A Question of Blood

  “At Calton Road?”

  Rebus nodded. “Stone railway arches. It’s pretty gloomy down there. Not much in the way of street lighting.”

  Siobhan’s turn to nod: it was a desolate spot all right.

  “Lots of nooks and crannies, too,” Rebus continued. “Andy’s partner thought he spotted something in the shadows. They stopped the car, got out. Saw these four guys . . . probably the same ones. Kept their distance, asked if they were carrying any weapons. Ordered them to place anything on the ground. The way Andy told it, it was like shadows that kept shifting . . .” He rested his head against the back of the seat, closed his eyes. “Wasn’t sure if what he was looking at was a shadow or flesh and blood. He was unclipping his flashlight from his belt when he thought he saw movement, a hand stretching, pointing something. He aimed his own gun, safety off . . .”

  “What happened?”

  “Something fell to the ground. It was a pistol: a replica, as it turned out. But too late . . .”

  “He’d fired?”

  Rebus nodded. “Not that he hit anyone. He was aiming at the ground. Ricochet could have gone anywhere . . .”

  “But it didn’t.”

  “No.” Rebus paused. “There had to be an inquiry: happens every time a weapon’s discharged. Partner backed him up, but Andy knew the guy was just mouthing words. He started doubting himself.”

  “And the guy with the gun?”

  “Four of them. None would own up to carrying it. Three were wearing parkas, and the kid from the nightclub queue wasn’t about to ID the carrier.”

  “The Lost Boys?”

  Rebus nodded. “That’s the neighborhood name for them. They’re the ones you ran into on Cockburn Street. The leader—his name’s Rab Fisher—he went to court for carrying the replica, but the case was booted out . . . waste of the lawyers’ time. And meanwhile, Andy Callis was playing it over and over again in his head, trying to sort out the shadows from the truth . . .”

  “And this is the Lost Boys’ patch?” Siobhan asked, peering out through the windshield.

  Rebus nodded. Siobhan was thoughtful, then asked: “Where did the gun come from?”

  “At a guess, Peacock Johnson.”

  “Is that why you wanted a word with him that day he was brought into St. Leonard’s?”

  Rebus nodded again.

  “And now you want a word with the Lost Boys?”

  “Looks like they’ve gone home for the night,” Rebus admitted, turning his head to watch from the passenger-side window.

  “You think Callis came here on purpose?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Looking to confront them?”

  “They got off scot-free, Siobhan. Andy wasn’t too thrilled at that.”

  She was thoughtful. “So why aren’t we telling all this to Craigmillar?”

  “I’ll let them know.” He felt her staring. “Cross my heart.”

  “It could have been an accident. That railway line would look like an escape route.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Nobody saw anything.”

  He turned towards her. “Spit it out.”

  She sighed. “It’s just the way you keep trying to fight other people’s battles for them.”

  “Is that what I do?”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “Well, I’m sorry if that upsets you.”

  “It doesn’t upset me. But sometimes . . .” She swallowed back what she’d been about to say.

  “Sometimes?” Rebus encouraged her.

  She shook her head, exhaled noisily and stretched her back, working her neck. “Thank God for the weekend. You got any plans?”

  “Thought I might do some hill walking . . . pump some iron at the gym . . .”

  “Just a hint of sarcasm there?”

  “Just a hint.” He’d spotted something. “Slow down a bit.” He was turning to watch from the rear window. “Back the car up.”

  She did so. They were on a street of low-rise flats. A supermarket cart, itself a long way from home, sat abandoned on the pavement. Rebus was looking down an alley between two blocks. One . . . no, two figures. Just silhouettes, so close together they seemed to merge. Then Rebus realized what was happening.

  “A good old-fashioned knee-trembler,” Siobhan commented. “Who said the art of romance was dead?”

  One of the faces had turned towards the car, noting the idling engine. A rough masculine voice called out: “Enjoying the view, pal? Better than you’re getting at home, eh?”

  “Drive,” Rebus ordered.

  Siobhan drove.

