Resurrection Men

16

Derek Linford wasn’t best pleased. Rebus and his cronies had been installed in Interview Room 1, which was larger than IR2, where Linford now sat. Also, in IR2, the windows didn’t open. The place was stifling, an airless box. The desk was narrow and screwed to the floor. This was where you brought the suspects with a record of violence. There was a dual cassette recorder bolted to the wall, and a video camera high up above the door. There was a panic button, disguised to look like an ordinary light switch.

Linford was seated alongside George Silvers. Opposite them sat Donny Dow. Dow was short and skinny, but his squared-off shoulders told you there was muscle on him. He had straight blond hair — a dye job — and three days’ growth of dark stubble. He wore gold studs and loops in both ears, another stud in his nose. A small golden sphere glinted from where his tongue had been pierced. He had his mouth open, licking the edges of his teeth.

“What you working at these days, Donny?” Linford asked. “Still a doorman?”

“I’m answering nothing till you tell me what this is all about. Shouldn’t I have a solicitor or something?”

“What do you want us to charge you with, son?” Silvers asked.

“I don’t do drugs.”

“Good boy.”

Dow scowled and gave Silvers the middle finger.

“It’s your ex we’re interested in,” Linford revealed.

Dow didn’t blink. “Which one?”

“Alexander’s mum.”

“Laura’s a hooker,” Dow stated.

“And you left her for a prop forward?” Silvers asked with a smile. But Dow stared at him blankly: not a rugby man then.

“What’s she done anyway?” Dow asked Linford.

“A man she was seeing, we’re interested in him.”

“Seeing?”

Linford nodded. “Rich guy, set her up in a nice little flat. Well, not so little, actually . . .”

Dow bared his teeth and thumped the desk with both fists. “That wee slut! And she’s the one got custody!”

“Did you fight her for it?”

“Fight . . . ?”

Fighting meant only one thing to someone like Dow. “I mean,” Linford rephrased, “did you want custody of Alexander?”

“He’s my son.”

Linford nodded again, knowing the answer to his question was no.

“Who’s this fucker anyway? This rich guy?”

“He’s an art dealer, lives out in Duddingston Village.”

“And she’s in his flat, her and Alex? Shagging this bastard there! With Alex . . .” Dow’s face had gone puce with rage. In the momentary silence, Linford could hear voices — maybe a laugh — from IR1. Those sods were probably laughing at the idea of him demoted to IR2.

“So what’s this got to do with me?” Dow was asking. “You just trying to get me wound up or what?”

“You’ve got quite a record of violence, Mr. Dow,” Silvers said. Dow’s file was on the desk, and Silvers patted its brown cardboard cover.

“What? A couple of assaults? I’ve been hit more times than I can count. See when I was bouncing, wasn’t a week went by when I didn’t have some knobhead having a go at me. You won’t find any of that in there.” He pointed towards the file. “You lot only see what it suits you to see.”

“You might have a point there, Donny,” Silvers said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.

“What we see, Donny,” Linford said quietly, “is a man with a record of violence who has just gone into a rage over his ex’s relationship with another bloke.”

“Fuck her! See if I care!” Dow slid his chair back and stuffed his hands into his pockets, both legs going like pistons.

Linford made a show of flipping through the file. “Mr. Dow,” he began, “did you happen to read about a murder in the city?”

“Only if it made the sports pages.”

“An art dealer, struck repeatedly on the head outside his home in Duddingston Village.”

Dow’s legs stopped pumping. “Hold on a fucking minute,” he said, raising both hands, palms out.

“What did you say you did for a living?” George Silvers asked.

“What? Wait a second . . .”

“Laura’s gentleman friend is dead, Mr. Dow,” Linford was saying.

“You worked as a bouncer for Big Ger Cafferty, didn’t you?” Silvers asked. Dow couldn’t keep up with this; he needed time to think; couldn’t think, and knew if he said anything — anything — it might . . .

A tapping at the door and Siobhan Clarke’s head appeared.

