The creature in question was supping tea from a Styrofoam cup. Its eyes never met Rebus’s, though by no means was it unaware of his sudden presence in the cramped room.
“Can you believe it?” Gray said, slapping his hands together. “First stop is the Bar Z, and who should we meet coming out as we’re going in?”
Rebus already knew the answer to that. It was seated not four feet from him. He’d known the answer from the moment Barclay had put his head round the door.
Richard Diamond, aka the Diamond Dog . . .
“Just to finish the introductions,” Barclay told Diamond, “this is DI Rebus. You might remember him as your arresting officer once upon a time.”
Diamond stared straight ahead. Rebus glanced in Gray’s direction. All Gray did was wink, as if to say Rebus’s secret was safe with him.
“We were just about to ask Mr. Diamond a few questions,” Jazz McCullough said, taking the seat opposite his prey. “Maybe we could start with the break-in and rape at a manse in Murrayfield . . .”
This got a reaction from Diamond. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It coincided with your disappearance, Mr. Diamond.”
“Did it bollocks.”
“Then why did you disappear? Funny that you pop up again just when we’ve started looking for you . . .”
“Man’s got a right to go where he wants,” Diamond said defiantly.
“Only if he has a good reason,” Jazz argued. “We’re curious as to what yours was.”
“What if I say it’s none of your business?” Diamond folded his arms.
“Then you’d be mistaken. We’re investigating the murder of your good friend Rico Lomax, over in Glasgow. CID came looking for you at the time, and suddenly nobody could find you. It wouldn’t take a conspiracy theorist to see a connection.”
The rest of the team had squeezed into the room, leaving the door open. Diamond looked around him, eyes failing to meet Rebus’s. “This is all getting a bit cozy, isn’t it?” he commented.
“Sooner you tell us, sooner you’ll be on your way back to anonymity.”
“Tell you what exactly?”
“Everything,” Francis Gray growled. “You and your good pal Rico . . . the caravan sites . . . the night he got whacked . . . his wife and Chib Kelly . . .” Gray opened his arms expansively. “Start wherever you like.”
“I don’t know who killed Rico.”
“Got to do better than that, Dickie,” Gray said. “He got hit . . . you ran.”
“I was scared.”
“Don’t blame you. Whoever wanted Rico out of the way might have been after you next.” He paused. “Am I right?”
Diamond nodded slowly.
“So who was it?”
“I’ve told you: I don’t know.”
“But you were scared anyway? Scared enough to leave town all this time?”
Diamond unfolded his arms, clasped his hands over his head. “Rico had made a few enemies down the years. Could have been any one of them.”
“What?” Jazz looked dismissive. “Don’t tell me they all had it in for you too?”
Diamond shrugged, said nothing. There was silence in the room until Gray broke it.
“John, you got anything you want to ask Mr. Diamond?”
Rebus nodded. “Do you think Chib Kelly could have been behind the killing?”
Diamond looked like he was thinking this over. “Could be,” he said at last.
“Any way of proving it?” Stu Sutherland broke in.
Diamond shook his head. “That’s your job, lads.”
“If Rico really was your friend,” Barclay said, “you’d want to help us.”
“What’s the point? It was a long time ago.”
“Point is,” Allan Ward answered, not wanting to be left out, “the killer’s still out there somewhere.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Diamond replied. He brought his hands down from his head. “Like I say, I don’t think I can help you.”
“What about the caravans?” Jazz asked. “Did you know one of them got torched?”
“If I did, I’d forgotten it.”
“You used to go out there, didn’t you?” Jazz continued. “You and your girlfriend Jenny. A bit of a ménage à trois going on there, way she tells it.”
“That what she told you?” Diamond seemed amused.
“You’re saying she’s lying? See, we were starting to wonder if there mightn’t have been some jealousy there . . . you being jealous of Rico? Or maybe Rico’s wife found out he was playing away from home . . . ?”
“I can see you’ve got an active fantasy life,” Diamond told Jazz. Francis Gray seemed to have heard enough.
“Do me a favor, will you, Stu — shut that door.”
Sutherland complied. Gray was standing behind Diamond’s chair. He leaned down and brought one arm around until he was fixing Diamond to the chair by his chest. Then he tilted the chair back, so their faces weren’t more than three inches apart. Diamond struggled, but he wasn’t going anywhere. Allan Ward had taken hold of him by both wrists, pressing them against the tabletop.
“Something we forgot to say,” Gray hissed at the prisoner. “Reason they put us on this case is, we’re the lowest of the low, the absolute fucking zero as far as the Scottish police force goes. We’re here because we don’t care. We don’t care about you, we don’t care about them. We could kick your teeth down your throat, and when they came to tell us off, we’d be laughing and slapping our thighs. Time was, buggers like you could end up inside one of the support pillars for the Kingston Bridge. See what I’m saying?” Diamond was still struggling. Gray’s arm had slid upwards, and was now around his throat, the crook of the elbow crushing his larynx.
“He’s turning beet red,” Tam Barclay said nervously.
“I don’t care if he’s turning fucking blue,” Gray retorted. “If he gets an aneurysm, the drinks are on me. All I want to hear from this slimy, watery trail of shite is something approximating the truth. What about it, Mr. Richard Diamond?”
Diamond made a gurgling sound. His eyes were protruding from their sockets. Gray kept the pressure up, while Allan Ward burst out laughing, as if this was the most enjoyment he’d had in weeks.
“Let the man answer you, Francis,” Rebus said.
Gray glanced towards Rebus, then released the pressure. Dickie Diamond started coughing, mucus dribbling from his nose.
“That’s repulsive,” Ward said, letting go the hands. Diamond instinctively reached for his own throat, reassuring himself that it was still intact. Then his fingers went to his eyes, wiping away the water that had been squeezed from them.
“Bastards,” he coughed hoarsely. “Stinking bunch of bastards . . .” He got a handkerchief from his pocket, blew his nose. The door had been closed only a couple of minutes, but the place was like a sauna. Stu Sutherland opened it again, letting some air in. Gray, still behind Diamond, had straightened up, and was standing with an arm on each of the seated man’s shoulders.
“Easier all round if you just start talking,” Jazz said quietly: suddenly playing sympathetic cop to Gray’s monster.
“All right, all right . . . somebody get me a can of juice or something.”
“After we’ve listened to your story,” Gray insisted.
“Look . . .” Diamond tried meeting their eyes, lingering longest on Rebus. “All I know is what was being said at the time.”
“And what was that?” Jazz asked.
“Chib Kelly. . .” Diamond paused. “You were right about him. He was after Fenella. She found out about Rico playing away from home and told Chib. Next thing, Rico’s dead . . . simple as that.”
Gray and Jazz shared a glance, and Rebus knew what they were thinking. Dickie Diamond was telling them what he thought they wanted to hear, what he thought they’d believe. He’d taken the information they’d gifted him, and he was running with it. He’d even lifted Jazz’s own phrasing: playing away from home.
Gray and Jazz weren’t falling for it. The others in the room looked more excited.
“Knew it all along,” Stu Sutherland muttered. Tam Barclay was nodding, and Allan Ward seemed entranced.