A Question of Blood

  What was she doing here anyway? Was she here because of Fairstone, or the notes, or because Rachel Fox had turned up at the Boatman’s? Maybe all three. Fox was a checkout assistant, so Siobhan scanned the row of registers and saw her almost immediately. She was wearing the same blue uniform as the other women and had piled her hair atop her head, a ringlet hanging down over either ear. She had a vacant look on her face as she slid item after item over the bar-code reader. The sign above her register read NINE ITEMS OR LESS. Siobhan made her way down the first aisle, couldn’t find anything she needed. She didn’t want to wait in the queues at the fish and meat counters. It would be just her luck if Fox took a break, or skipped out early. Two bars of chocolate went into the cart, followed by a kitchen towel and a can of Scotch broth. Four items. At the top of the next aisle, she made sure Fox was still working the checkout. She was, and three pensioners were waiting their turn to pay. Siobhan added a tube of tomato puree to her provisions. A woman in an electric wheelchair whizzed past, her husband toiling to keep up. She kept yelling instructions to him: “Toothpaste! The pump, mind, not the tube! And did you remember the cucumber?”

  His sudden wince told Siobhan that he had in fact forgotten the cucumber and would need to go back.

  The other shoppers seemed to be moving at half-speed, as if trying to make the activity last longer than was strictly necessary. They’d probably end the trip with a visit to the in-store café—tea and a slice of cake, the cake to be chewed slowly, the tea sipped. And then home to the afternoon cooking shows.

  A bag of pasta. Six items.

  Only one pensioner was now waiting at the express lane. Siobhan fell in behind him. He said hello to Fox, who managed a tired “Hiya,” cutting off any further conversation.

  “Grand day,” the man said. His mouth seemed to be lacking the necessary dental plates, tongue protruding wetly. Fox just gave a nod, concentrating on processing his purchases as speedily as possible. Looking down at the conveyor belt, two things struck Siobhan. The first was that the gentleman had twelve items. The second, that like him she should have bought some eggs.

  “Eight-eighty,” Fox said. The man’s hand withdrew slowly from his pocket, counting out coins. He frowned and counted again. Fox held out her hand and took the money from him.

  “Fifty pence short,” she informed him.

  “Eh?”

  “You’re fifty pence short. You’ll have to put something back.”

  “Here, take this,” Siobhan said, adding another coin to the collection. The man looked at her, gave a toothless grin and a bow of his head. Then he lifted his bag and shuffled towards the exit.

  Rachel Fox began dealing with her new customer. “You’re thinking ‘poor old soul,’” she said without looking up. “But he tries pulling that one every week or so.”

  “More fool me, then,” Siobhan said. “It was worth it just to stop him doing another slow-motion recount.”

  Fox glanced up, then back to the conveyor belt, then up again. “I know you from somewhere.”

  “Been sending me any letters, Rachel?”

  Fox’s hand froze on the pasta. “How d’you know my name?”

  “It’s on your badge, for one thing.”

  But Fox knew now. Her eyes were heavily made up. She narrowed them as she stared at Siobhan. “You’re that cop, tried to get Marty put away.”

  “I gave evidence at his trial,” Siobhan conceded.

  “Yeah, I remember you . . . Got one of your pals to torch him, too.”

  “Don’t believe everything the tabloids tell you, Rachel.”

  “You were giving him hassle, weren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “He talked about you . . . said you had it in for him.”

  “I can assure you I didn’t.”

  “Then how come he’s dead?”

  The last of Siobhan’s six items had gone through, and she was holding out a ten-pound note. The cashier at the next register had stopped serving and, like her customer, was now listening in.

  “Can I talk to you someplace, Rachel?” Siobhan looked around. “Somewhere more private.” But Fox’s eyes were filling with tears. Suddenly she reminded Siobhan of the kid outside. In some ways, she thought, we just don’t grow up. Emotionally, we never grow up . . .

  “Rachel . . .” she said.

  But Fox had opened the register to give Siobhan her change. She was shaking her head slowly. “Got nothing to say to you lot.”

