A Question of Blood (2003) (38 page)

“And the diamond?” she asked.

“Borrowed from a friend.”

She was silent for the best part of a minute, Rebus content to bide his time, thinking that if he hadn’t brought Bob home . . . well, things might not have gone nearly as well for him. He could still feel Simms’s fingers around his neck . . . throat tight when he swallowed the whiskey.

“Has Steve Holly been back in touch?” Rebus asked into the silence. “See, anything happens to me, all of this goes to him.”

“You think that’s enough to protect you?”

“Shut up, Gavin!” Whiteread snapped. Slowly, she folded her arms. “What are you going to do?” she asked Rebus.

He shrugged. “It’s none of my business, far as I can see. No reason I should do anything, provided you can keep monkey boy here on his chain.”

Simms had risen to his feet, a hand reaching inside his jacket. Whiteread spun around and slapped his arm away. The move was so fast, if Rebus had blinked he’d have missed it.

“What I want,” he said quietly, “is for the pair of you to be gone by morning. Otherwise, I have to start thinking about talking to my friend from the fourth estate.”

“How do we know we can trust you?”

Rebus gave another shrug. “I don’t think either of us wants it in writing.” He put down his glass. “Now, if we’re all through, I’ve got a guest I need to see to.”

Whiteread looked towards the door. “Who is he?”

“Don’t worry, he’s not the talkative kind.”

She nodded slowly, then made as if to leave.

“One thing, Whiteread?” She paused, turned her head to face him. “Why do you think Herdman did it?”

“Because he was greedy.”

“I meant, why did he walk into that classroom?”

Her eyes seemed to gleam. “Why should I care?” And with that she walked from the room. Simms was still staring at Rebus, who gave him a cheeky wave before turning to face the window again. Simms drew the automatic pistol from his jacket and took aim at the back of Rebus’s head. Made a soft whistling sound between his teeth and then put the gun back in its holster.

“One day,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You won’t know when or where, but I’ll be the last face you see.”

“Great,” Rebus exhaled, not bothering to turn around. “I get to spend my last moments on earth staring at a complete arsehole.”

He listened to the footsteps retreat down the hall, the slamming shut of the door. Went to the doorway to check they’d really gone. Bob was standing just outside the kitchen.

“Made myself a mug of tea. You’re out of milk, by the way.”

“The servants are on their day off. Try to get some shut-eye. Long day ahead.” Bob nodded and went to his room, closing the door after him. Rebus poured himself a third drink, definitely the last. Sat down heavily in his armchair, stared at the rolled-up magazine on the sofa opposite. Almost imperceptibly, it was starting to uncurl. He thought of Lee Herdman, tempted by the diamonds, burying them, then walking out of the woods with a shrug of his shoulders. But maybe feeling guilty afterwards, and fearful, too. Because the suspicion would linger. He’d probably been interviewed, interrogated, maybe even by Whiteread. The years might pass, but the army would never forget. Last thing they liked was a loose end, especially one that could turn as if by magic into a loose cannon. That fear, pressing down on him, so that he kept friends to a minimum . . . kids were all right, kids couldn’t be his pursuers in disguise . . . Doug Brimson was apparently okay, too . . . All those locks, trying to shut out the world. Little wonder he snapped.

But to snap the way he did? Rebus still didn’t get it, couldn’t see it as plain jealousy.

James Bell, photographing Miss Teri on Cockburn Street . . .

Derek Renshaw and Anthony Jarvies, logging on to her website . . .

Teri Cotter, curious about death, ex-soldier for a lover . . .

Renshaw and Jarvies, close friends; different from Teri, different from James Bell. Jazz fans, not metal; dressing in their combat uniforms and parading at school, playing sports. Not like Teri Cotter.

Not at all like James Bell.

And when it came down to it, what, apart from their forces background, did Herdman and Doug Brimson have in common? Well, for a start, both knew Teri Cotter. Teri with Herdman, her mother seeing Brimson. Rebus imagined it as a weird sort of dance, the kind where you kept swapping partners. He rested his face in his hands, blocking out the light, smelling glove leather mixing with the fumes from his whiskey glass as the dancers spun around in his head.

