Resurrection Men ir-13

by Ian Rankin

  “But might he try to snatch him?”

  “Not if he knows what’s good for him!”

  “Maybe we could have some officers watch your home . . .”

  Laura was shaking her head. “I don’t want that. Donny won’t hurt me or Alexander . . .”

  “You could always ask Mr. Cafferty for help,” Siobhan stated nonchalantly.

  “Cafferty? I already told you . . .”

  “Donny worked for Cafferty, did you know that? Maybe you could ask Cafferty to keep Donny away from you.”

  “I don’t know anyone called Cafferty!”

  Siobhan stayed silent.

  “I don’t,” Laura persisted.

  “Well then, you’ve nothing to worry about, have you? Maybe I wasted my time coming out here this time of night to warn you . . .”

  Laura looked at her. “I’m sorry,” she said. Then: “And thank you.” She reached over and laid her hand on Siobhan’s. “I appreciate it.”

  Siobhan nodded slowly. “Did Suzy ever go to college?” she asked.

  Laura seemed taken aback by the question. “Suzy? I think she thought about going . . . maybe six or seven years ago.”

  “Is that how long she’s worked in saunas?”

  “At a rough guess.”

  They heard the door to the Paradiso opening. A man, his back to them, face in shadow as he disappeared inside.

  “I better get going,” Laura said. “Could be one of mine.”

  “You have a lot of regulars, don’t you?”

  “A fair few.”

  “Means you must be good.”

  “Or they must be desperate.”

  “Was Edward Marber desperate?”

  Laura looked slighted. “I wouldn’t have said so.”

  “What about the punter who was leaving as I came in? He’s a regular, too, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe.” Becoming defensive now, opening the car door and stepping out. “Thanks again.”

  She started to cross the road. The sauna’s door was opening, throwing light onto the street. The same man emerging, only now with his front to them rather than his back.

  Donny Dow.

  “Laura!” Siobhan called. “Get back in the car!” At the same time she was struggling to find the door handle, which seemed to have moved a few inches from where she normally found it. Pushed open the door and started to get out.

  “Laura!” Siobhan calling out her name almost at the same time he did, their voices clashing in the air above their heads.

  “Come here, you whore!”

  Donny Dow rushing at Laura. Laura screaming. And in the background, a sound Siobhan would hear for the rest of the night — the sound of the lock clicking shut on the inside of the door to the Sauna Paradiso.

  Dow had Laura, grabbing her shoulders, shoving her backwards against the car. Then his arm went up and Siobhan knew, though she couldn’t see it, that there was a weapon there, a blade of some sort. She launched herself across the hood, one hand propelling her across it so that she flew feet first, catching him low down on one side. It wasn’t enough to deflect him. The knife sliced into Laura’s flesh, making a soft sound almost like a mild reproach. Tsssk! Siobhan grabbed for the knife arm, trying to lock it behind him, while listening to an elongated gasp from Laura, the air escaping from her as blood leaked from the puncture. Dow flung his head sideways, catching Siobhan on the bridge of her nose. Tears welled in her eyes, and she momentarily lost strength.

  Tsssk!

  The knife again finding its target. Siobhan let go of his arm and aimed her knee into his groin, connecting with all the force she could muster. Dow staggered backwards, his voice a rising complaint of pain. Siobhan watched Laura sag visibly. She was hanging on to the car’s door handle, knees buckling. There were rivulets of blood.

  Got to end this now!

  Siobhan aimed another kick at Dow, but he dodged it, turning full circle. The knife — it was one of those builder’s blades, the kind you bought in a DIY store — was still gripped in his right hand. Siobhan filled her lungs and let out a scream, making sure he took the full force of it.

  “Help, somebody! Help us here! She’s dying! Donny Dow’s murdered her!”

  At the sound of his name, he paused. Or maybe it was the word murdered. He stared unblinking at Laura. Siobhan made a move towards him, but he backed away. Three, four, five steps.

  “You bastard!” she shouted at him. Then she gave another scream, searing the inside of her throat. Lights were coming on in the tenement windows above the sauna. “Nine-nine-nine . . . ambulance and police!” Faces at the windows, curtains pushed aside. Dow was still walking backwards. She had to follow him. But what about Laura? Siobhan glanced back, and as she broke eye contact Dow took his chance, jogging and swaying his way back into darkness.

  Siobhan crouched beside Laura, whose lips looked almost black in the streetlight, maybe because her face was so white. Going into shock. Siobhan sought the wounds. There’d be two . . . had to get pressure on them. The sauna’s door stayed resolutely closed.

  “Bastard,” Siobhan hissed. She couldn’t see Dow anymore. There was warm blood oozing from between her fingers. “Hang on, Laura, ambulance is coming.” Her mobile was in her pocket, but she didn’t have any free hands.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  Then one of the neighbors was standing beside her. He seemed to be asking if everything was all right.

  “Put some pressure here,” she said, showing him where. Then she fumbled for her phone, as it slid away from her bloodied grasp. The man was looking horror-struck. He was in his late fifties, thin hair flapping down over his forehead. She couldn’t push the numbers; her hands were shaking too much. She ran across to the sauna, gave the door a kick, then rammed it with her shoulder. Ricky opened up. He was shaking too.

  “Christ . . . is she . . . ?”

  “Did you call nine-nine-nine?” Siobhan asked.

  He nodded. “Ambulance and. . .” He swallowed. “Just ambulance,” he corrected.

