Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“Word is, he’s rented a flat a couple of streets away,” Siobhan was saying. “You sure you want to head up there? If his car’s in North Queensferry, it’s a wasted trip . . .”

“Anything’s better than sitting here,” Rebus told her. He didn’t add how much he felt like a target.

They agreed to keep in touch by mobile and he placed one last call to Jean, letting her know he would see her later on in the evening, how much later he couldn’t say.

“If the lights are out, don’t bother ringing the bell,” she told him. “Call me in the morning instead.”

“Will do, Jean.”

He walked quickly from the tenement to his car, starting the engine and reversing out of the parking space. He didn’t know what to expect: some ambush perhaps, or a car following him. But it was midevening quiet, and the Edinburgh streets were such that it was hard to tail someone if they were expecting you. It was all stop-start, traffic lights and junctions. Rebus didn’t think he was being followed. The Wild Bunch had dispersed, supposedly on their way home to families, loved ones, drinking cronies. Allan Ward had complained of the long drive he faced: no fast, easy route to Dumfries. But that could have been just talk. Impossible to tell where any of the trio were. Rebus had imagined Jazz heading for the happy home he’d talked into existence. But there was no happy home. Hard to say what was real anymore. Friday night, and the city was coming out to play: girls in short dresses; boys bouncing as they walked, filled with chemical bravado. Men in suits waving down taxis; music pounding from cruising cars. You worked hard all week, then prayed for oblivion. Having left Edinburgh behind, crossing the Forth Bridge, he looked down towards North Queensferry and gave Siobhan a call.

“No sign of life,” she told him. “I’ve driven past a couple of times . . . no car in the driveway.”

“She might still be at work,” Rebus argued. “Busy night and all that.”

“I called to book a cab. It wasn’t her voice.”

Rebus smiled. “Nice move.”

“Where are you?”

“If you wave, I might see you. I’m just crossing the bridge.”

“Let me know when you get there.”

Rebus ended the call, clearing his mind as he drove.

Broughty Ferry was on the coast just east of Dundee itself. It liked to think of itself as genteel and independent, like someone with enough money put aside for a comfortable retirement. He stopped to ask a local for directions, and soon found himself on Jazz McCullough’s street, though mindful that McCullough himself could be in the vicinity. There were plenty of cars parked curbside and in driveways, but no sign of McCullough’s Volvo sedan. Rebus passed his house. It was detached but unostentatious. Maybe four bedrooms, leaded windows in the lounge. Light was pouring through them. There was a driveway but no garage. The car on view was a Honda Accord, probably the wife’s. Rebus turned his Saab round at a neighboring cul-de-sac and managed to park just close enough to the house to keep any comings and goings visible. He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it: the list from Tulliallan. Jazz’s phone number was printed next to his address. Rebus placed the call. A young male voice picked up: the fourteen-year-old son.

“Is your dad in?” Rebus asked cheerily.

“No . . .” The word stretched out longer than necessary as the boy tried to decide what else to tell the caller.

“I’ve got the right number for Jazz?”

“He’s not here,” the boy said.

“I’m a friend of his from work,” Rebus explained.

The boy relaxed a little. “I can give you another number if you’ve got a pen.”

“That’d be great.”

The number was recited from an address book or piece of notepaper. Rebus jotted it down. “That’s a great help, thanks.”

“No problem.” The boy put the phone down just as Rebus could hear the faint voice of a woman asking who was calling. He looked at the number he’d just been given. It was Jazz’s mobile. No point trying that: it wouldn’t help pinpoint a location. Rebus settled his neck against the headrest, then called Siobhan.

“I’m here,” he told her. “Any action your end?”

“Maybe they’re down the pub.”

“I wish I was with them.”

“Me too. I had a gin a couple of hours ago and it’s given me a thumping head.”

“For which the only cure is more alcohol,” Rebus agreed.

“What the hell are we doing, John?”

“I thought we were on surveillance.”

“But for whose benefit?”

“Our own.”

She sighed. “I suppose you’re right . . .”

“Don’t feel duty-bound to stick around.” Rebus watched a sports car turn into the street. Its brake lights glowed as it passed the house, but it kept going, signaling to turn into the road at the end. “What car does Dempsey drive?” Rebus asked, starting his ignition.

“Latest-model red MG.”

“One just drove past me.” He made the same turn the MG just had, and saw it round another corner. Rebus kept up his commentary. “Slowed down as if the driver wanted a quick recon of McCullough’s family pile.”

“And now?”

Rebus made to turn into another street, but changed his mind when he saw the MG reverse into a tight parking spot. A man was standing on the pavement, looking to left and right.

Jazz McCullough.

With better lighting, he might have spotted Rebus, but Rebus had the feeling it was McCullough’s wife he was watching for. A woman got out of the car, and he led her briskly indoors.

“Result,” Rebus told Siobhan. “She’s just gone into McCullough’s flat.” He described the woman he’d seen.

“That’s her all right,” Siobhan confirmed. “What now?”

“I think we’ve got as much as we can expect. Jazz McCullough’s playing away from home with Ellen Dempsey.”

“That’s why he was so keen to keep tabs on the Marber case? He wanted to check we weren’t hassling her?”

“I suppose so . . .”

“But why?” Siobhan persisted. “What was it they thought we’d find?”

“I don’t know,” Rebus admitted. He didn’t see what else he could say.

“You’re giving up?” Siobhan’s voice asked.

“I just think it can wait till Monday,” he told her. “It doesn’t make me a bad person.”

“No, of course not . . .”

“Look, Siobhan, it’s something you should take to Gill Templer. Whether she decides to act on it — or if there’s anything for her to act on — is down to Gill herself.”

“She thinks the case is closed.”

“Maybe she’s right.”

“What if she’s wrong?”

“Jesus, Siobhan, what are you saying here? You take Dempsey and McCullough for some latter-day Bonnie and Clyde? You think they killed Edward Marber?”

“Of course not,” she answered, trying for the sound of a dismissive laugh.

“Well, then,” Rebus told her.

She went on to say he was right. She’d sleep on it, cogitate over the weekend, maybe put it into some kind of binary . . .

“Some kind of what?”

“Never mind.”

They ended the call, but Rebus didn’t move the car, not quite yet. Dempsey and McCullough as Bonnie and Clyde . . . It had been said in jest, but now Rebus was starting to wonder, not about Bonnie and Clyde as such, but about the relationship between McCullough and Ellen Dempsey, and how it might tie in to something much bigger than even Siobhan could have imagined.

“Fuck it,” he said, finally unable to sort out the jumble of strands in his head. Then he turned the car around and headed south.

Jean’s lights were still on.

When she opened the door he was standing there with a fish supper and a bottle of red wine.