Friday morning, they were back on the Lomax case. Tennant had asked for a progress report. Several pairs of eyes had gone to Francis Gray, but Gray himself stared levelly at Rebus.
“John’s put in more hours than any of us,” he said. “Go on, John, tell the man what we’ve found.”
Rebus took a sip of coffee first, gathering his thoughts. “Mostly what we’ve got is conjecture, not much of it new. The feeling is, someone was waiting for the victim. They knew where he’d be, what time he’d be there. Thing is, that alley was used by the working girls, yet none of them saw anyone hanging around.”
“Not the world’s most reliable witnesses, are they?” Tennant interrupted.
Rebus looked at him. “They don’t always want to come forward, if that’s what you mean.”
Tennant shrugged by way of an answer. He was circling the table. Rebus wondered if he’d noticed that there were fewer hangovers this morning. Sure, some of them still looked like their faces had been drawn by kids armed with crayons, but Allan Ward had no need of his designer sunglasses, and Stu Sutherland’s eyes were dark ringed but not bloodshot.
“You think it’s a gang thing?” Tennant asked.
“That’s our favored explanation, same as it was with the original inquiry team.”
“But . . . ?” Tennant was facing Rebus from the other side of the table.
“But,” Rebus obliged, “there are problems. If it was a gang hit, how come no one seemed to know? The CID in Glasgow have their informers, but nobody’d heard anything. A wall of silence is one thing, but there’s usually a crack somewhere, sometime down the road.”
“And what do you glean from that?”
It was Rebus’s turn to shrug. “Nothing. It’s just a bit odd, that’s all.”
“What about Lomax’s friends and associates?”
“They make the Wild Bunch look like the Seven Dwarves.” There were a couple of snorts from the table. “Mr. Lomax’s widow, Fenella, was an early suspect. Rumor was, she’d been playing around behind hubby’s back. Couldn’t prove anything, and she wasn’t about to tell us.”
Francis Gray pulled his shoulders back. “She’s since hitched her wagon to Chib Kelly.”
“He sounds delightful,” Tennant said.
“Chib owns a couple of pubs in Govan, so he’s used to being behind bars.”
“Do I take it that’s where he is now?”
Gray nodded. “A wee stretch in Barlinnie: fencing stolen goods. His pubs do more business than most branches of Curry’s. Fenella won’t be pining — plenty men in Govan know what she likes for breakfast . . .”
Tennant nodded thoughtfully. “DI Barclay, you don’t look happy.”
Barclay folded his arms. “I’m fine, sir.”
“Sure?”
Barclay unfolded the arms again while attempting to find space beneath the table to cross his legs. “It’s just that this is the first we’ve heard of it.”
“Heard of Mrs. Lomax and Chib Kelly?” Tennant waited until Barclay had nodded, then turned his attention to Gray.
“Well, DI Gray? Isn’t this supposed to be a team effort?”
Francis Gray made a point of not looking at Barclay. “Didn’t think it pertinent, sir. There’s nothing to show that Fenella and Chib knew one another when Rico was around.”
Tennant pushed out his lips. “Satisfied, DI Barclay?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“What about the rest of you? Was DI Gray right to hold back on you?”
“I can’t see that it did any harm,” Jazz McCullough said, to nods of agreement.
“Any chance we can question Mrs. Lomax?” Allan Ward piped up.
Tennant was standing right behind him. “I don’t think so.”
“Not much chance of us getting a result then, is there?”
Tennant leaned down over Ward’s shoulder. “I didn’t think results were your forte, DC Ward.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ward was beginning to rise to his feet, but Tennant slapped a restraining hand on the back of his neck.
“Sit down and I’ll tell you.” When Ward was seated again, Tennant left his hand where it was for a few seconds, then moved away, once more circling the table. “This case might be dormant, but it’s not extinct. You prove to me that you need to check on something, maybe interview someone, and I’ll fix it up. But I will need to be persuaded. In the past, DC Ward, you’ve been a mite overenthusiastic as far as interview technique is involved.”
“That was a piece of lying junkie scum,” Ward spat.
“And since his complaint was not upheld, we must naturally concede that you did nothing wrong.” Though Tennant beamed a smile in Ward’s direction, Rebus had seldom seen a face look less amused. Then Tennant clapped his hands together. “To work, gentlemen! Today I’d like to see you get through the interview transcripts. Work in pairs if it makes it easier.” He pointed to where a clean white marker board had been placed against the wall. “I want the path of the original inquiry laid out for me, along with comments and criticisms. Anything they missed, all the side roads, especially ones you feel they should maybe have ventured down a little farther.” As Stu Sutherland let out a perceptible groan, Tennant fixed him with a stare. “Anyone who doesn’t see the point of this can head back downstairs.” He checked his watch. “The uniformed recruits will be starting their three-mile run in the next quarter of an hour. Plenty of time to change into your vest and shorts, DS Sutherland.”
“I’m fine, sir,” Sutherland said, making a show of patting his stomach. “Bit of indigestion, that’s all.”
