Read Resurrection Men (2002) for Free Online Page A

Siobhan could have hugged her colleague.
    “William Allison.” He handed a business card to Siobhan.
    She didn’t so much as glance at it, just handed it straight to Hynds. “Mr. Allison,” she said quietly, “all we’re doing here is asking a few routine questions concerning the relationship — professional and personal — which may have existed between Mr. Neilson and Edward Marber. It would have taken about ten minutes and that would have been the end of it.” She got to her feet, aware that Hynds was following suit: a quick learner, she liked that. “But since you want to formalize things, I think we’ll continue this discussion down at the station.”
    The solicitor straightened his back. “Come on now, no need for —”
    She ignored him. “Mr. Neilson, I assume you’ll want to travel with your lawyer?” She stared at his bare feet. “Shoes might be an idea.”
    Neilson looked at Allison. “I’m in the middle of —”
    Allison cut him off. “Is this because of what happened outside?”
    Siobhan held his gaze without blinking. “No, sir. It’s because I’m wondering why your client felt the need of your services.”
    “I believe it’s everyone’s right to —”
    Neilson was tugging at Allison’s sleeve. “Bill, I’m in the middle of something, I don’t want to spend half the day in a police cell.”
    “The interview rooms at St. Leonard’s are quite cozy actually,” Hynds informed the artist. Then he made a show of studying his watch. “Of course, this time of day . . . it’s going to take us a while to get through the traffic.”
    “And back again afterwards,” Siobhan added. “Plus the waiting time if a room’s not available . . .” She smiled at the solicitor. “Still, makes things nice and formal, just the way you want them.”
    Neilson held up a hand. “Just a minute, please.” He was leading the solicitor out into the hallway. Siobhan turned to Hynds and beamed. “One–nil to us,” she said.
    “But is the referee ready to blow?”
    She shrugged a reply, slid her hands into her jacket pockets. She’d seen messier rooms, couldn’t help wondering if it were part of an act — the eccentric artist. The kitchen was just behind the dining table and looked clean and tidy. But then maybe Neilson just didn’t use it very much . . .
    They heard the front door close. Neilson shambled back into the room, head bowed. “Bill’s decided . . . um, that is . . .”
    “Fine,” Siobhan said, settling once again on the sofa. “Well, Mr. Neilson, sooner we get started and all that, eh?”
    The artist crouched down between the speakers. They were big and old; wood-veneered sides and brown foam grilles. Hynds sat down, notebook in hand. Siobhan caught Neilson’s eye at last and offered her most reassuring smile.
    “So,” she said, “just why exactly did you feel the need to have a solicitor present, Mr. Neilson?”
    “I just . . . I thought it was the done thing.”
    “Not unless you’re a suspect.” She let this sink in. Neilson muttered something that sounded like an apology.
    Sitting back in the sofa, beginning to relax, Siobhan started the interview proper.
     
    They both got cups of hot brown liquid from the machine. Hynds grimaced as he took his first sip.
    “Couldn’t we all chip in for a coffeemaker?” he asked.
    “It’s been tried before.”
    “And?”
    “And we started arguing about whose turn it was to buy the coffee. There’s a kettle in one of the offices. You can bring your own mug and stuff, but take my advice: keep everything locked up, or it’ll go walkies.”
    He stared at the plastic cup. “Easier to use the machine,” he mumbled.
    “Exactly.” She pushed open the door to the murder room.
    “So whose mug did DI Rebus throw?” Hynds asked.
    “Nobody knows,” she admitted. “Seems it’s been here since they built this place. Could even be that the builders left it.”
    “No wonder he got the boot then.” She looked at