Resurrection Men

19

Siobhan had slept in, phoning to apologize as she waited for the water in the shower to run hot. No one at the station seemed too worried by her absence. She told them she was coming in, no matter what. She’d forgotten about her scalp until the water hit it, after which her bathroom was filled with the sound of cursing.

Donny Dow had been transferred to Leith, and she made that her first stop. DI Bobby Hogan went over the statement she’d made last night. It didn’t need any changes.

“Do you want to see him?” he asked afterwards.

She shook her head.

“Two of your guys — Pryde and Silvers — will be sitting in on our interviews.” Hogan was pretending to busy himself writing a note. “They’re going to tie him to Marber.”

“Good for them.”

“You don’t agree?” He’d stopped writing, his eyes lifting to meet hers.

“If Donny Dow killed Marber, it was because he knew about Marber’s relationship with Laura. So why did Dow explode when told about it by Linford?”

Hogan shrugged. “If I put my mind to it, I could come up with a dozen explanations.” He paused. “You can’t deny, it would be nice and neat.”

“And how often does a case end like that?” she said skeptically, rising to her feet.

At St. Leonard’s, the talk was all about Dow . . . except for Phyllida Hawes. Siobhan bumped into her in the corridor, and Hawes signaled towards the women’s toilets.

When the door had closed behind them, Hawes confessed that she had gone out with Allan Ward the previous evening.

“How did it go?” Siobhan asked quietly, lowering her voice and hoping Hawes would follow suit. She was remembering Derek Linford, listening outside the door.

“I had a really good time. He’s pretty hunky, isn’t he?” Hawes had ceased to be a CID detective: they were supposed to be two women now, gossiping about men.

“Can’t say I’ve noticed,” Siobhan stated. Her words had no effect on Hawes, who was studying her own face in the mirror.

“We went to that Mexican place, then a couple of bars.”

“And did he see you home like a gentleman?”

“Actually, he did . . .” She turned to Siobhan and grinned. “The swine. I was just about to invite him up for coffee, and his mobile rang. He said he had to hotfoot it back to Tulliallan.”

“Did he say why?”

Hawes shook her head. “I think he was pretty close to not going. But all I got was a peck on the cheek.”

Known, Siobhan couldn’t help thinking, as the kiss-off. “You seeing him again?”

“Hard not to when we’re both in the same station.”

“You know what I mean.”

Hawes giggled. Siobhan had never known her so . . . was coquettish the right word? She seemed suddenly ten years younger, and distinctly prettier. “We’re going to arrange something,” she admitted.

“So what did the pair of you find to talk about?” Siobhan was curious to know.

“The job mostly. The thing is, Allan’s a really good listener.”

“So mostly you were talking about you?”

“Just the way I like it.” Hawes was leaning back against the sink, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, looking pleased with herself. “I told him about Gayfield, and how I’d been seconded to St. Leonard’s. He wanted to know all about the case . . .”

“The Marber case?”

Hawes nodded. “What part I was playing . . . how it was all going . . . We drank margaritas — you could buy them by the jug.”

“How many jugs did you get through?”

“Just the one. Didn’t want him taking advantage, did I?”

“Phyllida, I’d say you definitely wanted him taking advantage.”

Both women were smiling. “Yeah, definitely,” Hawes agreed, giggling again. Then she gave a long sigh, before a look of shock came over her face and she slapped a hand to her mouth.

“Oh God, Siobhan, I haven’t asked about you!”

“I’m okay,” Siobhan said. It was the reason she thought Hawes had brought her in here: Laura’s murder.

“But it must have been horrible . . .”

“I don’t really want to think about it.”

“Have they offered you counseling?”

“Christ, Phyl, why would I need that?”

“To stop you bottling things up.”

“But I’m not bottling things up.”

“You just said you didn’t want to think about it.”

Siobhan was becoming irritated. The reason she didn’t want to think about Laura’s death was that she had something else niggling away at her now: Allan Ward’s interest in the Marber case.

“Why do you think Allan was so interested in your work?” she asked.

“He wanted to know all about me.”

