A Question of Blood

  One reason everyone at St. Leonard’s was talking about the murders was that the survivor’s father was a member of the Scottish Parliament—and not just any MSP. Jack Bell had found himself in trouble six months back, apprehended by police during a trawl of the red-light district down in Leith. Residents had been holding demonstrations, petitioning the constabulary to take action against the problem. The constabulary had reacted by swooping down one night, netting Jack Bell MSP amongst others.

  But Bell had protested his innocence, putting his appearance in the area down to “fact-finding.” His wife had backed him up, as had most of his party, with the result that Police HQ had decided to let the matter drop. But not before the media had had their fun at Bell’s expense, leading the MSP to accuse the police of being in cahoots with the “gutter press,” of hounding him because of who he was.

  The resentment had festered, leading Bell to make several speeches in Parliament, usually remarking on inefficiency within the force and the need for change. All of which, it was agreed, might lead to a problem.

  Because Bell had been arrested by a team from Leith, the very station now in charge of the shooting at Port Edgar Academy.

  And South Queensferry just happened to be his constituency . . .

  As if this wasn’t enough to get tongues wagging, one of the murder victims happened to be the son of a judge.

  All of which led to the second reason why everyone at St. Leonard’s was talking. They felt left out. Being a Leith call rather than St. Leonard’s, there was nothing to do but sit and watch, hoping there might be a need to draft officers in. But Siobhan doubted it. The case was cut and dried, the gunman’s body laid out in the morgue, his two victims somewhere nearby. It wouldn’t be enough to deflect Gill Templer from —

  “DS Clarke to the chief super’s office!” The squawked imperative came from a loudspeaker attached to the ceiling above her head. The uniforms in the cafeteria turned to look at her. She tried to appear calm, sipping from her can. Her insides suddenly felt cold—nothing to do with the chilled drink.

  “DS Clarke to the chief super!”

  The glass door was ahead of her. Beyond it, her car sat obediently in its space. What would Rebus do, run or hide? She had to smile as the answer came to her. He’d do neither. He’d probably take the stairs two at a time on his way to the boss’s office, knowing he was right, and she, whatever she had to say to him, was wrong.

  Siobhan dumped her can and headed for the stairs.

  “You know why I wanted you?” Detective Chief Superintendent Gill Templer asked. She was seated behind the desk in her office, surrounded by the day’s paperwork. As DCS, Templer was responsible for the whole of B Division, composed of three stations on the city’s south side, with St. Leonard’s as Divisional HQ. It wasn’t as hefty a workload as some, though things would change when the Scottish Parliament finally moved into its purpose-built complex at the foot of Holyrood Road. Templer already seemed to spend a disproportionate amount of time in meetings focused on the needs of the Parliament. Siobhan knew that she hated this. No police officer joined the force because of a fondness for paperwork. Yet more and more, budgeting and finances were the topics of the day. Officers who could run their cases or their stations on-budget were prized specimens; those who could actually underspend were seen as altogether rarer and more rarefied beings.

  Siobhan could see that it was taking its toll on Gill Templer. She always had a slightly harried look about her. Glints of gray were showing in her hair. She either hadn’t noticed or couldn’t find time these days to get them done. Time was defeating her. It made Siobhan wonder what price she would be asked to pay for climbing the career ladder. Always supposing that ladder was still visible after today.

  Templer seemed preoccupied with a search of her desk drawer. Eventually she gave up and closed it, focusing her attention on Siobhan. As she did so, she lowered her chin. This had the effect of hardening her gaze but also, Siobhan couldn’t help noticing, of accentuating the folds of skin around the throat and mouth. When Templer moved in her chair, her suit jacket creased below the breasts, showing that she’d gained some weight. Either too much fast food or too many dinners at evening functions with the brass. Siobhan, who’d been in the gym at six o’clock that morning, sat a little more upright in her own chair, and lifted her head a little higher.

