Resurrection Men

The gates were open, four cars parked in the compound. Ormiston was waiting for them. He pulled open Rebus’s door.

“Fuck have you been?” he asked.

“What’s happened?”

Ormiston ignored him, turning instead towards the officers who were just emerging from the patrol car. “You lot can go,” he snapped. Mason and his driver looked disgruntled, but as far as Ormiston was concerned they’d already ceased to exist.

“Going to give me a clue, Ormie?” Rebus asked as he was led into the warehouse. Ormiston turned towards him.

“How’s your alibi looking for last night?”

“I was in a hotel seventy-odd miles away.”

“Any company around midnight?”

“Asleep in the arms of a good woman.” Rebus grabbed Ormiston’s arm. “Jesus, Ormie, going to give me a break here?”

But they were inside the warehouse now, and it became crystal clear what had happened. Two or three of the crates nearest the front had been upended, wrenched open.

“Compound got turned over last night,” Ormiston explained. “We were going to move the stuff today.”

Rebus’s head reeled. “What about the guard?”

“Guards, plural: both of them nursing fractured skulls in the Western General.” Ormiston was leading him through the warehouse towards the back, where Claverhouse stood, peering into a single, open crate.

“They found the right one then?” Rebus guessed.

“All too easily,” Ormiston muttered, his eyes targeting Rebus, pupils as dark as the barrels of a shotgun.

“About time,” Claverhouse growled at Rebus.

“He was a long way away at the time,” Ormiston informed his colleague.

“That’s what he says.”

“Whoa,” Rebus said. “You saying I had something to do with this?”

“Half a dozen people knew about this place . . .”

“Did they bollocks. You said it yourself: news had leaked out all over town.”

Claverhouse was pointing a finger. “But you knew about the packing crates.”

“I didn’t know which one the stuff was in, though.”

“He’s got a point,” Ormiston said, folding his arms.

Rebus looked back at the opened boxes. “They seemed to find it bloody quick.”

Claverhouse slapped the edge of the crate. A door in the warehouse’s rear wall opened and three men stepped through. They’d been out back, carrying on what, from their faces, had been an angry conversation. Fingers were being pointed. The fingers belonged to two men Rebus hadn’t seen before. They were being pointed at Assistant Chief Constable Colin Carswell.

“Customs?” Rebus guessed. Claverhouse didn’t say anything, but Ormiston nodded. The two agents from Customs and Excise were turning to leave. Carswell looked furious as he came towards Rebus.

“Christ Almighty, what’s he doing here?”

“DI Rebus knew about the packing crates, sir,” Ormiston explained.

“But I didn’t steal it,” Rebus added.

“Any idea who did?” Carswell asked.

“What did C&E say?” Claverhouse interrupted.

“They’re absolutely fucking furious. Said it should have been their shout . . . lack of cooperation and all that shit. No way they’re taking any portion of the blame.”

“Do the media have hold of it?” Rebus asked.

Carswell shook his head. “Nor are they going to — I want that understood. We handle this internally.”

“That quantity of dope suddenly appears on the street, it won’t stay quiet for long,” Rebus commented, rubbing in some salt.

Carswell’s mobile rang. He looked at the display, ready to ignore it, then changed his mind. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Will do, sir . . . Right away.” He ended the call, started playing with the knot in his tie. “Strathern’s just arriving,” he said.

“Strathern knows?” Rebus asked Claverhouse.

“Course he bloody well knows!” Claverhouse spat back. “No way he couldn’t be told.” He kicked the side of the packing crate. “Should have moved the stuff yesterday!”

“Bit late for that,” Carswell muttered, heading off to meet his fate. Rebus could hear one car leaving the compound — the Customs agents — and another, the chief constable’s, arriving.

“Who knew the move was planned for today?” he asked.

“Necessary personnel,” Ormiston answered. “We’ve been talking to them all morning.”

“No one saw anything? What about CCTV?”

“We’ve got it on tape,” Claverhouse admitted. “Four men in ski masks, two of them tooled-up.”

“Sawed-offs,” Ormiston added. “They thumped the guards, put some cutters to the padlocks, drove in.”

“Stolen van, of course,” Claverhouse growled. He was pacing the room now. “White Ford Transit. Picked it up this morning half a mile from here.”

“Two guards for that amount of stuff?” Rebus shook his head slowly. “No prints?” he guessed.

Ormiston shook his head. “Two vans, actually,” he said, correcting his colleague.

Four men, Rebus was thinking. He was wondering who the fourth might be . . . “Can I take a look?” he asked.

“At what?”

“The video.”

Ormiston’s eyes went to his partner’s. Claverhouse shrugged.

“I’ll show you,” Ormiston told Rebus, angling his head back towards the door. They left Claverhouse still staring into the empty crate. Exiting the warehouse, Rebus saw Carswell in the back of Strathern’s car. The driver had got out for a smoke, leaving the two men alone. Carswell looked distinctly uncomfortable, which pleased Rebus more than it should have.

He followed Ormiston to the gatehouse. There was a TV there, the screen quartered and showing exterior views.

“No interiors?” Rebus said.

Ormiston shook his head. He was slotting home a cassette.

“How come the gang didn’t take the tape?”

“The recordings are made on another machine, hidden in a box behind the warehouse. Either they couldn’t find it, or didn’t think we were taping them.” He hit the PLAY button. “That’s one little detail we seem to have managed to keep secret . . .” The action was stilted, the video working on what looked like a five-second delay. The Transit stopping at the gate . . . two men rushing the gatehouse, while another cut the padlock and a fourth drove the van into the compound. Rebus had only the men’s builds to go by, and couldn’t identify any of them. The van was backed up to the warehouse doors, which were pulled open, after which the van disappeared inside.

“This is the interesting bit,” Ormiston said. Then he speeded the film up.

“What’s happening?” Rebus asked.

“Absolutely nothing, as far as we can tell. Then seven or eight minutes later . . . this.” The videotape now showed a second, smaller van arriving. It, too, reversed into the warehouse.

“Who’s this?” Rebus asked.

“Dunno.”

One or two men in the van, the gang now totaling six. A matter of a few minutes later, both vans left the compound. Ormiston rewound the tape to the point where the second van arrived. “Do you see?”

Rebus had to admit he didn’t. Ormiston pointed to the front of the van, just below the radiator grille. “The first van, you could just about make out the license plate . . .”

Now Rebus saw. The second van’s license plate was obliterated. “Looks like it’s missing,” he said.

“Either that or taped up.” Ormiston stopped the video.