A Question of Blood (2003) (28 page)

“We’re lucky they haven’t reopened this line yet,” he said. “At least the poor chap’s in one piece.”

She looked down at the twisted, broken body. His duffel coat had been thrown open, exposing a torso clad in a loose-fitting checked shirt. Brown cord trousers and brown loafers.

“A couple of people called in,” one of the Craigmillar detectives was telling her, “saying they’d seen him wandering the streets.”

“Probably not too unusual around here . . .”

“Except he looked like he was on the hunt for somebody. Kept a hand in one pocket, like he might be carrying.”

“And is he?”

The detective shook his head. “Might be he dropped it when he was being chased. Local kids by the sound of it.”

Siobhan looked from the body to the bridge and back again. “Did they catch him?”

The detective shrugged.

“So do we know who he is?”

“Video rental card in his back pocket. Name’s Callis. Initial A. We’ve got someone checking the phone book. If that doesn’t work, we’ll get an address from the video shop.”

“Callis?” Siobhan’s eyebrows creased. She was trying to remember where she’d heard that name . . . Then it hit her.

“Andy Callis,” she said, almost to herself.

The detective had heard her. “You know him?”

She shook her head. “But I know someone who might. If it’s the same guy, he lives in Alnwickhill.” She was reaching for her mobile. “Oh, and one other thing . . . if it
is
him, he’s one of us.”

“A cop?”

She nodded. The detective from Craigmillar sucked air through his teeth and stared up at the spectators on the bridge with a new sense of purpose.

16

T
here was nobody home. Rebus had been watching Miss Teri’s room for almost an hour. Dark, dark, dark. Just like his memories. He could not even recall which friends he’d met with that day in the park. Yet the scene had stayed with Allan Renshaw these past thirty-odd years. Indelible. It was funny, the things you couldn’t help remembering, the ones you chose to forget. The little tricks your brain could play on you, sudden scents or sensations reviving the long-forgotten. Rebus wondered if perhaps Allan was angry with him because such anger was possible. After all, what point was there in getting angry with Lee Herdman? Herdman wasn’t there to bear the brunt, while Rebus conspicuously was, as if conjured up for the very purpose.

The laptop kicked into screen-saver mode, shooting stars moving out of the far darkness. He hit the
RETURN
key and was back in Teri Cotter’s bedroom. What was he watching for? Because it satisfied the voyeur in him? He’d always enjoyed surveillances for the same reason: glimpses into secret lives. He wondered what Teri herself got out of it. She wasn’t making money. There was no interaction as such, no way for the viewer to make contact with her or for her to communicate with her audience. Why then? Because she felt the need to be on display? Like hanging out on Cockburn Street, stared at and sometimes set upon. She had accused her mother of spying on her, yet had made straight for her mother’s door when the Lost Boys had attacked. Hard to know what to think about that particular relationship. Rebus’s own daughter had lived her teenage years in London with her mother, remaining a mystery to him. His ex-wife would call him to complain about Samantha’s “attitude” or her “moods,” would let off steam at him and then put down the phone.

The phone.

His phone was ringing. His mobile phone. It was plugged into the wall, recharging. He picked it up. “Hello?”

“I tried ringing your home phone.” Siobhan’s voice. “It was engaged.”

Rebus looked at the laptop, the laptop that was hooked up to his phone line. “What’s up?”

“Your friend, the one you were visiting that night you bumped into me . . .” She was on her mobile, sounded like she was out- doors.

“Andy?” he said. “Andy Callis?”

“Can you describe him?”

Rebus froze. “What’s happened?”

“Look, it might not be him . . .”

“Where are you?”

“Describe him for me . . . that way you’re not headed all the way out here for nothing.”

Rebus squeezed his eyes shut, saw Andy Callis in his living room, feet up in front of the TV. “Early forties, dark brown hair, five-eleven, probably a hundred and sixty-five pounds or thereabouts . . .”

She was silent for a moment. “Okay,” she sighed. “Maybe you should come after all.”

Rebus was already looking for his jacket. He remembered the laptop, broke the Internet connection.

“So where are you?” he asked.

“How are you going to get here?”

“My problem,” he told her, looking around for his car keys. “Just give me the address.”

She was waiting for him curbside, watched him pull on the hand brake and get out of the driver’s seat.

“How are the hands?” she asked.

“They were fine before I got behind the wheel.”

