Resurrection Men

“I could dance all over you, my friend.”

  “Promises, promises. What the hell are you doing spoiling my holiday, Claverhouse?” Andrea Thomson raised an eyebrow at the word “holiday.” Rebus responded with a wink. Deprived of her chair, she’d slid one buttock up onto the desk.

  “I heard you’d offered your chief super a cuppa.”

  “And you called for a quick gloat?”

  “Not a bit of it. Much though it pains me to say it, we just might require your services.”

  Rebus stood up slowly, taking the phone with him. “Is this a windup?”

  “I wish it was.”

  Seeing her chance, Andrea Thomson had reclaimed her empty chair. Rebus walked around her, still holding the phone in one hand, receiver in the other.

  “I’m stuck out here,” he said. “I don’t see how I can . . .”

  “Might help if we tell you what we want.”

  “We?”

  “Me and Ormiston. I’m calling from the car.”

  “And where’s the car exactly?”

  “Visitors’ car park. So get your raggedy arse down here pronto.”

  Claverhouse and Ormiston had worked in the past for the Scottish Crime Squad, Number 2 Branch, based at the Big House — otherwise known as Lothian and Borders Police HQ. The SCS dealt with big cases: drug dealing, conspiracies and cover-ups, crimes at the highest level. Rebus knew both men of old. Only now the SCS had been swallowed up by the Drug Enforcement Agency, taking Claverhouse and Ormiston with it. They were in the car park all right, and easily identified: Ormiston in the driver’s seat of an old black taxicab, Claverhouse playing passenger in the back. Rebus got in beside him.

  “What the hell’s this?”

  “Great for undercover work,” Claverhouse said, patting the doorframe. “Nobody bats an eye at a black cab.”

  “They do when it’s in the middle of the bloody countryside.”

  Claverhouse conceded as much with a slight angling of his head. “But then we’re not on surveillance, are we?”

  Rebus had to agree that he had a point. He lit himself a cigarette, ignoring the NO SMOKING signs and Ormiston’s willful winding down of the front windows. Claverhouse had recently been promoted to detective inspector, and Ormiston detective sergeant. They made for an odd pairing — Claverhouse tall and thin, almost skeletal, his figure accentuated by jackets which he usually kept buttoned; Ormiston shorter and stockier, oily black hair ending almost in ringlets, giving him the appearance of a Roman emperor. Claverhouse did most of the talking, reducing Ormiston to a role of brooding menace.

  But Claverhouse was the one to watch.

  “How’s Tulliallan treating you, John?” he asked now. The use of his first name seemed portentous to Rebus.

  “It’s fine.” Rebus slid his own window down, flicked out some ash.

  “Which other bad boys have they cornered this time round?”

  “Stu Sutherland and Tam Barclay . . . Jazz McCullough . . . Francis Gray . . .”

  “That’s about as motley as a crew could come.”

  “I seem to fit right in.”

  “There’s a surprise,” Ormiston snorted.

  “No tip for you, driver,” Rebus said, flicking his nails against the Plexiglas screen which separated him from Ormiston.

  “Speaking of which,” Claverhouse said. It was a signal. Ormiston turned the ignition, crunched into first gear and started off.

  Rebus turned to Claverhouse. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re just having a chat, that’s all.”

  “I’ll get detention for this.”

  Claverhouse smiled. “I’ve had a word with your headmaster. He said it would be okay.” He leaned back in the seat. The cab clanked and rattled, doors juddering. Rebus could feel each spring beneath the frayed leather seat cover.

  “I hope you’ve got breakdown insurance,” Rebus complained.

  “I’m always covered, John, you know that.” They were leaving the college grounds, turning left towards the Kincardine Bridge. Claverhouse turned to face the window, taking in the view. “It’s about your friend Cafferty,” he said.

  Rebus bristled. “He’s not my friend.”

  Claverhouse had spotted a thread on the leg of his trousers. He picked it up now, as though it were more pertinent than Rebus’s denial. “Actually, it’s not Big Ger so much as his chief of staff.”

