A Question of Blood (2003) (31 page)

“You’re warning me off him, aren’t you?”

Rebus stayed silent.

“Aren’t you?” she repeated.

“I just don’t want all that corporate jet glamour going to your head.” He paused. “What was it like anyway?”

She glared at him, then relented. “Smallish. Leather seats. They do champagne and hot meals on the flights.”

“Don’t go getting any ideas.”

She gave a twitch of the mouth, asked where he wanted to go, and he told her: Craigmillar police station. The detective there was named Blake. He was a DC, less than a year out of uniform. Rebus didn’t mind that: it meant he’d be keen to prove himself. So Rebus told him what he knew about Andy Callis and the Lost Boys. Blake kept a look of concentration on his face throughout, stopping Rebus from time to time and asking a question, noting everything on a lined legal pad. Siobhan sat in the room with them, arms folded, mostly just staring at the wall ahead. Rebus got the feeling she was thinking of airplane rides . . .

At the end of the interview, Rebus asked if there’d been any progress. Blake shook his head.

“Still no witnesses. Dr. Curt’s doing the autopsy this afternoon.” He checked his watch. “I might head on down there. You’re welcome to . . .”

But Rebus was shaking his head. He had no wish to see his friend dissected. “Will you bring Rab Fisher in?”

Blake nodded. “Don’t worry about that, I’ll have a word with him.”

“Don’t expect much in the way of cooperation,” Rebus warned.

“I’ll talk to him.” The young man’s tone told Rebus that he was close to pushing too hard.

“Nobody likes to be told how to do their job,” Rebus acknowledged with a smile.

“At least not until after they’ve screwed it up.” Blake got to his feet, Rebus doing the same. The two men shook hands.

“Nice guy,” Rebus said to Siobhan, as they walked back to her car.

“Too cocky by half,” she responded. “He doesn’t think he’s going to screw anything up . . . ever.”

“Then he’ll learn the hard way.”

“I hope so. I really do.”

18

T
he plan had been for them to head back to Siobhan’s flat so she could cook the dinner she’d been promising. They were quiet in the car, and as they got to the junction of Leith Street and York Place, the lights were against them. Rebus turned to her.

“Drink first?” he suggested.

“With me as designated driver?”

“You could take a taxi home after, pick up the car in the morning . . .”

She was staring at the red light, making up her mind. When it turned green, she signaled to move into the next lane over, heading for Queen Street.

“I’ll assume we’re gracing the Ox with our precious custom,” Rebus said.

“Would anywhere else suit sir’s stringent requirements?”

“Tell you what . . . we’ll have one drink there, and after that you can choose.”

“Deal.”

So they had their one drink in the smoky front room of the Oxford Bar, the place loud with after-work chat, the late afternoon drifting towards evening. Ancient Egypt on the Discovery Channel. Siobhan was watching the regulars: more entertaining than anything the TV could provide. She noticed that Harry, the dour barman, was smiling.

“He seems unusually chipper,” she commented to Rebus.

“I think young Harry’s in love.” Rebus was trying to make his pint last: Siobhan still hadn’t intimated whether they’d be sticking around for a second drink. She’d ordered a half of cider, already mostly gone. “Want the other half of that?” he asked, nodding towards her glass.

“One drink, you said.”

“Just to keep me company.” He held his own glass aloft, showing how much was left. But she shook her head.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” she told him. He attempted a look of shocked innocence, knowing it wouldn’t fool her for a second. A few more regulars were squeezing into the mêlée. There were three women seated at a table in the otherwise empty back room, but none in the front bar save Siobhan. She wrinkled her nose at the crush and steady escalation in noise, put her glass to her lips and drained it.

“Come on, then,” she said.

“Where?” Rebus affected a frown. But she just shook her head: not telling. “My jacket’s hanging up,” he told her. He’d taken it off in the hope of gaining a psychological advantage: a sign of how comfortable he felt here.

“Then get it,” she ordered. So he did, and gulped down the remains of his own drink before following her outside.

“Fresh air,” she was saying, breathing deeply. The car was parked on North Castle Street, but they walked past it, heading for George Street. Directly ahead of them, the Castle was illuminated against the ink-dark sky. They turned left, Rebus feeling a stiffness in both legs, the legacy of his trek across Jura.

“Long soak for me tonight,” he commented.

“Bet that was the most exercise you’ve had this year,” Siobhan replied with a smile.

“This decade,” Rebus corrected her. She’d stopped at some steps and was heading down. Her chosen bar was tucked away below sidewalk level, a shop directly above it. The interior was chic, with subdued lighting and music.

“Your first time in here?” Siobhan asked.

“What do you think?” He was heading for the bar, but Siobhan tugged his arm and gestured towards a free booth.

