Resurrection Men

21

As soon as he woke up, Rebus called Jean. He’d actually made it as far as his bed last night, but when he walked through to the living room the hi-fi was still playing. Wishbone Ash’s There’s the Rub — he must have pressed the REPEAT button by mistake. The whiskey glasses were on the dining table. Siobhan had left a good half inch untouched. Rebus thought about finishing it, but dribbled it back into the bottle instead. Then he reached for the telephone.

Jean was still asleep. He imagined her: tousled hair, sun streaming in through her cream burlap curtains. Sometimes when she woke up there were fine white accumulations at the corners of her mouth.

“I said I’d call,” he told her.

“I was hoping it might be at a civilized hour.” But she was good-humored about it. “I take it you didn’t manage to pick up any unsuitable women on your way home?”

“And what sort of woman do you think would be unsuitable for me?” he asked, smiling. He’d already decided that she needn’t know about the break-in . . . or about Siobhan’s little visit.

They chatted for five minutes, then Rebus placed another call — this time to a joiner he knew, a man who owed him a favor — after which he made himself coffee and a bowl of cereal. There wasn’t quite enough milk for both, so he watered the carton down from the cold tap. By the time he’d eaten, showered and got dressed, the joiner had arrived.

“Pull the door shut after you, Tony,” Rebus told him, making his way out onto the landing. As he walked downstairs, he wondered again who might have been behind the break-in. Diamond was the obvious candidate. Maybe he’d wanted to wait for Rebus but had got fed up. As Rebus drove to St. Leonard’s, he replayed the scene on Bruntsfield Links. He was furious that Diamond had pulled a gun on him. Loaded or not, it didn’t matter. He tried to recall how he’d felt. Not scared exactly . . . in fact, fairly calm. When someone aimed a gun at you, it was pointless to worry — either you were going to get shot or you weren’t. He remembered that his whole body had tingled, almost vibrating with an electric energy. Dickie Diamond . . . the Diamond Dog . . . thinking he could get away with something like that . . .

He parked the car and decided to skip his usual cigarette. Instead, he went to the comms room and gave the word that he wanted patrols to be on the lookout for a certain motor vehicle. He gave the description and license plate.

“Nobody’s to go near it: all I want is the whereabouts.”

The uniform had nodded, then started speaking into the mike. Rebus was hoping Diamond would have heeded his warning to clear out of town. All the same, he needed to be sure.

It was another half hour before the rest of the Wild Bunch arrived. They’d come in the one car. Rebus could tell which three had been squeezed into the backseat — Ward, Sutherland and Barclay. They were doing stretching exercises as they walked into the room.

Gray and Jazz: driver and front-seat passenger. Once again, Rebus wondered about Allan Ward, about how he felt being so often the odd man out. He was yawning, his back clicking as he raised and lowered his shoulders.

“So what did you lot get up to last night?” Rebus asked, trying to make it sound like a casual inquiry.

“A few drinks,” Stu Sutherland said. “And early to bed.”

Rebus looked around. “What?” he asked in apparent disbelief. “All of you?”

“Jazz nipped home to see his missus,” Tam Barclay admitted.

“See to her more like,” Sutherland added with a leering grin.

“We should hit a nightclub some evening,” Barclay said. “Kirkcaldy maybe . . . see if we can get a lumber.”

“You make that sound so appetizing,” Allan Ward muttered.

“So the rest of you were in the bar at Tulliallan?” Rebus persisted.

“Pretty much,” Barclay said. “We weren’t pining for you.”

“Why the interest, John?” Gray asked.

“If you’re afraid of being left out,” Sutherland added, “you should move back there with us.”

Rebus knew he daren’t push it any further. He’d got back to his flat around midnight. If the intruder had come from Tulliallan, they’d have had to leave the college around half past ten, eleven o’clock at the latest. That would have given them time to drive into Edinburgh, search the flat and get out again before he arrived home. How had they known he would be out? Something else to think about . . . Dickie Diamond had known he was headed for a rendezvous, reinforcing his position as most likely culprit. Rebus half hoped one of the patrols would call in a sighting. If Diamond was still in Edinburgh, Rebus had a few things to put to him . . .