“Any chance I could sit in?” she asked. Then, seeing the thunderous looks on both her colleagues’ faces, she started to retreat. But Dow had sprung to his feet and was on his way to the door. Silvers went for him, but Dow gave him a straight-fingered chop to the throat. Silvers started wheezing, hands going to his collar. Linford was effectively trapped between Silvers, the desk and the wall. Dow lifted a foot and hefted Silvers backwards into Linford, whose fingers sought the panic button. Siobhan had been trying to close the door, with herself on the outside, but Dow couldn’t have that. He yanked the door open, grabbed her by her hair and threw her into the room. An alarm was going off in the corridor, but he ran. There were men in the room next door: they watched him as he sped past. One more corner, a set of doors, and he would be gone.

Back in IR2, Silvers was hunched in his seat, still trying to catch a breath. Linford was squeezing past him. Siobhan was lifting herself from the floor. A whole clump of hair seemed to be missing from the top of her head.

“Shit, shit, shit!” she squealed. Linford ignored her and ran into the corridor. His left leg was aching from where Silvers had connected with it. But it was his pride that felt the most bruised. “Where is he?” he yelled.

Tam Barclay and Allan Ward looked at one another, then both pointed towards the exit.

“He went that-a-way, Sheriff,” Ward said with a grin. Problem was, no one had actually seen him leave the station. There was video surveillance of the main entrance, and Linford asked the comms room to run the tape. Meantime, he went from office to office, checking under desks and inside the station’s few walk-in closets. When he got back to the comms room, they were running the tape. Donny Dow sprinting in full-color time lapse, right out the front door.

“We need patrols to search the area!” Linford said. “Cars and foot. Get his description out!” The uniformed officers looked at each other.

“What are you waiting for?” Linford snarled.

“I think they’re probably waiting for me to give them the okay, Derek,” a voice said from behind him.

DCS Gill Templer.

“Ouch!” Siobhan said. She was seated back at her desk, while Phyllida Hawes checked the damage to her head.

“You’ve lost a little bit of skin,” Hawes said. “I think the hair will grow back.”

“Probably feels worse than it looks,” Allan Ward offered. The incident in IR2 seemed to have broken down barriers: Gray, McCullough and Rebus were present too, while Gill Templer “debriefed” Linford and Silvers in her office.

“Name’s Allan, by the way,” Ward said, for Phyllida Hawes’s benefit. When she told him her name, he remarked that it was unusual. He was listening to her explanation when Siobhan got up and moved away. She didn’t think either of them had noticed.

Rebus was standing by the far wall, arms folded, studying the display relating to the Marber case.

“He’s a fast worker,” Siobhan said. Rebus turned his head, watched the interplay between Ward and Hawes.

“You should warn her,” he said. “I’m not sure Allan’s housebroken.”

“Maybe that’s the way she likes it.” Siobhan dabbed at the patch of naked skin. It was at the crown of her head, and it stung like buggery.

“You could get a sick leave on the strength of that,” Rebus informed her. “I’ve known cops go on disability for less. Factor in the shock and stress . . .”

“You don’t get rid of me that easily,” she said. “Shouldn’t you all be out chasing Donny Dow?”

“This isn’t our patch, remember?” Rebus scanned the room. Hawes listening to Ward’s patter; Jazz McCullough in conversation with Bill Pryde and Davie Hynds; Francis Gray sitting on one of the desks, swinging one leg as he leafed through an evidence file. He saw Rebus watching him and gave a wink, sliding off the desk and coming forwards.

“This is the sort of case they should have given us, eh, John?”

Rebus nodded but said nothing. Gray seemed to take the hint, and after a few words of commiseration to Siobhan he moved away again, changing desks, picking up another file.

“I need to speak to Gill,” Siobhan said quietly, her eyes on Templer’s closed door.

“Going on the sick after all?”

Siobhan shook her head. “I think I recognized Donny Dow. He was the Weasel’s driver the day I went to interview Cafferty.”

Rebus stared at her. “You sure?”

“Ninety percent. I only saw him for a matter of seconds.”

“Then maybe we should talk to the Weasel.”

She nodded. “After I’ve okayed it with the boss.”

“If that’s the way you want to play it.”

“You said it yourself: this isn’t your patch.”

