Resurrection Men

20

By six that evening, the inquiry room had emptied. Siobhan was glad to see them go. Derek Linford had been giving her foul looks ever since the drinks machine. Davie Hynds had spent the afternoon writing up the report on Malcolm Neilson’s payoff. The only break he’d taken had been to interview — with Silvers as his partner — a good-looking woman who turned out to be Sharon Burns, the art collector. Siobhan had asked Silvers afterwards who she’d been. He’d explained, then grinned.

“Davie said you’d be jealous . . .”

Phyllida Hawes had been sitting moonfaced and anxious ever since lunch, checking her watch and the doorway, wanting Allan Ward to pay another visit. But no one from IR1 had come near. Eventually Hawes had asked Siobhan if she fancied a drink after work.

“Sorry, Phyl,” Siobhan had lied, “I’ve got a prior engagement.” Last thing she wanted was Hawes crying on her shoulder because Ward was giving her the cold one. But Silvers and Grant Hood were up for a pint, and Hawes had joined them. Hynds had waited to be asked, and eventually he was.

“I could probably manage one,” he’d said, trying not to sound too desperate.

“Might join you,” Linford had said, “if that’s all right.”

“More the merrier,” Hawes had told him. “Sure you can’t come, Siobhan?”

“Thanks anyway,” Siobhan had replied.

Leaving her alone in the office at six o’clock, the sudden silence relieved only by the hum of the strip lighting. Templer had left much earlier to attend some meeting at the Big House. The brass would want to know what progress was being made on the Marber case. As her eyes drifted over the Wall of Death, Siobhan could have told them: precious little.

They’d be keen for a result. Which was precisely when mistakes could be made, shortcuts taken. They’d be wanting Donny Dow or Malcolm Neilson to fit the frame, even if it meant reshaping them . . .

One of her teachers at college had told her years back: it wasn’t the result that mattered, it was how you got there. He’d meant that you had to play fair, stay open-minded; make sure the case lacked any slow punctures, so the Procurator Fiscal wouldn’t kick it straight back at you. It was up to the courts to decide guilt and innocence, the job of CID was merely to stitch the pieces together into a ball . . .

She looked down at her desk. Her notepad was a mass of doodles and squiggles, some in blue ink, some in black, not all of them hers. She knew she drew little tornadoes when she was on the phone. And cubes sometimes. And rectangles that looked like Union Jacks. One of the designs belonged to “Hi-Ho” Silvers: arrows and cacti were his specialties. Some people never doodled. She couldn’t remember Rebus ever doing it, or Derek Linford. It was as if they might give too much away. She wondered what her own graffiti would reveal to an expert. The tornado could be her way of giving some shape to the chaos of an investigation. The cubes and flags? Same thing, more or less. Arrows and cacti she wasn’t so sure about . . .

One name on her pad had been ringed and then half obliterated by a phone number.

Ellen Dempsey.

What was it Cafferty had said . . . ? Ellen Dempsey had “friends.” What sort of friends? The kind Cafferty didn’t want to tangle with.

“Is this what promotion does to you?” Rebus said. He was leaning against the doorframe.

“How long have you been there?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not spying.” He walked into the room. “They’ve all buggered off then?”

“Full marks for spotting that.”

“The old powers of deduction haven’t quite left the building yet.” Rebus tapped his head. His chair was behind what was now Linford’s desk. He wheeled it out and placed it in front of Siobhan’s.

“Don’t let that ba’heid sit in my seat,” he complained.

“Your seat? I thought you stole it from the Farmer’s old office?”

“Gill didn’t want it,” Rebus said, defending himself as he sat down and got comfortable. “So what’s on the menu for tonight?”

“Beans on toast probably. How about you?”

He made a show of thinking it over, resting his feet on the desktop. “Boeuf en croûte, maybe, washed down with a good bottle of wine.”

Siobhan wasn’t slow. “Jean called?”

He nodded. “I wanted to thank you for interceding on my behalf.”

“So where are you taking her?”

“Number One.”

Siobhan whistled. “Any chance of a doggie bag?”

“There might be a bone or two left. What are you writing?”

She noticed what she was doing. “Ellen Dempsey’s name was down here, only it’s been written over. I just wanted to write it again, to remind myself . . .”

