Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“It’s Ms. ”

Siobhan nodded. “I noticed you didn’t wear a ring, but the mechanic outside called you ‘Mrs.’ ”

Dempsey smiled. “They all do. Gives me less grief if they think there might be a Mr. Dempsey who could come down hard on them . . .” She glanced at her watch. “Look, I don’t want to rush you, but my night-shift telephonist will be coming in soon, and I want to get this paperwork finished . . .”

“Understood,” Siobhan said, rising to her feet.

“And thanks for dropping in.”

“No problem. Thanks for the career advice.”

“You don’t need any advice, DS Clarke. Running a cab company is one thing, but being a female officer in the CID . . .” Dempsey shook her head slowly. “Now there’s one job I couldn’t do for all the tea in China.”

“Luckily, I don’t drink tea,” Siobhan said. “Thanks again for your time.”

She drove as far as the end of the road, and squeezed into a curbside parking space, turning off the ignition and letting her mind wander. What had she gleaned from the conversation? A few useful snippets. That Dempsey had recognized her for CID straight off was interesting. To employ ex-cons was one thing, but clocking a plainclothes cop took a certain skill, a skill that came with practice. Siobhan couldn’t help wondering how Ellen Dempsey would have acquired such an ability . . .

Then there was Dundee to consider. The story of her time there almost rang true. Almost, but not quite. There had been enough pauses in her narrative to indicate that she was leaving things unsaid. Those were the things Siobhan wanted to know about. When her mobile sounded, she knew who it would be.

Gill Templer . . . and not in a mood to waste words.

“What in God’s name was John Rebus doing out at Inveresk?”

“He tagged along,” Siobhan said, adopting a veneer of honesty as the best policy. A car was pulling into the forecourt of MG Cabs. The night shift, she guessed . . .

“Why?” Templer was asking.

“Wanted a break from St. Leonard’s.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I didn’t let him near the house. As far as I know, he smoked a cigarette, then headed back.” Siobhan was thinking of all the officers who’d been present and could call her a liar. The ones who’d heard her bellowing out of the window at Rebus . . . who’d seen her march down the garden towards where he crouched over the unwrapped object . . .

“Why do I find that so hard to believe?” Templer was saying now, denting Siobhan’s fragile confidence.

“I don’t know . . . maybe because you’ve known him longer than I have. But that’s the way it happened. He said he needed a break . . . I emphasized that he was no longer part of the Marber inquiry. He accepted that, made no effort to assist at the house, and left soon after.”

“He left before you found the painting?”

Siobhan took a deep breath. “Before we found the painting,” she confirmed.

Templer was thoughtful for a few moments. Siobhan could see the red MG reversing out of the compound, turning in her direction.

“I hope for your sake John backs up your story,” Templer was saying as Siobhan turned the ignition.

“Understood.” There was a pause. Siobhan could sense that her boss had something else she was struggling to say.

“Well, if that’s everything . . .” she coaxed, and was rewarded when Templer broke in.

“Has John said anything to you about Tulliallan?”

“Just what you’d expect.” Siobhan frowned. “Has something happened?”

“No, it’s just . . .” Templer sounded anxious.

“He will be coming back, won’t he?” Siobhan asked.

“I hope so, Siobhan. I really do.”

Templer ended the call just as Ellen Dempsey’s car roared past. Siobhan took her time easing out of the parking spot. This time of the evening, traffic would still be heavy, but a red sports car was hard to miss. She thought back to Templer’s closing words. Siobhan had been asking whether Rebus was for the chop, but the way Templer had answered made her wonder. It had all sounded much more ominous . . . She tried calling Rebus, but he wasn’t answering. She wasn’t sure why she was following Ellen Dempsey exactly, except that she wanted to know a little more about the woman. The way she drove could offer pointers, as could her home — the style of house, the part of the city . . . And at least when she was tailing Dempsey, she was keeping busy. She wasn’t at the station, being fawned over . . . she wasn’t at home, brooding over a ready meal . . .

She switched the car’s CD player on: Mogwai, Rock Action. It had an edginess to it which she found soothing. Maybe she could relate to it. Edgy and samey but with sudden unpredictable shifts.

Just like an investigation.

And, maybe even, just like her . . .

What Siobhan hadn’t been expecting was that Dempsey would head south out of the city until she hit the bypass, then use it to start heading west and north at speed. Plainly, she didn’t live in Edinburgh, and soon it became apparent that she didn’t even live this side of the Firth of Forth. As they made for the Forth Road Bridge, Siobhan found herself checking her petrol gauge. If she had to pull into a service station, she would lose Dempsey. As it was, the bridge offered problems of its own. There was a backup of drivers waiting to pay their toll. Siobhan found herself in a separate queue from her prey, one that seemed to be moving much more slowly. At this rate, Dempsey would be across the bridge and out of sight . . . But Dempsey seemed intent on sticking to the speed limit, which told Siobhan that she’d probably had a speeding fine in the recent past, either that or had clocked up enough points on her license that any fresh violation might see her banned. Siobhan was in the outside lane, ignoring the regular roadside reminders that the limit on the bridge was fifty miles per hour. Over to her right, a train was crossing the rail bridge. The CD had finished, and she was trying to find the REPEAT button. Then, at the last minute, she saw Dempsey signaling to take the first turnoff after the bridge. The inside lane was clogged, and Siobhan couldn’t see a gap that would let her in. She switched her indicator on and edged towards the dividing line. The car behind flashed at her angrily, but braked to let her in, the driver sounding his horn afterwards and flashing his lights again.

“I get the picture,” Siobhan snarled. There were three cars between her and Dempsey, and one of them also took the access road. They were heading for North Queensferry, a picturesque place on the banks of the Forth, with the rail bridge towering above the houses and shops. Dempsey was signaling to turn up a steep incline which was little more than the width of a single car. Siobhan drove past, then pulled over. When the traffic behind her had passed, she reversed to the bottom of the hill. Dempsey had reached the summit and was disappearing over the brow. Siobhan followed. A hundred yards farther on, Dempsey had turned into a driveway. Siobhan waited a few moments, then drove past. She couldn’t see much because of the tall hedge in front. In her favor, Dempsey couldn’t see her either. The bungalow was pretty much at the eastern edge of the village, the steep climb giving it height, so that it looked down on the main street and surroundings. Siobhan would bet there were spectacular uninterrupted views from the back garden.

At the same time, it was a very private place, and North Queensferry was nicely anonymous. Another train was crossing the bridge: with her window open, Siobhan could hear it. Heading across Fife to Dundee and beyond. Fife was what separated Edinburgh from Dundee. She wondered if that was why Dempsey had chosen to make it her home: neither one place nor the other, but within reach of both. It felt right to her: Dempsey wasn’t just visiting someone; she was home.