A Question of Blood (2003) (36 page)

Rebus reached Siobhan in her car.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“The A90, heading for South Queensferry. What about you?”

“Sitting at a red light on Queensferry Road.”

“Driving
and
using your phone? The hands must be healing.”

“Getting there. What’ve you been up to?”

“Fairstone’s girlfriend.”

“Any joy?”

“Of a sort. What about you?”

“Sitting in on an interview with Teri Cotter. Claverhouse thinks he’s found his motive.”

“Oh yes?”

“Herdman was jealous because the two kids were logging on to Teri’s site.”

“And James Bell just happened to get in the way?”

“I’m sure that’s how Claverhouse will see it.”

“So what now?”

“Everything shuts down.”

“And Whiteread and Simms?”

“You’re right. They won’t like it.” He watched the light in front of him turn green.

“Because they’ll go away empty-handed?”

“Yes.” Rebus thought for a moment, holding the phone between jaw and shoulder as he changed up through the gears. Then: “So what’s waiting for you in Queensferry?”

“The barman at the Boatman’s, he’s Fox’s brother.”

“Fox?”

“Fairstone’s girlfriend.”

“Explaining why she was in the bar . . .”

“Yes.”

“So you’ve talked to her?”

“We exchanged a few pleasantries.”

“Did she say anything about Peacock Johnson, whether his falling-out with Fairstone had anything to do with her?”

“I forgot to ask.”

“You forgot . . . ?”

“Things got a bit fraught. I thought maybe I’d ask her brother instead.”

“You reckon he’d know if she had a thing going with Peacock?”

“Don’t know till I ask.”

“Why don’t we hook up? I was planning a trip to the marina.”

“You want to go there first?”

“Then we can end the day with a well-earned drink.”

“I’ll see you at the boatyard then.”

She ended the call and came off the highway at the last off-ramp before the Forth Road Bridge. Drove down the hill into South Queensferry and turned left on Shore Road. Her phone trilled again.

“Change of plan?” she asked into the mouthpiece.

“Not until we’ve got a plan to change, which is the very reason I’m calling.”

She recognized the voice: Doug Brimson. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else. What can I do for you?”

“I was just wondering if you’re ready to take to the skies again.”

She smiled to herself. “Maybe I am.”

“Great. How about tomorrow?”

She considered for a moment. “I could probably sneak out for an hour.”

“Late afternoon? Just before the sun goes down?”

“Okay.”

“And you’ll take the controls this time?”

“I think I could be persuaded.”

“Great. How does sixteen hundred hours sound?”

“It sounds like four in the afternoon.”

He laughed. “I’ll see you then, Siobhan.”

“Good-bye, Doug.”

She placed the phone back on the passenger seat, staring at the sky through her windshield. Imagined herself flying a plane . . . Imagined having a panic attack in the middle of it. But she didn’t think she’d panic. Besides, Doug Brimson would be there with her. No need for her to worry.

She parked outside the marina’s cafeteria, went in and reappeared with a Mars bar. She was throwing out the wrapper when Rebus’s Saab arrived. He passed her and stopped at the far end of the car park, fifty yards closer to Herdman’s shed. By the time he’d got out and locked his door, she’d caught up with him.

“So what are we doing here?” she asked, swallowing the last cloying mouthful.

“Apart from ruining our teeth?” he said. “I want one last look at the shed.”

“Why?”

“Just because.”

The doors to the boathouse were closed but not locked. Rebus slid them open. Simms was crouching on the deck of the parked dinghy. He looked up at the interruption. Rebus nodded towards the crowbar in his hand.

“Taking the place apart?” he guessed.

“Never know what you’ll find,” Simms said. “Our record in that department is rather better than yours, after all.”

Hearing the voices, Whiteread had emerged from the office. She was holding a sheaf of papers.

“All getting a bit frantic, isn’t it?” Rebus said, walking towards her. “Claverhouse is getting ready to call it a day, and that’s not what you’d call music to the ears, is it?”

Whiteread managed a thin, cold smile. Rebus wondered what it would take to faze her, thought he had a pretty good idea.

