Resurrection Men (2002) (24 page)

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 was rubbing his knuckles as Siobhan approached. One of the uniforms unlocked the cell. She stood in the doorway. Dow sat on the concrete bed with head sunk into his chest. When he lifted it, she saw the bruising. Both eyes were almost closed.

“Looks like you did more than kick him in the nuts, Shiv,” Linford said, provoking more laughter. She turned to him.

“Don’t pretend you did this for
me,
” she said. The laughter ceased, the smiles evaporating. “At best, I was the excuse. . .” Then she turned to face Dow. “But I hope it hurts. I hope it keeps on hurting. I hope you get cancer, you repellent little shit.”

The smiles were back in place, but she just walked past them . . .

18

T
hey’d taken the Lexus. Gray knew Glasgow. Rebus could have driven them to Barlinnie: the famous Bar-L jail was on the Edinburgh side of town, just off the motorway. But Chib Kelly wasn’t in Barlinnie; he was under guard at a city-center hospital. He’d had a stroke, hence the urgency of their visit. If they wanted Chib Kelly cogent, the sooner they talked to him the better.

“He could be faking it,” Rebus said.

“He could,” Gray agreed.

Rebus was thinking of Cafferty and his miracle recovery from cancer. Cafferty’s story was that he was still being treated, albeit privately. Rebus knew it was a lie.

He’d woken early with someone thumping on his door. The Donny Dow story had already reached Tulliallan. Rebus had got on the mobile, trying first Siobhan’s home and then her own mobile. Recognizing his number, she’d picked up.

“You all right?” he’d asked.

“Bit tired.”

“Not hurt?”

“No bruises to report.” It was a good answer; it didn’t mean she wasn’t hurting in other ways.

“The rough stuff is supposed to be my job,” he’d chided her, keeping his voice light.

“You’re not here,” she’d reminded him, before saying good-bye.

Rebus looked out of his passenger-side window. Glasgow roads all looked the same to him. “I always get lost, driving round here,” he confessed to Gray.

“I’m like that in Edinburgh: all those bloody narrow streets, jinking this way and that.”

“It’s the one-way system here, gets me every time.”

“Easy once you know it.”

“You Glasgow-born, Francis?”

“The Lanarkshire coalfields, that’s where I’m from.”

“Fife coalfields me,” Rebus said with a smile, forging this new bond between them.

Gray just nodded. He was concentrating on the world beyond his windshield. “Jazz said there was something you wanted to talk about,” he said.

“I’m not sure.” Rebus hesitated. “Is that why you picked me for this trip?”

“Maybe.” Gray paused, seemed to be watching the scenery. “Anything you want to say, better be quick. Five minutes, we’ll be in the car park.”

“Maybe later,” Rebus said.
Bait the hook, John. Make sure the point drives home.

Gray gave a half-shrug, as though he didn’t care.

The hospital was a tall modern building on the north side of the city. It looked to be ailing, stonework tarnished, windows clouded with condensation. The car park was full, but Gray stopped on a double yellow, placing a card next to the windshield stating he was a doctor on emergency call.

“Does that help?” Rebus asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Why not use a police sign?”

“Get real, John. People round here see a cop car, they’re likely to christen it with a half-brick.”

The admissions desk was next door to A&E. While Gray queued to find out Chib Kelly’s ward number, Rebus eyed the array of walking wounded. Cuts and bruises; down-and-outs nursing worlds made of shopping bags; sad-faced civilians for whom this was an experience devoutly to be forgotten. Teenage boys swaggered by in packs. They seemed to know each other, patrolled the aisles as though they owned the place. Rebus checked his watch: ten
A
.
M
. on a weekday.

“Imagine it at midnight on Saturday,” Gray said, seeming to read Rebus’s thoughts. “Chib’s on the third floor. Lifts are over here . . .”

The lifts opened onto a waiting area and the first person Rebus saw he recognized from the photos they had on file: Fenella, Rico Lomax’s widow.

She knew them for cops straight off, and was on her feet. “Tell them to let me see him!” she cried. “I’ve got my rights!”

Gray put a finger to his lips. “You have the right to remain silent,” he said. “Now behave yourself and we’ll see what we can do.”

“You’ve no business being here. My poor man’s had a heart attack.”

“We heard it was a stroke.”

She started wailing again. “How am I supposed to know what it is? They won’t tell me anything!”

“
We’ll
tell you something,” Gray cajoled. “Just give us five minutes, eh?” He put his hands on her shoulders and she allowed him to push her slowly back down onto the seat.

