“A lecture on the importance of exercise,” Jazz McCullough replied. “It helps work off feelings of aggression and frustration.”
“Which is why you’re all doing some circuit training?” Rebus pointed at the group and made a stirring motion, ready to take their drinks orders. Stu Sutherland was, as usual, the first to reply. He was a brawny, red-faced son of a Highlander, with thick black hair and slow, careful movements. Determined to hang in until pension time, he’d long since grown tired of the job — and wasn’t afraid to admit as much.
“I’ll do my share,” he’d told the group. “Nobody can complain about me not doing my share.” The extent of this “share” had never really been explained, and no one had bothered to ask. It was easier just to ignore Stu, which was probably the way he liked it, too . . .
“Nice big whiskey,” he said now, handing Rebus his empty glass. Having ascertained the rest of the order, Rebus went up to the bar, where the barman had already starting pouring. The group were sharing some joke when Francis Gray put his head round the door. Rebus was ready to add to the order, but Gray spotted him and shook his head, then pointed back into the hallway before disappearing. Rebus paid for the drinks, handed them out and then walked to the door. Francis Gray was waiting for him.
“Let’s go walkies,” Gray said, sliding his hands into his pockets. Rebus followed him down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. They ended up in a sub-post office. It was a pretty accurate mock-up of the real thing, with a range of shelves filled with newspapers and magazines, packets and boxes, and the glass-fronted wall of the post office itself. They used it for hostage exercises and arrest procedures.
“What’s up?” Rebus asked.
“See this morning, Barclay having a go at me for keeping information back?”
“Not still eating you, is it?”
“Credit me with some sense. No, it’s something I’ve found.”
“Something about Barclay?”
Gray just looked at him, picked up one of the magazines. It was three months out of date. He tossed it back down.
“Francis, I’ve a drink waiting for me. I’d like to get back before it evaporates . . .”
Gray slid a hand from his pocket. It was holding a folded sheet of paper.
“What’s this?” Rebus asked.
“You tell me.”
Rebus took the sheet and unfolded it. It was a short, typewritten report, detailing a visit to Edinburgh by two CID officers from the Rico Lomax inquiry. They’d been sent to track down “a known associate,” Richard Diamond, but had spent a fruitless few days in the capital. By the last sentence of the report, the author’s feelings had got the better of him, and he proffered “grateful thanks to our colleague, DI John Rebus (St. Leonard’s CID), for endeavors on our behalf which can only be described as stinting in the extreme.”
“Maybe he meant ‘unstinting,’ ” Rebus said blithely, making to hand the sheet back. Gray kept his hands in his pockets.
“Thought you might want to keep it.”
“Why?”
“So no one else finds it and starts to wonder, like me, why you didn’t say anything.”
“About what?”
“About being involved in the original inquiry.”
“What’s to tell? A couple of lazy bastards from Glasgow, all they wanted was to know the good boozers. Headed back after a couple of days and had to write something.” Rebus shrugged.
“Doesn’t explain why you didn’t bring it up. But maybe it does explain why you were so keen to sift through all the paperwork before the rest of us had a chance.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning maybe you wanted to make sure your name wasn’t there . . .”
Rebus just shook his head slowly, as if dealing with a stubborn child.
“Where did you disappear to today?” Gray asked.
“A wild-goose chase.”
Gray waited a few seconds, but could see he wasn’t going to get any more. He took the sheet from Rebus and started folding it. “So, do I slip this back into the case notes?”
“I think you better.”
“I’m not so sure. This Richard Diamond, he ever turn up again?”
“I don’t know.”
“If he’s back in circulation, he’s someone we should be talking to, isn’t he?”
“Could be.” Rebus was studying the sheet, watching the way Gray was sliding his fingers along its sharp edges. He reached out his own hand and took it, folded it into his pocket. Gray gave a little smile.
“You were a late entrant to our little gang, weren’t you, John? The sheet they sent me with all our names on it . . . yours wasn’t there.”
“My chief wanted rid of me in a hurry.”
Gray smiled again. “It’s just coincidence then: Tennant coming up with a case that both you and me worked?”
Rebus shrugged. “How can it be anything else?”
Gray looked thoughtful. He gave one of the cereal boxes a shake. It was empty, as he’d expected. “Story is, only reason you’re still on the force is that you know where the bodies are buried.”
“Any bodies in particular?” Rebus asked.
“Now how would I know a thing like that?”
It was Rebus’s turn to smile. “Francis,” he said, “I even have the photographs.” And with a wink, he turned back and headed for the bar.
5
Cynthia Bessant’s flat made up the entire top floor of a bonded warehouse conversion near Leith Links. One huge room took up most of the space. There was a cathedral ceiling with large skylights. An enormous painting dominated the main wall. It was maybe twenty feet high and six wide, an airbrushed spectrum of colors. Looking around, Siobhan noted that it was the only painting on display. There were no books in the room, no TV or hi-fi. Two of the facing walls comprised sliding windows, giving views down onto Leith docks and west towards the city. Cynthia Bessant was in the kitchen area, pouring herself a glass of wine. Neither officer had accepted the invitation to join her. Davie Hynds sat in the center of a white sofa meant to accommodate a football team. He was making a show of studying his notebook; Siobhan hoped he wasn’t going to sulk. They’d had words on the stairwell, starting when Hynds had mentioned his relief that Marber hadn’t been, in his words, “an arse-bandit.”
“What the hell difference does it make?” Siobhan had snapped.
“I just . . . I prefer it, that’s all.”
“Prefer what?”
“That he wasn’t an —”
“Don’t.” Siobhan had raised her hand. “Don’t say it again.”
“What?”
“Davie, let’s just drop this.”
“You’re the one who started it.”
“And I’m finishing it, okay?”
“Look, Siobhan, it’s not that I’m —”
“It’s finished, Davie, okay?”
“Fine by me,” he’d grunted.
And now he sat with his nose in his notebook, taking in nothing.
Cynthia Bessant sauntered over to the sofa and joined him there, proffering a smile. She took a slug from her glass, swallowed and exhaled.
“Much better,” she said.
“Hard day?” Siobhan asked, deciding at last to sit down on one of the matching chairs.
Bessant started counting off on her fingers. “The taxman, the VAT man, three exhibitions to organize, a greedy ex-husband and a nineteen-year-old son who’s suddenly decided he can paint.” She peered over the rim of her glass, not at Siobhan but at Hynds. “Is that enough to be going on with?”
“Plenty, I’d have said,” Hynds agreed, his face breaking into a smile as he suddenly realized he was being flirted with. He glanced towards Siobhan to gauge her annoyance.
“Not forgetting Mr. Marber’s death,” Siobhan said.
Bessant’s face creased in pain. “God, yes.” The woman’s reactions were slightly exaggerated. Siobhan was wondering if art dealers always put on a performance.
“You live by yourself?” Hynds was asking Bessant now.
“When I so choose,” she replied, dredging up a smile.
“Well, we’re grateful you put aside some time to talk to us.”
“Not at all.”