“I assume it was you who put that journalist on to us,” she said. “He wanted to ask about a helicopter crash on Jura. Which got me wondering . . .”

“Do tell,” Rebus said.

“I had an interesting chat this morning,” she drawled, “with a man named Douglas Brimson. Seems the three of you took a little trip together.” Her eyes flitted towards Siobhan.

“Did we?” Rebus said. He’d stopped walking, but Whiteread hadn’t, not until her face was inches from his.

“He took you to Jura. From there, you went looking for a crash site.” She was studying his face for any sign of weakness. Rebus’s eyes flickered in Siobhan’s direction.
Bastard didn’t need to tell them!
A red tint had appeared on her cheeks.

“Did we?” was all Rebus could think to say.

Whiteread had risen on her toes, so her face was level with his. “The thing is, DI Rebus, how could you possibly have known about that?”

“About what?”

“Only way you could have known was if you had access to confidential files.”

“Is that right?” Rebus watched Simms climb down from the boat, still holding the crowbar. He gave a shrug. “Well, if these files you’re talking about are confidential, I can’t have seen them, can I?”

“Not without a spot of breaking and entering . . .” Whiteread turned her attention to Siobhan. “Not to mention photocopying.” She angled her head, pretending to examine the younger woman’s face. “Caught a touch of the sun, DS Clarke? Only, your cheeks seem to be burning.” Siobhan didn’t move, didn’t say anything. “Cat got your tongue?”

Simms was smirking, enjoying the detectives’ discomfort.

“I hear tell,” Rebus said to him, “you’re scared of the dark.”

“Eh?” Simms frowned.

“Explains why you like to keep your door ajar.” Rebus gave a wink, then turned back to Whiteread. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere with this. Not unless you want everyone on the inquiry knowing why you’re really here.”

“From what I hear, you’re already on suspension. Could be facing a murder charge anytime soon.” Whiteread’s eyes were dark points of light. “Added to which, the psychologist at Carbrae says you went behind her back, looked up records without permission.” She paused. “Seems to me you’re already shoulder-deep in shit, Rebus. I can’t think why you’d want more trouble than you’ve already got. Yet here you are, ready and willing to pick a fight with me. Let me try to get through to you.” She leaned forwards so her lips were an inch from his ear. “You’ve not got a prayer,” she said quietly. She pulled back slowly, ready to measure his response. Rebus had one gloved hand held up. She wasn’t sure what the gesture meant. A frown furrowed her brow. And then she saw what he was holding between thumb and middle finger. Saw it glint and sparkle in the light.

A single diamond.

“What the hell . . . ?” Simms muttered.

Rebus closed his hand around the diamond.

“Finders keepers,” he said, turning, starting to walk away. Siobhan fell into step with him, waited till they were back outdoors before she spoke.

“What was all that about?”

“Just a fishing expedition.”

“But what does it mean? Where did the diamond come from?”

Rebus smiled. “Friend of mine, he runs a jeweler’s shop on Queensferry Street.”

“And?”

“I persuaded him to let me borrow it.” Rebus was tucking the diamond back into his pocket. “Thing is,
they
don’t know that.”

“But you’re going to explain it to me, right?”

Rebus nodded slowly. “Just as soon as I find out what I’ve caught with my hook.”

“John . . .” Half warning, half pleading.

“We going for that drink now?” Rebus asked.

She didn’t reply, tried staring him down as they walked back to his car. She was still staring as he unlocked his door and got in. He started the engine, put it in gear, then rolled down his window.

“I’ll see you there, then” was all he said, making to drive off. Siobhan stood her ground, but he just gave her a wave. Cursing silently, she started stalking towards her own car.

21

R
ebus was seated at a window table in the Boatman’s, checking a text message from Steve Holly.

Wot u got 4 me? Mite av 2 refresh chip pan story if u dont help.