“Of what?”

“I think she’s worth looking at.”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that Cafferty said she has friends.”

“You don’t think it was Donny Dow who killed Marber?”

She shook her head. “I could be wrong, of course.”

“What about this artist guy? I hear you had him in for questioning, too . . .”

“We did. He took a payoff from Marber, promised to stop bad-mouthing him.”

“Didn’t exactly work.”

“No . . .”

“But you don’t see him for the killer either?”

She gave an exaggerated shrug. “Maybe nobody did it.”

“Maybe a big boy did it and ran away.”

She smiled. “Has anyone in the whole history of the world ever really used that as an alibi?”

“I’m sure I tried it, when I was a kid. Didn’t you?”

“I don’t suppose my mum and dad would have believed me.”

“I don’t suppose any parent’s been duped by it. Doesn’t mean a kid wouldn’t try it . . .”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Neither Dow nor Neilson has an alibi for the night Marber was killed. Even Cafferty’s story’s a bit shaky . . .”

“You think Cafferty was involved?”

“I’m beginning to lean that way. He probably owns the Paradiso . . . he could have known about Laura and Marber . . . His driver happened to be Laura’s ex, and Cafferty’s a collector, someone Marber could have cheated.”

“Then bring him in.”

She looked at him. “He’s hardly likely to burst into tears and confess.”

“Bring him in anyway, just for the hell of it.”

She stared down at Ellen Dempsey’s name. “Why do I get the feeling that would be for your benefit, rather than mine?”

“Because you’ve a suspicious nature, DS Clarke.” Rebus checked his watch, rose to his feet.

“Got to go make yourself look pretty?” Siobhan guessed.

“Well, a change of shirt anyway.”

“Better find time for a shave, too, if you want Jean to get up close and personal.”

Rebus ran a hand over his chin. “A shave it is,” he said.

Siobhan watched him go, thinking: men and women, when did it all get so complicated? And why?

She opened her notepad at a fresh sheet and lifted her pen. A few moments later, Ellen Dempsey’s name was written there, at the still center of an ink tornado.

Rebus had washed his hair, shaved, brushed his teeth. He had dusted off his good suit and found a brand-new shirt. Having removed its packaging and all the pins, he’d tried it on. It needed ironing, but he didn’t know where the iron was . . . or whether he owned such an object, come to that. If he kept his jacket on, no one would see the creases. Pink tie . . . no. Dark blue . . . yes. No stains on it that he could see.

He gave his shoes a quick wipe with the dishcloth, dried them on the tea towel.

Looked at himself in the mirror. His hair had dried a bit spiky, and he tried flattening it. His face was flushed. He realized he was nervous.

He decided to get there early. A chance to check out the prices, so he wouldn’t look shocked in front of Jean. Besides, once he’d reconned the place, he would feel more comfortable in general. Maybe time for a quick whiskey just to steady him. The bottle peered at him from floor level. Not here, he thought: I’ll have one when I get there. He decided to take the car. Jean didn’t drive, and on the off chance that they might end up at her place in Portobello, a car would be handy. It also gave him an excuse not to order too much wine, let her drink for both of them.

And if he did drink, he could leave the car in town, fetch it later.

Keys . . . credit cards . . . what else? Maybe a change of clothes. He could always leave them in the car. That way, if he stayed the night at her place . . . no, no . . . if he suddenly announced that he had spare clothes in the trunk, she’d know he’d expected the night to end like that.

“No premeditation, John,” he warned himself. Last question: aftershave, yes or no? No. Same reasoning.

So . . . out of the flat, realizing halfway down the stairs that he hadn’t checked his phone messages. So what? He had his mobile and pager with him. The car was in a sweet parking space, almost directly outside. Shame to lose it . . . two minutes after he drove away, it would be taken. Still . . . Might not need a space tonight.

Stop thinking like that!

What if the menu was all in French? She’d have to order for both of them. Maybe that would be a good ruse; ask her straight off to order for him. Putting himself in her hands, et cetera. He was trying to think what else could go wrong. Credit card bouncing on him? Doubtful. Using the wrong spoon? Very possible. There seemed already to be patches of sweat beneath his arms.

Jesus, John . . .

Nothing was going to go wrong. He unlocked the car, slid into the driver’s seat. Turned the key in the ignition.