“But specifically the Marber case?”

Hawes looked at her. “What are you getting at?”

Siobhan shook her head. “Nothing, Phyl.” But Hawes was looking curious, and a little worried. Would she go straight to Ward and start blabbing? “Maybe you’re right,” Siobhan pretended to concede. “I’m getting worked up about stuff . . . I think it’s because of what happened.”

“Of course it is.” Hawes took her arm. “I’m here if you need someone to talk to, you know that.”

“Thanks,” Siobhan said, offering what she hoped was a convincing smile.

As they walked back to the office together, her mind turned again to the scene outside the Paradiso. The lock clicking: she hadn’t said anything to Ricky Ponytail about it . . . but she would. She’d replayed the event so many times in the past few hours, wondering how she could have helped. Maybe leaning over to the passenger-side door, pushing it open for Laura, so that she could simply fall backwards into the car before Dow got to her . . . being faster out of the driving seat herself, faster across the hood . . . tackling Dow more effectively. She should have disabled him straightaway . . . Shouldn’t have let Laura lose so much blood . . .

Got to push it all aside, she thought.

Think about Marber . . . Edward Marber. Another victim seeking her attention. Another ghost in need of justice. Rebus had confessed to her once, after too many late-night drinks in the Oxford Bar, that he saw ghosts. Or didn’t see them so much as sense them. All the cases, the innocent — and not so innocent — victims . . . all those lives turned into CID files . . . They were always more than that to him. He’d seemed to see it as a failing, but Siobhan hadn’t agreed.

We wouldn’t be human if they didn’t get to us, she’d told him. His look had stilled her with its cynicism, as if he were saying that “human” was the one thing they weren’t supposed to be.

She looked around the inquiry room. The team was hard at work: Hood, Linford, Davie Hynds . . . When they saw her, they asked how she was. She fended off their concern, noting that Phyllida Hawes was blushing: ashamed not to have had the same reaction. Siobhan wanted to tell her it was okay. But Hynds was hovering by her desk, needing a word. Siobhan sat down, slipping her jacket over the back of the chair.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s the money you asked me to look for.”

She stared at him. Money? What money?

“Laura Stafford thought Marber was in line for some big payout,” Hynds explained, seeing her confusion.

“Oh, right.” She was noting that someone had been using her desk in her absence: coffee rings, a few loose paper clips. Her in-tray was full, but looked as though it had been disturbed. She remembered Gray, flicking through case notes . . . and others from Rebus’s team, wandering through the room . . . And Allan Ward, asking Phyllida about the inquiry . . .

Her computer monitor was switched off. When she switched it on, little fish swam across the screen. A new screen saver — not the scrolling message. It looked as if her anonymous gremlin had taken pity on her.

She realized that Hynds had been saying something only when he stopped. The silence drew her attention back to him.

“Sorry, Davie, I didn’t catch that.”

“I can come back,” he said. “Can’t be easy for you, coming in today like this . . .”

“Just tell me what it was you were saying.”

“You sure?”

“Bloody hell, Davie . . .” She picked up a pencil. “Have I got to stab you with this?” He stared at her, and she stared back, suddenly aware of what she’d said. She watched the way her hand was holding the pencil . . . holding it like a knife. “Christ,” she gasped, “I’m sorry . . .”

“Don’t be.”

She dropped the pencil, picked up the receiver instead. She signaled for Hynds to wait while she made the call to Bobby Hogan.

“It’s Siobhan Clarke,” she said into the mouthpiece. “Something I forgot: the blade Dow used . . . there’s a DIY shop next door to here. Maybe that’s where he bought it. They’ll have security cameras . . . could be staff will recognize him.” She listened to Hogan’s response. “Thank you,” she said, putting the receiver down again.

“Have you had any breakfast?” Hynds asked.

“I was just about to ask the same thing.” It was Derek Linford. The look of concern on his face was so exaggerated, Siobhan had to suppress a shiver.

“I’m not hungry,” she told both men. Her phone buzzed and she picked it up. The switchboard wanted to transfer a call. It was from someone called Andrea Thomson.