A member of the nursing staff was watching through a narrow vertical window in the doors to the ward. As they walked towards her, she pushed the doors open.

“We’re thinking of having her ejected,” she said.

“How about giving her a bit of news instead?”

The nurse glared at Gray. “When we
have
news, we’ll tell her.”

“How is he?” Rebus asked, trying to calm things down.

“He had a seizure of some kind. There’s paralysis down one side.”

“Would he be able to answer some questions?” Gray asked.

“Able, yes. Willing? I’m not so sure.”

She led them past beds filled with old men and young men. A few of the patients were on their feet, shuffling in carpet slippers along a polished linoleum floor the color of oxblood. There was a faint smell of fried food, mingled with disinfectant. The long, narrow room was stifling. Rebus was already beginning to feel the sweat cloying on his back.

The very last bed had been closed off by curtains, behind which lay a pasty-faced man, hooked up to machines and with a drip going into one arm. He was in his early fifties, a good ten years older than the woman outside. His hair was gray, combed back from the forehead. His chin and cheeks had been shaved erratically, silver stubble flecking the skin. Seated on a chair was a prison guard. He was leafing through a tattered copy of
Scottish Field.
Rebus noticed that one of Chib Kelly’s arms was hanging down the side of the bed. The wrist had been handcuffed to the iron frame.

“He’s that dangerous, is he?” Gray commented, eyeing the cuffs.

“Orders,” the guard said.

Rebus and Gray showed their ID, and the guard introduced himself as Kenny Nolan.

“Nice day out for you, eh, Kenny?” Gray said conversationally.

“Thrilling,” Nolan said.

Rebus walked around the bed. Kelly had his eyes closed. There didn’t seem to be any movement behind the lids, and the chest was rising and falling rhythmically.

“You asleep, Chib?” Gray said, leaning down over the bed.

“What’s all this?” a voice said behind them. A doctor in a white coat was standing there, stethoscope folded into one pocket, clipboard in his hand.

“CID,” Gray explained. “We’ve got a few questions for the patient.”

“Does he really need those handcuffs?” the doctor was asking Nolan.

“Orders,” Nolan repeated.

“Any particular reason?” Rebus asked the guard. He knew that Kelly could be a violent man, but he hardly looked an immediate threat to the public.

Nolan wasn’t about to answer the question, so Gray stepped in. “Barlinnie lost a couple of prisoners recently. They walked away from hospital wards just like this one.”

Rebus nodded his understanding, while Nolan reddened at his starched white shirt collar.

“How long till he wakes up?” Gray was asking the doctor.

“Who knows?”

“Will he be in a fit state to talk to us?”

“I’ve really no idea.” The doctor started moving away, checking a message on his pager.

Gray looked across to Rebus. “These doctors, eh, John? Consummate professionals.”

“The crème de la crème,” Rebus agreed.

“Mr. Nolan,” Gray said, “if I give you my number, any chance you could page me when the prisoner comes round?”

“I suppose so.”

“You sure?” Gray made eye contact. “Want to check first to make sure it’s not against orders?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Rebus advised Nolan. “He’s a sarky bugger when the mood takes him.” Then, to Gray: “Give the man your number, Francis. I’m melting in here . . .”

They told Fenella Lomax what little they could, leaving aside any mention of the handcuffs.

“He’s sleeping peacefully,” Rebus tried to reassure her, regretting his choice of words immediately. They were what you said just before someone died . . . But Fenella nodded silently and allowed them to lead her down to the ground floor, in search of something to drink. There was no cafeteria as such, just an ill-stocked kiosk. Rebus, who’d skipped breakfast, bought a dry muffin and an overripe banana to go with his tea. The surface of the liquid was the same gray color as all the patients they’d seen.

“You’re hoping he’ll die, aren’t you?” Fenella Lomax said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re cops. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“On the contrary, Fenella,” Gray said. “We want to see Chib up and about. There are a few questions we’d like to ask him.”

“What sort of questions?”

Rebus swallowed a mouthful of crumbs. “We’ve reopened the case on your late husband.”

She looked shocked. “Eric? Why? I don’t understand . . .”

“No case is ever closed until it’s solved,” Rebus told her.

“DI Rebus is right,” Gray said. “And we’ve been given the job of dusting off the files, see if we can add anything new.”

“What’s Chib got to do with it?”

“Maybe nothing,” Rebus assured her. “But something came to light a day or so back . . .”

“What?” Her eyes darted between the two detectives.

