Excerpt from Resurrection Men by Ian Rankin, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"More bloody phone calls," he found himself saying, loud enough to be heard at the front. Templer looked up.

"Something to say, John?"

"No, no . . . nothing."

Her back straightening. "Only if you've anything to add —maybe one of your famous deductions —I'm all ears."

"With respect, ma'am, you're not all ears —you're all talk." Noises around him: gasps and looks. Rebus rising slowly to his feet.

"We're getting nowhere fast." His voice was loud. "There's nobody left to talk to, and nothing worth them saying!"

The blood had risen to Templer's cheeks. The sheet of paper she was holding —the day's duties —had become a cylinder, which her fingers threatened to crush.

"Well, I'm sure we can all learn something from you, DI Rebus." Not "John" anymore. Her voice rising to match his. Her eyes scanned the room: thirteen officers, not quite the full complement. Templer was working under pressure: much of it fiscal. Each investigation had a ticket attached to it, a costing she daren't overstep. Then there were the illnesses and holidays, the latecomers ..."Maybe you'd like to come up here," she was saying, "and give us the benefit of your thoughts on the subject of just exactly how we should be proceeding with this inquiry." She stretched an arm out, as if to introduce him to an audience. "Ladies and gentlemen . . ."

Which was the moment he chose to throw the mug. It traveled in a lazy arc, spinning as it went, dispensing cold tea. Templer ducked instinctively, though the mug would have sailed over her head in any case. It hit the back wall just above floor level, bouncing off and failing to break. There was silence in the room as people rose to their feet, checking their clothes for spillage.

Rebus sat down then, one finger punching the desk as if trying to find the rewind on life's remote control.



"DI Rebus?" The uniform was talking to him.

"Yes, sir?"

"Glad you've decided to join us." Smiles all around the table. How much had he missed? He didn't dare look at his watch.

"Sorry about that, sir."

"I was asking if you'd be our member of the public." Nodding to the opposite side of the table to Rebus. "DI Gray will be the officer. And you, DI Rebus, will be coming into the station with what could turn out to be some vital information pertaining to a case." The teacher paused. "Or you could be a crank." Laughter from a couple of the men. Francis Gray was beaming at Rebus, nodding encouragement.

"Whenever you're ready, DI Gray."

Gray leaned forward on the table. "So, Mrs. Ditchwater, you say you saw something that night?"

The laughter was louder. The teacher waved them quiet. "Let's try to keep this serious, shall we?"

Gray nodded, turned his eyes to Rebus again. "You definitely saw something?"

"Yes," Rebus announced, coarsening his voice. "I saw the whole thing, Officer."

"Though you've been registered blind these past eleven years?"

Gales of laughter in the room, the teacher thumping the tabletop, trying to restore order. Gray sitting back, joining the laughter, winking across at Rebus, whose shoulders were rocking.

Francis Gray was fighting hard against resurrection.



"I thought I was going to wet myself," Tam Barclay said, lowering the tray of glasses onto the table. They were in the larger of Kincardine's two pubs, lessons finished for the day. Six of them forming a tight circle: Rebus, Francis Gray, Jazz McCullough, plus Tam Barclay, Stu Sutherland and Allan Ward. At thirty-four, Ward was the youngest of the group and the lowest-ranking officer on the course. He had a tough, spoiled look to him. Maybe it came from working in the southwest.

Five pints, one cola: McCullough was driving home afterwards, wanted to see his wife and kids.

Copyright © 2002 by John Rebus Limited