A Question of Blood (2003) (26 page)

“Drugs,” Claverhouse said. With all three buttons of his suit jacket closed, he resembled a shop-window mannequin.

“Looks like Ormy’s been sampling the goods.”

Hogan bowed his head to try to hide a smile. Claverhouse swiveled towards him. “I thought DI Rebus was out on his ear.”

“News travels fast,” Rebus said.

“Aye, especially good news,” Ormiston snapped back.

Hogan straightened up. “Do the three of you want detention?” No one replied. “To answer your question, DI Claverhouse, John’s here in a purely advisory capacity, due to his army background. He’s not ‘working’ per se . . .”

“No change there then,” Ormiston muttered.

“And the kettle’s trailing the pot, one-nil, at halftime,” Rebus informed him.

Hogan held up a hand. “And that’s a yellow card from the referee. Any more shite and you’re out of here, I mean it!” His voice had hardened. Claverhouse’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t say anything. Ormiston had his nose all but pressed to one of the bloodstains on the wall.

“Right . . .” Hogan said into the silence, sighing heavily. “So what is it you’ve got for us?”

Claverhouse took this as his cue. “Looks like the stuff you found on the boat is checking out: Ecstasy and cocaine. The cocaine’s pretty high grade. Maybe it was due to be cut a bit further . . .”

“Crack?” Hogan asked.

Claverhouse nodded. “It’s taken hold in a few places—fishing towns up north, some of the housing projects here and in Glasgow . . . A grand’s worth of good stuff can turn into ten when it’s cut.”

“There’s also a bundle of hash going around,” Ormiston added.

Claverhouse glared at him, not wanting to have his thunder stolen. “Ormy’s right, there’s plenty of hash on the streets.”

“What about Ecstasy?” Hogan asked.

Claverhouse nodded. “We thought it was coming up from Manchester. Could be we were wrong.”

“From Herdman’s logs,” Hogan said, “we know he’s been to and fro to the Continent. Seems to stop off at Rotterdam.”

“Lot of E factories in Holland,” Ormiston stated casually. He was still studying the wall in front of him, hands in pockets and leaning back on his heels, as if concentrating on the exhibit at a gallery. “Lot of cocaine over there, too.”

“And Customs wasn’t suspicious of these jaunts to Rotterdam?” Rebus asked.

Claverhouse shrugged. “Those poor buggers are stretched to the breaking point. No way they can check up on everybody hopping over to Europe, especially in these days of open borders.”

“So what you’re saying is, you let Herdman slip through your net?”

Claverhouse’s eyes met Rebus’s. “Like Customs, we depend on intelligence gathering.”

“Not much sign of that around here,” Rebus countered, shifting his gaze from Claverhouse to Ormiston and back again. “Bobby, have Herdman’s finances been looked into?”

Hogan nodded. “No evidence of sudden large deposits or withdrawals.”

“Dealers steer clear of banks,” Claverhouse stated. “Hence the need for money laundering. Herdman’s boat business would do just fine.”

“What about Herdman’s autopsy?” Rebus asked Bobby Hogan. “Any sign that he was a drug user?”

Hogan shook his head. “Blood tests negative.”

“Dealers aren’t always users,” Claverhouse intoned. “The big players are in it for the money. In the past six months, we busted one operation carrying a hundred and thirty thousand tabs of E, street value of a million and a half, forty-four kilos” worth. Four kilos of opium was intercepted after being flown in from Iran.” He stared at Rebus. “That was a Customs bust, based on intelligence.”

“And how much did we find on Herdman’s boat?” Rebus asked. “A drop in the ocean, if you’ll pardon the expression.” He had started to light a cigarette but caught Hogan’s look, eyes casting around the room. “It’s not a church, Bobby,” he said, finishing what he’d started. He didn’t think Derek or Anthony would mind. Didn’t care what Herdman thought . . .

“For personal use perhaps,” Claverhouse offered.

“Except he didn’t use.” Rebus blew smoke down his nostrils in Claverhouse’s direction.

“Maybe he had friends who did. I hear he used to host a few parties . . .”

“We’ve not spoken to anyone who says he gave them coke or Eckies.”

