A Question of Blood

  “If you say so.” He paused. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name . . .”

  “Detective Sergeant Clarke. Were the two of you close?”

  “Close?” Brimson shrugged. “Lee didn’t really let people get ‘close.’ I mean, he was friendly, liked meeting up, all that sort of thing . . .”

  “But?”

  Brimson frowned in concentration. “I was never really sure what was going on in here.” He tapped his head.

  “What did you think when you heard about the shooting?”

  He shrugged. “It was impossible to believe.”

  “Did you know Herdman had a gun?”

  “No.”

  “He was interested in them, though.”

  “That’s true . . . but he never showed me one.”

  “Never talked about it?”

  “Never.”

  “So what did the two of you talk about?”

  “Planes, boats, the service . . . I served seven years in the RAF.”

  “As a pilot?”

  Brimson shook his head. “Didn’t do much piloting back then. I was the electrics wizard, keeping the crates up in the air.” He leaned across the desk. “Have you ever flown?”

  “Just holiday trips.”

  He wrinkled his face. “I mean like Charlie there.” He hooked his thumb towards where a small plane was taxiing past the window, engines droning.

  “I have enough trouble driving a car.”

  “A plane’s easier, believe me.”

  “So all those dials and switches are just for show?”

  He laughed. “We could go right now, what do you say?”

  “Mr. Brimson . . .”

  “Doug.”

  “Mr. Brimson, I don’t really have time for a flying lesson right now.”

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  “I’ll think about it.” She couldn’t help smiling, thinking that a thousand feet above Edinburgh might be safe from Gill Templer.

  “You’ll love it, that’s a promise.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “But you’ll be off duty, right? Which means you’ll be allowed to call me Doug?” He waited till she’d nodded. “And what will I be allowed to call you, Detective Sergeant Clarke?”

  “Siobhan.”

  “An Irish name?”

  “Gaelic.”

  “Your accent’s not . . .”

  “My accent’s not what I’m here to talk about.”

  He raised his hands in mock surrender.

  “Why didn’t you come forward?” she asked. He seemed not to understand. “After the shooting, some of Mr. Herdman’s friends called to talk to us.”

  “Did they? What for?”

  “All kinds of reasons.”

  He considered his answer. “I didn’t see the point, Siobhan.”

  “Let’s save first names for later, eh?” Brimson tilted his head in apology. There was a sudden burst of static, then transistorized voices.

  “The tower,” he explained, reaching down behind his desk to tweak the volume on the radio set. “That’s Charlie requesting a slot.” He glanced at his watch. “Should be okay this time of day.”

  Siobhan listened to a voice warning the pilot to watch out for a helicopter over the city center.

  “Roger, control.”

  Brimson turned the volume lower still.

  “I’d like to bring a colleague out here to talk to you,” Siobhan said. “Would that be all right?”

  Brimson shrugged. “You can see how hectic life is around here. Only really busy on weekends.”

  “I wish I could say the same.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re not busy on weekends? Good-looking young woman like you?”

  “I meant . . .”

  He laughed again. “I’m only teasing. No wedding ring, though.” He nodded towards her left hand. “Do you think I’d make the grade in CID?”

  “I notice you don’t wear a ring either.”

  “Eligible bachelor, that’s me. Friends say it’s because I’ve got my head in the clouds.” He pointed upwards. “Not too many singles bars up there.”

  Siobhan smiled, then realized that she was enjoying the conversation—always a bad sign. There were questions she knew she should be asking, but they weren’t coming into focus.

  “Maybe tomorrow, then,” she said, getting up from the chair.

  “Your first flying lesson?”

  She shook her head. “Talking to my colleague.”

  “But you’ll come, too?”

  “If I can.”

  He seemed satisfied, came around the desk, hand outstretched. “Good to meet you, Siobhan.”

  “Good to meet you, Mr. . . .” She faltered as he raised a warning finger. “Doug,” she relented.

  “I’ll see you out.”

  “I can manage.” Opening the door, wanting a little more space between them than he was allowing.

  “Really? You’re good at picking locks, then, are you?”

  She remembered the padlocked gate. “Right enough,” she said, following Doug Brimson outside just as Charlie’s machine came to the end of its run-up and lifted its wheels clear of the ground.

