A Question of Blood (2003) (12 page)

“I’ve just been in with Peacock,” Rebus said, ignoring that he was interrupting one of Silvers’s questions. “He should change his name to canary.”

Bob stared at him dully. “Why’s that, then?”

“Why do you think?”

“Dunno.”

“What do canaries do?”

“Fly around . . . live in trees.”

“They live in your grannie’s fucking birdcage, you moron. And they sing.”

Bob thought about this; Rebus could almost hear the cogs grinding. With a lot of lowlifes, it was an act. Many of them were clever enough, wise not just in the ways of the street. But either Bob was Robert De Niro in full method mode, or else he was no actor at all.

“What sort of stuff?” he asked. Then he saw Rebus’s look. “I mean, what sort of stuff do they sing?”

Not De Niro, then . . .

“Bob,” Rebus said, elbows on knees, leaning close to the squat young man, “you hang around with Johnson, you’re going to spend half your life behind bars.”

“So?”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

Stupid question, Rebus realized as the words came out. The arch look from Silvers told him as much. Prison would be just another sleepwalking session for Bob. It would have no effect on him whatsoever.

“Peacock and me, we’re partners.”

“Oh, aye, and I’m sure he’s splitting it right down the middle. Come on, Bob . . .” Rebus smiled conspiratorially. “He’s ripping you off. Big grin on his face, blinding you with dental work. But he’s framing you. And when things start going wrong, guess who’ll be taking the fall? That’s why he keeps you around. You’re the guy in the panto who gets the custard pie in his face every performance. The pair of you buy and sell guns, for Christ’s sake! Think we’re not on to you?”

“Replicas,” Bob stated, as if remembering a lesson and repeating it rote. “For collectors to hang on their walls.”

“Oh, aye, everybody wants a bunch of fake Glock 17s and Walther PPKs above the fireplace . . .” Rebus straightened up. He didn’t know if it was possible to get through to Bob. There had to be something, a weakness to be exploited. But the guy was like so much wet dough. You could knead him, twist him all out of shape . . . you’d only ever end up with a spongy mass. He decided on one last try.

“One of these days, Bob, a kid’s going to draw one of your replicas and someone’ll take him down, thinking the gun’s real. It’s only a matter of time.” Rebus was aware that he was allowing some emotion to creep into his voice. Silvers was studying him, beginning to wonder what he was up to. Rebus looked at him, then shrugged, started to push up from the chair.

“Think about it, Bob, just do that for me.” Rebus tried for eye contact, but the young man was staring at the ceiling lights, as if at a fireworks display.

“I’ve never been to a panto . . .” he was starting to tell Silvers as Rebus left.

Siobhan, dumped by Rebus, had gone upstairs to CID. The main office was busy, detectives seated at borrowed desks, facing their interviewees. At her own desk, the computer monitor had been pushed to one side, her in-tray relegated to the floor. Detective Constable Davie Hynds was taking notes as a young man, pupils reduced to pinpoints, droned on.

“What’s wrong with your own desk?” Siobhan asked.

“DS Wylie pulled rank on me.” Hynds nodded towards where Detective Sergeant Ellen Wylie sat at his desk, preparing for her next interview. She looked up at the mention of her name and smiled. Siobhan smiled back. Wylie was based at the West End station. Same rank as Siobhan, but more years on her clock. Siobhan knew they might become rivals in the promotion stakes. She decided to squeeze her in-tray into one of the desk drawers, didn’t like the idea of this invasion. Each police station was a fiefdom of sorts. No telling what the raiders could take away with them . . .

When she picked up the in-tray, she saw the corner of a white envelope poking out from beneath a series of stapled reports. She eased it out, then placed the in-tray in the desk’s single deep drawer, closing and locking it. Hynds was looking at her.

“Nothing you need, is there?” Siobhan asked him. He shook his head, wondering if an explanation was on its way. But all Siobhan did was walk away, heading back downstairs to the drink machine. It was more peaceful down here. A couple of the visiting detectives were on a break, smoking and sharing some joke in the car park. She didn’t see Rebus there, so she stayed by the machine, opening the ice-cold can. The sugar hit her teeth and then her stomach. She found the can’s list of contents, reminding herself that the panic attack books said to lay off caffeine. She was trying to find room in her affections for decaf coffee, and she knew there were caffeine-free soft drinks out there somewhere. Salt: that was another one to avoid. High blood pressure and all that. Alcohol was all right in moderation. She wondered if a bottle of wine in the evening after work could be classed as “moderate,” doubted it somehow. Thing was, if she drank half a bottle, the rest tasted foul the next day. Memo to self: explore possibility of buying half-bottles of wine only.