  “I’m assuming it’s about Martin Fairstone,” she said, beating Templer to the opening jab of the bout. When Templer stayed quiet, she went in again. “I had nothing to do with —”

  “Where’s John?” Templer interrupted sharply.

  Siobhan just swallowed.

  “He’s not at his flat,” Templer continued. “I sent someone round there to check. Yet according to you, he’s taken a couple of days’ sick leave. Where is he, Siobhan?”

  “I . . .”

  “The thing is, two nights ago Martin Fairstone was seen in a bar. Nothing unusual in that, except that his companion bore a striking resemblance to Detective Inspector John Rebus. Couple of hours later, Fairstone’s being fried alive in the kitchen of his house.” She paused. “Always supposing he was alive when the fire started.”

  “Ma’am, I really don’t —”

  “John likes to look out for you, doesn’t he, Siobhan? Nothing wrong in that. John’s got this knight-in-tarnished-armor thing, hasn’t he? Always has to be looking for another dragon to fight.”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with DI Rebus, ma’am.”

  “Then what’s he hiding from?”

  “I’m not aware that he’s hiding at all.”

  “But you’ve seen him?” It was a question, but only just. Templer allowed herself a winning smile. “I’d put money on it.”

  “He’s really not well enough to come in,” Siobhan parried, aware that her punches were losing much of their previous force.

  “If he can’t come here, I’m quite willing for you to take me to him.”

  Siobhan felt her shoulders sag. “I need to talk to him first.”

  Templer was shaking her head. “This isn’t something you can negotiate, Siobhan. According to you, Fairstone was stalking you. He gave you that black eye.” Siobhan raised an involuntary hand towards her left cheekbone. The marks were fading; she knew they were more like shadows now. They could be hidden with makeup or explained by tiredness. But she still saw them when she looked in the mirror.

  “Now he’s dead,” Templer was continuing. “In a house fire, possibly suspicious. So you can see that I have to talk to anyone who saw him that night.” Another pause. “When was the last time you saw him, Siobhan?”

  “Which one—Fairstone or DI Rebus?”

  “Both, if you like.”

  Siobhan didn’t say anything. Her hands went to clasp the metal arms of her chair, but she realized it had no arms. A new chair, less comfortable than the old one. Then she saw that Templer’s chair was new, too, and set an inch or two higher than before. A little trick to give her an edge over any visitor . . . which meant the chief super felt the need of such props.

  “I don’t think I’m prepared to answer, ma’am.” Siobhan paused. “With respect.” She got to her feet, wondering whether she’d sit down again if told to.

  “That’s very disappointing, DS Clarke.” Templer’s voice was cold, no more first names. “You’ll tell John we’ve had a word?”

  “If you want me to.”

  “I expect you’ll want to get your stories straight, prior to any inquiry.”

  Siobhan acknowledged the threat with a nod. All it needed was a request from the chief super, and the Complaints would come shuffling into view, bringing with them their briefcases full of questions and skepticism. The Complaints: full title, the Complaints and Conduct Department.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” was all Siobhan said, opening the door and closing it again behind her. There was a toilet cubicle along the hall, and she went and sat there for a while, taking a small paper bag from her pocket and breathing into it. The firs
t time she’d suffered a panic attack, she’d felt as if she was going into cardiac arrest: heart pounding, lungs giving out, her whole body surging with electricity. Her doctor had said she should take some time off. She’d entered his office thinking he would recommend her to the hospital for tests, but instead he’d told her to buy a book about her condition. She’d found one in a pharmacy. It listed every single one of her symptoms in its first chapter, and made a few suggestions. Cut down on caffeine and alcohol. Eat less salt and fat. Try breathing into a paper bag if an attack seems imminent.

  The doctor had said her blood pressure was a bit high, suggested exercise. So she’d started coming into work an hour early, spending that time in the gym. The Commonwealth Pool was just down the road, and she’d promised herself she’d start swimming there.

  “I eat fine,” she’d told her doctor.

