Resurrection Men

knowledge?”

“You’re asking me to incriminate myself.”

“This is just between the two of us.”

The Weasel folded his arms. The rubbish in his pockets crackled and clicked. “We’re not as close as we once were,” he confided, ruefully.

“A hit like this one, who would he have gone to?”

The Weasel shook his head. “I’m not a rat.”

“Rats are clever creatures,” Rebus said. “They know when to leave a sinking ship.”

“Cafferty isn’t sinking,” the Weasel said with a sad smile.

“That’s what they said about the Titanic,” Rebus replied.

There wasn’t much more to be said. They went back into the stairwell, the Weasel heading for the front door and Rebus for the stairs. He wasn’t inside his flat two minutes when there was a knock at the door. He was in the bathroom, running a bath. He did not want the Weasel in here. This was where he could try shutting it all out and pretend he was like everyone else. Another knock, and this time he walked to the door.

“Yes?” he called.

“DI Rebus? You’re under arrest.”

Put his face to the peephole, then unlocked the door. Claverhouse was standing there, sporting a smile as thin and sharp as a surgeon’s blade. “Going to invite me in?” he said.

“Wasn’t thinking of it.”

“Not entertaining, are you?” Claverhouse craned his neck to look down the hallway.

“I’m just about to get in the bath.”

“Good idea. I’d do the same, under the circumstances.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that you’ve just spent a good fifteen minutes being contaminated by Cafferty’s right-hand man. Does he often make house calls? You’re not busy counting out a payoff in there, are you, John?”

Rebus took two steps forward, backing Claverhouse against the banister. It was a two-story drop to the ground.

“What do you want, Claverhouse?”

The feigned humor had vanished from Claverhouse’s face. He wasn’t scared of Rebus; he was just angry.

“We’ve been trying to nail Cafferty,” he spat, “in case you’ve forgotten. Now word’s starting to leak out about the shipment, and Weasel’s got a nasty little lawyer chewing at my balls. So we’re on surveillance, and what do we find? Weasel himself paying you a visit.” He stabbed a finger into Rebus’s chest. “And how’s that going to look in my report, Detective Inspector?”

“Fuck you, Claverhouse.” But at least Rebus knew where Ormiston was now: he was tailing the Weasel.

“Fuck me?” Claverhouse was shaking his head. “You’ve got it all wrong, Rebus. It’s you the boys in Barlinnie will be telling to bend over. Because if I can tie you to Cafferty and his operation, so help me I’ll send you so far down, they’ll need a bulldozer to find you.”

“Consider me warned,” Rebus said.

“It’s all starting to unravel for friend Cafferty,” Claverhouse hissed. “Make sure you know whose side you’re on.”

Rebus thought of the Weasel’s words: Cafferty isn’t sinking. And the smile that had accompanied his words . . . why had the Weasel looked sad? He took a step back, giving Claverhouse room. Claverhouse saw it as a weakening.

“John . . . ,” reverting to Rebus’s first name, “whatever it is you’re hiding, you need to come clean.”

“Thanks for your concern.” Rebus saw Claverhouse for what he was: a chip-on-the-shoulder careerist who had ideas he couldn’t follow through on. Nailing Cafferty — or at the very least inserting a mole into Cafferty’s operation — would, in his own eyes, be the making of him, and he couldn’t see past it. It was consuming him. Rebus was almost sympathetic: hadn’t he been there himself?

Claverhouse was shaking his head at Rebus’s stubbornness. “I see the Weasel was driving himself tonight. That because Donny Dow did a runner?”

“You know about Dow?”

Claverhouse nodded. “Maybe I know more than you think, John.”

“Maybe you do at that,” Rebus agreed, trying to loosen him up. “Such as what, exactly . . . ?”

But Claverhouse wasn’t falling for it. “I was talking to DCS Templer this evening. She was very interested to find out about Donny Dow’s chauffeuring duties.” He paused. “But you knew all the time, didn’t you?”

“Did I?”

“You didn’t manage to sound very surprised when I told you. Thinking back, you didn’t sound surprised at all . . . so how come she didn’t know? Keeping stuff to yourself again, John . . . maybe you just wanted to protect your pal the Weasel.”

“He’s not my pal.”

“His lawyer came asking all the right questions, almost as if he’d been primed.” It was Claverhouse who had advanced on Rebus this time, not that Rebus was budging an inch. He could hear the bath still filling. Not long now and it would start to overflow. “What was he doing here, John?”

“You wanted me to talk to him . . .”

Claverhouse paused. A glimmer of hope seemed to rise in his eyes. “And?”

“Nice talking to you, Claverhouse,” Rebus said. “Say hello to Ormie for me when you catch up with him.” He stepped backwards into his hall, and started closing the door. Claverhouse stood unmoving, almost as if he planned to stay there till morning. Not saying anything, because nothing needed to be said between them. Rebus padded back to the bathroom and turned off the tap. The water was scalding, and there wasn’t enough room to add cold. He sat down on the toilet and held his head in his hands. It struck him that he actually trusted the Weasel more than he did Claverhouse.

Make sure you know whose side you’re on . . .

Rebus didn’t like to think about it. He still couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t landed in a trap. Was Strathern out to nail him, using Gray and the others as bait? Even if there was some dirty deal to uncover, something involving Gray, Jazz and Ward, could Rebus succeed without implicating himself? He got up and went through to the living room, found the whiskey bottle and a glass. Picked up the first CD he found and stuck it on. REM: Out of Time. The title had never meant more to him than right here, this minute. He stared at the contents of the bottle but knew he wasn’t going to touch it, not tonight. He swapped it for the phone, called Jean at home. Answering machine, so he left another message. He thought about driving to the New Town, maybe dropping in on Siobhan. But it wasn’t fair to her . . . and she was probably out driving anyway, her scalp burning, eyes not quite focused on the road ahead . . .

He walked softly back to the door and put his eye to the peephole. The landing was empty. He allowed himself a smile, remembering the way he’d left Claverhouse dangling. Back into the living room and over to the window. No sign of anyone outside. On the hi-fi, Michael Stipe alternated between rage and grieving.

John Rebus sat down in his chair, prepared to let the nighttime take its toll. And then the phone rang, and it had to be Jean returning his call.

But it wasn’t.

“All right, big man?” Francis Gray said, in that soft west coast growl of his.

“Been better, Francis.”

“Never fear, Uncle Francis has the cure for all ills.”

Rebus rested his head against the back of his chair. “Where are you?”

“The delightful surroundings of the Tulliallan officers’ bar.”

“And that’s the cure for my ills?”

“Could I be that heartless? No, big man, I’m talking about the trip of a lifetime. Two people with a whole world of possibilities and delights opening before them.”