Rebus looked thoughtful. “What about if you kept it to yourself for the moment?”

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“What if I talk to the Weasel on the quiet?” Rebus went on.

“Then I’d be withholding information.”

“No, you’d just be withholding an inkling . . . Maybe it’ll take you a day to convince yourself that it was Dow you saw driving the Weasel’s car.”

“John . . .” Without saying as much, she was asking him for something. She wanted him to share, to confide . . . to trust in her.

“I have my reasons,” he said, voice just above a whisper. “Something the Weasel might help me with.”

It took her a full thirty seconds to make up her mind. “All right,” she said. He touched her arm.

“Thanks,” he said. “I owe you. What about something to eat tonight? My treat?”

“Have you called Jean yet?”

His eyes darkened. “I’ve been trying. She’s either out or not answering.”

“She’s the one you should be asking to dinner.”

“I should have phoned her that night . . .”

“You should have followed her that night, apologizing all the way.”

“I’ll keep trying,” he said.

“And send her some flowers.” She had to smile at the look on his face. “Last time you sent anybody flowers, it was probably a wreath, am I right?”

“Probably,” he admitted. “More wreaths than bouquets, that’s for certain.”

“Well, don’t confuse the two this time round. Plenty of florists in the phone book.”

He nodded. “Straight after I talk to the Weasel,” he said, heading for the corridor. There were some calls that had to be made on a mobile rather than one of the office phones. Rebus now had a list of two.

But the Weasel wasn’t in his office, and the best anyone could do was offer a tepid promise to pass on a message.

“Thanks,” Rebus said. “By the way, is Donny there at the moment?”

“Donny who?” the voice said before cutting the connection. Rebus cursed, went to the comms room for a Yellow Pages, then headed out into the car park to phone a florist. He ordered a mixed bunch.

“What sort of flowers does the lady like?” he was asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what about colors?”

“Look, just a selection, okay? Twenty quid’s worth or thereabouts.” He reeled off his credit-card number and the deal was done. Sliding his phone back into his pocket, switching it for cigarettes and lighter, he realized he had no idea what twenty notes would buy. Half a dozen withered carnations, or some ridiculously huge spray? Whatever it was, it would be delivered to Jean’s home this evening at 6:30. He wondered what would happen if she was staying late at work: would the florist leave them on the doorstep, prey to any passing thief? Or take them back to the shop and try again the next day?

He took a long drag on the cigarette, filling his lungs. Things always seemed to be more complicated than you expected. But then when he thought about it, he was adding the complications himself, looking at what could go wrong with the arrangement rather than hoping for the best. He knew he’d been a pessimist from an early age, realizing that it was a good way to prepare for life. As a pessimist, if things went wrong, you were ready, while if things went right, it came as a pleasant surprise.

“Too late to change now,” he muttered.

“Talking to yourself?” It was Allan Ward, busily loosing a fresh packet from its cellophane bonds.

“What’s up? Has your patter failed to impress DC Hawes?”

Ward started to nod. “She’s so unimpressed,” he said, lighting up, “she’s agreed to have dinner with me tonight. Any tips?”

“Tips?”

“Shortcuts into her knickers.”

Rebus flicked ash from his cigarette. “She’s a good officer, Allan. More than that, I like her. I’d take it personally if she got hurt.”

“Just a bit of harmless fun,” Ward said defensively. Then his face changed to a smirk. “Just because you’re not getting any . . .”

Rebus swung round, grabbing both of Ward’s jacket lapels in one hand, pushing him back against the wall of the station. The cigarette dropped from Ward’s mouth as he tried to push Rebus away. A patrol car was pulling in through the gateway, the uniforms staring out at the spectacle. Then hands were on both men, separating them. It was Derek Linford.

“Ladies, ladies,” he was telling them. “No fisticuffs.”

Ward was rearranging his jacket. “What’re you doing here? Checking under the cars for a missing prisoner?” Flecks of saliva flew from his mouth.

“No,” Linford said, but he shifted his gaze to the car park, just in case . . . “I was actually wondering if any smokers were down here.”

“You don’t smoke,” Rebus reminded him. He was breathing hard.