  “Has Gill tracked you down yet?” Siobhan asked, speaking into her phone as she drove back into the city.

  “Affirmative,” Rebus replied. “Not that I was hiding or anything.”

  “So what’s the outcome?”

  “Suspended from duty. Except that Bobby doesn’t see it that way. He still wants me helping out.”

  “Which means you still need me, right?”

  “I think I could just about drive myself if I had to.”

  “But you don’t have to . . .”

  He laughed. “I’m just teasing, Siobhan. The gig’s yours if you want it.”

  “Good, because I’ve tracked down Brimson.”

  “I’m impressed. Who is he?”

  “Runs a flying school out at Turnhouse.” She paused. “I went to see him. I know I should have checked first, but your phone was engaged.”

  “She’s been out to see Brimson,” she heard Rebus tell Hogan. Hogan muttered something back. “Bobby’s of the opinion,” Rebus told her, “that you should have sought permission before doing that.”

  “Are those his exact words?”

  “Actually, he rolled his eyes and uttered a few oaths. I’m choosing to extrapolate.”

  “Thanks for saving my maidenly blushes.”

  “So what did you get out of him?”

  “He was friends with Herdman. They share similar backgrounds: army and RAF.”

  “And how does he know Robert Niles?”

  Siobhan’s mouth twitched. “I forgot to ask him that. I did say we’d go back.”

  “Sounds like we’ll have to. Did he offer anything at all?”

  “Says he didn’t know Herdman kept guns and doesn’t know why he went to the school. What about Niles?”

  “Sod all use to us.”

  “So where do we go from here?”

  “Let’s rendezvous at Port Edgar. We need to have a proper talk with Miss Teri.” There was silence on the line, and Siobhan thought she’d lost him, but then he asked: “Any more messages from our friend?”

  Meaning the notes, keeping it vague in front of Hogan.

  “There was another one waiting for me this morning.”

  “Yes?”

  “Much the same as the first.”

  “Sent it to Howdenhall?”

  “Didn’t see the point.”

  “Good. I’ll want a look at it when we meet up. How long will you be?”

  “Fifteen minutes, give or take.”

  “A fiver says we beat you.”

  “You’re on,” Siobhan said, pressing her foot a little harder to the accelerator. It was a few moments before she realized she didn’t know where Rebus had been calling from . . .

  True to form, he was waiting for her in the car park of Port Edgar Academy, leaning against Hogan’s Passat, one foot crossed ov
er the other, arms folded.

  “You cheated,” she said, getting out of her car.

  “Caveat emptor. That’s five quid you owe me.”

  “No way.”

  “You took the bet, Siobhan. A lady always pays up.”

  She shook her head, reached into her pocket. “Here’s that letter, by the way,” she said, producing the envelope. Rebus held out his hand. “Cost you a fiver to read it.”

  Rebus looked at her. “For the privilege of giving you my expert opinion?” His hand stayed outstretched, the envelope just out of reach. “All right, it’s a deal,” he said, curiosity winning in the end.

  In the car, he read it through several times while Siobhan drove.

  “A fiver wasted,” he finally offered. “Who’s Cody?”

  “I think it means ‘Come On Die Young.’ It’s a gang thing, from America.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s a Mogwai album. I loaned you their stuff.”

  “Might be a name. Buffalo Bill, for example.”

  “The connection being . . . ?”

  “I don’t know.” Rebus refolded the note, examining its creases, peering inside the envelope.

  “Good Sherlock Holmes impression,” Siobhan said.

  “What else do you want me to do?”

  “You could admit defeat.” She held out her hand. Rebus returned the note to her, tucked back in its envelope.

  “Make my day . . . Dirty Harry?”

  “That’s my guess,” Siobhan agreed.

  “Dirty Harry was a cop . . .”

  She stared at him. “You think someone I work with did this?”

  “Don’t say it hasn’t crossed your mind . . .”

  “It has,” she finally admitted.

  “But it would have to be someone who knows you connect to Fairstone.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that brings it down to me and Gill Templer.” He paused. “And I’m guessing you’ve not loaned her any albums of late.”