“So what’s the schedule today?” Jazz McCullough asked, closing the newspaper he’d been reading.

“Leith, I suppose,” Gray informed him. “See if we can track down any more of Diamond’s pals.” He looked at Rebus. “What do you think, John?”

Rebus nodded. “Anyone mind if I stay here for a bit? I’ve a couple of jobs to do.”

“Fine with me,” Gray said. “Anything we can help you with?”

Rebus shook his head. “Shouldn’t take too long, Francis. Thanks all the same.”

“Well, whatever happens,” Ward said, “if we don’t come up with something, Tennant’s going to have us back at Tulliallan pronto.”

They nodded agreement. It would happen . . . today or tomorrow, it would happen, and the Rico case would become paperwork again, and brainstorming sessions, and making a card index, and all the rest. No more side trips, no chances for breaks at the pub or the odd meal out.

The Rico case would have died.

Gray was staring at Rebus, but Rebus kept his eyes on the wall. He knew what Gray was thinking: he was thinking that John Rebus would like that state of affairs just fine . . .

“I’m only doing this because you asked so nicely.”

“What’s that, Mr. Cafferty?” Siobhan asked.

“Letting you bring me here.” Cafferty looked around IR2. “To be honest, I’ve had prison cells bigger than this.” He folded his arms. “So how can I help you, Detective Sergeant Clarke?”

“It’s the Edward Marber case. Your name seems to be cropping up at all sorts of tangents . . .”

“I think I’ve told you everything I can about Eddie.”

“Is that the same as telling us everything you know?”

Cafferty’s eyes narrowed appraisingly. “Now you’re just playing games.”

“I don’t think so.”

Cafferty had shifted his attention to Davie Hynds, who was standing with his back against the wall opposite the desk.

“You all right there, son?” He seemed pleased when Hynds failed to respond. “How do you like working under a woman, DC Hynds? Does she give you a rough ride?”

“You see, Mr. Cafferty,” Siobhan went on, ignoring everything he’d said, “we’ve charged Donny Dow — your driver — with the murder of Laura Stafford.”

“He’s not my driver.”

“He’s on your payroll,” Siobhan countered.

“Diminished responsibility anyway,” Cafferty stated with conviction. “Poor bugger didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Believe me, he knew exactly what he was doing.” When she saw Cafferty’s smile, Siobhan cursed herself for letting him push her buttons. “The woman Dow murdered worked in the Sauna Paradiso. I think if I dig deep enough, I’ll find that you’re its owner.”

“Better buy a big shovel then.”

“You see how already you connect to both the murderer and his victim?”

“He’s not a murderer till he’s convicted,” Cafferty reminded her.

“You speak with a wealth of experience in that area, don’t you?”

Cafferty shrugged. He still had his arms folded, and looked relaxed, almost as if he were enjoying himself.

“Then there’s Edward Marber,” Siobhan pressed on. “You were at the private viewing the night he was killed. You were one of his clients. And ironically, he was one of yours. He met Laura Stafford at the Sauna Paradiso. He rented a flat for her and her son . . .”

“Your point being . . . ?”

“My point being that your name keeps cropping up.”

“Yes, you said. I think the phrase you used was ‘at all sorts of tangents.’ That’s what we’re talking about here, DS Clarke: tangents, coincidences. That’s all we’re ever going to be talking about, because I didn’t kill Eddie Marber.”

“Did he cheat you, Mr. Cafferty?”

“There’s no proof he cheated anyone. Way I hear it, it was one man’s word against his.”

“Marber paid that man five thousand pounds to shut up.”

Cafferty grew thoughtful. Siobhan realized she had to be careful how much she gave away to this man. She got the feeling Cafferty coveted information the way other people did jewelry or fast cars. She already had one small result, however: when she’d slipped a mention of the Paradiso into the conversation, Cafferty hadn’t denied ownership.

A knock came at the door. It opened and a head appeared round it. Gill Templer.