Rebus debated whether to reply or not, then started pressing keys:

jura crash herdman there took sth army want back u could ask whiteread again

He wasn’t sure that Holly would understand, Rebus not having worked out how to add punctuation or capitals to his text messages. But it would keep the reporter busy, and if he did end up confronting Whiteread and Simms, so much the better. Let them think the world was closing in on them. Rebus picked up his half-pint and made a little toast to himself with it just as Siobhan arrived. He’d been debating whether to pass on Teri’s news: Brimson and her mum. Thing was, if he told her, she probably couldn’t keep it to herself. Next time she met Brimson, he’d see it in her face, the way she spoke to him, a reluctance to meet his eyes. Rebus didn’t want that, couldn’t see it doing anyone any good, not at this juncture. Siobhan slung her bag onto the table and looked towards the bar, where a woman she’d never seen before was pulling pints.

“Don’t worry,” Rebus said. “I had a word. McAllister’s shift starts in a few minutes.”

“Just long enough for you to enlighten me, then.” She slipped off her coat. Rebus was rising to his feet.

“Let me get you a drink first. What’ll it be?”

“Lime and soda.”

“Nothing stronger?”

She frowned at his near-empty glass. “Some of us are driving.”

“Don’t worry, I’m only having the one.” He made his way to the bar, came back with two drinks: lime and soda for her, cola for him. “See?” he said. “I can be all smug and virtuous, too, when I want to be.”

“Better that than drunk at the wheel.” She lifted the straw from her glass and deposited it in the ashtray, sat back and placed her hands on her thighs. “Right, then . . . I’m ready if you are.”

At which, the door creaked open.

“Speak of the devil,” Rebus said as Rod McAllister walked in. McAllister saw that he was being stared at. When he looked, Rebus beckoned him over. McAllister was unzipping a scuffed leather jacket. He pulled the black scarf from around his neck and stuffed it into a pocket.

“I’ve got to start work,” he said when Rebus patted an empty stool.

“This’ll only take a minute,” Rebus offered with a smile. “Susie won’t mind.” He nodded towards the barmaid.

McAllister hesitated, then sat down, elbows pressing against his thin legs, hands cupped below his chin. Rebus mimicked the posture.

“It’s about Lee, then?” McAllister guessed.

“Not strictly speaking,” Rebus said. Then he glanced towards Siobhan.

“We may come back to that,” she told the barman. “But right now, we’re more interested in your sister.”

He looked from Siobhan to Rebus and then back again. “Which one?”

“Rachel Fox. Funny you’ve got different surnames.”

“We haven’t.” McAllister’s eyes were still shifting between the two detectives, unable to decide whom he should be addressing. Siobhan answered with a click of her fingers. He focused on her, narrowed his eyes slightly. “She changed her name a while back, trying to get into modeling. What’s she got to do with you lot?”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugged.

“Marty Fairstone?” Siobhan prompted. “Don’t tell me she never introduced you?”

“Yeah, I knew Marty. I was gutted when I heard.”

“What about a fellow named Johnson?” Rebus asked. “His nickname’s Peacock . . . friend of Marty’s . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Ever come across him?”

McAllister seemed to be thinking. “Not sure,” he said at last.

“Peacock and Rachel,” Siobhan began, angling her head to catch his attention again, “we think they might’ve had a thing going.”

“Oh, aye?” McAllister raised an eyebrow. “That’s news to me.”

“She never mentioned him?”

“No.”

“The pair of them have been hanging about town.”

“Plenty of people hanging about recently. Take you two, for example.” He sat back, stretching his spine, glancing at the clock above the bar. “Don’t want to get in Susie’s bad books . . .”

“Rumor is, Fairstone and Johnson had a falling-out, maybe over Rachel.”

“Oh, aye?”

“If you’re finding the questions too awkward, Mr. McAllister,” Rebus said, “feel free to say . . .”

Siobhan was staring at McAllister’s T-shirt, revealed now that he wasn’t slouched forwards anymore. It showed an album cover, an album she knew.

“Mogwai fan, eh, Rod?”

“Anything that’s loud.” McAllister examined his shirt.

“It’s their
Rock Action
album, isn’t it?”

“That’s the one.”

McAllister made to stand up, turning towards the bar. Siobhan locked eyes with Rebus and nodded slowly. “Rod,” she said, “that first time we met . . . you remember I gave you my card?”

McAllister nodded, walking away from her. But Siobhan was on her feet, following him, her voice rising.

