Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

Other candidates . . . ? DC Phyllida Hawes, on temporary transfer from Gayfield Square . . . newly promoted Detective Chief Inspector Bill Pryde . . . Neither of them seemed to fit the bill. When Grant Hood turned his head in her direction, she pointed at him. He frowned, shrugged his shoulders as if to ask what she wanted. She indicated her computer screen, then wagged her finger. He broke off his conversation with Silvers and started towards her. Siobhan tapped a key, so that the screen saver disappeared, replaced with a fresh page from the word-processing software.

“Got a problem?” Hood asked.

She shook her head slowly. “I thought I had. The screen saver . . .”

“What about it?” He was at her shoulder now, studying the screen.

“It was slow to shift.”

“Could be your memory,” he said.

“Nothing wrong with my memory, Grant.”

“I mean the memory on the hard disk. If it’s filling up, everything slows down.”

She knew as much but pretended she didn’t. “Oh, right.”

“I’ll check it, if you like. Only take two ticks.”

“Wouldn’t want to keep you from your little chitchat.”

Hood looked over to where George Silvers was now perusing the Wall of Death: a montage of photos and documents relating to the case, stuck to the far wall with Blu-Tac.

“Hi-Ho’s turned malingering into an art form,” Hood said quietly. “He’s been over there half the day, says he’s trying to get a ‘feel’ for events.”

“Rebus does the same thing,” she stated. Hood looked at her.

“Hi-Ho’s no John Rebus. All George Silvers wants is a quiet life until his pension maxes out.”

“Whereas?”

“Whereas Rebus will be lucky to still be around to collect his.”

“Is this a private confab, or can anyone join in?” Davie Hynds was standing not three feet away, hands in trouser pockets to indicate that he was at a loose end.

Grant Hood straightened up, slapped a hand onto Hynds’s shoulder. “And how’s the new boy shaping up, DS Clarke?”

“So far, so good.”

Hood whistled, making a show of reappraising Hynds. “That’s high marks, coming from DS Clarke, Davie. You’ve obviously wangled your way into her affections.” With an exaggerated wink, he moved off, heading once more for the Wall of Death.

Hynds took a step towards Siobhan’s desk. “Is there some history between you two?”

“Why do you say that?”

“DC Hood obviously doesn’t like me.”

“It’ll take a while, that’s all.”

“But am I right? Is there a history?”

She shook her head slowly, keeping her eyes on his. “You reckon yourself a bit of an expert, don’t you, Davie?”

“How do you mean?”

“As an amateur psychologist.”

“I wouldn’t say —”

She was resting against the back of Rebus’s chair. “Let’s give you a test: what did you make of Malcolm Neilson?”

Hynds folded his arms. “I thought we’d covered this.”

By which he meant their conversation as Siobhan drove them from Neilson’s home back to St. Leonard’s. They hadn’t learned very much from the meeting, Neilson admitting it was no secret he wasn’t on speaking terms with the art dealer. He’d further admitted being annoyed that he’d suddenly been excluded from the New Colorists.

“That bugger Hastie couldn’t paint a living room wall, and as for Celine Blacker . . .”

“I quite like Joe Drummond though,” Hynds had interrupted. Siobhan had given him a warning look, but Neilson wasn’t listening anyway.

“Celine’s not even her real name,” he was saying.

In the car, Siobhan had asked if Hynds knew anything about painting.

“I did read up on the Colorists a bit,” he’d admitted. “Case like this, thought it might come in handy . . .”

Now, he rested his knuckles against the edge of Siobhan’s desk, leaning in towards her. “He’s not got much of an alibi,” he stated.

“But did he act like a man who might need one?”

Hynds considered this. “He called his lawyer . . .”

“Yes, but that was a moment’s panic. Once we actually got talking, didn’t you think he relaxed?”

“He was pretty confident.”

Siobhan, gazing into the middle distance, found herself locking eyes with George Silvers. She pointed to her computer screen, then wagged the finger at him. He ignored her, went back to his pretense of studying the wall.

Detective Chief Superintendent Gill Templer was suddenly standing in the doorway.

“Noise Abatement Society been leafleting again?” she bellowed. “A quiet office is one that isn’t working hard enough.” She narrowed in on Silvers. “Think you’re going to solve the case by osmosis, George?” There were smiles, but no laughter. The officers were trying to look busy but focused.

Templer was heading relentlessly for Siobhan’s desk. “How did you get on with the artist?” she asked, her voice dropping several decibels.

“Says he was in a few pubs that evening, ma’am. Got a take-away and went home to listen to Wagner.”

“Tristan und Isolde,” Hynds confided. Then, when Templer turned her laser glare on him, he blurted out that Neilson had wanted a solicitor present at the interview.

“Did he now?” The beams switched to Siobhan.

“It’ll go in my report, ma’am.”

“But you didn’t think it worth mentioning?”

The side of Hynds’s neck was reddening as he realized he’d dropped Siobhan in it.

“We don’t think it really means anything . . .” His voice fell away as he found himself the center of attention again.

“That’s your judgment, is it? Well, I can see I’m completely surplus to requirements. DC Hynds,” Templer announced to the room, “thinks he’s competent to make all the decisions around here.”

Hynds tried for a smile, failed.

“But just in case he’s wrong . . .” Templer was moving towards the doorway again, gesturing into the corridor. “Seeing how we’re down a DI, the Big House have let us borrow one of theirs.”

Siobhan sucked air between her teeth as a body and face she recognized walked into the room.

“DI Derek Linford,” Templer stated by way of introduction. “Some of you may already know him.” Her eyes turned towards Hi-Ho Silvers. “George, you’ve been staring at that wall long enough. Maybe you can bring Derek up to speed on the case, eh?”

With that, Templer left the room. Linford looked around, then walked stiffly towards George Silvers, shaking the proffered hand.

“Christ,” Hynds was saying in an undertone, “I felt like I was on her petri dish for a minute back there . . .” Then he noticed Siobhan’s face. “What is it?”

“What you were saying before . . . about Grant and me.” She nodded her head in Linford’s direction.

“Oh,” Davie Hynds said. Then: “Fancy another coffee?”

Out at the machine she gave him an edited version of events, telling him that she’d gone out with Linford on a couple of occasions, but leaving out the fact that Linford had started spying on her. She added that there was bad blood between Linford and Rebus, too, with the former blaming the latter for a severe beating he’d been given.

“You mean DI Rebus beat him up?”

Siobhan shook her head. “But Linford blames him all the same.”

Hynds gave a low whistle. He seemed about to say something, but now Linford himself was walking down the corridor, sorting out some loose coins in his hand.

“Change for fifty pee?” he asked. Hynds immediately reached into his own pocket, allowing Linford and Siobhan to share a look.

“How are you, Siobhan?”

“Fine, Derek. How are you?”

“Better.” He nodded slowly. “Thanks for asking.” Hynds was slotting coins home, refusing Linford’s offer of the fifty-pence piece.