“DS Clarke? Can I have a word?”

Siobhan rose from her chair. “DC Hynds, look after Mr. Cafferty, will you?”

Out in the corridor, Templer was waiting, looking around at the officers, who moved with more efficiency once they’d spotted her. “My office,” she told Siobhan.

Siobhan was hitting the mental REWIND button, trying to think what she’d done that might have merited a chewing out. But Templer seemed to relax once she was in her own room. She didn’t ask Siobhan to sit, and stayed standing herself, hands behind her, gripping the edge of her desk.

“I think we might try charging Malcolm Neilson,” she announced. “I’ve been talking it through with the Fiscal’s office. You’ve done a thorough job, Siobhan.”

Meaning the dossier Siobhan had compiled on the painter. She could see it on the desk.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Siobhan said.

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

“Maybe I just think there are some loose ends . . .”

“Dozens, probably, but look at what we’ve got. He’d fallen out with Marber, a very public and bitter argument. He’d taken money — either that or extorted it. He was hanging around outside the gallery on the night in question — witnesses have placed him there.” Templer counted off on her fingers: “Means, motive and opportunity.”

Siobhan remembered Neilson himself saying much the same thing.

“At the very least we can get a search warrant,” Templer was saying, “see if it throws up any tidbits. I want you to organize it, Siobhan. That missing painting could be hanging in Neilson’s bedroom for all we know.”

“I don’t think it would be to his taste,” Siobhan commented, knowing it sounded lame.

Templer stared at her. “Why is it that every time I try to do you a good turn, you try to pull the rug out from under me?”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

Templer studied her, then sighed. “Any luck with Cafferty?”

“At least he didn’t bring a lawyer with him.”

“Might just mean he doesn’t rate the competition.”

Siobhan pursed her lips. “If that’s everything, ma’am . . . ?”

“Well, it isn’t. I want to go through the warrant for Neilson’s arrest. Shouldn’t take us too long. Let Mr. Cafferty sweat for a while . . .”

“I never could work with a woman boss,” Cafferty told Hynds. “Always needed to be my own man, know what I mean?”

Hynds had taken Siobhan’s seat. He was the one sitting with arms folded now, while Cafferty leaned over the desk, palms pressed downwards. Their faces were so close, Hynds could have taken a bet on which toothpaste the gangster used.

“Not a bad job, though, is it?” Cafferty ran on. “Being a copper, I mean. Don’t get as much respect as in the old days . . . maybe not as much fear either. Boil down to the same thing sometimes, don’t they, fear and respect?”

“I thought respect was something you earned,” Hynds commented.

“Same with fear, though, isn’t it?” Cafferty raised a finger to stress the point.

“You’d know better than me.”

“You’re right there, son. I can’t see you putting the frighteners on too many folk. I’m not saying that’s a fault, mind. It’s just by way of an observation. I should think DS Clarke’s a scarier proposition than you when she’s roused.”

Hynds thought back to the few times she’d snapped at him, the way she could suddenly change. He knew he was to blame; he had to think before he opened his trap . . .

“She’s had a pop at you, has she?” Cafferty was asking, almost conspiratorially. He leaned farther still across the desk, inviting some confidence or other.

“You don’t half talk a lot for a man who’s supposed to be under a death threat.”

Cafferty offered a rueful smile. “The cancer, you mean? Well, let me ask you something, Davie: if you had only so long to live, wouldn’t you want to make the most of every moment? In my case . . . maybe you’re right . . . maybe I do talk too much.”

“I didn’t mean . . .”

Hynds’s apology was cut short when the door burst open. He stood up, thinking it would be Siobhan.

It wasn’t.

“Well now,” John Rebus said, “isn’t this a surprise?” He looked at Hynds. “Where’s DS Clarke?”

Hynds frowned. “Isn’t she out there?” He thought for a moment. “DCS Templer wanted her. Maybe they’re in her office.”

Rebus put his face close to Hynds’s. “What’re you looking so guilty about?” he asked.

“I’m not.”