  She thought she could hear a siren in the distance, hoped it was coming this way. “Did you tell him she was out here?” Siobhan spat.

  Ricky shook his head. “Guy looked in a rage . . . I said she wasn’t on shift . . .” He swallowed again. “I thought he was going to do me.”

  “Well, aren’t you the lucky one?” Siobhan ran past the woman from the sofa, who was now standing, arms folded protectively in front of her, and found the pile of towels and robes. She could hear sobbing from the actual sauna; didn’t have time to look, but knew it was Suzy, probably cowering in fear for herself. Siobhan dashed outside again, pushing towels hard against the wounds. “Lots of pressure,” she told the man. He was sweating, looked scared, but he nodded anyway and she patted his shoulder. Laura was sitting on the ground, legs folded beneath her. Her fingers clung resolutely to the door handle. Maybe she was remembering Siobhan’s instruction: Get back in the car! Mere centimeters from safety . . .

  “Don’t die on me,” Siobhan commanded, running a hand through Laura’s hair. Laura’s eyelids were open a fraction, but the eyes themselves were glassy, like the marbles boys used to play with. She was breathing through her mouth, little gasps of pain. The siren was a lot closer now, and then it was rounding the corner from Commercial Street, sending sweeps of blue light across the buildings.

  “They’re here, Laura,” Siobhan cooed. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “Just hang in there,” the man said, looking to Siobhan for reassurance that he’d said the right thing. Too many episodes of Casualty and Holby City, Siobhan thought.

  You’re going to be fine . . . The lie that brings no peace. The lie that exists only because the speaker needs to hear it.

  Just hang in there . . .

  Four in the morning.

  She wished Rebus were there. He would make some joke about the song of the same name. He’d done it before when they’d been on hospital vigils, villain stakeouts. He’d sing half a misremembered verse of som
e country-and-western song. She couldn’t remember the name of the original singer, but Rebus would know it. Farnon? Farley? Somebody Farnon . . .

  These games Rebus played to take their minds off the situation. She’d thought of phoning him, but had reconsidered. This was something she had to get through on her own. She was crossing a line . . . could feel it. She wasn’t at the hospital; they hadn’t wanted her there. A quick shower and change of clothes at home, the patrol car waiting to take her back to St. Leonard’s. The Leith police would take the investigation: it was their patch. But they wanted her at St. Leonard’s for debriefing.

  “At least you got him a good kick in the charlies,” her uniformed driver had said. “Should slow him down a bit . . .”

  She stood in her shower and wished it had a bit more pressure. The water dripped onto her. She wanted sharp needles, a pummeling, a torrent. She held her hands over her face, eyes screwed shut. She leaned against the tiled wall, then slid down it until she was crouching again, the way she’d crouched over Laura Stafford.

  Who’s going to tell Alexander? Mummy’s dead . . . Daddy did it. It would be Grandma’s job, in between the tears . . .

  Who would break the news to Grandma? Someone would already be on their way out there. The body needed to be ID’d.

  Her machine was flashing to let her know she had phone messages. They could wait. There were dishes in the sink needed washing. She was drying her hair with a towel as she moved through the flat. Her nose was red, and she kept needing to blow it. Her eyes were bloodshot, pink-rimmed and puffy.

  The towel she dried her hair with was dark blue. No more white towels for me . . .

  DCS Templer was waiting for her at the station. The first question was an easy one: “Are you all right?”

  Siobhan made all the right noises, but then Templer said: “Donny Dow’s an animal, works for Big Ger Cafferty.”

  Siobhan wondered who’d been talking. Rebus? But then Templer explained all: “Claverhouse told me. You know Claverhouse?” To which Siobhan nodded. “SDEA have had their eye on Cafferty for a while,” Templer went on. “Not getting very far, if their track record’s anything to go by.”

  All of which was just by way of filler, working up to the real story. “You know she’s dead?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Christ, Siobhan, no need for the formal stuff. It’s Gill here, remember?”

  “Yes . . . Gill.”

  Templer nodded. “You did what you could.”

  “It wasn’t enough.”

  “What were you supposed to do? Set up a blood transfusion on the pavement?” Templer sighed. “Sorry . . . that’s the middle of the night talking, not me.” She ran her hands through her hair. “Speaking of which, what were you doing down there?”

  “I’d gone to warn her.”

  “At that time of night?”

  “Best time to find her at work, I thought.” Siobhan was answering the questions, but her mind was elsewhere. She was still on that street. The click of the lock on the sauna parlor door . . . the hand gripping her car for dear life.

  Tsssk!

  “Leith are handling it,” Templer said, unnecessarily. “They’ll want to talk to you.”

  Siobhan nodded.

  “Phyllida Hawes has gone to break the news.”

  She nodded again. She was wondering if Donny Dow had bought the blade that same afternoon. There was a DIY store practically next door to St. Leonard’s . . .

  “It was premeditated,” Siobhan stated. “I’ll say so in my report. No way that bastard’s getting off with manslaughter . . .”

  Templer’s turn to nod. Siobhan knew what she was thinking: good lawyer behind him, Dow would push for manslaughter . . . a moment of madness . . . diminished responsibility. My client, Your Honor, had only just learned that his ex-wife, the woman charged with the care of his son, was not only a prostitute but that she was living in accommodation provided for her and the child by one of her clients. Faced with this revelation — a revelation made by police officers, no less — Mr. Dow fled from a police station and was allowed to roam free, the balance of his mind affected . . .

  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

  They’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.