A Question of Blood (2003) (39 page)

“Until now?” Rebus guessed. The scientist nodded.

“We’ve got a lot of data on firearms, what sort of damage they do to the human body and to anything else they come in contact with . . .”

“And James Bell is proving a puzzle?”

Duff nodded. “A bit of a puzzle, yes.”

Hogan looked from Duff to Rebus and back again. “How so?”

“In Bell’s statement he says he was hit while in movement. Basically, he was diving for the floor. He seemed to think this might explain why he wasn’t killed. He also said that Herdman was about three and a half meters away when he fired.” He crossed to the computer again, and brought a 3-D simulation onto the screen, showing the classroom and pointing to the positions of gunman and schoolboy. “Again, the victim is of similar height to Herdman. But this time, the angle of the shot appears to be upwards.” Duff paused to let this sink in. “As if the person doing the firing was the one crouching down.” He bent low at the knees and pointed an imaginary pistol, then straightened and crossed to another of the benches. There was a light box sitting on it, and he switched it on, illuminating a set of X-rays showing the route the bullet had taken in ripping through James Bell’s shoulder. “Entry wound at the front, exit at the back. You can see the trajectory quite clearly.” He traced it for them with his finger.

“So Herdman was crouching down,” Bobby Hogan said, with a shrug of the shoulders.

“I get the feeling Ray’s just warming up,” Rebus said quietly, thinking that he wouldn’t have too many questions for the scientist after all.

Duff returned Rebus’s look and went back to the photographs. “No blood spatter pattern,” he said, circling the area of the wall. Then he held up a hand. “Actually, that’s not strictly true. There’s blood present, but it’s such a fine diffusion you can’t really make it out.”

“Meaning what?” Hogan asked, not bothering to hide his impatience.

“Meaning James Bell wasn’t standing where he said he was at the time he was shot. He was much farther into the room, which means closer to Herdman.”

“Yet there’s still that upward trajectory to the shot?” Rebus noted.

Duff nodded, then pulled open a drawer and brought out a bag. It was clear polyethylene, edged with brown paper. An evidence bag. Folded up inside lay a bloodstained white shirt, the bullet hole at the shoulder clearly visible.

“James Bell’s shirt,” Duff stated. “And here we find something else . . .”

“Powder burns,” Rebus said quietly. Hogan turned to him.

“How come you already know all this?” he hissed.

Rebus shrugged. “I’ve got no social life, Bobby. Nothing to do with myself but sit and think about things.” Hogan glowered, letting Rebus know this was well short of an acceptable answer.

“DI Rebus is spot on,” Duff said, gaining their attention again. “You wouldn’t expect powder burns on the bodies of the first two victims. They were shot from a distance. You only get powder burns when the gun is close to the skin or, say, the victim’s clothes . . .”

“Did Herdman himself have powder burns?” Rebus asked.

Duff nodded. “Consistent with placing the pistol to his temple and firing.”

Rebus went back along the display of photos, taking his time. They weren’t really telling him anything, which in a way was the whole point. You had to peer beneath their surface to begin to glimpse the truth. Hogan was scratching the nape of his neck.

“I’m not really getting this,” he said.

“It’s a puzzle,” Duff agreed. “Hard to square the witness’s account with the evidence.”

“Depends which way you look at it, though, Ray, am I right?”

Duff fixed eyes with Rebus and nodded. “There’s always a way to explain things.”

“Take your time, then.” Hogan slapped his hands down on the workbench. “I had nothing better to do with myself today anyway.”

“Just got to look at it a different way, Bobby,” Rebus told him. “James Bell was shot at point-blank range . . .”

“By someone the approximate size of a garden gnome,” Hogan said dismissively.

Rebus shook his head. “It’s just that Herdman couldn’t have done it.”

Hogan’s eyes widened. “Wait a second . . .”

“Isn’t that right, Ray?”

“It’s one conclusion, certainly.” Duff was rubbing the underside of his jaw.

“Couldn’t have done it?” Hogan echoed. “You’re saying there was someone else in there? An accomplice?”

Rebus shook his head. “I’m saying it’s possible—maybe even probable—that Lee Herdman only killed one person in that room.”

Hogan’s eyes narrowed. “And who would that be?”