Rebus nodded towards Cafferty. “He’s the serpent in the tree, DC Hynds. Whatever he says, it isn’t worth hearing. Got that?”

Hynds gave a vague nod.

“Got that?” Rebus repeated, baring his teeth. The nod this time was vigorous. Rebus patted Hynds’s shoulder, then took the seat he’d just vacated. “Morning, Cafferty.”

“Long time, no see.”

“You just keep popping up, don’t you?” Rebus said. “Like a greasy spot on some adolescent’s arse.”

“Would that make you the adolescent or the arse?” Cafferty asked. He was leaning back in his chair, spine straight, arms by his sides. Hynds noticed that the two men’s postures were almost identical.

Rebus was shaking his head. “It would make me the man with the Clearasil,” he said, causing Hynds to smile. He was the only man in the room who did. “You’re in this up to your neck, aren’t you?” Rebus went on. “Circumstantial evidence alone would see you in a courtroom.”

“And out again the same afternoon,” Cafferty countered. “This is harassment, plain and simple.”

“DS Clarke isn’t that way inclined.”

“No, but you are. I wonder who it was put her up to dragging me in here.” He raised his voice a little. “Are you a betting man, DC Hynds?”

“Nobody in their right mind would bet with the devil,” Rebus stated, closing Hynds’s mouth almost before he’d opened it. “Tell me, Cafferty, what’s the Weasel going to do without his chauffeur?”

“Get a new one, I expect.”

“Donny was a bouncer for you, too, wasn’t he? Probably handy for selling stuff to all those young clubgoers.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You didn’t just lose a driver, did you? You didn’t even just lose some muscle.” Rebus paused. “You lost a dealer.”

Cafferty laughed drily. “I’d love to spend twenty minutes in your head, Rebus. It’s a regular fun house.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Rebus said. “It’s the title of a Stooges album: Fun House . . .” Cafferty turned to stare at Hynds, as if offering him the chance to concur that Rebus was a couple of waltzers shy of a fairground.

“It’s got a track on it that just about sums you up,” Rebus was saying.

“Oh aye?” Cafferty winked in Hynds’s direction. “What’s that then?”

“Just a one-word title,” Rebus informed him. “ ‘Dirt.’ ”

Cafferty turned his attention slowly towards the man seated opposite him. “Do you know the only thing that’s stopping me reaching across this desk and crushing your windpipe like an empty fucking chip bag?”

“Do tell.”

“It’s the feeling I get that you’d actually enjoy it. Would I be correct in that assumption?” He turned his head towards Hynds again. “What do you reckon, Davie? Think DI Rebus here likes a bit of domination? Maybe that piece of his in Portobello does the leather and stilettos routine . . .”

The chair crashed as Rebus flew to his feet. Cafferty rose too. Rebus’s arms had snaked across the space between them, grabbing the narrow lapels of Cafferty’s black leather jacket. One of Cafferty’s own hands had a grip on Rebus’s shirtfront. Hynds took a step forwards, but knew it would be like a toddler refereeing a cockfight. None of them noticed the door opening. Siobhan plunged in, taking hold of both men’s arms.

“That’s enough! Break it up, or I hit the panic button!”

Cafferty’s face seemed to have drained of blood, while Rebus’s had filled, almost as if there’d been a transfusion of sorts between the two men. Siobhan couldn’t tell who eased off first, but she managed to separate them.

“You better get out of here,” she told Cafferty.

“Just when I’m starting to enjoy myself?” Cafferty looked confident enough, but his voice was shaky.

“Out,” Siobhan ordered. “Davie, make sure Mr. Cafferty doesn’t hang around.”

“Unless it’s by his neck,” Rebus spat. Siobhan slapped him on the chest but didn’t say anything until Cafferty and Hynds had left the room.

Then she exploded.

“What the hell are you playing at?”

“Okay, I lost the rag at him . . .”

“This was my interview! You had no right to interfere.”

“Jesus, Siobhan, listen to yourself, will you?” Rebus picked up his chair and slumped back down onto it. “Every time Gill talks to you, you come out sounding like you’ve just left the college.”

