Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“If he is, it doesn’t show.”

“I mean, Phyl’s a bonny enough girl, wouldn’t you say?” Rebus nodded his agreement. “And he’d been paying her plenty of attention all night . . .”

The way she said this made Rebus focus on her. “What sort of attention?”

“Asking her how the Marber case was coming along.”

“It’s a natural enough question. Aren’t women’s magazines always saying men should do more listening?”

“I wouldn’t know, I never read them.” She looked at him archly. “Didn’t realize you were such an expert.”

“You know what I mean, though.”

She nodded. “The thing is, it made me think about the way DI Gray has been mooching around the inquiry room . . . and that other one . . . McCullen?”

“McCullough,” Rebus corrected her. Jazz, Ward and Gray, spending time in the inquiry room . . .

“Probably doesn’t mean anything,” Siobhan said.

“What could it mean?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Something they wanted . . . someone they were interested in . . . ?” She thought of something else. “The case you’re working on, did anything happen last night?”

He nodded. “Someone we wanted to speak to, he was rushed into hospital.” Part of him wanted to tell her more . . . tell her everything. He knew she was one person he could trust. But he held back, because there was no way of knowing whether telling her would put her in danger, somewhere down the line.

“The reason Ward didn’t go upstairs with Phyl,” she was saying, “was because he got a call on his mobile and had to head back to the college.”

“That could have been him hearing about it.”

Rebus remembered that when he’d arrived at Tulliallan himself, pretty late on, Gray, Jazz and Ward had still been awake, sitting in the lounge bar with the dregs of their drinks in front of them. The bar itself had stopped serving, no one else about, and with most of the lights extinguished.

But the three of them, still awake and seated around the table . . .

Rebus wondered if they’d summoned Ward back so they could discuss what to do about Rebus, the chat he’d had with Jazz . . . Gray coming up with the idea to take Rebus as his partner to Glasgow, maybe quiz him further. When Rebus had walked in, Gray had told him about Chib Kelly and repeated that he wanted Rebus with him. Rebus hadn’t really questioned the decision . . . He remembered asking Ward how his date with Phyllida Hawes had gone. Ward had shrugged, saying little. It hadn’t sounded like there was going to be a repeat performance . . .

Siobhan was nodding thoughtfully. “There’s something I’m not getting, isn’t there?”

“Such as?”

“I’ll know that only when you tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

She stared at him. “Yes there is. Something else you need to know about women, John: we can read you lot like a book.”

He was about to say something, but his mobile was trilling. He checked the number, held a finger up to let Siobhan know he needed this to be private.

“Hello,” he said, moving across the car park. “I was hoping I’d hear from you.”

“The mood I was in, believe me, you didn’t want to hear from me.”

“I’m glad you’re calling now.”

“Are you busy?”

“I’m always busy, Jean. That night on the High Street . . . I was roped into that. Group of guys from the college.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” Jean Burchill said. “I’m phoning to thank you for the flowers.”

“You got them?”

“I did . . . along with two phone calls, one from Gill, one from Siobhan Clarke.”

Rebus stopped and looked back, but Siobhan had already retreated indoors.

“They both said the same thing,” Jean was telling him.

“And what was it?”

“That you’re a pigheaded lout, but you’ve got a good heart.”

“I’ve been trying to call you, Jean . . .”

“I know.”

“And I want to make it up to you. How about dinner tonight?”

“Where?”

“You choose.”

“How about Number One? If you can get us a table . . .”

“I’ll get us a table.” He paused. “I’m assuming it’s expensive?”

“John, you muck me about, it’s always going to cost. Lucky for you, this time it’s only money.”

“Seven-thirty?”

“And don’t be late.”

“I won’t be.”

They finished the call and he headed back inside, stopping at the comms room to find a phone number for the restaurant. He was in luck: they’d just had a cancellation. The restaurant was part of the Balmoral Hotel on Princes Street. Rebus didn’t bother to ask how much it was likely to cost. Number One was a special-occasion place; people saved to dine there. Atonement wasn’t going to come cheap. Nevertheless, he was in good spirits as he walked back to the interview room.

“Someone looks frisky,” Tam Barclay commented.

“And wasn’t that the fragrant DS Clarke we saw coming back from the car park?” Allan Ward added.

They started whistling and laughing. Rebus didn’t bother to say anything. One man in the room wasn’t smiling: Francis Gray. He was seated at the table with a pen clenched between his teeth, playing out a rhythm on it with his fingernails. He wasn’t so much watching Rebus as studying him.

When it comes to Edinburgh, John knows where the bodies are buried.

Said metaphorically? Rebus didn’t think so . . .

By six that evening, the inquiry room had emptied. Siobhan was glad to see them go. Derek Linford had been giving her foul looks ever since the drinks machine. Davie Hynds had spent the afternoon writing up the report on Malcolm Neilson’s payoff. The only break he’d taken had been to interview — with Silvers as his partner — a good-looking woman who turned out to be Sharon Burns, the art collector. Siobhan had asked Silvers afterwards who she’d been. He’d explained, then grinned.

“Davie said you’d be jealous . . .”

Phyllida Hawes had been sitting moonfaced and anxious ever since lunch, checking her watch and the doorway, wanting Allan Ward to pay another visit. But no one from IR1 had come near. Eventually Hawes had asked Siobhan if she fancied a drink after work.

“Sorry, Phyl,” Siobhan had lied, “I’ve got a prior engagement.” Last thing she wanted was Hawes crying on her shoulder because Ward was giving her the cold one. But Silvers and Grant Hood were up for a pint, and Hawes had joined them. Hynds had waited to be asked, and eventually he was.

“I could probably manage one,” he’d said, trying not to sound too desperate.

“Might join you,” Linford had said, “if that’s all right.”

“More the merrier,” Hawes had told him. “Sure you can’t come, Siobhan?”

“Thanks anyway,” Siobhan had replied.

Leaving her alone in the office at six o’clock, the sudden silence relieved only by the hum of the strip lighting. Templer had left much earlier to attend some meeting at the Big House. The brass would want to know what progress was being made on the Marber case. As her eyes drifted over the Wall of Death, Siobhan could have told them: precious little.

They’d be keen for a result. Which was precisely when mistakes could be made, shortcuts taken. They’d be wanting Donny Dow or Malcolm Neilson to fit the frame, even if it meant reshaping them . . .

One of her teachers at college had told her years back: it wasn’t the result that mattered, it was how you got there. He’d meant that you had to play fair, stay open-minded; make sure the case lacked any slow punctures, so the Procurator Fiscal wouldn’t kick it straight back at you. It was up to the courts to decide guilt and innocence, the job of CID was merely to stitch the pieces together into a ball . . .