“As if they’d want to advertise the fact,” Claverhouse snorted. “Fact is, I’m astonished you can find anyone who’ll admit to having known the bastard.” He stared down at the bloodstained floor.

Ormiston ran a hand beneath his nose again, then let out a huge sneeze, further mottling the wall.

“Ormy, you insensitive bastard,” Rebus hissed.

“He’s not the one flicking ash on the floor,” Claverhouse growled.

“The smoke tickles my nose,” Ormiston was saying. Rebus had strode over to stand next to him. “That was somebody from my fucking family!” he snarled, pointing at the pattern of blood.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“What did you just say, John?” Hogan’s voice was a low rumble.

“Nothing,” Rebus said. But it was too late. Hogan was standing right beside him, sliding hands into pockets, expecting an explanation. “Allan Renshaw’s a cousin of mine,” Rebus admitted.

“And you didn’t feel that was information I might need to know?” Hogan’s face was puce with anger.

“Not really, Bobby, no.” Over Hogan’s shoulder, Rebus could see a huge grin spreading across Claverhouse’s narrow face.

Hogan removed his hands from his pockets, tried clenching them behind his back but found the maneuver unsatisfactory. Rebus knew where Bobby really wanted those hands. He wanted them around Rebus’s neck.

“It doesn’t change anything,” he argued. “Like you said, I’m here as an advisor, that’s all. We’re not building a court case, Bobby. No lawyer’s going to be able to use me as a technicality.”

“Bastard was a drug smuggler,” Claverhouse interrupted. “There must be associates out there for us to catch. One of them gets a bright enough lawyer . . .”

“Claverhouse,” Rebus said wearily. “Do the world a favor and”—his voice a sudden howl—“
just shut the fuck up!
”

Claverhouse started forwards, Rebus ready to meet him, Hogan stepping between them, though in the certain knowledge of being as useful as chocolate handcuffs. Ormiston’s role was spectator; no way he’d interrupt unless his partner was getting the worst of it.

“Phone call for DI Rebus!” A sudden shout from the open doorway, Siobhan standing there, holding out a mobile phone. “I think it’s urgent: the Complaints.”

Claverhouse stepped back, allowing Rebus clear passage. He even made a mocking motion with his arm, signaling “after you.” And the grin was back on his face. Rebus looked down to where Bobby Hogan still had a handful of the front of his suit jacket. Hogan let go, and Rebus walked to the doorway.

“Want to take it outside?” Siobhan suggested. Rebus nodded, held out his hand for the phone. But she was keeping it, walking with him all the way out of the building. She looked around, saw that they were at a safe distance, and held the phone out to him.

“Better make it look like you’re talking,” she warned. Rebus held the phone to his ear. Nothing there at all.

“No call?” he asked. She shook her head.

“Just thought you needed rescuing.”

He managed a smile, keeping the phone to his ear. “Bobby knows about the Renshaws.”

“I know. I heard.”

“Spying on me again?”

“Not much going on in the geography class.” They were heading towards the Portakabin. “So what do we do now?”

“Whatever it is, it better be away from here . . . give Bobby time to cool off.” Rebus looked back towards the school. Three figures were watching from the doorway.

“And Claverhouse and Ormiston time to crawl back under their rock?”

“You’re reading my mind.” He paused. “So what am I thinking now?”

“You’re thinking we could go for a drink.”

“This is uncanny.”

“And you’re also thinking of paying, as a way of saying thanks for saving your arse.”

“That is the incorrect answer. Still, as Meat Loaf used to say . . .” They’d reached her car. He handed back her phone. “Two out of three ain’t bad.”

15

S
o if no money turned up in Herdman’s bank,” Siobhan said, “we can scratch him as a hired killer.” “Unless he turned the money into drugs,” Rebus replied, for the sake of argument. They were in the Boatman’s, drinking with the late-afternoon crowd. Suits and laborers who’d finished work for the day. Rod McAllister was behind the bar yet again. Rebus had asked jokingly if he was a permanent feature.

“Day shift,” McAllister had replied unsmilingly.

“You’re a real asset to the place,” Rebus had added, accepting his change.

