Resurrection Men (2002) (13 page)

“He’s bought himself a dog.”

“Really? Think we could persuade it to be our eyes and ears?”

“This one was more nose and tail,” Siobhan said, finally making her exit.

10

W
hat’s your poison, John?”

Each time he got a round in, Jazz McCullough asked the same question. They’d driven into Edinburgh in a two-car convoy. Rebus had agreed to be one of the designated drivers: that way, he’d be sure not to drink too much. Jazz had been the other driver, arguing that he didn’t drink much in any case, so it was no skin off his nose.

They’d worked solidly until six on the case notes, Archie Tennant sticking with them all the way. In the end, and with nothing to show, Ward had invited Tennant along for the evening. Maybe it was the looks from the other men, but Tennant had refused, albeit graciously.

“Not likely,” he’d said. “You lot could drink me under the bloody table.”

Six of them in two cars: Rebus acting the chauffeur while Gray and Stu Sutherland sat in the back, Gray commenting that Rebus’s Saab was “a bit of a clunker.”

“And what is it you drive again, Francis? Bentley convertible?”

Gray had shaken his head. “I keep the Bentley in the garage, use the Lexus as a runaround.”

It was true, he did drive a Lexus, a biggish model with leather interior. Rebus hadn’t a clue how much one cost.

“How much does one of those soak you for these days?” he’d asked.

“Bit more than in the old days” was the answer.

Then Sutherland had started yakking about the cost of cars when he’d first learned to drive, Rebus taking occasional looks at Gray in the rearview mirror. Really, he’d wanted Gray and Ward in the car together, see if he could force them still further apart. He’d almost have been as satisfied if Ward and Gray had pushed to go with McCullough: at least that would have shown them acting as a team. No luck either way.

They’d wanted to eat first, so he’d directed them to a curry house on Nicolson Street. And after that, into the Royal Oak. Four drinkers were sitting in a row at the bar. The ones either end were on their own; the two in the middle were together. All four were rolling cigarettes with the intensity of a championship contest. Seated in the corner, a guitarist faced a mandolin player, their eye contact passionate as lovers as they improvised a tune.

Rebus and his fellow drinkers filled what was left of the tiny bar.

“Bloody hell, John,” Tam Barclay said, “where’s the women?”

“Didn’t realize you were after a lumber, Tam.”

They stayed at the Oak for just the one drink, then headed into the city center. Café Royal, Abbotsford, Dome and Standing Order. Four pubs, four more drinks.

“A big night out in Edinburgh,” Barclay commented, staring at the quiet pockets of drinkers around them. “I thought we were supposed to be the Wild Bunch?”

“Tam’s started believing his own hype,” Jazz McCullough said.

“But it’s why we’ve been kicked into rehab, isn’t it?” Barclay persisted. “We don’t play by the fucking rules.” Saliva flopped from his mouth. He rubbed it away with the back of his hand.

“I like a man who speaks his mind,” Francis Gray said, laughing and slapping Barclay on the back.

“And I like one who can hold his drink,” McCullough muttered to Rebus.

“It would be different in Glasgow, wouldn’t it, Francis?”

“What would, Tam?”

“A night out.”

“It can get pretty tangled, that’s for sure.” Gray had his arm around Barclay’s shoulders.

“I mean, this place for instance . . .” Barclay studied his surroundings. “It’s a palace, not a boozer!”

“Used to be a bank,” Rebus stated.

“It’s not a
proper
pub, see what I’m saying?”

“I think,” Stu Sutherland said, “you’re saying you’re pished.”

Barclay considered this, his face widening into a smile. “Could be you’re right, Stu. Could be you’re bang on the money there.”

They all laughed, and decided to retrace their steps, maybe taking in some of the pubs they’d passed on the way. Rebus was of a mind to lead them down into the Cowgate, but even that, he decided, wouldn’t be authentic enough for Barclay. The rowdier bars were the ones with teenage drinkers and thumping light shows, places where the six of them would stick out like . . . well, like cops on a night out. Some of their ties might have been discarded, but they were still in suits, all except McCullough, who’d gone to his room to change into jeans and a polo shirt. They’d given him stick about that: old fart trying to look trendy . . .

When they reached the junction between South Bridge and the High Street, Francis Gray suddenly veered left into the High Street itself and started heading downhill, towards the Canongate. They followed, asking him where he was headed.

“Maybe he knows a good boozer,” Barclay commented.

