Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

Just in case they did find anything.

Hawes was in charge of the box of smaller polythene bags, plus the tags which would be attached to any useful find. Everyone was pulling on pairs of gloves, while across the road the camera shutters clicked, motors humming as the film progressed to the next frame.

Rebus held back. This was Siobhan’s show, and she was making sure everyone knew it. She’d gathered her team in a semicircle and was outlining their duties. Rebus lit a cigarette. At the sound of his lighter, she turned towards him.

“Not in the house,” she reminded him. He nodded. Contamination: ash dropped on a carpet could be misinterpreted. Rebus decided he was safer outdoors. After all, he hadn’t come here to help with the search. What he’d needed was some time away from Gray and the others . . . time to think. Siobhan was unlocking the house, throwing open its door. The officers headed in. From what Rebus could see, the hallway was much like any other. From the way she’d acted in the car, Rebus knew Siobhan thought they were wasting their time, which meant she was far from convinced that the painter was the killer. It wouldn’t stop her from being thorough. The suspect’s house had to be searched. And you never knew what you might find . . .

With most of the police having disappeared inside, the cameras had little to do but focus on the single detective left smoking a cigarette. And wouldn’t that picture appeal to Gill Templer if it found its way into the newspapers? Rebus turned his back and walked around the side of the house. There was a long, narrow garden at the rear, with a summerhouse and shed at the farthest corners. A strip of lawn, bordered with flagstones. Flower beds looking overgrown, but that could have been on purpose: a wild, rambling garden . . . counterpoint to the order provided by the rose beds. Rebus didn’t know enough about either gardening or Malcolm Neilson to be able to say. He walked down to the summerhouse. It looked fairly new. Varnished wooden slats, with wood-framed and glass-paneled doors. The doors were closed, but not locked. He pulled them open. Inside: deck chairs stacked against one wall, awaiting better weather; one fairly solid wooden chair, boasting wide armrests, one of which had been hollowed out to accommodate a cup or glass. Nice touch, Rebus thought, settling into the chair. He had a view across the garden to the house itself, and could imagine the artist sitting here, maybe with the rain falling outside, snug and cozy with a drink for company.

“Lucky bugger,” he muttered.

Shapes moved behind the upstairs and downstairs windows. They’d be working two to a room, the way Siobhan had instructed. Looking for what exactly? Anything incriminating or out of place . . . anything that gave them an inkling. Rebus wished them well. What he needed, he realized, was a place like this. It felt like a haven. Somehow, he didn’t think the placement of a summerhouse in the back garden of his tenement would have the same effect. He’d thought before of selling his flat, buying a little house just outside the city — commuting distance, but a place where he could find a bit of peace. Problem was, you could have too much of a good thing. In Edinburgh, he had twenty-four-hour shops, myriad pubs within a short walk, and the constant background hum of street life. In a place like Inveresk, he feared the silence would get to him eventually, drawing him deeper into himself — not a place he really wanted to be — and defeating the whole point of the exercise.

“No place like home,” he told himself, rising out of the chair. He wasn’t going to find any answers here. His troubles were his own, and a change of scenery couldn’t alter that. He wondered about Dickie Diamond, hopefully now in the process of scurrying out of Edinburgh. He’d given his Edinburgh address as his sister’s house in Newhaven. His permanent address was a high-rise in Gateshead. They’d sent a message south, requesting a check by the local force. He’d claimed he wasn’t currently working, but neither had he registered as unemployed. No bank account . . . didn’t have his driving license with him. He hadn’t mentioned his car, and neither had Rebus. If they knew about the car, they could get an address from his license plate. Rebus knew that the Gateshead address would be fake or out-of-date. The car might well be another matter. He got on his mobile, called the comms room at St. Leonard’s and asked if the Ford’s last known sighting — looking abandoned in the New Town — could be rechecked.

But the comms room already knew. “Car was lifted this morning,” the officer said. Which meant it would be in the pound, a hefty levy payable before it could be released. Rebus doubted Diamond would bother — the Ford was probably worth less than the charges now attached to it.

“Doesn’t take long for them to clear rubbish from the New Town, does it?” Rebus said into the phone.

“It was parked outside a judge’s front door, blocking the space for his own car,” the officer explained.

“Got the Ford’s registration address?”

The officer reeled it off: same one Diamond had given them in the interview room. Rebus ended the conversation, slipped the phone back into his pocket. Dickie Diamond would be leaving town by bus or train, always supposing he lacked the wherewithal to steal someone else’s car.

Either that or he’d be staying put, necessitating another meeting between them and some strong words from Rebus. Strong words and maybe strong actions to accompany them.

Was the gun hidden inside the car? He wondered if it was worth finding out, but shook his head. Dickie Diamond wasn’t the kind to shoot anyone. The gun had been a prop . . . the prop of a weak, scared man. A fine insight in retrospect.

He’d stopped to light another cigarette and was crossing the garden to the shed. This was a much older construction than the summerhouse, its wooden sides mildewed and spattered with bird droppings. Again, there was no lock on it, so Rebus pulled it open. A coiled hose, which had been attached to a nail on the inside of the door, slid off and fell with a clatter. There were shelves of DIY bits and pieces — screws and brackets, Rawl plugs, hinges . . . An old-style push-pull mower took up most of the floor space. But there was something tucked down beside it, something smothered in bubble wrap. Rebus looked back at the cottage. He wasn’t wearing gloves, but decided to pick it up all the same. It was a painting, or at any rate a frame. Heavier than he’d been expecting, probably the weight of the glass. He lifted it onto the lawn. Heard the sound of a window opening, then Siobhan’s voice: “What the hell are you doing?”

“Come take a look,” he called back. He was unfolding the wrapping. The painting showed a man in a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up. He had long dark wavy hair, and was standing by a mantelpiece, atop which sat a mirror, which itself was reflecting a woman with long, lustrous black hair, the angles of her lower jaw picked out as though from firelight. Around the two figures all was shadow. The woman wore a black mask covering her eyes and nose. She had her hands behind her. Maybe they were tied together at the back. The artist’s surname was written in capitals at bottom left: Vettriano.

“This’ll be the missing painting then,” Rebus said, as Siobhan stood over him.

She stared first at the canvas, then at the shed. “And it was just lying there?”

“Tucked down the side of the lawn mower.”

“The door wasn’t locked?”

Rebus shook his head. “Looks like he panicked. Brought the thing home, then didn’t want it in the house . . .”

“How heavy is it?” Siobhan was walking around the painting.

“It’s not light. What’s your point?”