Now he sat with a half-pint of beer and the remains of a glass of whiskey. Siobhan was drinking a garishly colored mixture of lime juice and soda.

“You really think Whiteread and Simms might have planted those drugs?”

Rebus shrugged. “There isn’t much I wouldn’t put past the likes of Whiteread.”

“Based on . . . ?” He looked at her. “I mean,” she went on, “you’ve always stayed pretty tight-lipped about your army years.”

“Not the happiest of my life,” he admitted. “I saw guys broken by the system. Fact of the matter is, I only just about held on to my own sanity. When I left, I had a nervous breakdown.” Rebus swallowed back the memories. He thought of all the comfortable clichés: what’s done is done . . . you can’t go living in the past . . . “One guy—a guy I was close to—he went to pieces during the training. They turfed him out, but forgot to switch him off . . .” His voice trailed away.

“What happened?”

“He blamed me, came looking for revenge. Way before your time, Siobhan.”

“So you can understand why Herdman might lose it?”

“Maybe.”

“But you’re not sure he did, are you?”

“There are usually warning signs. Herdman wasn’t the archetypal loner. No arsenal in his home, just that one gun . . .” Rebus paused. “We could do with knowing when he got hold of it.”

“The gun?”

Rebus nodded. “Then we’d know whether he bought it with that one specific purpose.”

“Chances are, if he was smuggling drugs, he’d feel the need for some kind of protection. Might explain the Mac-10 in the boathouse.” Siobhan was following the progress of a young blond woman who’d just entered the bar. The barman seemed to know her. He was pouring out her drink before she got to him. Bacardi and Coke, it looked like. No ice.

“Nothing came of all those interviews?” Rebus was asking.

Siobhan shook her head. He meant all the lowlifes and firearm merchants. “The Brocock wasn’t the most recent model. Thinking seems to be, he brought it north with him when he moved here. As for the machine gun, who knows?”

Rebus was thoughtful, Siobhan watching as Rod McAllister leaned on the bartop, resting his forearms there. Deep in conversation with the blonde . . . the blonde Siobhan knew from somewhere. He looked as contented as Siobhan had ever seen him, head tilted to one side. The woman was smoking, blowing ash-gray plumes ceilingwards.

“Do me a favor, will you?” Rebus asked suddenly. “Get on the phone to Bobby Hogan.”

“Why?”

“Because he probably doesn’t want to speak to me right now.”

“And what is it I’m phoning him for?” Siobhan had her mobile out.

“To ask if Whiteread was forthcoming with Lee Herdman’s army records. The answer’s probably no, in which case he should have called the army direct. I want to know if they’ve come through.”

Siobhan was nodding, pushing buttons. The conversation from then on was one-sided.

“DI Hogan, it’s Siobhan Clarke . . .” Listening, she looked up at Rebus. “No, I’ve no idea what that was about . . . I think he was called to Fettes.” She widened her eyes questioningly, and Rebus nodded to let her know she’d said the right thing. “What I was wondering was, did you get round to asking Ms. Whiteread for the records on Herdman?” She listened to Hogan’s reply. “Well, John mentioned it to me, and I just thought I’d follow up . . .” She listened again, squeezing her eyes shut tight. “No, he’s not here listening in.” She’d opened her eyes again. Rebus winked, to let her know she was doing fine. “Mmm . . . hmm . . .” She was listening to Hogan. “Doesn’t sound like she’s being as cooperative as we’d have liked . . . Yes, I’ll bet you told her.” A smile. “What did she say?” More listening. “And did you follow her advice? . . . So what did they say down at Hereford?” Meaning SAS HQ. “So we’re denied access?” Another look at Rebus. “Well, he can be a difficult creature, we both know that.” Talking about Rebus now, Hogan probably saying that he would have told Rebus all this if the scene in the common room hadn’t imploded. “No, I’d no idea he was related to them.” Siobhan made an O of her mouth. “Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” Her turn to wink at Rebus. He drew a finger across his neck, but she shook her head. She was beginning to enjoy herself. “And I’ll bet you’ve got a few stories about him, too . . . I know he is.” A laugh. “No, no, you’re absolutely right. God, it’s just as well he’s not here . . .” Rebus made a move to snatch the phone from her, but she turned away from him. “Really? Well, thanks. No, that’s . . . Yes, yes, I’d like that. We’ll maybe . . . yes, after this has all . . . I’ll look forward to it. Bye, Bobby.”