  Rebus frowned. “The Weasel?” He caught Ormiston watching him in the rearview, thought he could make out a certain reticence, mixed with excitement. The pair of them believed they were onto something. Whatever it was, they needed Rebus’s help but weren’t sure they could trust him. Rebus himself knew the rumors: that he was too close to Cafferty, that they were too much alike in so many ways.

  “The Weasel never seems to put a foot wrong,” Claverhouse continued. “When Cafferty went away, that should have been the end of him in Edinburgh.”

  Rebus nodded slowly: during Cafferty’s time in jail, the Weasel had kept his city warm for him.

  “Just wondering,” Claverhouse mused, “if, with Cafferty back behind the wheel, our friend the Weasel maybe feels a bit aggrieved. From driver’s seat to backseat, so to speak.”

  “Some people prefer to be chauffeured. You won’t get to Cafferty through the Weasel.”

  Ormiston noisily cleared his nostrils, the sound of a snuffling bull. “Maybe aye, maybe no,” he said.

  Claverhouse didn’t say anything, just held his body very still. Even so, his partner seemed to get the message. Rebus doubted he’d hear another word from Ormiston until Claverhouse gave the nod.

  “Can’t be done,” Rebus felt it necessary to stress.

  Now Claverhouse turned his head and fixed him with a stare. “We’ve got some leverage. The Weasel’s son’s been a bit naughty.”

  “I didn’t even know he had one.”

  Claverhouse blinked slowly in lieu of nodding: it took less energy. “His name’s Aly.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “Started a little business of his own: Morningside speed predominantly, but also a bit of Billy Whizz and wacky baccy.”

  “You’ve charged him?” Rebus asked. They’d left the bridge far behind and were on the M9, heading east. The oil refinery at Grangemouth would be off to their left in the next few minutes.

  “That depends,” Claverhouse was saying by way of an answer.

  It was like a Polaroid developing in front of him — Rebus saw the full picture now. “You’ll do a trade with the Weasel?”

  “That’s what we’re hoping.”

  Rebus was thoughtful. “He still won’t go for it.”

  “Then Aly’s going down. Could be a long one, too.”

  Rebus looked at him. “How much stuff did you catch him with?”

  “We thought it would be best if we showed you.”

  Which was just what they did.

  West Edinburgh, a commercial estate just off Gorgie Road. The place had seen better days. Rebus got the idea the only growth industry would be in security — protecting vacated premises from vandalism and arson. The warehouse was ringed by a chain-link fence, twenty-four-hour guard detail on the gate. Rebus had been there before, years back: a weapons haul in the back of a truck. The truck inside the warehouse this time round didn’t look so different, except that it had been stripped, many of its component parts laid out in order on the concrete floor. Doors and panels had been unbolted and unscrewed. All the wheels had been jacked up and removed, their tires taken off. A couple of boxes provided a makeshift step. Rebus climbed up and peered inside the cab. The seats weren’t there, and the flooring had been sliced away to reveal a secret compartment, now empty. Rebus climbed down again and walked around the back of the lorry to where the haul now lay, the whole lot displayed on a length of light-blue tarpaulin. Not all the packages had been opened as yet. A chemist — one of the forensics crew from the labs at Howdenhall — was working with test tubes and solutions. He’d dispensed with the white coat and was dr
essed for the cold in a bright-red ski jacket and woolen tammy. He’d labeled about half the clear-wrapped packets. There were maybe fifty left to go through . . .

  Nearby, Ormiston was snuffling again. Rebus turned to Claverhouse, who was warming his hands by blowing on them. “Better watch Ormy doesn’t get too close to the drugs. He could end up hoovering the lot.”

  Claverhouse smiled. Ormiston muttered something Rebus didn’t catch.

  “It looks like a fair haul,” Rebus commented. “Who ratted him out?”

  “Nobody. We got a lucky break, that’s all. Knew Aly had been doing a bit of dealing.”

  “You’d no idea he was shifting quantities like this?”

  “Not a scooby.”

  Rebus looked around. It was much more than a fair haul; they all knew it. Bulk like this, it was a PR coup. Yet there was nobody here but himself, the two SDEA men and the chemist. Drug runs from the Continent were usually a job for Customs and Excise . . .

  “It’s aboveboard,” Claverhouse said, reading Rebus’s face. “Carswell gave us the nod.”

