Resurrection Men

Stafford shook her head. Again, Siobhan let the silence lie. Stafford shifted on the sofa, as if about to say something.

“And all the time,” Linford broke in, “that Marber was paying for this place, he never asked you for any extras?”

Stafford’s face became a mask, and Siobhan knew that they’d lost her.

“No,” she was saying, in reply to the question.

“You’ll appreciate that we find that hard to believe,” Linford said.

“I don’t,” Siobhan interrupted, her eyes on Stafford while Linford fixed her with a frown. “I believe it,” Siobhan said. Then she got up and handed her card to Laura Stafford. “Anytime you want to talk . . .”

Stafford studied the card, nodded slowly.

“Well, thanks again for your time,” Linford said grudgingly.

They’d reached the door when they heard Stafford calling from the living room. “I liked him, you know. That’s more than I can say for most of them . . .”

Outside, they walked towards Linford’s car in silence. After they’d got in and fastened their seat belts, he turned the ignition, fixing his gaze on the road ahead.

“Well, thanks for your support back there,” he said.

“And thanks so very much for yours. Teamwork’s what it’s all about at the end of the day.”

“I don’t remember saying I didn’t believe you.”

“Let’s just leave it, eh?”

He fumed for a good two minutes before speaking. “The boyfriend . . . or whatever he is.”

“Donny Dow?”

Linford nodded. “The mother of his kid is shacked up in a posh flat. He decides to thump the sugar daddy, but ends up thumping him too hard.”

“How did he know about Marber?”

“Maybe she told him.”

“Mrs. Dow doesn’t even know.”

“We’ve only the prossie’s word for that.”

Siobhan screwed shut her eyes. “Don’t call her that.”

“Isn’t that what she is?” When she didn’t answer, his look said he’d won that particular argument. “We need to talk to him anyway.”

Siobhan opened her eyes again. “His mum said he used to get into trouble. He’ll be on the files.”

Linford nodded. “And so will his ex. Maybe there’s more to her than just soliciting, eh?” He risked a glance at Siobhan. “You think Cafferty knew about the arrangement?”

“I don’t even know for sure that he owns the Paradiso.”

“But it’s likely?”

With a nod, Siobhan conceded that it was. She was thinking: if Cafferty had known about Marber’s crush on Laura . . . well, then what? What could it mean? Was it even possible that he had put Laura up to it? Why would he do that? She could think of reasons. Maybe Marber had a painting or paintings Cafferty wanted . . . something Marber was unwilling to sell. She still didn’t see how blackmail or anything like it would have helped. Marber was single. It was the married ones you blackmailed, the ones who needed to be whiter than white. Marber worked with artists, the wealthy, the cosmopolitan. Siobhan didn’t think they’d be shocked to learn that their art dealer friend had been sleeping with prostitutes. If anything, it might have made him more popular.

Had some money coming to him, I think . . . Laura’s words came back to her. How much money, and from what source? Enough money to get him killed? Enough to interest someone like Big Ger Cafferty?

“What do they do when they retire?” Linford was asking, signaling to pull into St. Leonard’s.

“Who?”

“Working girls. I mean, she looks okay just now, but that won’t last. The work’ll start to dry up . . . amongst other things.” He failed to stifle a grin.

“Jesus, Derek, you disgust me,” Siobhan said.

“So who is it you’re seeing on Friday night?” he asked.

14

Leith police station was an elderly and distinguished building on the outside, but referred to by most of its occupants as “the geriatric.” Pulling on his jacket as he led them back down its steps into the waiting afternoon, DI Bobby Hogan explained why.

“It’s like somebody in a nursing home. They might look well enough dressed — presentable and all that — but inside, their body’s started breaking down. The plumbing might leak, the heart’s a bit dicky, and the brain’s given up the ghost.” He winked at Allan Ward.

Three of them had made the trip from St. Leonard’s: Rebus was the obvious choice, of course, but Tam Barclay had made a song and dance about needing some fresh air, and Allan Ward had volunteered, even though Rebus suspected that what the young man wanted to see were signs of prostitution.

The day was bright but windy. Hogan’s jacket flapped like a sail as he finally secured his arms into its sleeves. He was glad of the excuse to be out of the station. They’d only needed to mention the Zombie Bar and he’d sprung up from his desk, looking around him for his jacket.

“If we’re in luck, Father Joe might be there,” he’d said, referring to his snitch, Joe Daly.

“It’s not called the Zombie Bar anymore,” he explained now, leading them along Tolbooth Wynd. “That place lost its license.”

“Too many brawls?” Allan Ward guessed.

“Too many drunken poets and writers,” Hogan corrected. “The more they tart Leith up, the more people seem to come looking for the sleazy side.”

“And where’s that to be found these days?” Ward asked. Hogan offered a smile, eyes turning to Rebus.

“We’ve got a live one here, John.”

Rebus nodded. Tam Barclay wasn’t looking too lively: as the day had progressed, so had his hangover. “Mixing the beer and whiskey,” he said, rubbing at his temples. He wasn’t looking forward to their trip to the pub . . .

“What’s the Zombie called now?” Rebus asked Hogan.

“Bar Z,” came the answer. “And here it is . . .”

Bar Z had windows which were all frosted glass except for a large letter Z in the center of each. The interior was chrome and gray, the tables made from some light, trendy wood which captured and retained every beer ring and cigarette burn. The music was probably called something like “trance” or “ambient,” and a chalkboard menu offered Huevos Rancheros — listed as “a Tex-Mex all-day breakfast treat” — and Snack Attacks such as blini and baba ghanoush.

However, something had gone badly wrong with the Bar Z. The only people drinking the afternoon away were the same mixture of desperate businessmen and down-at-the-heels drunks who had probably called the Zombie Bar home. The place carried an aroma of soured dreams. Hogan pointed to one of the many empty tables and asked the trio what they wanted.

“Our round, Bobby,” Rebus insisted. “You’re the one helping us out.” Ward decided on a bottle of Holsten, while Barclay only wanted cola — “as much as you can fit in a glass.” Hogan, who said he was undecided, went up to the bar with Rebus.

“Is your man here?” Rebus asked in an undertone. Hogan shook his head.

“Doesn’t mean he won’t come in. Father Joe’s the restless type: if he goes in a place and there’s no one he knows, he moves on; never stays anywhere for more than two drinks.”

“Does he have a job?”

“He has a vocation.” Hogan saw the look on Rebus’s face. “Don’t worry, he’s not a