“I’m not going to let you twist this around, John!”

“Then sit down and let’s talk about it.” He had a thought. “Maybe in the car park . . . I could do with a smoke.”

“No,” she said determinedly, “we’ll talk here.” She sat down in Cafferty’s chair, pulled it in towards the desk. “What did you say to him anyway?”

“It was what he said to me.”

“What?”

“He knows about Jean . . . knows where she lives.” Rebus saw the effect of his words on Siobhan. What he couldn’t tell her was that Cafferty’s utterance had been only part of the problem. There was also the small matter of a message from the comms room. The note was folded in Rebus’s breast pocket. It told him that Dickie Diamond’s car had been spotted parked in the New Town, already with a ticket on its windshield and looking abandoned . . . So Diamond, wherever he was, hadn’t obeyed orders.

The real catalyst, however, was Rebus’s own sense of frustration. He’d wanted Cafferty in St. Leonard’s so he could probe how much the man knew about the SDEA’s secret cache. But when it had come down to it, there’d been no way of asking, not without coming straight out with it.

The only person who might know . . . who might have access . . . was the Weasel. But the Weasel was no snitch — he’d said it himself. And he’d also confided that Cafferty and him were not as close as had once been the case.

There was, quite simply, no way for Rebus to know . . .

And that sense of impotence had boiled up within him, finally gushing out when Cafferty had mentioned Jean.

The bastard had played his trump card, knowing the effect it would have. The feeling I get that you’d actually enjoy it . . . a bit of domination . . .

“Gill wants to bring in Malcolm Neilson,” Siobhan was saying.

Rebus raised an eyebrow. “We’re charging him?”

“Looks like.”

“In which case, Cafferty’s off the hook?”

“Not until we cut the line. Problem is, if we do that we might lose a man overboard.”

Rebus smiled. “Don’t be so melodramatic.”

“I’m serious,” she said. “Go read Moby-Dick some time.”

“I don’t really see myself as Captain Ahab. He was Gregory Peck in the film, wasn’t he?”

Siobhan started shaking her head, eyes never leaving his. Rebus didn’t think she was disagreeing with the casting . . .

There was a noise in the corridor, then a knock at the door. Not Gill Templer this time, but a grinning Tam Barclay.

“Hynds said we’d find you here,” he told Rebus. “Want to come and take a look at what we found down in Leith?”

“I don’t know,” Rebus said. “Is it contagious?” But he allowed himself to be taken out of the room, past Ward and Sutherland, who were sharing a joke in the corridor, and into IR1, where Jazz McCullough and Francis Gray were standing, almost like zoologists studying some new and exotic creature in their midst.

The creature in question was supping tea from a Styrofoam cup. Its eyes never met Rebus’s, though by no means was it unaware of his sudden presence in the cramped room.

“Can you believe it?” Gray said, slapping his hands together. “First stop is the Bar Z, and who should we meet coming out as we’re going in?”

Rebus already knew the answer to that. It was seated not four feet from him. He’d known the answer from the moment Barclay had put his head round the door.

Richard Diamond, aka the Diamond Dog . . .

“Just to finish the introductions,” Barclay told Diamond, “this is DI Rebus. You might remember him as your arresting officer once upon a time.”

Diamond stared straight ahead. Rebus glanced in Gray’s direction. All Gray did was wink, as if to say Rebus’s secret was safe with him.

“We were just about to ask Mr. Diamond a few questions,” Jazz McCullough said, taking the seat opposite his prey. “Maybe we could start with the break-in and rape at a manse in Murrayfield . . .”

This got a reaction from Diamond. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It coincided with your disappearance, Mr. Diamond.”

“Did it bollocks.”

“Then why did you disappear? Funny that you pop up again just when we’ve started looking for you . . .”

“Man’s got a right to go where he wants,” Diamond said defiantly.

“Only if he has a good reason,” Jazz argued. “We’re curious as to what yours was.”

“What if I say it’s none of your business?” Diamond folded his arms.