  Carswell was the assistant chief constable. Rebus had had run-ins with the ACC before.

  “Does he know about me?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Let’s see if I’ve got this. You stopped a lorry, found a heap of illegal substances. It’s enough to put the Weasel’s son away for ten years . . .” He broke off. “How does the Weasel’s son tie in exactly?”

  “Aly’s a lorry driver. Long-distance a specialty.”

  “You were tailing him?”

  “We just had an inkling. Arsehole was smoking a joint in a rest area when we stopped him.”

  “No Customs involvement?”

  Claverhouse shook his head slowly. “Stopped him on spec. Docket showed he’d been delivering computer printers to Hatfield, bringing back a load of software and computer games.” Claverhouse nodded towards the far corner of the warehouse, where half a dozen pallets sat. “Aly started shitting it the minute we introduced ourselves . . .”

  Rebus watched the chemist pouring himself some tea from a flask. “And you want me to do what exactly? Talk to his dad, see if I can fix a deal?”

  “You know the Weasel better than we do. Maybe he’ll listen to you. Just two fathers having a little chat . . .”

  Rebus stared at Claverhouse, wondering how much the man knew. A little while back, when Rebus’s daughter had been put in a wheelchair, the Weasel had found the culprit, handed him over to Rebus in a warehouse not unlike this one . . .

  “Can’t do any harm, can it?” Claverhouse’s voice was a soft echo, bouncing off the corrugated walls.

  “He won’t shop Cafferty,” Rebus said quietly. But his own words lacked the power to resonate like Claverhouse’s.

  4

  Lateral thinking.

  It had been Davie Hynds’s idea. Interviewing the deceased’s friends and business acquaintances was all well and good, but sometimes you got a clearer picture by going elsewhere.

  “Another art dealer, I mean,” he’d said.

  So Siobhan and Hynds found themselves in a small gallery owned by Dominic Mann. It was located in the city’s west end, just off Queensferry Street, and Mann hadn’t been there long.

  “Soon as I saw the place, I knew it was a good location.”

  Siobhan glanced out of the window. “Bit of a backwater for shops,” she mused. Offices to one side, a solicitor’s to the other.

  “Not a bit of it,” Mann snapped. “Vettriano used to live quite near here. Maybe his luck will rub off on me.”

  Siobhan was looking puzzled, so Hynds stepped in. “I like his stuff. Self-taught, too.”

  “Some of the galleries don’t like him — jealous, if you ask me. But as I always say, you can’t argue with success. I’d have represented him like a shot.”

  Siobhan had turned her attention to a nearby painting. It was bright orange, titled Incorporation, and priced at a very reasonable £8,975, which was just a shade more than her car had cost. “How about Malcolm Neilson?”

  Mann rolled his eyes. He was in his mid-forties, with bottle-blond hair and a tight little two-piece suit in a color Siobhan would have called puce. Green slip-on shoes and a pale-green T-shirt. The west end was probably the only safe place for him. “Malcolm is a nightmare to work with. He doesn’t understand words like ‘cooperation’ and ‘restraint.’ ”

  “You’ve represented him then?”

  “Only the once. A mixed show. Eleven artists, and Malcolm quite ruined the private view, pointing out imagined defects to the clients.”

  “Does anyone represent him now?”

  “Probably. He still sells overseas. I imagine there’s someone somewhere taking their cut.”

  “Ever come across a collector called Cafferty?” Siobhan asked innocently.

  Mann angled his head thoughtfully. “Local, is he?”

  “Fairly.”

  “Only he sounds Irish, and I have a few enthusiastic clients in the Dublin area.”

  “Edinburgh-based.”

  “In that case, I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. Would he be interested in joining my mailing list?”

  Hynds, who had been flicking through a catalogue, closed it. “I’m sorry if this sounds callous, sir, but would Edward Marber’s demise benefit other art dealers in the city?”

  “How so?”

  “Well, his clients will have to go somewhere . . .”

  “I see what you mean.”

  Siobhan locked eyes with Hynds. They could almost hear the working of Dominic Mann’s brain as the simple truth of this hit home. He’d probably be busy late into the evening, enlarging his mailing list.

