Resurrection Men (2002) by Ian Rankin Page A

while . . . The Weasel spoke first. “Aly’s been a bloody fool. Doesn’t mean I won’t stand by him.” He lowered his head, pinched the bridge of his nose. Rebus heard him mutter something that sounded like “Christ.” He remembered the way he’d felt when he’d seen his daughter Sammy in the hospital, hooked up to machines, her body broken like a puppet’s.
    “You all right?” he asked.
    Head still down, the Weasel nodded. The crown of his head was bald, the flesh pink and flaky. Rebus noticed that the man’s fingers were curled, almost like an arthritic’s. He had barely touched his drink, while Rebus was finishing his.
    “I’ll get us another,” he said.
    The Weasel looked up, eyes reddened so that more than ever he resembled the animal which had given him his nickname. “My shout,” he said determinedly.
    “It’s okay,” Rebus assured him.
    But the Weasel was shaking his head. “That’s not the way I work, Rebus.” And he got up, kept his back straight as he walked to the bar. He came back with a pint, handed it over.
    “Cheers,” Rebus said.
    “Good health.” The Weasel sat down again, took another sip of his drink. “What do you suppose they want from me anyway, these friends of yours?”
    “I wouldn’t exactly call them friends.”
    “I’m assuming the next step is a meeting between me and them?”
    Rebus nodded. “They’ll want you to feed them everything you can get on Cafferty.”
    “Why? What good will it do them? The man’s got cancer. That’s why they let him out of the Bar-L in the first place.”
    “All Cafferty’s got are some doctored X rays. Build up a case against him, and we can ask for a new set of tests. When they show up negative, he goes back inside again.”
    “And suddenly there’s no crime in Edinburgh? No drugs on the street, no moneylending . . . ?” The Weasel offered a weak smile. “You know better than that.”
    Rebus didn’t say anything, concentrated on his beer instead. He knew the Weasel was right. He licked more foam from his lip and made up his mind. “Look,” he said, “I’ve been thinking . . .” The Weasel looked at him, eyes suddenly interested. “The thing is . . .” Rebus shifted in his seat, as if trying to get comfortable. “I’m not sure you need to do anything right now.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “I mean you shouldn’t agree to anything, not straightaway. Aly needs a lawyer, and that lawyer can start asking questions.”
    The Weasel’s eyes widened. “What sort of questions?”
    “The way the drugs boys found the lorry and searched it . . . it might not have been entirely aboveboard. They’ve kept the whole thing quiet from the likes of Customs and Excise. Could be there’s some technicality somewhere . . .” Rebus held up his hands at the look of hope which had bloomed on the Weasel’s face. “I’m not saying there is, mind.”
    “Of course not.”
    “I can’t say one way or the other.”
    “Understood.” The Weasel rubbed his chin, nails rasping over the bristles. “If I go to a lawyer, how do I stop Big Ger finding out?”
    “It can be kept quiet; I doubt the SDEA will want to make a noise.”
    The Weasel had brought his face a little closer to Rebus’s, as if they were conspirators. “But if they ever got a whiff that you’d said anything . . . ?”
    Rebus leaned back. “And what exactly have I said?”
    A smile spread across the Weasel’s face. “Nothing, Mr. Rebus. Nothing whatsoever.” He reached out a hand. Rebus took it, felt soft pressure as the two men shook. They didn’t say anything, but the eye contact was enough.
    Claverhouse’s words: Just two fathers having a little chat . . .
     
    Claverhouse and Ormiston dropped him off at Tulliallan. There hadn’t been much conversation on the trip back.
    Rebus: “I don’t think he’s up for it.”
    Claverhouse: “Then his son’s going to jail.”
    It was a point Claverhouse reiterated angrily and often, until