Resurrection Men (2002) by Ian Rankin Page B

Rebus reminded him that he was trying to convince the wrong man.
    “Maybe I’ll talk to him,” Claverhouse had said. “Me and Ormie, maybe we could be more persuasive.”
    “Maybe you could.”
    When Ormiston pulled on the hand brake, it sounded like a trapdoor opening. Rebus got out and walked across the car park, listening to the cab moving away. When he stepped into the college, he headed straight for the bar. Work had finished for the day.
    “Did I miss anything?” he asked the circle of officers.
    “A lecture on the importance of exercise,” Jazz McCullough replied. “It helps work off feelings of aggression and frustration.”
    “Which is why you’re all doing some circuit training?” Rebus pointed at the group and made a stirring motion, ready to take their drinks orders. Stu Sutherland was, as usual, the first to reply. He was a brawny, red-faced son of a Highlander, with thick black hair and slow, careful movements. Determined to hang in until pension time, he’d long since grown tired of the job — and wasn’t afraid to admit as much.
    “I’ll do my share,” he’d told the group. “Nobody can complain about me not doing my share.” The extent of this “share” had never really been explained, and no one had bothered to ask. It was easier just to ignore Stu, which was probably the way he liked it, too . . .
    “Nice big whiskey,” he said now, handing Rebus his empty glass. Having ascertained the rest of the order, Rebus went up to the bar, where the barman had already starting pouring. The group were sharing some joke when Francis Gray put his head round the door. Rebus was ready to add to the order, but Gray spotted him and shook his head, then pointed back into the hallway before disappearing. Rebus paid for the drinks, handed them out and then walked to the door. Francis Gray was waiting for him.
    “Let’s go walkies,” Gray said, sliding his hands into his pockets. Rebus followed him down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. They ended up in a sub-post office. It was a pretty accurate mock-up of the real thing, with a range of shelves filled with newspapers and magazines, packets and boxes, and the glass-fronted wall of the post office itself. They used it for hostage exercises and arrest procedures.
    “What’s up?” Rebus asked.
    “See this morning, Barclay having a go at me for keeping information back?”
    “Not still eating you, is it?”
    “Credit me with some sense. No, it’s something I’ve found.”
    “Something about Barclay?”
    Gray just looked at him, picked up one of the magazines. It was three months out of date. He tossed it back down.
    “Francis, I’ve a drink waiting for me. I’d like to get back before it evaporates . . .”
    Gray slid a hand from his pocket. It was holding a folded sheet of paper.
    “What’s this?” Rebus asked.
    “You tell me.”
    Rebus took the sheet and unfolded it. It was a short, typewritten report, detailing a visit to Edinburgh by two CID officers from the Rico Lomax inquiry. They’d been sent to track down “a known associate,” Richard Diamond, but had spent a fruitless few days in the capital. By the last sentence of the report, the author’s feelings had got the better of him, and he proffered “grateful thanks to our colleague, DI John Rebus (St. Leonard’s CID), for endeavors on our behalf which can only be described as stinting in the extreme.”
    “Maybe he meant ‘unstinting,’ ” Rebus said blithely, making to hand the sheet back. Gray kept his hands in his pockets.
    “Thought you might want to keep it.”
    “Why?”
    “So no one else finds it and starts to wonder, like me, why you didn’t say anything.”
    “About what?”
    “About being involved in the original inquiry.”
    “What’s to tell? A couple of lazy bastards from Glasgow, all they wanted was to know the good boozers. Headed back after a couple of days and had to write something.” Rebus shrugged.
    “Doesn’t explain why you