A Question of Blood

  “We could park at the bottom of the road and walk up,” Siobhan suggested as they neared Cockburn Street.

  “I’d rather park at the top and walk down,” Rebus countered.

  They were in luck: a space opened up just as they approached, and they were able to park on Cockburn Street itself, only a few yards from where a bunch of Goths were milling around.

  “Bingo,” Rebus said, spotting Miss Teri in animated conversation with two friends.

  “You’ll need to get out first,” Siobhan told him. Rebus saw the problem: there were bags of rubbish sitting curbside, awaiting collection and blocking the driver’s-side door. He got out, holding the door open so Siobhan could slide across and make her exit. Feet were running down the sidewalk, and then Rebus saw one of the rubbish bags disappear. He looked up and saw five youths hurtling past the car, dressed in hooded tops and baseball caps. One of them was swinging the rubbish bag into the group of Goths. The bag burst, spraying its contents everywhere. There were shouts, screams. Feet were swinging, as were fists. One Goth was sent flying headfirst down the stone steps. Another dodged into the roadway and was winged by a passing taxi. Bystanders were yelling warnings, shopkeepers coming to their doors. Someone called out to phone the police.

  The fighting was spilling across the street, bodies pushed against windows, hands clawing at necks. Only five attackers to a dozen Goths, but the five were strong and vicious. Siobhan had run forward to tackle one of them. Rebus saw Miss Teri diving through a shop doorway, slamming the door after her. The door was glass, and her pursuer was looking around for something to throw through it. Rebus took a deep breath and hollered.

  “Rab Fisher! Hey, Rab! Over here!” The pursuer stopped, looked in Rebus’s direction. Rebus was waving a gloved hand. “Remember me, Rab?”

  Fisher’s mouth twisted in a sneer. Another of his gang had recognized Rebus. “Polis!” he yelled, the other Lost Boys heeding his call. They gathered in the middle of the road, chests pumping, breathing hard.

  “Ready for that trip to Saughton, lads?” Rebus asked loudly, taking a step forwards. Four of them turned and ran, jogging downhill. Rab Fisher lingered, then gave the glass door a final stubborn kick before sauntering off to join his friends. Siobhan was helping a couple of the Goths to their feet, checking for injuries. There had been no knives or missiles; mostly it was only pride that had taken a beating. Rebus walked over to the glass door. Behind it, Miss Teri had been joined by a woman in a white coat, the kind worn by doctors and pharmacists. Rebus saw a row of gleaming cubicles; it was a tanning salon, brand-new by the look of it. The woman was running a hand down Teri’s hair while Teri tried to wriggle free. Rebus pushed open the door.

  “Remember me, Teri?” he said.

  She studied him, then nodded. “You’re the policeman I met.” Rebus held out a hand towards the woman.

  “You must be Teri’s mother. I’m DI Rebus.”

  “Charlotte Cotter,” the woman said, taking his hand. She was in her late thirties, with lots of wavy ash-blond hair. Her face was lightly tanned, almost glowing. Looking at the two women, it was hard to see any similarity. If told they were related, Rebus might have guessed they were contemporaries: not sisters, but maybe cousins. The mother was an inch or two shorter than her daughter, slimmer and toned-looking. Rebus thought he knew now which member of the Cotter family made use of the indoor pool.

  “What was all that about?” he asked Teri.

  She shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “You get a lot of hassle?”

  “They’re always getting hassle,” her mother answered for her, receiving a glare for her trouble. “Verbal abuse, sometimes more.”

  “Like you’d know,” her daughter argued.

  “I see things.”

  “Is that why you opened this place? To keep an eye on me?” Teri had started playing with the gold chain around her neck. Rebus could see a diamond hanging from it.

  “Teri,” Charlotte Cotter said with a sigh, “all I’m saying is —”

  “I’m going outside,” Teri muttered.

  “Before you do,” Rebus interrupted, “any chance I could have a word?”