Rebus turned his attention to Ray Duff, who supplied the answer.

“Himself,” Duff stated, as though it were the simplest explanation in the world.

24

R
ebus and Hogan sat in Hogan’s idling car. They’d been silent for a few minutes. The passenger-side window was open, and Rebus was smoking, while Hogan’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel.

“How do we play this?” Hogan asked. This time around, Rebus had an answer.

“You know my preferred technique, Bobby,” he said.

“Bull in a china shop?” Hogan guessed.

Rebus nodded slowly, finishing his cigarette and flicking the butt onto the roadway. “It’s served me well enough in the past.”

“But this is different, John. Jack Bell’s an MSP.”

“Jack Bell’s a clown.”

“Don’t underestimate him.”

Rebus turned to face his colleague. “Having second thoughts, Bobby?”

“I just wonder if we shouldn’t . . .”

“Cover our arses?”

“Unlike you, John, I’ve never been an aficionado of china shops.”

Rebus stared out through the windshield. “I’m going in there anyway, Bobby. You know that. Whether you’re with me or not is up to you. You can always call Claverhouse and Ormiston, let them know the score. But I need to hear it for myself.” He turned again to stare at Hogan, eyes shining. “Sure I can’t tempt you?”

Bobby Hogan ran his tongue around his lips, clockwise, then counterclockwise. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

“Hell with it,” he said. “What’s a bit of broken crockery between friends?”

***

The door to the Barnton house was opened by Kate Renshaw.

“Hiya, Kate,” Rebus said, face stony, “how’s your dad?”

“He’s all right.”

“Not think you’d be better off spending a bit more time with him?”

She’d opened the door wide to let them in, Hogan having phoned ahead to say they were coming.

“I’m doing something useful here,” Kate argued.

“Bolstering a curb crawler’s career?”

Her eyes flashed fire, but Rebus ignored them. Through glass doors to the right, he could see the dining room, its table spread with the paperwork from Jack Bell’s campaign. Bell himself was descending the staircase, rubbing his hands together as though he’d just washed them.

“Officers,” he said, not bothering to sound welcoming. “I hope this won’t take long.”

“Same here,” Hogan countered.

Rebus looked around. “Is Mrs. Bell in the house?”

“She’s out visiting. Was there something in particular . . . ?”

“Just wanted to tell her I saw
Wind in the Willows
last night. Cracking good show.”

The MSP raised an eyebrow. “I’ll pass on the message.”

“You told your son to expect us?” Hogan asked.

Bell nodded. “He’s watching TV.” He gestured towards the living room. Without waiting to be asked, Hogan walked over to the door and opened it. James Bell was lying along the cream leather sofa, shoes off, head resting on the hand of his good arm.

“James,” his father said, “the police are here.”

“So I see.” James swiveled his feet back onto the carpet.

“Hello again, James,” Hogan said. “I think you know DI Rebus . . .”

James nodded.

“Mind if we sit down?” Hogan asked, aiming the question at son rather than father. Not that Hogan was about to wait for permission. He made himself comfortable in an armchair, while Rebus was content to stand by the fireplace. Jack Bell sat down next to his son and placed a hand on James’s knee, which the young man swatted away. James leaned down and picked up a glass of water from the floor, lifted it to his lips and sipped.

“I’d still like to know what’s going on,” Jack Bell said impatiently: a busy man, a man who had better things to do with his time. Rebus’s mobile sounded, and he mouthed an apology as he brought it out of his pocket. Looked at the display and saw who was calling. Apologized again as he stood up and left the room.

“Gill?” he said into the mouthpiece. “How’s Bob coming along?”

“Since you ask, he’s a fund of good stories.”

Rebus looked into the dining room. There was no sign of Kate. “He didn’t know the chip pan was meant to catch fire.”

“Agreed.”

“So what else has he said?”

“He seems to have taken against Rab Fisher, without realizing how much he’s implicating his friend Peacock in the process.”

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”

“The reason Fisher was walking up and down nightclub queues, letting people get a glimpse of the gun he was carrying . . .”

“Yes?”

“He was trying to sell drugs.”

“Drugs?”

“Working for your friend Johnson.”

“Peacock’s sold some hash in the past, but not enough to merit an assistant.”