She was smiling as she ended the call. Picked up her glass and took a sip.

“I think I got the gist of that,” Rebus muttered.

“I’m to call him ‘Bobby.’ He says I’m a good officer.”

“Jesus . . .”

“And he’s invited me for a meal, once the case is finished.”

“He’s a married man.”

“He’s not.”

“Okay, his wife left him. He’s old enough to be your dad, though.” Rebus paused. “What did he say about me?”

“Nothing.”

“You laughed when he said it.”

“I was winding you up.”

Rebus glowered at her. “I buy the drinks and you do the winding up? Is that the basis of our relationship?”

“I offered to cook you a meal.”

“So you did.”

“Bobby knows a nice restaurant in Leith.”

“Wonder which kebab shop he’s meaning . . .”

She thumped his arm. “Go get us another round.”

“After what I’ve just been through?” Rebus shook his head. “Your shout.” He sat back in his chair, as if getting comfortable.

“If that’s the way you want to play it . . .” Siobhan got to her feet. She wanted a closer look at the woman anyway. But the blonde was leaving, tucking cigarettes and lighter into her shoulder bag, head dipped so that Siobhan could make out only part of her face.

“See you later!” the woman called.

“Aye, see you,” McAllister called back. He was wiping the bartop with a damp cloth. The smile slid from his face at Siobhan’s approach. “Same again, is it?” he asked.

She nodded. “Friend of yours?”

He’d turned away to measure out Rebus’s whiskey. “In a way.”

“I seem to know her from somewhere.”

“Oh, aye?” He placed the drink in front of her. “You want the half as well?”

She nodded. “And another lime juice and . . .”

“. . . and soda. I remember. Nothing in the whiskey, ice in the lime.” Another order was already coming from farther down the bar: two lagers and a rum and black. He rang up Siobhan’s drinks, was brisk with her change, and started on the lagers, making a show of being too busy for chitchat. Siobhan stood her ground a few moments longer, then decided it wasn’t worth it. She was halfway back to the table when she remembered. Brought up short, some of Rebus’s beer trickled down the side of the glass, dripping onto the scuffed wooden floor.

“Whoa there,” Rebus cautioned, watching from his chair. She got the drinks to the table and set them down. Went to the window and looked out, but there was no sign of the blonde.

“I know who she was,” she said.

“Who?”

“The woman who just left. You must have seen her.”

“Long blond hair, tight pink T-shirt, short leather jacket? Black ski pants and heels slightly too high for their own good?” Rebus took a sip of beer. “Can’t say I noticed.”

“But you didn’t recognize her?”

“Any reason I should?”

“Well, according to today’s front page, you only went and torched her boyfriend.” Siobhan sat back, holding her own glass in front of her, waiting for her words to sink in.

“Fairstone’s girlfriend?” Rebus said, eyes narrowing.

Siobhan nodded. “I only saw her the once, the day Fairstone walked free.”

Rebus was looking towards the bar. “You’re sure it was her?”

“Fairly sure. When I heard her speak . . . Yes, I’m positive. I saw her outside the court, when the trial finished.”

“Just that once?”

Siobhan nodded again. “I wasn’t the one who interviewed her about the alibi she gave her boyfriend, and she wasn’t in court when I gave my evidence.”

“What’s her name?”

Siobhan narrowed her eyes in concentration. “Rachel something.”

“Where does Rachel something live?”

Siobhan shrugged. “I’d guess not too far from her boyfriend.”

“Making this not exactly her local.”

“Not exactly.”

“Ten miles from her local, to be precise.”

“More or less.” Siobhan was still holding the glass; had yet to take her first sip.

“You had any more of those letters?”

She shook her head.

“Think she could be following you?”

“Not every minute of the day. I’d’ve spotted her.” Now Siobhan looked towards the bar, too. McAllister’s flurry of activity had ended and he was back to washing glasses. “Of course, it might not be me she came here to see . . .”