  They ended up at St. Leonard’s, Siobhan explaining that her car was there, without elaborating any further. Rebus had told her he’d be okay to drive home: Arden Street was five minutes away. But by the time he parked outside his flat, his hands were burning. In the bathroom, he smeared more cream on and took a couple of painkillers, hoping he’d be able to snatch a few hours’ sleep. A whiskey might help, so he poured a large measure and sat himself down in the living room. The laptop had gone from screen-saver to sleep mode. He didn’t bother waking it, walked over to his dining table instead. He had some stuff about the SAS laid out there, alongside the copy of Herdman’s personnel file. He sat down in front of it.

  Enjoying the view, pal?

  Better than you’re getting at home?

  Enjoying the view . . . ?

  DAY FIVE

  Monday

  17

  The view was magnificent. Siobhan was in the front, next to the pilot. Rebus was tucked in behind, an empty seat next to him. The noise from the propellers was deafening.

  “We could’ve taken the corporate plane,” Doug Brimson was explaining, “but the fuel bill’s massive, and it might’ve been too big for the LZ.”

  LZ: landing zone. Not a term Rebus had heard since he’d left the army.

  “Corporate?” Siobhan was asking.

  “I’ve got a seven-seater. Companies hire me to fly them to meetings—otherwise known as ‘jollies.’ I lay on some chilled champagne, crystal glasses . . .”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “Sorry, all we’ve got today is a canteen of tea.” He offered a laugh, turning to look at Rebus. “I was in Dublin for the weekend, flew a bunch of bankers there for some rugby match. They paid for me to stay over.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “A few weekends back, it was Amsterdam: businessman’s stag party . . .”

  Rebus was thinking of his own weekend. When Siobhan had picked him up this morning, she’d asked what he’d done.

  “Not much,” he’d said. “You?”

  “Ditto.”

  “Funny, the guys down at Leith said you’d been dropping in.”

  “Funny, they told me the same thing about you.”

  “Enjoying it so far?” Brimson asked now.

  “So far,” Rebus said. In truth, he had no great head for heights. All the same, he’d watched with fascination the aerial view of Edinburgh, amazed at how indistinguishable landmarks like the Castle and Calton Hill were from their surroundings. No mistaking the volcanic heft of Arthur’s Seat, but the buildings suffered from a uniform gray coloring. Still, the elaborate patterning of the New Town’s geometric streets was impressive, and then they were out over the Forth, passing South Queensferry and the road and rail bridges. Rebus sought Port Edgar School, saw Hopetoun House first and then the school building not half a mile distant. He could even make out the Portakabin. They were heading west now, following the M8 towards Glasgow.

  Siobhan was asking Brimson if he did a lot of corporate work.

  “Depends how the economy’s doing. To be honest, if a company’s sending four or five people to a meeting, it can be cheaper to charter than to fly regular business class.”

  “Siobhan tells me you were in the forces, Mr. Brimson,” Rebus said, leaning as far forward as his seat belt would allow.

  Brimson smiled. “I was RAF. What about you, Inspector? Forces background?”

&nb
sp; Rebus nodded. “Even trained for the SAS,” he admitted. “Didn’t quite make the grade.”

  “Few do.”

  “And some of those falter down the line.”

  Brimson looked at him again. “You mean Lee?”

  “And Robert Niles. How did you come to know him?”

  “Through Lee. He told me he visited Robert. I asked if I could go with him one day.”

  “And after that, you started going on your own?” Rebus was remembering the entries in the visitors’ log.

  “Yes. He’s an interesting chap. We seem to get along.” He looked at Siobhan. “Fancy taking over the controls while I chat with your colleague?”

  “No fear . . .”

  “Another time maybe. I think you’d like it.” He gave her a wink. Then, to Rebus: “The army seems to treat its old boys pretty shabbily, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I don’t know. There’s support available when you hit civvy street . . . wasn’t in my day.”

  “High rate of marriage failures, breakdowns. More Falklands veterans have taken their own lives than were killed in the actual conflict. A lot of homeless people are ex-forces . . .”