She remembered the envelope, lifted it from her pocket. Handwritten, more of a scrawl really. She put her can down on top of the machine, already getting a bad feeling as she peeled the envelope open. Just a single sheet of paper, she was sure of that. No razor blades, no glass . . . Plenty of nutters out there keen to share their thoughts with her. She unfolded the letter. Big scrawled capitals.

LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU AGAIN IN HELL—MARTY.

The name was underlined. Her heart was racing. She didn’t doubt who Marty was: Martin Fairstone. But Fairstone was a tub of cinders and bone on a shelf in someone’s lab. She studied the envelope. Address and post-code perfect. Somebody’s idea of a joke? But who could it be? Who knew about her and Fairstone? Rebus and Templer . . . anyone else? She thought back a few months. Someone had left messages on her screen saver, had to be CID, one of her so-called colleagues. But the messages had stopped. Davie Hynds and George Silvers: they worked beside her. Grant Hood, too, most of the time. Others came and went. But she hadn’t told any of them about Fairstone. Hold on . . . when Fairstone had made his complaint, had any of it become a matter of record? She didn’t think so. But cop shops were hives of gossip, hard to keep any secrets.

She realized she was staring through the glass outer doors, and the two detectives in the car park were staring back at her, wondering what it was about them that she was finding so mesmeric. She tried for a smile and a shake of the head, as if to say she’d been in a “dwam.”

For lack of anything else to do, she took out her mobile, intending to check for messages. But started to make a call instead, punching in the number from memory.

“Ray Duff speaking.”

“Ray? You busy?”

Siobhan knew what the initial answer would be: an intake of breath preceding an elongated sigh. Duff was a scientist, working for the forensics lab at Howdenhall.

“You mean apart from checking that all the Port Edgar bullets came from the same gun, then examining blood spatter configurations and powder residues, ballistic angles, all that?”

“At least we keep you in a job. How’s the MG?”

“Running like a dream.” The last time the two had spoken, Duff had just finished rebuilding a ’73 special. “That offer of a spin some weekend still stands.”

“Maybe come the better weather.”

“There’s a top, you know.”

“Not the same, though, is it? Look, Ray, I know you’re up to your eyes in work from the school, but I was wondering if I could ask a wee favor . . .”

“Siobhan, you know I’m going to say no. Everyone wants this done and dusted.”

“I know. I’m working Port Edgar, too.”

“You and every other cop in the city.” Another sigh. “Just out of curiosity, what is it exactly?”

“Between you and me?”

“Of course.”

Siobhan looked around. The detectives outside had lost interest in her. Three constables sat together at a table in the cafeteria, eating sandwiches and drinking tea, maybe twenty feet away from her. She turned her back to them, so she was facing the machine.

“I just got this letter. Anonymous.”

“Threatening?”

“Sort of.”

“You should show it to someone.”

“I was thinking of showing it to you, see if you can take anything from it.”

“I meant show it to your boss. Gill Templer, isn’t it?”

“I’m not exactly her star pupil right now. Besides, she’s snowed under.”

“And I’m not?”

“Just a quick recon, Ray. It could be something, or nothing.”

“But on the q.t., am I right?”

“Right.”

“Which is wrong. Someone’s threatening you, you need to report it, Shiv.”

That nickname again:
Shiv.
More and more people seemed to be using it. She decided this wasn’t the time to tell Ray how much she disliked it.

“Thing is, Ray, it’s from a dead man.”

There was a pause on the line. “Okay,” Duff drawled at last. “You’ve got my attention.”

“Housing project in Gracemount, chip-pan fire . . .”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Martin Fairstone. I’ve been trying to get some work done on him, too.”

“Come up with anything?”

“Bit early to tell . . . Port Edgar came straight in at number one. Fairstone dropped a few places.”

She had to smile at the analogy. Ray liked his charts. Their conversations usually contained top threes and fives. And right on cue:

“By the way, Shiv—top three Scottish rock and pop acts?”

