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

"And yet you still have time for a drink?"

Silence on the line; she wondered if she'd touched a nerve.

"How do you know I'm not on fresh orange?" he said at last.

"I just do."

"Go on then, impress me with your detective skills."

"It's just that your voice gets slightly nasal."

"After how many?"

"I'll guess four."

"The girl's a marvel." The pips started sounding. "Hang on," he said, putting in more money.

"Another spare twenty pee?"

"A fifty, actually. Which gives you plenty of time to update me on Marber."

"Well, it's all been very quiet since the coffee incident."

"I think it was tea."

"Whatever it was, the stain's not budging. For what it's worth, I think they overreacted, sending you into purdah."

"I'm wasting money here."

She sighed, sat forward. The screen saver had just kicked in: I KNOW WHO YOU ARE, SUCKER scrolling right to left across the screen. "We're still looking at friends and associates. Couple of interesting stories: an artist Marber had fallings-out with. Not unusual in the business, apparently, but this came to blows. Turns out the artist is one of these New Scottish Colorists, and leaving him out of the exhibition was a definite snub."

"Maybe he whacked Marber with his easel."

"Maybe."

"And the second story?"

"That one I've been saving up to tell you. Did you ever see the guest list for the preview?"

"Yes."

"Turns out not everyone who turned up was on the list. What we had were people who'd signed Marber's guest book. But now we've printed off a list of the people who actually got invites. Some of them were at the exhibition, hadn't bothered to RSVP or sign the book."

"This artist was one of them?" Rebus guessed.

"God, no. But a certain M. G. Cafferty was."

She heard Rebus whistle. Morris Gerald Cafferty —Big Ger, to those in the know —was the east coast's biggest gangster, or the biggest one they knew about. Cafferty and Rebus went back a long way.

"Big Ger a patron of the arts?" Rebus mused.

"He collects paintings, apparently."

"What he doesn't do is smack people over the head on their doorsteps."

"I bow to your superior knowledge."

There was a pause on the line. "How's Gill doing?"

"Much better since you left. Is she going to take it any further?"

"Not if I finish this course —that was the deal. How about the L-plate?"

Siobhan smiled. By L-plate Rebus meant the latest addition to CID, a detective constable called Davie Hynds. "He's quiet, studious, industrious," she recited. "Not your type at all."

"But is he any good?"

"Don't worry, I'll slap him into shape."

"That's one of the prerogatives, now you've been promoted."

The pips were sounding again. "Do I get to go now?"

"A concise and helpful report, DS Clarke. Seven out of ten."

"Only seven?"

"I'm deducting three for sarcasm. You need to address this attitudinal problem of yours, or —"

The sudden hum on the line told her his time was up. It was taking some getting used to, being addressed as "DS." She sometimes still introduced herself as Detective Constable Clarke, forgetting that the recent round of promotions had been kind to her. Could jealousy be behind the message on her screen? Silvers and Hood had stayed the same rank —as had most of the rest of CID.

"Narrowing the field nicely, girl," she told herself, reaching for her coat.



Back at the table, Barclay lifted a mobile phone and told Rebus he could have borrowed it.

"Thanks, Tam. I've actually got one."

"Are the batteries dead?"

Copyright © 2002 by John Rebus Limited