When he blinked his eyes open again, the room was a blur. Wallpaper came into focus first, but he could see bloodstains in his mind, classroom blood.

Two fatal shots, one wounding.

No:
three
fatal shots . . .

“No.” He realized he’d said the word out loud. Two fatal shots, one wounding. Then another fatal shot.

Blood spraying the walls and floor.

Blood everywhere.

Blood, with its own stories to tell . . .

He’d poured the fourth whiskey without thinking, raised the glass to his lips before he caught himself. Tipped it back carefully into the neck of the bottle, pushed the stopper home. Went so far as to replace the bottle on the mantelpiece.

Blood, with its own stories to tell.

He picked up his phone. Didn’t think there’d be anyone at the forensics lab this time of night, but made the call anyway. You never could tell: some of them had their own little obsessions, their own little puzzles to solve. Not because the case demanded it, or even out of a sense of professional pride, but for their own, more private needs.

Like Rebus, they found it hard to let go. He no longer knew if this was a good or a bad thing; it was just the way it was. The phone was ringing, no one answering.

“Lazy bastards,” he muttered to himself. Then he noticed Bob’s head, peeping around the door.

“Sorry,” the young man said, shuffling into the room. He’d taken his coat off. Baggy gray T-shirt beneath, showing flabby, hairless arms. “Can’t really settle.”

“Sit down if you like.” Rebus nodded towards the sofa. Bob took a seat, but looked awkward. “TV’s there if you want it.”

Bob nodded, but his eyes were wandering. He saw the shelves of books, walked over to take a look. “Maybe I’ll . . .”

“Help yourself, take anything you fancy.”

“That show we saw . . . you said it’s based on a book?”

Rebus’s turn to nod. “I’ve not got a copy, though.” He listened to the ringing tone for another fifteen seconds, then gave up.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting,” Bob said. He still hadn’t touched any of the books, seemed to be regarding them as some rare species, to be stared at but not handled.

“You’re not.” Rebus got to his feet. “Just wait here a minute.” He went into the hall, unlocked a closet door. There were cardboard boxes high up, and he lifted one down. Some of his daughter’s old stuff . . . dolls and paint boxes, postcards and bits of rock picked up on seaside walks. He thought of Allan Renshaw. Thought of the ties which should have bound the two of them, ties too easily loosed. Allan with his boxes of photographs, his attic store of memories. Rebus put the box back, brought down the one next to it. Some of his daughter’s old books: little Ladybird offerings, some paperbacks with the covers scribbled on or half torn off, and a favored few hardcovers. Yes, here it was: green dust jacket, yellow spine with a drawing of Mr. Toad. Someone had added a speech bubble and in it the words “poop-poop.” He didn’t know if the handwriting was his daughter’s or not. Thought again of his cousin Allan, trying to put names to the long-dead faces in the photos.

Rebus put the box back where he’d found it, locked the cupboard, and took the book into the living room.

“Here you go,” he told Bob, handing it over. “Now you can find out what we missed in the first act.”

Bob seemed pleased but held the book warily, as if unsure how best to treat it. Then he retreated back to his room. Rebus stood by the window, staring out at the night, wondering if he, too, had missed something . . . not in the play, but right back at the start of the case.

DAY SEVEN

Wednesday

23

T
he sun was shining when Rebus woke up. He checked his watch, then swiveled out of bed and got dressed. Filled the kettle and switched it on, gave his face a wash before treating it to a once-over with the electric razor. Listened at the door to Bob’s bedroom. No sound. He knocked, waited, then shrugged and went into the living room. Called the forensics lab, still no answer.

“Lazy sods.” Speaking of which . . . This time, he banged harder on Bob’s door, then opened it an inch. “Time to face the world.” The curtains were open, the bed empty. Cursing under his breath, Rebus walked in, but there were no feasible hiding places. The copy of
The Wind in the Willows
was lying on the pillow. Rebus pressed his palm to the mattress, thought he could still feel some warmth there. Back in the hall, he saw that the door wasn’t properly closed.