The engine was behaving itself. Into reverse and out of the space. He shifted into first and started down the road. Arden Street had been reduced to a narrow lane by cars parked either side. Suddenly, one of them reversed out of a space right in front of him. Rebus hit the brakes.

Bloody stupid . . .

He sounded the horn, but the driver just sat there. Rebus could see the shape of a head. No passengers.

“Come on!” he called, gesticulating. It was a twelve-year-old Ford with the exhaust practically hanging off. Rebus decided to memorize the license plate and make sure the bastard got some grief.

Still the car wasn’t budging.

Rebus undid his seat belt and got out, slammed shut his own door. Started walking towards the light-blue Ford. He was ninety percent of the way there when he suddenly thought: Trap! He looked around, but no one was coming up behind him. All the same, he stopped in his tracks, four feet from the driver’s door. The man was still sitting there, hands on the steering wheel. That was good. It meant he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

“Hey!” Rebus called. “Either move the car or let’s talk about it!”

The hands slid from the wheel. The door opened with a dry, grating clunk, the sound of unoiled hinges.

The man placed one foot on the road, eased himself halfway out of the car. “I want us to talk,” he said.

Rebus’s eyes widened. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.

This face . . . that voice . . .

This ghost.

“I can’t,” he managed to say. “I have to be somewhere in twenty minutes.”

“This’ll take ten,” the voice said. Rebus’s eyes were drawn to the mouth. There was new dental work there. Blackened teeth had been removed or polished.

The Diamond Dog was looking pretty good for a dead man.

“We can talk later,” Rebus pleaded.

Diamond shook his head, slid back into his car. He was reversing completely out of the parking spot. Rebus had to move aside so he wouldn’t be crushed between the Ford and his own Saab. A hand appeared from the window, motioning for him to follow.

Rebus glanced at his watch. Fuck!

Looked up and saw the Ford trundling forwards, moving away from him.

Ten minutes. He could afford ten minutes. He’d still be at the restaurant ahead of time . . .

Fuck!

Rebus got back behind the wheel of his own car and started following Dickie Diamond.

They drove only the distance of two or three streets. Diamond parked on a single yellow — safe enough this time of the evening. Rebus stopped directly behind him. Diamond was already out of the Ford. They were next to Bruntsfield Links, a wide grassy slope where golfers occasionally practiced their pitch ’n’ putt skills. Recently, students had taken to holding barbecues on the links, using cheap disposable kits. The tin trays left charred rectangular marks on the grass. Diamond was testing one of these rectangles with his foot. He was dressed well. Nothing expensive or showy, but not bargain-basement either.

“Who’s the lady?” he asked, his eyes running the length of Rebus’s suit.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Diamond met Rebus’s less-than-happy gaze. Then he gave a rueful smile and started walking down the slope. Rebus hesitated, then followed.

“What sort of game are you playing?” he asked.

“That’s the question I should be asking!”

“I thought I told you never to set foot here.”

“That was before I got wind of what’s been happening.” In the six years since they’d last met, Diamond’s face had grown even thinner, as had his hair. What remained of the latter was an unnatural depth of black. There were dark half-moons beneath the eyes, but no sign of excess weight or any lessening of the faculties.

“And what exactly has been happening?” Rebus asked.

“You’ve got people looking for me.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re going to find you . . . unless, of course, you come charging back into town.” Rebus paused. “Who told you? Was it Jenny Bell?”

Diamond shook his head. “She doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

“It was Malky then?” Rebus was guessing, but it hit home. Diamond revealed as much by saying nothing. Malky in the Bar Z, hovering near the table . . . “My advice,” Rebus continued, “is that you get back in your car and hightail it out of town. I meant it when I told you to stay away.”

“And I’ve been good as my word until now.” Diamond had started rolling himself a cigarette. “So why the sudden interest?”

“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.

“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 about drinking and friendship?”

“Misery loves company?” Siobhan guessed mischievously.

“That’s it,” Rebus said with a smile, raising his glass. “Here’s to misery!”

“To misery,” Siobhan echoed. “Where would we be without it?”

He looked at her. “You mean it’s part and parcel of human life?”

“No,” she said. “I mean you and me would be out of a job . . .”