“It had the St. Leonard’s address on it, didn’t it, Rod? And when you saw my name, you knew who I was, didn’t you? Because Marty had mentioned me . . . or maybe it was Rachel. You remember that Mogwai album, Rod, the one before
Rock Action
?”

McAllister had lifted the hatch so he could move behind the bar. He slammed it shut after him. The barmaid was staring at him. Siobhan lifted the hatch.

“Hoi, staff only,” Susie said. But Siobhan wasn’t listening, was hardly aware that Rebus had risen from his chair and was approaching the bar. She grabbed McAllister by the sleeve of his jacket. He tried to shake her off, but she turned him to face her.

“Remember what it was called, Rod? It was
Come On Die Young
. C.O.D.Y., Rod. Same letters as on your second note.”

“Get the fuck off me!” he yelled.

“Whatever it is between you,” Susie was saying, “take it outside.”

“It’s a serious offense, Rod, sending threats like that.”

“Let go of me, you bitch!” He jerked his arm free, then swung it, catching her on the side of her face. She crashed into the shelves, sending bottles flying. Rebus had reached over the bar and grabbed McAllister by his hair, pulling his head down until it connected hard with the slop tray. McAllister’s arms were thrashing, his voice a wordless bellow, but Rebus wasn’t about to let go.

“Any cuffs?” he asked Siobhan. She stumbled from behind the bar, glass crunching underfoot, ran to her bag, emptying its contents onto the table until she found the handcuffs. McAllister caught her a couple of good ones to the shins with the heels of his cowboy boots, but she squeezed the cuffs tight, knowing they’d hold. She moved away from him, feeling dizzy, not knowing if it was a concussion, adrenaline, or the fumes from half a dozen smashed liquor bottles.

“Call it in,” Rebus hissed, still not letting go of his prisoner. “A night in the cells won’t do this bastard any harm at all.”

“Here, you can’t do that,” Susie complained. “Who’s going to cover his shift?”

“Not our problem, love,” Rebus told her, offering what he hoped might be taken for an apologetic smile.

They’d taken McAllister to St. Leonard’s, booked him into the only empty cell left. Rebus had asked Siobhan if they’d be charging him formally. She’d shrugged.

“I doubt he’ll be sending any more notes.” One side of her face was still raw from where he’d connected, but it didn’t look like it would bruise.

In the car park, they went their separate ways. Siobhan’s parting words: “What about that diamond?” Rebus waving to her as he drove off.

He made for Arden Street, ignoring the ringing of his mobile: Siobhan, wanting to put that question to him again. He couldn’t find a parking space, decided he was too hyped-up anyway for a quiet night at home. So he kept driving, cruising the city’s south side until he found himself in Gracemount, back at the bus shelter where he’d confronted the Lost Boys what seemed like half a lifetime ago. Had it really only been Wednesday night? The shelter was deserted now. Rebus parked curbside anyway, let his window down an inch and smoked a cigarette. He didn’t know what he’d do with Rab Fisher if he found him, knew he wanted a few answers about Andy Callis’s death. The episode in the bar had given him a taste. He looked at his hands. They were still tingling from contact with McAllister, but it wasn’t altogether an unpleasant feeling.

Buses came but didn’t linger: no one was getting on or off. Rebus started the ignition and headed into the mazy housing projects, covering every possible route, sometimes finishing in a cul-de-sac and having to back out. There were kids playing a game of football in the near-dark on a stunted patch of parkland. Others skateboarding towards an underpass. This was their territory, their time of day. He could ask about the Lost Boys but knew that these kids learned the rules young. They wouldn’t rat out the local gang, not when their chief aspiration in life was probably membership of the same. Rebus parked again outside a low-rise block, smoked another cigarette. He’d need to find a shop soon, somewhere he could stock up. Or head for a pub, where one of the drinkers would doubtless sell him a job lot cheap, no questions asked. He checked the radio to see if anything bearable was being broadcast, but all he could find were rap and dance. There was a tape in the player, but it was Rory Gallagher,
Jinx,
and he wasn’t in the mood. Seemed to remember one of the tracks was called “The Devil Made Me Do It.” Not much of a defense these days, but plenty of others had come along in Old Nick’s place. No such thing as an inexplicable crime, not now that there were scientists and psychologists who’d talk about genes and abuse, brain damage and peer pressure. Always a reason . . . always, it seemed, an excuse.

