Read Resurrection Men (2002) for Free Online

trying that trick.”
    Hynds nodded, watched her making for her own car. “I think this means I’m the good guy,” he said, but not loud enough for her to hear.
    Malcolm Neilson lived in one of the upper colonies. He answered the door wearing what looked like pajama trousers — baggy, with vertical pink and gray stripes — and a fisherman’s thick pullover. He was barefoot and sported wild, frazzled hair, as if he’d just pulled his finger out of a light socket. The hair was graying, the face round and unshaven.
    “Mr. Neilson?” Siobhan asked, opening her warrant card again. “I’m DS Clarke, this is DC Hynds. We spoke on the phone.”
    Neilson leaned out from his doorway, as if to look up and down the street. “You better come in then,” he said, closing the door quickly after them. The interior was cramped: living room with a tiny kitchen off, plus maybe two bedrooms maximum. In the narrow hallway, a ladder led up through a trapdoor into the loft.
    “Is that where you . . . ?”
    “My studio, yes.” He glanced in Siobhan’s general direction. “Out of bounds to visitors.”
    He led them into the chaotic living room. It was split-level: sofa and stereo speakers down below, dining table above. Magazines were strewn around the floor, most with pictures and pages torn from them. Album sleeves, books, maps, empty wine bottles with the labels peeled off. They had to be careful where they put their feet.
    “Come in if you can get in,” the artist said. He seemed nervous, shy, never meeting his visitors’ eyes. He smeared an arm along the sofa, clearing its contents onto the floor. “Sit down, please.”
    They sat. Neilson seemed content to crouch in front of them, sandwiched by the loudspeakers.
    “Mr. Neilson,” Siobhan began, “as I said on the phone, it’s just a few questions about your relationship with Edward Marber.”
    “We didn’t have a relationship,” the artist snapped.
    “How do you mean?”
    “I mean we didn’t speak, didn’t communicate.”
    “You’d had a falling-out?”
    “The man rips off his customers and his artists both! How is it possible to have a relationship under those circumstances?”
    “Just to remind you that Mr. Marber’s dead,” Siobhan said quietly. The artist’s eyes almost met hers for an instant.
    “What do you mean?”
    “It’s just that you talk about him in the present tense.”
    “Oh, I see.” He grew thoughtful. Siobhan could hear his breathing; it was loud and hoarse. She wondered if he might be asthmatic.
    “Do you have any proof?” she asked at last.
    “That he was a cheat?” Neilson considered this, then shook his head. “It’s enough that I know it.”
    From the corner of her eye, Siobhan noticed that Hynds had taken out his notebook and was busy with his pen. The doorbell rang and Neilson bounded to his feet with a muttered apology. When he’d gone, Siobhan turned to Hynds.
    “Not even the offer of a cuppa. What are you writing?”
    He showed her. It was just a series of squiggles. She looked at him for an explanation.
    “Concentrates the mind wonderfully if they think everything they say is likely to be recorded.”
    “Learn that in college?”
    He shook his head. “All those years in uniform, boss. You learn a thing or two.”
    “Don’t call me boss,” she said, watching as Neilson led another visitor into the room. Her eyes widened. It was the parking-space thief.
    “This is my . . . um . . .” Neilson was attempting introductions.
    “I’m Malcolm’s solicitor,” the man said, managing a thin smile.
    Siobhan took a moment to recover. “Mr. Neilson,” she said, trying for eye contact, “this was meant to be a casual chat. There was no need for . . .”
    “Nice to formalize things though, don’t you find?” The solicitor stepped through the debris. “My name’s Allison, by the way.”
    “And your surname, sir?” Hynds inquired blithely. In the fraction of a second it took the solicitor to recover,