Resurrection Men

by Ian Rankin

  “And his records will tell me?”

  Siobhan shook her head. “But his accountant might. The name and phone number are in there.” She tapped the file. “And don’t say I’m not generous.”

  “Who was that big bastard you were speaking to?” Hynds nodded in the direction of Linford’s desk.

  “Detective Inspector Francis Gray. He’s part of the Tulliallan posse.”

  “He’s a big bloke.”

  “The bigger they are, the harder they fall, Davie.”

  “If that bugger ever looks like falling, here’s hoping we’re not in the vicinity.” He stared at the folder. “Anything else I should be asking the accountant?”

  “You could ask him if there’s anything he’s been hiding from us, or his client might have been hiding from him.”

  “Rare paintings? Bundles of cash?”

  “Those’ll do for a start.” She paused. “Think you can manage this one on your own, Davie?”

  Hynds nodded. “No problem, DS Clarke. And what will you be up to while I’m toiling at the workface?”

  “I have to go see a friend.” She smiled. “But don’t worry: it’s strictly business.”

  Lothian and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue was known to most of the local force as “the Big House.” Either that or “Rear Window,” which didn’t refer to the Hitchcock film but to an embarrassing episode when vital documents had been stolen from the building by someone who’d climbed in through an open window on the ground floor.

  Fettes Avenue was a wide thoroughfare which ended at the gates to Fettes College — Tony Blair’s old school. Fettes was where the toffs sent their kids, paying dearly for the privilege. Siobhan had yet to meet any police officers who’d been schooled there, though she knew a few from Edinburgh’s other fee-paying schools. Eric Bain, for example, had spent two years at Stewart’s Melville — years he described simply as “rough.”

  “Why rough?” she asked now as they walked down the first-floor corridor.

  “I was overweight, wore specs and liked jazz.”

  “Enough said.”

  Siobhan made to turn into a doorway, but Bain stopped her. She’d just been priding herself on her remembrance of the building’s geography, having served in the Scottish Crime Squad for a time.

  “They’ve moved,” Bain told her.

  “Since when?”

  “Since the SCS became the SDEA.”

  He led her two doors farther along and into a large office. “This is what the Drug Enforcement Agency get. Me, I’m in a closet next floor up.”

  “So why are we here?”

  Bain seated himself behind a desk. Siobhan found a chair and dragged it across.

  “Because,” he answered, “for so long as the SDEA need me, I get a window and a view.” He swiveled on his chair, peering out at the scenery. There was a laptop computer on the desk, a pile of paperwork beside it. On the floor were stacked little black and silver boxes — peripherals of some description. Most of them looked homemade, and Siobhan would bet that Bain had constructed them himself, maybe even designed them, too. In a parallel universe somewhere, a billionaire Eric Bain was sitting by the pool of his Californian mansion . . . and the Edinburgh police were struggling with cybercrimes of all descriptions.

  “So what can I do for you?” he asked.

  “I’m wondering about Cafferty. I need some confirmation that he owns the Sauna Paradiso.”

  Bain blinked a couple of times. “Is that it? An e-mail or phone call would have sufficed.” He paused. “Not that I’m not pleased to see you.”

  She considered her response. “Linford’s back. Maybe I just wanted an excuse to get away.”

  “Linford? Major Peeping Tom himself?” She’d told Bain all about Linford. It had come spilling out almost the first night he’d visited her. She’d told him why she was wary of visitors; why she closed her shutters most evenings . . .

  “He’s filling in for Rebus.”

  “A tough job for anyone.” He watched her nodding. “So how’s he acting?”

  “As slimy as I remember . . . I don’t know, he seems to be trying . . . and then he lets the mask slip.”

  “Ugh.”

  She shifted in her seat. “Look, I really didn’t come here to talk about Derek Linford.”

  “No, but I’m sure it helps.”

  She smiled, acknowledging the truth of this. “Cafferty?” she said.

  “Cafferty’s finances are byzantine. We can’t be sure if people are fronting for him, or if he might have money sunk into someone else’s scheme, a sort of silent partner or shareholder.”