  “I’m not going to press charges, or anything!”

  “You see how stubborn she is?” Charlotte Cotter said, sounding exasperated. “I heard you shout out a name, Inspector. Does that mean you know these thugs? You can arrest them . . . ?”

  “I’m not sure it would do any good, Mrs. Cotter.”

  “But you saw them!”

  Rebus nodded. “And now they’ve been warned. Could be enough to do the trick. Thing is, it’s not just chance that I was here. I wanted a word with Teri.”

  “Oh?”

  “Come on, then,” Teri said, grabbing him by the arm. “Sorry, Mum, got to go help the police with their inquiries.”

  “Hang on, Teri . . .”

  But it was too late. Charlotte Cotter could only watch as her daughter dragged the detective back outside and across the road to where the mood was lightening. Battle scars were being compared. One boy in a black trench coat was sniffing his lapels, wrinkling his nose to acknowledge that the coat would need a good wash. The rubbish from the torn bag had been gathered together—mostly by Siobhan, Rebus guessed. She was trying to elicit help in filling an intact bag, the gift of a neighboring shop.

  “Everybody okay?” Teri asked. There were smiles and nods. It looked to Rebus like they were enjoying the moment. Victims again, and happy with their lot. Like the punks and the woman, they had got their reaction. Still a group, but strengthened now: war stories they could share. Other kids—on their slow route home from school, still dressed in uniform—had stopped to listen. Rebus led Miss Teri back up the street and into the nearest watering hole.

  “We don’t serve her kind!” the woman behind the bar snapped.

  “You do when I’m here,” Rebus snapped back.

  “She’s underage,” the woman pressed.

  “Then she’ll take a soft drink.” He turned to Teri. “What’ll it be?”

  “Vodka tonic.”

  Rebus smiled. “Give her a Coke. I’ll have a Laphroaig with a splash of water.” He paid for the drinks, confident enough now to try bringing coins from his pocket as well as notes.

  “How are the hands?” Teri Cotter asked.

  “Fine,” he said. “You can carry the drinks, though.” They received a few stares as they made their way to a table. Teri seemed pleased with the reception, blowing a kiss at one man, who just sneered and looked away.

  “You pick a fight in here,” Rebus warned her, “you’re on your own.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  “I saw that, the way you ran to your mum’s as soon as the Lost Boys arrived.”

  She glowered at him.

  “Good plan, by the way,” he added. “Defense the better part of valor and all that. Is it true what your mum says, this sort of thing happens a lot?”

  “Not as much as she seems to think.”

  “And yet you keep coming to Cockburn Street?”

  “Why shouldn’t we?”

  He shrugged. “No reason. Bit of masochism never hurt anyone.”

  She stared at him, then smiled, gazing down into her glass.

  “Cheers,” he said, lifting his own.

  “You got the quote wrong,” she said. “‘The better part of valor is discretion.’” Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part One.”

  “Not that you and your pals could be described as discreet.”

  “I try not to be.”

  “You do a good job. When I mentioned the Lost Boys, you didn’t seem surprised. Meaning you know them?”

  She looked down again, the hair falling over her pale face. Her fingers stroked the glass, nails glossy black. Slender hands and wrists. “Got a cigarette?” she asked.

  “Light us a couple,” Rebus said, digging the pack out of his jacket pocket. She placed the lit cigarette between his lips.

  “People will start to talk,” she sai
d, exhaling smoke.

  “I doubt it, Miss Teri.” He watched the door swing open, Siobhan walk in. She saw him, and nodded towards the toilets, holding up her hands to let him know she was going to wash them.

  “You like being an outsider, don’t you?” Rebus asked.

  Teri Cotter nodded.

  “And that’s why you liked Lee Herdman: he was an outsider, too.” She looked at him. “We found your photo in his flat. From which I assume you knew him.”

  “I knew him. Can I see the photo?”

