Resurrection Men (2002) by Ian Rankin Page B

swelling opening of “Solid Air” filled his head, pushing out everything else. He leaned back against the pillow. Decided the song was definitely on the shortlist for his funeral.
    Knew he should write the shortlist down. After all, you never could tell.
     
    Siobhan answered her door. It was late, but she was expecting company. Eric Bain always called first, to make sure it was all right. It usually was. Bain worked at Police HQ, the “Big House.” He specialized in computer crime. The two had become good friends — nothing more than that. They talked on the phone; sometimes ended up at one another’s flat, sharing late-night milky coffee and stories.
    “You’re out,” Bain called through from the kitchen. Out of decaf, he meant. Siobhan was back in the living room, putting some music on: Oldsolar, a recent purchase — good late-night music.
    “Middle cupboard, top shelf,” she called.
    “Got it.”
    Eric — the officers at Fettes called him “Brains” — had told Siobhan early on that his favorite film was When Harry Met Sally. Letting her know where he stood, and that if she wanted things to go any further, the first move would have to come from her.
    Of course, none of their colleagues believed it. Eric’s car had been spotted parked outside at midnight, and next morning both police stations had been buzzing. It didn’t bother her, didn’t seem to bother Eric. He was coming into the living room now, carrying a tray containing cafetière, a jug of steamed milk, two mugs. He set it down on her coffee table, next to some notes she’d been writing.
    “Been busy?” he asked.
    “Just the usual.” She noticed the grin on his face. “What is it?”
    He shook his head, but she dug her pen into his ribs.
    “It’s your cupboards,” he confessed.
    “My what?”
    “Your cupboards. All the tins and jars . . .”
    “Yes?”
    “They’re arranged with the labels facing out.”
    “So?”
    “It just spooks me, that’s all.” He wandered over to her CD rack, pulled a disc out at random, opened its case. “See?”
    “What?”
    “You put your CDs back in the case so they’re the right way up.” He snapped the case shut, opened another.
    “It makes them easier to read,” Siobhan said.
    “Not many people do it.”
    “I’m not like other people.”
    “That’s right.” He kneeled in front of the tray, pushed down on the cafetière’s plunger. “You’re more organized.”
    “That’s right.”
    “A lot more organized.”
    She nodded, then jabbed him with her pen again. He chuckled, poured milk into her mug.
    “Just an observation,” he said, adding coffee to both mugs, handing hers over.
    “I get enough grief at the office, Mr. Bain,” Siobhan told him.
    “You working this weekend?”
    “No.”
    “Got plans?” He slurped from his mug, angled his head to read her notes. “You were at the Paradiso?”
    A little vertical frown appeared between her eyes. “You know the place?”
    “Only by reputation. It changed hands about six months back.”
    “Did it?”
    “Used to be owned by Tojo McNair. He has a couple of the bars down Leith.”
    “Salubrious establishments, no doubt.”
    “Sticky carpets and weak beer. What was the Paradiso like?”
    She considered the question. “Not as seedy as I’d expected.”
    “Better than having the girls walking the streets?”
    She thought this over, too, before nodding agreement. There was a plan afoot to zone off part of Leith, turn it into a safe area for streetwalkers. But the first choice had been an industrial estate, badly lit and the scene of an attack a few years before. So now it was back to the drawing board . . .
    Siobhan tucked her feet beneath her on the sofa; Eric slumped in the chair opposite.
    “Who’s on the hi-fi?” he asked.
    She ignored this and asked her own question instead. “Who owns the Paradiso nowadays?”
    “Well . . . that all depends.”
    “On what?”
    He patted the side of his nose with his index