A Question of Blood (2003) (20 page)

“That’s right.”

“Mind if I ask what sort?”

“Venture capital.” Cotter paused. “You know what that is?”

“Investing in start-ups?” Siobhan offered, staring out at the garden.

“More or less. I dabble in property, people with ideas . . .”

Rebus made a show of taking in his surroundings. “You’re obviously good at it.” He waited for the flattery to sink in. “Is Teri here?”

“Not sure,” Cotter said. He saw Rebus’s look and gave an apologetic smile. “You’re never sure with Teri. Sometimes she’s quiet as the grave. Knock on her door, she doesn’t answer.” He shrugged.

“Not like most teenagers, then.”

Cotter shook his head.

“But then I got that impression when I met her,” Rebus added.

“You’ve spoken to her before?” Cotter asked. Rebus nodded. “In full regalia?”

“I’m guessing she doesn’t go to school like that.”

Cotter shook his head again. “They’re not even allowed nose studs. Dr. Fogg’s strict about that sort of thing.”

“Could we maybe try her door?” Siobhan asked, turning to face Cotter.

“Can’t do any harm, I suppose,” Cotter said. They followed him back down the hall and up a short flight of stairs. Again they were confronted with a long, narrow corridor, doors along both sides. Again, all the doors were closed.

“Teri?” Cotter called as they reached the top of the stairs. “You still here, love?” He bit this final word off, and Rebus guessed he’d been warned off using it by his daughter. They reached the final door, and Cotter put his ear to it, knocking softly.

“Could be dozing, I suppose,” he said in an undertone.

“Mind if I . . . ?” Without waiting for an answer, Rebus turned the handle. The door opened inwards. The room was dark, gauzy black curtains drawn shut. Cotter flicked the light switch. There were candles on every available surface. Black candles, many of them melted down to almost nothing. Prints and posters on the walls. Rebus recognized some by H. R. Giger, knew him because he’d designed an album for ELP. They were set in a kind of stainless-steel hell. The other pictures showed equally dark imaginings.

“Teenagers, eh?” was the father’s only comment. Books by Poppy Z. Brite and Anne Rice. Another called
The Gates of Janus,
apparently written by “Moors Murderer” Ian Brady. Plenty of CDs, all by noise merchants. The sheets on the single bed were black. So was the shiny duvet cover. The walls of the room were the color of meat, the ceiling split into four squares, two black, two red. Siobhan was standing by a computer desk. The setup on top of it looked high-quality: flat-screen monitor, DVD hard disk, scanner and webcam.

“I don’t suppose these come in black,” she mused.

“Otherwise, Teri would have them,” Cotter agreed.

“When I was her age,” Rebus said, “only Goths I knew of were pubs.”

Cotter laughed. “Yes, Gothenburgs. They were community pubs, weren’t they?”

Rebus nodded. “Unless she’s under the bed, I’m guessing she’s not here. Any idea where we might find her?”

“I could try her mobile . . .”

“Would that be this one?” Siobhan said, holding up a small glossy black phone.

“That’s it,” Cotter agreed.

“Not like a teenager to leave her phone at home,” Siobhan mused.

“No, well . . . Teri’s mum can be . . .” He twitched his shoulders, as if feeling a sudden discomfort.

“Can be what, sir?” Rebus prodded.

“She likes to keep tabs on Teri, is that it?” Siobhan guessed. Cotter nodded, relieved that she’d saved him the trouble of spelling it out.

“Teri should be home later,” he said, “if it can wait.”

“We’d rather get it over and done with, Mr. Cotter,” Rebus explained.

“Well . . .”

“Time being money and all that, as I’m sure you’d agree.”

Cotter nodded. “You could try Cockburn Street. A few of her friends sometimes congregate there.”

Rebus looked at Siobhan. “We should have thought of that,” he said. Siobhan’s mouth gave a twitch of agreement. Cockburn Street, a winding conduit between the Royal Mile and Waverley Station, had always enjoyed a louche reputation. Decades back, it had been the haunt of hippies and dropouts, selling cheesecloth shirts, tie-dye and cigarette papers. Rebus had frequented a good secondhand record stall, without ever bothering with the clothes. These days, the new alternative cultures lionized the place. A good street for browsing, if your tastes inclined towards the macabre or the stoned.

As they walked back along the hallway, Rebus noticed that one door had a small porcelain plaque stating that this was “Stuart’s Room.” Rebus paused in front of it.

