Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

Rebus knew what that would mean: a fingerprint team leaving dust everywhere; giving a statement to a bored woolly suit . . . And everyone at the station knowing he’d been turned over. He shook his head. Siobhan looked at him.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She seemed only now to spot that he was wearing a better suit than usual. “How was the meal?”

He looked at himself, started removing his tie. “Fine.” He popped the top button on his shirt and felt some of the pressure ease. “Thanks again for calling her.”

“Anything to help.” She was studying the living room once more. “You’re sure nothing’s been taken?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Then why would someone break in?”

“I don’t know.”

“Care to try a few guesses?”

“No.” Dickie Diamond . . . Gray . . . the Weasel . . . Plenty of people seemed to know where he lived. But what would any of them be looking for? Maybe it was the students through the wall, desperate to play some decent music for a change . . .

Siobhan sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “Why is it that when you say ‘no,’ I know you’ve already got some names in mind?”

“Woman’s intuition?”

“Not my finely honed detective’s skills then?”

“Those, too, of course.”

“Have you got a joiner you can phone?” She meant the door: emergency repair needed.

“I’ll wait till morning. They charge an arm and a leg otherwise.”

“And what if someone comes tiptoeing in here through the night?”

“I’ll hide under the bed till they’ve gone.”

She came forwards till she was standing directly in front of him, slowly lifted her hand. Rebus didn’t know what she was going to do. But he didn’t shy away. Her forefinger touched his brow.

“How did that happen?”

“It’s just a graze.”

“A fresh one, though. Wasn’t Jean, was it?”

“I just fell into something.” They locked eyes. “And I wasn’t drunk, God’s honest truth.” He paused. “But speaking of drink . . .” He picked up the bottle. “Care to join me, now you’re here?”

“Can’t have you drinking alone, can we?”

“I’ll fetch a couple of glasses.”

“Any chance of a coffee to go with it?”

“I’ve no milk.”

She went into her bag again, producing a small carton. “I was saving this for home,” she said, “but in the circumstances . . .”

He retreated to the kitchen and Siobhan slipped off her coat. She was thinking that she would redecorate this room, given the chance. A lighter carpet, for definite, and junk the 1960s light fixtures.

Through in the kitchen, Rebus took two glasses from the cupboard, found a milk jug and poured some cold water into it, just in case Siobhan felt the need. Then he opened the freezer compartment of his fridge, lifted out a half bottle of vodka, a packet of venerable fish fingers and a shriveled morning roll. There was a polythene shopping bag beneath, and in it the chief constable’s report on Bernie Johns. Rebus was fairly sure no one had tampered with it. He put it back, along with the fish fingers and the roll. Filled the kettle and switched it on.

“You can have vodka instead if you prefer,” he called.

“Whiskey’s fine.”

Rebus smiled and closed the freezer door.

“Did you ever listen to that Arab Strap tape I made you?” Siobhan asked as he returned to the living room.

“It was good,” he said. “Drunk guy from Falkirk, right? Lyrics all about getting his end away?” He poured, handed her the glass. Offered water, but she shook her head.

They both sat down on the sofa, sipped their drinks. “There’s a saying, isn’t there?” Rebus asked. “Something about drinking and friendship?”

“Misery loves company?” Siobhan guessed mischievously.

“That’s it,” Rebus said with a smile, raising his glass. “Here’s to misery!”

“To misery,” Siobhan echoed. “Where would we be without it?”

He looked at her. “You mean it’s part and parcel of human life?”

“No,” she said. “I mean you and me would be out of a job . . .”

As soon as he woke up, Rebus called Jean. He’d actually made it as far as his bed last night, but when he walked through to the living room the hi-fi was still playing. Wishbone Ash’s There’s the Rub — he must have pressed the REPEAT button by mistake. The whiskey glasses were on the dining table. Siobhan had left a good half inch untouched. Rebus thought about finishing it, but dribbled it back into the bottle instead. Then he reached for the telephone.

Jean was still asleep. He imagined her: tousled hair, sun streaming in through her cream burlap curtains. Sometimes when she woke up there were fine white accumulations at the corners of her mouth.

“I said I’d call,” he told her.

“I was hoping it might be at a civilized hour.” But she was good-humored about it. “I take it you didn’t manage to pick up any unsuitable women on your way home?”

“And what sort of woman do you think would be unsuitable for me?” he asked, smiling. He’d already decided that she needn’t know about the break-in . . . or about Siobhan’s little visit.

They chatted for five minutes, then Rebus placed another call — this time to a joiner he knew, a man who owed him a favor — after which he made himself coffee and a bowl of cereal. There wasn’t quite enough milk for both, so he watered the carton down from the cold tap. By the time he’d eaten, showered and got dressed, the joiner had arrived.

“Pull the door shut after you, Tony,” Rebus told him, making his way out onto the landing. As he walked downstairs, he wondered again who might have been behind the break-in. Diamond was the obvious candidate. Maybe he’d wanted to wait for Rebus but had got fed up. As Rebus drove to St. Leonard’s, he replayed the scene on Bruntsfield Links. He was furious that Diamond had pulled a gun on him. Loaded or not, it didn’t matter. He tried to recall how he’d felt. Not scared exactly . . . in fact, fairly calm. When someone aimed a gun at you, it was pointless to worry — either you were going to get shot or you weren’t. He remembered that his whole body had tingled, almost vibrating with an electric energy. Dickie Diamond . . . the Diamond Dog . . . thinking he could get away with something like that . . .

He parked the car and decided to skip his usual cigarette. Instead, he went to the comms room and gave the word that he wanted patrols to be on the lookout for a certain motor vehicle. He gave the description and license plate.

“Nobody’s to go near it: all I want is the whereabouts.”

The uniform had nodded, then started speaking into the mike. Rebus was hoping Diamond would have heeded his warning to clear out of town. All the same, he needed to be sure.

It was another half hour before the rest of the Wild Bunch arrived. They’d come in the one car. Rebus could tell which three had been squeezed into the backseat — Ward, Sutherland and Barclay. They were doing stretching exercises as they walked into the room.

Gray and Jazz: driver and front-seat passenger. Once again, Rebus wondered about Allan Ward, about how he felt being so often the odd man out. He was yawning, his back clicking as he raised and lowered his shoulders.

“So what did you lot get up to last night?” Rebus asked, trying to make it sound like a casual inquiry.

“A few drinks,” Stu Sutherland said. “And early to bed.”

Rebus looked around. “What?” he asked in apparent disbelief. “All of you?”

“Jazz nipped home to see his missus,” Tam Barclay admitted.

“See to her more like,” Sutherland added with a leering grin.