Resurrection Men

“Maybe not quite so extravagantly.”

“I didn’t mind.”

“You took your punishment very nobly,” she said, leaning over to kiss him. Her fingers touched his face. He placed both hands on her shoulders, feeling awkward, much the way he’d felt as a teenager. First dates . . . not wanting to screw things up . . .

“Good night, John.”

“Can I phone you tomorrow?”

“You better had,” she warned, opening her door. “It’s rare that I give someone a second chance.”

“Scout’s honor,” he said, lifting two fingers to his right temple. She smiled again and was gone. She didn’t look back, just climbed the steps to her front door, unlocked it and closed it after her. The hall light was already on — the lazy person’s deterrent. He waited till the lights came on upstairs — hallway and bedroom — then put the car into gear and moved off.

There was no space for the Saab in Arden Street. He had a quick look to make sure Dickie Diamond wasn’t lurking, but there was no sign. He parked a two-minute walk away, enjoying the fresh air. The night was crisp, almost autumnal. The dinner had gone well, he decided. No interruptions: he’d switched off his mobile, and his pager hadn’t sounded. Trying his mobile now, he found that he had no new messages.

“Thank Christ for that,” he said, pushing open his tenement door. He was going to have one more whiskey, albeit a large one. He was going to sit in his chair and listen to some music. He’d already penciled in Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti. He wanted something that would blow everything else away. He might even fall asleep in the chair, and that wouldn’t matter.

Things were back on track with Jean. He thought so . . . hoped so. He’d phone her first thing in the morning, maybe again after work.

He reached his landing, stared at his door.

“For Christ’s sake . . .”

The door was wide open, the hall dark within. Someone had used an implement of some kind to bust the lock. There were shards of freshly splintered wood. He peered into the hall. No signs of life . . . no sounds. Not that he was going to risk it. The memory of Diamond’s revolver was too recent. Diamond probably had the ammo hidden somewhere, maybe even in his car . . . Rebus called on his mobile, asked for backup. Then he stood on the landing and waited. Still no signs of life from within. He tried the light switch by the front door. Nothing happened.

Five minutes had passed when, downstairs, the main door opened and closed. He’d heard a car screeching to a halt. Feet on the staircase. He leaned over to watch Siobhan Clarke climbing towards him.

“You’re the backup?” he said.

“I was in the station.”

“This time of night?”

She paused, four steps down from him. “I can always go home . . .” She half turned, as if to leave.

“Might as well stay,” he said, “now you’re here. Don’t suppose you’ve got a flashlight on you?”

She opened her bag. There was a large black flashlight inside. She clicked it on.

“Fuse box is over there,” he said, pointing into the hall. Someone had turned the electricity off. Rebus flipped the switch and the lights came on. They moved through the rest of the flat as a team, quickly sensing that no one was there.

“Looks like a straightforward break-in,” she commented. He didn’t respond. “You don’t agree?”

“I’d feel happier with the diagnosis if anything were actually missing.”

But nothing was, nothing he could see. The hi-fi, TV, his albums and CDs, his booze and books . . . all present and correct.

“To be honest, I’m not sure I’d bother nicking anything either,” Siobhan said, picking up the cover of a Nazareth LP. “Do you want to call it in as a housebreaking?”

Rebus knew what that would mean: a fingerprint team leaving dust everywhere; giving a statement to a bored woolly suit . . . And everyone at the station knowing he’d been turned over. He shook his head. Siobhan looked at him.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She seemed only now to spot that he was wearing a better suit than usual. “How was the meal?”

He looked at himself, started removing his tie. “Fine.” He popped the top button on his shirt and felt some of the pressure ease. “Thanks again for calling her.”

“Anything to help.” She was studying the living room once more. “You’re sure nothing’s been taken?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Then why would someone break in?”

“I don’t know.”

“Care to try a few guesses?”

“No.” Dickie Diamond . . . Gray . . . the Weasel . . . Plenty of people seemed to know where he lived. But what would any of them be looking for? Maybe it was the students through the wall, desperate to play some decent music for a change . . .

Siobhan sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “Why is it that when you say ‘no,’ I know you’ve already got some names in mind?”

“Woman’s intuition?”

“Not my finely honed detective’s skills then?”

“Those, too, of course.”

“Have you got a joiner you can phone?” She meant the door: emergency repair needed.

“I’ll wait till morning. They charge an arm and a leg otherwise.”

“And what if someone comes tiptoeing in here through the night?”

“I’ll hide under the bed till they’ve gone.”

She came forwards till she was standing directly in front of him, slowly lifted her hand. Rebus didn’t know what she was going to do. But he didn’t shy away. Her forefinger touched his brow.

“How did that happen?”

“It’s just a graze.”

“A fresh one, though. Wasn’t Jean, was it?”

“I just fell into something.” They locked eyes. “And I wasn’t drunk, God’s honest truth.” He paused. “But speaking of drink . . .” He picked up the bottle. “Care to join me, now you’re here?”

“Can’t have you drinking alone, can we?”

“I’ll fetch a couple of glasses.”

“Any chance of a coffee to go with it?”

“I’ve no milk.”

She went into her bag again, producing a small carton. “I was saving this for home,” she said, “but in the circumstances . . .”

He retreated to the kitchen and Siobhan slipped off her coat. She was thinking that she would redecorate this room, given the chance. A lighter carpet, for definite, and junk the 1960s light fixtures.

Through in the kitchen, Rebus took two glasses from the cupboard, found a milk jug and poured some cold water into it, just in case Siobhan felt the need. Then he opened the freezer compartment of his fridge, lifted out a half bottle of vodka, a packet of venerable fish fingers and a shriveled morning roll. There was a polythene shopping bag beneath, and in it the chief constable’s report on Bernie Johns. Rebus was fairly sure no one had tampered with it. He put it back, along with the fish fingers and the roll. Filled the kettle and switched it on.

“You can have vodka instead if you prefer,” he called.

“Whiskey’s fine.”

Rebus smiled and closed the freezer door.

“Did you ever listen to that Arab Strap tape I made you?” Siobhan asked as he returned to the living room.

“It was good,” he said. “Drunk guy from Falkirk, right? Lyrics all about getting his end away?” He poured, handed her the glass. Offered water, but she shook her head.

They both sat down on the sofa, sipped their drinks. “There’s a saying, isn’t there?” Rebus asked. “Something