“Your son?”

Cotter nodded slowly. “Charlotte . . . my wife . . . she wants it kept the way it was before the accident.”

“No shame in that, sir,” Siobhan offered, sensing Cotter’s embarrassment.

“I suppose not.”

“Tell me,” Rebus said, “did Teri’s Goth phase start before or after her brother’s death?”

Cotter looked at him. “Soon after.”

“The pair of them were close?” Rebus guessed.

“I suppose so . . . But I don’t see what any of this has to do with . . .”

Rebus shrugged. “Just curious, that’s all. Sorry: it’s one of the pitfalls of the job.”

Cotter seemed to accept this, and led them back down the staircase.

“I buy CDs there,” Siobhan said. They were back in the car, heading for Cockburn Street.

“Ditto,” Rebus told her. And he’d often seen the Goths, taking up more than their fair share of sidewalk, spilling down the flight of steps to the side of the old
Scotsman
building, sharing cigarettes and trading tips on the latest bands. They started to appear as soon as school had finished for the day, maybe changing out of their uniforms and into the regulation black. Makeup and baubles, hoping to fit in and stand out at the same time. Thing was, people were harder to shock these days. Once upon a time, collar-length hair would have done it. Then glam came along, followed by its bastard offspring, punk. Rebus still remembered one Saturday when he’d been out buying records. Starting the long climb up Cockburn Street and passing his first punks: all slouches and spiky hair, chains and sneers. It had been too much for the middle-aged woman behind him, who’d spluttered out the words “Can’t you walk like human beings?” probably making the punks’ day in the process.

“We could park at the bottom of the road and walk up,” Siobhan suggested as they neared Cockburn Street.

“I’d rather park at the top and walk down,” Rebus countered.

They were in luck: a space opened up just as they approached, and they were able to park on Cockburn Street itself, only a few yards from where a bunch of Goths were milling around.

“Bingo,” Rebus said, spotting Miss Teri in animated conversation with two friends.

“You’ll need to get out first,” Siobhan told him. Rebus saw the problem: there were bags of rubbish sitting curbside, awaiting collection and blocking the driver’s-side door. He got out, holding the door open so Siobhan could slide across and make her exit. Feet were running down the sidewalk, and then Rebus saw one of the rubbish bags disappear. He looked up and saw five youths hurtling past the car, dressed in hooded tops and baseball caps. One of them was swinging the rubbish bag into the group of Goths. The bag burst, spraying its contents everywhere. There were shouts, screams. Feet were swinging, as were fists. One Goth was sent flying headfirst down the stone steps. Another dodged into the roadway and was winged by a passing taxi. Bystanders were yelling warnings, shopkeepers coming to their doors. Someone called out to phone the police.

The fighting was spilling across the street, bodies pushed against windows, hands clawing at necks. Only five attackers to a dozen Goths, but the five were strong and vicious. Siobhan had run forward to tackle one of them. Rebus saw Miss Teri diving through a shop doorway, slamming the door after her. The door was glass, and her pursuer was looking around for something to throw through it. Rebus took a deep breath and hollered.

“Rab Fisher! Hey, Rab! Over here!” The pursuer stopped, looked in Rebus’s direction. Rebus was waving a gloved hand. “Remember me, Rab?”

Fisher’s mouth twisted in a sneer. Another of his gang had recognized Rebus. “Polis!” he yelled, the other Lost Boys heeding his call. They gathered in the middle of the road, chests pumping, breathing hard.

“Ready for that trip to Saughton, lads?” Rebus asked loudly, taking a step forwards. Four of them turned and ran, jogging downhill. Rab Fisher lingered, then gave the glass door a final stubborn kick before sauntering off to join his friends. Siobhan was helping a couple of the Goths to their feet, checking for injuries. There had been no knives or missiles; mostly it was only pride that had taken a beating. Rebus walked over to the glass door. Behind it, Miss Teri had been joined by a woman in a white coat, the kind worn by doctors and pharmacists. Rebus saw a row of gleaming cubicles; it was a tanning salon, brand-new by the look of it. The woman was running a hand down Teri’s hair while Teri tried to wriggle free. Rebus pushed open the door.

“Remember me, Teri?” he said.

She studied him, then nodded. “You’re the policeman I met.” Rebus held out a hand towards the woman.

“You must be Teri’s mother. I’m DI Rebus.”