“It’s table service,” she said as they sat down. A waitress was already standing in front of them. Siobhan ordered a gin and tonic, Rebus a Laphroaig. When his malt arrived, he lifted the glass and peered at it, as if disapproving of the size of measure. Siobhan stirred her own drink, mashing the slice of lime against the ice cubes.

“Want to keep the tab open?” the waitress asked.

“Yes, please,” Siobhan said. Then, when the waitress had gone: “Are we any nearer finding out why Herdman shot those kids?”

Rebus shrugged. “I think maybe we’ll only know when we get there.”

“And everything up to that point . . . ?”

“Is potentially useful,” Rebus said, knowing this wasn’t how she’d have chosen to finish the sentence. He lifted his glass to his mouth, but it was already empty. No sign of the waitress. Behind the bar, one of the staff was mixing a cocktail.

“Friday night, out at that railway line,” Siobhan was saying, “Silvers told me something.” She paused. “He said the Herdman case was being handed over to DMC.”

“Makes sense,” Rebus muttered. But with Claverhouse and Ormiston running the show, there’d be no place for him or Siobhan. “Didn’t there used to be a band called DMC, or am I thinking of Elton John’s record company?”

Siobhan was nodding. “Run DMC. I think they were a rap band.”

“Rap with a capital C, most likely.”

“No match for the Rolling Stones certainly.”

“Don’t knock the Stones, DC Clarke. None of the stuff you listen to would exist without them.”

“A point on which you’ve probably had many an argument.” She went back to stirring her drink. Rebus still couldn’t see their waitress.

“I’m getting a refill,” he said, sliding out of the booth. He wished Siobhan hadn’t mentioned Friday night. All weekend, Andy Callis hadn’t been far from his thoughts. He kept thinking of how different sequences of events—tiny chinks of altered time and space—could have saved him. Probably could have saved Lee Herdman, too . . . and stopped Robert Niles from killing his wife.

And stopped Rebus from scalding his hands.

Everything came down to the most minute contingencies, and to tinker with any single one of them was to change the future out of all recognition. He knew there was some argument in science, something to do with butterflies flapping their wings in the jungle . . . Maybe if he flapped his own arms, he would end up getting served. The barman was pouring a bright pink concoction into a martini glass, turning away from Rebus to serve it. The bar was double-sided, dividing the room in half. Rebus peered across into the gloom. Not too many customers in the other half. A mirror image of booths and squishy chairs, same decor and clientele. Rebus knew that he stood out by about thirty years. One young man had ranged himself across an entire banquette, arms stretched out behind him, legs crossed, looking cocksure and relaxed, wanting to be seen . . .

Seen by everyone but Rebus. The barman was ready to take Rebus’s order, but Rebus shook his head, walked to the end of the bar and through the short corridor that led to the bar’s other half. Across the floor until he was standing in front of Peacock Johnson.

“Mr. Rebus . . .” Johnson’s arms fell to his sides. He glanced to the right and left, as if expecting Rebus to have reinforcements. “The dapper detective, and no mistake. Looking for yours truly?”

“Not especially.” Rebus slid into the space across from Johnson. The young man’s choice of Hawaiian shirt didn’t look quite so garish in this light. A new waitress had appeared, and Rebus ordered a double. “On my friend’s tab,” he added, nodding across the table.

Johnson just shrugged magnanimously, and ordered another glass of merlot for himself. “So this is by way of a pure and actual coincidence?” he asked.

“Where’s your mongrel?” Rebus said, looking around.

“The wee evil fellow doesn’t quite have the cachet for an establishment of this caliber.”

“You tie him up outside?”

Johnson grinned. “I let him off the leash now and again.”

“An owner could get fined for that sort of thing.”

“He only bites when the Peacock gives the order.” Johnson finished the dregs of his wine, just as the new drinks arrived. The waitress put down a bowl of rice crackers between the two glasses. “Cheers, then,” Johnson said, hoisting the merlot.

Rebus ignored this. “I was just thinking of you actually,” he said.

“The purest of thoughts, I don’t doubt.”

“Funnily enough, no.” Rebus leaned across the table, keeping his voice low. “In fact, if you were a mind-reader, they’d have scared the shit out of you.” He had Johnson’s attention now. “Know who died last Friday? Andy Callis. You remember him, don’t you?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“He was the armed-response cop who stopped your friend Rab Fisher.”

“Rab’s not so much a friend as a casual acquaintance.”

“Acquainted enough for you to sell him that gun.”

“A replica, if you don’t mind me reminding you.” Johnson was diving into the bowl of snacks, holding his paw to his mouth and feeding them in morsel by morsel, so that bits flew out as he spoke. “No case to answer, and I resent any implication to the contrary.”

“Except that Fisher was going around scaring people, and it nearly got him killed.”

“No case to answer,” Johnson repeated.

“And he turned my friend into a nervous wreck, and now that friend’s dead. You sold someone a gun, and someone else ended up dying.”