“Then you’d be mistaken. We’re investigating the murder of your good friend Rico Lomax, over in Glasgow. CID came looking for you at the time, and suddenly nobody could find you. It wouldn’t take a conspiracy theorist to see a connection.”

The rest of the team had squeezed into the room, leaving the door open. Diamond looked around him, eyes failing to meet Rebus’s. “This is all getting a bit cozy, isn’t it?” he commented.

“Sooner you tell us, sooner you’ll be on your way back to anonymity.”

“Tell you what exactly?”

“Everything,” Francis Gray growled. “You and your good pal Rico . . . the caravan sites . . . the night he got whacked . . . his wife and Chib Kelly . . .” Gray opened his arms expansively. “Start wherever you like.”

“I don’t know who killed Rico.”

“Got to do better than that, Dickie,” Gray said. “He got hit . . . you ran.”

“I was scared.”

“Don’t blame you. Whoever wanted Rico out of the way might have been after you next.” He paused. “Am I right?”

Diamond nodded slowly.

“So who was it?”

“I’ve told you: I don’t know.”

“But you were scared anyway? Scared enough to leave town all this time?”

Diamond unfolded his arms, clasped his hands over his head. “Rico had made a few enemies down the years. Could have been any one of them.”

“What?” Jazz looked dismissive. “Don’t tell me they all had it in for you too?”

Diamond shrugged, said nothing. There was silence in the room until Gray broke it.

“John, you got anything you want to ask Mr. Diamond?”

Rebus nodded. “Do you think Chib Kelly could have been behind the killing?”

Diamond looked like he was thinking this over. “Could be,” he said at last.

“Any way of proving it?” Stu Sutherland broke in.

Diamond shook his head. “That’s your job, lads.”

“If Rico really was your friend,” Barclay said, “you’d want to help us.”

“What’s the point? It was a long time ago.”

“Point is,” Allan Ward answered, not wanting to be left out, “the killer’s still out there somewhere.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Diamond replied. He brought his hands down from his head. “Like I say, I don’t think I can help you.”

“What about the caravans?” Jazz asked. “Did you know one of them got torched?”

“If I did, I’d forgotten it.”

“You used to go out there, didn’t you?” Jazz continued. “You and your girlfriend Jenny. A bit of a ménage à trois going on there, way she tells it.”

“That what she told you?” Diamond seemed amused.

“You’re saying she’s lying? See, we were starting to wonder if there mightn’t have been some jealousy there . . . you being jealous of Rico? Or maybe Rico’s wife found out he was playing away from home . . . ?”

“I can see you’ve got an active fantasy life,” Diamond told Jazz. Francis Gray seemed to have heard enough.

“Do me a favor, will you, Stu — shut that door.”

Sutherland complied. Gray was standing behind Diamond’s chair. He leaned down and brought one arm around until he was fixing Diamond to the chair by his chest. Then he tilted the chair back, so their faces weren’t more than three inches apart. Diamond struggled, but he wasn’t going anywhere. Allan Ward had taken hold of him by both wrists, pressing them against the tabletop.

“Something we forgot to say,” Gray hissed at the prisoner. “Reason they put us on this case is, we’re the lowest of the low, the absolute fucking zero as far as the Scottish police force goes. We’re here because we don’t care. We don’t care about you, we don’t care about them. We could kick your teeth down your throat, and when they came to tell us off, we’d be laughing and slapping our thighs. Time was, buggers like you could end up inside one of the support pillars for the Kingston Bridge. See what I’m saying?” Diamond was still struggling. Gray’s arm had slid upwards, and was now around his throat, the crook of the elbow crushing his larynx.

“He’s turning beet red,” Tam Barclay said nervously.

“I don’t care if he’s turning fucking blue,” Gray retorted. “If he gets an aneurysm, the drinks are on me. All I want to hear from this slimy, watery trail of shite is something approximating the truth. What about it, Mr. Richard Diamond?”

Diamond made a gurgling sound. His eyes were protruding from their sockets. Gray kept the pressure up, while Allan Ward burst out laughing, as if this was the most enjoyment he’d had in weeks.

