“Nobody hiding under the benches?” McCullough said. Gray bent down to look.
“Clean,” he reported.
“You’re smoking again, Francis,” Rebus noticed.
“It’s all the stress,” Gray answered. “Are you here to divvy up your little drug heist with us?”
“Wasn’t me.” Rebus paused. “Don’t worry, I don’t think it was you now either.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” McCullough was doing a circuit of the room, as though unconvinced that Rebus didn’t possess backup of some kind.
“You’ve got bigger things to worry about, Jazz,” Rebus informed him.
“John here,” Gray explained, “has another murder he wants to accuse us of.”
“You’re a single-minded little bastard, aren’t you?” McCullough said.
“I like to think so. I find it gets results.” Rebus was sitting very still, hands on knees.
“Tell me, John . . .” McCullough was close to him now, stopped three feet in front of him. “How many times have you stretched the truth a little in a place like this?” His eyes surveyed the courtroom.
“A few,” Rebus admitted.
McCullough nodded. “Ever gone further? Fabricated a case to put away someone you knew was guilty of something else?”
“No comment.”
McCullough smiled. Rebus gazed at him.
“You killed Edward Marber,” he stated quietly.
Gray snorted. “The accusations just get wilder and wilder . . .”
Rebus turned to him. “You were at the preview, Francis. It was you who phoned Marber the cab. That way, Ellen Dempsey could let Jazz here know it was on its way. I’ve got witnesses who can identify you. The call to MG Cabs will be listed on your phone account. Maybe that squiggle you used when you signed the guest book can be identified — amazing what these handwriting experts can do. Juries love all that stuff . . .”
“Maybe I needed a taxi for myself,” Gray speculated.
“But you signed yourself ‘Montrose,’ and that was a mistake. Because I have all the records of Mr. Montrose’s various purchases and sales. A third of a million at the last count. What happened to the rest of Bernie Johns’s millions?”
Gray snorted again. “There weren’t any millions!”
“I think you’ve said enough, Francis,” McCullough warned. “I don’t think John’s in any position to —”
“I’m just here to piece it together, for my own satisfaction. From what Francis has just said, I’m presuming Bernie Johns didn’t have as much salted away as expected? So much for the mythical millions. There was enough to give you an initial lump sum — not enough to arouse suspicion.” Rebus’s eyes met McCullough’s. “Did you use your share to help Ellen Dempsey set herself up in Edinburgh? No other way she could have gone from two cars to a fleet . . . had to be some kind of down payment.” He turned to Gray. “What about you, Francis? A new car every year . . . ?”
Gray said nothing.
“And the rest you invested in modern art. Whose idea was that?” Neither man spoke. Rebus kept his eyes on McCullough. “Had to be yours, Jazz. How about this as a theory: Marber happened to be in that sauna in Dundee the night you raided it. I reckon if I dug deep enough into the records, his name might pop up. Here’s another theory: Bernie Johns’s stash was hidden in or near the town of Montrose. Nice little joke there . . .” He paused. “How am I doing?”
“You’re not in a position to threaten us, John,” McCullough said quietly. He’d lowered himself onto one of the other benches. Gray had hefted himself onto the table used by the prosecuting counsel and was swinging his legs, looking desperate for his feet to connect with Rebus’s face.
“Diamond told us all about you,” Gray snarled. “The manse rapist . . . how Rico Lomax had hidden him away at the caravan, but by the time you got there it was too late. He’d scrammed. So you took it out on Lomax and told Diamond to vanish. You didn’t want to help those two cops when they came to Edinburgh looking for Diamond.” Gray laughed. “If we solved the Lomax case, it was your name we’d have in the frame!”
“He told you all that, and you still killed him?”
“Bastard drew a gun on me,” Gray complained. “I was just trying to stop him shooting the pair of us.”
“It was an accident, John,” McCullough drawled. “Not something that can be said of Rico Lomax’s fate.”
“I didn’t kill Rico Lomax.”
McCullough smiled benignly. “And we didn’t kill Edward Marber. You talk a good game, John, but I’m not seeing any evidence. So what if you can place Francis at the party? So what if he did phone MG Cabs?”
“Marber wanted money from you, didn’t he?” Rebus persisted. “He’d already had his cut — bought that painting with it. But now you’d sold all your paintings and taken your money elsewhere . . .” He broke off, realizing that Marber had concocted his scheme because of the way he himself felt he was being squeezed by Malcolm Neilson. “What was the plan? Keep it invested quietly till you and Francis reached retirement? That’s less than a year away . . . Ward still young enough to enjoy his share . . .”
“Problem was,” McCullough said, picking a thread from his trousers, “we got greedy, decided to play the stock market. New technologies . . .”
Rebus saw Gray’s face sag. “You lost the lot?” he guessed. Now he knew why they’d been so keen on the idea of the heist. And something else . . . “Bothered to tell Allan yet?”
Nobody said anything, and Rebus had his answer.
“We can’t prove,” McCullough said at last, “that you killed Rico Lomax. But that needn’t stop us circulating the story. Just as you can’t prove any connection between us and Edward Marber.”
“So where does that leave us?” Gray asked. McCullough locked eyes with Rebus and shrugged his response.
“I think some tombs are best left undisturbed,” he said in the same quiet voice. Rebus knew what he was referring to: resurrection. “Don’t you, John? What do you say? Do we call it a draw?”
Rebus took a deep breath, then checked his watch. “I have to make a call.” Gray and McCullough were like statues as he pushed the buttons.
“Siobhan? It’s me.” He watched some of the tension leave either man. “Out in five.” Rebus ended the call.
McCullough patted his hands together in muffled applause. “She’s waiting for you in the car?” he guessed. “An insurance policy.”
“If I don’t walk out of here,” Rebus acknowledged, “she runs straight to the chief constable.”
“If we were chess players, we’d be shaking hands right now, happy to share a result.”
“But we’re not,” Rebus stated. “I’m a cop and you’ve killed two men.” He stood up, started to walk out. “See you in court,” he said.
He closed the door after him but didn’t make straight for the car. He walked briskly along the corridor, punching Siobhan’s number back into his phone. “I might need a couple more minutes,” he warned her, turning into the accommodation block. He thumped hard on one of the doors, eyes darting back along the corridor, in case either McCullough or Gray was following.
The door opened a crack and a pair of eyes, slitted against the light, appeared. “What the fuck do you want?” Allan Ward asked, his voice dry and rasping.
Rebus pushed him into the room, closed the door behind them. “We need to talk,” he said. “Or rather, I need to talk, you need to listen.”
“Get the hell out of here!”
Rebus shook his head. “Your pals have blown the money,” he said.
Ward’s eyes opened a fraction wider. “Look, I don’t know what you think you’re trying to pull . . .”
“Have they told you about Marber? I don’t suppose they have. Shows how much they trust you, Allan. Who was it asked you to pump Phyllida Hawes for information? Was it Jazz? Did he say it was because he’s been slipping one to Ellen Dempsey?” Rebus shook his head slowly. “He killed Marber. Marber’s the dealer who bought and sold all those paintings for you, building the investment . . . Only Jazz decided you could make faster money playing the market. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Allan, but the whole lot’s gone.”