Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“We heard it was a stroke.”

She started wailing again. “How am I supposed to know what it is? They won’t tell me anything!”

“ We’ll tell you something,” Gray cajoled. “Just give us five minutes, eh?” He put his hands on her shoulders and she allowed him to push her slowly back down onto the seat.

A member of the nursing staff was watching through a narrow vertical window in the doors to the ward. As they walked towards her, she pushed the doors open.

“We’re thinking of having her ejected,” she said.

“How about giving her a bit of news instead?”

The nurse glared at Gray. “When we have news, we’ll tell her.”

“How is he?” Rebus asked, trying to calm things down.

“He had a seizure of some kind. There’s paralysis down one side.”

“Would he be able to answer some questions?” Gray asked.

“Able, yes. Willing? I’m not so sure.”

She led them past beds filled with old men and young men. A few of the patients were on their feet, shuffling in carpet slippers along a polished linoleum floor the color of oxblood. There was a faint smell of fried food, mingled with disinfectant. The long, narrow room was stifling. Rebus was already beginning to feel the sweat cloying on his back.

The very last bed had been closed off by curtains, behind which lay a pasty-faced man, hooked up to machines and with a drip going into one arm. He was in his early fifties, a good ten years older than the woman outside. His hair was gray, combed back from the forehead. His chin and cheeks had been shaved erratically, silver stubble flecking the skin. Seated on a chair was a prison guard. He was leafing through a tattered copy of Scottish Field. Rebus noticed that one of Chib Kelly’s arms was hanging down the side of the bed. The wrist had been handcuffed to the iron frame.

“He’s that dangerous, is he?” Gray commented, eyeing the cuffs.

“Orders,” the guard said.

Rebus and Gray showed their ID, and the guard introduced himself as Kenny Nolan.

“Nice day out for you, eh, Kenny?” Gray said conversationally.

“Thrilling,” Nolan said.

Rebus walked around the bed. Kelly had his eyes closed. There didn’t seem to be any movement behind the lids, and the chest was rising and falling rhythmically.

“You asleep, Chib?” Gray said, leaning down over the bed.

“What’s all this?” a voice said behind them. A doctor in a white coat was standing there, stethoscope folded into one pocket, clipboard in his hand.

“CID,” Gray explained. “We’ve got a few questions for the patient.”

“Does he really need those handcuffs?” the doctor was asking Nolan.

“Orders,” Nolan repeated.

“Any particular reason?” Rebus asked the guard. He knew that Kelly could be a violent man, but he hardly looked an immediate threat to the public.

Nolan wasn’t about to answer the question, so Gray stepped in. “Barlinnie lost a couple of prisoners recently. They walked away from hospital wards just like this one.”

Rebus nodded his understanding, while Nolan reddened at his starched white shirt collar.

“How long till he wakes up?” Gray was asking the doctor.

“Who knows?”

“Will he be in a fit state to talk to us?”

“I’ve really no idea.” The doctor started moving away, checking a message on his pager.

Gray looked across to Rebus. “These doctors, eh, John? Consummate professionals.”

“The crème de la crème,” Rebus agreed.

“Mr. Nolan,” Gray said, “if I give you my number, any chance you could page me when the prisoner comes round?”

“I suppose so.”

“You sure?” Gray made eye contact. “Want to check first to make sure it’s not against orders?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Rebus advised Nolan. “He’s a sarky bugger when the mood takes him.” Then, to Gray: “Give the man your number, Francis. I’m melting in here . . .”

They told Fenella Lomax what little they could, leaving aside any mention of the handcuffs.

“He’s sleeping peacefully,” Rebus tried to reassure her, regretting his choice of words immediately. They were what you said just before someone died . . . But Fenella nodded silently and allowed them to lead her down to the ground floor, in search of something to drink. There was no cafeteria as such, just an ill-stocked kiosk. Rebus, who’d skipped breakfast, bought a dry muffin and an overripe banana to go with his tea. The surface of the liquid was the same gray color as all the patients they’d seen.

“You’re hoping he’ll die, aren’t you?” Fenella Lomax said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re cops. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“On the contrary, Fenella,” Gray said. “We want to see Chib up and about. There are a few questions we’d like to ask him.”

“What sort of questions?”

Rebus swallowed a mouthful of crumbs. “We’ve reopened the case on your late husband.”

She looked shocked. “Eric? Why? I don’t understand . . .”

“No case is ever closed until it’s solved,” Rebus told her.

“DI Rebus is right,” Gray said. “And we’ve been given the job of dusting off the files, see if we can add anything new.”

“What’s Chib got to do with it?”

“Maybe nothing,” Rebus assured her. “But something came to light a day or so back . . .”

“What?” Her eyes darted between the two detectives.

“Chib owned your husband’s local, the one he’d been in the night he died.”

“So?”

“So we need to talk to him about it,” Rebus said.

“What for?”

“Just so the file’s complete,” Gray explained. “Maybe you could help by telling us a little yourself?”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Well, Fenella, that’s not strictly true,” Rebus told her. “For a start, it didn’t seem to come out at the time that Chib owned the bar.” Rebus waited, but she just shrugged. A woman on crutches was trying to get past their table, and Rebus moved his chair, taking him a little closer to Fenella. “When did you and Chib become an item?”

“It was months after Eric died,” she stressed. She was a pro, knew where they were going with this.

“But you were friendly before?”

Her eyes burned into his. “How do you mean, ‘friendly’?”

Gray sat forward. “I think he’s wondering if you and Chib were maybe a bit more than friends, Fenella?” Then he leaned back again. “It’s not the sort of thing you can hide, is it? Tight-knit community like that . . . I’m guessing we’d just have to ask around and we’d find out the score.”

“Ask all you like,” she said, folding her arms. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“You must have known, though,” Gray persisted. “Women always do, in my experience.”

“Known what?”

“Whether Chib fancied you. That’s all we’re talking about.”

“No, it isn’t,” she said coldly. “You’re talking about framing Chib for something he didn’t do.”

“We just need to be sure of the relationships involved,” Rebus said quietly. “That way, we don’t go jumping to conclusions or heading off down the wrong road.” He tried to inject a bit of hurt into his voice. “We thought you might like to help with that.”

“Eric’s death is ancient history,” she stated, unfolding her arms, reaching for her cup.

“Maybe we’ve just got longer memories than some,” Gray said, his tone gaining more edge as his patience waned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She lifted the cup, as if to drink from it.

“I’m sure DI Gray didn’t mean to suggest . . .” But Rebus didn’t get the chance to finish the sentence. She’d hurled the tea into Gray’s face, and was on her feet now, walking purposefully away.