Resurrection Men

“Sir . . . supposing I was involved, why would I have told you any of it?”

“To set them up.”

“Fine,” Rebus said grimly. “It was you and your cronies who wanted them . . . go get them. And arrest me while you’re at it.” Rebus opened his door.

“We’ve not finished here, DI Rebus . . .”

But Rebus was already out of the car. He leaned back down into it. “Better to get the air cleared, sir. Let’s have all of it out in the open: the Bernie Johns case . . . bent cops . . . dope kept hidden from Customs . . . and a coven of chief constables who managed to fuck everything up!”

Rebus slammed the door closed after him and stalked towards his own car, then thought better of it. He needed a pee, so walked around the side of the warehouse. There, in the narrow, weed-filled conduit between the security fence and corrugated-aluminum wall, he saw a distant figure. The man was at the far corner of the building, hands in pockets, head bowed forward as his whole body seemed to convulse.

It was Colin Carswell, the assistant chief constable.

Kicking the fence with all his might.

28

“You’re not going to get away with it.”

Monday morning at Tulliallan. While parking his Saab, Rebus had seen McCullough getting out of his own car. McCullough had been reaching into the backseat for his carryall. He turned at the sound of Rebus’s voice, but then decided to ignore him. There was a folder he wanted, farther along the backseat. He stretched for it.

Rebus planted a knee in the small of his back, ducked down so he wouldn’t hit his head on the top of the door. McCullough was stuck, writhing in the confined space.

“You’re not going to get away with it,” Rebus repeated.

“Get off me!”

“Think you can pull a stunt like that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“The hit on the warehouse.”

McCullough stopped moving. “Let me up and we’ll talk.”

“You’ll do more than that, McCullough: you’ll hand the whole fucking lot back.”

Rebus heard a car screech to a stop behind him, a door opening with the motor still running. Gray’s fist caught him in his right kidney, then grabbed him by the collar. Rebus stumbled backwards, off McCullough and out of the car, falling to his knees but rising quickly.

“Come on, you bastard!” Gray was shouting. He had both fists up, knees bent, feet shuffling. A bare-knuckle fighter who fancied his chances. Rebus was grimacing in pain. McCullough was extracting himself from the backseat, face red, hair disheveled.

“He says we’ve turned over the warehouse,” he told his friend.

“What?” Gray’s eyes darted from one man to the other. Abruptly, he stopped acting the boxer.

“I just want to know how you knew which crate to open,” Rebus hissed, one hand rubbing his side.

“You trying to stick us in the frame?” McCullough said accusingly. “Was that the plan all along?” He pointed a finger. “Anyone’s got hold of the dope, it’s you.”

“I was on the other side of the country.” Rebus’s eyes were blazing. “What about you, McCullough? Will Ellen Dempsey give you an alibi? That why you’ve been cozying up to her?”

McCullough didn’t say anything, just shared a look with his partner. Rebus felt like wincing, because now he’d really blown it, letting them know he knew about Dempsey. But the look which passed between Gray and McCullough was curious. There was fear . . . fear mixed in there with everything else.

Fear of what?

What was it that was lurking there? Rebus got the feeling it had nothing to do with the warehouse.

Siobhan . . . ?

“So you know about Ellen,” Jazz was saying, trying to sound offhand. He shrugged. “No big deal. I left my wife weeks back.”

“Yeah,” Gray added belligerently. Rebus looked at him.

“That the best you can do, Francis? Don’t tell me I’ve got you at a loss for words.”

“I’ve always let actions do the talking for me.” Gray rubbed his fist with his palm.

“If you think I’m going to let you get away with this . . .”

“Get away with what?” Gray spat. “It’s your word against ours. Like Jazz says, you’re the fucker who set it up in the first place. And that’s precisely what we’ll tell anyone who comes asking.”

Rebus had to admit, they didn’t seem worried by his accusations. Angered, yes; worried, no. His mention of Ellen Dempsey had touched a rawer nerve. He decided to save it . . . think it over. Turned away and walked back towards his car.

“See you inside,” Gray called to him, and Rebus couldn’t know if he meant inside the college building or in one of Her Majesty’s many fine Scottish prisons. He leaned against the Saab. Gray’s punch still throbbed. He hoped there wouldn’t be any damage. He watched a procession of other cars heading along the driveway towards him. Some might be fresh probationers, preparing for their first tentative steps on the career path. Others might be senior officers, coming to hone their skills and learn new tricks.

I can’t go back in there, Rebus told himself. He couldn’t stay, not for another minute. The idea of sitting around Tennant’s table, avoiding eye contact with Gray and McCullough . . . keeping up with the sham . . . surrounded by hundreds of recruits for whom Tulliallan was teacher and nourisher, friend and mentor . . .

“Fuck it,” he said, sliding back behind the Saab’s steering wheel. He wouldn’t even bother calling in sick. Let them ask questions, phone Gill Templer. He’d deal with it when he had to — if he had to.

If he felt like it.

Right now, he couldn’t get that solitary moment out of his mind, Gray and McCullough sharing a look . . . a look as if they’d come one step closer to the edge. A step too close for either man.

Protecting Ellen Dempsey . . . or being protected by her? Rebus was starting to get an inkling, but he’d need help if he was going to prove any of it. Help, and one hell of a lot of luck. As he started away down the drive, he saw Gray in his rearview. The man was standing in the road, legs apart. He’d made a pistol of his right hand and was aiming it at the Saab, wrist recoiling as he fired the imaginary bullet, his mouth opening silently.

Bang.

“You don’t think Neilson did it, do you?” Rebus whispered.

Siobhan locked eyes with him and shook her head. She was seated at her desk, Rebus leaning down over her. He could see that on her computer, she’d been writing a report on the connection between McCullough and Dempsey, without mentioning Friday night’s unapproved surveillance.

“I need to take another look at the case.”

“You can’t,” she whispered back. “You’re still persona non grata as far as Gill’s concerned.”

He was about to tell her that this wasn’t the case anymore. One call to Strathern, and the boss would inform Gill that Rebus was back on board. But then he looked around the room. Eyes were staring at him, curious as to his sudden appearance there, and the way he was trying to talk in private with Siobhan. Hawes, Linford, Hood and Silvers . . . Rebus wasn’t sure how far he could trust any of them. Hadn’t Gray worked a case once with Linford? Could Hawes still fall under Allan Ward’s spell?

“You’re right,” he whispered. “I am a nonperson. And IR1 is probably still empty.” He nodded slowly, hoping she’d understand, then pushed himself back upright. “See you,” he told her, reverting to his normal speaking voice.

“Bye,” she said, watching him leave.