A Question of Blood

  Rebus looked at her, then nodded again.

  “And this’ll be over a drink, which you’re going to buy me?”

  The look became a glare. Siobhan had taken the phone back out of her pocket, and was waving it in Rebus’s face.

  “All right,” he growled. “Just call the guy, okay?”

  Siobhan checked in her notebook, finding Brimson’s details, started punching numbers. “What exactly is it that I’m telling him?”

  “Charm offensive: you need a big favor. Maybe more than one actually . . . But for starters, you can ask him if there’s a landing strip anywhere on Jura . . .”

  When Rebus arrived at Port Edgar Academy, he saw that Bobby Hogan was remonstrating with Jack Bell. Bell wasn’t alone: he had the same camera crew with him. Plus he had one hand clamped around Kate Renshaw’s forearm.

  “I think we’ve every right,” the MSP was saying, “to see where our loved ones were gunned down.”

  “With respect, sir, that classroom remains a crime scene. No one goes in without good reason.”

  “We’re the family, which I’d have thought was the best reason there was.”

  Hogan pointed to the crew. “Pretty extended family, sir . . .”

  The director had noticed Rebus’s approach. He tapped Bell’s shoulder. Bell turned, his face forming a cold smile.

  “You’ll have come to apologize?” he guessed.

  Rebus ignored him. “Don’t go in there, Kate,” he said, standing directly in front of her. “It can’t do any good.”

  She couldn’t meet his gaze. “People need to know.” She spoke in an undertone, Bell nodding in agreement.

  “Maybe so, but what they don’t need is a publicity stunt. It just cheapens everything, Kate, you must see that.”

  Bell had turned his attention back to Hogan. “I must insist that this man be removed from here.”

  “Must you?” Hogan echoed.

  “He is already on record as having uttered abusive comments at my crew and myself . . .”

  “Plenty more where that came from,” Rebus stated.

  “John . . .” Hogan’s eyes warning him to calm down. Then: “I’m sorry, Mr. Bell, but I really can’t allow filming inside that room.”

  “What if there’s no camera?” the director offered. “Sound only?”

  Hogan was shaking his head. “You’re not going to move me on this.” He folded his arms, as if to signal an end to the discussion.

  Rebus was still concentrating on Kate, trying for eye contact. She seemed to be finding something fascinating in the near distance. The gulls on the playing field perhaps, or the rugby posts . . .

  “Well, where can we film?” the MSP was asking.

  “Outside the gates, same as everyone else,” Hogan replied. Bell exhaled furiously.

  “You can be sure your obstructiveness will be noted,” he warned.

  “Thank you, sir,” Hogan said, keeping his voice level while his eyes burned.

  The common room had been emptied: no chairs, hi-fi or magazines. The principal, Dr. Fogg, was standing in the doorway, hands held before him, palms pressed together. He was dressed in a sober charcoal suit, white shirt, black tie. His eyes had dark rings around them, hair speckled with dandruff. He sensed Rebus behind him and turned, offered a watery smile.

  “Trying to decide what use might best be made of the room,” he explained. “The chaplain thinks it could be turned into a sort of chapel, something the pupils could use for contemplation.”

  “It’s an idea,” Rebus said. The principal had moved aside so Rebus could enter the room. Blood had dried into the walls and floor. Rebus tried to sidestep the stains.

  “You could always lock it, leave it a few years. Kids will all have moved on by then . . . few coats of paint, new carpet . . .”

  “Hard to look that far ahead,” Fogg said, managing another smile. “Well, I’ll leave you to . . . to your . . .” He made a little bow and turned away, walking back towards his office.

  Rebus was staring at the blood spatter pattern on one wall. This was where Derek had been standing. Derek, part of his family, now obliterated.

