Resurrection Men

31

Tuesday morning, Morris Gerald Cafferty was enjoying breakfast at his kitchen table, feeding pieces of glistening sausage to an attentive Claret. Rebus sat opposite him, nursing his second glass of orange juice. He’d managed four hours’ sleep on Siobhan’s sofa, tiptoeing out without waking her. At quarter to seven, he was at Tulliallan, and now, just over an hour later, he was having to endure the smell of Cafferty’s fry-up. A bustling middle-aged woman had cooked it and, Rebus refusing the offer of a helping, looked ready to start on the washing-up until Cafferty told her to come back later.

“See if you can hoover some of Claret’s hair off the sofa, will you, Mrs. Prentice?” Cafferty asked. She nodded brusquely and left them alone.

“You don’t get many like Mrs. Prentice to the pound,” Cafferty commented, biting into a crisp half-slice of toast. “Bring your trunks this time, Strawman?”

“I know it was you that hit the warehouse. Weasel told you about it, didn’t he?”

Rebus had worked it out. Claverhouse hadn’t just stumbled on the lorry — he’d been pointed in its direction by the Weasel, the man shopping his own son because otherwise Aly’s life would have been short indeed. But having delivered him into police custody, he’d realized that Cafferty would still want blood when he found out. Rebus had offered short-term deliverance, but in the end there was only one way to save Aly: take Cafferty out of the picture. Which meant setting him up — telling him about the drugs in the hope that he would be tempted. But Cafferty had plotted the hit without telling the Weasel, and the Weasel’s hint to Rebus that night in the tenement garden hadn’t clicked quite hard enough. The Weasel had been left out of the loop, and the heist had succeeded, leaving him — rather than his son — as the wanted man . . .

Cafferty was shaking his head. “Don’t you ever rest for a second? What about some coffee to go with that juice?”

“I even know how you did it.”

Cafferty dropped another chunk of sausage into Claret’s mouth.

“I need a favor,” Rebus continued. He took out his notebook and wrote down an address, tearing out the page and sliding it across the table. “If some of the merchandise found its way here, you might find the heat dissipating a bit.”

“I didn’t know there was any heat,” Cafferty said with a smile.

Rebus lifted his glass. “Want me to tell you something I know about claret?”

“The wine or the dog?”

“Both, I suppose. You can tell their quality by their good nose. When I saw your dog last night, nosing its way up and down the path and across the lawn, I knew.” Rebus’s eyes shifted from Claret to her owner. “She’s a sniffer dog, isn’t she?”

Cafferty’s smile broadened, and he leaned down to pat Claret’s side. “Customs and Excise pensioned her off. I don’t like my staff doing drugs, so I thought she might come in handy.”

Rebus nodded. He remembered the video footage: the van going into the warehouse . . . then a wait as they realized they didn’t know where the consignment was. A quick call, and Claret had been driven there in another van. A few minutes later, it was mission accomplished.

“You didn’t have time to steal another van,” Rebus said, “so I’m guessing you used one of your own . . . that’s why you blacked out the license plate . . .”

Cafferty waved his fork at him. “As it happens, one of my vans was stolen Saturday night . . . found it burnt out in Wester Hailes . . .” There was silence between them for a moment, then Cafferty sniffed and slid the piece of notepaper closer to himself, reading it upside down. “Another favor, eh?” His eyes gleamed. “Made any progress on the Rico Lomax case, Strawman?”

“News travels.”

“It does in this city.”

Rebus thought back six years. Dickie Diamond telling him that the manse rapist was holed up in Lomax’s caravan . . . Rebus getting there too late . . . At the end of his tether, he’d torched the caravan and paid a visit to Barlinnie, not to ask Cafferty a favor but merely to tell him the story, hoping Cafferty’s contacts would succeed where he had failed. But that hadn’t happened. Instead, his men had attacked Rico Lomax, beating him mercilessly and leaving him to die. Which hadn’t been Rebus’s plan at all. Not that Cafferty had believed him. When Rebus had returned to Barlinnie to rage at him, Cafferty had laughed, sitting with arms folded.

We should be careful what we wish for, Strawman . . . The words ringing in Rebus’s ears all down the years . . .

“The Lomax case is closed,” he stated now.

Cafferty lifted the address, folded it into the pocket of his clean white shirt. “Funny the way things sometimes turn out,” he said.

“And is the Weasel busy laughing as we speak?” Rebus asked.

“He’s history,” Cafferty said, brushing toast crumbs from his fingers. “Think his son could have come up with a scheme like that? Weasel was about to make a move on me. Then he got cold feet, shopped Aly . . .” Cafferty made sure there were no crumbs on his shirtfront or trousers, then dabbed his mouth with a cotton napkin. He looked at Rebus and sighed. “Always nice to do business with you, Strawman . . .”

Rebus stood up, fearing at first that his legs might not support him. His whole body felt like it was turning to dust . . . the dull sensation of ashes in his mouth.

I’ve made a pact with the devil, he thought as his hands gripped the edge of the breakfast table. Resurrection would come only to those who deserved it; Rebus knew he was not among them. He could find a church and pray all he liked, or offer up his confession to Strathern. Neither would make a jot of difference. This was how the jobs got done: with a tainted conscience, guilty deals, and complicity. With grubby motives and a spirit grown corrupt. His steps were so shallow as he walked towards the door, he could have been wearing shackles.

“I’ll be seeing you in court one of these days, Cafferty,” he said, his words failing to have any effect. It was as though Cafferty had ceased to see him, his annihilation complete.

“One of these days,” he repeated under his breath, hoping to God that he meant it . . .

Allan Ward woke up late that morning. He was making his way to the dining room when Stu Sutherland, looking sprightly as the course neared its end, told him there was a “mysterious envelope” waiting for him at reception. Ward passed the dining room and opened the connecting door to the original baronial-style building, where a uniformed receptionist handed him a thick legal-sized packet. He opened it in front of her, knew at once what it was. A typed report of Rebus’s findings. Deciding to skip breakfast for once, Allan Ward headed back to his room. He had some reading to do . . .