  “Try making a list over the course of a week,” he’d said. So far, she hadn’t bothered. And she kept forgetting her swimsuit, too.

  All too easy to blame Martin Fairstone.

  Fairstone: in court on two charges—housebreaking and assault. One of the neighbors challenging him as he left the flat he’d just looted; Fairstone smashing the woman’s head into a wall, stamping on her face so hard the sole of one sneaker left its impression. Siobhan giving evidence, doing her best. But they hadn’t recovered the shoe, and none of the haul from the flat had turned up in Fairstone’s home. The neighbor had given a description of her attacker, then had picked out Fairstone’s mug shot, later on choosing him again at the ID parade.

  There were problems, which the procurator fiscal’s office had been quick to identify. No evidence at the scene. Nothing to link Fairstone to the crimes except an ID and the fact that he was a known housebreaker with several convictions for assault.

  “The shoe would have been nice.” The fiscal depute had scratched at his beard and asked if they might try dropping either of the charges, maybe do a deal.

  “And he gets a cuff round the ear and heads back home?” Siobhan had argued.

  In court it was pointed out to Siobhan by the defense that the neighbor’s original description of her attacker bore little resemblance to the figure in the dock. The victim herself fared little better, admitting to a margin of uncertainty that the defense exploited to the full. When giving her own evidence, Siobhan used as many hints as she could to let everyone know that the defendant had a history. Eventually, the judge couldn’t ignore the remonstrations by the defense counsel.

  “You’re on a final warning, Detective Sergeant Clarke,” he had said. “So unless you have some reason why you wish to scupper the Crown’s chances in this case, I suggest you choose your answers more carefully from now on.”

  Fairstone had just glared at her, knowing full well what she was trying to do. And afterwards, the not-guilty verdict delivered, he’d bounded out of the court building as if there were springs in the heels of his brand-new sneakers. He’d grabbed Siobhan by the shoulder to stop her from walking away.

  “That’s assault,” she’d told him, trying not to show how furious and frustrated she felt.

  “Thanks for helping me get off in there,” he’d said. “Maybe I can return the favor someday. I’m off to the pub to celebrate. What’s your poison?”

  “Drop down the nearest sewer, will you?”

  “I think I’m in love.” A grin spreading to cover his narrow face. Someone called to him: his girlfriend. Bottle-blond hair, black tracksuit. Pack of cigs in one hand, mobile phone to her ear. She’d provided his alibi for the time of the attack. So had two of his friends.

  “Looks like you’re wanted.”

  “It’s you I want, Shiv.”

  “You want me?” She waited till he nodded. “Then invite me along next time you’re going to beat up a complete stranger.”

  “Give me your phone number.”

  “I’m in the book—under ‘Police.’”

  “Marty!” His girlfriend’s snarl.

  “Be seeing you, Shiv.” Still grinning, he walked backwards for a few paces, then turned away. Siobhan had headed straight back over to St. Leonard’s to reacquaint herself with his file. An hour later, the switchboard had put through a call. It was him, phoning from a bar. She’d put the receiver down. Ten minutes later, he’d called again . . . and then another ten after that.

  And the next day.

  And the whole of the following week.

  Unsure at first how to play it. She didn’t know if her silences were working. They just seemed to make him laugh, made him try all the harder. She prayed he would tire, find something else to occupy him. Then he turned up at St. Leonard’s, tried following her home. She’d spotted him that time, led him a dance while summoning help on her mobile. A patrol car had picked him up. Next day, he was curbside again, just outside the car park at the back of St. Leonard’s. She’d left him there, exiting on foot instead by the front door, taking a bus home.

  Still he wouldn’t give up, and she realized that what had started—presumably—as a joke had turned into a more serious form of game. So she’d decided to bring one of her stronger pieces into play. Rebus had noticed anyway: the calls she wasn’t taking, the time she spent by the office window, the way she kept glancing around her when they were out on a call. So eventually she’d told him, and the pair of them had paid a visit to Fairstone’s public housing unit in Gracemount.