  Lee Herdman . . . Rebus was trying to visualize him, waking up that morning and reaching for a gun. What had happened? What in his life had changed? Were demons dancing around his bed when he awoke? Were the voices teasing him? The teenagers he’d befriended . . . had something broken that spell? Fuck you, kids, I’m coming for you . . . Driving into the school grounds, stopping the car rather than actually parking it. In a rush, leaving his driver’s door wide open. In through the side entrance, no cameras to catch him . . . Up the corridor and into this room. Here I am, kids. Anthony Jarvies, shot through the head. He’d probably been first. All the army teaching told you to aim for the center of the chest: bigger target, harder to miss and usually deadly. But Herdman had opted for the head . . . Why? That first shot had lost him the element of surprise. Maybe Derek Renshaw had been in movement, receiving a shot to the face for his trouble. James Bell ducking down, one bullet to the shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut tight as Herdman turned the gun on himself . . .

  The third head shot, this time to his own temple.

  “Why, Lee? That’s all we want to know,” Rebus whispered into the silence. He walked to the door, turned, entered the room again, holding out his right gloved hand as though it were the weapon. Swiveled from one firing position to another. He knew that the forensics team would be doing much the same, albeit in front of their computers. Reconstructing the scene in the room, computing the angles of bullet entry, positioning the gunman for each shot. Every shred of evidence added its own sentence to the story. Here’s where he was standing . . . then he turned, moved forwards . . . If we match angle of entry to the blood spatter pattern . . .

  Eventually, they would know every move Herdman had made. They would have brought the scene vividly to life with their graphics and ballistics. And none of it might make them any the wiser about the only question that mattered.

  The why.

  “Don’t shoot,” a voice said from the doorway. It was Bobby Hogan, standing with arms raised. He had with him two figures Rebus knew. Claverhouse and Ormiston. Claverhouse, tall and lanky, was a detective inspector; Ormiston, shorter and stocky with a permanent sniffle, was a detective sergeant. Both worked for Drugs and Major Crime and had close links to the assistant chief constable, Colin Carswell. In fact, on a bad day Rebus might have called them Carswell’s hatchet men. He realized that he still had his gun hand out, so he lowered it.

  “I hear the fascist look’s in this year,” Claverhouse said, indicating Rebus’s leather gloves.

  “Making you fashionable year in and year out,” Rebus retorted.

  “Now, children,” Hogan warned. Ormiston was peering at the blood on the floor, rubbing the tip of his shoe over it.

  “So what brings you sniffing around?” Rebus asked, eyes on Ormiston as the stocky man rubbed the back of his hand across his nostrils.

  “Drugs,” Claverhouse said. With all three buttons of his suit jacket closed, he resembled a shop-window mannequin.

  “Looks like Ormy’s been sampling the goods.”

  Hogan bowed his head to try to hide a smile. Claverhouse swiveled towards him. “I thought DI Rebus was out on his ear.”

  “News travels fast,” Rebus said.

  “Aye, especially good news,” Ormiston snapped back.

  Hogan straightened up. “Do the three of you want detention?” No one replied. “To answer your question, DI Claverhouse, John’s here in a purely advisory capacity, due to his army background. He’s not ‘working’ per se . . .”

  “No change there then,” Ormiston muttered.

  “And the kettle’s trailing the pot, one-nil, at halftime,” Rebus informed him.

  Hogan held up a hand. “And that’s a yellow card from the referee. Any more shite and you’re out of here, I mean it!” His voice had hardened. Claverhouse’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t say anything. Ormiston
had his nose all but pressed to one of the bloodstains on the wall.

  “Right . . .” Hogan said into the silence, sighing heavily. “So what is it you’ve got for us?”

  Claverhouse took this as his cue. “Looks like the stuff you found on the boat is checking out: Ecstasy and cocaine. The cocaine’s pretty high grade. Maybe it was due to be cut a bit further . . .”

  “Crack?” Hogan asked.

  Claverhouse nodded. “It’s taken hold in a few places—fishing towns up north, some of the housing projects here and in Glasgow . . . A grand’s worth of good stuff can turn into ten when it’s cut.”

  “There’s also a bundle of hash going around,” Ormiston added.

  Claverhouse glared at him, not wanting to have his thunder stolen. “Ormy’s right, there’s plenty of hash on the streets.”

  “What about Ecstasy?” Hogan asked.

  Claverhouse nodded. “We thought it was coming up from Manchester. Could be we were wrong.”

  “From Herdman’s logs,” Hogan said, “we know he’s been to and fro to the Continent. Seems to stop off at Rotterdam.”

