Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

She looked down at her desk. Her notepad was a mass of doodles and squiggles, some in blue ink, some in black, not all of them hers. She knew she drew little tornadoes when she was on the phone. And cubes sometimes. And rectangles that looked like Union Jacks. One of the designs belonged to “Hi-Ho” Silvers: arrows and cacti were his specialties. Some people never doodled. She couldn’t remember Rebus ever doing it, or Derek Linford. It was as if they might give too much away. She wondered what her own graffiti would reveal to an expert. The tornado could be her way of giving some shape to the chaos of an investigation. The cubes and flags? Same thing, more or less. Arrows and cacti she wasn’t so sure about . . .

One name on her pad had been ringed and then half obliterated by a phone number.

Ellen Dempsey.

What was it Cafferty had said . . . ? Ellen Dempsey had “friends.” What sort of friends? The kind Cafferty didn’t want to tangle with.

“Is this what promotion does to you?” Rebus said. He was leaning against the doorframe.

“How long have you been there?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not spying.” He walked into the room. “They’ve all buggered off then?”

“Full marks for spotting that.”

“The old powers of deduction haven’t quite left the building yet.” Rebus tapped his head. His chair was behind what was now Linford’s desk. He wheeled it out and placed it in front of Siobhan’s.

“Don’t let that ba’heid sit in my seat,” he complained.

“Your seat? I thought you stole it from the Farmer’s old office?”

“Gill didn’t want it,” Rebus said, defending himself as he sat down and got comfortable. “So what’s on the menu for tonight?”

“Beans on toast probably. How about you?”

He made a show of thinking it over, resting his feet on the desktop. “Boeuf en croûte, maybe, washed down with a good bottle of wine.”

Siobhan wasn’t slow. “Jean called?”

He nodded. “I wanted to thank you for interceding on my behalf.”

“So where are you taking her?”

“Number One.”

Siobhan whistled. “Any chance of a doggie bag?”

“There might be a bone or two left. What are you writing?”

She noticed what she was doing. “Ellen Dempsey’s name was down here, only it’s been written over. I just wanted to write it again, to remind myself . . .”

“Of what?”

“I think she’s worth looking at.”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that Cafferty said she has friends.”

“You don’t think it was Donny Dow who killed Marber?”

She shook her head. “I could be wrong, of course.”

“What about this artist guy? I hear you had him in for questioning, too . . .”

“We did. He took a payoff from Marber, promised to stop bad-mouthing him.”

“Didn’t exactly work.”

“No . . .”

“But you don’t see him for the killer either?”

She gave an exaggerated shrug. “Maybe nobody did it.”

“Maybe a big boy did it and ran away.”

She smiled. “Has anyone in the whole history of the world ever really used that as an alibi?”

“I’m sure I tried it, when I was a kid. Didn’t you?”

“I don’t suppose my mum and dad would have believed me.”

“I don’t suppose any parent’s been duped by it. Doesn’t mean a kid wouldn’t try it . . .”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Neither Dow nor Neilson has an alibi for the night Marber was killed. Even Cafferty’s story’s a bit shaky . . .”

“You think Cafferty was involved?”

“I’m beginning to lean that way. He probably owns the Paradiso . . . he could have known about Laura and Marber . . . His driver happened to be Laura’s ex, and Cafferty’s a collector, someone Marber could have cheated.”

“Then bring him in.”

She looked at him. “He’s hardly likely to burst into tears and confess.”

“Bring him in anyway, just for the hell of it.”

She stared down at Ellen Dempsey’s name. “Why do I get the feeling that would be for your benefit, rather than mine?”

“Because you’ve a suspicious nature, DS Clarke.” Rebus checked his watch, rose to his feet.

“Got to go make yourself look pretty?” Siobhan guessed.

“Well, a change of shirt anyway.”

“Better find time for a shave, too, if you want Jean to get up close and personal.”

Rebus ran a hand over his chin. “A shave it is,” he said.

Siobhan watched him go, thinking: men and women, when did it all get so complicated? And why?

She opened her notepad at a fresh sheet and lifted her pen. A few moments later, Ellen Dempsey’s name was written there, at the still center of an ink tornado.

Rebus had washed his hair, shaved, brushed his teeth. He had dusted off his good suit and found a brand-new shirt. Having removed its packaging and all the pins, he’d tried it on. It needed ironing, but he didn’t know where the iron was . . . or whether he owned such an object, come to that. If he kept his jacket on, no one would see the creases. Pink tie . . . no. Dark blue . . . yes. No stains on it that he could see.

He gave his shoes a quick wipe with the dishcloth, dried them on the tea towel.

Looked at himself in the mirror. His hair had dried a bit spiky, and he tried flattening it. His face was flushed. He realized he was nervous.

He decided to get there early. A chance to check out the prices, so he wouldn’t look shocked in front of Jean. Besides, once he’d reconned the place, he would feel more comfortable in general. Maybe time for a quick whiskey just to steady him. The bottle peered at him from floor level. Not here, he thought: I’ll have one when I get there. He decided to take the car. Jean didn’t drive, and on the off chance that they might end up at her place in Portobello, a car would be handy. It also gave him an excuse not to order too much wine, let her drink for both of them.

And if he did drink, he could leave the car in town, fetch it later.

Keys . . . credit cards . . . what else? Maybe a change of clothes. He could always leave them in the car. That way, if he stayed the night at her place . . . no, no . . . if he suddenly announced that he had spare clothes in the trunk, she’d know he’d expected the night to end like that.

“No premeditation, John,” he warned himself. Last question: aftershave, yes or no? No. Same reasoning.

So . . . out of the flat, realizing halfway down the stairs that he hadn’t checked his phone messages. So what? He had his mobile and pager with him. The car was in a sweet parking space, almost directly outside. Shame to lose it . . . two minutes after he drove away, it would be taken. Still . . . Might not need a space tonight.

Stop thinking like that!

What if the menu was all in French? She’d have to order for both of them. Maybe that would be a good ruse; ask her straight off to order for him. Putting himself in her hands, et cetera. He was trying to think what else could go wrong. Credit card bouncing on him? Doubtful. Using the wrong spoon? Very possible. There seemed already to be patches of sweat beneath his arms.

Jesus, John . . .

Nothing was going to go wrong. He unlocked the car, slid into the driver’s seat. Turned the key in the ignition.

The engine was behaving itself. Into reverse and out of the space. He shifted into first and started down the road. Arden Street had been reduced to a narrow lane by cars parked either side. Suddenly, one of them reversed out of a space right in front of him. Rebus hit the brakes.

Bloody stupid . . .

He sounded the horn, but the driver just sat there. Rebus could see the shape of a head. No passengers.