The name of Morris Gerald Cafferty . . .
25
Late down to breakfast, Rebus found the other five members of the Wild Bunch seated at one of the tables. He squeezed in between Stu Sutherland and Tam Barclay.
“What’s this about Dickie Diamond?” Barclay said.
“Got himself throttled last night,” Rebus answered, concentrating on the plate in front of him.
Barclay whistled. “Got to be our shout, hasn’t it?”
“It’s a Leith call,” Rebus told him. “Body was fished out of the docks.”
“But it could tie in to the Lomax case,” Barclay argued. “Which belongs to us.”
Sutherland was nodding. “Bloody hell, we talked to him only yesterday.”
“Yes, funny coincidence,” Rebus said.
“John thinks one of us did it,” Allan Ward blurted out. Sutherland’s jaw dropped, revealing chewed-up bacon and egg yolk. He turned to Rebus.
“He’s right,” Rebus conceded. “Diamond had the same neck hold put on him that Francis used in the interview room.”
“I’d say you’re leaping to conclusions,” Jazz said.
“Aye,” Barclay added, “the kind of leap Superman used to make in the cartoons.”
“Just think for a minute, John,” Jazz pleaded. “Try to rationalize it . . .”
Rebus sneaked a glance at Gray, who was working away at a crust of toast. “What do you say, Francis?” he asked. Gray stared back at him as he answered.
“I say the pressure’s got to you . . .you’ve stopped thinking straight. Maybe a few extra sessions with wee Andrea are in order.” He reached for his coffee, preparing to wash down the mouthful of toast.
“Man’s got a point, John,” Barclay argued. “Why the hell would any of us want to do away with Dickie Diamond?”
“Because he was holding something back.”
“Such as?” Stu Sutherland asked.
Rebus shook his head slowly.
“If there’s something you know,” Gray intoned, “maybe now’s the time to spit it out.”
Rebus thought of the little confession he’d made to Gray, the hint that he’d not only known Dickie better than he’d admitted but also knew something about Rico Lomax’s demise. Gray’s threat was implicit: keep accusing me, I start talking. But Rebus had considered this, and didn’t think anything Gray could say would do him much harm.
Unless he’d wrenched some confession out of the Diamond Dog . . .
“Morning, sir,” Jazz said suddenly, looking over Rebus’s shoulder. Tennant was standing there. He tapped two fingers against Rebus’s upper arm.
“I hear the situation has changed somewhat, gentlemen. DI Rebus, as you were present at the postmortem examination, perhaps you could fill us in. From what I’ve been told, DI Hogan has yet to apprehend any suspects, and he’s keen for whatever input we can provide.”
“With respect, sir,” Barclay spoke up, “we should be in charge of this one, seeing how it might connect to Lomax.”
“But we’re not an active unit, Barclay.”
“We’ve been doing a pretty good impersonation,” Jazz stated.
“That’s as may be . . .”
“And you’re not saying Leith wouldn’t welcome a few extra pairs of hands?”
“Always supposing they were there to help,” Rebus muttered.
“What’s that?” Tennant asked.
“No point in us being there if an ulterior motive’s involved, sir. Hindering rather than helping.”
“I’m not sure I see what you’re getting at.”
Rebus was aware of three pairs of eyes glowering at him. “I mean, sir, that Dickie Diamond was strangled, and when we brought him in for questioning, DI Gray got a bit carried away and started throttling him.”
“Is this true, DI Gray?”
“DI Rebus is exaggerating, sir.”
“Did you touch the witness?”
“He was bullshitting us, sir.”
“With respect, sir,” Stu Sutherland piped up, “I think John’s making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“A molehill can trip us as surely as any mountain,” Tennant told him. “What do you have to say, DI Gray?”
“John’s getting carried away, sir. He’s got a bit of a rep for letting cases get beneath his skin. I was out last night with DI McCullough and DC Ward. They’ll vouch for me.”
His two witnesses were already nodding.
“John,” Tennant said quietly, “is your accusation against DI Gray based on anything other than what you say you saw in the interview room?”
Rebus thought of all the things he could say. But he shook his head instead.
“Are you willing to withdraw the accusation?”
Rebus nodded slowly, eyes still on his untouched plate of food.
“You sure? If Leith CID do ask us to help, I have to be sure we’re heading there as a team.”
“Yes, sir,” Rebus said dully.
Tennant pointed to Gray. “Meet me upstairs in five minutes. The rest of you, finish your breakfast and we’ll convene in fifteen. I’ll talk to DI Hogan and see what the state of play is.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jazz McCullough said. Tennant was already on his way.
Nobody said anything to Rebus during the rest of the meal. Gray was first to go, followed by Ward and Barclay. Jazz seemed to be waiting for Stu Sutherland to leave them alone, but Sutherland got himself a refill of coffee. As he rose to go, Jazz kept his eyes on Rebus, but Rebus focused on the remains of his egg white. Sutherland settled back down with his replenished cup and took a loud slurp.
“Friday today,” he commented. “POETS day.”
Rebus knew what he meant: Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. The team were due a weekend’s break, followed by the final four days of the course.
“Think I’ll go to my room and start packing,” Sutherland said, getting up again. Rebus nodded, and Sutherland paused, as if preparing for some carefully considered speech.
“Cheers, Stu,” Rebus said, hoping to spare him the effort. It worked. Sutherland smiled as though Rebus were responding to something he’d said, some valuable contribution to Rebus’s well-being.
Back in his room, Rebus was checking for messages on his mobile when it started to ring. He studied the number on the LCD display, and decided to take the call.
“Yes, sir?” he said.
“All right to talk?” Sir David Strathern asked.
“I’ve got a couple of minutes before I need to be somewhere else.”
“How’s it going, John?”
“I think I’ve blown it big-time, sir. No way I’m going to regain their trust.”
Strathern made a noise of irritation. “What happened?”
“I’d rather not go into details, sir. But for the record, whatever they did with Bernie Johns’s millions, I don’t think they’ve got much of it left. Always supposing they had it in the first place.”
“You’re not convinced?”
“I’m convinced they’re not on the straight and narrow. I don’t know if they’ve pulled any other scams, but if one presented itself, they’d be happy to take it on.”
“None of which gets us any further.”
“Not really, sir, no.”
“Not your fault, John. I’m sure you did what you could.”
“Maybe even a bit more than that, sir.”
“Don’t worry, John, I won’t forget your efforts.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I suppose you’ll want to be pulled out now? No use staying . . .”
“Actually, sir, I’d rather stick it out. Only a few more days to go, and they’d rumble me if I suddenly disappeared.”
“Good point. We’d be breaking your cover.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well then. If you’re okay with that . . .”
“I’ll just have to grin and bear it, sir.”
Rebus ended the call and thought about the lie he’d just told: he was staying put not because he feared being rumbled but because he still had work to do. He decided to phone Jean, let her know they’d have the weekend to themselves. Her response: “Always supposing nothing comes up.”