Read Online Resurrection Men (2002) by Ian Rankin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ian Rankin
Ads: Link
conceded as much with a slight angling of his head. “But then we’re not on surveillance, are we?”
Rebus had to agree that he had a point. He lit himself a cigarette, ignoring the NO SMOKING signs and Ormiston’s willful winding down of the front windows. Claverhouse had recently been promoted to detective inspector, and Ormiston detective sergeant. They made for an odd pairing — Claverhouse tall and thin, almost skeletal, his figure accentuated by jackets which he usually kept buttoned; Ormiston shorter and stockier, oily black hair ending almost in ringlets, giving him the appearance of a Roman emperor. Claverhouse did most of the talking, reducing Ormiston to a role of brooding menace.
But Claverhouse was the one to watch.
“How’s Tulliallan treating you, John?” he asked now. The use of his first name seemed portentous to Rebus.
“It’s fine.” Rebus slid his own window down, flicked out some ash.
“Which other bad boys have they cornered this time round?”
“Stu Sutherland and Tam Barclay . . . Jazz McCullough . . . Francis Gray . . .”
“That’s about as motley as a crew could come.”
“I seem to fit right in.”
“There’s a surprise,” Ormiston snorted.
“No tip for you, driver,” Rebus said, flicking his nails against the Plexiglas screen which separated him from Ormiston.
“Speaking of which,” Claverhouse said. It was a signal. Ormiston turned the ignition, crunched into first gear and started off.
Rebus turned to Claverhouse. “Where are we going?”
“We’re just having a chat, that’s all.”
“I’ll get detention for this.”
Claverhouse smiled. “I’ve had a word with your headmaster. He said it would be okay.” He leaned back in the seat. The cab clanked and rattled, doors juddering. Rebus could feel each spring beneath the frayed leather seat cover.
“I hope you’ve got breakdown insurance,” Rebus complained.
“I’m always covered, John, you know that.” They were leaving the college grounds, turning left towards the Kincardine Bridge. Claverhouse turned to face the window, taking in the view. “It’s about your friend Cafferty,” he said.
Rebus bristled. “He’s not my friend.”
Claverhouse had spotted a thread on the leg of his trousers. He picked it up now, as though it were more pertinent than Rebus’s denial. “Actually, it’s not Big Ger so much as his chief of staff.”
Rebus frowned. “The Weasel?” He caught Ormiston watching him in the rearview, thought he could make out a certain reticence, mixed with excitement. The pair of them believed they were onto something. Whatever it was, they needed Rebus’s help but weren’t sure they could trust him. Rebus himself knew the rumors: that he was too close to Cafferty, that they were too much alike in so many ways.
“The Weasel never seems to put a foot wrong,” Claverhouse continued. “When Cafferty went away, that should have been the end of him in Edinburgh.”
Rebus nodded slowly: during Cafferty’s time in jail, the Weasel had kept his city warm for him.
“Just wondering,” Claverhouse mused, “if, with Cafferty back behind the wheel, our friend the Weasel maybe feels a bit aggrieved. From driver’s seat to backseat, so to speak.”
“Some people prefer to be chauffeured. You won’t get to Cafferty through the Weasel.”
Ormiston noisily cleared his nostrils, the sound of a snuffling bull. “Maybe aye, maybe no,” he said.
Claverhouse didn’t say anything, just held his body very still. Even so, his partner seemed to get the message. Rebus doubted he’d hear another word from Ormiston until Claverhouse gave the nod.
“Can’t be done,” Rebus felt it necessary to stress.
Now Claverhouse turned his head and fixed him with a stare. “We’ve got some leverage. The Weasel’s son’s been a bit naughty.”
“I didn’t even know he had one.”
Claverhouse blinked slowly in lieu of nodding: it took less energy. “His name’s
Rebus had to agree that he had a point. He lit himself a cigarette, ignoring the NO SMOKING signs and Ormiston’s willful winding down of the front windows. Claverhouse had recently been promoted to detective inspector, and Ormiston detective sergeant. They made for an odd pairing — Claverhouse tall and thin, almost skeletal, his figure accentuated by jackets which he usually kept buttoned; Ormiston shorter and stockier, oily black hair ending almost in ringlets, giving him the appearance of a Roman emperor. Claverhouse did most of the talking, reducing Ormiston to a role of brooding menace.
But Claverhouse was the one to watch.
“How’s Tulliallan treating you, John?” he asked now. The use of his first name seemed portentous to Rebus.
“It’s fine.” Rebus slid his own window down, flicked out some ash.
“Which other bad boys have they cornered this time round?”
“Stu Sutherland and Tam Barclay . . . Jazz McCullough . . . Francis Gray . . .”
“That’s about as motley as a crew could come.”
“I seem to fit right in.”
“There’s a surprise,” Ormiston snorted.
“No tip for you, driver,” Rebus said, flicking his nails against the Plexiglas screen which separated him from Ormiston.
“Speaking of which,” Claverhouse said. It was a signal. Ormiston turned the ignition, crunched into first gear and started off.
Rebus turned to Claverhouse. “Where are we going?”
“We’re just having a chat, that’s all.”
“I’ll get detention for this.”
Claverhouse smiled. “I’ve had a word with your headmaster. He said it would be okay.” He leaned back in the seat. The cab clanked and rattled, doors juddering. Rebus could feel each spring beneath the frayed leather seat cover.
“I hope you’ve got breakdown insurance,” Rebus complained.
“I’m always covered, John, you know that.” They were leaving the college grounds, turning left towards the Kincardine Bridge. Claverhouse turned to face the window, taking in the view. “It’s about your friend Cafferty,” he said.
Rebus bristled. “He’s not my friend.”
Claverhouse had spotted a thread on the leg of his trousers. He picked it up now, as though it were more pertinent than Rebus’s denial. “Actually, it’s not Big Ger so much as his chief of staff.”
Rebus frowned. “The Weasel?” He caught Ormiston watching him in the rearview, thought he could make out a certain reticence, mixed with excitement. The pair of them believed they were onto something. Whatever it was, they needed Rebus’s help but weren’t sure they could trust him. Rebus himself knew the rumors: that he was too close to Cafferty, that they were too much alike in so many ways.
“The Weasel never seems to put a foot wrong,” Claverhouse continued. “When Cafferty went away, that should have been the end of him in Edinburgh.”
Rebus nodded slowly: during Cafferty’s time in jail, the Weasel had kept his city warm for him.
“Just wondering,” Claverhouse mused, “if, with Cafferty back behind the wheel, our friend the Weasel maybe feels a bit aggrieved. From driver’s seat to backseat, so to speak.”
“Some people prefer to be chauffeured. You won’t get to Cafferty through the Weasel.”
Ormiston noisily cleared his nostrils, the sound of a snuffling bull. “Maybe aye, maybe no,” he said.
Claverhouse didn’t say anything, just held his body very still. Even so, his partner seemed to get the message. Rebus doubted he’d hear another word from Ormiston until Claverhouse gave the nod.
“Can’t be done,” Rebus felt it necessary to stress.
Now Claverhouse turned his head and fixed him with a stare. “We’ve got some leverage. The Weasel’s son’s been a bit naughty.”
“I didn’t even know he had one.”
Claverhouse blinked slowly in lieu of nodding: it took less energy. “His name’s
Similar Books