“I thought maybe I should give it a go. Christ knows, this is as good a time as any.”

Ward laughed, seeming to forget all about Rebus. “Welcome to the club,” he said, offering his packet to Linford. “Templer gave you a hard time, did she?”

“It’s the fucking embarrassment as much as anything,” Linford admitted with a sheepish grin, while Ward lit the cigarette for him.

“Forget about it. Everybody’s saying Dow’s into kickboxing. You don’t want to mess with that.”

Ward seemed to be cheering Linford up. Rebus was wondering about Linford. He’d come across them brawling, yet hadn’t asked why, being busy with his own concerns. Rebus decided to leave them to it.

“Hey, John, no hard feelings, eh?” Ward suddenly announced. Rebus didn’t say anything. He knew that once he’d gone, Linford — now reminded — would probably ask about the fight, and his new best buddy would explain about the night out and Jean.

And suddenly Linford would have ammunition. Rebus wondered how long it would take him to use it. He was even starting to worry about the fact that Linford had been chosen to replace him on the Marber case. Why Linford, of all people? As Rebus walked back into the station, he could feel how the tension was making his every movement more sluggish. He tried rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck. He remembered an old piece of graffiti: Just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not after you . . . Was he becoming paranoid, seeing enemies and traps everywhere? Blame Strathern, for picking him in the first place. I don’t even trust the man I’m working for, Rebus thought, so how can I trust anyone else? Passing one of the officers from the Marber inquiry, he thought how nice it would be to be seated at a desk in the murder room, making routine telephone calls, knowing how little any of it mattered. Instead, he seemed to be digging himself an ever-deeper hole. He’d promised Jazz an “idea,” a plan to make some money. Now all he had to do was deliver . . .

That evening, Rebus went drinking alone. He’d told the syndicate he had something to do, but might catch up with them later. They were undecided about whether to stay in Edinburgh for a few drinks, or head straight back to Tulliallan. Jazz was thinking of Broughty Ferry, but his car was back at the college. Ward was thinking of treating Phyllida Hawes to a Mexican place near St. Leonard’s. They were still arguing over strategies and alternatives when Rebus slipped away. After three drinks in the Ox, only half listening to the latest batch of jokes, he started feeling hungry. Didn’t know where to eat . . . last thing he wanted was to walk into a restaurant and bump into Ward and Hawes playing footsie under the table. He knew he could cook himself something at home; knew, too, that this wouldn’t happen. All the same, maybe he should be at home. What if Jean rang? Had she got the flowers yet? His mobile was in his pocket, just waiting for her call. In the end, he ordered another drink and the last leftover scotch egg.

“Been there since lunchtime, has it?” he asked Harry the barman.

“I wasn’t on at lunchtime. You want it or not?”

Rebus nodded. “And a packet of nuts.” There were times he wished the Ox did a bit more in the catering line. He remembered the previous owner, Willie Ross, dragging some hapless punter outside after the man had asked to see the menu, pointing up at the Oxford Bar sign and asking: “Does that say ‘Bar’ or ‘Restaurant’?” Rebus doubted the client had become a regular.

The Ox was quiet tonight. Murmurs of conversation from a couple of tables in the lounge, and only Rebus himself in the front bar. When the door creaked open, he didn’t bother turning to look.

“Get you one?” the voice beside him asked. It was Gill Templer. Rebus straightened up.

“My shout,” he said. She was already easing herself onto a bar stool, letting her shoulder bag slump to the floor. “What’ll it be?”

“I’m driving. Better make it a half of Deuchars.” She paused. “On second thought, a gin and tonic.” The TV was playing quietly, and her eyes drifted towards it. One of the Discovery Channel programs favored by Harry.

“What’re you watching?” Gill asked.

“Harry puts this stuff on to scare away the punters,” Rebus explained.

“That’s right,” Harry agreed. “Works with every bugger but this one.” He nodded in Rebus’s direction. Gill offered a tired smile.

“Bad one?” Rebus guessed.

“It’s not every day someone does a runner from the interview room.” She gave him a sly look. “I suppose you’re pleased enough?”

“How?”