“Should have locked us in,” he muttered, going to push it shut. He’d get his jacket and shoes on and go out hunting again. Doubtless Bob would head for his car first of all. After which, if he had any sense at all, he’d take the road south. Rebus doubted he’d have a passport. He wished he’d thought to take down Bob’s license plate. It would be traceable, but it would take time . . .

“Hang on, though,” he said to himself. He went back to the bedroom, picked up the book. Bob had used the flyleaf as a page marker. Why would he have done that unless . . . ? Rebus opened the front door and stepped out onto the landing. Feet were shuffling up the steps.

“Didn’t wake you, did I?” Bob said. He lifted a carrier bag for Rebus to see. “Milk and tea bags, plus four rolls and a packet of sausages.”

“Good thinking,” Rebus said, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.

Breakfast over, they headed in Rebus’s car to St. Leonard’s. He was trying not to make it seem like a big deal. At the same time, there was no disguising the fact that they were going to be spending most of the day in an interview room, tapes loaded into the dual voice recorder, with another tape for the video.

“Can of juice or anything before we get started?” Rebus asked. Bob had brought a morning tabloid with him and had it spread out on the desk, lips moving as he read. He shook his head. “I’ll be back in a sec, then,” Rebus told him, opening the door and closing it, locking it after him. He climbed the stairs to the CID suite. Siobhan was at her desk.

“Busy day ahead?” he asked her.

“I’ve got my first flying lesson this afternoon,” she said, looking up from her computer.

“Courtesy of Doug Brimson?” Rebus studied her face as she nodded. “How’re you feeling?”

“No visible signs of damage.”

“Has McAllister been let out of the cells yet?”

Siobhan looked up at the clock above the door. “I suppose I better do that.”

“Not charging him, then?”

“You think I should?”

Rebus shook his head. “But before you let him waltz out, maybe you should ask him a few things.”

She rested against the back of her chair and stared up at him. “Like what?”

“I’ve got Evil Bob downstairs. He says Peacock Johnson started the fire. Stuck the heat under the chip pan and left it.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Does he say why?”

“My idea is, he thought Fairstone had turned rat. Already no love lost between them, then someone calls Johnson and says I’m having a friendly drink with Fairstone.”

“And he murdered him for
that?
”

Rebus shrugged. “Must’ve had cause to worry.”

“But you don’t know why?”

“Not yet. Maybe it was just meant to scare Fairstone off.”

“You reckon this Bob character’s the missing link?”

“I think he can be persuaded.”

“How does Rod McAllister enter this food chain of yours?”

“We won’t know that until you use your brilliant detective powers on him.”

Siobhan started sliding her mouse around its mat, saving what she was working on. “I’ll see what I can do. You coming with me?”

He shook his head. “I need to get back to the interview room.”

“This talk you’re having with Johnson’s sidekick . . . is it formal?”

“Informally formal, you might say.”

“Then you should have someone else present.” She looked at him. “Go by the rule book for once in your life.”

He knew she was right. “I could wait till you’ve finished with the barman,” he suggested.

“Kind of you to offer.” She looked around the suite. DC Davie Hynds was taking a call, writing something down as he listened. “Davie’s your man,” she said. “Bit more flexible than George Silvers.”

Rebus looked towards Hynds’s desk. He’d finished the call and was putting the receiver down with one hand while still scribbling with the other. He saw that he was being stared at, looked up and lifted one eyebrow questioningly. Rebus crooked a finger, beckoning him over. He didn’t know Hynds well, hadn’t really worked with him much. But he trusted Siobhan’s judgment.

“Davie,” he said, laying a companionable arm on the younger man’s shoulder, “take a walk with me, will you? I need to fill you in on the guy we’re about to interview.” He paused. “Best bring that notebook with you . . .”

Twenty minutes in, however, and with Bob still giving them general background, there was a knock at the door. Rebus opened it, saw a female uniform standing there.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Call for you.” She pointed back towards reception.

“I’m busy here.”

“It’s DI Hogan. He says it’s urgent, and you’re to be pulled out of anything short of triple-bypass surgery.”