  “Lot of E factories in Holland,” Ormiston stated casually. He was still studying the wall in front of him, hands in pockets and leaning back on his heels, as if concentrating on the exhibit at a gallery. “Lot of cocaine over there, too.”

  “And Customs wasn’t suspicious of these jaunts to Rotterdam?” Rebus asked.

  Claverhouse shrugged. “Those poor buggers are stretched to the breaking point. No way they can check up on everybody hopping over to Europe, especially in these days of open borders.”

  “So what you’re saying is, you let Herdman slip through your net?”

  Claverhouse’s eyes met Rebus’s. “Like Customs, we depend on intelligence gathering.”

  “Not much sign of that around here,” Rebus countered, shifting his gaze from Claverhouse to Ormiston and back again. “Bobby, have Herdman’s finances been looked into?”

  Hogan nodded. “No evidence of sudden large deposits or withdrawals.”

  “Dealers steer clear of banks,” Claverhouse stated. “Hence the need for money laundering. Herdman’s boat business would do just fine.”

  “What about Herdman’s autopsy?” Rebus asked Bobby Hogan. “Any sign that he was a drug user?”

  Hogan shook his head. “Blood tests negative.”

  “Dealers aren’t always users,” Claverhouse intoned. “The big players are in it for the money. In the past six months, we busted one operation carrying a hundred and thirty thousand tabs of E, street value of a million and a half, forty-four kilos” worth. Four kilos of opium was intercepted after being flown in from Iran.” He stared at Rebus. “That was a Customs bust, based on intelligence.”

  “And how much did we find on Herdman’s boat?” Rebus asked. “A drop in the ocean, if you’ll pardon the expression.” He had started to light a cigarette but caught Hogan’s look, eyes casting around the room. “It’s not a church, Bobby,” he said, finishing what he’d started. He didn’t think Derek or Anthony would mind. Didn’t care what Herdman thought . . .

  “For personal use perhaps,” Claverhouse offered.

  “Except he didn’t use.” Rebus blew smoke down his nostrils in Claverhouse’s direction.

  “Maybe he had friends who did. I hear he used to host a few parties . . .”

  “We’ve not spoken to anyone who says he gave them coke or Eckies.”

  “As if they’d want to advertise the fact,” Claverhouse snorted. “Fact is, I’m astonished you can find anyone who’ll admit to having known the bastard.” He stared down at the bloodstained floor.

  Ormiston ran a hand beneath his nose again, then let out a huge sneeze, further mottling the wall.

  “Ormy, you insensitive bastard,” Rebus hissed.

  “He’s not the one flicking ash on the floor,” Claverhouse growled.

  “The smoke tickles my nose,” Ormiston was saying. Rebus had strode over to stand next to him. “That was somebody from my fucking family!” he snarled, pointing at the pattern of blood.

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  “What did you just say, John?” Hogan’s voice was a low rumble.

  “Nothing,” Rebus said. But it was too late. Hogan was standing right beside him, sliding hands into pockets, expecting an explanation. “Allan Renshaw’s a cousin of mine,” Rebus admitted.

  “And you didn’t feel that was information I might need to know?” Hogan’s face was puce with anger.

  “Not really, Bobby, no.” Over Hogan’s shoulder, Rebus could see a huge grin spreading across Claverhouse’s narrow face.

  Hogan removed his hands from his pockets, tried clenching them behind his back but found the maneuver unsatisfactory. Rebus knew where Bobby really wanted those hands. He wanted them around Rebus’s neck.

  “It doesn’t change anything,” he argued. “Like you said, I’m here as an advisor, that’s all. We’re not building a court case, Bobby. No lawyer’s going to be able to use me as a technicality.”

  “Bastard was a drug smuggler,” Claverhouse interrupted. “There must be associates out there for us to catch. One of them gets a bright enough lawyer . . .”

  “Claverhouse,” Rebus said wearily. “Do the world a favor and”—his voice a sudden howl—“just shut the fuck up!”

  Claverhouse started forwards, Rebus ready to meet him, Hogan stepping between them, though in the certain knowledge of being as useful as chocolate handcuffs. Ormiston’s role was spectator; no way he’d interrupt unless his partner was getting the worst of it.

