contact with Francis Gray. Gray was working with Jazz McCullough. At one point, Rebus thought he heard Gray say, “Know what ‘Barclays’ is rhyming slang for down south?” but McCullough didn’t take the bait.
After almost an hour had passed, Stu Sutherland closed another file and slapped it down onto the pile in front of him, then got up to stretch his legs and back. He was over by the window when he turned to face the room.
“We’re wasting our time,” he said. “The one thing we need is the one thing we’ll never get.”
“And what’s that, Sherlock?” Allan Ward asked.
“The names of whoever it was Rico was hiding in his various caravans and safe houses at the time he got whacked.”
“Why would they have anything to do with it?” McCullough asked quietly.
“Stands to reason. Rico helped gangsters disappear — if someone wanted to find one of them, he’d have to go through Rico.”
“And before they got round to asking the whereabouts, they decided to smash his brains in?” McCullough was smiling.
“Maybe they underestimated how hard they’d hit him . . .” Sutherland stretched out his arms, looking for someone to back him up.
“Or maybe he’d already told them,” Tam Barclay added.
“Just came out with it, did he?” Francis Gray growled.
“Threatened with a baseball bat, maybe that’s just what he did,” Rebus said, trying to direct Gray’s flak away from Barclay. “I haven’t seen anything in here” — he jabbed a report — “saying Rico wouldn’t give in to threats and intimidation. Could be he gave up the name, thinking it would save his neck.”
“What name?” Gray asked. “Anyone turn up dead about the same time?” He looked around the table but received only a few shrugs for his trouble. “We don’t even know he was protecting anyone back then.”
“The very point I was trying to make,” Stu Sutherland said quietly.
“If Rico’s job was helping people disappear,” Tam Barclay said, “and someone got to them, chances are they just stayed disappeared permanently. Meaning we’ve hit a brick wall.”
“You put your feet up if you want to,” Gray said, stabbing a finger in Barclay’s direction. “It’s not like we’re hanging on your every brilliant deduction.”
“At least I don’t hide information from the group.”
“Difference is, in the big bad city we actually do stuff like this all day. What keeps you busy in Falkirk, Barclay — having a quick chug with the lavvy door locked? Or maybe you like to live dangerously, keep it open while you’re on the job?”
“You’re full of it, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, champ, I am. While you, on the other hand, are practically drained. ”
There was a moment’s silence, then Allan Ward started laughing, joined by Stu Sutherland. Tam Barclay’s face darkened, and Rebus knew what was going to happen. Barclay leapt from his chair, sending it flying back. He had one knee up on the table and was readying to launch himself across it, straight at Francis Gray. Rebus reached out an arm to stop him, giving Stu Sutherland time to lunge forward and hold him in a bear hug. Gray just sat back, smirking, pen tapping against the tabletop. Allan Ward was slapping his hand against his thigh, as if he had a front-row seat at Barnum and Bailey. It took them a while to notice that the door was open, and Andrea Thomson was standing there. She folded her arms slowly as something like order was restored to the room. Rebus was reminded of a classroom settling at the approach of authority.
Difference was, these were men in their thirties, forties and fifties; men with mortgages and families; men with careers.
Rebus didn’t doubt that there had been enough to analyze in that momentary scene to keep Thomson busy for the next few months.
And she was looking at him.
“Phone call for DI Rebus,” she said.
“I won’t ask,” she said, “what was going on back there.”
They were walking along
After almost an hour had passed, Stu Sutherland closed another file and slapped it down onto the pile in front of him, then got up to stretch his legs and back. He was over by the window when he turned to face the room.
“We’re wasting our time,” he said. “The one thing we need is the one thing we’ll never get.”
“And what’s that, Sherlock?” Allan Ward asked.
“The names of whoever it was Rico was hiding in his various caravans and safe houses at the time he got whacked.”
“Why would they have anything to do with it?” McCullough asked quietly.
“Stands to reason. Rico helped gangsters disappear — if someone wanted to find one of them, he’d have to go through Rico.”
“And before they got round to asking the whereabouts, they decided to smash his brains in?” McCullough was smiling.
“Maybe they underestimated how hard they’d hit him . . .” Sutherland stretched out his arms, looking for someone to back him up.
“Or maybe he’d already told them,” Tam Barclay added.
“Just came out with it, did he?” Francis Gray growled.
“Threatened with a baseball bat, maybe that’s just what he did,” Rebus said, trying to direct Gray’s flak away from Barclay. “I haven’t seen anything in here” — he jabbed a report — “saying Rico wouldn’t give in to threats and intimidation. Could be he gave up the name, thinking it would save his neck.”
“What name?” Gray asked. “Anyone turn up dead about the same time?” He looked around the table but received only a few shrugs for his trouble. “We don’t even know he was protecting anyone back then.”
“The very point I was trying to make,” Stu Sutherland said quietly.
“If Rico’s job was helping people disappear,” Tam Barclay said, “and someone got to them, chances are they just stayed disappeared permanently. Meaning we’ve hit a brick wall.”
“You put your feet up if you want to,” Gray said, stabbing a finger in Barclay’s direction. “It’s not like we’re hanging on your every brilliant deduction.”
“At least I don’t hide information from the group.”
“Difference is, in the big bad city we actually do stuff like this all day. What keeps you busy in Falkirk, Barclay — having a quick chug with the lavvy door locked? Or maybe you like to live dangerously, keep it open while you’re on the job?”
“You’re full of it, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, champ, I am. While you, on the other hand, are practically drained. ”
There was a moment’s silence, then Allan Ward started laughing, joined by Stu Sutherland. Tam Barclay’s face darkened, and Rebus knew what was going to happen. Barclay leapt from his chair, sending it flying back. He had one knee up on the table and was readying to launch himself across it, straight at Francis Gray. Rebus reached out an arm to stop him, giving Stu Sutherland time to lunge forward and hold him in a bear hug. Gray just sat back, smirking, pen tapping against the tabletop. Allan Ward was slapping his hand against his thigh, as if he had a front-row seat at Barnum and Bailey. It took them a while to notice that the door was open, and Andrea Thomson was standing there. She folded her arms slowly as something like order was restored to the room. Rebus was reminded of a classroom settling at the approach of authority.
Difference was, these were men in their thirties, forties and fifties; men with mortgages and families; men with careers.
Rebus didn’t doubt that there had been enough to analyze in that momentary scene to keep Thomson busy for the next few months.
And she was looking at him.
“Phone call for DI Rebus,” she said.
“I won’t ask,” she said, “what was going on back there.”
They were walking along
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