“I’ve been asked to call you,” Thomson said. “I’m a . . . well, I hesitate to use the word ‘counselor.’ ”

“You’re supposed to be a career analyst,” Siobhan said, stopping Thomson in her tracks.

“Someone’s been talking,” she said after a long silence. “You work with DI Rebus, don’t you?”

Siobhan had to admit, Thomson was sharp. “He told me you’d denied being a counselor.”

“Some officers don’t like the idea.”

“Count me among them.” Siobhan glanced at Hynds, who was gesturing encouragement. Linford was still trying for the sympathetic look, not quite getting it right. Lack of practice, Siobhan guessed.

“You might find that it helps to talk through the issues,” Thomson was saying.

“There aren’t any issues,” Siobhan replied coldly. “Look, Ms. Thomson, I’ve got a murder case to be getting on with . . .”

“Let me give you my number, just in case.”

Siobhan sighed. “Okay then, if it’ll make you feel better.”

Thomson started reeling off two numbers: office and mobile. Siobhan just sat there, making no effort to record them. Thomson’s voice died away.

“You’re not writing them down, are you?”

“Oh, I’ve got them, don’t you worry.”

Hynds was shaking his head, knowing damned well what was going on. He lifted the pencil and held it out to her.

“Give them to me again,” Siobhan told the receiver. Call finished, she held up the scrap of paper for Hynds to see.

“Happy?”

“I’ll be happier if you eat something.”

“Me too,” Derek Linford said.

Siobhan looked at Andrea Thomson’s phone numbers. “Derek,” she said, “Davie and I have got to have a meeting. Can you take any messages for me?” She started shrugging her arms back into her jacket.

“Where will you be?” Linford asked, trying not to sound peeved. “In case we need you . . .”

“You’ve got my mobile number,” she told him. “That’s where I’ll be.”

They went around the corner of the station and into the Engine Shed. Hynds admitted he hadn’t known it was there.

“It really was an engine shed,” she told him, “Steam engines, I suppose. They pulled freight trains . . . coal or something. There are still bits of the railway line, they run down to Duddingston.”

In the café, they bought tea and cakes. Siobhan took one bite and realized she was starving.

“So what is it you’ve found?” she asked.

Hynds was primed to tell the story. She could see he’d been keeping it to himself, not wanting to dilute its effect before she heard it.

“I was talking to Marber’s various financial people: bank manager, accountant, bookkeeper . . .”

“And?”

“And no hint of any large amount about to accrue.” Hynds paused, as though uncertain whether accrue was the right word.

“And?”

“And I started looking at debits instead. These are listed in his bank statements by check number. No clue as to who each check was paid to.” Siobhan nodded her understanding. “Which is probably why one debit slipped by without us noticing.” He paused again, his meaning clear: for us read Linford . . . “Five thousand pounds. The bookkeeper found the check stub but the only thing written there was the amount.”

“Business check or personal?”

“The money was drawn from one of Marber’s personal accounts.”

“And you know who it was to?” She decided to take a guess. “Laura Stafford?”

Hynds shook his head. “Remember our artist friend . . . ?”

She looked at him. “Malcolm Neilson?” Hynds was nodding. “Marber gave Neilson five grand? When was this?”

“Only a month or so back.”

“It could have been payment for a work.”

Hynds had already thought of this. “Marber doesn’t represent Neilson, remember? Besides, anything like that would have gone through the business. No need to tuck it away where no one would see it.”

Siobhan was thinking hard. “Neilson was outside the gallery that night.”

“Looking for more money?” Hynds guessed.

“You think he was blackmailing Marber?”

“Either that or selling him something. I mean, how often do you have a blazing row with someone, then pay them a four-figure sum for the privilege?”

“And what exactly was he selling him?” Siobhan had forgotten all about her hunger. Hynds nodded towards the cake, willing her to finish it.

“Maybe that’s the question we should be asking him,” he said. “Just as soon as you’ve cleared your plate . . .”