“Let the man answer you, Francis,” Rebus said.

Gray glanced towards Rebus, then released the pressure. Dickie Diamond started coughing, mucus dribbling from his nose.

“That’s repulsive,” Ward said, letting go the hands. Diamond instinctively reached for his own throat, reassuring himself that it was still intact. Then his fingers went to his eyes, wiping away the water that had been squeezed from them.

“Bastards,” he coughed hoarsely. “Stinking bunch of bastards . . .” He got a handkerchief from his pocket, blew his nose. The door had been closed only a couple of minutes, but the place was like a sauna. Stu Sutherland opened it again, letting some air in. Gray, still behind Diamond, had straightened up, and was standing with an arm on each of the seated man’s shoulders.

“Easier all round if you just start talking,” Jazz said quietly: suddenly playing sympathetic cop to Gray’s monster.

“All right, all right . . . somebody get me a can of juice or something.”

“After we’ve listened to your story,” Gray insisted.

“Look . . .” Diamond tried meeting their eyes, lingering longest on Rebus. “All I know is what was being said at the time.”

“And what was that?” Jazz asked.

“Chib Kelly. . .” Diamond paused. “You were right about him. He was after Fenella. She found out about Rico playing away from home and told Chib. Next thing, Rico’s dead . . . simple as that.”

Gray and Jazz shared a glance, and Rebus knew what they were thinking. Dickie Diamond was telling them what he thought they wanted to hear, what he thought they’d believe. He’d taken the information they’d gifted him, and he was running with it. He’d even lifted Jazz’s own phrasing: playing away from home.

Gray and Jazz weren’t falling for it. The others in the room looked more excited.

“Knew it all along,” Stu Sutherland muttered. Tam Barclay was nodding, and Allan Ward seemed entranced.

Gray’s eyes sought Rebus’s, but Rebus wasn’t playing. He stared down at his shoes while Diamond embroidered the story further.

“Chib knew about the caravan . . . that’s where Rico would take all his women. It was Chib had it torched — he’d have done anything to win over Fenella . . .”

Rebus could see that Gray was beginning to apply pressure to Diamond’s shoulders.

“Th-that’s about all I can tell you. Nobody crossed Chib Kelly . . . why I had to do a runner . . .” Diamond’s face was creasing with pain as Gray’s fingers did their work.

“Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?” The voice belonged to Archie Tennant. Relief flooded Rebus’s veins as Gray let go of Diamond. Barclay and Sutherland started talking at once, filling Tennant in.

“Whoa, whoa . . . one at a time,” Tennant ordered, holding up a hand. Then he listened to the story, the others chipping in when a bit was missed. All the time, Tennant was studying the seated figure, Diamond staring back, aware that he was in the presence of someone important, someone who could get him out of this place.

When the story was finished, Tennant leaned down with clenched fists on the desk, his knuckles bearing his weight. “Is that a fair summary, Mr. Diamond?” he asked. Diamond nodded vigorously. “And you’d be willing to make a statement to that effect?”

“With respect, sir,” Jazz McCullough interrupted, “I’m not so sure we’re not being led up the garden path here . . .”

Tennant stood up, turned his gaze on Jazz. “And what makes you say that?”

“Just a feeling, sir. I don’t think I’m the only one.”

“Really?” Tennant looked around the room. “Anyone else find Mr. Diamond’s story less than tenable?”

“I have a few doubts myself, sir,” Francis Gray piped up. Tennant nodded, his eyes seeming to home in on Rebus.

“And yourself, DI Rebus?”

“I found the witness credible, sir,” he said, the words sounding as stiff to him as to anyone else in the room.

“With respect, sir . . .” Jazz repeating the gambit. “Taking a statement from Mr. Diamond is one thing, but letting him walk out afterwards probably means we’re not going to see him again.”

Tennant turned to Diamond. “DI McCullough isn’t sure he trusts you, sir. What do you have to say to that?”

“You can’t keep me here.”

