant called James McCullough.

Or Jazz, as everyone seemed to call him.

Siobhan wondered if Jazz might be able to shed more light on Ellen Dempsey, always supposing there was light to shed. She thought back to Cafferty’s words. There was no indication in the fax of any “friends” Dempsey might have. She’d never been married, had no children. She seemed always to have supported herself . . .

Pictures flickered across Siobhan’s vision: Jazz McCullough, visiting the Marber inquiry, keeping up with developments . . . Francis Gray, seated on one of the desks, reading transcripts . . . Allan Ward buying Phyl dinner and pumping her for information.

Ellen Dempsey . . . tangential to the case . . . maybe worried, contacting her friends. Jazz McCullough and Ellen Dempsey . . . ?

Coincidence or connection? Siobhan turned her mobile on, called Rebus on his. He picked up.

“I need to talk to you,” she said.

“Where are you?”

“St. Leonard’s. You?”

“Leith. Supposedly helping with the Diamond killing.”

“Are the others there with you?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I want to ask you about Jazz McCullough.”

“What about him?”

“It may be nothing . . .”

“You’ve got me curious. Want to meet?”

“Where?”

“Can you come down to Leith?”

“That would make sense. I can ask McCullough a few questions while I’m there . . .”

“Don’t expect me to be much use in that department.”

She drew her eyebrows together. “Why not?”

“I don’t think Jazz is talking to me. Nor is anyone else, for that matter.”

“Hang in there,” Siobhan said. “I’m on my way.”

Sutherland and Barclay had traveled to Leith in Rebus’s car. A period of uncomfortable silence had been broken by some stilted conversation, before Barclay plucked up courage and asked Rebus if it was maybe worth reconsidering his accusations.

Rebus had just shaken his head slowly.

“No use arguing with the man,” Sutherland had muttered. “Thank Christ for the weekend . . .”

At Leith police station, the atmosphere had been hardly less strained. They’d presented a report to Hogan and one of his colleagues, Rebus saying little as he concentrated on spotting anything the trio might be trying to leave out. Hogan had been aware of the tension in the room, his eyes requesting some sort of explanation from Rebus. None had been forthcoming.

“We don’t mind sticking around,” Jazz had said at the end of the report. “If you feel we’ve a contribution to make. . .” Then he’d shrugged. “You’d be doing us a favor, keeping us away from Tulliallan.”

Hogan had smiled. “All I can promise is office grind.”

“Better than classroom lessons,” Gray had opined, speaking, it seemed, for all of them.

Hogan had nodded. “Fair enough then, maybe just for today.”

The inquiry room was old-fashioned and high-ceilinged, with peeling paint and chipped desks. The kettle seemed to be on constantly, with the most junior officers on a milk-buying roster. There wasn’t much room for the Tulliallan contingent, which suited Rebus, as it meant they had to split up, sharing desk space with disgruntled locals. Rebus waited a good twenty minutes after Siobhan’s call before she put her head around the door. He got up, joined her in the corridor, having signaled to Hogan with his palm spread, meaning he was taking five. He knew Hogan would relish the chance of a word, realizing something was up and wanting to know what it was. But Hogan was in charge of the team, his time at a premium. So far, they hadn’t managed a moment alone.

“Let’s go walkies,” Rebus told Siobhan. When they got outside it was drizzling. Rebus pulled his jacket around him and took out his cigarettes. He gestured with his head, letting her know they were walking down towards the docks. He didn’t know exactly where the Diamond Dog’s body had been discovered, but it couldn’t have been too far from here . . .

“I heard about Diamond,” Siobhan said. “How come no one’s talking to you?”

“Just a little falling-out.” He shrugged, concentrating on his cigarette. “These things happen.”

“To you more than most.”

“Years of practice, Siobhan. So what’s your interest in McCullough?”

“His name came up.”

“Where?”

“I was looking at Ellen Dempsey. She owns the cab that dropped Marber home that night. Dempsey moved her company here from Dundee. In a past life, she worked in a sauna.”

Rebus thought of Laura Stafford. “Interesting coincidence,” he mused.

“And here’s another one: Jazz McCullough arrested her a couple of times.”

Rebus seemed to concentrate harder than ever on his cigarette.

“And then I started remembering the way McCullough and Gray spent so much time flipping through the transcripts and notes in the inquiry room.”

Rebus nodded. He’d been there, seen them . . .

“And Allan Ward dating Phyl,” Siobhan was saying.

“Asking her questions,” Rebus added, still nodding. He’d stopped walking. Jazz, Gray and Ward . . . “How do you think it plays?”

She shrugged. “I just wondered if there was some connection between McCullough and Dempsey. Maybe they’ve kept in touch . . .”

“And he kept tabs on the Marber case at her behest?”

“Maybe.” Siobhan paused. “Maybe because she didn’t want her past to come up. I think she’s tried hard to build a new life.”

“Could be,” Rebus said, not sounding entirely convinced. He’d started walking again. They were close to the docks now, heavy lorries passing them almost continuously, spewing out fumes, kicking up dust and grit. They walked with their faces turned to one side. Rebus could see Siobhan’s unprotected neck. It was long and slender, a line of muscle running down it. He knew that when they reached the dockside the water would be oily and dotted with jetsam. No place for a body to end up. He touched her arm and took a detour, leading them down an alley. It would connect with one of the roads eventually, leading them back towards the station.

“What are you going to do about it?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I thought I’d get McCullough’s response.”

“I’m not sure about that, Siobhan. Maybe you’d be better off doing a bit more digging first.”

“Why?”

Rebus shrugged. What could he tell her? That to his mind Jazz McCullough, quiet and charming family man, was perhaps mixed up in murder and criminal conspiracy?

“I just think it might be safer.”

She stared at him. “Care to elucidate?”

“It’s nothing concrete . . . just a feeling.”

“A feeling that asking McCullough a few questions might not be safe? ”

Rebus shrugged again. They’d come out of the alley. By turning right, they’d be heading towards the rear of the police station.

“I’m guessing this ‘feeling’ of yours has something to do with the fact that nobody’s talking to you?”