Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“Tell me we’re not working through lunch?”

“I just don’t want anyone else to know what we’re up to,” he explained.

“Well, since it’s your idea . . .” She handed him the shoulder bag. “You get to be in charge.”

They went to a sandwich bar near The Meadows, sat on high stools at the window, chewing their purchases. Neither spoke. Their heads were still cluttered, the passing world a good excuse to stare unblinking and unthinkingly. Both sipped from cans of Irn-Bru. Afterwards, on the way back to St. Leonard’s, Siobhan asked Rebus how his filled roll had been.

“It was fine,” he told her.

She nodded. “What was the filling again?”

He thought for a moment. “Can’t honestly remember.” He looked at her. “What was in yours?”

Watching her shrug, his face broke into a smile, which Siobhan returned.

There was no sign that anyone had been in IR1 in their absence. They’d brought extra cans of juice with them, and placed these on the desk, along with the folder and the lined pad of notes.

“Remind me,” Siobhan said, opening her drink, “what are we looking for?”

“Whatever it is that was missed first time round.”

She nodded, and they got back to work. Half an hour later, they were in discussion about the missing painting.

“It means something,” Rebus was saying. “Maybe not to us, but to someone . . . When did Marber buy it again?” Rebus waited while Siobhan flipped through the sheets, finding the right one.

“Five and a half years back.”

Rebus tapped the desk with his pen. “We’ve been talking about Neilson trying to blackmail Marber . . . What if it works both ways?”

“How do you mean?”

“Maybe Marber was putting the squeeze on someone else.”

“Neilson?”

Rebus shook his head. “The big money he was expecting . . .”

“We only had Laura’s word for that. Marber could just have been trying to impress her.”

“Fair enough, but let’s say he did have money coming . . . or thought he did.”

“Blackmail money?”

Rebus was nodding. “From someone he had no need to fear . . .”

“Can’t be too many people out there wimpier than Edward Marber.”

Rebus held up a finger. “Exactly. But maybe Marber wasn’t going to be around for much longer . . .”

“Because he was going to be dead?” Siobhan was frowning, feeling she was failing to understand Rebus’s train of thought.

He shook his head. “He wasn’t going to be around, Siobhan. The empty self-storage unit, the paintings all wrapped up as though ready to be shipped out . . .”

“Going somewhere?”

Now Rebus nodded. “This place of his in Tuscany. Maybe he was thinking of persuading Laura to go there with him.”

“She’d never have agreed.”

“I’m not saying she would. But if he was infatuated with her, maybe he couldn’t see that. Think of the way he got her the flat in Mayfield Terrace: springing it on her. Could he have been planning the same sort of surprise with Italy?”

Siobhan was thinking it through. “So he’s going to put some of his stuff into storage, maybe take some of it with him . . . ?” She shrugged. “And where does that get us exactly?”

Rebus was rubbing his chin. “It brings us back to the Vettriano . . .”

The door opened and a head popped round: Phyllida Hawes. “Thought I heard voices,” she said.

“We’re in conference here, Phyl,” Siobhan complained.

“That’s as may be, but DCS Templer is looking for DI Rebus. Toot-sweet, as I believe they say in France . . .”

Gill Templer looked to be rearranging the paperwork on her desk when Rebus walked in.

“You wanted to see me?” he said.

“Heard you’d been spotted on the premises.” She crumpled a sheaf of paper and added it to the contents of her overflowing bin.

“Marber case solved to your satisfaction, then?” he asked.

“Fiscal’s office seem inclined to go to trial. Few loose ends they want us to tie up . . .” She looked at him. “I hear you’re AWOL from Tulliallan?”

He shrugged. “That’s all finished with, Gill.”

“Really? Sir David hasn’t said anything . . .”

“Give him a ring.”

“Maybe I will.” She paused. “Did you get a result?”

He shook his head. “Anything else I can do for you, Gill? Only, there’s some work I’m trying to catch up on . . .”

“What sort of work?”

He was already halfway out of the door. “Oh, you know . . . loose ends.”

He walked into the murder room and stood next to Phyllida Hawes’s desk. There were only a couple of officers around. Rebus crouched down so his head was the same level as hers.

“Where was it you found me?” he asked quietly.

She caught his meaning. “Anywhere but IR1?” she guessed. He nodded slowly, stood back up.

“Anyone else know?”

She shook her head.

“Let’s keep it that way,” he said.

Back downstairs, Siobhan had finished her drink. “Vettriano?” she prompted him. “I’m not seeing it.”

He sat down, picked up his pen. “Why take that particular painting?”

“Like you said, it meant something to someone.”

“Exactly. Say Marber had blackmailed somebody, used some or maybe all the money to buy himself a painting. He wouldn’t be the first person to get greedy later on, decide he could get himself a little extra . . .”

“Nor would he be the first to die for his efforts.” Siobhan pressed the tips of her fingers together. “He was thinking of leaving the country anyway, so decided he might as well try an extra squeeze on whoever it was he’d blackmailed. They didn’t like that, so they had him killed, taking the painting because they knew he’d bought it with money taken from them.”

“But the painting didn’t mean anything to them other than that,” Rebus added. “Stealing it was a gesture — and a pretty rash one. So when Neilson started to look good as a suspect, the killer decided it could be the final nail in his coffin.”

“Something the Procurator Fiscal said,” Siobhan mused. “The money Marber had paid Neilson . . . no one knew about it but us.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the only people who knew how firmly Neilson was fitting the picture . . .”

“Were cops?” Rebus guessed, watching her nod.

“But we still don’t know who it was Marber was blackmailing,” she said.

Rebus shrugged. “I’m not so sure he’d blackmailed anyone . . . not the first time round.”

“Explain.” She narrowed her eyes. But Rebus shook his head.

“Not yet. Let’s keep digging . . .”

When Siobhan took a break to fetch more coffees, she returned with news.

“Have you heard the rumor?”

“Is it about me?” Rebus guessed.

“For once, no.” She put their cups down. “Moves afoot at the Big House.”

“Do tell.”

“Word is, Carswell’s moving on.”

“Really?”

“And there’s some shake-up at the SDEA.”

Rebus whistled, but his act was failing to convince her. “You already knew,” she stated.

“Says who?”

“Come on, John . . .”

“Siobhan, cross my heart, I didn’t know a thing about it.”

She stared at him. “Linford’s looking boot-faced. I think he’d gotten used to Carswell’s protection.”

“It’s a cold world at the Big House if no one’s looking out for you,” Rebus agreed.

They pondered this for a moment, then broke into smiles.

“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving bloke,” Rebus said. “Now let’s get back to the real work . . .”

They decided some foot slogging was necessary, so left the station — bundling the folder and all their notes into the shoulder bag again — and made for the self-storage facility, where the owner wasn’t able to add much. Marber had arranged for a standing order to pay for the unit. He hadn’t said why he might need it. Back at Marber’s gallery, they found his secretary trying to clear out the office. She was on a retainer from the estate until the work was complete, and didn’t seem in a hurry to hit the dole queue.