Gray’s eyes sought Rebus’s, but Rebus wasn’t playing. He stared down at his shoes while Diamond embroidered the story further.
“Chib knew about the caravan . . . that’s where Rico would take all his women. It was Chib had it torched — he’d have done anything to win over Fenella . . .”
Rebus could see that Gray was beginning to apply pressure to Diamond’s shoulders.
“Th-that’s about all I can tell you. Nobody crossed Chib Kelly . . . why I had to do a runner . . .” Diamond’s face was creasing with pain as Gray’s fingers did their work.
“Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?” The voice belonged to Archie Tennant. Relief flooded Rebus’s veins as Gray let go of Diamond. Barclay and Sutherland started talking at once, filling Tennant in.
“Whoa, whoa . . . one at a time,” Tennant ordered, holding up a hand. Then he listened to the story, the others chipping in when a bit was missed. All the time, Tennant was studying the seated figure, Diamond staring back, aware that he was in the presence of someone important, someone who could get him out of this place.
When the story was finished, Tennant leaned down with clenched fists on the desk, his knuckles bearing his weight. “Is that a fair summary, Mr. Diamond?” he asked. Diamond nodded vigorously. “And you’d be willing to make a statement to that effect?”
“With respect, sir,” Jazz McCullough interrupted, “I’m not so sure we’re not being led up the garden path here . . .”
Tennant stood up, turned his gaze on Jazz. “And what makes you say that?”
“Just a feeling, sir. I don’t think I’m the only one.”
“Really?” Tennant looked around the room. “Anyone else find Mr. Diamond’s story less than tenable?”
“I have a few doubts myself, sir,” Francis Gray piped up. Tennant nodded, his eyes seeming to home in on Rebus.
“And yourself, DI Rebus?”
“I found the witness credible, sir,” he said, the words sounding as stiff to him as to anyone else in the room.
“With respect, sir . . .” Jazz repeating the gambit. “Taking a statement from Mr. Diamond is one thing, but letting him walk out afterwards probably means we’re not going to see him again.”
Tennant turned to Diamond. “DI McCullough isn’t sure he trusts you, sir. What do you have to say to that?”
“You can’t keep me here.”
Tennant nodded. “He’s got a point there, DI McCullough. I’m assuming Mr. Diamond would be willing to give us his address in the city?” Diamond nodded with enthusiasm. “And a permanent address also?” The nodding continued.
“Sir, he could make up any number of addresses,” Jazz continued to protest.
“Oh ye of little faith,” Tennant commented. “Let’s start with a statement anyway . . .” He paused. “Always supposing that’s okay with you, DI McCullough.”
Jazz said nothing — precisely what was expected of him.
“Here endeth the lesson,” Tennant intoned, pressing the palms of his hands together as if in prayer.
Barclay and Sutherland took Diamond’s statement, the others vacating IR1, leaving them to get on with it. Tennant motioned to Jazz that he wanted a word with him in private, the two of them heading towards the station’s reception area. Allan Ward said he was heading out back for a smoke. Rebus declined to join him, went to the drinks machine instead.
“He did a good job of protecting you,” Francis Gray said. He was already at the machine, awaiting delivery of his coffee.
“I thought so,” Rebus admitted.
“I don’t think anyone else noticed that the two of you knew one another better than you should.” Rebus didn’t say anything. “But you weren’t exactly surprised to see him, were you? Did he warn you he was in town?”
“No comment.”
“We found him at the Bar Z. Probably means his nephew keeps in touch. Dickie knew we were after him, and came sneaking back . . . Did he speak to you last night?”
“I didn’t know I was working with Sherlock fucking Holmes.”
Gray chuckled, shoulders shaking as he leaned down to remove the cup from the machine. Rebus was reminded of the way the man had leaned down over Dickie Diamond, threatening to smother him completely.
Jazz was walking up the corridor. He made a show of rubbing his backside, as though the headmaster had just caned him.
“What did Half-Pint want?” Gray asked.
“Twittering on about how it’s okay to argue your corner against a senior officer, but you have to know when to back off and not start taking it personally.”
Rebus was thinking: Half-Pint. Gray and Jazz had found their own private nickname for Tennant. They were close, these two . . .
“I was just telling John,” Gray went on, “about Dickie’s wee acting lesson back there.”
Jazz nodded, eyes on Rebus. “He didn’t give you away,” he agreed.
So Gray had told Jazz all about Rebus’s confession . . . Were there any secrets between the two men?
“Don’t worry,” Gray assured him, “you can trust Jazz.”
“He’s going to have to,” Jazz himself added, “if we’re going to pull off this wee plan of his.”
The silence lay between them until Rebus could find his voice.
“You’re up for it then?”
“Could be,” Gray said.
“Need to know a bit more first,” Jazz qualified. “Layout, all that stuff. No point being unprofessional, is there?”
“Absolutely not,” Gray concurred.
“Right,” Rebus said, his mouth suddenly dry. It was my calling card, that’s all. There is no “wee plan” . . . is there?
“You okay, John?” Jazz asked.
“Maybe getting cold feet,” Gray guessed.
“No, no, it’s not that,” Rebus managed to say. “It’s just . . . you know, it’s one thing to think about it . . .”
“But quite another to actually do it?” Jazz nodded his understanding.
If you bastards have got Bernie Johns’s money . . . what do you want this for?
“Any chance you could give the premises a quick recon?” Gray was asking. “We need a floor plan, that sort of thing.”
“No problem,” Rebus said.
“Let’s start with that then. You never know, John. It could still end up being pie in the sky.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Rebus said, recovering some composure. “Maybe we need a fourth man. What do you think of Tam Barclay?”
“Tam’s okay,” Jazz said, with little enthusiasm. “But maybe young Allan is better.” He was sharing a look with Gray, who started nodding.
“Allan’s our man,” Gray agreed.
“So who’ll talk to him?” Rebus asked.
“Leave that side of things to us, John — just you concentrate on the warehouse . . .”
“Fine by me,” Rebus said, lifting his own cup from the machine. He stared at its surface, trying to remember if he’d pressed the button for tea, coffee or self-destruct. He had to tell Strathern. Tell him what exactly? No way the “heist” was going to happen . . . no possible way. So what was there to tell?
22
At 4:10 P.M, Malcolm Neilson was arrested on suspicion of the murder of Edward Marber. DC Grant Hood, who’d been placed in charge of media liaison, was in his element. Two murders, two suspects in custody, both charged. The newspapers and TV wanted to know all about it, and he was the person they needed to charm. Hood knew what questions they would ask, and was scuttling around the inquiry room in search of answers. He’d nipped home and changed into a dark-gray suit which he’d had made for him at Ede and Ravenscroft. The sleeves had been shortened so as to expose a few inches of shirt cuff, emphasizing the gold cuff links.
Hood would tell you that it was all for the cameras. You had to look professional. Others had a different view.
“Is he a nancy boy or something?” Allan Ward asked Rebus.
“Don’t worry, Allan,” Rebus assured him. “You’re not his type.” They were in the car park: cigarette break. The team in IR1 was still brooding over Dickie Diamond’s statement. Opinions ranged from “not worth the paper it’s printed on” to “Chib Kelly’s our man for sure.”