A Question of Blood (2003) (30 page)

Rails:
Rebus thought of that word, saw Andy Callis’s body being hauled up from the railway tracks. He wondered if his visits had helped, or had they merely been painful reminders of everything the man had lost? Then he remembered how Siobhan had been about to say something in the car last night. Maybe to do with why he felt he had to get involved in all these other lives . . . not always for the best.

“How far are we going?” Brimson was asking Mollison.

“Maybe an hour’s hike, the same back.” Mollison had a knapsack slung over one shoulder. He looked at his companions, eyes lingering on Rebus. “Actually,” he corrected himself, “maybe an hour and a half.”

Rebus had already told Brimson part of the story back at the house, asking if Herdman had ever mentioned the mission to him. Brimson had shaken his head.

“I remember it from the papers, though. People thought the IRA had blown the chopper out of the skies.”

Now, as they commenced the climb, Mollison was talking. “That’s what they told me we were looking for: evidence of a missile attack.”

“So they weren’t interested in finding the bodies?” Siobhan asked. She had changed into thick socks, tucking her trouser bottoms into them. The boots looked new, or if not new, then seldom worn.

“Oh, I think there was that, too. But they were more interested in why the crash happened.”

“How many of them were there?” Rebus asked.

“Half a dozen.”

“And they came straight to you.”

“I daresay they spoke to someone from Mountain Rescue, who told them I was as good a guide as they were going to get.” He paused. “Not that there’s much in the way of competition.” He paused again. “They made me sign the Official Secrets Act.”

Rebus stared at him. “Before or after?”

Mollison scratched behind one ear. “Right at the start. They said it was standard procedure.” He looked at Rebus. “Does that mean I shouldn’t be talking to you?”

“I don’t know . . . Did you find anything you think needs to be kept secret?”

Mollison considered his answer, then shook his head.

“Then it’s all right,” Rebus told him. “Probably just procedure after all.” Mollison set off again, Rebus keen to keep by his side, though the boots seemed to have other ideas. “Has anyone been here since?” Rebus asked.

“We get plenty of walkers in the summer.”

“I meant from the army.”

Mollison’s hand went to his ear again. “There was one woman, middle of last year, I think it was . . . maybe more than that. She was trying to look like a tourist.”

“But not quite pulling it off?” Rebus suggested, going on to describe Whiteread.

“You’ve got her to a T,” Mollison admitted. Rebus and Siobhan shared a look.

“It may just be me,” Brimson said, pausing to catch his breath, “but what has any of this got to do with what Lee did?”

“Maybe nothing,” Rebus conceded. “But the exercise will do us good, all the same.”

As the walk continued, all of it uphill now, they fell quiet, saving energy. Eventually they emerged from the forest. The steep slope directly in front of them boasted only a few stunted trees. Grass, heather and bracken were broken by jagged stumps of rock. No more walking: if they wanted to go any farther, it would be by climbing. Rebus craned his neck, seeking the distant summit.

“Don’t worry,” Mollison said, “we’re not going up there.” He pointed upwards. “Helicopter hit the rock face about halfway to the top, came tumbling down here.” He waved an arm in the direction of the area around them. “It was a big helicopter. Looked to me like it had too many propellers.”

“It was a Chinook,” Rebus explained. “Two sets of rotor blades, one lot at the front, one at the back.” He looked at Mollison. “There must’ve been a lot of debris.”

“There was that. And the bodies . . . well, they were all over. One stuck on a ledge a hundred meters up. Myself and another fellow brought him down. They brought in a salvage team to take away what wreckage there was. But they had someone here to examine it. He didn’t find anything.”

“Meaning it wasn’t a missile?”

Mollison shook his head in agreement. He pointed back towards the tree line. “A lot of papers had been blown about. Mostly they were scouring the woods for them. Some of the sheets were stuck up trees. Would you believe they shinnied up to fetch them?”

“Did anyone say why?”

Mollison shook his head again. “Not officially, but when the guys stopped to boil a brew—they were always doing that—I’d hear what they were saying. The helicopter was on its way to Ulster, majors and colonels onboard. Had to be carrying documents they didn’t want the terrorists to see. Might explain why they were carrying guns.”

“Guns?”