“Anything that makes Linford look bad . . .”

“I hope I’m not that petty.”

“No?” She considered this. “Looks like he might be, though. Word’s going around that you and another of the Tulliallan crew had a punch-up in the car park.”

So Linford had been talking.

“Just thought I’d warn you,” she went on, “I think it’s already reached the ears of DCI Tennant.”

“You came looking for me to tell me?”

She shrugged.

“Thanks,” he said.

“I suppose I was also hoping to have a word . . .”

“Look, if it’s about the mug of tea . . .”

“Well, you did give it some welly, John, be honest.”

“If I’d pushed it off the desk with my pinkie, you’d hardly have had reason to send me into purdah.” Rebus paid for her drink, raised his own pint glass to her in a toast.

“Cheers,” she said, taking a long swallow and exhaling noisily.

“Better?” he asked.

“Better,” she confirmed.

He smiled. “And people wonder why we drink.”

“One’ll be enough for me, though — how about you?”

“Would you settle for a ballpark figure?”

“I’d settle for knowing how things are going at Tulliallan.”

“I’ve not made much headway.”

“Is that likely to change?”

“It might.” He paused. “If I take a few risks.”

She looked at him. “You’ll talk to Strathern first, won’t you?”

He nodded, but could see she wasn’t convinced.

“John . . .”

Same tone Siobhan had used earlier in the day. Listen to me . . . trust me . . .

He turned towards Gill. “You could always take a cab,” he told her.

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you could have another drink.”

She examined her glass. It was already mostly ice. “I could probably manage one more,” she conceded. “It’s my round anyway. What are you having?”

After the third gin and tonic, she confided to him that she had been seeing someone. It had lasted about nine months, then fizzled out.

“You kept that pretty quiet,” he said.

“There’s no way I was ever going to introduce him to you lot.” She was playing with her glass, watching the patterns it made on the bar. Harry had retreated to the other end of the small room. Another regular had arrived, and the two of them were talking football.

“How are things with Jean and you?” Gill asked.

“We had a bit of a misunderstanding,” Rebus admitted.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Want me to act as peacemaker?”

He looked at her and shook his head. Jean was Gill’s friend; Gill had introduced them to one another. He didn’t want her feeling awkward about it. “Thanks anyway,” he said. “We’ll sort it out.”

She glanced at her watch. “I better get going.” Slid off the stool and collected her shoulder bag. “This place isn’t so bad,” she decided, studying the bar’s faded decor. “I might grab something to eat. Have you had dinner?”

“Yes,” he lied, feeling that a meal with Gill would be a betrayal of sorts. “I hope you’re not going to drive in that condition,” he called as she made for the door.

“I’ll see how I feel when I get outside.”

“Think how much worse tomorrow will be if you’re charged with drunk driving!”

She waved a hand and was gone. Rebus stayed for one more. Her perfume lingered. He could smell it on the sleeve of his jacket. He wondered if he should have sent Jean perfume instead of flowers, then realized he didn’t know what kind she liked. Scanning the gantry, he guessed that when pushed he could reel off the names of over two dozen malts, straight from memory.

Two dozen malts, and he’d no idea what perfume Jean Burchill used.

As he pushed open the main door to his tenement, he saw a shadow on the stairwell: someone descending. Maybe one of the neighbors, but Rebus didn’t think so. He looked behind him, but there was no one on the street. Not an ambush then. The feet came into view first, then the legs and body.

“What are you doing here?” Rebus hissed.

“Heard you were looking for me,” the Weasel replied. He was at the bottom of the stairs now. “I wanted a bit of a chat anyway.”

“Did you bring anyone with you?”

The Weasel shook his head. “This isn’t the sort of meeting the boss would approve of.”

Rebus looked around again. He didn’t want the Weasel in his flat. A bar would be okay, but any more drink and his brain would start clouding. “Come on then,” he said, passing the Weasel and making for the back door. He unlocked it and dragged it open. The tenement’s shared garden wasn’t much used. There was a drying green, the grass almost a foot long, surrounded by narrow borders where only the hardiest plants survived. When Rebus and his wife had first moved in, Rhona had replaced the weeds with seedlings. Hard to tell now if any of them still thrived. Wrought-iron railings separated the garden from its neighbors, all the gardens enclosed by a rectangle of tall tenement buildings. There were lights on in most of the windows: kitchens and bedrooms, stair landings. The place was well enough lit for this meeting.