So why had Andy Callis died?

And why had Lee Herdman walked into that classroom?

Rebus smoked his cigarette in silence, took the diamond out and looked at it, pocketed it at a sound from outside: one kid wheeling another past in a supermarket cart. They both stared at him, as if he were the oddity here, and maybe he was. A couple of minutes later, they were back again. Rebus rolled his window all the way down.

“Looking for something, mister?” The cart-pusher was nine, maybe ten, head shaven, cheekbones prominent.

“Supposed to be meeting Rab Fisher.” Rebus pretended to look at his watch. “Bastard hasn’t shown up.”

The boys were wary, but not as wary as they would become in a year or two.

“Seen him earlier,” the cart passenger said. Rebus decided to skip the grammar lesson.

“I owe him some cash,” he explained instead. “Thought he’d be here.” Making a show now of looking all around, as though Fisher might suddenly appear.

“We could get it to him,” the cart-pusher said.

Rebus smiling. “Do I look like my head zips up the back?”

“Up to you.” The kid offering a shrug.

“Try two streets that way.” His passenger pointing ahead and right. “We’ll race you.”

Rebus turned the ignition again. Didn’t want to race. He’d be conspicuous enough without a shopping cart rattling along at his side. “Bet you could find me some ciggies,” he said, picking a five-pound note from his pocket. “Cheap as you like, and the change is all yours.”

The note was plucked from his hand. “What’s with the gloves, mister?”

“No fingerprints,” Rebus said with a wink, pushing the accelerator.

But nothing was happening two streets away. He came to a junction and looked left and right, saw another car parked by the curb, a huddle of figures leaning down into it. Rebus paused at the Yield, thinking the car was being broken into. Then he realized: they were talking to the driver. Four of them. Just the one head visible inside the car. Looked like the Lost Boys, Rab Fisher doing all the talking. The car’s engine was a low growl, even in neutral. Souped up, or missing its exhaust pipe. Rebus suspected the former. The car had been worked on: big brake light in its back window, spoiler attached to the trunk. The driver was wearing a baseball cap. Rebus wanted him to be a victim, mugged or threatened . . . something that would give Rebus the excuse to go storming in. But that wasn’t the scenario here. He could hear laughter, got the feeling some anecdote was being shared.

One of the gang looked in his direction, and he realized he’d been sitting too long at the empty intersection. He turned on to the new road, parked with his back to the other car, fifty yards farther along. Pretended to be looking up at the block of flats . . . just a visitor, here to pick up a pal. Two impatient blasts of his horn to complete the effect, the Lost Boys giving him a moment’s notice before dismissing him. Rebus put his phone to his ear, as if making a call to his missing friend . . .

And watched in his rearview.

Watched Rab Fisher gesticulating, animating his story, the driver someone he was keen to impress. Rebus could hear music, a rumble of bass, the driver’s radio tuned to one of the stations Rebus had rejected. He was wondering how long he could carry on the pretense. And what if the cart twosome really did bring him some cigarettes?

But now Fisher was straightening up, backing away from the car door, which was opening, the driver getting out.

And Rebus saw who it was: Evil Bob. Bob with his own car, acting big and tough, shoulders rolling as he walked around to the trunk, unlocking it. There was something inside he wanted them all to see, the gang forming a tight semicircle, blocking Rebus’s view.

Evil Bob . . . Peacock’s sidekick. But not acting the sidekick now, because though he might not be the brightest light on the Christmas tree, he was higher up that tree than a bauble like Fisher.

Not acting
. . .

Rebus was remembering something from the interview room at St. Leonard’s, the day the lowlifes were being grilled. Bob, muttering about never having seen a panto, sounding disappointed. Bob, the big kid, hardly a grown-up at all. Which was why Peacock kept him around, treating him almost as a pet, a pet who did tricks for him.