A Question of Blood

  And hit an immediate brick wall. She couldn’t log on to Derek Renshaw’s e-mail account without his password. She picked up the phone and called South Queensferry, thankful that Kate answered rather than her father.

  “Kate, it’s Siobhan Clarke.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got Derek’s computer here.”

  “Dad told me.”

  “But I forgot to ask for his password.”

  “What do you need that for?”

  “To look at any new e-mails.”

  “Why?” Sounding exasperated, wanting it all to be finished.

  “Because that’s what we do, Kate.” Silence on the line. “Kate?”

  “What?”

  “Just checking you hadn’t hung up on me.”

  “Oh . . . right.” And then the line went dead. Kate Renshaw had hung up on her. Siobhan gave a silent curse, decided she’d try again later or get Rebus to do it. He was family after all. Besides, she had the folder with all Derek’s old e-mails—no code needed to access that. She scrolled back, found that there were four years’ worth of e-mails in the folder. She hoped Derek had been neat and tidy, hoped he’d erased all the junk. She was five minutes into the task and bored of rugby scores and match reports when her phone rang. It was Kate.

  “I’m really sorry,” the voice said.

  “Don’t be. It’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not. You’re just trying to do your job.”

  “Doesn’t mean you have to like it. If I’m being honest, I don’t always like it either.”

  “His password was Miles.”

  Of course. It would have taken Siobhan only a few minutes of lateral thinking.

  “Thanks, Kate.”

  “He liked to go online. Dad complained for a while about the phone bills.”

  “You were close, weren’t you, you and Derek?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Not every brother would share his password.”

  A snort, something almost like a laugh. “I guessed it. Only took me three goes. He was trying to guess mine, and I was trying to guess his.”

  “Did he get yours?”

  “Bugged me for days about it, kept coming up with new ideas.”

  Siobhan’s left elbow rested on the desktop. She bunched her fist and rested her head against it. Maybe this was going to turn into a long call, a conversation Kate needed to have.

  Memories of Derek.

  “Did you share his taste in music?”

  “God, no. His stuff was all shoe-gazing. Sat in his room for hours, and if you went in, he was cross-legged on the bed, head in the clouds. I tried dragging him to a few clubs in town, but he said they just depressed him.” Another snort. “Different strokes, I suppose. He got beaten up once, you know.”

  “Where?”

  “In town. I think that’s when he started sticking close to home. Some kids he bumped into didn’t like his ‘posh’ accent. There’s a lot of that, you know. We’re all snobs, because our parents are rich shits who pay for our education; they’re all schemies who’ll end up on the dole . . . that’s where it starts.”

  “Where what starts?”

  “The aggression. I remember my last year at Port Edgar, we got a letter ‘advising’ us not to wear our uniform in town, unless we were on a supervised trip.” She gave a long sigh. “My parents pinched and scraped so we could go private. It might even be what broke them up.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “A lot of their fights had to do with money.”

  “Even so . . .”

  There was silence on the line for a moment. “I’ve been going on the ’Net, looking up stuff.”

  “What sort of stuff?”

  “All sorts . . . trying to work out what made him do it.”

  “Lee Herdman, you mean?”

  “There’s this book, it’s by an American. He’s a psychiatrist, or something. Know what it’s called?”

  “What?”

  “Bad Men Do What Good Men Dream. Do you think there’s any truth in that?”

  “Maybe I’d have to read the book.”

  “I think he’s saying we’ve all got it in us, the potential to . . . well, you know . . .”

  “I don’t know about that.” Siobhan was still thinking of Derek Renshaw. The beating was another thing he hadn’t mentioned so far in his computer files. So many secrets . . .

  “Kate, is it all right if I ask . . . ?”

  “What?”

  “Derek wasn’t depressed, or anything, was he? I mean, he liked sports and stuff.”

  “Yes, but when he came home . . .”

  “He’d rather sit in his room?” Siobhan guessed.

  “With his jazz and his surfing.”

  “Any sites in particular? Any favorites?”

  “He used a couple of chat rooms, bulletin boards.”

  “Let me guess: sports and jazz?”

  “Bull’s-eye.” There was a pause. “You know what I said about Stuart Cotter’s family?”

  Stuart Cotter: the crash victim. “I remember,” Siobhan said.

  “Did you think I was crazy?” Kate trying for a lightness of tone.

  “It’ll be looked into, don’t worry.”

  “I didn’t really mean it, you know. I don’t really think Stuart’s family would . . . would do something like that.”

  “Fair enough, Kate.” Another silence on the line, longer this time. “Have you hung up on me again?”

  “No.”

  “Anything else you want to talk about?”

  “I should let you get back to work.”

  “You can always call again, Kate. Anytime you want to chat.”

  “Thanks, Siobhan. You’re a pal.”

  “Bye, Kate.” Siobhan ended the call, stared at the screen again. She pressed a palm to her jacket pocket, felt the shape of the envelope.

  C.O.D.Y.

  Suddenly it didn’t seem so important.