“What’s up?” Rebus asked, fishing for a cigarette.

The Weasel had stooped to pick up an empty beer can, which he crushed and dropped into his coat pocket. “Aly’s doing okay.”

Rebus nodded. He had almost forgotten the Weasel’s son. “You took my advice?”

“They’ve not let him off the hook yet, but my solicitor says we’re in with a shout.”

“Have they charged him?”

The Weasel nodded. “But only with possession: the spliff he was smoking when they picked him up.”

Rebus nodded. Claverhouse was playing this one cautiously.

“Thing is,” the Weasel said, crouching by the nearest flower border, picking up empty crisp bags and sweet wrappers, “I think my boss might have got wind of it.”

“Of Aly?”

“Not Aly exactly . . . the dope, I was meaning.”

Rebus lit his cigarette. He was thinking about Cafferty’s network of eyes and ears. It only needed the technician from the police lab to tell a colleague back at base, and that colleague to tell a friend . . . There was no way Claverhouse was going to keep the haul under wraps forever. All the same . . .

“That could be in your favor,” Rebus told the Weasel. “Puts pressure on Claverhouse to do something about it.”

“Like charge Aly, you mean?”

Rebus shrugged. “Or hand it over to Customs, so they all end up taking credit . . .”

“And Aly still goes down?” The Weasel had risen to his feet, pockets filled and rustling.

“If he cooperates, he could get a light sentence.”

“Cafferty’s still going to nail him.”

“So maybe you should get your retaliation in first. Give the Drug Squad what they want.”

The Weasel was thoughtful. “Give them Cafferty?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about it.”

“Oh, I’ve thought about it. But Mr. Cafferty’s been very good to me.”

“He’s not family, though, is he? He’s not blood . . .”

“No,” the Weasel said, stretching the single syllable out.

“Can I ask you something?” Rebus flicked ash from the cigarette.

“What?”

“Do you have any idea where Donny Dow is?”

The Weasel shook his head. “I heard he’d been taken in for questioning.”

“He’s done a runner.”

“That was silly of him.”

“It’s why I wanted to talk to you, because now we have to send out search parties, which means talking to all his friends and associates. I’m assuming you’ll cooperate?”

“Naturally.”

Rebus nodded. “Let’s say Cafferty does know about the drugs . . . what do you think he’ll do?”

“Number one, he’ll want to know who brought them up here.” The Weasel paused.

“And number two?”

The Weasel looked at him. “Who said there was a number two?”

“There usually is, when there’s been a number one.”

“Okay. . . number two, he might decide he wanted them for himself.”

Rebus examined the tip of his cigarette. He could hear sounds of tenement life: music, TV voices, plates colliding on the drying rack. Shapes passing a window . . . ordinary people living ordinary lives, all of them thinking they were different from the rest.

“Did Cafferty have anything to do with the Marber murder?” he asked.

“When did I become your snitch?” the Weasel asked.

“I don’t want you for my snitch. I just thought maybe one question . . .”

The small man stooped down again, as though he’d spotted something in the grass, but there was nothing, and he rose again slowly.

“Other people’s shit,” he muttered. It sounded like a mantra. Maybe he meant his son, or even Cafferty: the Weasel cleaning up after them. Then he locked eyes with Rebus. “How am I supposed to know something like that?”

“I’m not saying Cafferty did this himself. It would be one of his men, someone he’d hired . . . probably through you, so as to distance himself from it. Cafferty’s always been good at letting other people take the fall.”

The Weasel seemed to be considering this. “Is that what those two cops were doing there the other day? Asking questions about Marber?” He watched as Rebus nodded. “The boss wouldn’t say what it was about.”

“I thought he trusted you,” Rebus said.

The Weasel paused again. “I know he knew Marber,” he said at last, his voice dropping to a level where the slightest gust of wind would erase it. “I don’t think he liked him much.”