“Ray . . .”

“Humor me. No thinking allowed, just off the top of your head.”

“Rod Stewart? Big Country? Travis?”

“No room for Lulu? Annie Lennox?”

“I’m not much good at this, Ray.”

“Rod’s an interesting choice, though.”

“Blame DI Rebus. He loaned me the early albums . . .” She attempted a sigh of her own. “So are you going to help me or not?”

“How soon can you get it to me?”

“Within the hour.”

“I suppose I could stay late. Wouldn’t
that
make a change?”

“Have I ever mentioned your good looks, wit and charm?”

“Only every time I agree to do you a favor.”

“You’re an angel, Ray. Call me ASAP.”

“Come for a drive sometime,” Duff was telling her as she ended the call. She carried the letter through the cafeteria, into the booking area beyond.

“Got an evidence bag, by any chance?” she asked the custody sergeant. He opened a couple of drawers. “I could get one from upstairs,” he said, admitting defeat.

“What about one of the possessions envelopes?”

The custody sergeant stooped again and produced a legal-sized manila envelope from below the counter.

“That’ll do,” Siobhan said, dropping her own envelope in. She wrote Ray Duff’s name on the front, adding her own name as reference and the word
URGENT,
then walked back through the cafeteria and out into the car park. The smokers had gone back inside, meaning she wouldn’t have to apologize for her earlier fit of the stares. Two uniforms were getting into a patrol car.

“Hey, guys!” she called. Getting closer, she recognized the passenger as PC John Mason, his station nickname the utterly obvious Perry. The driver was Toni Jackson.

“Hiya, Siobhan,” Jackson said. “Missed you Friday night.”

Siobhan shrugged an apology. Toni and some of the other female uniforms liked to let off steam once a week. Siobhan was the only detective allowed into their fold.

“I’m assuming I missed a good night?” she asked.

“A great night. My liver’s still recovering.”

Mason looked interested. “So what did you get up to?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” his partner responded with a wink. Then, to Siobhan: “You wanting us to play postman?” She nodded towards the envelope.

“Could you? It’s for forensics at Howdenhall. Delivered into this guy’s hands if at all possible.” Siobhan tapped Duff’s name.

“We’ve a couple of calls to make . . . it’s not much of a detour.”

“I promised it’d be there inside an hour.”

“Way Toni drives, that won’t be a problem,” Mason offered.

Jackson ignored this. “Rumor has it you’ve been relegated to chauffeur, Siobhan.”

Siobhan twitched her mouth. “Only for a few days.”

“How did he manage to hurt his hands?”

Siobhan stared at Jackson. “I don’t know, Toni. What do the bush drums say?”

“They say all sorts of things . . . Everything from fistfights to fat fryers.”

“Not that the two are mutually exclusive.”

“Nothing’s mutually exclusive where DI Rebus is concerned.” Jackson smiled wryly, holding her hand out for the envelope. “You’re on a yellow card, Siobhan.”

“I’ll be there Friday, if you want me.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my CID heart.”

“In other words, it depends.”

“It always does, Toni, you know that.”

Jackson was looking over Siobhan’s shoulder. “Speak of the devil,” she said, getting back behind the steering wheel. Siobhan turned around. Rebus was watching from the doorway. She didn’t know how long he’d been there. Long enough to see the envelope change hands? The engine caught, and she stepped away from the car, watching it depart. Rebus had opened his cigarette packet and was pulling one out with his teeth.

“Funny how the human animal can adapt,” Siobhan said, walking towards him.

“I’m thinking of extending my repertoire,” Rebus told her. “Might try playing the piano with my nose.” He got the lighter to work on the third attempt, started puffing.

“Thanks for leaving me out in the cold, by the way.”

“It’s not cold out here.”

“I meant —”

“I know what you mean.” He looked at her. “I just wanted to hear what Johnson had to say for himself.”

“Johnson?”

“Peacock Johnson.” He saw her eyes narrow. “He calls himself that.”

“Why?”

“You saw the way he dresses.”

“I meant why did you want to see him?”

“I’m interested in him.”

“Any particular reason?”

Rebus just shrugged.

“Who is he anyway?” Siobhan asked. “Should I know him?”