Neilson appeared at St. Leonard’s with his solicitor, as requested by Siobhan. Both interview rooms were empty: Rebus’s crew were said to be touring caravan sites. Siobhan sat down in IR2, taking the same seat Linford had been in yesterday when Donny Dow had made his escape.

Neilson and William Allison sat opposite her, Davie Hynds to her side. They’d decided to tape the meeting. It could put pressure on the subject; sometimes they got nervous around microphones . . . knew that whatever they said could come back to haunt them.

“It’s for your benefit as much as ours,” Siobhan had explained, this being the standard line. Allison made sure that there’d be two copies, one for CID and one for his client.

Then they got down to business. Siobhan switched the tape machines on and identified herself, asking the others present to do the same. She studied Malcolm Neilson as he spoke. The artist sat with eyebrows raised, as though surprised to find himself suddenly transported to such surroundings. His hair was its usual wild self, and he was wearing a thick, loose cotton shirt over a gray T-shirt. Whether by accident or design, he had buttoned the shirt wrongly, so one side was lower than the other at the neck.

“You’ve already told us, Mr. Neilson,” Siobhan kicked off, “that you were outside the gallery the night Edward Marber died.”

“Yes.”

“Remind us why you were there.”

“I was curious about the show.”

“No other reason?”

“Such as?”

“You only have to answer the questions, Malcolm,” Allison interrupted. “You don’t need to add your own.”

“Well, since Mr. Neilson has asked the question,” Siobhan said, “perhaps I can let my colleague answer.”

Hynds opened the slim manila folder in front of him and slid a photocopy of the check across the desk. “Would you care to enlighten us?” was all he said.

“DC Hynds,” Siobhan said, providing commentary for the tapes, “is showing Messrs. Neilson and Allison a copy of a check, made out in the sum of five thousand pounds to Mr. Neilson and dated one calendar month ago. The check is signed by Edward Marber and comes from his personal bank account.”

There was silence in the room when she finished.

“Might I consult with my client?” Allison asked.

“Interview paused at eleven-forty hours,” Siobhan said curtly, stopping the machine.

It was times like this she wished she smoked. She stood with Hynds outside IR2, tapping her foot against the floor and a pen against her teeth. Bill Pryde and George Silvers arrived back from Leith and were able to report on their first full interview with Donny Dow.

“He knows he’s going down for his wife,” Silvers said. “But he swears he didn’t kill Marber.”

“Do you believe him?” Siobhan asked.

“He’s a bad bastard . . . I never believe anything those kind tell me.”

“He’s in a bit of a state about his wife,” Pryde commented.

“That really tugs my heartstrings,” Siobhan said coldly.

“Are we going to charge him with Marber?” Hynds asked. “Only, we’ve got another suspect in there . . .”

“In which case,” a new voice added, “what are you doing out here?” It was Gill Templer. They’d told her they wanted to bring in Neilson, and she’d agreed. Now she stood with hands on hips, legs apart, a woman who wanted results.

“He’s consulting with his lawyer,” Siobhan explained.

“Has he said anything yet?”

“We’ve only just shown him the check.”

Templer shifted her focus to Pryde. “Any joy down in Leith?”

“Not exactly.”

She exhaled noisily. “We need to start making some progress.” She was keeping her voice low, so the lawyer and painter wouldn’t hear, but there was no missing the sense of urgency and frustration.

“Yes, ma’am,” Davie Hynds said, turning his head as the door to IR2 swung open. William Allison was standing there.

“We’re ready now,” he said. Siobhan and Hynds retreated back inside.

With door closed and tape running, they sat across the desk once more. Neilson was pushing his hands through his hair, making it stick up at ever more ungainly angles. They waited for him to speak.

“When you’re ready, Malcolm,” the lawyer prodded.

Neilson leaned back in his chair, eyes staring ceilingwards. “Edward Marber gave me five thousand pounds to stop being a nuisance to him. He wanted me to shut up and go away.”

“Why was that?”

“Because people were starting to listen to me when I spoke about him being a cheat.”

“Did you ask him for the money?”

Neilson shook his head.

“We need it out loud for the tape,” Siobhan prompted.

