Resurrection Men (2002) (29 page)

“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.

“They wanted us working a case, see how they could turn us back into team players.”

“A team player?
You?
” Diamond chuckled and lit his cigarette. Rebus checked his watch.

“Look,” he said, “I’ve really —”

“I hope you’re leading them up the crow road, Rebus.” His voice had assumed an edge of menace.

“And what if I don’t?” Rebus said stubbornly.

“I’ve been away a long time. I miss the place. It’d be nice to come back . . .”

“I told you at the time . . .”

“I know, I know. But I was maybe too scared of you back then. I’m not so scared now.”

Rebus pointed a finger. “You were part of it. You come back here,
somebody
’ll get you.”

“I’m not so sure. More I think about it, more I get the feeling it’s your arse I’ve been protecting all these years.”

“You want to walk into a police station, be my guest.”

Diamond examined the tip of his cigarette. “That’ll be for me to decide, not you.”

Rebus bared his teeth. “You little turd, I could have had you buried . . . remember that.”

“It’s Rico I remember. I think of him often. How about you?”

“
I
didn’t kill Rico.”

“Then who did?” Diamond chuckled again. “We both know the score, Rebus.”

“And what about you, Dickie? Did you know Rico was giving your girlfriend one? Way she tells it, you were there at the time. Is that right? Maybe
you’re
the one who had the grudge, the one who wanted revenge.” Rebus nodded slowly. “That could be the way I’ll tell it in court. You whacked your old pal and did a runner.”

Diamond was shaking his head, chuckling once more. He looked around, slid the tobacco tin back into his jacket pocket.

Pulled out a snub-nosed revolver and aimed it at Rebus’s gut.

“I’m in the frame of mind to shoot you right now. Is that what you want?”

Rebus looked around them. No one within a hundred yards, dozens of tenement windows . . . “This is great, Dickie. Blending in with your surroundings and all that. Nobody notices people brandishing firearms in the middle of Edinburgh.”

“Maybe I don’t care anymore.”

“Maybe you don’t.” Rebus had his hands by his sides, bunched into fists. He was three feet or so from Diamond, but would he be quick enough . . . ?

“How long would I serve if I shot you? Twelve to fifteen, out in a bit less than that?”

“You wouldn’t serve ten minutes, Dickie. You’d be on a death sentence as soon as the prison gates shut behind you.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“People I know have long memories.”

“I want to come home, Rebus.” He looked around again. “I
am
home.”

“Fine . . . but put the gun away. You’ve proved your point.”

Diamond glanced down at the revolver. “Not even loaded,” he said.

Hearing which, Rebus swung at him, connecting with the hollow just beneath his breastbone. He grabbed Diamond’s gun hand and prized the revolver away. Sure enough, its chambers were empty. Diamond was down on his hands and knees, groaning. Rebus wiped his own prints off the gun with his handkerchief and dropped it onto the grass.

“You try that again,” Rebus was hissing, “and I’ll break every one of your fingers.”

“You’ve dislocated my thumb,” Diamond bawled. “Look.” He held his right hand up for Rebus’s inspection, then launched himself at him, smashing him backwards onto the grass. The wind was knocked out of Rebus. Diamond was crawling over him, pinning him down. Rebus struggled, and as Diamond’s grinning face came level with his own he head-butted him, then half rolled so that Diamond was forced off. Rebus clambered to his feet and swung a foot at Diamond, who wrapped his arms around it, trying to throw him off balance. Instead, Rebus dropped to both knees, his whole weight landing on Diamond’s chest.

The man groaned and spluttered.

“Let go!” Rebus spat.

Diamond let go. Rebus got to his feet once more, this time stepping back out of range.

“I heard a rib snap,” Diamond complained as he writhed.

“The hospital’s the other side of the Meadows,” Rebus told him. “Good luck.” He looked at himself. Grass stains and mud on his trousers, shirt hanging out. His tie was over to one side, hair rumpled.

And he was going to be late.

“I want you to get in your car,” he told the prone figure, “and keep driving. It’s like the Sparks song said: this town ain’t big enough for the both of us. I see you here again after tonight, you’re dead meat. Understood?”

The body said something, but Rebus couldn’t make it out. He guessed Diamond wasn’t complimenting him on the welcome home . . .

He parked directly outside the restaurant and ran down the steps. Jean was in the cocktail bar, pretending to study the menu. Her face was icy as he approached. Then, despite the understated lighting, she finally saw that something had happened.

“What did you do?” As he bent down to kiss her cheek, she touched her fingers to his forehead. It stung, and he realized he’d grazed it.

“A bit of a disagreement,” he said. “Am I presentable enough for a place like this?” The maître d’ was hovering.

“Can you bring John a large whiskey?” Jean asked.

“A nice malt perhaps, sir?”

Rebus nodded. “Laphroaig if you’ve got it.”

“And some ice,” Jean added. “In a glass by itself.” She smiled at Rebus, but with concern in her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m going to have dinner with a man who’ll be holding an ice pack to his face.”

Rebus studied his surroundings. “Place like this, they probably have someone to do that for you.”

She smiled more openly. “You’re sure you’re all right.”

“I’m fine, Jean, honest.” He lifted her hand, kissed the inside of her wrist. “Nice perfume,” he said.

“Opium,” she told him. Rebus nodded, filing the information away for future use.

The meal was long and wonderful, Rebus relaxing a little more with each course. Jean asked just once about the “disagreement,” Rebus muttering a few words of concocted explanation before she held up a hand and stopped him.

“I’d rather you told me to mind my own business, John . . . just don’t start making up a story. It’s ever-so-slightly insulting.”

“Sorry.”

“One day, maybe you’ll feel like opening up to me.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, but inside he knew the day would never come. It hadn’t happened with Rhona during all the years of his marriage, no reason to think things would be any different now . . .

He’d drunk just the one large malt, followed by two glasses of wine, and as a result felt fine to drive. As one of the waiters helped Jean into her coat, Rebus asked if he could give her a lift. She nodded.

They drove to Portobello, well fed and friends again, an old Fairport Convention tape providing background music. As they turned onto her street, she spoke his name, drawing it out. He knew what she was about to say and preempted it.

“You don’t want me coming in?”

“Not tonight.” Turning towards him. “Is that all right?”

“Of course it is, Jean. No problem.” There weren’t any parking spaces, so he just stopped in the middle of the road outside her house.

“It was a lovely meal,” she said.

“We’ll have to do it again.”

“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.