“The rescue team brought rifles with them. I thought it was a bit odd at the time.”

“Did you ever happen across any of these documents yourself?” Rebus asked. Mollison nodded. “But I never looked at them. Just crunched them into a ball and brought them back.”

“Pity,” Rebus said, with the wriest smile he could manage.

“It’s beautiful up here,” Siobhan said suddenly, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“It is, isn’t it?” Mollison agreed, face breaking into a grin.

“Speaking of boiling a brew,” Brimson interrupted, “got that canteen of tea on you?” Siobhan opened her backpack and handed it over. The four of them passed the single plastic cup between them. It tasted the way tea always did from a canteen: hot, but somehow not quite right. Rebus was walking around the area at the foot of the incline.

“Did anything strike you as strange?” he was asking Mollison.

“Strange?”

“About the mission . . . about the people or what they were up to?” Mollison shook his head. “Did you get to know them at all?”

“We were only out here the two days.”

“You didn’t know Lee Herdman?” Rebus had brought a photo with him. He handed it over.

“He’s the one who shot the schoolkids?” Mollison waited for Rebus to nod, then stared at the photo again. “I remember him, all right. Nice enough guy . . . quiet. Not exactly what you’d call a team player.”

“How do you mean?”

“He liked it best in the woods, tracking down the bits and pieces of paper. Every little scrap. The others joked about it. They’d have to call him two or three times when the tea was being poured.”

“Maybe he knew it wasn’t worth hurrying for.” Brimson sniffed the surface of the cup.

“Are you saying I can’t make tea?” Siobhan complained. Brimson held up his hands in surrender.

“How long were they here?” Rebus was asking Mollison.

“Two days. The salvage squad arrived on the second day. Took them another week to ship the wreckage out.”

“Did you get talking to them much?”

Mollison shrugged. “Seemed nice enough lads. Very focused on their work.”

Rebus nodded and started walking into the forest. Not too far, but it was amazing how quickly you started to get the sense of being isolated, cut off from the still visible faces and still audible voices. What was that Brian Eno album?
Another Green World
. First there had been the world as seen from the air, and now this . . . equally alien and vibrant. Lee Herdman had walked into these woods and almost not come out again. His last mission before leaving the SAS. Had he learned something here? Found something?

Rebus had a sudden thought: you never really left the SAS. An indelible mark remained, just beyond your everyday feelings and actions. You came to the realization that there were other worlds, other realities. You’d had experiences beyond the usual. You’d been trained to see life as just another mission, filled with potential booby traps and assassins. Rebus wondered how far he himself had been able to travel from his days in the Paras, and training for the SAS.

Had he been in free fall ever since?

And had Lee Herdman, like the airman of the poem, foreseen his own death?

He crouched down, ran a hand over the ground. Twigs and leaves, springy moss, a covering of native flowers and weeds. Saw in his mind’s eye the helicopter hit the rock face. Malfunction, or pilot error.

Malfunction, pilot error, or something more terrible . . .

Saw the sky explode as the fuel ignited, rotor blades slowing, buckling. It would drop like a stone, bodies flying from it, concertinaing on impact. The dull thud of flesh hitting solid ground . . . same noise Andy Callis’s body would have made when it hit the railway line. The explosion sending the contents of the chopper bursting outwards, paper crisped at the edges or reduced to confetti. Secret papers, needing the SAS to recover them. And Lee Herdman busier than most as he plunged deeper and deeper into the woods. He recalled Teri Cotter’s words about Herdman:
that was the thing about him . . . like he had secrets
. He thought of the missing computer, the one Herdman had bought for his business. Where was it? Who had it? What secrets might it reveal?

“You okay?” Siobhan’s voice. She was holding the cup, newly replenished. Rebus rose to his feet.

“Fine,” he said.

“I called you.”

“I didn’t hear.” He took the cup from her.

“A touch of the Lee Herdmans?” she said.

“Could be.” He took a slurp of tea.

“Are we going to find anything here?”

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s enough just to see the place.”

“You think he took something, don’t you?” Her eyes were on his. “You think he took something, and the army wants it back.” No longer a question but a statement. Rebus nodded slowly.

“And this concerns us how?” she asked.

