Resurrection Men

“Got to go make yourself look pretty?” Siobhan guessed.

“Well, a change of shirt anyway.”

“Better find time for a shave, too, if you want Jean to get up close and personal.”

Rebus ran a hand over his chin. “A shave it is,” he said.

Siobhan watched him go, thinking: men and women, when did it all get so complicated? And why?

She opened her notepad at a fresh sheet and lifted her pen. A few moments later, Ellen Dempsey’s name was written there, at the still center of an ink tornado.

Rebus had washed his hair, shaved, brushed his teeth. He had dusted off his good suit and found a brand- new shirt. Having removed its packaging and all the pins, he’d tried it on. It needed ironing, but he didn’t know where the iron was . . . or whether he owned such an object, come to that. If he kept his jacket on, no one would see the creases. Pink tie . . . no. Dark blue . . . yes. No stains on it that he could see.

He gave his shoes a quick wipe with the dishcloth, dried them on the tea towel.

Looked at himself in the mirror. His hair had dried a bit spiky, and he tried flattening it. His face was flushed. He realized he was nervous.

He decided to get there early. A chance to check out the prices, so he wouldn’t look shocked in front of Jean. Besides, once he’d reconned the place, he would feel more comfortable in general. Maybe time for a quick whiskey just to steady him. The bottle peered at him from floor level. Not here, he thought: I’ll have one when I get there. He decided to take the car. Jean didn’t drive, and on the off chance that they might end up at her place in Portobello, a car would be handy. It also gave him an excuse not to order too much wine, let her drink for both of them.

And if he did drink, he could leave the car in town, fetch it later.

Keys . . . credit cards . . . what else? Maybe a change of clothes. He could always leave them in the car. That way, if he stayed the night at her place . . . no, no . . . if he suddenly announced that he had spare clothes in the trunk, she’d know he’d expected the night to end like that.

“No premeditation, John,” he warned himself. Last question: aftershave, yes or no? No. Same reasoning.

So . . . out of the flat, realizing halfway down the stairs that he hadn’t checked his phone messages. So what? He had his mobile and pager with him. The car was in a sweet parking space, almost directly outside. Shame to lose it . . . two minutes after he drove away, it would be taken. Still . . . Might not need a space tonight.

Stop thinking like that!

What if the menu was all in French? She’d have to order for both of them. Maybe that would be a good ruse; ask her straight off to order for him. Putting himself in her hands, et cetera. He was trying to think what else could go wrong. Credit card bouncing on him? Doubtful. Using the wrong spoon? Very possible. There seemed already to be patches of sweat beneath his arms.

Jesus, John . . .

Nothing was going to go wrong. He unlocked the car, slid into the driver’s seat. Turned the key in the ignition.

The engine was behaving itself. Into reverse and out of the space. He shifted into first and started down the road. Arden Street had been reduced to a narrow lane by cars parked either side. Suddenly, one of them reversed out of a space right in front of him. Rebus hit the brakes.

Bloody stupid . . .

He sounded the horn, but the driver just sat there. Rebus could see the shape of a head. No passengers.

“Come on!” he called, gesticulating. It was a twelve-year-old Ford with the exhaust practically hanging off. Rebus decided to memorize the license plate and make sure the bastard got some grief.

Still the car wasn’t budging.

Rebus undid his seat belt and got out, slammed shut his own door. Started walking towards the light-blue Ford. He was ninety percent of the way there when he suddenly thought: Trap! He looked around, but no one was coming up behind him. All the same, he stopped in his tracks, four feet from the driver’s door. The man was still sitting there, hands on the steering wheel. That was good. It meant he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

“Hey!” Rebus called. “Either move the car or let’s talk about it!”

The hands slid from the wheel. The door opened with a dry, grating clunk, the sound of unoiled hinges.

The man placed one foot on the road, eased himself halfway out of the car. “I want us to talk,” he said.

Rebus’s eyes widened. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.

This face . . . that voice . . .

This ghost.

“I can’t,” he managed to say. “I have to be somewhere in twenty minutes.”

“This’ll take ten,” the voice said. Rebus’s eyes were drawn to the mouth. There was new dental work there. Blackened teeth had been removed or polished.

The Diamond Dog was looking pretty good for a dead man.

“We can talk later,” Rebus pleaded.

Diamond shook his head, slid back into his car. He was reversing completely out of the parking spot. Rebus had to move aside so he wouldn’t be crushed between the Ford and his own Saab. A hand appeared from the window, motioning for him to follow.

Rebus glanced at his watch. Fuck!

Looked up and saw the Ford trundling forwards, moving away from him.

Ten minutes. He could afford ten minutes. He’d still be at the restaurant ahead of time . . .

Fuck!

Rebus got back behind the wheel of his own car and started following Dickie Diamond.

They drove only the distance of two or three streets. Diamond parked on a single yellow — safe enough this time of the evening. Rebus stopped directly behind him. Diamond was already out of the Ford. They were next to Bruntsfield Links, a wide grassy slope where golfers occasionally practiced their pitch ’n’ putt skills. Recently, students had taken to holding barbecues on the links, using cheap disposable kits. The tin trays left charred rectangular marks on the grass. Diamond was testing one of these rectangles with his foot. He was dressed well. Nothing expensive or showy, but not bargain-basement either.

“Who’s the lady?” he asked, his eyes running the length of Rebus’s suit.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Diamond met Rebus’s less-than-happy gaze. Then he gave a rueful smile and started walking down the slope. Rebus hesitated, then followed.

“What sort of game are you playing?” he asked.

“That’s the question I should be asking!”

“I thought I told you never to set foot here.”

“That was before I got wind of what’s been happening.” In the six years since they’d last met, Diamond’s face had grown even thinner, as had his hair. What remained of the latter was an unnatural depth of black. There were dark half-moons beneath the eyes, but no sign of excess weight or any lessening of the faculties.

“And what exactly has been happening?” Rebus asked.

“You’ve got people looking for me.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re going to find you . . . unless, of course, you come charging back into town.” Rebus paused. “Who told you? Was it Jenny Bell?”

Diamond shook his head. “She doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

“It was Malky then?” Rebus was guessing, but it hit home. Diamond revealed as much by saying nothing. Malky in the Bar Z, hovering near the table . . . “My advice,” Rebus continued, “is that you get back in your car and hightail it out of town. I meant it when I told you to stay away.”

“And I’ve been good as my word until now.” Diamond had started rolling himself a cigarette. “So why the sudden interest?”

“Coincidence, that’s all. I’m on a training course and they happened to pick out Rico Lomax as an exercise.”

“An exercise in what?” Diamond licked the edge of the paper. Rebus watched as he pulled a few stray strands of tobacco from the finished roll-up and put them back in the tin.