Despite himself, Rebus smiled. “His exact words?” he guessed.

“Exact words,” the female officer echoed. Rebus turned back into the room, told Hynds he wouldn’t be long. Hynds switched off the machines.

“Get you anything, Bob?” Rebus asked.

“I’m thinking maybe you should get me my lawyer, Mr. Rebus.”

Rebus stared at him. “That’ll be Peacock’s lawyer, too, will it?”

Bob considered this. “Maybe not just yet,” he said.

“Not just yet,” Rebus agreed, leaving the interview room. He told the officer he could find reception without her help, and entered the comms room, crossing the floor and through an open doorway. Picked up the handset that was lying on the desk.

“Hello?”

“Christ, John, have you gone into purdah or something?” Bobby Hogan sounded not altogether pleased. Rebus was watching the bank of screens in front of him. They showed half a dozen views of St. Leonard’s, exterior and interior, the viewpoints flickering every thirty seconds or so, shifting from one camera to another.

“What can I do for you, Bobby?”

“Forensics has finally come back to us on the shootings.”

“Oh, aye?” Rebus winced. He’d meant to try phoning them again.

“I’m headed down there. Suddenly remembered that I’d have to drive straight past St. Leonard’s.”

“They’ve found something, haven’t they, Bobby?”

“They say they’ve got a bit of a puzzle,” Hogan agreed. Then he broke off. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“Not in so many words. It’s to do with the locus, am I right?” Rebus stared at one of the screens. It showed Detective Chief Superintendent Gill Templer entering the building. She carried a briefcase, with a heavy-looking satchel slung over one shoulder.

“That’s right. A few . . . anomalies.”

“Good word that: anomalies. Covers a multitude of sins.”

“I just wondered if you fancied coming with me.”

“What does Claverhouse say?”

There was a pause on the line. “Claverhouse doesn’t know,” Hogan said quietly. “The call came direct to me.”

“Why haven’t you told him, Bobby?”

Another pause. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe a certain fellow officer’s pernicious influence?”

“Maybe.”

Rebus smiled. “Pick me up when you’re ready, Bobby. Depending on what Forensics has got to tell us, I might have a few questions for them myself.”

He opened the interview room door, beckoned for Hynds to step into the corridor. “We’ll just be a minute, Bob,” he explained. Closed the door and faced Hynds, arms folded.

“I need to go to Howdenhall. Orders from above.”

“Want him put in the cells till you . . . ?”

But Rebus was already shaking his head. “I want you to keep going. I shouldn’t be too long. If it gets sticky, call me on my mobile.”

“But . . .”

“Davie”—Rebus laid a hand on Hynds’s shoulder—“you’re doing fine in there. You’ll manage without me.”

“But there needs to be another officer present,” Hynds objected.

Rebus looked at him. “Has Siobhan been coaching you, Davie?” He pursed his lips, thought for a moment and then nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “Ask DCS Templer if she’ll sit in with you.”

Both eyebrows shot up, connecting with Hynds’s fringe. “The boss won’t . . .”

“Yes, she will. Tell her it’s about Fairstone. Believe me, she’ll be only too happy to oblige.”

“She’ll need to be briefed first.”

The hand that had been resting on Hynds’s shoulder now patted it. “You do it.”

“But, sir . . .”

Rebus shook his head slowly. “This is your chance to show what you can do, Davie. Everything you’ve learned from watching Siobhan.” Rebus removed his hand and bunched it into a fist. “Time to start using it.”

Hynds pulled himself a little more upright as he nodded his agreement.

“Good lad,” Rebus said. He turned to leave but stopped in his tracks. “Oh, and Davie?”

“Yes?”

“Tell DCS Templer she needs to act mumsy.”

“Mumsy?”

Rebus nodded. “Just tell her,” he said, making for the exit.

“Forget the XJK. Anything from Porsche can leave the Jags standing.”

“I think the Jaguar’s a better-looking car, though,” Hogan argued, causing Ray Duff to look up from his work. “More classic.”