“Charlotte Cotter,” the woman said, taking his hand. She was in her late thirties, with lots of wavy ash-blond hair. Her face was lightly tanned, almost glowing. Looking at the two women, it was hard to see any similarity. If told they were related, Rebus might have guessed they were contemporaries: not sisters, but maybe cousins. The mother was an inch or two shorter than her daughter, slimmer and toned-looking. Rebus thought he knew now which member of the Cotter family made use of the indoor pool.

“What was all that about?” he asked Teri.

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

“You get a lot of hassle?”

“They’re always getting hassle,” her mother answered for her, receiving a glare for her trouble. “Verbal abuse, sometimes more.”

“Like you’d know,” her daughter argued.

“I see things.”

“Is that why you opened this place? To keep an eye on me?” Teri had started playing with the gold chain around her neck. Rebus could see a diamond hanging from it.

“Teri,” Charlotte Cotter said with a sigh, “all I’m saying is —”

“I’m going outside,” Teri muttered.

“Before you do,” Rebus interrupted, “any chance I could have a word?”

“I’m not going to press charges, or anything!”

“You see how stubborn she is?” Charlotte Cotter said, sounding exasperated. “I heard you shout out a name, Inspector. Does that mean you know these thugs? You can arrest them . . . ?”

“I’m not sure it would do any good, Mrs. Cotter.”

“But you saw them!”

Rebus nodded. “And now they’ve been warned. Could be enough to do the trick. Thing is, it’s not just chance that I was here. I wanted a word with Teri.”

“Oh?”

“Come on, then,” Teri said, grabbing him by the arm. “Sorry, Mum, got to go help the police with their inquiries.”

“Hang on, Teri . . .”

But it was too late. Charlotte Cotter could only watch as her daughter dragged the detective back outside and across the road to where the mood was lightening. Battle scars were being compared. One boy in a black trench coat was sniffing his lapels, wrinkling his nose to acknowledge that the coat would need a good wash. The rubbish from the torn bag had been gathered together—mostly by Siobhan, Rebus guessed. She was trying to elicit help in filling an intact bag, the gift of a neighboring shop.

“Everybody okay?” Teri asked. There were smiles and nods. It looked to Rebus like they were enjoying the moment. Victims again, and happy with their lot. Like the punks and the woman, they had got their reaction. Still a group, but strengthened now: war stories they could share. Other kids—on their slow route home from school, still dressed in uniform—had stopped to listen. Rebus led Miss Teri back up the street and into the nearest watering hole.

“We don’t serve her kind!” the woman behind the bar snapped.

“You do when I’m here,” Rebus snapped back.

“She’s underage,” the woman pressed.

“Then she’ll take a soft drink.” He turned to Teri. “What’ll it be?”

“Vodka tonic.”

Rebus smiled. “Give her a Coke. I’ll have a Laphroaig with a splash of water.” He paid for the drinks, confident enough now to try bringing coins from his pocket as well as notes.

“How are the hands?” Teri Cotter asked.

“Fine,” he said. “You can carry the drinks, though.” They received a few stares as they made their way to a table. Teri seemed pleased with the reception, blowing a kiss at one man, who just sneered and looked away.

“You pick a fight in here,” Rebus warned her, “you’re on your own.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I saw that, the way you ran to your mum’s as soon as the Lost Boys arrived.”

She glowered at him.

“Good plan, by the way,” he added. “Defense the better part of valor and all that. Is it true what your mum says, this sort of thing happens a lot?”

“Not as much as she seems to think.”

“And yet you keep coming to Cockburn Street?”

“Why shouldn’t we?”

He shrugged. “No reason. Bit of masochism never hurt anyone.”

She stared at him, then smiled, gazing down into her glass.

“Cheers,” he said, lifting his own.

“You got the quote wrong,” she said. “‘The better part of valor is discretion.’” Shakespeare,
Henry IV, Part One.
”

“Not that you and your pals could be described as discreet.”

“I try not to be.”

“You do a good job. When I mentioned the Lost Boys, you didn’t seem surprised. Meaning you know them?”

She looked down again, the hair falling over her pale face. Her fingers stroked the glass, nails glossy black. Slender hands and wrists. “Got a cigarette?” she asked.

“Light us a couple,” Rebus said, digging the pack out of his jacket pocket. She placed the lit cigarette between his lips.

“People will start to talk,” she said, exhaling smoke.