Resurrection Men

The seams of her slippers had given way, and so had her teeth — leaving her mouth shrunken and lacking the dentures she probably wore when expecting company. This made her speech difficult to understand, especially for Allan Ward, who sat now on the arm of the sofa, a frown of concentration drawing his eyebrows together.

“Haven’t clapped eyes on him,” Bell stated. “He’d’ve gotten a good kicking if I had.”

“What did everyone think when he offskied?” Rebus asked.

“That he owed money, I suppose.”

“And did he?”

“Me for starters,” she said, jabbing a finger into her prodigious bosom. “Nearly two hundred he had from me.”

“In one go?”

She shook her head. “Bit here, bit there.”

“How long had you been an item?” Barclay asked.

“Four, five months.”

“Was he staying here?”

“Sometimes.”

There was a radio playing somewhere, either in another room or in the flat next door. Two dogs were involved in some noisy challenge outside. Jenny Bell had the electric heater on, and the room was stifling. Rebus didn’t suppose it helped that he and Ward had been drinking, adding alcoholic fumes to the general miasma. Bobby Hogan had given them Bell’s address, but made some excuse and headed back to the station. Rebus didn’t blame him.

“Miss Bell,” he said now, “did you ever go to the caravan with Dickie?”

“A few weekends,” she admitted, almost with a leer. Meaning: dirty weekends. Rebus could sense Ward give an involuntary shiver as the image filled his consciousness. Bell’s eyes had narrowed. She was concentrating on Rebus. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

“Could be,” Rebus admitted. “I do a bit of drinking down this way.”

She shook her head slowly. “This was a long time back. In a bar . . .”

“Like I say —”

“Weren’t you with Dickie?”

Rebus shook his head; Ward and Barclay were studying him. Hogan had hinted that Bell’s memory was “shot to hell.” Hogan had been mistaken . . .

“About the caravan,” Rebus pressed on, “whereabouts was it exactly?”

“Somewhere Port Seton way.”

“You knew Rico Lomax, didn’t you?”

“Oh aye, nice man, Rico.”

“Ever go with Dickie to one of his parties?”

She nodded vigorously. “Wild times,” she grinned. “And no neighbors to kick up a stink.”

“Unlike here, you mean?” Ward guessed. At which point, someone through the wall started shouting at their offspring:

“I’m telling you to clean that up!”

Bell stared at the wall. “Aye, not like here,” she replied. “There’s more space in a bloody caravan for a start.”

“What did you think when you heard Rico had been killed?” Barclay asked.

She shrugged. “What was there to think? Rico was what he was.”

“And what was he?”

“You mean apart from a bloody good shag?” She started cackling, offering a view of pale pink gums.

“Did Dickie know?” Ward asked.

“Dickie was there,” she declared.

“He didn’t object?” Ward asked. She just stared at him.

“I think,” Rebus explained for Ward’s benefit, “Miss Bell is saying that Dickie was a participant.”

Bell grinned at the look on Ward’s face as he digested this. Then she started cackling again.

“Is there a shower at St. Leonard’s?” Ward asked on the drive back.

“Reckon you need one?”

“Half an hour’s scrubbing should suffice.” He scratched his leg, which made Rebus start to feel itchy.

“That’s an image that will be with me to the grave,” Barclay stated.

“Allan in the shower . . . ?” Rebus teased.

“You know damned well what I mean,” Barclay complained. Rebus nodded. They were quiet for the rest of the journey. Rebus lingered in the car park, saying he needed a cigarette. After Ward and Barclay had disappeared inside, he reached for his mobile, called Enquiries and got the number for Calder Pharmacy in Sighthill. He knew the pharmacist there, a guy called Charles Shanks, who lived in Dunfermline and taught kickboxing in his spare time. When his call was answered, he asked for Shanks.

“Charles? John Rebus here. Look, do pharmacists have some kind of Hippocratic oath?”

“Why?” The voice sounded amused . . . and a little suspicious.

“I just wanted to know if you were doling out methadone to an addict called Malky Taylor.”

“John, I’m really not sure I can help.”

“All I want to know is whether he’s doing okay, sticking with the program . . . ?”

“He’s doing fine,” Shanks said.

“Thanks, Charles.” Rebus ended the call, slipped the phone back into his pocket and headed indoors. Francis Gray and Stu Sutherland were in the interview room, talking with Barclay and Ward.

“Where’s Jazz?” Rebus asked.

“He said he was going to the library,” Sutherland answered.

“What for?”

Sutherland just shrugged, leaving Gray to explain. “Jazz thinks it would help to know what else was happening in the world around the time Rico got hit and Mr. Diamond did his vanishing act. How did you get on in Leith?”

“Zombie Bar’s gone downwardly upmarket,” Ward commented. “And we talked to Dickie’s old girlfriend.” He made a face to let Gray know what he thought of her.

“Her flat was skanky,” Barclay added. “I’m thinking of investing in some disinfectant.”

“Mind you,” Ward said mischievously, “I think she might have serviced John here sometime in the dim and distant past.”

Gray’s eyebrows rose. “That right, John?”

“She thought she recognized me,” Rebus stressed. “She was mistaken.”

“She didn’t think so,” Ward persisted.

“John,” Gray pleaded, “tell me you never shagged Dickie Diamond’s bird?”

“I never shagged Dickie Diamond’s bird,” Rebus repeated. Just then, Jazz McCullough walked in through the door. He looked tired, rubbing his eyes with one hand and carrying a sheaf of papers in the other.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, having just caught the last few words.

“Find anything at the library?” Stu Sutherland asked, as if doubting that Jazz had been within a hundred yards of one.

Jazz dropped the sheets onto the desk. They were photocopies of newspaper stories.

“Look for yourself,” he said. As they passed the sheets among them, he explained his reasoning. “We had the newspaper cuttings at Tulliallan, but they were focusing on Rico’s murder, and that was a Glasgow case.”

Which meant the Glasgow paper — the Herald — had covered the story more comprehensively than its east coast rival. But now Jazz had gone to the Scotsman, finding a few scant references to the “disappearance of a local man, Richard Diamond.” There was a grainy photograph: it looked like Diamond leaving a courtroom, buttoning his check jacket. His hair was longish, sticking out over the ears. His mouth hung open, teeth angular and prominent, and he had stubby little eyebrows. Skinny and tall with what looked like acne on his neck.

“A bonny-looking bugger, isn’t he?” Barclay commented.

“Does this lot tell us anything new?” Gray asked.