  She got back to work, plugged the laptop into a phone jack and used Derek’s password to access a slew of new e-mails, most of which turned out to be junk or regular sports updates. There were a few from names she recognized from the folder. Friends Derek had probably never met, except when online, friends around the globe who shared his passions. Friends who didn’t know he was dead.

  She straightened her back, feeling vertebrae crackle. Her neck was stiff, and her watch told her it was going to be a late lunch. She didn’t feel hungry but knew she should eat. What she really felt like was a double espresso, maybe with a side order of chocolate. That double combo sugar-caffeine rush that made the world go round.

  “I won’t give in,” she said to herself. Instead, she’d go to the Engine Shed, where they served organic meals and fruit teas. She fished a paperback and her mobile phone out of her shoulder bag, then locked the bag in the bottom drawer of her desk—you could never be too careful in a police station. The paperback was a critique of rock music by a female poet. She’d been trying to finish it for ages. George “Hi-Ho” Silvers came into the office as she was leaving.

  “Just off to lunch, George,” Siobhan told him.

  He looked around the empty office. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Sorry, George, I’m meeting someone,” she lied blithely. “Besides, one of us has to hold down the fort.”

  She walked downstairs and out of the station’s main entrance, turning left onto St. Leonard’s Lane. Her eyes were on the tiny screen of her phone, checking for messages. A hand landed heavily on her shoulder. A deep voice growled: “Hey.” Siobhan spun around, dropping both phone and paperback. She grabbed at a wrist, twisted it hard, pulling down so that her attacker dropped to his knees.

  “Jesus fuck!” the man gasped. She couldn’t see much more than the top of his head. Short dark hair, gelled to stand up in little spikes. Charcoal suit. He was heavily built, not tall . . .

  Not Martin Fairstone.

  “Who are you?” Siobhan hissed. She was h
olding his wrist high up his back, pressing forwards on it. She heard car doors open and close, glanced up, saw a man and woman hurrying towards her.

  “I just wanted a word,” her assailant gasped. “I’m a reporter. Holly . . . Steve Holly.”

  Siobhan let go of his wrist. Holly cradled his hurt arm as he got to his feet.

  “What’s going on here?” the woman asked. Siobhan recognized her: Whiteread, the army investigator. Simms was with her, a thin smile on his face, nodding approval of Siobhan’s reflexes.

  “Nothing,” Siobhan told them.

  “Didn’t look like nothing.” Whiteread was staring at Steve Holly.

  “He’s a reporter,” Siobhan explained.

  “If we’d known that,” Simms said, “we’d’ve waited a bit longer before stepping in.”

  “Cheers,” Holly muttered, rubbing his elbow. He looked from Simms to Whiteread. “I’ve seen you before . . . outside Lee Herdman’s flat, if I’m not mistaken. I thought I knew all the CID faces.” He straightened up, held out a hand to Simms, mistaking him for the superior. “Steve Holly.”

  Simms glanced at Whiteread, alerting Holly immediately to his error. He swiveled slightly so the hand was facing the woman, and repeated his name. Whiteread ignored him.

  “Do you always treat the fourth estate this way, DS Clarke?”

  “Sometimes I go for a headlock instead.”

  “That’s a good idea, changing your attack,” Whiteread agreed.

  “Means the enemy can’t predict your move,” Simms added.

  “Why do I get the feeling you three are taking the piss?” Holly asked.

  Siobhan had bent down to retrieve her phone and book. She checked the phone for damage. “What is it you want?”

  “A quick couple of questions.”

  “Concerning what exactly?”

  Holly was staring at the army pair. “Sure you want an audience, DS Clarke?”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you anyway,” Siobhan told him.

  “How do you know until you’ve heard me out?”

  “Because you’re going to ask me about Martin Fairstone.”

  “Am I?” Holly raised an eyebrow. “Well, maybe that was the plan . . . but I’m also wondering why you’re so jumpy, and why you don’t want to talk about Fairstone.”

  I’m jumpy because of Fairstone, Siobhan felt like shouting. But she sniffed dismissively instead. The Engine Shed was no longer an option; nothing to stop Holly following her there, taking the chair next to her . . . “I’m going back in,” she said.

  “Watch out nobody in there taps your shoulder,” Holly said. “And tell DI Rebus I’m sorry . . .”

  Siobhan wasn’t going to fall for it. She turned towards the door, only to find Whiteread blocking her way.

  “Mind if we have a word?” she asked.

  “I’m on my lunch break.”

  “I could do with something myself,” Whiteread said, glancing at her colleague, who nodded agreement. Siobhan sighed.

  “You better come in, then.” She pushed the revolving door, Whiteread right behind her. Simms made to follow but paused for a moment, turning his attention to the reporter.

  “You work for a newspaper?” he asked. Holly nodded. Simms smiled at him. “I killed a man once with one of those.” Then he turned and followed the women inside.

  The cafeteria didn’t have much left. Whiteread and Siobhan opted for sandwiches, Simms a heaping plate of chips and beans.