“I didn’t ask him for anything,” Neilson said. “It was him that came to me. He only offered a thousand at first, but eventually it went up to five.”

“And you were at the gallery that night because you wanted more?” Hynds asked.

“No.”

“You wanted to see how well the show was doing,” Siobhan stated. “That might suggest that you were wondering whether there was any more money to be made out of your nuisance value. After all, you’d accepted the money, and there you were still hassling Marber.”

“If I’d wanted to hassle him, I’d have gone in, wouldn’t I?”

“Then maybe all you wanted was a quiet word . . . ?”

Neilson was shaking his head vigorously. “I didn’t go near the man.”

“But you did.”

“I mean I didn’t speak to him.”

“You were happy with the five?” Hynds asked.

“I won’t say happy . . . but it was a kind of vindication. I took it because it represented five thousand of crooked money that he wouldn’t be spending.” The artist’s hands went to the sides of his face, making a rasping sound against a day’s growth of beard.

“How did you feel when you heard he was dead?” The question came from Siobhan. Neilson locked eyes with her.

“I got a bit of a kick out of it, if I’m being honest. I know that’s hardly the humane response, but all the same . . .”

“Did you wonder if we’d start looking into your relationship with Mr. Marber?” Siobhan asked.

Neilson nodded.

“Did you wonder if we’d find out about this payment?”

Another nod.

“So why didn’t you just tell us?”

“I knew how it would look.” Sounding sheepish now.

“And how do you think it looks?”

“It looks as though I had motive, means and whatever.” His eyes never left hers. “Isn’t that right?”

“If you didn’t do anything, there’s no reason to worry,” she said.

He angled his head. “You’ve got an interesting face, Detective Sergeant Clarke. Do you think I might paint you, when this is finished?”

“Let’s concentrate on the present, Mr. Neilson. Tell us about the check. How was the eventual sum reached? Was it posted to you or did you meet?”

Afterwards, Hynds and Siobhan bought themselves a late lunch at a baker’s. Filled rolls, cans of drink from the fridge. The day was warm, overcast. Siobhan felt like taking another shower, but really it was the inside of her head she wanted to sluice, ridding it of all the confusion. They decided to walk back to St. Leonard’s the long way round, eating as they went.

“Take your pick,” Hynds said. “Donny Dow or Neilson.”

“Why not both of them?” Siobhan mused. “Neilson watching Edward Marber, alerting Dow when Marber’s taxi arrived.”

“The two of them in cahoots?”

“And while we’re stirring the pot, let’s add Big Ger Cafferty, not a man you want to be found ripping off.”

“I can’t see Marber conning Cafferty. Like you say, it’s too fraught.”

“Anyone else with a grudge?”

“What about Laura Stafford? Maybe she got sick of their arrangement . . . maybe Marber wanted to take things a bit further.” Hynds paused. “What about Donny Dow as Laura’s pimp?”

Siobhan’s face fell. “That’s enough,” she snapped.

Hynds realized he’d said the wrong thing. He watched as she tossed the rest of her roll into a bin, brushed crumbs and flour from her front.

“You should talk to someone,” he said quietly.

“Counseling, you mean? Do me a favor . . .”

“I’m trying to. Seems like you don’t want to listen.”

“I’ve seen people killed before, Davie. How about you?” She had stopped to face him.

“We’re supposed to be partners,” he said, sounding aggrieved.

“We’re supposed to be senior and junior officer . . . sometimes I think you get muddled over who’s who.”

“Christ, Shiv, I was only —”

“And don’t call me Shiv!”

He made to say something further, but seemed to think better of it, took a swig of his drink instead. After a dozen paces, he took a deep breath.

“Sorry.”

She looked at him. “Sorry for what?”

“For making jokes about Laura.”

Siobhan nodded slowly; a little of the tension left her face. “You’re learning, Davie.”

“I’m trying.” He paused. “Truce?” he suggested.

“Truce,” she agreed. After which, they resumed their walk in a silence that could almost have been called companionable.

