Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

Hogan shrugged. “If I put my mind to it, I could come up with a dozen explanations.” He paused. “You can’t deny, it would be nice and neat.”

“And how often does a case end like that?” she said skeptically, rising to her feet.

At St. Leonard’s, the talk was all about Dow . . . except for Phyllida Hawes. Siobhan bumped into her in the corridor, and Hawes signaled towards the women’s toilets.

When the door had closed behind them, Hawes confessed that she had gone out with Allan Ward the previous evening.

“How did it go?” Siobhan asked quietly, lowering her voice and hoping Hawes would follow suit. She was remembering Derek Linford, listening outside the door.

“I had a really good time. He’s pretty hunky, isn’t he?” Hawes had ceased to be a CID detective: they were supposed to be two women now, gossiping about men.

“Can’t say I’ve noticed,” Siobhan stated. Her words had no effect on Hawes, who was studying her own face in the mirror.

“We went to that Mexican place, then a couple of bars.”

“And did he see you home like a gentleman?”

“Actually, he did . . .” She turned to Siobhan and grinned. “The swine. I was just about to invite him up for coffee, and his mobile rang. He said he had to hotfoot it back to Tulliallan.”

“Did he say why?”

Hawes shook her head. “I think he was pretty close to not going. But all I got was a peck on the cheek.”

Known, Siobhan couldn’t help thinking, as the kiss-off. “You seeing him again?”

“Hard not to when we’re both in the same station.”

“You know what I mean.”

Hawes giggled. Siobhan had never known her so . . . was coquettish the right word? She seemed suddenly ten years younger, and distinctly prettier. “We’re going to arrange something,” she admitted.

“So what did the pair of you find to talk about?” Siobhan was curious to know.

“The job mostly. The thing is, Allan’s a really good listener.”

“So mostly you were talking about you?”

“Just the way I like it.” Hawes was leaning back against the sink, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, looking pleased with herself. “I told him about Gayfield, and how I’d been seconded to St. Leonard’s. He wanted to know all about the case . . .”

“The Marber case?”

Hawes nodded. “What part I was playing . . . how it was all going . . . We drank margaritas — you could buy them by the jug.”

“How many jugs did you get through?”

“Just the one. Didn’t want him taking advantage, did I?”

“Phyllida, I’d say you definitely wanted him taking advantage.”

Both women were smiling. “Yeah, definitely,” Hawes agreed, giggling again. Then she gave a long sigh, before a look of shock came over her face and she slapped a hand to her mouth.

“Oh God, Siobhan, I haven’t asked about you! ”

“I’m okay,” Siobhan said. It was the reason she thought Hawes had brought her in here: Laura’s murder.

“But it must have been horrible . . .”

“I don’t really want to think about it.”

“Have they offered you counseling?”

“Christ, Phyl, why would I need that?”

“To stop you bottling things up.”

“But I’m not bottling things up.”

“You just said you didn’t want to think about it.”

Siobhan was becoming irritated. The reason she didn’t want to think about Laura’s death was that she had something else niggling away at her now: Allan Ward’s interest in the Marber case.

“Why do you think Allan was so interested in your work?” she asked.

“He wanted to know all about me.”

“But specifically the Marber case?”

Hawes looked at her. “What are you getting at?”

Siobhan shook her head. “Nothing, Phyl.” But Hawes was looking curious, and a little worried. Would she go straight to Ward and start blabbing? “Maybe you’re right,” Siobhan pretended to concede. “I’m getting worked up about stuff . . . I think it’s because of what happened.”

“Of course it is.” Hawes took her arm. “I’m here if you need someone to talk to, you know that.”

“Thanks,” Siobhan said, offering what she hoped was a convincing smile.

As they walked back to the office together, her mind turned again to the scene outside the Paradiso. The lock clicking: she hadn’t said anything to Ricky Ponytail about it . . . but she would. She’d replayed the event so many times in the past few hours, wondering how she could have helped. Maybe leaning over to the passenger-side door, pushing it open for Laura, so that she could simply fall backwards into the car before Dow got to her . . . being faster out of the driving seat herself, faster across the hood . . . tackling Dow more effectively. She should have disabled him straightaway . . . Shouldn’t have let Laura lose so much blood . . .

Got to push it all aside, she thought.

Think about Marber . . . Edward Marber. Another victim seeking her attention. Another ghost in need of justice. Rebus had confessed to her once, after too many late-night drinks in the Oxford Bar, that he saw ghosts. Or didn’t see them so much as sense them. All the cases, the innocent — and not so innocent — victims . . . all those lives turned into CID files . . . They were always more than that to him. He’d seemed to see it as a failing, but Siobhan hadn’t agreed.

We wouldn’t be human if they didn’t get to us, she’d told him. His look had stilled her with its cynicism, as if he were saying that “human” was the one thing they weren’t supposed to be.

She looked around the inquiry room. The team was hard at work: Hood, Linford, Davie Hynds . . . When they saw her, they asked how she was. She fended off their concern, noting that Phyllida Hawes was blushing: ashamed not to have had the same reaction. Siobhan wanted to tell her it was okay. But Hynds was hovering by her desk, needing a word. Siobhan sat down, slipping her jacket over the back of the chair.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s the money you asked me to look for.”

She stared at him. Money? What money?

“Laura Stafford thought Marber was in line for some big payout,” Hynds explained, seeing her confusion.

“Oh, right.” She was noting that someone had been using her desk in her absence: coffee rings, a few loose paper clips. Her in-tray was full, but looked as though it had been disturbed. She remembered Gray, flicking through case notes . . . and others from Rebus’s team, wandering through the room . . . And Allan Ward, asking Phyllida about the inquiry . . .

Her computer monitor was switched off. When she switched it on, little fish swam across the screen. A new screen saver — not the scrolling message. It looked as if her anonymous gremlin had taken pity on her.

She realized that Hynds had been saying something only when he stopped. The silence drew her attention back to him.

“Sorry, Davie, I didn’t catch that.”

“I can come back,” he said. “Can’t be easy for you, coming in today like this . . .”

“Just tell me what it was you were saying.”

“You sure?”

“Bloody hell, Davie . . .” She picked up a pencil. “Have I got to stab you with this?” He stared at her, and she stared back, suddenly aware of what she’d said. She watched the way her hand was holding the pencil . . . holding it like a knife. “Christ,” she gasped, “I’m sorry . . .”

“Don’t be.”

She dropped the pencil, picked up the receiver instead. She signaled for Hynds to wait while she made the call to Bobby Hogan.

“It’s Siobhan Clarke,” she said into the mouthpiece. “Something I forgot: the blade Dow used . . . there’s a DIY shop next door to here. Maybe that’s where he bought it. They’ll have security cameras . . . could be staff will recognize him.” She listened to Hogan’s response. “Thank you,” she said, putting the receiver down again.