by Ian Rankin
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?
22
At 4:10 P.M, Malcolm Neilson was arrested on suspicion of the murder of Edward Marber. DC Grant Hood, who’d been placed in charge of media liaison, was in his element. Two murders, two suspects in custody, both charged. The newspapers and TV wanted to know all about it, and he was the person they needed to charm. Hood knew what questions they would a
sk, and was scuttling around the inquiry room in search of answers. He’d nipped home and changed into a dark-gray suit which he’d had made for him at Ede and Ravenscroft. The sleeves had been shortened so as to expose a few inches of shirt cuff, emphasizing the gold cuff links.
Hood would tell you that it was all for the cameras. You had to look professional. Others had a different view.
“Is he a nancy boy or something?” Allan Ward asked Rebus.
“Don’t worry, Allan,” Rebus assured him. “You’re not his type.” They were in the car park: cigarette break. The team in IR1 was still brooding over Dickie Diamond’s statement. Opinions ranged from “not worth the paper it’s printed on” to “Chib Kelly’s our man for sure.”
“What do you reckon?” Ward asked Rebus now.
“I’m with Tennant. Our job’s to compile the evidence. It’s down to someone else to decide if it’s a pack of lies or not.”
“Not like you to side with Half-Pint,” Ward commented.
That nickname again: Half-Pint. Rebus wondered if any of the others knew about it.
“Tell me, Allan . . . have Jazz and Francis had a chance to speak to you yet?”
“What about?”
“That sort of answers my question.” Rebus took pity on Ward’s look of befuddlement. “A wee scheme we’ve got going. You might qualify for a share.”
“What sort of scheme?”
Rebus tapped his nose. “Tell me . . . how welcome would a bit of cash be?”
Ward shrugged. “Depends whose cash it is.”
Rebus nodded but kept quiet. Ward was about to press him when the door burst open and a bunch of uniforms streamed out towards their cars, followed by Hynds, Hawes and Siobhan. Hawes cast a glance in Ward’s direction, causing him to concentrate on his cigarette. The smile she’d been preparing melted away. Ward just wasn’t interested.
“Off on a jaunt?” Rebus asked Siobhan.
“Search warrant came through.”
“Got room for one more?”
She looked at him. “You’re not part of —”
“Come on, Siobhan. Don’t give me that routine.”
“Why the interest?”
“Who said I’m interested? I just want a break from this place.” He turned towards Ward. “Can you square it with the others?”
Ward nodded with little enthusiasm. He still had questions for Rebus, and now he was being left hanging.
“Go talk to Jazz and Francis,” Rebus advised him. Then he stubbed out his cigarette and made for Siobhan’s car. She’d already said something to Phyllida Hawes, who was vacating the passenger seat and joining Hynds in the back instead.
“Cheers, Phyl,” Rebus said, taking her place. “So where are we off to?”
“Inveresk. Malcolm Neilson has a house there.”
“I thought he lived in Stockbridge?”
Hynds leaned forward. “He mostly uses that as a studio. Something to do with the quality of the light . . .”
Rebus ignored this. “So Inveresk first, Stockbridge next?”
Siobhan was shaking her head. “Linford and Silvers are in charge of another team. They’re headed for Stockbridge.”
“Leaving Neilson to stew back in the cells?”
“He’s got Gill Templer and Bill Pryde for company.”
“Those two haven’t conducted a decent interview in years.”
“Haven’t let a prisoner escape either,” Phyllida Hawes added. Rebus looked in the rearview, returned her smile.
“What exactly is it we’re hoping to find?” he asked Siobhan.
“God knows,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Maybe he kept some sort of diary,” Hynds offered.
“Why I’m a Cold-Blooded Killer?” Hawes suggested as a title.
“Inveresk’s nice, though,” Rebus mused. “Must be a few bob in this painting lark.”
“He has a place in France, too,” Hawes added. “Though I notice we’re not getting the chance to search that.”
Siobhan turned towards Rebus. “Local gendarmes will do the job for us, just as soon as we can find someone who knows enough French to submit the request.”
“Could take a while then.” Rebus glanced into the rearview. “Maybe that’s where your diary is.”
“Pourquoi Je Suis un Tueur Avec le Sang Froid?” Hynds offered. Everything went very still in the car. Siobhan was first to speak.
“Why didn’t you say you spoke French?”
“Nobody asked. Besides, I didn’t want to be left off the search.”
“Soon as we get back,” Siobhan said coldly, “you’re going to tell DCI Pryde.”
“I’m not sure I know enough to write something as specific as —”
“We’ll buy you a dictionary,” Siobhan stated.
“I’ll help if I can,” Rebus offered.
“And how much French do you have?”
“How about nul points?”
There was laughter from the backseat. Siobhan’s face tightened, and she seemed to grip the steering wheel harder than ever, as though right now it was the only thing in her life that was under her control.