“Bob’s not spelling it out, but I think we might be talking crack.”

“Jesus . . . so who was his source?”

“I’d have thought that was obvious.” She gave a short laugh. “Your other friend, the one with the boats.”

“I don’t think so,” Rebus stated.

“Remind me, wasn’t cocaine found on his boat?”

“All the same . . .”

“Well, someone else, then.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, it’s a good start, wouldn’t you say?”

“Must be the woman’s touch.”

“He just needs someone to mother him, John. Thanks for the tip.”

“Does this mean I’m out of the woods?”

“It means I need to bring Mullen in, let him hear what we’ve got.”

“But you don’t think I killed Martin Fairstone?”

“Let’s just say I’m wavering.”

“Thanks for backing me up, boss. Let me know if you get anything else, will you?”

“I’ll try. What are you up to? Anything new I should be starting to worry about?”

“Maybe . . . Watch the sky over Barnton for fireworks.” He cut the call, made sure his phone was switched off, and went back into the room.

“I assure you, we’ll be as quick as we can,” Hogan was saying. Then he looked up at Rebus. “Now I’m going to hand things over to my colleague.” Rebus pretended to take his time over forming his first question, then stared hard at James Bell.

“Why did you do it, James?”

“What?”

Jack Bell shifted forwards. “I think I must protest at your tone . . .”

“Sorry about that, sir. I get a bit agitated sometimes when someone’s been lying to me. Not just to me, but to everyone: the whole inquiry, his parents, the media . . .
everyone
.” James was staring back at him. Rebus folded his arms. “See, James, we’re beginning to piece together what really happened in that classroom, and I’ve got news for you. When you fire a gun, there are traces left on your skin. They can last weeks, last through a dozen washings and scrubbings. On your shirt cuffs, too. Remember, we’ve still got the shirt you were wearing.”

“What the hell are you saying?” Jack Bell snarled, face filling with blood. “Do you expect me to let you walk into my house and accuse an eighteen-year-old boy of . . . ? Is that the way you work in the police force these days?”

“Dad . . .”

“It’s because of me, isn’t it? You’re trying to get at me through my son. Just because you made a horrific mistake that nearly cost me my job, my marriage . . .”

“Dad . . .” James’s voice had risen a fraction.

“Now this terrible tragedy occurs and all you can do is —”

“There’s no vendetta here, sir,” Hogan was protesting.

“Even though the arresting officer in Leith swears he had you dead to rights,” Rebus couldn’t help adding.

“John . . . ,” Hogan warned.

“You see?” Jack Bell’s voice was a tremor of anger. “You see the way it is, and always will be? Because you’re too arrogant to —”

James leapt to his feet.
“Will you shut the fuck up? For once in your bloody life, will you just shut the fuck up?”

Silence in the room, even though the words seemed to hang in the air, reverberating. James Bell sat back down again slowly.

“Maybe,” Hogan said quietly, “if we could let James have his say.” Directing his words to the MSP, who seemed stunned, eyes on a son he’d never known existed, someone suddenly revealed to him.

“You can’t talk to me like that.” Looking at James, voice barely audible.

“I thought I just did,” James told his father. Then, eyes focused on Rebus, “Let’s get this over with.”

Rebus moistened his lips. “Right now, James, probably the only thing we can prove is that you were shot at point-blank range—contrary to the story you’ve been sticking to thus far—and that the angle of the shot would suggest that you did it yourself. However, you’ve also admitted knowing of at least one of Lee Herdman’s guns, which is why I think maybe you took the Brocock intending to shoot and kill Anthony Jarvies and Derek Renshaw.”

“They were wankers, the pair of them.”

“And that constitutes a good enough reason?”

“James,” Jack Bell warned, “I don’t want you saying anything to these men.”

His son ignored him. “They had to die.”

Jack Bell’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. James concentrated on the water glass, turning it and turning it.

“Why did they have to die?” Rebus asked quietly.

James shrugged. “I’ve already said.”

“You didn’t like them?” Rebus suggested. “And that’s all there is to it?”

“Plenty of my peers have killed for less. Or haven’t you been watching the news? America, Germany, Yemen . . . Sometimes it’s enough that you don’t like Mondays.”

“Help me understand, James. I know you had different taste in music . . .”