When Rebus and Gray got back to the station, IR1 was full. The rest of the team had split into two pairs, spent the day hitting the east coast’s caravan parks, talking to the site owners, long-term users and residents. Now they were back . . . and weary.

“Didn’t know there were static parks,” Allan Ward said. “People living in these four-berth jobs like they were proper houses, little flower beds outside and a kennel for the Alsatian.”

“Way house prices are going,” Stu Sutherland added, “could be the wave of the future.”

“Must be freezing in winter, though,” Tam Barclay said.

DCI Tennant was listening to all this with arms folded, as he leaned against the wall. He turned slowly towards Rebus and Gray. “I hope to Christ you two have got something more for me than property speculation and gardening tips.”

Gray ignored him. “You didn’t get anything?” he asked Jazz McCullough.

“Bits and pieces,” Jazz answered. “It was six years ago. People move on . . .”

“We spoke to the owner of one site,” Ward said. “He hadn’t been there when Rico was around, but he’d heard stories: all-night parties, boozed-up arguments. Rico used two caravans on that site . . . supposedly with another two or three elsewhere.”

“Are the caravans still there?” Gray asked.

“One of them is; other caught on fire.”

“Caught on fire or was set on fire?”

Ward shrugged a response.

“You see why I’m impressed?” Tennant announced. “So bring me glad tidings from dear old Glasgow town.”

It took Gray and Rebus only five minutes to summarize their trip, leaving out everything except the hospital visit. At the end of it, Tennant looked less than cheered.

“If I didn’t know better,” he told them, “I’d say you lot were pissing into the wind.”

“We’ve hardly started,” Sutherland complained.

“My point exactly.” Tennant wagged a finger at him. “Too busy enjoying the good life, not busy enough doing the work you’re supposed to be here for.” He paused. “Maybe it’s not your fault; maybe there’s nothing here for us to find.”

“Back to Tulliallan?” Tam Barclay guessed.

Tennant was nodding. “Unless you can think of a reason to stay put.”

“Dickie Diamond, sir,” Sutherland said. “There are friends of his we still need to talk to. We’ve got feelers out with a local snitch . . .”

“Meaning all you’re doing here is waiting?”

“There’s one other avenue, sir,” Jazz McCullough said. “At the time Diamond went AWOL, there was that rape case at the manse.” Rebus concentrated hard on the room’s mud-colored carpet tiles.

“And?” Tennant prodded.

“And nothing, sir. It’s just a coincidence that might be worth following up.”

“You mean in case Diamond had anything to do with it?”

“I know it sounds thin, sir . . .”

“Thin? You could use it as a pizza topping.”

“Maybe just another day or two, sir,” Gray advised. “There are some loose ends we could do with tying up, and since we’re already here,” he glanced towards Rebus, “with an expert to guide us . . .”

“Expert?” Tennant’s eyes narrowed.

Gray had slapped a hand onto Rebus’s shoulder. “When it comes to Edinburgh, sir, John knows where the bodies are buried. Isn’t that right, John?”

Tennant considered this, while Rebus said nothing. Then Tennant unfolded his arms, stuck his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

After Tennant had left the room, Rebus turned to Gray. “I know where the bodies are buried?”

Gray shrugged, gave a little laugh. “Isn’t that what you told me? Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Unless you know different . . . ?”

Later that afternoon, Rebus stood by the drinks machine, considering his options. He had a handful of change, but his mind was on other things. He was wondering who to tell about the heist scheme. The chief constable, for instance. Strathern wouldn’t know about the warehouse stash, he was sure of that. Claverhouse had gone to Carswell, the assistant chief. The two of them were mates, and Carswell would have given his blessing to the project, without feeling the need to bother the Big Chief. If Rebus told Strathern about it, the Chief would most likely blow his top, not liking the notion of having been sidelined on such an important bust. Rebus wasn’t sure what the result would be, but he couldn’t see it doing his heist scheme any good.