Rebus got Siobhan to drop him off at Allan Renshaw’s house. He told her she should go home; he’d take a taxi back into town or get a patrol car to pick him up.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” he’d said. Not an official visit, just family. She’d nodded, driven off. He’d rung the doorbell with no success. Peered through the window. The boxes of snapshots were still spread out across the living room. No sign of life. He tried the door handle, and it turned. The door was unlocked.

“Allan?” he called. “Kate?”

He closed the door behind him. There was a buzzing noise from upstairs. He called out again, but without answer. Cautiously, he climbed the stairs. There was a metal stepladder in the middle of the upstairs hall, leading up through an open hatch in the ceiling. Rebus took each rung slowly.

“Allan?”

There was a light on in the attic and the buzzing was louder. Rebus stuck his head through the hatch. His cousin was seated cross-legged on the floor, a control panel in his hand, mimicking the sound the toy racing car made as it sped around the figure-eight track.

“I always let him win,” Allan Renshaw said, giving the first sign that he was aware of Rebus’s appearance. “Derek, I mean. We got him this for Christmas one year . . .”

Rebus saw the open box, lengths of unused track spilling from it. Packing boxes had been emptied, suitcases opened. Rebus saw women’s dresses, children’s clothes, a stack of old 45s. He saw magazines with long-forgotten TV stars on the front. He saw plates and ornaments, peeled from their protective newsprint. Some might have been wedding gifts, dispatched to darkness by changing fashions. A folded stroller waited to be claimed by the generation to come. Rebus had reached the top of the ladder, and settled his weight against the edge of the hatch. Somehow, amidst the clutter, Allan Renshaw had negotiated room for the racetrack, his eyes following the red plastic car as it completed its endless circuits.

“Never saw the attraction myself,” Rebus commented. “Same with train sets.”

“Cars are different. You’ve got that illusion of speed . . . and you can race against everyone else. Plus . . .” Renshaw pushed his finger down harder on the accelerator button, “if you take a bend too fast and crash . . .” His car spun from the track. He reached out for it, slid its guiding front brush into the slot on the roadway. Pressed the button and sent it on its renewed journey. “You see?” he said, glancing towards Rebus.

“You can always start again?” Rebus guessed.

“Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s broken,” Renshaw said, nodding. “It’s as if nothing happened.”

“It’s an illusion then,” Rebus intimated.

“A comforting illusion,” his cousin agreed. He paused. “Did I have a race set when I was a kid? I don’t remember . . .”

Rebus shrugged. “I know I didn’t. If they were around, they were probably too expensive.”

“The money we spend on our kids, eh, John?” Renshaw produced the glimmer of a smile. “Always wanting the best for them, never begrudging anything.”

“Must’ve been expensive, putting your two through Port Edgar.”

“Wasn’t cheap. You’ve just got the one, is that right?”

“She’s all grown now, Allan.”

“Kate’s growing, too . . . moving on to another life.”

“She’s got a head on her shoulders.” Rebus watched as the car tripped from the track again. It ended up near him, so he reached forwards to replace it. “That crash Derek was in,” he said. “It wasn’t his fault, was it?”

Renshaw shook his head. “Stuart was a wild one. We’re lucky Derek was all right.” He set the car moving again. Rebus had noticed a blue car in the box, and a spare controller sitting by his cousin’s left shoe.

“We going to have a race, then?” he asked, sliding farther into the space, picking up the small black box.

“Why not?” Renshaw agreed, placing Rebus’s car on the starting line. He brought his own car to meet it, then counted down from five. Both cars jolted towards the first bend, Rebus’s careering off straightaway. He crawled over on hands and knees and fixed it back onto the track, just as Renshaw’s car lapped him.

“You’ve had more practice than me,” he complained, sitting back down again. Drafts of warm air were gusting up through the open hatch, providing the attic with its only source of heat. Rebus knew that if he stood, there wouldn’t be quite enough room for him. “So how long have you been up here?” he asked. Renshaw ran a hand over what was now more beard than stubble.

“Since first thing,” he said.

“Where’s Kate?”

“Out helping that MSP.”

“The front door isn’t locked.”

“Oh?”