  Rebus took it from his pocket. It was held inside a clear polyethylene envelope. “Where was it taken?” he asked.

  “Right here,” she said, gesturing towards the street.

  “You knew him pretty well, didn’t you?”

  “He liked us. Goths, I mean. Never really understood why.”

  “He had a few parties, didn’t he?” Rebus was remembering the albums in Herdman’s flat: music for Goths to dance to.

  Teri was nodding, blinking back tears. “Some of us used to go to his place.” She held up the photo. “Where did you find this?”

  “Inside a book he was reading.”

  “Which book?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  She shrugged. “Just wondered.”

  “It was a biography, I think. Some soldier who ended up doing himself in.”

  “You think that’s a clue?”

  “A clue?”

  She nodded. “To why Lee killed himself.”

  “Might be, I suppose. Did you ever meet any of his friends?”

  “I don’t think he had many friends.”

  “What about Doug Brimson?” The question came from Siobhan. She was sliding onto the banquette.

  Teri’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, I know him.”

  “You don’t sound enthusiastic,” Rebus commented.

  “You could say that.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Siobhan wanted to know. Rebus could see her prickling.

  Teri just shrugged.

  “The two lads who died,” Rebus said, “ever see them at the parties?”

  “As if.”

  “Meaning what?”

  She looked at him. “They weren’t the type. Rugby and jazz music and the Cadets.” As if this explained everything.

  “Did Lee ever talk about his time in the army?”

  “Not much.”

  “But you asked him?” She nodded slowly. “And you knew he had a thing about guns?”

  “I knew he kept pictures . . .” She bit her lip, but too late.

  “On the inside of his wardrobe door,” Siobhan added. “It’s not everyone who’d know that, Teri.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything!” Teri’s voice had risen. She was playing with her neck chain again.

  “Nobody’s on trial here, Teri,” Rebus said. “We just want to know what made him do it.”

  “How should I know?”

  “Because you knew him, and it seems not many people did.”

  Teri was shaking her head. “He never told me anything. That was the thing about him—like he had secrets. But I never thought he’d . . .”

  “No?”

  She fixed her eyes on Rebus’s but said nothing.

  “He ever show you a gun, Teri?” Siobhan asked.

  “No.”

  “Ever hint that he had access to one?”

  A shake of the head.

  “You say he never really opened up to you . . . what about the other way round?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Did he ask about you? Maybe you spoke to him about your family?”

  “I might have.”

  Rebus leaned forwards. “We were sorry to hear about your brother, Teri.”

  Siobhan, too, leaned forwards. “You probably mentioned the crash to Lee Herdman.”

  “Or maybe one of your pals did,” Rebus added.

  Teri saw that they were hemming her in. No escape from their stares and questions. She had placed the photo on the table, concentrating her attention on it.

  “Lee didn’t take this,” she said, as if trying to change the subject.

  “Anyone else we should talk to, Teri?” Rebus was asking. “People who went to Lee’s little soirees?”

  “I don’t want to answer any more questions.”

  “Why not, Teri?” Siobhan asked, frowning as though genuinely puzzled.

  “Because I don’t.”

  “Other names we can talk to . . .” Rebus was saying. “Might get us off your back.”

  Teri Cotter sat for a moment longer, then rose to her feet and climbed onto the banquette, stepped onto the table and jumped down to the floor at the other side, the gauzy black layers of her skirts billowing out around her. Without looking back, she made for the door, opened it and banged it shut behind her. Rebus looked at Siobhan and gave a grudging smile.

  “The girl has a certain style,” he said.

  “We panicked her,” Siobhan admitted. “Pretty much as soon as we mentioned her brother’s death.”

  “Could be they were just close,” Rebus argued. “You’re not really going for the assassin theory?”

  “All the same,” she said. “There’s something . . .” The door opened again, and Teri Cotter strode towards the table, leaning on it with both hands, her face close to her inquisitors.