  Siobhan shrugged, eyes back on the road ahead. She didn’t say anything for a while, and neither did Rebus, until he checked an address in his notebook, leaned forwards in his seat, and told her: “We’re here.”

  Long Rib House was a narrow whitewashed structure that looked as though it might have been a barn sometime in the past. It consisted of a single story, but with an attic conversion indicated by a row of windows built out from the sloping red-tiled roof. A wooden gate barred the entrance, but it wasn’t locked. Siobhan pushed it open, got back into the car, and drove up the few yards of gravel driveway. By the time she’d closed the gate again, the front door was open, a man standing there. Rebus was out of the car, introducing himself.

  “And you must be Mr. Cotter?” he guessed.

  “William Cotter,” Miss Teri’s father said. He was in his early forties, short and stocky with a fashionably shaven head. He shook Siobhan’s hand when she offered it but didn’t seem put out that Rebus was keeping his own gloved hands firmly by his sides. “You better come in,” he said.

  There was a long carpeted hallway, decorated with framed paintings and a grandfather clock. Rooms off to right and left, the doors firmly closed. Cotter led them to the end of the corridor and into an open-plan living area with a kitchen off it. This had the look of a recent extension, French doors leading out to a patio and offering a view across the expanse of rear garden towards another recent addition, wood-framed but with plenty of windows to show off its contents.

  “Indoor pool,” Rebus mused. “That must be handy.”

  “Gets more use than an outdoor one,” Cotter joked. “So what can I do for you?”

  Rebus looked to Siobhan, who was casting an eye over the room, taking in the L-shaped cream leather sofa, the B&O hi-fi, and flat-screen TV. The TV was switched on, sound muted. It was tuned to Ceefax, showing a screen of stock market fluctuations. “It was Teri we wanted a word with,” Rebus said.

  “Not in any trouble, is she?”

  “Nothing like that, Mr. Cotter. It’s to do with Port Edgar. Just a few follow-up questions.”

  Cotter narrowed his eyes. “Maybe it’s something I can help with . . . ?” Angling for more information.

  Rebus had decided to sit down on the sofa. There was a coffee table in front of him, newspapers spread out on it, open to the business pages. Cordless phone, and a pair of half-moon reading glasses, empty mug, pen, and legal pad. “You’re in business, Mr. Cotter?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mind if I ask what sort?”

  “Venture capital.” Cotter paused. “You know what that is?”

  “Investing in start-ups?” Siobhan offered, staring out at the garden.

  “More or less. I dabble in property, people with ideas . . .”

  Rebus made a show of taking in his surroundings. “You’re obviously good at it.” He waited for the flattery to sink in. “Is Teri here?”

  “Not sure,” Cotter said. He saw Rebus’s look and gave an apologetic smile. “You’re never sure with Teri. Sometimes she’s quiet as the grave. Knock on her door, she doesn’t answer.” He shrugged.

  “Not like most teenagers, then.”

  Cotter shook his head.

  “But then I got that impression when I met her,” Rebus added.

  “You’ve spoken to her before?” Cotter asked. Rebus nodded. “In full regalia?”

  “I’m guessing she doesn’t go to school like that.”

  Cotter shook his head again. “They’re not even allowed nose studs. Dr. Fogg’s strict about that sort of thing.”

  “Could we maybe try her door?” Siobhan asked, turning to face Cotter.

  “Can’t do any harm, I suppose,” Cotter said. They followed him back down the hall and up a short flight of stairs. Again they were confronted with a long, narrow corridor, doors along both sides. Again, all the doors were closed.

  “Teri?” Cotter called as they reached the top of the stairs. “You still here, love?” He bit this final word off, and Rebus guessed he’d been warned off using it by his daughter. They reached the final door, and Cotter put his ear to it, knocking softly.

  “Could be dozing, I suppose,” he said in an undertone.

  “Mind if I . . . ?” Without waiting for an answer, Rebus turned the handle. The door opened inwards. The room was dark, gauzy black curtains drawn shut. Cotter flicked the light switch. There were candles on every available surface. Black candles, many of them melted down to almost nothing. Prints and posters on the walls. Rebus recognized some by H. R. Giger, knew him because he’d designed an album for ELP. They were set in a kind of stainless-steel hell. The other pictures showed equally dark imaginings.

