Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“Mr. Neilson,” Siobhan began, “as I said on the phone, it’s just a few questions about your relationship with Edward Marber.”

“We didn’t have a relationship,” the artist snapped.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean we didn’t speak, didn’t communicate.”

“You’d had a falling-out?”

“The man rips off his customers and his artists both! How is it possible to have a relationship under those circumstances?”

“Just to remind you that Mr. Marber’s dead,” Siobhan said quietly. The artist’s eyes almost met hers for an instant.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just that you talk about him in the present tense.”

“Oh, I see.” He grew thoughtful. Siobhan could hear his breathing; it was loud and hoarse. She wondered if he might be asthmatic.

“Do you have any proof?” she asked at last.

“That he was a cheat?” Neilson considered this, then shook his head. “It’s enough that I know it.”

From the corner of her eye, Siobhan noticed that Hynds had taken out his notebook and was busy with his pen. The doorbell rang and Neilson bounded to his feet with a muttered apology. When he’d gone, Siobhan turned to Hynds.

“Not even the offer of a cuppa. What are you writing?”

He showed her. It was just a series of squiggles. She looked at him for an explanation.

“Concentrates the mind wonderfully if they think everything they say is likely to be recorded.”

“Learn that in college?”

He shook his head. “All those years in uniform, boss. You learn a thing or two.”

“Don’t call me boss,” she said, watching as Neilson led another visitor into the room. Her eyes widened. It was the parking-space thief.

“This is my . . . um . . .” Neilson was attempting introductions.

“I’m Malcolm’s solicitor,” the man said, managing a thin smile.

Siobhan took a moment to recover. “Mr. Neilson,” she said, trying for eye contact, “this was meant to be a casual chat. There was no need for . . .”

“Nice to formalize things though, don’t you find?” The solicitor stepped through the debris. “My name’s Allison, by the way.”

“And your surname, sir?” Hynds inquired blithely. In the fraction of a second it took the solicitor to recover, Siobhan could have hugged her colleague.

“William Allison.” He handed a business card to Siobhan.

She didn’t so much as glance at it, just handed it straight to Hynds. “Mr. Allison,” she said quietly, “all we’re doing here is asking a few routine questions concerning the relationship — professional and personal — which may have existed between Mr. Neilson and Edward Marber. It would have taken about ten minutes and that would have been the end of it.” She got to her feet, aware that Hynds was following suit: a quick learner, she liked that. “But since you want to formalize things, I think we’ll continue this discussion down at the station.”

The solicitor straightened his back. “Come on now, no need for —”

She ignored him. “Mr. Neilson, I assume you’ll want to travel with your lawyer?” She stared at his bare feet. “Shoes might be an idea.”

Neilson looked at Allison. “I’m in the middle of —”

Allison cut him off. “Is this because of what happened outside?”

Siobhan held his gaze without blinking. “No, sir. It’s because I’m wondering why your client felt the need of your services.”

“I believe it’s everyone’s right to —”

Neilson was tugging at Allison’s sleeve. “Bill, I’m in the middle of something, I don’t want to spend half the day in a police cell.”

“The interview rooms at St. Leonard’s are quite cozy actually,” Hynds informed the artist. Then he made a show of studying his watch. “Of course, this time of day . . . it’s going to take us a while to get through the traffic.”

“And back again afterwards,” Siobhan added. “Plus the waiting time if a room’s not available . . .” She smiled at the solicitor. “Still, makes things nice and formal, just the way you want them.”

Neilson held up a hand. “Just a minute, please.” He was leading the solicitor out into the hallway. Siobhan turned to Hynds and beamed. “One–nil to us,” she said.

“But is the referee ready to blow?”

She shrugged a reply, slid her hands into her jacket pockets. She’d seen messier rooms, couldn’t help wondering if it were part of an act — the eccentric artist. The kitchen was just behind the dining table and looked clean and tidy. But then maybe Neilson just didn’t use it very much . . .

They heard the front door close. Neilson shambled back into the room, head bowed. “Bill’s decided . . . um, that is . . .”

“Fine,” Siobhan said, settling once again on the sofa. “Well, Mr. Neilson, sooner we get started and all that, eh?”

The artist crouched down between the speakers. They were big and old; wood-veneered sides and brown foam grilles. Hynds sat down, notebook in hand. Siobhan caught Neilson’s eye at last and offered her most reassuring smile.

“So,” she said, “just why exactly did you feel the need to have a solicitor present, Mr. Neilson?”

“I just . . . I thought it was the done thing.”

“Not unless you’re a suspect.” She let this sink in. Neilson muttered something that sounded like an apology.

Sitting back in the sofa, beginning to relax, Siobhan started the interview proper.

They both got cups of hot brown liquid from the machine. Hynds grimaced as he took his first sip.

“Couldn’t we all chip in for a coffeemaker?” he asked.

“It’s been tried before.”

“And?”

“And we started arguing about whose turn it was to buy the coffee. There’s a kettle in one of the offices. You can bring your own mug and stuff, but take my advice: keep everything locked up, or it’ll go walkies.”

He stared at the plastic cup. “Easier to use the machine,” he mumbled.

“Exactly.” She pushed open the door to the murder room.

“So whose mug did DI Rebus throw?” Hynds asked.

“Nobody knows,” she admitted. “Seems it’s been here since they built this place. Could even be that the builders left it.”

“No wonder he got the boot then.” She looked at him for an explanation. “Attempted destruction of a historical artifact.”

She smiled, made for her desk. Someone had borrowed her chair — again. Looking around, the nearest spare was Rebus’s. He’d taken it from the Farmer’s office when the old DCS had retired. That no one had touched it was testament to Rebus’s reputation, which didn’t stop her pushing it across the floor and making herself comfortable.

Her computer screen was blank. She hit a key, bringing it back to life. A new screen saver was flickering across her vision. PROVE IT THEN — POINT ME OUT. She looked up from the screen, scanning the room. Two primary targets: DC Grant Hood and DS George “Hi-Ho” Silvers. They had their heads together, standing by the far wall. Maybe they were discussing the following week’s rota, swapping assignments. Grant Hood had had a thing about her not that long back. She thought she’d managed to damp those flames without making an enemy of him. But he did like his boxes of tricks: computers; video games; digital cameras. It would be just his style to start sending her messages.

Hi-Ho Silvers was different. He liked his practical jokes, had made her his victim before. And though he was married, he had a reputation. He’d propositioned Siobhan half a dozen times over the past few years — she could always depend on him for some lurid suggestion at the Christmas party. But she wasn’t sure he’d know how to change a screen saver. He could barely change misspelled words when he was typing his reports.