They’d driven through the rougher outskirts of Edinburgh — Craigmillar and Niddrie — crossing the city boundary and making for Musselburgh, the self-proclaimed “Honest Toun.” Hynds asked how it had come by the title, but no one in the car could answer. Inveresk was a wealthy enclave on the edge of the town. New housing was encroaching only slowly. Most of the homes here were old, large and detached, hidden behind high walls or at the ends of long, meandering driveways. It was a place where politicians and TV celebrities could tuck themselves away from the public gaze.
“This is new to me,” Hynds said, peering out his side of the car.
“Me too,” Hawes admitted.
There wasn’t much to Inveresk, and they soon found Neilson’s house. Two patrol cars stood at its entrance — the local station had been alerted to their arrival. The media were there too, wanting photos of whatever trove was produced. The house itself was not large. Siobhan would have called it a cottage, albeit an extremely pretty one. The small front garden was well tended, consisting mostly of rose beds. Though the building was a single-story construction, dormer windows protruded from the tiled roof. Siobhan had the keys, offered up by Neilson himself once he’d been told that without them, police would force an entry. She ordered Hynds to fetch the roll of trash bags from the trunk.
Just in case they did find anything.
Hawes was in charge of the box of smaller polythene bags, plus the tags which would be attached to any useful find. Everyone was pulling on pairs of gloves, while across the road the camera shutters clicked, motors humming as the film progressed to the next frame.
Rebus held back. This was Siobhan’s show, and she was making sure everyone knew it. She’d gathered her team in a semicircle and was outlining their duties. Rebus lit a cigarette. At the sound of his lighter, she turned towards him.
“Not in the house,” she reminded him. He nodded. Contamination: ash dropped on a carpet could be misinterpreted. Rebus decided he was safer outdoors. After all, he hadn’t come here to help with the search. What he’d needed was some time away from Gray and the others . . . time to think. Siobhan was unlocking the house, throwing open its door. The officers headed in. From what Rebus could see, the hallway was much like any other. From the way she’d acted in the car, Rebus knew Siobhan thought they were wasting their time, which meant she was far from convinced that the painter was the killer. It wouldn’t stop her from being thorough. The suspect’s house had to be searched. And you never knew what you might find . . .
With most of the police having disappeared inside, the cameras had little to do but focus on the single detective left smoking a cigarette. And wouldn’t that picture appeal to Gill Templer if it found its way into the newspapers? Rebus turned his back and walked around the side of the house. There was a long, narrow garden at the rear, with a summerhouse and shed at the farthest cor
ners. A strip of lawn, bordered with flagstones. Flower beds looking overgrown, but that could have been on purpose: a wild, rambling garden . . . counterpoint to the order provided by the rose beds. Rebus didn’t know enough about either gardening or Malcolm Neilson to be able to say. He walked down to the summerhouse. It looked fairly new. Varnished wooden slats, with wood-framed and glass-paneled doors. The doors were closed, but not locked. He pulled them open. Inside: deck chairs stacked against one wall, awaiting better weather; one fairly solid wooden chair, boasting wide armrests, one of which had been hollowed out to accommodate a cup or glass. Nice touch, Rebus thought, settling into the chair. He had a view across the garden to the house itself, and could imagine the artist sitting here, maybe with the rain falling outside, snug and cozy with a drink for company.
“Lucky bugger,” he muttered.
Shapes moved behind the upstairs and downstairs windows. They’d be working two to a room, the way Siobhan had instructed. Looking for what exactly? Anything incriminating or out of place . . . anything that gave them an inkling. Rebus wished them well. What he needed, he realized, was a place like this. It felt like a haven. Somehow, he didn’t think the placement of a summerhouse in the back garden of his tenement would have the same effect. He’d thought before of selling his flat, buying a little house just outside the city — commuting distance, but a place where he could find a bit of peace. Problem was, you could have too much of a good thing. In Edinburgh, he had twenty-four-hour shops, myriad pubs within a short walk, and the constant background hum of street life. In a place like Inveresk, he feared the silence would get to him eventually, drawing him deeper into himself — not a place he really wanted to be — and defeating the whole point of the exercise.
“No place like home,” he told himself, rising out of the chair. He wasn’t going to find any answers here. His troubles were his own, and a change of scenery couldn’t alter that. He wondered about Dickie Diamond, hopefully now in the process of scurrying out of Edinburgh. He’d given his Edinburgh address as his sister’s house in Newhaven. His permanent address was a high-rise in Gateshead. They’d sent a message south, requesting a check by the local force. He’d claimed he wasn’t currently working, but neither had he registered as unemployed. No bank account . . . didn’t have his driving license with him. He hadn’t mentioned his car, and neither had Rebus. If they knew about the car, they could get an address from his license plate. Rebus knew that the Gateshead address would be fake or out-of-date. The car might well be another matter. He got on his mobile, called the comms room at St. Leonard’s and asked if the Ford’s last known sighting — looking abandoned in the New Town — could be rechecked.