Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“Come on, you bastard!” Gray was shouting. He had both fists up, knees bent, feet shuffling. A bare-knuckle fighter who fancied his chances. Rebus was grimacing in pain. McCullough was extracting himself from the backseat, face red, hair disheveled.

“He says we’ve turned over the warehouse,” he told his friend.

“What?” Gray’s eyes darted from one man to the other. Abruptly, he stopped acting the boxer.

“I just want to know how you knew which crate to open,” Rebus hissed, one hand rubbing his side.

“You trying to stick us in the frame?” McCullough said accusingly. “Was that the plan all along?” He pointed a finger. “Anyone’s got hold of the dope, it’s you.”

“I was on the other side of the country.” Rebus’s eyes were blazing. “What about you, McCullough? Will Ellen Dempsey give you an alibi? That why you’ve been cozying up to her?”

McCullough didn’t say anything, just shared a look with his partner. Rebus felt like wincing, because now he’d really blown it, letting them know he knew about Dempsey. But the look which passed between Gray and McCullough was curious. There was fear . . . fear mixed in there with everything else.

Fear of what?

What was it that was lurking there? Rebus got the feeling it had nothing to do with the warehouse.

Siobhan . . . ?

“So you know about Ellen,” Jazz was saying, trying to sound offhand. He shrugged. “No big deal. I left my wife weeks back.”

“Yeah,” Gray added belligerently. Rebus looked at him.

“That the best you can do, Francis? Don’t tell me I’ve got you at a loss for words.”

“I’ve always let actions do the talking for me.” Gray rubbed his fist with his palm.

“If you think I’m going to let you get away with this . . .”

“Get away with what?” Gray spat. “It’s your word against ours. Like Jazz says, you’re the fucker who set it up in the first place. And that’s precisely what we’ll tell anyone who comes asking.”

Rebus had to admit, they didn’t seem worried by his accusations. Angered, yes; worried, no. His mention of Ellen Dempsey had touched a rawer nerve. He decided to save it . . . think it over. Turned away and walked back towards his car.

“See you inside,” Gray called to him, and Rebus couldn’t know if he meant inside the college building or in one of Her Majesty’s many fine Scottish prisons. He leaned against the Saab. Gray’s punch still throbbed. He hoped there wouldn’t be any damage. He watched a procession of other cars heading along the driveway towards him. Some might be fresh probationers, preparing for their first tentative steps on the career path. Others might be senior officers, coming to hone their skills and learn new tricks.

I can’t go back in there, Rebus told himself. He couldn’t stay, not for another minute. The idea of sitting around Tennant’s table, avoiding eye contact with Gray and McCullough . . . keeping up with the sham . . . surrounded by hundreds of recruits for whom Tulliallan was teacher and nourisher, friend and mentor . . .

“Fuck it,” he said, sliding back behind the Saab’s steering wheel. He wouldn’t even bother calling in sick. Let them ask questions, phone Gill Templer. He’d deal with it when he had to — if he had to.

If he felt like it.

Right now, he couldn’t get that solitary moment out of his mind, Gray and McCullough sharing a look . . . a look as if they’d come one step closer to the edge. A step too close for either man.

Protecting Ellen Dempsey . . . or being protected by her? Rebus was starting to get an inkling, but he’d need help if he was going to prove any of it. Help, and one hell of a lot of luck. As he started away down the drive, he saw Gray in his rearview. The man was standing in the road, legs apart. He’d made a pistol of his right hand and was aiming it at the Saab, wrist recoiling as he fired the imaginary bullet, his mouth opening silently.

Bang.

“You don’t think Neilson did it, do you?” Rebus whispered.

Siobhan locked eyes with him and shook her head. She was seated at her desk, Rebus leaning down over her. He could see that on her computer, she’d been writing a report on the connection between McCullough and Dempsey, without mentioning Friday night’s unapproved surveillance.

“I need to take another look at the case.”

“You can’t,” she whispered back. “You’re still persona non grata as far as Gill’s concerned.”

He was about to tell her that this wasn’t the case anymore. One call to Strathern, and the boss would inform Gill that Rebus was back on board. But then he looked around the room. Eyes were staring at him, curious as to his sudden appearance there, and the way he was trying to talk in private with Siobhan. Hawes, Linford, Hood and Silvers . . . Rebus wasn’t sure how far he could trust any of them. Hadn’t Gray worked a case once with Linford? Could Hawes still fall under Allan Ward’s spell?

“You’re right,” he whispered. “I am a nonperson. And IR1 is probably still empty.” He nodded slowly, hoping she’d understand, then pushed himself back upright. “See you,” he told her, reverting to his normal speaking voice.

“Bye,” she said, watching him leave.

Interview Room 1 had yet to be cleared of the desks and chairs used by the Wild Bunch, meaning that in the interim all interviews would be conducted next door in IR2.

There was a knock at the door and it opened. Siobhan sidled in, carrying a thick manila folder. Rebus was seated at one of the desks, nursing a coffee from the machine.

“Anyone see you come in?” she asked him.

“Nope. Anyone notice you leaving the office with that lot?”

“Hard not to.” She shrugged. “I don’t think I was followed, though.” She placed the folder on his desk. “So what are we looking for?”

“Sure you can spare the time?”

She pulled out a chair. “What are we looking for?”

“Ties that bind,” he answered.

“Dempsey and McCullough?”

He nodded. “For starters. By the way, I blew it this morning, told McCullough I knew about the pair of them.”

“I don’t suppose he was thrilled.”

“No. But it means they’ll both be ready for us. We need to have some ammunition.”

“And you think it’s hiding somewhere in here?” She patted the folder.

“I hope so.”

She blew air from her cheeks. “No time like the present,” she said, opening the folder. “Do we each take a chunk of the inquiry . . . ?”

Rebus was shaking his head, getting up and moving to the chair next to her. “We work as partners, Siobhan. That means reading each and every page together, seeing what ideas we come up with.”

“I’m not the world’s fastest reader.”

“All the better. Something tells me you know this case back to front anyhow. This way, I get the chance to read everything through twice to your once.”

He slid the first stapled set of sheets out of the folder and placed it on the desk between them. Then, like kids at primary school sharing a textbook, they started to read.

By lunchtime, Rebus’s head was pounding. He’d covered six sides of lined legal paper with comments and questions. No one had disturbed their session. Siobhan was standing up and stretching. “Can we take a break?”

He nodded, checking his watch. “Forty minutes for lunch. Can you fetch a bag from upstairs?”

She stopped in the middle of a neck stretch. “What for?”

Rebus had his hand on the folder. “This goes with us,” he said. “I’ll meet you outside in five.”

He was smoking a cigarette when she came out. Something was weighing down her shoulder bag, and he nodded his satisfaction.