Resurrection Men

acknowledgment. At this time of night, in this location, you had a bond of sorts. You were dealing with things most people — those with their heads warm against pillows, dreaming the time away until morning — shied away from.

“Undertaker,” Hogan mused. “You ever thought it a bloody odd word to use in the circumstances? Funeral director, I can understand, but undertaker . . . ?”

“You getting philosophical on me, Bobby?”

“No, I’m just saying . . . ach, forget it.”

Rebus smiled. His own thoughts were of Dickie Diamond. Dickie had gifted them Chib Kelly’s name. They could have accepted his gift, presented the case to Tennant and left it at that. But Gray and Jazz — Jazz in particular — hadn’t been satisfied. Rebus was wondering if they’d decided to press Dickie further. They’d dumped Rebus at Haymarket, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t turned back. In fact, he was a damned good alibi. When last seen, the trio had been heading west out of town, while Dickie was found in the northeast corner of the city. The Wild Bunch had started life looking like an uneasy alliance of insubordinate officers who didn’t like authority and were as likely to ignore an order as carry it out. But now Rebus was wondering if there was something more dangerous, more lethal at work. Gray, Jazz and Ward had been all too ready to help rip off the warehouse consignment. Force would have been necessary, but that hadn’t seemed to bother them. Were they capable of killing Dickie Diamond? Then again, why would they have killed him? Rebus didn’t have an answer for that, not yet.

He was leaning over the wall, watching the roadway, when he spotted the parked car. Movement within it. As the driver’s door opened and the interior light came on, he recognized Malky. He looked for Malky’s mother but didn’t see her. Malky was making to cross the road towards Rebus, but stopped at the centerline and stretched his arm, pointing.

“You fucking killed him, ya bastard!”

Hogan was at the wall now, too. “Calm down, Malky,” he called.

“Dickie told me he was going to have a word with you!” Malky shouted hoarsely. His finger moved towards the mortuary building. “Is that what you call ‘a word’? Man comes to talk to you, you do him in!”

“What’s he talking about, John?” Hogan said.

Rebus shook his head. “Maybe Dickie did say he was coming to see me . . .”

“But never got round to it?” Hogan guessed.

“Or didn’t get the chance.”

Hogan patted Rebus’s arm. “I’ll go talk to him,” he said, making for the street, hands held up in front of him. “Easy now, Malky, easy . . . It’s a bad time for you, I know, but let’s not go waking the neighbors, eh?”

For a moment, Rebus had thought he was going to say “waking the dead” . . .

He headed back indoors, depositing his empty mug in the sink in the staff room. As he turned to leave, Dr. Curt came in, no longer wearing his gown and boots.

“Any tea going?” Curt asked.

“Kettle’s not long boiled.”

Curt busied himself with a fresh mug and tea bag. “He was dead when he went in the water,” he began. “Happened around midnight, and the body went in the water not long after. Forensics might be able to tell us more from the clothing.”

“How did he die?”

“Windpipe was crushed.”

Rebus thought back to the interview room, the way Gray’s forearm had slid around Diamond’s throat . . .

“You got a spare cigarette?” Curt was asking now. Rebus opened his pack, and Curt picked one out, tucking it behind his ear. “I’ll have it with my tea. Simple pleasures, eh, John?”

“Where would we be without them?” Rebus said, his mind on the drive he was planning to take . . .

It was nearly dawn when he reached Tulliallan. He saw another detective in front of him, sneaking back in after a night in someone else’s bed. Rebus recognized him, a young detective sergeant from the new City Center force. He’d be here on one of the specialist programs. Rebus drove around the car park, seeking Jazz’s Volvo. There was dew on it, as with the cars on either side, so it had been there awhile. He touched the hood. It was cold; again, same temperature as the cars either side.

He did the same set of checks with Gray’s Lexus, once he’d found it. Nothing to suggest it had been used in the recent past. Then he realized he didn’t know what car Allan Ward drove. He supposed he could look for a dealer badge on the back windshield, something indicating purchase in Dumfries . . . but that would take time, and he was pretty sure it would be a waste of effort. Instead, he headed indoors and along to the bedrooms, walking right past his own door and knocking loudly on Gray’s, four along from him. When there was no answer, he knocked again.

“Who is it?” the voice coughed from within.

“It’s Rebus.”

The door opened a crack, Gray squinting into the light. “Hell’s going on?” he asked. His hair was sticking up. He was dressed in a T-shirt and underpants. The room smelled stuffy.

“Been in bed long, Francis?” Rebus asked.

“What’s it to you?”

“Dickie Diamond’s just been found dead, windpipe crushed.”

Gray didn’t say anything, just blinked a couple of times as if trying to wake from a dream.

“Afterwards, he was dumped in Leith docks, the killer trying to muddy the waters, as it were . . .” Rebus narrowed his eyes. “Coming back to you now, is it, Francis? It was only four or five hours ago.”

“Four or five hours ago I was tucked up in bed,” Gray stated.

“Anyone see you come back?”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you, Rebus.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Rebus pointed a finger. “Round up your pals and meet me in the bar. You’ve got a serious amount of convincing to do if you want me off your case.”

Rebus went to the bar and waited. The place smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. There were a few glasses dotted around, left there by drinkers who’d stayed put after the place had closed. Most of the chairs had been stacked on tables. Rebus lifted one down and made himself comfortable. He was asking himself what the hell he was doing here. It wasn’t that he was afraid of what Dickie Diamond might have told anyone. It was more that he just didn’t care anymore. Everything seemed to be falling apart, and the subtle undercover work hadn’t accomplished anything, perhaps because subtlety had never been his strong point. Rather, he was going to shake things up, see how the trio reacted. What did he have to lose? That was a question he wasn’t about to answer.

Five minutes later, the three men walked in. Gray had made some attempt to flatten his hair against his skull. Jazz looked wide awake and had dressed with his usual care. Allan Ward, wearing only a baggy T-shirt and gym shorts, was yawning and rubbing his face. He’d slipped sneakers on his feet, but no socks.

“Has Francis filled you in?” Rebus asked as they sat in a row across the table from him.

“Dickie Diamond’s been found dead,” Jazz answered. “And you seem to think Francis had a hand in it.”

“Maybe more of a forearm than a hand. Dickie’s windpipe was crushed. Same sort of maneuver Francis pulled in IR1.”

“When did all this happen?” Jazz asked.

“Pathologist thinks around midnight.”

Jazz looked to Gray. “We were back here by then, weren’t we?”

Gray shrugged.

“You left me around eight,” Rebus said. “Doesn’t take four hours to drive from Haymarket to here.”

“We didn’t come straight back,” Ward explained, still rubbing his face with both hands. “We stopped for something to eat and a few drinks.”

“Where?” Rebus asked coldly.

“John,” Jazz said quietly, “none of us went near Dickie Diamond.”

“Where?” Rebus repeated.

Jazz sighed. “That road out of town . . . the one we were on after we left you. We stopped for a curry. After