“Chib owned your husband’s local, the one he’d been in the night he died.”

“So?”

“So we need to talk to him about it,” Rebus said.

“What for?”

“Just so the file’s complete,” Gray explained. “Maybe you could help by telling us a little yourself?”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Well, Fenella, that’s not strictly true,” Rebus told her. “For a start, it didn’t seem to come out at the time that Chib owned the bar.” Rebus waited, but she just shrugged. A woman on crutches was trying to get past their table, and Rebus moved his chair, taking him a little closer to Fenella. “When did you and Chib become an item?”

“It was months after Eric died,” she stressed. She was a pro, knew where they were going with this.

“But you were friendly before?”

Her eyes burned into his. “How do you mean, ‘friendly’?”

Gray sat forward. “I think he’s wondering if you and Chib were maybe a bit more than friends, Fenella?” Then he leaned back again. “It’s not the sort of thing you can hide, is it? Tight-knit community like that . . . I’m guessing we’d just have to ask around and we’d find out the score.”

“Ask all you like,” she said, folding her arms. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“You must have known, though,” Gray persisted. “Women always do, in my experience.”

“Known what?”

“Whether Chib fancied you. That’s all we’re talking about.”

“No, it isn’t,” she said coldly. “You’re talking about framing Chib for something he didn’t do.”

“We just need to be sure of the relationships involved,” Rebus said quietly. “That way, we don’t go jumping to conclusions or heading off down the wrong road.” He tried to inject a bit of hurt into his voice. “We thought you might like to help with that.”

“Eric’s death is ancient history,” she stated, unfolding her arms, reaching for her cup.

“Maybe we’ve just got longer memories than some,” Gray said, his tone gaining more edge as his patience waned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She lifted the cup, as if to drink from it.

“I’m sure DI Gray didn’t mean to suggest . . .” But Rebus didn’t get the chance to finish the sentence. She’d hurled the tea into Gray’s face, and was on her feet now, walking purposefully away.

Gray was on his feet too. “Fucking hell!” He held a handkerchief to his face, rubbing it dry. His white shirt was stained. He glanced in Fenella’s direction. “We could have her for that, couldn’t we?”

Rebus was thinking back to his own tea incident . . . “If you want to,” he said.

“Jesus, it’s not like I . . .” Gray realized his pager was sounding. He checked it. “Patient’s awake,” he said.

The lifts were at the far end of the building. Both men left the table and started walking, Rebus glad to see the back of his muffin and banana.

“Let’s hope she doesn’t beat us to it,” he said.

Gray was nodding, shaking drips from his shoes.

In fact, there was no sign of Fenella Lomax on the ward. Someone had put some pillows behind Chib Kelly’s head, and he was accepting sips of water from a nurse. Nolan stood up when Rebus and Gray approached.

“Thanks for letting us know,” Gray said. “That’s a favor I owe you.”

Nolan just nodded. He’d noticed the stained shirt, but didn’t ask. Chib Kelly had finished drinking and was resting his head against the pillows, eyes closed.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Kelly?” Rebus asked.

“You’re CID,” the voice croaked. “I can practically smell it off you.”

“That’s because they make us all wear the same deodorant.” Rebus sat down, watching the nurse. She was saying something to Gray about letting the doctor know Kelly was awake. Gray just nodded, but as she moved away he touched Nolan’s arm.

“Go keep her talking, Kenny. Give us a few extra minutes.” He winked. “You might even get a date.”

Nolan seemed happy with the challenge. Kelly had opened one eye. Gray sat down in the guard’s vacated seat.

“We need to get those cuffs off you, Chib. I’ll have a word when he comes back.”

“What do you want?”

“We want to talk about a pub you used to own: the Claymore.”

“I sold it three years ago.”

“Wasn’t it making you any money?” Rebus asked.

“It didn’t fit my portfolio,” Kelly said, closing the eye again. Rebus had thought his voice hoarse from sleep, but it wasn’t. Something had affected it, so that only one side of the mouth was operating a hundred percent.

“They keep telling me a portfolio’s a good thing to have,” Gray said, eyes on Rebus. “Money we make, we may never get the chance to find out.” He winked. Rebus wondered if he was trying to tell him something . . .

“My heart’s bleeding,” Kelly slurred.

“Well, you’re in the right place.”

“Rico Lomax used to drink in the Claymore, didn’t he?” Rebus asked the patient.

Kelly opened both eyes. He didn’t look surprised, just curious. “Rico?”