Rebus’s ears reddened slightly. It was true that he’d been sticking to the tourist route, keeping the group away from his more regular haunts. He wanted those pubs to remain
his.

Gray had stopped in front of a kilt shop and was staring up at the building next to it.

“My mum brought me here when I was a kid,” he said.

“What is it?” Stu Sutherland asked.

“Right here, Stu.” Gray stamped his foot on the pavement. “This is everything that makes us what we are!”

Sutherland looked around. “I still don’t get it.”

“It’s John Knox’s house,” Rebus said. “It’s where he lived.”

“Bloody right, it is,” Gray said, nodding. “Anybody else’s mum bring them here?”

“I came with a school trip,” Jazz McCullough admitted.

“Aye, me too,” Allan Ward said. “Fucking boring it was, too.”

Gray wagged a finger. “That’s history you’re insulting, young Allan.
Our
history.”

Rebus wanted to say something about how women and Catholics might not agree. He didn’t know much about John Knox, but he seemed to recall the man hadn’t been too keen on either group.

“Knoxland,” Gray said, stretching out his arms. “That’s what Edinburgh is, wouldn’t you agree, John?”

Rebus felt he was being tested in some way. He offered a shrug. “Which Knox, though?” he asked, causing Gray to frown. “There was another: Doctor Robert Knox. He bought bodies from Burke and Hare. Maybe we’re more like him . . .”

Gray thought about this, then smiled. “Archie Tennant delivered us the body of Rico Lomax, and we’re cutting it open.” He began to nod slowly. “That’s very good, John. Very good.”

Rebus wasn’t sure it was exactly what he’d meant, but he accepted the compliment anyway.

The conversation had passed over Tam Barclay’s head. “I need a pee,” he said, turning towards the nearest close and disappearing down it.

Allan Ward was looking up and down the street. “Dumfries is Times Square compared to this place,” he complained. Then his eye caught a couple of women coming up the slope towards the group. “At last, our luck changes!” He made a move forward. “All right there, ladies? Listen, me and my pals are strangers in these parts . . . maybe we could buy you a drink . . . ?”

“No thanks,” one of the women said. Her eyes were on Rebus.

“Something to eat then?”

“We’ve just eaten,” the other woman said.

“Was it any good?” Ward asked. He had a conversation going, and wasn’t about to lose it. The first woman was still looking at Rebus. Stu Sutherland was standing beside the window of the kiltmaker’s, exclaiming at the prices.

“Come on, Denise,” the first woman said.

“Hey, Denise and me are talking here,” Ward snapped.

“Let them go, Allan,” Rebus said. “Jean, I —”

But Jean was tugging at Denise’s sleeve. She glowered at Rebus, then her eyes moved to his left as Tam Barclay appeared from the shadows, still zipping his fly.

Rebus started to say something, but her look stopped him. Ward was trying to prize Denise’s phone number out of her.

“Christ’s sake!” Barclay gasped. “I go for a slash and it all happens! Where are you headed, ladies?”

But the ladies were already on their way. Rebus stood there, mute, watching them go.

“You dog, Allan,” Barclay was saying. “Did you get her number?”

Ward just grinned and winked.

“She was old enough to be your mother,” Stu Sutherland commented.

“My auntie, maybe,” Ward conceded. “Some you win, some you lose . . .”

Rebus was suddenly aware of Gray standing by his side. “Someone you know, John?”

Rebus nodded.

“She didn’t look too happy with you. Jean, was that her name?”

Rebus nodded again.

Gray slid an arm around his shoulders. “John’s in the doghouse,” he announced. “Looks like he’s bumped into the one person he shouldn’t have.”

“That’s the trouble with this place,” Allan Ward stated. “It’s too bloody small! Capital city? Capital village, more like.”

“Cheer up, John,” Jazz McCullough said.

“Come on, let’s have a drink,” Sutherland mooted, pointing to the nearest pub.

“Good idea, Stu.” Gray gave Rebus a squeeze. “Maybe a drink would cheer you up, eh, John? Just the one . . .”

Rebus nodded slowly. “Just the one,” he repeated.

“Good man,” Francis Gray said, walking towards the door with his arm still around Rebus. Rebus felt a tightness across his shoulders which had nothing to do with the physical contact. He imagined himself after seven or eight pints, suddenly breaking down and yelling into Francis Gray’s ear the secret he’d kept all these years:

Rico Lomax’s murder . . . it’s all down to me . . .

