Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“You’ve dislocated my thumb,” Diamond bawled. “Look.” He held his right hand up for Rebus’s inspection, then launched himself at him, smashing him backwards onto the grass. The wind was knocked out of Rebus. Diamond was crawling over him, pinning him down. Rebus struggled, and as Diamond’s grinning face came level with his own he head-butted him, then half rolled so that Diamond was forced off. Rebus clambered to his feet and swung a foot at Diamond, who wrapped his arms around it, trying to throw him off balance. Instead, Rebus dropped to both knees, his whole weight landing on Diamond’s chest.

The man groaned and spluttered.

“Let go!” Rebus spat.

Diamond let go. Rebus got to his feet once more, this time stepping back out of range.

“I heard a rib snap,” Diamond complained as he writhed.

“The hospital’s the other side of the Meadows,” Rebus told him. “Good luck.” He looked at himself. Grass stains and mud on his trousers, shirt hanging out. His tie was over to one side, hair rumpled.

And he was going to be late.

“I want you to get in your car,” he told the prone figure, “and keep driving. It’s like the Sparks song said: this town ain’t big enough for the both of us. I see you here again after tonight, you’re dead meat. Understood?”

The body said something, but Rebus couldn’t make it out. He guessed Diamond wasn’t complimenting him on the welcome home . . .

He parked directly outside the restaurant and ran down the steps. Jean was in the cocktail bar, pretending to study the menu. Her face was icy as he approached. Then, despite the understated lighting, she finally saw that something had happened.

“What did you do?” As he bent down to kiss her cheek, she touched her fingers to his forehead. It stung, and he realized he’d grazed it.

“A bit of a disagreement,” he said. “Am I presentable enough for a place like this?” The maître d’ was hovering.

“Can you bring John a large whiskey?” Jean asked.

“A nice malt perhaps, sir?”

Rebus nodded. “Laphroaig if you’ve got it.”

“And some ice,” Jean added. “In a glass by itself.” She smiled at Rebus, but with concern in her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m going to have dinner with a man who’ll be holding an ice pack to his face.”

Rebus studied his surroundings. “Place like this, they probably have someone to do that for you.”

She smiled more openly. “You’re sure you’re all right.”

“I’m fine, Jean, honest.” He lifted her hand, kissed the inside of her wrist. “Nice perfume,” he said.

“Opium,” she told him. Rebus nodded, filing the information away for future use.

The meal was long and wonderful, Rebus relaxing a little more with each course. Jean asked just once about the “disagreement,” Rebus muttering a few words of concocted explanation before she held up a hand and stopped him.

“I’d rather you told me to mind my own business, John . . . just don’t start making up a story. It’s ever-so-slightly insulting.”

“Sorry.”

“One day, maybe you’ll feel like opening up to me.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, but inside he knew the day would never come. It hadn’t happened with Rhona during all the years of his marriage, no reason to think things would be any different now . . .

He’d drunk just the one large malt, followed by two glasses of wine, and as a result felt fine to drive. As one of the waiters helped Jean into her coat, Rebus asked if he could give her a lift. She nodded.

They drove to Portobello, well fed and friends again, an old Fairport Convention tape providing background music. As they turned onto her street, she spoke his name, drawing it out. He knew what she was about to say and preempted it.

“You don’t want me coming in?”

“Not tonight.” Turning towards him. “Is that all right?”

“Of course it is, Jean. No problem.” There weren’t any parking spaces, so he just stopped in the middle of the road outside her house.

“It was a lovely meal,” she said.

“We’ll have to do it again.”

“Maybe not quite so extravagantly.”

“I didn’t mind.”

“You took your punishment very nobly,” she said, leaning over to kiss him. Her fingers touched his face. He placed both hands on her shoulders, feeling awkward, much the way he’d felt as a teenager. First dates . . . not wanting to screw things up . . .

“Good night, John.”

“Can I phone you tomorrow?”

“You better had,” she warned, opening her door. “It’s rare that I give someone a second chance.”

“Scout’s honor,” he said, lifting two fingers to his right temple. She smiled again and was gone. She didn’t look back, just climbed the steps to her front door, unlocked it and closed it after her. The hall light was already on — the lazy person’s deterrent. He waited till the lights came on upstairs — hallway and bedroom — then put the car into gear and moved off.

There was no space for the Saab in Arden Street. He had a quick look to make sure Dickie Diamond wasn’t lurking, but there was no sign. He parked a two-minute walk away, enjoying the fresh air. The night was crisp, almost autumnal. The dinner had gone well, he decided. No interruptions: he’d switched off his mobile, and his pager hadn’t sounded. Trying his mobile now, he found that he had no new messages.

“Thank Christ for that,” he said, pushing open his tenement door. He was going to have one more whiskey, albeit a large one. He was going to sit in his chair and listen to some music. He’d already penciled in Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti. He wanted something that would blow everything else away. He might even fall asleep in the chair, and that wouldn’t matter.

Things were back on track with Jean. He thought so . . . hoped so. He’d phone her first thing in the morning, maybe again after work.

He reached his landing, stared at his door.

“For Christ’s sake . . .”

The door was wide open, the hall dark within. Someone had used an implement of some kind to bust the lock. There were shards of freshly splintered wood. He peered into the hall. No signs of life . . . no sounds. Not that he was going to risk it. The memory of Diamond’s revolver was too recent. Diamond probably had the ammo hidden somewhere, maybe even in his car . . . Rebus called on his mobile, asked for backup. Then he stood on the landing and waited. Still no signs of life from within. He tried the light switch by the front door. Nothing happened.

Five minutes had passed when, downstairs, the main door opened and closed. He’d heard a car screeching to a halt. Feet on the staircase. He leaned over to watch Siobhan Clarke climbing towards him.

“You’re the backup?” he said.

“I was in the station.”

“This time of night?”

She paused, four steps down from him. “I can always go home . . .” She half turned, as if to leave.

“Might as well stay,” he said, “now you’re here. Don’t suppose you’ve got a flashlight on you?”

She opened her bag. There was a large black flashlight inside. She clicked it on.

“Fuse box is over there,” he said, pointing into the hall. Someone had turned the electricity off. Rebus flipped the switch and the lights came on. They moved through the rest of the flat as a team, quickly sensing that no one was there.

“Looks like a straightforward break-in,” she commented. He didn’t respond. “You don’t agree?”

“I’d feel happier with the diagnosis if anything were actually missing.”

But nothing was, nothing he could see. The hi-fi, TV, his albums and CDs, his booze and books . . . all present and correct.

“To be honest, I’m not sure I’d bother nicking anything either,” Siobhan said, picking up the cover of a Nazareth LP. “Do you want to call it in as a housebreaking?”