  “What did he mean about Rebus?” Whiteread asked, stirring sugar into her tea.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Siobhan said.

  “Sure about that?”

  “Look . . .”

  “We’re not the enemy here, Siobhan. I know what it’s like: you probably don’t trust officers at the next station, never mind outsiders like us. But we’re on the same side.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that, but what just happened hasn’t got anything to do with Port Edgar, Lee Herdman, or the SAS.”

  Whiteread stared at her, then gave a shrug of acceptance.

  “So what was it you wanted?” Siobhan asked.

  “Actually, we were hoping to talk to DI Rebus.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “So they told us at South Queensferry.”

  “But you still came?”

  Whiteread made a show of studying her sandwich filling. “Obviously, yes.”

  “He wasn’t here . . . but you knew I was?”

  Whiteread smiled. “Rebus trained for the SAS but didn’t make the grade.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “Has he ever told you what happened?”

  Siobhan decided not to answer, unwilling to admit that he’d never let her into that part of his history. Whiteread took her silence as answer enough.

  “He cracked up. Left the army altogether, had a nervous breakdown. Lived beside a beach for a while, somewhere north of here.”

  “Fife,” Simms added, mouth stuffed with chips.

  “How come you know all this? It’s supposed to be Herdman you’re looking at.”

  Whiteread nodded. “Thing is, we didn’t have Lee Herdman flagged.”

  “Flagged?”

  “As a potential psycho,” Simms said. Whiteread’s eyes flared, and he swallowed hard, went back to his eating.

  “Psycho’s not the right word,” Whiteread corrected him for Siobhan’s benefit.

  “But you had John flagged?” Siobhan guessed.

  “Yes,” Whiteread admitted. “The breakdown, you see . . . And then he became a policeman, his name appearing quite regularly in the media . . .”

  And about to appear again, Siobhan was thinking. “I still don’t see what this has to do with the inquiry,” she said, hoping she sounded calm.

  “It’s just that DI Rebus may have insights that could prove useful,” Whiteread explained. “DI Hogan certainly seems to think so. He’s taken Rebus with him to Carbrae, hasn’t he? To see Robert Niles?”

  “Another of your spectacular failures,” Siobhan felt compelled to say.

  Whiteread seemed content to accept the comment, putting most of the sandwich back down on her plate, lifting her cup instead. Siobhan’s mobile rang. She checked its screen: Rebus.

  “Sorry,” she said, getting up from the table, walking towards the drink machine. “How did it go?” she asked into the mouthpiece.

  “We got a name: can you start running a check?”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Brimson.” Rebus spelled it for her. “First name Douglas. Address at Turnhouse.”

  “As in the airport?”

  “So far as we know. He was another of Niles’s visitors . . .”

  “And doesn’t live far from South Queensferry, so chances are he might have known Lee Herdman.” Siobhan looked back to where Whiteread and Simms sat, talking to each other. “I’ve got your army pals here. Want me to run this Brimson character past them, just in case he’s ex-forces?”

  “Christ, no. Are they listening in?”

  “I was having lunch with them in the cafeteria. Don’t worry, they’re out of earshot.”

  “What are they doing there?”

  “Whiteread’s got a sandwich, Simms is wolfing down a plate of chips.” She paused. “But it’s me they’ve been trying to grill.”

  “Am I expected to laugh at that?”

  “Sorry. Feeble effort. Has Templer spoken with you yet?”

  “No. What sort of mood’s she in?”

  “I’ve managed to steer clear of her all morning.”

  “She’s probably been meeting the pathologists, prior to giving me a roasting.”

  “Now who’s the one making jokes?”

  “I wish it was a joke, Siobhan.”

  “How soon will you be back?”

  “Not today, if I can help it. Bobby wants to talk to the judge.”

  “Why?”

  “To clear up a couple of points.”

  “And that’ll take you the rest of
the day?”

  “You’ve plenty to keep you busy without me there. Meantime, tell the Gruesome Twosome nothing.”

  The Gruesome Twosome: Siobhan glanced over in their direction. They’d stopped talking, finished eating. Both were staring at her.

  “Steve Holly’s been sniffing around, too,” Siobhan told Rebus.

  “I assume you kicked him in the balls and sent him on his way?”

  “Not far off it, actually . . .”

  “Let’s talk again before the end of play.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Nothing from the laptop?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Keep trying.”

  The phone went dead, a merry-sounding series of bleeps telling Siobhan that Rebus had cut the connection. She walked back to the table, fixing a smile on her face.

  “I’ve got to get back,” she said.

  “We could give you a lift,” Simms suggested.

  “I mean back upstairs.”

  “You’re finished at South Queensferry?” Whiteread asked.

  “I just have some stuff here to be getting on with.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Odds and ends from before this all started.”

  “Paperwork, eh?” Simms sympathized. But the look on Whiteread’s face said she wasn’t falling for it.

  “I’d better see you out,” Siobhan added.