“Maybe because we don’t like them,” Rebus answered. “Or because whatever it is, they haven’t found it yet, which means someone else might. Maybe someone found it last week . . .”

“And when Herdman found out, he went berserk?”

Rebus shrugged again, handed back the empty cup. “You like Brimson, don’t you?”

She didn’t blink but couldn’t hold his gaze.

“It’s okay,” he said with a smile. She misread his tone, managed a glare.

“Oh, so I have your permission, do I?”

His turn to raise his hands in surrender. “I just meant . . .” But he didn’t think anything he said would help, so he let the words trail off. “Tea’s too strong, by the way,” he told her, making his way back towards the rock face.

“At least I thought to bring some,” Siobhan muttered, tipping out the dregs.

***

On the flight back, Rebus sat silently in the backseat, though Siobhan had offered to swap. He kept his face to the window, as if transfixed by the passing views, giving Siobhan and Brimson the chance to talk. Brimson showed her the controls and how to use them, and made her promise to take a flying lesson from him. It was as if they’d forgotten about Lee Herdman, and maybe, Rebus was forced to reflect, they had a point. Most people in South Queensferry, even the families of the victims, just wanted to get on with their lives. What was past was past, and there was no changing it or making things right again. You had to let go sometime . . .

If you could.

Rebus closed his eyes against the sun’s sudden glare. It bathed his face in warmth and light. He realized he was exhausted, in danger of dropping off to sleep; realized, too, that it didn’t matter. Sleep was fine. But he awoke again minutes later with a start, having dreamed that he was alone in a strange city, clad only in an old-fashioned pair of striped pajamas. Barefoot and with no money on him, seeking out anyone who might help, while all the time trying to look as if he fitted in. Peering through a café window, he’d spotted a man sliding a gun beneath a table, hiding it there on his lap. Rebus knowing he couldn’t go in, not without money. So just standing there, watching with his palms pressed to the glass, trying not to make a fuss . . .

Blinking his eyes back into focus, he saw that they were over the Firth of Forth again, making their final approach. Brimson was talking.

“I often think about the damage a terrorist could do, even with something as small as a Cessna. You’ve got the dockyard, the ferry, road and rail bridges . . . airport nearby.”

“They’d be spoiled for choice,” Siobhan agreed.

“I can think of bits of the city I’d rather see leveled,” Rebus commented.

“Ah, you’re with us again, Inspector. I can only apologize that our company wasn’t more sparkling.” Brimson and Siobhan shared a smile, letting Rebus know he hadn’t been too sorely missed.

The landing was smooth, Brimson taxiing towards where Siobhan’s car sat waiting. Climbing out, Rebus shook Brimson’s hand.

“Thanks for letting me tag along,” Brimson said.

“It’s me who should be thanking you. Send us the bill for your fuel and your time.”

Brimson just shrugged, turned to squeeze Siobhan’s hand, holding on to it a little longer than necessary. Wagged a finger of his free hand at her.

“Remember, I’ll be expecting you.”

She smiled. “A promise is a promise, Doug. But meantime, I wonder if I can be cheeky . . . ?”

“Go ahead.”

“I just wondered if I could take a peek at the corporate jet, to see how the other half lives.”

He stared at her for a moment, then smiled back. “No problem. It’s in the hangar.” Brimson started to lead the way. “Coming, Inspector?”

“I’ll wait here,” Rebus said. After they’d gone, he managed to get a cigarette lit, sheltering by the side of the Cessna. They reappeared five minutes later, Brimson’s good humor evaporating as he saw the stub of Rebus’s cigarette.

“Strictly forbidden,” he said. “Fire hazard, you understand.”

Rebus gave a shrug of apology, nipped the cigarette and crushed it underfoot. As he followed Siobhan to her car, Brimson was getting into the Land Rover, ready to drive to the gate and unlock it.

“Nice guy,” Rebus said.

“Yes,” Siobhan agreed. “Nice guy.”

“You really think so?”

She looked at him. “Don’t you?”

Rebus shrugged. “I get the feeling he’s a collector.”

“Of what?”

Rebus thought for a moment. “Of interesting specimens . . . people like Herdman and Niles.”

“He knows the Cotters, too, don’t forget.” Siobhan’s hackles weren’t ready to go down just yet.

“Look, I’m not saying . . .”