“Still, a result’s a result, eh?”
The look Linford gave him seemed to dispute this. Gray just chuckled and moved away.
News was filtering down that fingerprints had been found on the picture frame. Problem was, they belonged to Edward Marber himself.
“At least we know we’ve got the right painting,” one officer said with a shrug. Which was true enough, though still not enough to satisfy Siobhan. She was wondering about the picture’s subject matter, wondering if in Marber’s eyes the woman in the mask had represented Laura. Not that the two shared physical similarities, but all the same . . . Did Marber place himself in the man’s role? The voyeur, or maybe even the possessor . . . thinking about the merchandise?
The painting had to mean something. There had to be a reason why it alone had been removed from Marber’s house. She remembered the sales chit for it, which had turned up among Marber’s effects. Five years back he had paid £8,500 for it. These days, according to Cynthia Bessant, it might fetch four or five times that, a more than decent return on the investment, but still some way short of other paintings in the dealer’s collection.
It had meant something to someone . . . something more than mere monetary value.
What could it have meant to Malcolm Neilson? Was he perhaps jealous of artists more successful than himself?
Another hand slapped Siobhan’s shoulder. “Good work . . . well done.” She’d already deflected a phone call from the assistant chief constable, Colin Carswell. She knew he would want to share in her glory, and had no intention of talking to him. Not that she wanted the glory all to herself; far from it.
She wanted nothing whatsoever to do with it.
Because to her mind it fell well short of glory . . . yet might end up putting an innocent man away.
One of the Tulliallan crew — Jazz McCullough — was standing beside her now.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Not joining in the fun and games? Case must be cut and dried, I’d’ve thought.”
“Maybe that’s why they sent you back to training school.” She saw a rapid change in his eyes. “Christ, sorry . . . I didn’t mean to say that.”
“I’ve obviously caught you at a bad time. I just wanted to offer my congratulations.”
“Which I’ll gladly accept . . . after we get a conviction.” She turned and walked away, aware of McCullough’s eyes following her all the way to the door.
Rebus saw her go, too. He was catching a word with Tam Barclay, asking if he had a nickname for DCI Tennant.
“I can think of a few choice ones,” Barclay was saying. Rebus nodded slowly. He’d already spoken to Stu Sutherland, and knew damned well that “Half-Pint” was a name used only by Gray, Jazz and Allan Ward. Now Jazz was motioning to him. Rebus wrapped up his conversation with Barclay and made to follow. Jazz walked down the corridor and into the toilets. He was standing by the washbasins, hands in pockets.
“What is it?” Rebus asked.
The door opened again and Gray came in. He nodded a greeting and checked that no one was lurking in the cubicles.
“When are you going to recon the merchandise?” Jazz asked quietly. “Only, if there’s a chance it may be moved, best get your arse in gear.” His voice was cold and calculating, and Rebus felt his liking for the man start to ebb.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Why not today?” Gray said.
“There’s not much of today left,” Rebus told him, making a show of consulting his watch.
“There’s enough,” Jazz persisted. “If you went there right now. We could cover for you.”
“It’s not like we’re unused to you bunking off,” Gray continued. “Funny you shot back here just before they found that picture . . .”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s focus on something else,” Jazz warned both men. “We’ll call it the big picture, if you like.”
Gray grinned at this.
“We need some fast info, something we can work from,” Jazz went on.
“What about Allan?” Rebus asked. “Is he in or out?”
“He’s in,” Gray said. “Though he didn’t like the way you teased him.”
“Does he know what’s involved?”
“Less Allan knows, better he likes it,” Gray explained.
“I’m not sure I understand.” Rebus was angling . . . hoping for a bit more.
“Allan does what he’s told,” Jazz said.
“The three of you . . .” Rebus hoped he sounded naive enough. “You have done something like this before?”
“That’s on a need-to-know basis,” Gray told him.
“I need to know,” Rebus stated.
“Why?” The question came from Jazz.
“A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing,” Gray said into the silence. “How about your friends in the SDEA? Are you going to pay them a visit or not?”
“What option do I have?” Rebus tried to sound disgruntled. He could feel Jazz’s eyes still on him.
“It’s still your show, John,” Jazz reminded him quietly. “All we’re saying is that it can’t be put off forever.”
“I know that,” Rebus conceded. Then: “Okay, I’ll talk to them.” He grew thoughtful. “We need to discuss the split.”
“The split?” Gray growled.
“It was my idea,” Rebus stressed, “and so far I’m the only one doing anything about it . . .”
Jazz’s air of absolute calm now seemed almost threatening. “The split will be in your favor, John,” he said. “Don’t fret.”
Gray looked set to dispute this, but the words failed to come out. As Rebus turned towards the door, however, Jazz’s hand landed softly on his arm.
“Just don’t go getting greedy on us,” he said. “Remember: you invited us in. We’re here because you asked.”
Rebus nodded, made good his escape. Outside in the corridor, he could feel his heart pounding, the blood sizzling in his ears. They didn’t trust him, yet they were ready to follow him.
Why? Were they setting him up? And when was the time to tell Strathern? His head told him “now,” but his gut said otherwise. Still, he decided to pay a little trip to the Big House.
It was past six, and he half expected that the SDEA offices would be empty, but Ormiston was hunched over a computer, the keys of the keyboard just too small for his oversized fingers to manage. As he cursed and pressed the DELETE key, Rebus walked into the room.
“Hiya, Ormie.” Trying to sound chatty, breezy. “They’ve got you working late.”
The big man grunted, didn’t raise his eyes from the screen.
“Is Claverhouse about?” Rebus went on, leaning his backside against a desk.
“Warehouse.”
“Oh, aye? Still got the stuff stashed there?” Rebus had picked up a stick of gum from the desk and unwrapped it, folding it into his mouth.
“What’s it to you?”
Rebus shrugged. “Just wondered if you wanted me to have another go at the Weasel.”
Ormiston glared at him, then turned back to his work.
“Fair enough,” Rebus said. Ormiston’s look meant they’d given up on the Weasel. “Bet Claverhouse would love to know why the Weasel visited me that night.”
“Maybe.”
Rebus had started pacing the room. “Would you like to know, Ormie? I’d tell you before I’d tell your partner.”
“That gives me a warm glow all over.”
“Not that it was anything much . . .” Ormiston wasn’t about to take the bait. Rebus decided to sweeten the hook. “It was just something about Cafferty and the warehouse.”
Ormiston stopped typing but kept his eyes on the screen.
“You see,” Rebus pressed on, “the Weasel says Cafferty might be planning a hit on the warehouse.”
“We know he knows about it.”
“But that’s just the word on the street.”
Ormiston turned his head, but it was no good. Rebus had stopped directly behind him. The big man had to swing around 180 degrees in his chair.