  “On the other hand,” Rebus said, “the SAS is big business these days. You can sell your story to a publisher, sell your services as a bodyguard. Way I hear it, all four SAS squadrons are below quota. Too many are leaving. Suicide rate’s lower than the average, too.”

  Brimson didn’t appear to be listening. “One guy jumped out of a plane a few years back . . . maybe you heard about that, too. Recipient of the QGM.”

  “Queen’s Gallantry Medal,” Rebus explained, for Siobhan’s benefit.

  “Tried stabbing his ex-wife, thinking she was trying to kill him. Suffered from depression . . . Couldn’t take it anymore, went into freefall, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  “It happens,” Rebus said. He was remembering the book in Herdman’s flat, the one Teri’s photo had fallen from.

  “Oh, it happens all right,” Brimson was continuing. “The SAS chaplain who took part in the Iranian embassy siege, he ended up committing suicide. Another ex-SAS man shot his girlfriend with a gun he’d brought back from the Gulf War.”

  “And something similar happened to Lee Herdman?” Siobhan asked.

  “Seems like,” Brimson said.

  “Why pick on that school, though?” Rebus continued. “You went to a few of his parties, didn’t you, Mr. Brimson?”

  “He threw a good party.”

  “Always used to be plenty of teenagers hanging around.”

  Brimson turned again. “Is that a question or a comment?”

  “Ever see any drugs?”

  Brimson seemed to be concentrating on the control panel in front of him. “Maybe a bit of pot,” he finally conceded.

  “Is that as strong as it got?”

  “It’s as much as I saw.”

  “Not quite the same thing. Did you ever hear a rumor that Lee Herdman might be dealing?”

  “No.”

  “Or smuggling?”

  Brimson looked towards Siobhan. “Shouldn’t I have a solicitor present?”

  She gave a reassuring smile. “I think the detective inspector’s just making conversation.” She turned to Rebus. “Isn’t that right?” Her eyes telling Rebus to go easy.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Just a bit of chat.” He tried not to think about the hours of lost sleep, his stinging hands, Andy Callis’s death. Concentrated instead on the view from his window, the changing landscape. They’d be over Glasgow soon, and then out into the Firth of Clyde, Bute and Kintyre . . .

  “So you never associated Lee Herdman with drugs?” he asked.

  “I never saw him with anything stronger than a joint.”

  “That’s not exactly answering my question. What would you say if I told you drugs had been found on one of Herdman’s boats?”

  “I’d say it’s none of my business. Lee was a friend, Inspector. Don’t expect me to play along with whatever game it is you’re —”

  “Some of my colleagues think he was smuggling cocaine and Ecstasy into the country,” Rebus stated.

  “It’s not my problem what your colleagues think,” Brimson muttered, sinking into silence.

  “I saw your car on Cockburn Street last week,” Siobhan said, trying for a change of subject. “Just after I’d been out to Turnhouse to see you.”

  “I’d probably stopped off at the bank.”

  “This was past closing time.”

  Brimson was thoughtful. “Cockburn Street?” Then he nodded to himself. “Some friends have got a shop there. I think I popped in.”

  “Which shop is it?”

  He looked at her. “It’s not really a shop as such. One of those tanning places.”

  “Owned by Charlotte Cotter?” Brimson looked amazed. “We interviewed the daughter. She’s a pupil at the school.”

  “Right.” Brimson nodded. He’d been flying with a headset on, one of the ear protectors pushed away from his ear. But now he fixed it on and angled the mike towards his mouth. “Go ahead, Tower,” he said. Then he listened as the control tower at Glasgow Airport told him which route to take so as to avoid an incoming flight. Rebus was staring at the back of Brimson’s head, thinking to himself that Teri hadn’t mentioned him being a friend of the family . . . hadn’t sounded as if she liked him at all . . .

  The Cessna banked steeply, Rebus trying not to grip his armrest too tightly. A minute later, they were passing over Greenock, and then the short stretch of water that separated it from Dunoon. The countryside below was growing wilder: more forests, fewer settlements. They crossed Loch Fyne and were out into the Sound of Jura. The wind seemed to pick up almost immediately, buffeting the plane.