“Not just in music: in everything!”

“A different outlook on life?” Hogan suggested.

“Maybe,” Rebus said, “a part of you wanted to impress Teri Cotter, too.”

James glared at him. “Leave her out of this.”

“That’s not easy to do, James. After all, Teri’d told you she was obsessed with death, hadn’t she?” James said nothing. “I think you’d become a bit infatuated with her.”

“How would you know?” the teenager sneered.

“Well, for a start, you made that trip to Cockburn Street to take her picture.”

“I took a lot of photos.”

“But you kept hers in that book you loaned to Lee. You didn’t like it that she’d slept with him, did you? Didn’t like it when Jarvies and Renshaw told you they’d found her website, watching her in her bedroom.” Rebus paused. “How am I doing?”

“You know a lot, Inspector.”

Rebus shook his head. “But there’s so much I don’t know, James. And I’m hoping maybe you’ll fill in the gaps.”

“You don’t have to say anything, James,” his father croaked. “You’re a minor . . . there are laws to protect you. You’ve suffered a trauma. No court in the land would . . .” He looked across at the detectives. “Surely he should have a solicitor present?”

“I don’t want one,” James snapped.

“But you must.” The father sounded aghast.

The son sneered. “It’s not about you anymore, Dad, do you see? It’s all about me now. I’m the one who’s going to put you back on the front pages, but for all the wrong reasons. And in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not a minor—I’m eighteen. Old enough to vote, old enough to do lots of things.” He seemed to wait for a retort that did not come, then turned his attention back to Rebus. “What is it you need to know?”

“Am I right about Teri?”

“I knew she was sleeping with Lee.”

“When you gave him that book . . . you left her photo there deliberately?”

“I suppose so.”

“Hoping he’d see it, and do what?” Rebus watched as James shrugged. “Maybe it was enough that he would know you liked her, too.” Rebus paused. “Why that particular book, though?”

James looked at him. “Because Lee wanted to read it. He knew the story, how the guy had jumped to his death from a plane. He wasn’t . . .” James seemed unable to find the words he needed. He took a deep breath. “He was a deeply unhappy man, you must realize that.”

“Unhappy in what way?”

The word came to James. “Haunted,” he said. “That’s the sense I always got. He was haunted.”

There was silence in the room for a moment, broken by Rebus: “You took the gun from Lee’s flat?”

“That’s right.”

“He didn’t know?”

A shake of the head.

“You knew about the Brocock?” Bobby Hogan asked, just about keeping his voice under control. James nodded.

“So how come he turned up at the school?” Rebus asked.

“I left him a note. Didn’t expect him to find it so soon.”

“What was your plan then, James?”

“Just walk into the common room—usually only the two of them there—and kill them.”

“In cold blood?”

“That’s right.”

“Two kids who’d done you no harm?”

“Two less on the planet.” The teenager shrugged. “I don’t see typhoons and hurricanes, earthquakes and famine . . .”

“And that’s why you did it, because it wouldn’t matter?”

James was thoughtful. “Maybe.”

Rebus looked down at the carpet, trying to control the rage growing within him.
My family . . . my blood
. . .

“It all happened so fast,” James was telling them. “I was amazed how calm I felt. Bang bang, two bodies . . . Lee was walking in the door as I shot the second one. He just stood there, the pair of us did. Didn’t know quite what to do.” He smiled at the memory. “Then he held out his hand for the gun, and I handed it over.” The smile evaporated. “Last thing I expected was for the stupid sod to point it at his own head.”

“Why do you think he did that?”

James shook his head slowly. “I’ve been trying to work it out ever since . . . Do you know?” An imploring edge to the question; needing an answer. Rebus had a few theories: because the gun was his, and he felt responsible . . . because the incident would bring whole teams of professionals sniffing around, including the army . . . because it was a way out . . .

Because he would no longer be haunted.

“You took the gun from him and shot yourself in the shoulder,” Rebus said quietly. “Then placed it back in his hand?”

“Yes. The note I’d left for him, it was in his other hand. I took that, too.”

“What about fingerprints.”

“I did what they do in the films, wiped the pistol with my shirt.”

“But when you first walked in there . . . you must have been prepared for everyone to know you’d done it. Why the change of heart?”