  “Phone call for DI Rebus!” A sudden shout from the open doorway, Siobhan standing there, holding out a mobile phone. “I think it’s urgent: the Complaints.”

  Claverhouse stepped back, allowing Rebus clear passage. He even made a mocking motion with his arm, signaling “after you.” And the grin was back on his face. Rebus looked down to where Bobby Hogan still had a handful of the front of his suit jacket. Hogan let go, and Rebus walked to the doorway.

  “Want to take it outside?” Siobhan suggested. Rebus nodded, held out his hand for the phone. But she was keeping it, walking with him all the way out of the building. She looked around, saw that they were at a safe distance, and held the phone out to him.

  “Better make it look like you’re talking,” she warned. Rebus held the phone to his ear. Nothing there at all.

  “No call?” he asked. She shook her head.

  “Just thought you needed rescuing.”

  He managed a smile, keeping the phone to his ear. “Bobby knows about the Renshaws.”

  “I know. I heard.”

  “Spying on me again?”

  “Not much going on in the geography class.” They were heading towards the Portakabin. “So what do we do now?”

  “Whatever it is, it better be away from here . . . give Bobby time to cool off.” Rebus looked back towards the school. Three figures were watching from the doorway.

  “And Claverhouse and Ormiston time to crawl back under their rock?”

  “You’re reading my mind.” He paused. “So what am I thinking now?”

  “You’re thinking we could go for a drink.”

  “This is uncanny.”

  “And you’re also thinking of paying, as a way of saying thanks for saving your arse.”

  “That is the incorrect answer. Still, as Meat Loaf used to say . . .” They’d reached her car. He handed back her phone. “Two out of three ain’t bad.”

  15

  So if no money turned up in Herdman’s bank,” Siobhan said, “we can scratch him as a hired killer.” “Unless he turned the money into drugs,” Rebus replied, for the sake of argument. They were in the Boatman’s, drinking with the late-afternoon crowd. Suits and laborers who’d finished work for the day. Rod McAllister was behind the bar yet again. Rebus had asked jokingly if he was a permanent feature.

  “Day shift,” McAllister had replied unsmilingly.

  “You’re a real asset t
o the place,” Rebus had added, accepting his change.

  Now he sat with a half-pint of beer and the remains of a glass of whiskey. Siobhan was drinking a garishly colored mixture of lime juice and soda.

  “You really think Whiteread and Simms might have planted those drugs?”

  Rebus shrugged. “There isn’t much I wouldn’t put past the likes of Whiteread.”

  “Based on . . . ?” He looked at her. “I mean,” she went on, “you’ve always stayed pretty tight-lipped about your army years.”

  “Not the happiest of my life,” he admitted. “I saw guys broken by the system. Fact of the matter is, I only just about held on to my own sanity. When I left, I had a nervous breakdown.” Rebus swallowed back the memories. He thought of all the comfortable clichés: what’s done is done . . . you can’t go living in the past . . . “One guy—a guy I was close to—he went to pieces during the training. They turfed him out, but forgot to switch him off . . .” His voice trailed away.

  “What happened?”

  “He blamed me, came looking for revenge. Way before your time, Siobhan.”

  “So you can understand why Herdman might lose it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “But you’re not sure he did, are you?”

  “There are usually warning signs. Herdman wasn’t the archetypal loner. No arsenal in his home, just that one gun . . .” Rebus paused. “We could do with knowing when he got hold of it.”

  “The gun?”

  Rebus nodded. “Then we’d know whether he bought it with that one specific purpose.”

  “Chances are, if he was smuggling drugs, he’d feel the need for some kind of protection. Might explain the Mac-10 in the boathouse.” Siobhan was following the progress of a young blond woman who’d just entered the bar. The barman seemed to know her. He was pouring out her drink before she got to him. Bacardi and Coke, it looked like. No ice.

  “Nothing came of all those interviews?” Rebus was asking.

  Siobhan shook her head. He meant all the lowlifes and firearm merchants. “The Brocock wasn’t the most recent model. Thinking seems to be, he brought it north with him when he moved here. As for the machine gun, who knows?”