“I hear he stopped buying paintings from Marber. Is that because he found out Marber had been cheating?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think it’s possible?”

“It’s possible,” the Weasel conceded.

“Tell me . . .” Rebus’s own voice dropped further still. “Would Cafferty organize a hit without your knowledge?”

“You’re asking me to incriminate myself.”

“This is just between the two of us.”

The Weasel folded his arms. The rubbish in his pockets crackled and clicked. “We’re not as close as we once were,” he confided, ruefully.

“A hit like this one, who would he have gone to?”

The Weasel shook his head. “I’m not a rat.”

“Rats are clever creatures,” Rebus said. “They know when to leave a sinking ship.”

“Cafferty isn’t sinking,” the Weasel said with a sad smile.

“That’s what they said about the Titanic,” Rebus replied.

There wasn’t much more to be said. They went back into the stairwell, the Weasel heading for the front door and Rebus for the stairs. He wasn’t inside his flat two minutes when there was a knock at the door. He was in the bathroom, running a bath. He did not want the Weasel in here. This was where he could try shutting it all out and pretend he was like everyone else. Another knock, and this time he walked to the door.

“Yes?” he called.

“DI Rebus? You’re under arrest.”

Put his face to the peephole, then unlocked the door. Claverhouse was standing there, sporting a smile as thin and sharp as a surgeon’s blade. “Going to invite me in?” he said.

“Wasn’t thinking of it.”

“Not entertaining, are you?” Claverhouse craned his neck to look down the hallway.

“I’m just about to get in the bath.”

“Good idea. I’d do the same, under the circumstances.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that you’ve just spent a good fifteen minutes being contaminated by Cafferty’s right-hand man. Does he often make house calls? You’re not busy counting out a payoff in there, are you, John?”

Rebus took two steps forward, backing Claverhouse against the banister. It was a two-story drop to the ground.

“What do you want, Claverhouse?”

The feigned humor had vanished from Claverhouse’s face. He wasn’t scared of Rebus; he was just angry.

“We’ve been trying to nail Cafferty,” he spat, “in case you’ve forgotten. Now word’s starting to leak out about the shipment, and Weasel’s got a nasty little lawyer chewing at my balls. So we’re on surveillance, and what do we find? Weasel himself paying you a visit.” He stabbed a finger into Rebus’s chest. “And how’s that going to look in my report, Detective Inspector?”

“Fuck you, Claverhouse.” But at least Rebus knew where Ormiston was now: he was tailing the Weasel.

“Fuck me?” Claverhouse was shaking his head. “You’ve got it all wrong, Rebus. It’s you the boys in Barlinnie will be telling to bend over. Because if I can tie you to Cafferty and his operation, so help me I’ll send you so far down, they’ll need a bulldozer to find you.”

“Consider me warned,” Rebus said.

“It’s all starting to unravel for friend Cafferty,” Claverhouse hissed. “Make sure you know whose side you’re on.”

Rebus thought of the Weasel’s words: Cafferty isn’t sinking. And the smile that had accompanied his words . . . why had the Weasel looked sad? He took a step back, giving Claverhouse room. Claverhouse saw it as a weakening.

“John . . . ,” reverting to Rebus’s first name, “whatever it is you’re hiding, you need to come clean.”

“Thanks for your concern.” Rebus saw Claverhouse for what he was: a chip-on-the-shoulder careerist who had ideas he couldn’t follow through on. Nailing Cafferty — or at the very least inserting a mole into Cafferty’s operation — would, in his own eyes, be the making of him, and he couldn’t see past it. It was consuming him. Rebus was almost sympathetic: hadn’t he been there himself?

Claverhouse was shaking his head at Rebus’s stubbornness. “I see the Weasel was driving himself tonight. That because Donny Dow did a runner?”

“You know about Dow?”

Claverhouse nodded. “Maybe I know more than you think, John.”

“Maybe you do at that,” Rebus agreed, trying to loosen him up. “Such as what, exactly . . . ?”

But Claverhouse wasn’t falling for it. “I was talking to DCS Templer this evening. She was very interested to find out about Donny Dow’s chauffeuring duties.” He paused. “But you knew all the time, didn’t you?”