  It had started badly, Siobhan soon realizing that her “piece” played by his own set of rules rather than anyone else’s. A struggle, the leg snapping from a coffee table, pine veneer yielding to the MDF within. Siobhan feeling worse than ever afterwards—weak, because she had brought Rebus in rather than deal with it herself; trembling, because at the back of her mind lurked the thought that she’d known what would happen, and had wanted it to happen. Instigator and coward.

  They’d stopped for a drink on the way back into town.

  “Think he’ll do anything?” Siobhan had asked.

  “He started it,” Rebus told her. “If he keeps on hassling you, he knows now what he’s in for.”

  “A hiding, you mean?”

  “All I did was defend myself, Siobhan. You were there. You saw.” His eyes fixing hers until she nodded. And he was right. Fairstone had lunged at him. Rebus had pushed him down onto the coffee table, trying to hold him there. Then the leg snapped and both men slid to the floor, rolling and struggling. It had all been over in a matter of seconds, Fairstone’s voice shaking with rage as he told them to get out. Rebus pointing a warning finger, repeating his order to “back off from DS Clarke.”

  “Just clear out, the pair of you!”

  Her hand touching Rebus’s arm. “It’s finished. Let’s go.”

  “You think it’s finished?” Flecks of white saliva spitting from the corners of Fairstone’s mouth.

  Rebus’s final words: “It better be, pal, unless you really want to start seeing some fireworks.”

  She’d wanted to ask him what he’d meant, but instead had bought a final round of drinks. In bed that night, she’d stared at the dark ceiling before falling into a doze, waking with a sudden feeling of terror, leaping to her feet, adrenaline surging through her. She’d crawled on hands and knees from her bedroom, believing that if she got to her feet, she would die. Eventually it passed, and she used her hands on the hallway wall as she rose up from the floor. She walked slowly back to bed and lay down on her side, curled into a ball.

  More common than you might think, her doctor would eventually tell her, after the second attack.

  Between times, Martin Fairstone made a complaint of harassment, dropping it eventually. And he’d also kept on calling. She’d tried to keep it from Rebus, didn’t want to know what he meant by “fireworks” . . .

  The CID office was dead. People were out on calls, or busy in court. It seemed you could spend half your life waiting to give evidence, only for the case to collapse or the accused to make a change of plea. Sometimes a juror went AWOL, or someone crucial was sick.
Time seeped away, and at the end of it all the verdict was “not guilty.” Even when found guilty, it might be a question of a fine or suspended sentence. The prisons were full and seen more than ever as a last resort. Siobhan didn’t think she was growing cynical, just realistic. There’d been criticism recently that Edinburgh had more traffic wardens than cops. When something like South Queensferry came up, it stretched things tighter. Holidays, sick leave, paperwork, and court . . . and not nearly enough hours in any given day. Siobhan was aware that there was a backlog on her desk. Because of Fairstone, her work had been suffering. She could still feel his presence. If a phone rang, she would freeze, and a couple of times she caught herself heading for the window, to check if his car was out there. She knew she was being irrational, but couldn’t help it. Knew, too, that it wasn’t the kind of thing she could talk to someone about . . . not without seeming weak.

  The phone was ringing now. Not on her own desk, but on Rebus’s. If no one answered, the switchboard might try another extension. She crossed the floor, willing the sound to stop. It did so only when she picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Who’s that?” A male voice. Brisk, businesslike.

  “DS Clarke.”

  “Hiya, Shiv. It’s Bobby Hogan here.” Detective Inspector Bobby Hogan. She’d asked him before not to call her Shiv. A lot of people tried it. Siobhan, pronounced “Shi-vawn,” shortened to Shiv. When people wrote her name down, it turned into all sorts of erroneous spellings. She remembered that Fairstone had called her Shiv a few times, attempting familiarity. She hated it and knew she should correct Hogan, but she didn’t.