Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“Mind if I talk to the girls?” Siobhan asked.

“Be my guest,” Ricky said, his face breaking into a smile.

When Siobhan stepped over the threshold, she knew the place was empty. She saw shower cubicles, lockers, a wooden coffin of a sauna. Stairs down to the rooms where the girls worked. No windows: the downstairs was below ground level. She peered into one room. It smelled perfumed. There was a deep bath in one corner, lots of mirrors. The lighting was almost nonexistent. Sounds of grunts and moans — a TV high up on one wall, playing a hard-core video. Back out in the corridor, she noticed a curtain at the far end. Walked towards it and pulled it open. A door. Emergency exit. It led out into a narrow alley. The girls were gone.

“Done a runner,” Hynds confirmed. “So what do we do now?”

“We could charge him with possession of illegal videos.”

“We could,” Hynds acknowledged. He glanced at his watch. “Or we could call it a day.”

Siobhan started climbing the narrow stairs. The sauna’s phone was ringing again. Ricky was about to answer, but thought better of it when he saw Siobhan.

“Who’s your boss?” she asked.

“Solicitor’s on his way,” Ricky told her.

“Good,” she said, making for the exit. “I hope he charges through the nose.”

The Resurrection Men had moved from the bar to the break-out area, and from alcohol to soft drinks. A lot of the probationers at Tulliallan would be staying through the weekend, but those who were allowed would be heading home. Jazz McCullough and Allan Ward had left already, Ward complaining of the long drive ahead. The others were trying to rouse themselves, or maybe it was that there was nothing about the weekend that they couldn’t live without. The break-out area was an open lounge of leather chairs and sofas, just outside the lecture theater. Rebus had known men get too comfortable there and end up falling asleep, waking stiffly next morning.

“Got plans, John?” Francis Gray asked.

Rebus shrugged. Jean was off to a family wedding south of the border. She’d asked if he wanted to go, but he’d declined.

“How about you?” he asked.

“I’ve been away five days. Pound to a penny things have started to break, drip or leak.”

“You’re a bit of a DIY man then?”

“Christ, no. Why do you think things go wrong in the first place?”

There was tired laughter at this. Five days they’d been at Tulliallan. They felt like they knew each other.

“Suppose I’ll go watch my team tomorrow,” Tam Barclay said.

“Who’s that? Falkirk?”

Barclay nodded.

“Need to get yourself a proper grown-up team,” Gray commented.

“Would that be one from Glasgow, Francis?”

“Where else?”

Rebus got to his feet. “Well, I’ll see you all first thing Monday morning . . .”

“Unless we see you first,” Gray answered with a wink.

Rebus went to his room to pack a few things. The room itself was a comfortable box with en suite bathroom, better than many a hotel he’d stayed in. Only the CID were assured single rooms. A lot of probationers were doubling up, such were their numbers. Rebus’s mobile was where he’d left it, charging at one of the wall sockets. He poured himself a small Laphroaig from his secret stash and switched on the radio, tuning it to some station with pulsing dance music.

Then he picked up his mobile and punched in some numbers.

“It’s me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “How come I haven’t heard from you?” He listened as the person at the other end complained about the lateness of the hour. When Rebus said nothing to this, the person then asked where he was.

“In my room. That’s just the radio you can hear. When do we get to meet?”

“Monday,” the voice said.

“Where and how?”

“Leave that to me. Any luck so far?”

“That’s not what I want to talk about.”

There was silence on the line. Then: “Monday.” And this time the phone’s backlit screen told him the connection had ended. He retuned the radio, switched it off, making sure the alarm function wasn’t set. He had his bag open, but suddenly wondered what the rush was. There was nothing awaiting him in Edinburgh but an empty flat. He picked up his going-away present from Jean—a portable CD player. She’d added some CDs, too: Steely Dan, Morphine, Neil Young . . . He’d brought a few others: Van Morrison, John Martyn. He fixed the headphones on and pushed the START button. The swelling opening of “Solid Air” filled his head, pushing out everything else. He leaned back against the pillow. Decided the song was definitely on the shortlist for his funeral.

Knew he should write the shortlist down. After all, you never could tell.

Siobhan answered her door. It was late, but she was expecting company. Eric Bain always called first, to make sure it was all right. It usually was. Bain worked at Police HQ, the “Big House.” He specialized in computer crime. The two had become good friends — nothing more than that. They talked on the phone; sometimes ended up at one another’s flat, sharing late-night milky coffee and stories.

“You’re out,” Bain called through from the kitchen. Out of decaf, he meant. Siobhan was back in the living room, putting some music on: Oldsolar, a recent purchase — good late-night music.

“Middle cupboard, top shelf,” she called.

“Got it.”

Eric — the officers at Fettes called him “Brains” — had told Siobhan early on that his favorite film was When Harry Met Sally. Letting her know where he stood, and that if she wanted things to go any further, the first move would have to come from her.

Of course, none of their colleagues believed it. Eric’s car had been spotted parked outside at midnight, and next morning both police stations had been buzzing. It didn’t bother her, didn’t seem to bother Eric. He was coming into the living room now, carrying a tray containing cafetière, a jug of steamed milk, two mugs. He set it down on her coffee table, next to some notes she’d been writing.

“Been busy?” he asked.

“Just the usual.” She noticed the grin on his face. “What is it?”

He shook his head, but she dug her pen into his ribs.

“It’s your cupboards,” he confessed.

“My what?”

“Your cupboards. All the tins and jars . . .”

“Yes?”

“They’re arranged with the labels facing out.”

“So?”

“It just spooks me, that’s all.” He wandered over to her CD rack, pulled a disc out at random, opened its case. “See?”

“What?”

“You put your CDs back in the case so they’re the right way up.” He snapped the case shut, opened another.

“It makes them easier to read,” Siobhan said.

“Not many people do it.”

“I’m not like other people.”

“That’s right.” He kneeled in front of the tray, pushed down on the cafetière’s plunger. “You’re more organized.”

“That’s right.”

“A lot more organized.”

She nodded, then jabbed him with her pen again. He chuckled, poured milk into her mug.

“Just an observation,” he said, adding coffee to both mugs, handing hers over.

“I get enough grief at the office, Mr. Bain,” Siobhan told him.

“You working this weekend?”

“No.”

“Got plans?” He slurped from his mug, angled his head to read her notes. “You were at the Paradiso?”

A little vertical frown appeared between her eyes. “You know the place?”

“Only by reputation. It changed hands about six months back.”

“Did it?”

“Used to be owned by Tojo McNair. He has a couple of the bars down Leith.”

“Salubrious establishments, no doubt.”