  “With nothing put down in writing?”

  “These aren’t people who worry too much about the Department of Trade and Industry.”

  “So what have you got?”

  Bain was already firing up his laptop. “Not a whole lot,” he confessed. “Claverhouse and Ormiston seemed interested for a while, but that appears to be passing. They’ve gotten all excited about something else . . . something they’re not exactly willing to share. Not long now till I’m dispatched to the broom closet . . .”

  “Why were they interested?”

  “My guess is that they want Cafferty back behind bars.”

  “So it was just a speculative trawl?”

  “You have to speculate to accumulate, Siobhan.” Bain was reading what was written on the screen. Siobhan knew better than to maneuver around behind him to read it for herself. He would shut the screen down rather than let her see. It was a question of territory for him, despite their friendship. He could snoop around her flat, checking her cupboards and CDs, but there were things he felt he had to hide from her, keeping that slight but tangible distance. No one, it seemed, was allowed to get too close to Bain.

  “Friend Cafferty,” he said now, “has interests in at least two Edinburgh saunas, and may have spread his wings as far as Fife and Dundee. The thing about the Paradiso is, we don’t really know who owns it. There’s a paper trail, but it leads to semi-respectable business types who probably are a front for someone else.”

  “And you’re guessing that someone is Cafferty?”

  Bain shrugged. “Like you say, it’s a guess . . .”

  Siobhan had a thought. “What about taxi companies?”

  Bain hit some more keys. “Yep, private hire firms. Exclusive Cars in Edinburgh, and a few smaller outfits dotted around West Lothian and Midlothian.”

  “Not MG Cabs?”

  “Where are they based?”

  “Lochend.”

  Bain studied the screen and shook his head.

  “You know Cafferty runs a lettings agency?” Siobhan asked.

  “He started that particular venture two months ago.”

  “Do you know why?” She waited while Bain considered her question. He shook his head, watching her. “Care to make a guess?” she asked.

  “I haven’t a clue, Siobhan, sorry. Is it relevant?”

  “Right now, Eric, I don’t know what’s relevant. I’m drowning in information, only none of it seems to add up to anything.”

  “Maybe if you reduced it to binary . . .”

  He was making fun of her, so she stuck out her tongue.

  “And to what do we owe this honor?” a voice boomed. It was Claverhouse, sauntering into the office, followed so closely by Ormiston that the two might have been connected by ankle chains.

  “Just visiting,” Siobhan said, trying not to sound flustered. Bain had assured her the two SDEA men were out for the afternoon. Claverhouse slipped off his coat and hung it on a coat stand. Ormiston, dressed for outdoors, kept his jacket on, hands in its pockets.

  “And how’s your boyfriend?” Claverhouse asked. Siobhan frowned. Did he mean Bain?

  “Last seen at Tulliallan,” Ormiston added.

  “I hear he’s got someone his own age,” Claverhouse said, mock-casually. “That must piss you off, Shiv.”

  Siobhan stared at Bain, who was reddening, readying to leap to her defe
nse. She managed to shake her head just enough for him to register the act. She had a sudden vision of Bain as a schoolkid, bullied but fighting back, earning even more derision.

  “And how’s your love life, Claverhouse?” she countered. “Ormie treating you okay?”

  Claverhouse sneered, immune to such jibes.

  “And don’t call me Shiv,” she added. She could hear a phone trilling distantly. It was hers, tucked deep down in her bag. She wrestled it out and held it to her ear.

  “Clarke,” she said.

  “You wanted me to call you,” the voice said. She placed it immediately: Cafferty. She took a second to compose herself.

  “I was wondering about MG Cabs,” she said.

  “MG? Ellen Dempsey’s outfit?”

  “One of their drivers took Edward Marber home.”

  “So?”

  “So it seemed like a strange coincidence, MG Cabs having the same initials as your lettings agency.” Siobhan had forgotten about the people around her. She was focusing on Cafferty’s words, his phrasing and tone of voice.

  “That’s what it is, though: a coincidence. I noticed it myself a while back, even thought of stealing the name.”

