“Look,” he said, “it was my own stupid fault. I wanted out of the station for an hour, and they were all heading for the cars. I insisted on going, so don’t go blaming anyone else.”
“I’ve already spoken to Siobhan.”
“She told me to clear off, and that’s pretty much what I did.”
“Which is almost exactly what she told me, except that in her version it was you who decided to leave voluntarily.”
“She’s trying to make me look good, Gill. You know what Siobhan’s like.”
“You’re supposed to be off the Marber inquiry, John: remember that.”
“I’m also supposed to be the sort of cop who can’t take a telling: do you want me to blow my cover at Tulliallan?”
She sighed. “No luck so far then?”
“There’s a ray of light in the tunnel,” he admitted. The lights had changed, and he drove across the junction into Melville Drive. “Problem is, I’m not sure I want to go anywhere near it.”
“Dangerous?”
“I won’t know that till I get there.”
“For Christ’s sake, be careful.”
“It’s nice to know you care.”
“John . . .”
“Speak to you later, Gill.”
He didn’t bother responding to Siobhan, knew now what her message had been.
Gray, Jazz and Allan Ward would be waiting for him as arranged, but he’d already prepared his story. He didn’t want them hitting the warehouse . . . not because it would or wouldn’t work, but because it was wrong. He knew now that he could go to Strathern, tell him that he was able to lead the three men into a trap. He still doubted Strathern would go for it. It wasn’t clean; it didn’t answer the question. All the trio had to do was say they’d merely been following Rebus’s lead.
He’d parked at the top end of Arden Street, but the trio had found a space right outside his tenement door. The headlamps flashed at him, letting him know they were there. One of the rear doors opened on his approach.
“Let’s go for a drive, John,” Gray said from the front. Jazz was driving, leaving Allan Ward in the rear beside Rebus.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“How did it go at the compound?”
Rebus looked into the rearview, where he could connect with Jazz’s eyes. “It’s a non-starter, lads,” he sighed.
“Tell us.”
“For a start, they’ve got twenty-four-hour security on the gate. Plus there’s an alarm system on the fence as well as some serious-looking razor wire. Then there’s the warehouse itself, which is locked tight and almost certainly alarmed, too. But Claverhouse has been cleverer than I’d have credited. He’s filled the interior with packing crates, dozens of them.”
“And the merchandise is in one of them?” Jazz guessed.
Rebus nodded, aware of the driver’s eyes still on him. “And he’s not about to say which one.”
“So all it needs is a lorry,” Gray piped up. “Take the whole damned lot of them.”
“Takes time to load a lorry, Francis,” Jazz told his friend.
“We don’t need a lorry,” Ward pitched in, leaning forward. “We just take whichever case feels the heaviest.”
“That’s good thinking, Allan,” Jazz said.
“It still takes time,” Rebus argued. “A hellish lot of time.”
“And meantime the forces of law and order are streaming towards the scene?” Jazz guessed.
Rebus knew he hadn’t quite managed to dissuade them. His head was swimming. They don’t have Bernie Johns’s money, always supposing there was any money to begin with. All they’ve got is this dream I’ve offered them, and they want to make it real. Which makes me the mastermind . . . He started shaking his head without realizing he was doing it. But Jazz noticed.
“You don’t rate our chances, John?”
“There’s one more problem,” Rebus said, thinking fast. “They’re moving the stuff over the weekend. Claverhouse is antsy that Cafferty will try something.”
“Tomorrow’s Friday,” Ward said unnecessarily.
“Not much time to procure a lorry,” Gray grumbled. He pulled down on his seat belt, making some slack so he could turn to face Rebus. “You come to us with this big fucking plan of yours, and this is what it turns into?”
“It’s not John’s fault,” Jazz said.
“Then whose is it?” Ward asked.
“It was a nice idea, but it wasn’t to be,” Jazz told him.
“It was a half-cocked idea that we should have kiboshed from the start,” Gray snarled, still giving Rebus the full force of his scowl. Rebus turned to peer out of the window.
“Where are we going?”
“Back to Tulliallan,” Ward explained. “Tennant gave the word: that’s the end of our wee holiday.”
“Hang on, I haven’t got any of my stuff with me.”
“So?”
“So there are things I need . . .”
Jazz signaled, pulled over. They were approaching Haymarket. “All right making your own way back from here, John?”
“If that’s what’s on offer,” Rebus said, opening his door. Gray’s hand closed like a vise around his forearm.
“We’re very disappointed in you, John.”
“I thought we were a team, Francis,” Rebus told him, twisting free of his grip. “You want to walk into that warehouse, it’s fine by me. But they’ll catch you and they’ll put you away.” He paused. “Maybe another scheme will come along.”
“Aye, right,” Gray said. “Don’t call us and we won’t call you . . .” He leaned back and pulled Rebus’s door closed. The car took off again, leaving Rebus watching from the pavement.
That was it then. He’d blown it. He was never going to win them back, never going to find out the truth about Bernie Johns. And on top of all that, it might just turn out that they were on to him . . .
“Fuck it,” he said, wishing he’d never said yes to Strathern. He’d never meant for them to agree to his scheme. It was a way of getting them to open up about themselves. Instead of which, they were closing ranks, excluding him. The course had one more week to run. He could pull out now, or see it through to the end. It was something he’d have to consider. If he failed to see it through, whatever suspicions the trio harbored would appear confirmed. He turned and found that he was standing outside a pub. What better way to ponder the conundrum than over a pint and a double malt? With any luck, the place would do food too. They’d call him a cab afterwards to see him home. His problems would all have disappeared . . .
“I’ll drink to that,” he told himself, pushing open the door.
24
It was two in the morning when the phone woke him. He was lying on the living room floor, next to the hi-fi, CD cases and album sleeves spread around him. He crawled on hands and knees to his chair and picked up the receiver.
“Yes?” he croaked.
“John? It’s Bobby.”
Rebus took a moment to realize who Bobby was: Bobby Hogan, Leith CID. He tried focusing on his watch.
“How soon can you get down here?” Hogan was asking.
“Depends where ‘here’ is.” Rebus was doing a stock check: head cloudy but bearable; stomach queasy.
“Look, you can go back to bed if you like.” Hogan starting to sound aggrieved. “I thought maybe I was doing you a favor . . .”
“I’ll know that when you tell me what it is.”
“A floater. Pulled him out of the docks not fifteen minutes ago. And though I haven’t seen him in a while, he looks awfully like our old pal the Diamond Dog . . .”
Rebus stared down at the album sleeves, not really seeing them.
“You still awake, John?”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, Bobby.”
“He’ll be on his way to the mortuary by then.”
“Even better. I’ll meet you there.” Rebus paused. “Any chance of this being an accident?”
“At this stage, we’re supposed to be keeping an open mind.”
“You won’t be too bothered if I don’t do the same?”
“I’ll see you at the Dead Center, John . . .”
“Dead Center” was what they called the mortuary. One of the workers there had come up with the phrase, telling everyone that he was proud to work “at the dead center of Edinburgh.” The building was tucked away on the Cowgate, one of the city’s more secretive streets. Few pedestrians ever found themselves there, and the traffic was intent on being elsewhere. Things might change when the parliament opened its new building, less than a ten-minute walk away. More traffic, more tourists. At this time of night, Rebus knew the drive would take him five minutes. He wasn’t sure his blood alcohol level would pass muster, but after a quick shower he made for his car anyway.