  “I’ve not been this way before,” Brimson admitted. “Looked at the charts last night. Just the one road, up the eastern side of the island. Bottom half’s mostly forest and some decent peaks.”

  “And the landing strip?” Siobhan asked.

  “You’ll see.” He turned to Rebus again. “Ever read any poetry, Inspector?”

  “Do I look the type?”

  “Frankly, no. I’m a great fan of Yeats. There’s a poem of his I was reading the other night: ‘I know that I shall meet my fate / Somewhere among the clouds above; / Those that I fight I do not hate, / Those that I guard I do not love.’” He looked at Siobhan. “Isn’t that the saddest thing?”

  “You think Lee felt that way?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “The poor bastard who jumped out of the plane did.” He paused. “Know what the poem’s called? ‘An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.’” Another glance at the instrument panel. “This is us over Jura now.”

  Siobhan looked out on to wilderness. The plane made a tight circuit, and she could see the coastline again and a road running alongside it. As the plane made its descent, Brimson seemed to be checking the road for something . . . some marker perhaps.

  “I don’t see anywhere to land,” Siobhan said. But she noticed a man, who appeared to be waving both arms at them. Brimson took the plane back up, and made a further circuit.

  “Any traffic?” he said, as they flew low over the road once more. Siobhan thought he must be talking to someone on the mike, some tower somewhere. But then she realized he was talking to her. And by “traffic” he meant on the road beneath.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said, turning to see if Rebus shared her disbelief, but he seemed to be concentrating on guiding the plane down by willpower alone. The wheels rumbled as they hit the tarmac, the plane bouncing once as if straining to be airborne again. Brimson had his teeth clenched but was smiling, too. He turned to Siobhan as if in triumph, and taxied along the highway towards the waiting man, the man who was still waving his arms, and now guiding the small plane through an open gateway, leading to a field of stubble. They bumped over the ruts. Brimson cut the engines and slid off his headphones.

  There was a house next to the field, and a woman standing there
watching them, nursing a baby. Siobhan opened her door, undid her selt belt and leapt out. The ground felt as if it were vibrating, but she realized it was her body, still shaken up from the flight.

  “I’ve never landed on a road before,” a grinning Brimson was telling the man.

  “It was that or the field,” the man said, in a thick accent. He was tall and muscular, with curly brown hair and bright pink cheeks. “I’m Rory Mollison.” He shook Brimson’s hand, then was introduced to Siobhan. Rebus, who was lighting a cigarette, nodded but didn’t offer his own hand. “You found the place all right, then,” Mollison said, as if they’d arrived by car.

  “As you can see,” Siobhan said.

  “Thought it would work,” Mollison said. “The SAS guys landed by helicopter. It was their pilot who told me the road would make a good landing strip. No potholes, you see.”

  “He was right,” Brimson said.

  Mollison was the rescue team’s “local guide.” When Siobhan had asked her favor of Brimson—a plane ride to Jura—he’d asked if she knew anywhere they could land. Rebus had passed along Mollison’s name . . .

  Siobhan waved at the woman, who waved back with no real enthusiasm.

  “My wife, Mary,” Mollison said. “And our little one, Seona. Are you coming in for some tea?”

  Rebus made a show of looking at his watch. “Best if we get started, actually.” He turned to Brimson. “You’ll be all right here till we get back?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We should only be a few hours . . .”

  “Hang on, I’m coming, too. I don’t suppose Mrs. Mollison wants me moping around here. And after flying you here, I don’t see how you can turn me down.”

  Rebus looked to Siobhan, then conceded with a shrug.

  “You’ll want to come in and get changed,” Mollison was saying. Siobhan lifted her backpack and nodded.

  “Changed?” Rebus echoed.

  “Climbing gear.” Mollison looked him up and down. “Is that all you’ve brought?”

  Rebus shrugged. Siobhan had opened her own pack to show hiking boots, cagoule, and canteen. “A regular Mary Poppins,” Rebus commented.