Tennant glowered at him, then left the room. Slowly, the six men turned back into a team again, sharing out the piles of paperwork. Rebus noticed that Tam Barclay kept his head down, keen to avoid eye contact with Francis Gray. Gray was working with Jazz McCullough. At one point, Rebus thought he heard Gray say, “Know what ‘Barclays’ is rhyming slang for down south?” but McCullough didn’t take the bait.
After almost an hour had passed, Stu Sutherland closed another file and slapped it down onto the pile in front of him, then got up to stretch his legs and back. He was over by the window when he turned to face the room.
“We’re wasting our time,” he said. “The one thing we need is the one thing we’ll never get.”
“And what’s that, Sherlock?” Allan Ward asked.
“The names of whoever it was Rico was hiding in his various caravans and safe houses at the time he got whacked.”
“Why would they have anything to do with it?” McCullough asked quietly.
“Stands to reason. Rico helped gangsters disappear — if someone wanted to find one of them, he’d have to go through Rico.”
“And before they got round to asking the whereabouts, they decided to smash his brains in?” McCullough was smiling.
“Maybe they underestimated how hard they’d hit him . . .” Sutherland stretched out his arms, looking for someone to back him up.
“Or maybe he’d already told them,” Tam Barclay added.
“Just came out with it, did he?” Francis Gray growled.
“Threatened with a baseball bat, maybe that’s just what he did,” Rebus said, trying to direct Gray’s flak away from Barclay. “I haven’t seen anything in here” — he jabbed a report — “saying Rico wouldn’t give in to threats and intimidation. Could be he gave up the name, thinking it would save his neck.”
“What name?” Gray asked. “Anyone turn up dead about the same time?” He looked around the table but received only a few shrugs for his trouble. “We don’t even know he was protecting anyone back then.”
“The very point I was trying to make,” Stu Sutherland said quietly.
“If Rico’s job was helping people disappear,” Tam Barclay said, “and someone got to them, chances are they just stayed disappeared permanently. Meaning we’ve hit a brick wall.”
“You put your feet up if you want to,” Gray said, stabbing a finger in Barclay’s direction. “It’s not like we’re hanging on your every brilliant deduction.”
“At least I don’t hide information from the group.”
“Difference is, in the big bad city we actually do stuff like this all day. What keeps you busy in Falkirk, Barclay — having a quick chug with the lavvy door locked? Or maybe you like to live dangerously, keep it open while you’re on the job?”
“You’re full of it, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, champ, I am. While you, on the other hand, are practically drained.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Allan Ward started laughing, joined by Stu Sutherland. Tam Barclay’s face darkened, and Rebus knew what was going to happen. Barclay leapt from his chair, sending it flying back. He had one knee up on the table and was readying to launch himself across it, straight at Francis Gray. Rebus reached out an arm to stop him, giving Stu Sutherland time to lunge forward and hold him in a bear hug. Gray just sat back, smirking, pen tapping against the tabletop. Allan Ward was slapping his hand against his thigh, as if he had a front-row seat at Barnum and Bailey. It took them a while to notice that the door was open, and Andrea Thomson was standing there. She folded her arms slowly as something like order was restored to the room. Rebus was reminded of a classroom settling at the approach of authority.
Difference was, these were men in their thirties, forties and fifties; men with mortgages and families; men with careers.
Rebus didn’t doubt that there had been enough to analyze in that momentary scene to keep Thomson busy for the next few months.
And she was looking at him.
“Phone call for DI Rebus,” she said.
“I won’t ask,” she said, “what was going on back there.”
They were walking along the corridor towards her office. “That’s probably wise,” he told her.
“I don’t know how the call ended up coming through to my phone. I thought it was easier just to come and fetch you . . .”
“Thanks.” Rebus was watching the way her body moved, shifting from side to side as she walked. It reminded him of a very awkward person trying to do the twist. Maybe she’d been born with some slight spinal deformity, maybe a car crash in her teens . . .
“What is it?”
He pulled his eyes back, but too late. “You walk funny,” he stated.
She looked at him. “I hadn’t noticed. Thanks for pointing it out.” She opened her door. The phone was off the hook, lying on the desk. Rebus picked it up.
“Hello?”
In his ear, he heard the hum of the open line. He caught her eye and shrugged. “Must have got fed up,” he said.
She took the receiver from him, listened for herself, then dropped it back into its cradle.
“Who did they say they were?” Rebus asked.
“They didn’t.”
“Was it an external call?”
She shrugged.
“So what exactly did they say?”
“Just that they wanted to talk to DI Rebus. I said you were along the corridor, and they asked if . . . no . . .” She shook her head, concentrating. “I offered to get you.”
“And they didn’t give a name?” Rebus had settled into the chair behind the desk — her chair.
“I’m not an answering machine!”
Rebus smiled. “I’m just teasing. Whoever it was, they’ll call back.” At which point the phone rang again. Rebus held his hand out, palm facing her. “Just like that,” he said. He reached for the receiver, but she got to it first, her look telling him that this was still her office.
“Andrea Thomson,” she said into the phone. “Career Analysis.” Then she listened for a moment, before conceding that the call was for him.
Rebus took the receiver. “DI Rebus,” he said.
“I had a careers adviser at school,” the voice said. “He dashed all my dreams.”
Rebus had placed the voice. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “You weren’t tough enough to make it as a ballet dancer?”
“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 dressed 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.