  “Every cloud,” he said at last, not bothering to finish the sentence.

  “Do you know the art dealer Cynthia Bessant?” Siobhan asked.

  “My dear, everyone knows Madame Cyn.”

  “She seems to have been Mr. Marber’s closest friend.”

  Dominic Mann appeared to pout. “That could be true, I suppose.”

  “You don’t sound too sure, sir.”

  “Well, it’s true they were great friends . . .”

  Siobhan’s eyes narrowed. There was something Mann wasn’t saying, something he wanted to have prized out of him. Suddenly he clapped his hands.

  “Does Cynthia inherit?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.” But she did know: Marber’s will left portions of his estate to various charities and friends — including Cynthia Bessant—and the residue to a sister and two nephews in Australia. The sister had been contacted but had said that it would be difficult for her to come to Scotland, leaving Marber’s solicitor and accountant to deal with everything. Siobhan was hoping they’d charge well for their services.

  “I suppose Cyn deserves it more than most,” Mann was musing. “Sometimes Eddie treated her like his bloody servant.” He looked at Siobhan, then at Hynds. “I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, but Eddie wasn’t the easiest friend anyone could have. The occasional tantrum or rudeness.”

  “But people put up with it?” The question came from Hynds.

  “Oh, he was charming, too, and he could be generous.”

  “Mr. Mann,” Siobhan said, “did Mr. Marber have any close friends? Closer than Ms. Bessant, I mean.”

  Mann’s eyes twinkled. “You mean lovers?”

  Siobhan nodded slowly. This was what Mann had wanted to be asked. His whole body seemed to writhe with pleasure.

  “Well, Eddie’s tastes . . .”

  “I think we can guess at Mr. Marber’s proclivities,” Hynds interrupted, aiming for levity. Siobhan fixed him with a stare: No guesses, she wanted to hiss.

  Mann was looking at Hynds too. He held his hands against his cheekbones. “My God,” he gasped, “you think Eddie was gay, don’t you?”

  Hynds’s face sagged. “Well, wasn’t he?”

  The art dealer forced a smile. “My dear, wouldn’t I have known if he was?”

  Now Hynds l
ooked to Siobhan.

  “We got the impression from Ms. Bessant . . .”

  “I don’t call her Madame Cyn for nothing,” Mann said. He’d stepped forward to straighten one of the paintings. “She was always good at protecting Eddie.”

  “Protecting him from what?” Siobhan asked.

  “From the world . . . from prying eyes . . .” He looked around, as though the gallery were filled with potential eavesdroppers, then leaned in towards Siobhan. “Rumor was, Eddie only liked short-term relationships. You know, with professional women.”

  Hynds opened his mouth, ready with a question.

  “I think,” Siobhan told him, “Mr. Mann means prostitutes.”

  Mann started nodding, moistening the corners of his mouth with his tongue. The secret was out, and he couldn’t have been more thrilled . . .

  “I’ll do it,” the Weasel said.

  He was a small, gaunt man, always dressed just this side of ragged. On the street, he’d be taken for a transient, someone not worth bothering or bothering about. This was his skill. Chauffeured Jaguars took him around the city, doing Big Ger Cafferty’s work. But as soon as he stepped from them, he got in character again and became as conspicuous as a piece of litter.

  Normally, he worked out of Cafferty’s cab-hire office, but Rebus knew they couldn’t meet there. He’d called from his mobile, asked to speak with the Weasel. “Just tell him it’s John from the warehouse.”

  They’d arranged to meet on the towpath of the Union Canal, half a mile from the cab office. It was a route Rebus hadn’t taken in many a year. He could smell yeast from the local brewery. Birds were paddling in the canal’s oily water. Coots? Moorhens? He’d never been good with names.

  “Ever do any ornithology?” he asked the Weasel.

  “I was only in hospital once, appendicitis.”

  “It means bird-watching,” Rebus said, though he suspected the Weasel knew this as well as he did, the two-short-planks routine part of his image, inviting the unwary to underestimate him.

  “Oh aye,” he said now, nodding. Then: “Tell them I’ll do it.”

  “I haven’t told you what they want.”

  “I know what they want.”