Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“Come here, you whore!”

Donny Dow rushing at Laura. Laura screaming. And in the background, a sound Siobhan would hear for the rest of the night — the sound of the lock clicking shut on the inside of the door to the Sauna Paradiso.

Dow had Laura, grabbing her shoulders, shoving her backwards against the car. Then his arm went up and Siobhan knew, though she couldn’t see it, that there was a weapon there, a blade of some sort. She launched herself across the hood, one hand propelling her across it so that she flew feet first, catching him low down on one side. It wasn’t enough to deflect him. The knife sliced into Laura’s flesh, making a soft sound almost like a mild reproach. Tsssk! Siobhan grabbed for the knife arm, trying to lock it behind him, while listening to an elongated gasp from Laura, the air escaping from her as blood leaked from the puncture. Dow flung his head sideways, catching Siobhan on the bridge of her nose. Tears welled in her eyes, and she momentarily lost strength.

Tsssk!

The knife again finding its target. Siobhan let go of his arm and aimed her knee into his groin, connecting with all the force she could muster. Dow staggered backwards, his voice a rising complaint of pain. Siobhan watched Laura sag visibly. She was hanging on to the car’s door handle, knees buckling. There were rivulets of blood.

Got to end this now!

Siobhan aimed another kick at Dow, but he dodged it, turning full circle. The knife — it was one of those builder’s blades, the kind you bought in a DIY store — was still gripped in his right hand. Siobhan filled her lungs and let out a scream, making sure he took the full force of it.

“Help, somebody! Help us here! She’s dying! Donny Dow’s murdered her!”

At the sound of his name, he paused. Or maybe it was the word murdered. He stared unblinking at Laura. Siobhan made a move towards him, but he backed away. Three, four, five steps.

“You bastard!” she shouted at him. Then she gave another scream, searing the inside of her throat. Lights were coming on in the tenement windows above the sauna. “Nine-nine-nine . . . ambulance and police!” Faces at the windows, curtains pushed aside. Dow was still walking backwards. She had to follow him. But what about Laura? Siobhan glanced back, and as she broke eye contact Dow took his chance, jogging and swaying his way back into darkness.

Siobhan crouched beside Laura, whose lips looked almost black in the streetlight, maybe because her face was so white. Going into shock. Siobhan sought the wounds. There’d be two . . . had to get pressure on them. The sauna’s door stayed resolutely closed.

“Bastard,” Siobhan hissed. She couldn’t see Dow anymore. There was warm blood oozing from between her fingers. “Hang on, Laura, ambulance is coming.” Her mobile was in her pocket, but she didn’t have any free hands.

Shit, shit, shit!

Then one of the neighbors was standing beside her. He seemed to be asking if everything was all right.

“Put some pressure here,” she said, showing him where. Then she fumbled for her phone, as it slid away from her bloodied grasp. The man was looking horror-struck. He was in his late fifties, thin hair flapping down over his forehead. She couldn’t push the numbers; her hands were shaking too much. She ran across to the sauna, gave the door a kick, then rammed it with her shoulder. Ricky opened up. He was shaking too.

“Christ . . . is she . . . ?”

“Did you call nine-nine-nine?” Siobhan asked.

He nodded. “Ambulance and. . .” He swallowed. “Just ambulance,” he corrected.

She thought she could hear a siren in the distance, hoped it was coming this way. “Did you tell him she was out here?” Siobhan spat.

Ricky shook his head. “Guy looked in a rage . . . I said she wasn’t on shift . . .” He swallowed again. “I thought he was going to do me.”

“Well, aren’t you the lucky one?” Siobhan ran past the woman from the sofa, who was now standing, arms folded protectively in front of her, and found the pile of towels and robes. She could hear sobbing from the actual sauna; didn’t have time to look, but knew it was Suzy, probably cowering in fear for herself. Siobhan dashed outside again, pushing towels hard against the wounds. “Lots of pressure,” she told the man. He was sweating, looked scared, but he nodded anyway and she patted his shoulder. Laura was sitting on the ground, legs folded beneath her. Her fingers clung resolutely to the door handle. Maybe she was remembering Siobhan’s instruction: Get back in the car! Mere centimeters from safety . . .

“Don’t die on me,” Siobhan commanded, running a hand through Laura’s hair. Laura’s eyelids were open a fraction, but the eyes themselves were glassy, like the marbles boys used to play with. She was breathing through her mouth, little gasps of pain. The siren was a lot closer now, and then it was rounding the corner from Commercial Street, sending sweeps of blue light across the buildings.

“They’re here, Laura,” Siobhan cooed. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Just hang in there,” the man said, looking to Siobhan for reassurance that he’d said the right thing. Too many episodes of Casualty and Holby City, Siobhan thought.

You’re going to be fine . . . The lie that brings no peace. The lie that exists only because the speaker needs to hear it.

Just hang in there . . .

Four in the morning.

She wished Rebus were there. He would make some joke about the song of the same name. He’d done it before when they’d been on hospital vigils, villain stakeouts. He’d sing half a misremembered verse of some country-and-western song. She couldn’t remember the name of the original singer, but Rebus would know it. Farnon? Farley? Somebody Farnon . . .

These games Rebus played to take their minds off the situation. She’d thought of phoning him, but had reconsidered. This was something she had to get through on her own. She was crossing a line . . . could feel it. She wasn’t at the hospital; they hadn’t wanted her there. A quick shower and change of clothes at home, the patrol car waiting to take her back to St. Leonard’s. The Leith police would take the investigation: it was their patch. But they wanted her at St. Leonard’s for debriefing.

“At least you got him a good kick in the charlies,” her uniformed driver had said. “Should slow him down a bit . . .”

She stood in her shower and wished it had a bit more pressure. The water dripped onto her. She wanted sharp needles, a pummeling, a torrent. She held her hands over her face, eyes screwed shut. She leaned against the tiled wall, then slid down it until she was crouching again, the way she’d crouched over Laura Stafford.

Who’s going to tell Alexander? Mummy’s dead . . . Daddy did it. It would be Grandma’s job, in between the tears . . .

Who would break the news to Grandma? Someone would already be on their way out there. The body needed to be ID’d.

Her machine was flashing to let her know she had phone messages. They could wait. There were dishes in the sink needed washing. She was drying her hair with a towel as she moved through the flat. Her nose was red, and she kept needing to blow it. Her eyes were bloodshot, pink-rimmed and puffy.

The towel she dried her hair with was dark blue. No more white towels for me . . .

DCS Templer was waiting for her at the station. The first question was an easy one: “Are you all right?”

Siobhan made all the right noises, but then Templer said: “Donny Dow’s an animal, works for Big Ger Cafferty.”

Siobhan wondered who’d been talking. Rebus? But then Templer explained all: “Claverhouse told me. You know Claverhouse?” To which Siobhan nodded. “SDEA have had their eye on Cafferty for a while,” Templer went on. “Not getting very far, if their track record’s anything to go by.”