  “James Bell,” she hissed. “There’s a name for you, if you want one.”

  “He went to Herdman’s parties?” Rebus asked.

  Teri Cotter just nodded, then turned away again. The regulars, watching her make her exit, shook their heads and went back to their drinks.

  “That interview we listened to,” Rebus said, “what was it James Bell said about Herdman?”

  “Something about going water-skiing.”

  “Yes, but the way he said it: ‘we’d met socially,’ something like that.”

  Siobhan nodded. “Maybe we should have picked up on it.”

  “We need to talk to him.”

  Siobhan kept nodding, but she was looking at the table. She peered beneath it.

  “Lost something?” Rebus asked.

  “No, but you have.”

  Rebus looked, too, and it dawned on him. Teri Cotter had taken her photograph with her.

  “Think that was why she came back?” Siobhan guessed.

  Rebus shrugged. “I suppose it counts as her property . . . a memento of the man she’s lost.”

  “You think they were lovers?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “In which case . . .”

  But Rebus shook his head. “Using her womanly wiles to persuade him to turn assassin? Do me a favor, Siobhan.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” she echoed.

  “Speaking of which, any chance of you buying me a drink?” He held up his empty glass.

  “None whatsoever,” she said, getting up to leave. Glumly, he followed her out of the bar. She was standing by her car, seemingly transfixed by something. Rebus couldn’t see anything worthy of note. The Goths were milling around as before, minus Miss Teri. No sign of the Lost Boys either. A few tourists stopping for photographs.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She nodded towards a car parked opposite. “Looks like Doug Brimson’s Land Rover.”

  “You sure?”

  “I saw it when I was out at Turnhouse.” She looked up and down Cockburn Street. Brimson wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  “It’s in worse shape than my Saab,” Rebus commented.

  “Yes, but you don’t have a Jag garaged at home.”

  “A Jag and a clapped-out Land Rover?”

  “I reckon it’s an image thing . . . boys and their toys.” She looked up and down the street again. “Wonder where he is.”

  “Maybe he’s stalking you,” Rebus suggested. He saw the look on her face and shrugged an apology. She turned her attention to the car again, certain in her mind that it was his. Coincidence, she told herself, that’s all it i
s.

  Coincidence.

  But all the same, she jotted down the number.

  11

  That evening, she settled down on her sofa, trying to get interested in anything on TV. Two gaudily dressed hosts were telling their victim that her clothes were all wrong for her. On another channel, a house was being “decluttered.” Which left Siobhan the choice of a gray-looking film, a dreary comedy series, or a documentary about cane toads.

  All of which served her right for not bothering to stop off at the video shop. Her own collection of films was small—“select,” as she preferred to call it. She’d watched each one half a dozen times at least, could recite dialogue, knew exactly what was coming in every scene. Maybe she would put some music on, turn the TV to mute and invent her own script for the boring-looking film. Or even for the cane toads. She’d already skimmed a magazine, picked up a book and put it down again, eaten the crisps and chocolate she’d bought at the garage when she’d stopped for petrol. There was a half-finished chow mein on the kitchen table, which she might get around to microwaving. Worst of all, she’d run out of wine, nothing in the flat but empty bottles awaiting the recycling run. She had gin in the cupboard, but nothing to mix it with except Diet Coke, and she wasn’t that desperate.

  Not yet, anyway.

  There were friends she could phone, but she knew she wouldn’t make great company. There was a message on her answering machine from her friend Caroline, asking if she fancied a drink. Blond and petite, Caroline always attracted attention when the two of them went out together. Siobhan had decided not to return the call just yet. She was too tired, with the case buzzing around her head, refusing to leave her alone. She’d made herself coffee, taking a mouthful before realizing she hadn’t boiled the kettle. Then she’d spent a couple of minutes searching the kitchen for sugar before remembering she didn’t take sugar. Hadn’t taken it in coffee since she’d been a teenager.