  “Teenagers, eh?” was the father’s only comment. Books by Poppy Z. Brite and Anne Rice. Another called The Gates of Janus, apparently written by “Moors Murderer” Ian Brady. Plenty of CDs, all by noise merchants. The sheets on the single bed were black. So was the shiny duvet cover. The walls of the room were the color of meat, the ceiling split into four squares, two black, two red. Siobhan was standing by a computer desk. The setup on top of it looked high-quality: flat-screen monitor, DVD hard disk, scanner and webcam.

  “I don’t suppose these come in black,” she mused.

  “Otherwise, Teri would have them,” Cotter agreed.

  “When I was her age,” Rebus said, “only Goths I knew of were pubs.”

  Cotter laughed. “Yes, Gothenburgs. They were community pubs, weren’t they?”

  Rebus nodded. “Unless she’s under the bed, I’m guessing she’s not here. Any idea where we might find her?”

  “I could try her mobile . . .”

  “Would that be this one?” Siobhan said, holding up a small glossy black phone.

  “That’s it,” Cotter agreed.

  “Not like a teenager to leave her phone at home,” Siobhan mused.

  “No, well . . . Teri’s mum can be . . .” He twitched his shoulders, as if feeling a sudden discomfort.

&nbs
p; “Can be what, sir?” Rebus prodded.

  “She likes to keep tabs on Teri, is that it?” Siobhan guessed. Cotter nodded, relieved that she’d saved him the trouble of spelling it out.

  “Teri should be home later,” he said, “if it can wait.”

  “We’d rather get it over and done with, Mr. Cotter,” Rebus explained.

  “Well . . .”

  “Time being money and all that, as I’m sure you’d agree.”

  Cotter nodded. “You could try Cockburn Street. A few of her friends sometimes congregate there.”

  Rebus looked at Siobhan. “We should have thought of that,” he said. Siobhan’s mouth gave a twitch of agreement. Cockburn Street, a winding conduit between the Royal Mile and Waverley Station, had always enjoyed a louche reputation. Decades back, it had been the haunt of hippies and dropouts, selling cheesecloth shirts, tie-dye and cigarette papers. Rebus had frequented a good secondhand record stall, without ever bothering with the clothes. These days, the new alternative cultures lionized the place. A good street for browsing, if your tastes inclined towards the macabre or the stoned.

  As they walked back along the hallway, Rebus noticed that one door had a small porcelain plaque stating that this was “Stuart’s Room.” Rebus paused in front of it.

  “Your son?”

  Cotter nodded slowly. “Charlotte . . . my wife . . . she wants it kept the way it was before the accident.”

  “No shame in that, sir,” Siobhan offered, sensing Cotter’s embarrassment.

  “I suppose not.”

  “Tell me,” Rebus said, “did Teri’s Goth phase start before or after her brother’s death?”

  Cotter looked at him. “Soon after.”

  “The pair of them were close?” Rebus guessed.

  “I suppose so . . . But I don’t see what any of this has to do with . . .”

  Rebus shrugged. “Just curious, that’s all. Sorry: it’s one of the pitfalls of the job.”

  Cotter seemed to accept this, and led them back down the staircase.

  “I buy CDs there,” Siobhan said. They were back in the car, heading for Cockburn Street.

  “Ditto,” Rebus told her. And he’d often seen the Goths, taking up more than their fair share of sidewalk, spilling down the flight of steps to the side of the old Scotsman building, sharing cigarettes and trading tips on the latest bands. They started to appear as soon as school had finished for the day, maybe changing out of their uniforms and into the regulation black. Makeup and baubles, hoping to fit in and stand out at the same time. Thing was, people were harder to shock these days. Once upon a time, collar-length hair would have done it. Then glam came along, followed by its bastard offspring, punk. Rebus still remembered one Saturday when he’d been out buying records. Starting the long climb up Cockburn Street and passing his first punks: all slouches and spiky hair, chains and sneers. It had been too much for the middle-aged woman behind him, who’d spluttered out the words “Can’t you walk like human beings?” probably making the punks’ day in the process.