“Painkillers?”

He shook his head. “I can do without.” He was looking around at the scene. A couple of hundred yards or so up the road was the bus stop where his taxi had stopped for the Lost Boys. They started walking towards the bridge.

“He’d been stalking the place for a couple of hours,” Siobhan explained. “Two or three people reported seeing him.”

“And did we do anything about it?”

“There wasn’t a patrol car available,” she said quietly.

“If there had been, he might not be dead,” Rebus stated starkly. She nodded slowly.

“One of the neighbors heard shouts. She thinks some kids had started chasing him.”

“Did she see anyone?”

Siobhan shook her head. They were on the bridge now. The onlookers had started drifting away. The body had been wrapped in a blanket and loaded onto a stretcher, hitched to a length of rope with which to haul it up the embankment. A van from the morgue had pulled up next to the stile. Silvers was standing there, chatting to the driver and smoking a cigarette.

“We’ve checked the Callises in the phone book,” he told Rebus and Siobhan. “No sign of him.”

“Unlisted,” Rebus said. “Same as you and me, George.”

“You sure it’s the same Callis?” Silvers inquired. There was a yell from below, the driver flicking away his cigarette so he could concentrate on his end of the rope. Silvers kept on smoking, not offering a hand until the driver asked for one. Rebus kept his own hands in his pockets. They felt like they were on fire.

“Heave away!” came the call. In under a minute, the stretcher was being carried over the fence. Rebus stepped forwards, unwrapped the face. Stared at it, noting how peaceful Andy Callis looked in death.

“It’s him,” he said, standing back again so the body could be loaded into the van. Dr. Curt was at the top of the incline, having been helped by the Craigmillar detective. He was breathing hard, climbing over the stile with difficulty. When someone stepped forwards to help, he spluttered that he could manage, his speech thick with effort.

“It’s him,” Silvers was telling the new arrivals. “According to DI Rebus, that is.”

“Andy Callis?” someone asked. “Is he the guy from Firearms?”

Rebus nodded.

“Any witnesses?” the Craigmillar detective was asking.

One of the uniforms answered. “People heard voices, nobody seems to’ve seen anything.”

“Suicide?” someone else asked.

“Or he was trying to escape,” Siobhan commented, noting that Rebus wasn’t adding anything to the conversation, even though he’d known Andy Callis best. Or maybe
because
. . .

They watched the morgue van bump over the uneven ground on its way back to the road. Silvers asked Siobhan if she was headed back. She looked at Rebus and shook her head.

“John’ll give me a lift,” she said.

“Please yourself. Looks like Craigmillar’ll be handling it anyway.”

She nodded, waiting for Silvers to leave. Then, left alone with Rebus: “You okay?”

“I keep thinking of the patrol car that never came.”

“And?” He looked at her. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

Eventually, he nodded slowly.

“Care to share it?” she asked.

He kept on nodding. When he moved off, she followed, back over the bridge, across the grass to where the Saab was sitting. It wasn’t locked. He opened the driver’s door, thought better of it and handed her the keys. “You drive,” he said. “I don’t think I’m up to it.”

“Where are we going?”

“Just cruising around. Maybe we’ll get lucky, find ourselves in Never-Never Land.”

It took her a moment to decode the reference. “The Lost Boys?” she said.

Rebus nodded, walked around the car to the passenger side.

“And while I’m driving, you’ll be telling me the story?”

“I’ll tell you the story,” he agreed.

And he did.

What it boiled down to was: Andy Callis and his partner on patrol in their car. Called to a nightclub on Market Street, just behind Waverley Station. It was a popular spot, people queuing to get in. One of them had called the police, reporting someone brandishing a handgun. Vague description. Teenager, green parka, three mates with him. Not in the queue as such, just walking past, pulling open his coat so people could see what was tucked into his waistband.

“By the time Andy got there,” Rebus said, “there was no sign of him. He’d gone heading off down towards New Street. So that’s where Andy and his partner went. They’d called it in and been authorized to unlock their guns . . . had them on their laps. Flak jackets on . . . Backup was on its way, just in case. You know where the railway passes over the bottom of New Street?”

“At Calton Road?”

Rebus nodded. “Stone railway arches. It’s pretty gloomy down there. Not much in the way of street lighting.”

Siobhan’s turn to nod: it was a desolate spot all right.