  “Why didn’t you, Mr. Cafferty?” Siobhan, with the phone tucked into her chin, couldn’t see behind her, but Bain was suddenly staring over her shoulder. She glanced round and saw that Claverhouse was as rigid as a statue.

  Because he knew now who was on the phone.

  “Ellen’s got friends, Siobhan,” Cafferty was saying.

  “What sort of friends?”

  “The sort it’s not worth crossing.” She could almost see his cruel, cold smile.

  “I doubt there’s anyone you wouldn’t cross, Mr. Cafferty,” she offered. “You’re saying you have no dealings with MG Cabs?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Out of curiosity, who was it called a cab that night?”

  “Not me.”

  “I’m not saying it was.”

  “Probably Marber himself.”

  “You didn’t see him do it?”

  “You reckon MG Cabs had something to do with it?”

  “I don’t ‘reckon’ anything, Mr. Cafferty. I’m just going by the book.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All that time with Rebus, didn’t anything rub off on you?”

  She chose not to answer. Something else had occurred to her. “How did you get this number?”

  “I called the station . . . one of your colleagues gave me it.”

  “Which one?” She didn’t like the idea of Cafferty having access to her mobile.

  “The one I spoke to . . . I don’t remember the name.” She knew he was lying. “I’m not about to start stalking you, Siobhan.”

  “Just as well for you.”

  “You’ve got more balls than Tynecastle, did you know that?”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Cafferty.” She cut off the call, sat and watched the display for a moment, wondering if he’d call back.

  “Mr. Cafferty she calls him!” Claverhouse exploded. “What was all that about?”

  “He was returning a call.”

  “Did he happen to know where you were?”

  “I don’t think so.” She paused. “Only Davie Hynds knew I was coming here.”

  “And me,” Bain added.

  “And you,” she conceded. “But he got my mobile number from someone at St. Leonard’s. I don’t think he knew I was here.”

  Claverhouse was pacing the room, while Ormiston rested his bulk against the edge of one of the desks, hands still in his pockets. It took more than a call from Cafferty to fire him up.

  “Cafferty!” Claverhouse exclaimed. “Right here in this room!”

  “You should have said hello,” Ormiston suggested, his voice a quiet growl.

  “It’s like he’s infected this fucking place,” Claverhouse spat, but his pace was slowing. “What’s your interest in him?” he finally got round to asking.

  “He was one of Edward Marber’s clients,” Siobhan explained. “He was at the gallery the night Marber was killed.”

  “That’s your man then,” Claverhouse decreed. “Look no further.”

  “It would be nice to have some proof, though,” Siobhan told him.

  “Is that what Brains is helping you with?” Ormiston asked.

  “I wanted to know about Cafferty’s relationship with the Sauna Paradiso,” she admitted.

  “Why?”

  “Because the deceased may have been a client.” She was hedging her bets, not wanting to give away too much. It wasn’t just the Rebus connection; even between cops on the same force, there was this mistrust, this unwillingness to dilute information by spreading it around.

  “Blackmail then,” Claverhouse said. “That’s your motive.”

  “I don’t know,” Siobhan said. “There’s a rumor Marber might have been cheating clients.”

  “Bing!” Claverhouse said, snapping his fingers. “Every frame you put on the wall, Cafferty fits it perfectly.”

  “An interesting image, under the circs,” Bain commented.

  Siobhan was thoughtful. “Who would Cafferty not want to tangle with?” she asked.

  “You mean apart from us?” Ormiston said with the beginnings of a smile. For a while, he’d sported a bushy black mustache, but had shaved it off. Siobhan noticed that the difference made him seem younger.

  “Apart from you, Ormie,” she said.

  “Why?” Claverhouse asked. “What did he say?” He’d stopped pacing, but couldn’t get comfortable, standing legs apart in the middle of the room, arms folded.

  “Some vague mention of people he didn’t want to cross.”

  “He was probably bullshitting,” Ormiston said.

  Bain scratched his nose. “Anybody out there we don’t know about?”

