Resurrection Men

but was wondering if it would show any evidence at all that Jazz, Gray and Ward were high rollers. Maybe they had big houses or took expensive holidays . . . Or maybe they were biding their time, the payoff awaiting them on retirement.

Could that be why each man was having trouble with authority? Was it all a ruse to get them kicked off the force? Simpler surely just to tender your resignation . . . Rebus was aware of movement in his rearview: the Lexus was indicating and pulling out to overtake, cruising past Rebus’s Saab with a blare of its horn and Allan Ward’s face smirking at the rear window.

“Look at that silly sod,” Barclay laughed. Jazz and Gray were smiling and offering little waves.

“Tennant’s not behind us, is he?” Sutherland said, turning his head again.

“I don’t know,” Rebus admitted. “What car does he drive?”

“No idea,” Barclay said. DCI Tennant was due to follow them to Edinburgh. He wouldn’t be able to monitor them throughout, but would be kept informed.

“It’ll be good to get away from those bloody closed-circuit cameras,” Barclay said now. “I hate the things, always think they’re going to catch me scratching my balls or something . . .”

“Maybe they’ll have cameras where we’re going,” Sutherland said.

“At St. Leonard’s?” Rebus shook his head. “We’re still at the stage of cave paintings, Stu . . . Jesus Christ!”

The Lexus’s brake lights had suddenly come on, causing Rebus to slam his foot on the brake. In the back, Sutherland was thrown forwards, his face connecting with Rebus’s headrest. Barclay placed both hands on the dashboard, as if preparing for impact. Now the Lexus was speeding away, red lights still glowing.

“Bastard’s got his fog lights on” was Barclay’s explanation.

Rebus’s heart was racing. The cars had come within three or four feet of one another. “You okay, Stu?”

Sutherland was rubbing his chin. “Just about,” he said.

Rebus shifted down into second and pressed the accelerator, his whole right leg trembling.

“We’ve got to get them for that,” Barclay was saying.

“Don’t be stupid, Tam,” Sutherland replied. “If John’s brakes hadn’t been in good nick, we’d have hit them.”

But Rebus knew what he had to do. He had to show willing. He pressed further on the accelerator, the Saab’s engine urging him to go up a gear. Then, just as it looked like he would ram the pristine Lexus, he pulled out so that the two cars were side by side. The three men in the other car were smiling, watching his performance. Tam Barclay had gone very pale in the passenger seat, and Stu Sutherland was searching in vain for the rear seat belt, which, Rebus knew, was trapped somewhere beneath the upholstery.

“You’re as bad as they are!” Sutherland called from the back, struggling to make himself heard above the whine from the engine.

That’s the plan, Rebus felt like telling him. Instead, he pressed a little harder on the accelerator and, when his nose was ahead of the Lexus, turned the steering wheel hard, cutting across Gray’s bow.

It was down to Gray: he could brake, he could go off the road, or he could allow Rebus’s car to hit him.

He hit the brakes, and suddenly Rebus was in front again, the Lexus flashing its lights, horn sounding. Rebus gave a wave before acceding to the Saab’s wishes and finally moving into third gear, then fourth.

The Lexus dropped its speed a little, and they were a convoy again. Rebus, eyes on the rearview, knew that the three men were talking . . . they were talking about him.

“We could have died back there, John,” Barclay complained, a tremor in his voice.

“Cheer up, Tam,” Rebus reassured him. “If we had, your lottery numbers would have come up next week.”

Then he started laughing. It took a while for the laughter to cease.

They got practically the last two parking spots at St. Leonard’s. The car park was to the rear of the actual station. “Not very prepossessing, is it?” Tam Barclay said, studying the building.

“It’s not much, but I call it home,” Rebus told him.

“John Rebus!” Gray called, emerging from the Lexus. “You are one mad, bad bastard!” He was still grinning. Rebus shrugged.

“Can’t let some weegie go cutting me up, Francis.”

“It was a close one, though,” Jazz said.

Rebus shrugged. “No adrenaline otherwise, is there?”

Gray slapped Rebus’s back. “Maybe we’re not such a mild bunch after all.”

Rebus took a little bow. Accept me, he was thinking.

The high spirits evaporated the minute they saw their “office.” It was one of the interview rooms, equipped with two tables and six chairs, leaving no space for anything else. High on one wall, a video camera was aimed at the main table. It was there to record the various interviews, rather than the Wild Bunch, but Barclay scowled at it anyway.

“No phones?” Jazz commented.

“We’ve always got our mobiles,” Gray said.

“Which we pay for,” Sutherland reminded him.

“Stop griping for two seconds and let’s think about this.” Jazz folded his arms. “John, is there any office space at all?”

“To be honest, I don’t think so. We’ve a murder inquiry going on, remember. It’s pretty much taken over the CID suite.”

“Look,” Gray was saying, “we’re only here for a day or two, right? We don’t need computers or anything . . .”

“Maybe, but we could suffocate in here,” Barclay complained.

“We’ll open a window,” Gray told him. There were two narrow windows high up on the outer wall. “If all goes well, we’ll be spending most of our time on the street anyway: talking to people, tracking them down.”

Jazz was still taking the measure of the room. “Not much space for all the files.”

“We don’t need the files.” Gray sounded ready to lose his temper. “We need about half a dozen sheets of paper from the files — that’s it.” His hand chopped the air.

Jazz sighed. “I don’t suppose we’ve much option.”

“It was us that asked to come to Edinburgh,” Ward admitted.

“This isn’t the only cop shop in town,” Sutherland said. “We could look around, see if someone else can offer better.”

“Let’s just get on with it,” Jazz said, his eyes meeting Sutherland’s, and somehow finally gaining a shrug of acceptance.

“Might as well,” Rebus said. “It’s not like we’re going to find anything new on Dickie Diamond.”

“Great,” Jazz said caustically. “Let’s try and keep those positive vibes flowing, eh, lads?”

“ ‘Positive vibes’?” Ward mimicked. “I think you spent too long with John’s record collection last night.”

“Aye, you’ll be wearing beads and sandals next, Jazz,” Barclay added with a smile.

Jazz gave him two fingers. Then they arranged the chairs to their liking and got down to work. They had compiled a list of people they wanted to talk to. A couple of names had been crossed off because Rebus knew they were already dead. He’d considered not letting on . . . leading them down blind alleys . . . but couldn’t really see the point. Cross-referencing and the computer at Tulliallan had thrown up the nugget that one name — Joe Daly — was an informant belonging to DI Bobby Hogan. Hogan was Leith CID; Rebus and he went back a ways. Hogan was to be their first stop. They’d been in the interview room only half an hour but already there was a bad smell about the place, even with door and windows open.

“Dickie Diamond used to hang out at the Zombie Bar,” Jazz said, reading from the notes. “That’s in Leith too, right, John?”

“I don’t know if it’s still open. They were always in trouble with their license.”

“Isn’t Leith where the working girls hang out?” Allan Ward asked.

“Don’t you go getting ideas, young Allan,” Gray said, reaching over to ruffle his hair.

There were voices in the corridor, coming closer: “. . . best we could do, under the circs . . .”

“They won’t mind roughing it . . .”