“Lots of nooks and crannies, too,” Rebus continued. “Andy’s partner thought he spotted something in the shadows. They stopped the car, got out. Saw these four guys . . . probably the same ones. Kept their distance, asked if they were carrying any weapons. Ordered them to place anything on the ground. The way Andy told it, it was like shadows that kept shifting . . .” He rested his head against the back of the seat, closed his eyes. “Wasn’t sure if what he was looking at was a shadow or flesh and blood. He was unclipping his flashlight from his belt when he thought he saw movement, a hand stretching, pointing something. He aimed his own gun, safety off . . .”

“What happened?”

“Something fell to the ground. It was a pistol: a replica, as it turned out. But too late . . .”

“He’d fired?”

Rebus nodded. “Not that he hit anyone. He was aiming at the ground. Ricochet could have gone anywhere . . .”

“But it didn’t.”

“No.” Rebus paused. “There had to be an inquiry: happens every time a weapon’s discharged. Partner backed him up, but Andy knew the guy was just mouthing words. He started doubting himself.”

“And the guy with the gun?”

“Four of them. None would own up to carrying it. Three were wearing parkas, and the kid from the nightclub queue wasn’t about to ID the carrier.”

“The Lost Boys?”

Rebus nodded. “That’s the neighborhood name for them. They’re the ones you ran into on Cockburn Street. The leader—his name’s Rab Fisher—he went to court for carrying the replica, but the case was booted out . . . waste of the lawyers’ time. And meanwhile, Andy Callis was playing it over and over again in his head, trying to sort out the shadows from the truth . . .”

“And this is the Lost Boys’ patch?” Siobhan asked, peering out through the windshield.

Rebus nodded. Siobhan was thoughtful, then asked: “Where did the gun come from?”

“At a guess, Peacock Johnson.”

“Is that why you wanted a word with him that day he was brought into St. Leonard’s?”

Rebus nodded again.

“And now you want a word with the Lost Boys?”

“Looks like they’ve gone home for the night,” Rebus admitted, turning his head to watch from the passenger-side window.

“You think Callis came here on purpose?”

“Maybe.”

“Looking to confront them?”

“They got off scot-free, Siobhan. Andy wasn’t too thrilled at that.”

She was thoughtful. “So why aren’t we telling all this to Craigmillar?”

“I’ll let them know.” He felt her staring. “Cross my heart.”

“It could have been an accident. That railway line would look like an escape route.”

“Maybe.”

“Nobody saw anything.”

He turned towards her. “Spit it out.”

She sighed. “It’s just the way you keep trying to fight other people’s battles for them.”

“Is that what I do?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Well, I’m sorry if that upsets you.”

“It doesn’t upset me. But sometimes . . .” She swallowed back what she’d been about to say.

“Sometimes?” Rebus encouraged her.

She shook her head, exhaled noisily and stretched her back, working her neck. “Thank God for the weekend. You got any plans?”

“Thought I might do some hill walking . . . pump some iron at the gym . . .”

“Just a hint of sarcasm there?”

“Just a hint.” He’d spotted something. “Slow down a bit.” He was turning to watch from the rear window. “Back the car up.”

She did so. They were on a street of low-rise flats. A supermarket cart, itself a long way from home, sat abandoned on the pavement. Rebus was looking down an alley between two blocks. One . . . no, two figures. Just silhouettes, so close together they seemed to merge. Then Rebus realized what was happening.

“A good old-fashioned knee-trembler,” Siobhan commented. “Who said the art of romance was dead?”

One of the faces had turned towards the car, noting the idling engine. A rough masculine voice called out: “Enjoying the view, pal? Better than you’re getting at home, eh?”

“Drive,” Rebus ordered.

Siobhan drove.

They ended up at St. Leonard’s, Siobhan explaining that her car was there, without elaborating any further. Rebus had told her he’d be okay to drive home: Arden Street was five minutes away. But by the time he parked outside his flat, his hands were burning. In the bathroom, he smeared more cream on and took a couple of painkillers, hoping he’d be able to snatch a few hours’ sleep. A whiskey might help, so he poured a large measure and sat himself down in the living room. The laptop had gone from screen-saver to sleep mode. He didn’t bother waking it, walked over to his dining table instead. He had some stuff about the SAS laid out there, alongside the copy of Herdman’s personnel file. He sat down in front of it.

Enjoying the view, pal?

Better than you’re getting at home?

Enjoying the view . . . ?