Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“What you working at these days, Donny?” Linford asked. “Still a doorman?”

“I’m answering nothing till you tell me what this is all about. Shouldn’t I have a solicitor or something?”

“What do you want us to charge you with, son?” Silvers asked.

“I don’t do drugs.”

“Good boy.”

Dow scowled and gave Silvers the middle finger.

“It’s your ex we’re interested in,” Linford revealed.

Dow didn’t blink. “Which one?”

“Alexander’s mum.”

“Laura’s a hooker,” Dow stated.

“And you left her for a prop forward?” Silvers asked with a smile. But Dow stared at him blankly: not a rugby man then.

“What’s she done anyway?” Dow asked Linford.

“A man she was seeing, we’re interested in him.”

“Seeing?”

Linford nodded. “Rich guy, set her up in a nice little flat. Well, not so little, actually . . .”

Dow bared his teeth and thumped the desk with both fists. “That wee slut! And she’s the one got custody!”

“Did you fight her for it?”

“Fight . . . ?”

Fighting meant only one thing to someone like Dow. “I mean,” Linford rephrased, “did you want custody of Alexander?”

“He’s my son.”

Linford nodded again, knowing the answer to his question was no.

“Who’s this fucker anyway? This rich guy?”

“He’s an art dealer, lives out in Duddingston Village.”

“And she’s in his flat, her and Alex? Shagging this bastard there! With Alex . . .” Dow’s face had gone puce with rage. In the momentary silence, Linford could hear voices — maybe a laugh — from IR1. Those sods were probably laughing at the idea of him demoted to IR2.

“So what’s this got to do with me?” Dow was asking. “You just trying to get me wound up or what?”

“You’ve got quite a record of violence, Mr. Dow,” Silvers said. Dow’s file was on the desk, and Silvers patted its brown cardboard cover.

“What? A couple of assaults? I’ve been hit more times than I can count. See when I was bouncing, wasn’t a week went by when I didn’t have some knobhead having a go at me. You won’t find any of that in there.” He pointed towards the file. “You lot only see what it suits you to see.”

“You might have a point there, Donny,” Silvers said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.

“What we see, Donny,” Linford said quietly, “is a man with a record of violence who has just gone into a rage over his ex’s relationship with another bloke.”

“Fuck her! See if I care!” Dow slid his chair back and stuffed his hands into his pockets, both legs going like pistons.

Linford made a show of flipping through the file. “Mr. Dow,” he began, “did you happen to read about a murder in the city?”

“Only if it made the sports pages.”

“An art dealer, struck repeatedly on the head outside his home in Duddingston Village.”

Dow’s legs stopped pumping. “Hold on a fucking minute,” he said, raising both hands, palms out.

“What did you say you did for a living?” George Silvers asked.

“What? Wait a second . . .”

“Laura’s gentleman friend is dead, Mr. Dow,” Linford was saying.

“You worked as a bouncer for Big Ger Cafferty, didn’t you?” Silvers asked. Dow couldn’t keep up with this; he needed time to think; couldn’t think, and knew if he said anything — anything — it might . . .

A tapping at the door and Siobhan Clarke’s head appeared.

“Any chance I could sit in?” she asked. Then, seeing the thunderous looks on both her colleagues’ faces, she started to retreat. But Dow had sprung to his feet and was on his way to the door. Silvers went for him, but Dow gave him a straight-fingered chop to the throat. Silvers started wheezing, hands going to his collar. Linford was effectively trapped between Silvers, the desk and the wall. Dow lifted a foot and hefted Silvers backwards into Linford, whose fingers sought the panic button. Siobhan had been trying to close the door, with herself on the outside, but Dow couldn’t have that. He yanked the door open, grabbed her by her hair and threw her into the room. An alarm was going off in the corridor, but he ran. There were men in the room next door: they watched him as he sped past. One more corner, a set of doors, and he would be gone.

Back in IR2, Silvers was hunched in his seat, still trying to catch a breath. Linford was squeezing past him. Siobhan was lifting herself from the floor. A whole clump of hair seemed to be missing from the top of her head.

“Shit, shit, shit!” she squealed. Linford ignored her and ran into the corridor. His left leg was aching from where Silvers had connected with it. But it was his pride that felt the most bruised. “Where is he?” he yelled.

Tam Barclay and Allan Ward looked at one another, then both pointed towards the exit.

“He went that-a-way, Sheriff,” Ward said with a grin. Problem was, no one had actually seen him leave the station. There was video surveillance of the main entrance, and Linford asked the comms room to run the tape. Meantime, he went from office to office, checking under desks and inside the station’s few walk-in closets. When he got back to the comms room, they were running the tape. Donny Dow sprinting in full-color time lapse, right out the front door.

“We need patrols to search the area!” Linford said. “Cars and foot. Get his description out!” The uniformed officers looked at each other.

“What are you waiting for?” Linford snarled.

“I think they’re probably waiting for me to give them the okay, Derek,” a voice said from behind him.

DCS Gill Templer.

“Ouch!” Siobhan said. She was seated back at her desk, while Phyllida Hawes checked the damage to her head.

“You’ve lost a little bit of skin,” Hawes said. “I think the hair will grow back.”

“Probably feels worse than it looks,” Allan Ward offered. The incident in IR2 seemed to have broken down barriers: Gray, McCullough and Rebus were present too, while Gill Templer “debriefed” Linford and Silvers in her office.

“Name’s Allan, by the way,” Ward said, for Phyllida Hawes’s benefit. When she told him her name, he remarked that it was unusual. He was listening to her explanation when Siobhan got up and moved away. She didn’t think either of them had noticed.

Rebus was standing by the far wall, arms folded, studying the display relating to the Marber case.

“He’s a fast worker,” Siobhan said. Rebus turned his head, watched the interplay between Ward and Hawes.

“You should warn her,” he said. “I’m not sure Allan’s housebroken.”

“Maybe that’s the way she likes it.” Siobhan dabbed at the patch of naked skin. It was at the crown of her head, and it stung like buggery.

“You could get a sick leave on the strength of that,” Rebus informed her. “I’ve known cops go on disability for less. Factor in the shock and stress . . .”

“You don’t get rid of me that easily,” she said. “Shouldn’t you all be out chasing Donny Dow?”

“This isn’t our patch, remember?” Rebus scanned the room. Hawes listening to Ward’s patter; Jazz McCullough in conversation with Bill Pryde and Davie Hynds; Francis Gray sitting on one of the desks, swinging one leg as he leafed through an evidence file. He saw Rebus watching him and gave a wink, sliding off the desk and coming forwards.

“This is the sort of case they should have given us, eh, John?”

Rebus nodded but said nothing. Gray seemed to take the hint, and after a few words of commiseration to Siobhan he moved away again, changing desks, picking up another file.