Tennant nodded. “He’s got a point there, DI McCullough. I’m assuming Mr. Diamond would be willing to give us his address in the city?” Diamond nodded with enthusiasm. “And a permanent address also?” The nodding continued.

“Sir, he could make up any number of addresses,” Jazz continued to protest.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Tennant commented. “Let’s start with a statement anyway . . .” He paused. “Always supposing that’s okay with you, DI McCullough.”

Jazz said nothing — precisely what was expected of him.

“Here endeth the lesson,” Tennant intoned, pressing the palms of his hands together as if in prayer.

Barclay and Sutherland took Diamond’s statement, the others vacating IR1, leaving them to get on with it. Tennant motioned to Jazz that he wanted a word with him in private, the two of them heading towards the station’s reception area. Allan Ward said he was heading out back for a smoke. Rebus declined to join him, went to the drinks machine instead.

“He did a good job of protecting you,” Francis Gray said. He was already at the machine, awaiting delivery of his coffee.

“I thought so,” Rebus admitted.

“I don’t think anyone else noticed that the two of you knew one another better than you should.” Rebus didn’t say anything. “But you weren’t exactly surprised to see him, were you? Did he warn you he was in town?”

“No comment.”

“We found him at the Bar Z. Probably means his nephew keeps in touch. Dickie knew we were after him, and came sneaking back . . . Did he speak to you last night?”

“I didn’t know I was working with Sherlock fucking Holmes.”

Gray chuckled, shoulders shaking as he leaned down to remove the cup from the machine. Rebus was reminded of the way the man had leaned down over Dickie Diamond, threatening to smother him completely.

Jazz was walking up the corridor. He made a show of rubbing his backside, as though the headmaster had just caned him.

“What did Half-Pint want?” Gray asked.

“Twittering on about how it’s okay to argue your corner against a senior officer, but you have to know when to back off and not start taking it personally.”

Rebus was thinking: Half-Pint. Gray and Jazz had found their own private nickname for Tennant. They were close, these two . . .

“I was just telling John,” Gray went on, “about Dickie’s wee acting lesson back there.”

Jazz nodded, eyes on Rebus. “He didn’t give you away,” he agreed.

So Gray had told Jazz all about Rebus’s confession . . . Were there any secrets between the two men?

“Don’t worry,” Gray assured him, “you can trust Jazz.”

“He’s going to have to,” Jazz himself added, “if we’re going to pull off this wee plan of his.”

The silence lay between them until Rebus could find his voice.

“You’re up for it then?”

“Could be,” Gray said.

“Need to know a bit more first,” Jazz qualified. “Layout, all that stuff. No point being unprofessional, is there?”

“Absolutely not,” Gray concurred.

“Right,” Rebus said, his mouth suddenly dry. It was my calling card, that’s all. There is no “wee plan” . . . is there?

“You okay, John?” Jazz asked.

“Maybe getting cold feet,” Gray guessed.

“No, no, it’s not that,” Rebus managed to say. “It’s just . . . you know, it’s one thing to think about it . . .”

“But quite another to actually do it?” Jazz nodded his understanding.

If you bastards have got Bernie Johns’s money . . . what do you want this for?

“Any chance you could give the premises a quick recon?” Gray was asking. “We need a floor plan, that sort of thing.”

“No problem,” Rebus said.

“Let’s start with that then. You never know, John. It could still end up being pie in the sky.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Rebus said, recovering some composure. “Maybe we need a fourth man. What do you think of Tam Barclay?”

“Tam’s okay,” Jazz said, with little enthusiasm. “But maybe young Allan is better.” He was sharing a look with Gray, who started nodding.

“Allan’s our man,” Gray agreed.

“So who’ll talk to him?” Rebus asked.

“Leave that side of things to us, John — just you concentrate on the warehouse . . .”

“Fine by me,” Rebus said, lifting his own cup from the machine. He stared at its surface, trying to remember if he’d pressed the button for tea, coffee or self-destruct. He had to tell Strathern. Tell him what exactly? No way the “heist” was going to happen . . . no possible way. So what was there to tell?