And then asking Gray about Bernie Johns, a quid pro quo . . . and having Gray admit to nothing:

Smoke and mirrors, John, that’s all it ever was.
You’re
Strathern’s unfinished business, don’t you see?

Walking into the pub, Rebus was aware of Jazz and Ward directly behind him, as if to make sure he didn’t back out . . .

The taxi driver was loath to take six, but relented when a healthy tip was mentioned . . . that and the fact that they were cops. It was a tight squeeze but a short trip. They got out at Arden Street, and Rebus led them upstairs. He knew he had lager in the fridge, beer and whiskey in the cupboard. Plus tea and coffee. The milk might not be too healthy, but they could always do without.

“Nice stairwell,” Jazz McCullough commented. He meant the patterned wall tiles and mosaic floor, which Rebus hadn’t really paid any attention to in years. They climbed to the second floor and Rebus unlocked the door. There was some mail behind it, but not much.

“Living room’s down there,” he announced. “I’ll fetch the drinks.” He went into the kitchen and filled the kettle, then opened the fridge. He could hear their voices, sounding strange to him. Almost no one visited the flat. Jean sometimes . . . a few others. But never so many people all at once . . . not since Rhona had moved out. He poured himself a glass of water from the tap and gulped it down. Caught his breath and then downed another. What had possessed him to bring them back here? It was Gray who’d put forward the proposition:
A wee nightcap at John’s.
He tried to shake his head clear of the alcohol. Maybe . . . maybe having opened his home to them,
they’d
open up to him. It had been Gray’s idea. Was Francis Gray hoping to glean something about Rebus from the visit?

“Just be careful in there, John,” he muttered to himself.

Suddenly he heard music, becoming clearer as the volume was turned up. Well, that might give the students next door something to think about. It was Led Zeppelin, “Immigrant Song,” Robert Plant’s voice a wailing siren. By the time he arrived in the living room with the cans of beer and lager, Allan Ward was already asking for “that pish” to be turned off.

“It’s a classic,” Jazz McCullough informed him. McCullough, usually so poised in his movements, was down on all fours, arse to the group, as he scrutinized Rebus’s record collection.

“Ah, cheers, John,” Sutherland said, taking a beer. Ward snatched a lager with a nod of thanks. Tam Barclay asked where the toilet was.

“Some great stuff here, John,” McCullough said. “I’ve got a lot of it myself.” He’d pulled out
Exile on Main Street.
“Best album ever made.”

“What is it?” Gray asked. When told the title, he grinned. “Exiles on Arden Street, that’s us, eh?”

“I’ll drink to that,” Stu Sutherland said.

“Speaking of which . . . ?” Rebus held the cans towards Gray, who wrinkled his nose.

“A wee whiskey maybe?” Gray said. Rebus nodded.

“I might join you.”

“Not driving us back then?”

“I’ve had five pints, Francis. Reckon I’ll spend the night in my own bed.”

“Might as well . . . not much chance of spending it in Jean’s, eh?” Gray saw the look on Rebus’s face, and lifted a hand, palm out. “That was out of order. Sorry, John.”

Rebus just shook his head, asked Jazz what he wanted. Coffee was the reply.

“If John’s staying put, we can all squeeze into my car,” he announced.

Rebus had located the bottle of Bowmore and a couple of glasses. He poured and handed one to Gray. “Any water with that?”

“Don’t be daft,” Gray said, toasting him. “Here’s to the Mild Bunch.” He got a laugh from Tam Barclay, who was coming back into the room, zipping his fly.

“Mild Bunch,” he chuckled. “Good one, Francis.”

“Jesus, Tam,” Ward complained, “you ever think of zipping it shut before you leave the bathroom?”

Barclay ignored him, took one of the beers and opened it, then slumped on the sofa next to Sutherland. Rebus noticed that Gray was sitting in the chair he himself normally used. Gray looked at home in it, one leg slung over the side. Rebus’s phone and ashtray were on the floor beside him.

“Jazz,” Gray said, “you going to grace us with the pleasure of your backside’s company all night?”

McCullough half turned and sat himself down on the floor. Rebus had brought over one of the dining chairs for himself.

“Haven’t seen this one in years,” McCullough said, waving a copy of the first Montrose album.

“Jazz is like a pig in shit,” Gray announced. “One whole room of his house is full of records and tapes. Alphabetical order and everything.”

Rebus took a sip of whiskey, fixed a smile to his face. “You’ve been there then?” he asked.