Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning maybe you wanted to make sure your name wasn’t there . . .”

Rebus just shook his head slowly, as if dealing with a stubborn child.

“Where did you disappear to today?” Gray asked.

“A wild-goose chase.”

Gray waited a few seconds, but could see he wasn’t going to get any more. He took the sheet from Rebus and started folding it. “So, do I slip this back into the case notes?”

“I think you better.”

“I’m not so sure. This Richard Diamond, he ever turn up again?”

“I don’t know.”

“If he’s back in circulation, he’s someone we should be talking to, isn’t he?”

“Could be.” Rebus was studying the sheet, watching the way Gray was sliding his fingers along its sharp edges. He reached out his own hand and took it, folded it into his pocket. Gray gave a little smile.

“You were a late entrant to our little gang, weren’t you, John? The sheet they sent me with all our names on it . . . yours wasn’t there.”

“My chief wanted rid of me in a hurry.”

Gray smiled again. “It’s just coincidence then: Tennant coming up with a case that both you and me worked?”

Rebus shrugged. “How can it be anything else?”

Gray looked thoughtful. He gave one of the cereal boxes a shake. It was empty, as he’d expected. “Story is, only reason you’re still on the force is that you know where the bodies are buried.”

“Any bodies in particular?” Rebus asked.

“Now how would I know a thing like that?”

It was Rebus’s turn to smile. “Francis,” he said, “I even have the photographs.” And with a wink, he turned back and headed for the bar.

Cynthia Bessant’s flat made up the entire top floor of a bonded warehouse conversion near Leith Links. One huge room took up most of the space. There was a cathedral ceiling with large skylights. An enormous painting dominated the main wall. It was maybe twenty feet high and six wide, an airbrushed spectrum of colors. Looking around, Siobhan noted that it was the only painting on display. There were no books in the room, no TV or hi-fi. Two of the facing walls comprised sliding windows, giving views down onto Leith docks and west towards the city. Cynthia Bessant was in the kitchen area, pouring herself a glass of wine. Neither officer had accepted the invitation to join her. Davie Hynds sat in the center of a white sofa meant to accommodate a football team. He was making a show of studying his notebook; Siobhan hoped he wasn’t going to sulk. They’d had words on the stairwell, starting when Hynds had mentioned his relief that Marber hadn’t been, in his words, “an arse-bandit.”

“What the hell difference does it make?” Siobhan had snapped.

“I just . . . I prefer it, that’s all.”

“Prefer what?”

“That he wasn’t an —”

“Don’t.” Siobhan had raised her hand. “Don’t say it again.”

“What?”

“Davie, let’s just drop this.”

“You’re the one who started it.”

“And I’m finishing it, okay?”

“Look, Siobhan, it’s not that I’m —”

“It’s finished, Davie, okay? ”

“Fine by me,” he’d grunted.

And now he sat with his nose in his notebook, taking in nothing.

Cynthia Bessant sauntered over to the sofa and joined him there, proffering a smile. She took a slug from her glass, swallowed and exhaled.

“Much better,” she said.

“Hard day?” Siobhan asked, deciding at last to sit down on one of the matching chairs.

Bessant started counting off on her fingers. “The taxman, the VAT man, three exhibitions to organize, a greedy ex-husband and a nineteen-year-old son who’s suddenly decided he can paint.” She peered over the rim of her glass, not at Siobhan but at Hynds. “Is that enough to be going on with?”

“Plenty, I’d have said,” Hynds agreed, his face breaking into a smile as he suddenly realized he was being flirted with. He glanced towards Siobhan to gauge her annoyance.

“Not forgetting Mr. Marber’s death,” Siobhan said.

Bessant’s face creased in pain. “God, yes.” The woman’s reactions were slightly exaggerated. Siobhan was wondering if art dealers always put on a performance.

“You live by yourself?” Hynds was asking Bessant now.

“When I so choose,” she replied, dredging up a smile.

“Well, we’re grateful you put aside some time to talk to us.”

“Not at all.”

“It’s just that we have a few more questions,” Siobhan said. “To do with Mr. Marber’s private life.”

“Oh?”

“Could you tell us how often he resorted to prostitutes, Mrs. Bessant?”

Siobhan thought she could see the woman flinch. Hynds glared at her. His eyes seemed to say, Don’t use her to get at me. But now Bessant was speaking.

“Eddie didn’t ‘resort to’ anything.”

“Well, how would you put it?”

There were tears in Bessant’s eyes, but she straightened her back, trying for resilience.

“It was how Eddie chose to order his life. Relationships always got messy, that’s what he said . . .” She seemed about to say more, but stopped herself.

“So did he cruise Coburg Street, or what?”

She looked at Siobhan in mild distaste, and Siobhan felt a little of her own hostility ebb away. Hynds’s eyes were still on her, but she refused to meet them.

“He used a sauna,” Bessant said quietly.

“Regularly?”

“As often as he needed. We weren’t quite so close that he felt he had to share every detail.”

“Did he shop around?”

Bessant took a deep breath, then sighed. She remembered she was holding a glass of wine and tipped it to her mouth, swallowed.

“Best way to get through this is to tell us everything, Cynthia,” Hynds said quietly.

“But Eddie was always so . . . so private in that way . . .”

“I understand. You’re not breaking any confidences, you know.”

“Aren’t I?” She was looking at him.

He shook his head. “You’re helping us try to find whoever killed him.”

She thought about this, nodded her head slowly. The tears had cleared from her eyes. She blinked a couple of times, focusing on Hynds. For a moment, Siobhan thought they were going to hold hands.

“There’s a place not too far from here. Whenever Eddie dropped in, I knew he was either on his way there or on his way home.” Siobhan wanted to ask if she could tell the difference, but she stayed silent. “It’s up a lane off Commercial Street.”

“Do you know what it’s called?” Hynds asked.

She shook her head.

“Don’t worry,” Siobhan said, “we can find it.”

“I just want to protect his name,” Bessant said imploringly. “You do understand?” Hynds nodded slowly.

Siobhan was rising to her feet. “If it has no bearing on the case, I can’t see a problem.”

“Thank you,” Cynthia Bessant said quietly.

She insisted on seeing them to the door. Hynds asked if she’d be okay.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said, touching his arm. Then, with the door open, she shook his hand. Siobhan stood just over the threshold, wondering whether to stretch out her own hand, but Bessant had turned back into the room. Davie Hynds pulled the door closed.

“Think she’ll be all right?” he asked as they descended the echoing stairs. The walls were brick, painted pale yellow. The steps themselves were metal, vibrating tinnily. “Bloody creepy place to live.”

“Check on her later, if you like.” Siobhan paused. “Once you’re off duty.”

“This is a new side of you I’m seeing,” Hynds said.

“Stick around,” she told him. “I’ve got more sides than John Rebus’s record collection.”