Resurrection Men

“You only have to answer the questions, Malcolm,” Allison interrupted. “You don’t need to add your own.”

“Well, since Mr. Neilson has asked the question,” Siobhan said, “perhaps I can let my colleague answer.”

Hynds opened the slim manila folder in front of him and slid a photocopy of the check across the desk. “Would you care to enlighten us?” was all he said.

“DC Hynds,” Siobhan said, providing commentary for the tapes, “is showing Messrs. Neilson and Allison a copy of a check, made out in the sum of five thousand pounds to Mr. Neilson and dated one calendar month ago. The check is signed by Edward Marber and comes from his personal bank account.”

There was silence in the room when she finished.

“Might I consult with my client?” Allison asked.

“Interview paused at eleven-forty hours,” Siobhan said curtly, stopping the machine.

It was times like this she wished she smoked. She stood with Hynds outside IR2, tapping her foot against the floor and a pen against her teeth. Bill Pryde and George Silvers arrived back from Leith and were able to report on their first full interview with Donny Dow.

“He knows he’s going down for his wife,” Silvers said. “But he swears he didn’t kill Marber.”

“Do you believe him?” Siobhan asked.

“He’s a bad bastard . . . I never believe anything those kind tell me.”

“He’s in a bit of a state about his wife,” Pryde commented.

“That really tugs my heartstrings,” Siobhan said coldly.

“Are we going to charge him with Marber?” Hynds asked. “Only, we’ve got another suspect in there . . .”

“In which case,” a new voice added, “what are you doing out here?” It was Gill Templer. They’d told her they wanted to bring in Neilson, and she’d agreed. Now she stood with hands on hips, legs apart, a woman who wanted results.

“He’s consulting with his lawyer,” Siobhan explained.

“Has he said anything yet?”

“We’ve only just shown him the check.”

Templer shifted her focus to Pryde. “Any joy down in Leith?”

“Not exactly.”

She exhaled noisily. “We need to start making some progress.” She was keeping her voice low, so the lawyer and painter wouldn’t hear, but there was no missing the sense of urgency and frustration.

“Yes, ma’am,” Davie Hynds said, turning his head as the door to IR2 swung open. William Allison was standing there.

“We’re ready now,” he said. Siobhan and Hynds retreated back inside.

With door closed and tape running, they sat across the desk once more. Neilson was pushing his hands through his hair, making it stick up at ever more ungainly angles. They waited for him to speak.

“When you’re ready, Malcolm,” the lawyer prodded.

Neilson leaned back in his chair, eyes staring ceilingwards. “Edward Marber gave me five thousand pounds to stop being a nuisance to him. He wanted me to shut up and go away.”

“Why was that?”

“Because people were starting to listen to me when I spoke about him being a cheat.”

“Did you ask him for the money?”

Neilson shook his head.

“We need it out loud for the tape,” Siobhan prompted.

“I didn’t ask him for anything,” Neilson said. “It was him that came to me. He only offered a thousand at first, but eventually it went up to five.”

“And you were at the gallery that night because you wanted more?” Hynds asked.

“No.”

“You wanted to see how well the show was doing,” Siobhan stated. “That might suggest that you were wondering whether there was any more money to be made out of your nuisance value. After all, you’d accepted the money, and there you were still hassling Marber.”

“If I’d wanted to hassle him, I’d have gone in, wouldn’t I?”

“Then maybe all you wanted was a quiet word . . . ?”

Neilson was shaking his head vigorously. “I didn’t go near the man.”

“But you did.”

“I mean I didn’t speak to him.”

“You were happy with the five?” Hynds asked.

“I won’t say happy . . . but it was a kind of vindication. I took it because it represented five thousand of crooked money that he wouldn’t be spending.” The artist’s hands went to the sides of his face, making a rasping sound against a day’s growth of beard.

“How did you feel when you heard he was dead?” The question came from Siobhan. Neilson locked eyes with her.

“I got a bit of a kick out of it, if I’m being honest. I know that’s hardly the humane response, but all the same . . .”

“Did you wonder if we’d start looking into your relationship with Mr. Marber?” Siobhan asked.

Neilson nodded.

“Did you wonder if we’d find out about this payment?”

Another nod.

“So why didn’t you just tell us?”

“I knew how it would look.” Sounding sheepish now.

“And how do you think it looks?”

“It looks as though I had motive, means and whatever.” His eyes never left hers. “Isn’t that right?”

“If you didn’t do anything, there’s no reason to worry,” she said.

He angled his head. “You’ve got an interesting face, Detective Sergeant Clarke. Do you think I might paint you, when this is finished?”

“Let’s concentrate on the present, Mr. Neilson. Tell us about the check. How was the eventual sum reached? Was it posted to you or did you meet?”

Afterwards, Hynds and Siobhan bought themselves a late lunch at a baker’s. Filled rolls, cans of drink from the fridge. The day was warm, overcast. Siobhan felt like taking another shower, but really it was the inside of her head she wanted to sluice, ridding it of all the confusion. They decided to walk back to St. Leonard’s the long way round, eating as they went.

“Take your pick,” Hynds said. “Donny Dow or Neilson.”

“Why not both of them?” Siobhan mused. “Neilson watching Edward Marber, alerting Dow when Marber’s taxi arrived.”

“The two of them in cahoots?”

“And while we’re stirring the pot, let’s add Big Ger Cafferty, not a man you want to be found ripping off.”

“I can’t see Marber conning Cafferty. Like you say, it’s too fraught.”

“Anyone else with a grudge?”

“What about Laura Stafford? Maybe she got sick of their arrangement . . . maybe Marber wanted to take things a bit further.” Hynds paused. “What about Donny Dow as Laura’s pimp?”

Siobhan’s face fell. “That’s enough,” she snapped.

Hynds realized he’d said the wrong thing. He watched as she tossed the rest of her roll into a bin, brushed crumbs and flour from her front.

“You should talk to someone,” he said quietly.

“Counseling, you mean? Do me a favor . . .”

“I’m trying to. Seems like you don’t want to listen.”

“I’ve seen people killed before, Davie. How about you?” She had stopped to face him.

“We’re supposed to be partners,” he said, sounding aggrieved.

“We’re supposed to be senior and junior officer . . . sometimes I think you get muddled over who’s