What he needed at the moment was for the knowledge of the bust’s existence to remain as secret as possible. It wasn’t as if he was actually going to carry out any heist. It was a smoke screen, a way to infiltrate the trio and hopefully glean some information on Bernie Johns’s missing millions. He wasn’t sure that Gray and Co. would go for it . . . in fact, it worried him that Gray had proved so attentive. Why would Gray consider such a scheme when he already had much more salted away than any raid on the warehouse would bring him? All Rebus had wanted the story to do was prove to the trio that he too could be tempted, that he, like them, could fall.

Now he had to consider a further possibility: that the trio would want to take it further, make the plan a reality.

And why would they do that if they were so stinking rich on their ill-gotten gains? The only answer Rebus could think of was that there were no gains. In which case he was back to square one. Or, even worse, he was square one: instigator of a plot to steal several hundred grand’s worth of dope from under the noses of his own force.

Then again . . . if Gray and Co. had gotten away with it . . . maybe all they’d learned was that they could do it again. Could greed stop them thinking straight? The worry was, Rebus knew they probably could do it. The security around the warehouse wasn’t overzealous: last thing Claverhouse wanted was for the site to start looking heavily guarded. All that would do was attract attention. A gate, a couple of guards, maybe a padlocked warehouse . . . So what if there was an alarm? Alarms could be dealt with. Guards could be dealt with. A decent-sized station wagon would accommodate the haul . . .

What are you contemplating, John?

The game was changing. He still didn’t know much about the three men, but now Gray knew that Rebus knew something about Dickie Diamond. John knows where the bodies are buried. The slap Gray had given him on the shoulder had been a warning, letting him know who was in charge.

Suddenly Linford was behind him. “You using that machine or just counting your savings?”

Rebus couldn’t think of a comeback, so simply stepped aside.

“Any chance of another ringside seat?” Linford said, slotting his coins home.

“What?”

“You and Allan Ward — have you made your peace?” Linford pressed the button for tea, then cursed himself. “Should have made that coffee. Tea has a way of flying around here.”

“Just crawl back into your fucking hole,” Rebus said.

“CID’s a lot quieter without you: any chance of making it permanent?”

“Not much hope of that,” Rebus told him. “I promised I’d retire when you lost your cherry.”

“I’ll have retired before that happens,” Siobhan said, walking towards the two men. She was smiling, but with little amusement.

“And who was it deflowered you, DS Clarke?” Linford smiled right back at her, before shifting his gaze to Rebus. “Or is that something we don’t want to get into?”

He started walking away. Rebus moved a step closer to Siobhan. “That’s what the women say about Derek’s bed, you know,” he said, loud enough for Linford to hear.

“What?” Siobhan asked, playing along.

“That it’s something they don’t want to get into . . .”

After Linford had disappeared, Siobhan got herself a drink. “Not having anything?” she asked.

“Gone off the idea,” Rebus stated, dropping the coins back into his pocket. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Really?”

“Well, mostly,” she confided. “And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I wasn’t going to offer.”

She straightened up, maneuvering the hot plastic cup. “That’s what I like about you,” she said. Then: “Got a minute? I need to pick your brains . . .”

They went down to the car park, Rebus lighting a cigarette. Siobhan made sure there were no other smokers around, no one to eavesdrop.

“All very mysterious,” Rebus said.

“Not really. It’s just something that’s niggling me about your friends in IR1.”

“What about them?”

“Allan Ward took Phyllida out last night.”

“And?”

“And she’d nothing to report. Ward was quite the gentleman . . . took her home but wouldn’t go upstairs when she offered.” She paused. “He’s not married or anything?” Rebus shook his head. “Not going steady?”

“If he is, it doesn’t show.”

“I mean, Phyl’s a bonny enough girl, wouldn’t you say?” Rebus nodded his agreement. “And he’d been paying her plenty of attention all night . . .”

The way she said this made Rebus focus on her. “What sort of attention?”

“Asking her how the Marber case was coming along.”

“It’s a natural enough question. Aren’t women’s magazines always saying men should do more listening?”

“I wouldn’t know, I never read them.” She looked at him archly. “Didn’t realize you were such an expert.”

“You know what I mean, though.”