“Old-fashioned, you mean?” Duff was sorting out a large number of crime scene photos, spreading them across every available wall surface. The room they were in looked like a disused school laboratory, with four free-standing workbenches at its center. The photos showed the Port Edgar classroom from every conceivable angle, concentrating on the bloodied walls and floor and the positioning of the bodies.

“Call me a traditionalist,” Hogan said, folding his arms in the hope this would put an end to yet another of Ray Duff’s discussions.

“Go on, then: top five British cars.”

“I’m not that much of a buff, Ray.”

“I like my Saab,” Rebus added, responding to Hogan’s scowl with a wink.

Duff made a noise at the back of his throat. “Don’t get me started on the Swedes . . .”

“Okay, how about we concentrate on Port Edgar instead?” Rebus was thinking of Doug Brimson, another Jag fancier.

Duff was looking around, locating his laptop. He plugged it into an outlet on one of the benches and gestured for the two detectives to join him as he switched it on.

“Just while we’re waiting,” he said, “how’s Siobhan doing?”

“Fine,” Rebus assured him. “That little difficulty of hers . . .”

“Yes?”

“Resolved.”

“What difficulty?” Hogan asked. Rebus ignored the question.

“She’s having a flying lesson this afternoon.”

“Really?” Duff raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t come cheap.”

“I think it’s a freebie, courtesy of a guy who owns an airfield and a Jag.”

“Brimson?” Hogan guessed. Rebus nodded.

“My offer to her of a ride in my MG pales by comparison,” Duff grumbled.

“You can’t compete with this guy. He’s got one of those corporate jets.”

Duff whistled. “Must be loaded, then. Those can set you back a few mil.”

“Aye, right,” Rebus said dismissively.

“I’m serious,” Duff said. “And that’s secondhand.”

“You mean millions of pounds?” This from Bobby Hogan. Duff nodded. “Business must be good, eh?”

Yes, Rebus was thinking, so good Brimson could afford a day off for a trip to Jura . . .

“Here we go,” Duff was saying, drawing their attention back to the laptop. “Basically, this has everything I need.” He ran an admiring finger along the edge of the screen. “There’s a simulation we can run . . . shows the pattern you’d expect to get when a gun is fired from whatever distance, whatever angle to the head or body.” He clicked a few more buttons and Rebus heard the whirr of the laptop’s CD drive. The graphics appeared, a skeletal figure standing sideways to a wall. “See here?” Duff was saying. “Subject is twenty centimeters from the wall, bullet is fired from a distance of two meters . . . entry and exit and . . . boom!” They watched as a line seemed to enter the skull, reappearing as a fine speckling. Duff’s finger moved across the touch pad, highlighting the marked area of wall, which then was magnified on-screen.

“Gives us a pretty good picture,” he said with a smile.

“Ray,” Hogan said quietly, “just so you know, DI Rebus here lost a family member in that room.”

Duff’s smile melted away. “I didn’t mean to make light of . . .”

“Maybe if we could just cut to the chase,” Rebus replied coolly. He didn’t blame Duff: how could he? The man hadn’t known. But anything to speed things up.

Duff plunged his hands into the pockets of his white lab coat and turned towards the photographs.

“We need to look at these now,” he said, eyes on Rebus.

“That’s fine,” Rebus agreed with a nod. “Let’s just get it done, eh?”

The early animation had left Duff’s voice when he spoke now. “First victim was the one nearest the door. That was Anthony Jarvies. Herdman walks in and aims at the person nearest him—stands to reason. From the evidence, the two were just under two meters apart. No real sense of an angle . . . Herdman was about the same height as his victim, so the bullet takes a lateral path through the skull. Blood spatter pattern is pretty much what we’d expect to find. Then Herdman turns. Second victim is a little farther away, maybe three meters. Herdman may have closed that gap before firing, but probably not by much. This time the bullet angles down through the skull, indicating that Derek Renshaw was maybe trying to duck out of the way.” He looked at his audience. “With me so far?” Rebus and Hogan nodded, and the three men moved along the wall. “Blood stains on the floor are explicable, nothing out of place.” Duff paused.