Resurrection Men

from her bloodied grasp. The man was looking horror-struck. He was in his late fifties, thin hair flapping down over his forehead. She couldn’t push the numbers; her hands were shaking too much. She ran across to the sauna, gave the door a kick, then rammed it with her shoulder. Ricky opened up. He was shaking too.

“Christ . . . is she . . . ?”

“Did you call nine-nine-nine?” Siobhan asked.

He nodded. “Ambulance and. . .” He swallowed. “Just ambulance,” he corrected.

She thought she could hear a siren in the distance, hoped it was coming this way. “Did you tell him she was out here?” Siobhan spat.

Ricky shook his head. “Guy looked in a rage . . . I said she wasn’t on shift . . .” He swallowed again. “I thought he was going to do me.”

“Well, aren’t you the lucky one?” Siobhan ran past the woman from the sofa, who was now standing, arms folded protectively in front of her, and found the pile of towels and robes. She could hear sobbing from the actual sauna; didn’t have time to look, but knew it was Suzy, probably cowering in fear for herself. Siobhan dashed outside again, pushing towels hard against the wounds. “Lots of pressure,” she told the man. He was sweating, looked scared, but he nodded anyway and she patted his shoulder. Laura was sitting on the ground, legs folded beneath her. Her fingers clung resolutely to the door handle. Maybe she was remembering Siobhan’s instruction: Get back in the car! Mere centimeters from safety . . .

“Don’t die on me,” Siobhan commanded, running a hand through Laura’s hair. Laura’s eyelids were open a fraction, but the eyes themselves were glassy, like the marbles boys used to play with. She was breathing through her mouth, little gasps of pain. The siren was a lot closer now, and then it was rounding the corner from Commercial Street, sending sweeps of blue light across the buildings.

“They’re here, Laura,” Siobhan cooed. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Just hang in there,” the man said, looking to Siobhan for reassurance that he’d said the right thing. Too many episodes of Casualty and Holby City, Siobhan thought.

You’re going to be fine . . . The lie that brings no peace. The lie that exists only because the speaker needs to hear it.

Just hang in there . . .

Four in the morning.

She wished Rebus were there. He would make some joke about the song of the same name. He’d done it before when they’d been on hospital vigils, villain stakeouts. He’d sing half a misremembered verse of some country-and-western song. She couldn’t remember the name of the original singer, but Rebus would know it. Farnon? Farley? Somebody Farnon . . .

These games Rebus played to take their minds off the situation. She’d thought of phoning him, but had reconsidered. This was something she had to get through on her own. She was crossing a line . . . could feel it. She wasn’t at the hospital; they hadn’t wanted her there. A quick shower and change of clothes at home, the patrol car waiting to take her back to St. Leonard’s. The Leith police would take the investigation: it was their patch. But they wanted her at St. Leonard’s for debriefing.

“At least you got him a good kick in the charlies,” her uniformed driver had said. “Should slow him down a bit . . .”

She stood in her shower and wished it had a bit more pressure. The water dripped onto her. She wanted sharp needles, a pummeling, a torrent. She held her hands over her face, eyes screwed shut. She leaned against the tiled wall, then slid down it until she was crouching again, the way she’d crouched over Laura Stafford.

Who’s going to tell Alexander? Mummy’s dead . . . Daddy did it. It would be Grandma’s job, in between the tears . . .

Who would break the news to Grandma? Someone would already be on their way out there. The body needed to be ID’d.

Her machine was flashing to let her know she had phone messages. They could wait. There were dishes in the sink needed washing. She was drying her hair with a towel as she moved through the flat. Her nose was red, and she kept needing to blow it. Her eyes were bloodshot, pink-rimmed and puffy.

The towel she dried her hair with was dark blue. No more white towels for me . . .

DCS Templer was waiting for her at the station. The first question was an easy one: “Are you all right?”

Siobhan made all the right noises, but then Templer said: “Donny Dow’s an animal, works for Big Ger Cafferty.”

Siobhan wondered who’d been talking. Rebus? But then Templer explained all: “Claverhouse told me. You know Claverhouse?” To which Siobhan nodded. “SDEA have had their eye on Cafferty for a while,” Templer went on. “Not getting very far, if their track record’s anything to go by.”

All of which was just by way of filler, working up to the real story. “You know she’s dead?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Christ, Siobhan, no need for the formal stuff. It’s Gill here, remember?”

“Yes . . . Gill.”

Templer nodded. “You did what you could.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“What were you supposed to do? Set up a blood transfusion on the pavement?” Templer sighed. “Sorry . . . that’s the middle of the night talking, not me.” She ran her hands through her hair. “Speaking of which, what were you doing down there?”

“I’d gone to warn her.”

“At that time of night?”

“Best time to find her at work, I thought.” Siobhan was answering the questions, but her mind was elsewhere. She was still on that street. The click of the lock on the sauna parlor door . . . the hand gripping her car for dear life.

Tsssk!

“Leith are handling it,” Templer said, unnecessarily. “They’ll want to talk to you.”

Siobhan nodded.

“Phyllida Hawes has gone to break the news.”

She nodded again. She was wondering if Donny Dow had bought the blade that same afternoon. There was a DIY store practically next door to St. Leonard’s . . .

“It was premeditated,” Siobhan stated. “I’ll say so in my report. No way that bastard’s getting off with manslaughter . . .”

Templer’s turn to nod. Siobhan knew what she was thinking: good lawyer behind him, Dow would push for manslaughter . . . a moment of madness . . . diminished responsibility. My client, Your Honor, had only just learned that his ex-wife, the woman charged with the care of his son, was not only a prostitute but that she was living in accommodation provided for her and the child by one of her clients. Faced with this revelation — a revelation made by police officers, no less — Mr. Dow fled from a police station and was allowed to roam free, the balance of his mind affected . . .

Dow would be lucky to serve six years.

“It was horrible,” she said, voice reduced to a whisper.

“Of course it was.” Templer reached out and took her hand, reminding Siobhan of Laura . . . Laura so alive, reaching out to touch her hand in the car . . .

A blunt knock at the door, and not even a wait to be asked to enter. Siobhan could see Templer readying to tear a strip off the intruder. It was Davie Hynds. He glanced at Siobhan, then fixed his eyes on Templer.

“Got him” was all he said.

Dow’s story was that he had given himself up, but the arresting officers were saying he’d resisted. Siobhan had said she wanted to see him. He was in one of the cells downstairs. They were waiting for him to be transferred to Leith, where the cells were ancient and the approximate temperature of a deep freeze all the year round. He’d been found at Tollcross. Looked like he was heading for the Morningside road: maybe planning to hike south out of the city. But then Siobhan remembered that Cafferty’s lettings agency was on that same stretch of road . . .

There was a knot of officers outside his cell door. They were laughing. Derek Linford was one of them. Linford