She nodded. “The thing is, it made me think about the way DI Gray has been mooching around the inquiry room . . . and that other one . . . McCullen?”

“McCullough,” Rebus corrected her. Jazz, Ward and Gray, spending time in the inquiry room . . .

“Probably doesn’t mean anything,” Siobhan said.

“What could it mean?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Something they wanted . . . someone they were interested in . . . ?” She thought of something else. “The case you’re working on, did anything happen last night?”

He nodded. “Someone we wanted to speak to, he was rushed into hospital.” Part of him wanted to tell her more . . . tell her everything. He knew she was one person he could trust. But he held back, because there was no way of knowing whether telling her would put her in danger, somewhere down the line.

“The reason Ward didn’t go upstairs with Phyl,” she was saying, “was because he got a call on his mobile and had to head back to the college.”

“That could have been him hearing about it.”

Rebus remembered that when he’d arrived at Tulliallan himself, pretty late on, Gray, Jazz and Ward had still been awake, sitting in the lounge bar with the dregs of their drinks in front of them. The bar itself had stopped serving, no one else about, and with most of the lights extinguished.

But the three of them, still awake and seated around the table . . .

Rebus wondered if they’d summoned Ward back so they could discuss what to do about Rebus, the chat he’d had with Jazz . . . Gray coming up with the idea to take Rebus as his partner to Glasgow, maybe quiz him further. When Rebus had walked in, Gray had told him about Chib Kelly and repeated that he wanted Rebus with him. Rebus hadn’t really questioned the decision . . . He remembered asking Ward how his date with Phyllida Hawes had gone. Ward had shrugged, saying little. It hadn’t sounded like there was going to be a repeat performance . . .

Siobhan was nodding thoughtfully. “There’s something I’m not getting, isn’t there?”

“Such as?”

“I’ll know that only when you tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

She stared at him. “Yes there is. Something else you need to know about women, John: we can read you lot like a book.”

He was about to say something, but his mobile was trilling. He checked the number, held a finger up to let Siobhan know he needed this to be private.

“Hello,” he said, moving across the car park. “I was hoping I’d hear from you.”

“The mood I was in, believe me, you didn’t want to hear from me.”

“I’m glad you’re calling now.”

“Are you busy?”

“I’m always busy, Jean. That night on the High Street . . . I was roped into that. Group of guys from the college.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” Jean Burchill said. “I’m phoning to thank you for the flowers.”

“You got them?”

“I did . . . along with two phone calls, one from Gill, one from Siobhan Clarke.”

Rebus stopped and looked back, but Siobhan had already retreated indoors.

“They both said the same thing,” Jean was telling him.

“And what was it?”

“That you’re a pigheaded lout, but you’ve got a good heart.”

“I’ve been trying to call you, Jean . . .”

“I know.”

“And I want to make it up to you. How about dinner tonight?”

“Where?”

“You choose.”

“How about Number One? If you can get us a table . . .”

“I’ll get us a table.” He paused. “I’m assuming it’s expensive?”

“John, you muck me about, it’s always going to cost. Lucky for you, this time it’s only money.”

“Seven-thirty?”

“And don’t be late.”

“I won’t be.”

They finished the call and he headed back inside, stopping at the comms room to find a phone number for the restaurant. He was in luck: they’d just had a cancellation. The restaurant was part of the Balmoral Hotel on Princes Street. Rebus didn’t bother to ask how much it was likely to cost. Number One was a special-occasion place; people saved to dine there. Atonement wasn’t going to come cheap. Nevertheless, he was in good spirits as he walked back to the interview room.

“Someone looks frisky,” Tam Barclay commented.

“And wasn’t that the fragrant DS Clarke we saw coming back from the car park?” Allan Ward added.

They started whistling and laughing. Rebus didn’t bother to say anything. One man in the room wasn’t smiling: Francis Gray. He was seated at the table with a pen clenched between his teeth, playing out a rhythm on it with his fingernails. He wasn’t so much watching Rebus as studying him.

When it comes to Edinburgh, John knows where the bodies are buried.

Said metaphorically? Rebus didn’t think so . . .