Resurrection Men

“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 defense. 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.”