  Claverhouse shook his head. “Cafferty’s got Edinburgh sewn up tight.”

  Siobhan was only half listening. She was wondering if Ellen Dempsey maybe had friends outside Edinburgh . . . wondering if it would be worthwhile taking a look at the owner of MG Cabs. If Dempsey wasn’t fronting for Cafferty, was it possible she was doing it for someone else, someone trying to break Cafferty’s grip on the city?

  A little warning bell went off in her head, because if this was true, then wouldn’t Cafferty have every reason for framing Dempsey? Ellen’s got friends, Siobhan . . . the sort it’s not worth crossing. His voice had been seductive, intimate, almost reduced to a murmur. He’d been trying to get her interested. She doubted he would do that without a reason, without some ulterior motive.

  Was Cafferty trying to use her?

  Only one way to find out: take a closer look at MG Cabs and Ellen Dempsey.

  As she zoned back in on the conversation, Ormiston was saying something about how Claverhouse and he should try to get some shut-eye.

  “Surveillance op?” Bain guessed.

  Ormiston nodded, but when Bain pressed for details he just tapped his nose.

  “Top secret,” Claverhouse stated, backing up his colleague. His eyes were on Siobhan as he spoke. It was as if he suspected — knew even — that she wasn’t telling him the full story about herself and Cafferty. She thought back to the time she’d spent at Fettes as part of the Crime Squad team. Claverhouse had referred to her as “Junior,” but that seemed like a lifetime ago. She returned his stare confidently. When Claverhouse blinked first, it almost seemed like a victory.

  15

  And you haven’t seen him since?”

  The woman shook her head. She was seated in her fifth-floor flat in the Fort, a high-rise on the edge of Leith. There would have been great coastal views from the windows of the cramped living room, if they hadn’t been so filthy. The room smelled of cat pee and leftovers, not that Rebus could see any physical evidence of cats. The woman’s name was Jenny Bell and she had been Dickie Diamond’s girlfriend at the time he’d disappeared.

 
When the door had been answered by Bell, Barclay had given Rebus a look which seemed to suggest that he could see why Diamond had done a midnight flit. Bell wore no makeup, and her clothes were shapeless and gray. The seams of her slippers had given way, and so had her teeth — leaving her mouth shrunken and lacking the dentures she probably wore when expecting company. This made her speech difficult to understand, especially for Allan Ward, who sat now on the arm of the sofa, a frown of concentration drawing his eyebrows together.

  “Haven’t clapped eyes on him,” Bell stated. “He’d’ve gotten a good kicking if I had.”

  “What did everyone think when he offskied?” Rebus asked.

  “That he owed money, I suppose.”

  “And did he?”

  “Me for starters,” she said, jabbing a finger into her prodigious bosom. “Nearly two hundred he had from me.”

  “In one go?”

  She shook her head. “Bit here, bit there.”

  “How long had you been an item?” Barclay asked.

  “Four, five months.”

  “Was he staying here?”

  “Sometimes.”

  There was a radio playing somewhere, either in another room or in the flat next door. Two dogs were involved in some noisy challenge outside. Jenny Bell had the electric heater on, and the room was stifling. Rebus didn’t suppose it helped that he and Ward had been drinking, adding alcoholic fumes to the general miasma. Bobby Hogan had given them Bell’s address, but made some excuse and headed back to the station. Rebus didn’t blame him.

  “Miss Bell,” he said now, “did you ever go to the caravan with Dickie?”

  “A few weekends,” she admitted, almost with a leer. Meaning: dirty weekends. Rebus could sense Ward give an involuntary shiver as the image filled his consciousness. Bell’s eyes had narrowed. She was concentrating on Rebus. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

  “Could be,” Rebus admitted. “I do a bit of drinking down this way.”

  She shook her head slowly. “This was a long time back. In a bar . . .”

  “Like I say —”

  “Weren’t you with Dickie?”

  Rebus shook his head; Ward and Barclay were studying him. Hogan had hinted that Bell’s memory was “shot to hell.” Hogan had been mistaken . . .