“Did I?”

“You didn’t manage to sound very surprised when I told you. Thinking back, you didn’t sound surprised at all . . . so how come she didn’t know? Keeping stuff to yourself again, John . . . maybe you just wanted to protect your pal the Weasel.”

“He’s not my pal.”

“His lawyer came asking all the right questions, almost as if he’d been primed.” It was Claverhouse who had advanced on Rebus this time, not that Rebus was budging an inch. He could hear the bath still filling. Not long now and it would start to overflow. “What was he doing here, John?”

“You wanted me to talk to him . . .”

Claverhouse paused. A glimmer of hope seemed to rise in his eyes. “And?”

“Nice talking to you, Claverhouse,” Rebus said. “Say hello to Ormie for me when you catch up with him.” He stepped backwards into his hall, and started closing the door. Claverhouse stood unmoving, almost as if he planned to stay there till morning. Not saying anything, because nothing needed to be said between them. Rebus padded back to the bathroom and turned off the tap. The water was scalding, and there wasn’t enough room to add cold. He sat down on the toilet and held his head in his hands. It struck him that he actually trusted the Weasel more than he did Claverhouse.

Make sure you know whose side you’re on . . .

Rebus didn’t like to think about it. He still couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t landed in a trap. Was Strathern out to nail him, using Gray and the others as bait? Even if there was some dirty deal to uncover, something involving Gray, Jazz and Ward, could Rebus succeed without implicating himself? He got up and went through to the living room, found the whiskey bottle and a glass. Picked up the first CD he found and stuck it on. REM: Out of Time. The title had never meant more to him than right here, this minute. He stared at the contents of the bottle but knew he wasn’t going to touch it, not tonight. He swapped it for the phone, called Jean at home. Answering machine, so he left another message. He thought about driving to the New Town, maybe dropping in on Siobhan. But it wasn’t fair to her . . . and she was probably out driving anyway, her scalp burning, eyes not quite focused on the road ahead . . .

He walked softly back to the door and put his eye to the peephole. The landing was empty. He allowed himself a smile, remembering the way he’d left Claverhouse dangling. Back into the living room and over to the window. No sign of anyone outside. On the hi-fi, Michael Stipe alternated between rage and grieving.

John Rebus sat down in his chair, prepared to let the nighttime take its toll. And then the phone rang, and it had to be Jean returning his call.

But it wasn’t.

“All right, big man?” Francis Gray said, in that soft west coast growl of his.

“Been better, Francis.”

“Never fear, Uncle Francis has the cure for all ills.”

Rebus rested his head against the back of his chair. “Where are you?”

“The delightful surroundings of the Tulliallan officers’ bar.”

“And that’s the cure for my ills?”

“Could I be that heartless? No, big man, I’m talking about the trip of a lifetime. Two people with a whole world of possibilities and delights opening before them.”

“Someone been spiking your drinks, DI Gray?”

“I’m talking about Glasgow, John. And you’ll have me as your guide to what’s best in the west.”

“It’s a bit late for all this, isn’t it?”

“Tomorrow morning . . . just you and me. So be here at sparrow-fart or you’ll miss all the fun!”

The phone went dead. Rebus stared at it, considered calling back . . . Gray and him in Glasgow: meaning what? Meaning Jazz had spoken to Gray, told him Rebus had something to offer? Why Glasgow? Why just the two of them? Was Jazz distancing himself from his old friend? Rebus’s thoughts turned again to the Weasel and Cafferty. Old ties could loosen. Old alliances and allegiances could crumble. There were always points of vulnerability; cracks in the carefully constructed wall. Rebus had been thinking of Allan Ward as the weakest link. . . now he was turning to Jazz McCullough. He went back through to the bathroom, gritted his teeth and plunged his hand into the superheated bathwater, letting the plug out. Then he turned on the cold tap to restore some balance. Back through to the kitchen for a mug of coffee and a couple of vitamin C tablets. Then into the living room. He’d hidden Strathern’s report under one of the sofa cushions.

His bathtime reading . . .