“A replica, perfectly legitimate at this point in time and space.” Johnson was trying not to listen, making to grab another fistful of crackers. Rebus swiped at the hand, scattering the bowl and its contents. He grabbed the young man’s wrist. Squeezed it hard.

“You’re about as legitimate as every other bad bastard I’ve ever come across.”

Johnson was trying to free his hand. “And you’re pure as the driven, is that what you’re saying? Everybody knows the lengths
you’ll
go to, Rebus!”

“And what lengths are those?”

“Anything that’ll get
me!
I know you tried framing me, saying I’m retooling deactivated guns.”

“Says who?” Rebus had released his grip.

“Says everyone!” There were flecks of saliva on Johnson’s chin, bits of snack food mixed in with them. “Christ, you’d have to be deaf in this town not to hear.”

It was true: Rebus had been putting out feelers. He’d wanted Peacock Johnson. He’d wanted something—
something
—as repayment for Callis leaving the force. And though people had shaken their heads and muttered words like
replicas
and
trophies
and
deactivated,
Rebus had gone on asking.

And somehow, Johnson had got to hear of it.

“How long have you known?” Rebus asked now.

“What?”

“How long?”

But Johnson just picked up his glass, eyes beady, waiting for Rebus to try to knock it from his grasp. Rebus lifted his own glass, drained it in one burning mouthful.

“Something you ought to know,” he said, nodding slowly. “I can hold a grudge for a lifetime: just you watch me.”

“Even though I’ve done nothing?”

“Oh, you’ll have done
something,
believe me.” Rebus made to stand. “I just haven’t found out what it is yet, that’s all.” He winked and turned away. Heard the table being pushed aside, looked around and Johnson was on his feet, fists clenched.

“Let’s settle it now!” he was shouting. Rebus slipped his hands into his pockets.

“I’d prefer to wait for the court case, if that’s all right with you,” he said.

“No way! I’m sick and tired of this!”

“Good,” Rebus said. He saw Siobhan emerging from the corridor, looking at him in disbelief. Probably thought he’d gone to the toilet. Her eyes said it all:
I can’t leave you five damned minutes
. . .

“Any trouble here?” The question coming not from Siobhan but from some sort of doorman, thick-necked and wearing a tight black suit over a black polo neck. He was fitted with an earpiece and microphone. His shaven head shone beneath what light there was.

“Just a little argument,” Rebus assured him. “In fact, maybe you can settle it: name of Elton John’s old record label?”

The doorman looked nonplussed. The barman had his hand raised. Rebus nodded at him. “DJM,” the barman said.

Rebus snapped his fingers. “That’s the one! Chalk up a drink for yourself, anything you like . . .” He headed for the corridor, pointed back towards Peacock Johnson. “On that little bastard’s tab . . .”

“You never talk much about your army days,” Siobhan said, bringing two plates in from the kitchen. Rebus had already been provided with a tray, knife and fork. Condiments were on the floor at his feet. He gave a nod of thanks, accepting the plate: a grilled pork chop with baked potato and corn on the cob.

“This looks great,” he said, lifting his wineglass. “Compliments to the chef.”

“I microwaved the potatoes, and the corn came out of the freezer.”

Rebus put a finger to his lips. “Never give away your secrets.”

“A lesson you’ve taken to heart.” She blew on a forkful of pork. “Want me to repeat the question?”

“Thing is, Siobhan, it wasn’t a question.”

She thought back, and saw that he was right. “Nevertheless,” she said.

“You want me to answer?” He watched her nod, then took a sip of his wine. Chilean red, she’d told him. Three quid a bottle. “Mind if I eat first?”

“You can’t eat and talk at the same time?”

“Bad manners, so my mum used to tell me.”

“You always listened to your parents?”

“Always.”

“And took their advice as gospel?” He nodded, chewing on some potato skin. “Then how come we’re talking and eating at the same time?”

Rebus washed the mouthful down with more wine. “Okay, I give in. To answer the question you didn’t ask, yes.” She was expecting more, but he was concentrating on his food again.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, it’s true I don’t talk much about my army days.”

Siobhan exhaled noisily. “I’d get more chat out of one of the clients down at the morgue.” She stopped, squeezed shut her eyes for a second. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s okay.” But Rebus’s chewing had slowed. Two of the current “clients”: family member and ex-colleague. Strange to think of them lying on adjacent metal trays in the morgue’s chilled lockers. “Thing about my army days is, I’ve spent years trying to forget them.”

“Why?”

“All sorts of reasons. I shouldn’t have signed on the dotted line in the first place. Then I woke up and I was in Ulster, aiming a rifle at kids armed with Molotovs. Ended up trying for the SAS and getting my brain scrambled in the process.” He gave a shrug. “That’s about all there is to it.”

“So why did you join the police?”