Resurrection Men (2002) (46 page)

Rebus raised the phone to his ear. “Thanks,” he said.

Allan Ward slumped down onto the wet grass. Rebus felt like joining him, maybe laying down and going back to sleep.

In a minute, he told himself. In a minute . . .

33

W
ith Allan Ward’s confession, there was no real necessity for the kilo of heroin which Claverhouse — recipient of an anonymous tip-off — found in Jazz McCullough’s rented flat. But Rebus hadn’t known that at the time. As it was, the fact that the heroin came from the stolen consignment meant that Claverhouse might salvage something of his career at the SDEA, though demotion remained a near cert. Rebus was curious to find out how Claverhouse would cope, serving under Ormiston, for so long his junior . . .

Rebus required a blood transfusion and seven stitches. As the blood from the anonymous donors dripped into him, Rebus felt he should repay them in some way for his gift of renewed life. He wondered who they were: adulterers, misfits, Christians, racists . . . ? It was the deed that mattered, not the individual. He was up and about soon afterwards. Rain was still falling on the city. On the route to the cemetery, Rebus’s taxi driver commented that it seemed it would never stop.

“And sometimes I don’t want it to,” he admitted. “Makes everything smell clean, doesn’t it?”

Rebus agreed that it did. He told the driver to keep the meter running, he’d be only five minutes. The newest headstones were closest to the gate. Dickie Diamond’s was no longer the latest addition. Rebus didn’t feel bad that he’d missed the funeral. He had no flowers for the Diamond Dog, even though he was carrying a small posy. He didn’t think Dickie would mind . . .

Farther into the cemetery were the older graves, some well tended, others seemingly forgotten. Louise Hodd’s husband was still alive, though no longer a Church of Scotland minister. He’d gone to pieces after her rape and suicide, picking himself up again only slowly. There were fresh flowers by her headstone, to which Rebus added his posy, staying on his knees for a minute. It was as close as he came these days to prayer. He’d memorized the inscription, her dates of birth and death. Her maiden name had been Fielding. Six years since she took her life. Six years since Rico Lomax had died as a kind of retribution. Her attacker, Michael Veitch, was dead also, stabbed in jail by someone who’d known nothing of this particular crime. No one had planned it, or asked for it to happen. But it had happened anyway.

A complete and utter waste. Rebus could feel his stitches tingling, reminding him that
he
was still alive. All because Allan Ward had changed his mind. He rose to his feet again, brushing the earth from his trousers and hands.

Sometimes that was all it took to effect a kind of resurrection. Maybe Allan Ward, plenty of jail time ahead of him for contemplation, would come to realize that.

34

T
hen why are you here?” Andrea Thomson pressed her hands together, resting her chin on her fingertips. For this meeting, she had borrowed an office at Fettes HQ. It was the same office she always used when there were officers in Edinburgh with a need for counseling. “Is it because you feel cheated of some sort of victory?”

“Did I say that?”

“I felt it was what you were trying to say. Did I misunderstand?”

“I don’t know . . . I used to think policing was about upholding the law . . . all that stuff they taught you at Tulliallan.”

“And now?” Thomson had picked up her pen, but only as a prop. She didn’t write anything down until after the sessions.

“Now?” A shrug. “I’m not sure those laws necessarily work.”

“Even when you achieve a successful result?”

“Is that what’s been achieved?”

“You solved the case, didn’t you? An innocent man has been released from custody. Doesn’t sound like a bad result to me.”

“Maybe not.”

“Is it the means of achieving the end? You think that’s where the system’s at fault?”

“Maybe the fault lies with me. Maybe I’m just not cut out to . . .”

“To what?”

Another shrug. “Play the game, perhaps.”

Thomson studied her pen. “You’ve seen someone die. It’s bound to have affected you.”

“Only because I let it.”

“Because you’re
human.
”

“I don’t know where any of this is going,” Siobhan said with a shake of her head.

“No one’s blaming you, DS Clarke. Quite the reverse.”

“And I don’t deserve it.”

“We all get things we feel we don’t deserve,” Thomson said with a smile. “Most of us treat them as windfalls. Your career so far has been a success. Is that the problem perhaps? You don’t
want
that easy success? You want to be an outsider, someone who breaks the rules with only a measure of impunity?” She paused. “Maybe you want to be like DI Rebus?”

“I’m well aware that there’s not the room for more than one of him.”

“But all the same . . . ?”

Siobhan thought about it, but ended up offering only a shrug.

“So tell me what you
like
about the job.” Andrea Thomson leaned forward in her chair, trying to appear genuinely interested.

Siobhan shrugged again. Thomson looked disappointed. “What about outside work? Are there any keen interests you have?”

Siobhan thought for a long time. “Music, chocolate, football, drink.” She looked at her watch. “With any luck, I’ll have time to indulge in at least three of them after this.”

Thomson’s professional smile faded perceptibly.

“I also like long drives and home-delivery pizza,” Siobhan added, warming to the subject.

“What about relationships?” Thomson asked.

“What about them?”

“Is there some special relationship you’re in just now?”

“Only with the job, Ms. Thomson . . . And I’m not absolutely sure it loves me anymore.”

“What do you plan to do about that, DS Clarke?”

“I don’t know . . . maybe I could take it to bed with me and feed it Cadbury’s Whole Nut. That’s always worked for me in the past.”

When Thomson looked up from her cheap blue pen, she saw that Siobhan was grinning.

“I think that’s probably enough for today,” the counselor said.

“Probably,” Siobhan said, getting to her feet. “And thank you . . . I feel heaps better.”

“And I feel like a large bar of chocolate,” Andrea Thomson said.

“The canteen should still be open.”

Thomson put her unblemished legal pad into her bag. “Then what are we waiting for?” she asked.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ian Rankin is the author of more than eighteen books. He is an Edgar Award nominee and the recipient of both a Gold Dagger Award for Fiction and the Chandler-Fulbright Award. He lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with his wife and their two sons.