  “What about the notes I’ve been getting, Rachel? Can you tell me about the notes?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The sound of a motor told Siobhan that the woman in the wheelchair was right behind her. No doubt there were exactly nine items in her husband’s cart. Siobhan turned, and saw that the woman was cradling a hand basket, with what looked like another nine items inside. The woman was glowering at Siobhan, wishing her gone.

  “I saw you in the Boatman’s,” Siobhan told Rachel Fox. “What were you doing there?”

  “Where?”

  “The Boatman’s . . . South Queensferry.”

  Fox handed over Siobhan’s change and receipt, gave a loud sniff. “That’s where Rod works.”

  “He’s a . . . friend . . . is he?”

  “He’s my brother,” Rachel Fox said. When she looked up at Siobhan, the water in her eyes had been replaced by fire. “Does that mean you’re going to want him killed, too? Eh? Does it?”

  “Maybe we’ll try another register, Davie,” the woman in the wheelchair told her husband. She was backing away as Siobhan snatched her shopping bag and headed for the exit, Rachel Fox’s voice following her all the way out:

  “Murdering bitch! What had he ever done to you? Murderer! Murderer!”

  She dumped the bag on the passenger seat, got in behind the steering wheel.

  “Nothing but a slut!” Rachel Fox was walking towards the car. “Couldn’t get a man if you tried!”

  Siobhan turned the ignition, backed out of the space as Fox aimed a kick at the driver’s-side headlight. She was wearing sneakers, and her foot glanced off the glass. Siobhan was craning her neck around, making sure she didn’t hit anyone behind her. When she turned, Fox was wrestling with a line of parked carts. Siobhan moved the car forwards, pushing the accelerator hard, hearing the clatter of the carts as they just missed her. Looked in the rearview and saw them blocking the road behind her, their leader bumping against a parked VW Beetle.

  And Rachel Fox, still snarling, shaking both fists, then pointing a finger in the direction of the disappearing car, drawing the same finger across her throat. Nodding slowly, to let Siobhan know she meant it.

  “Right you are, Rachel,” Siobhan muttered, turning out of the car park.

  20

  It had taken all of Bobby Hogan’s powers of persuasion—something he wasn’t going to let Rebus forget. The look he gave said it all: Number one, you owe me; number two, don’t screw this up . . .

  They were in one of the offices at “the Big House’: Lothian and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue. This was the home of Drugs and Major Crime, and as such Rebus was here on sufferance. Rebus didn’t know quite how Hogan had persuaded Claverhouse to let him sit in on the interview, but here they were. Ormiston was present, too, snuffling and screwing his eyes shut tight whenever he blinked. Teri Cotter had come accompanied by her father, and a female police constable was seated nearby.

  “Sure you want your father present?” Claverhouse asked matter-of-factly. Teri looked at him. She was in full Goth camouflage, down to knee-length boots with multiple shiny buckles.

  “Way you make it sound,” Mr. Cotter said, “maybe I should’ve brought my solicitor, too.”

  Claverhouse just shrugged. “I merely asked because I don’t want Teri getting embarrassed in front of you . . .” He let his voice trail off, eyes fixing on Teri’s.

  “Embarrassed?” Mr. Cotter echoed, looking in his daughter’s direction, so that he missed it when Claverhou
se made a gesture with his fingers, as if typing on a keyboard. But Teri saw it, and knew what it meant.

  “Dad,” she said, “maybe it’d be better if you waited outside.”

  “I’m not sure I —”

  “Dad.” She laid her hand on his. “It’s fine. I’ll explain later . . . honest, I will.” Her eyes boring into his.

  “Well, I don’t know . . .” Cotter looked around the room.

  “It’ll be fine, sir,” Claverhouse was reassuring him, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. “Nothing to worry about, just some background info we think Teri can help us with.” He nodded towards Ormiston. “DS Ormiston can show you to the cafeteria, get yourself a cup of something and we’ll be finished here before you know it . . .”

  Ormiston looked unhappy, eyes flickering towards Rebus and Hogan as if asking his partner why one of them couldn’t go in his place. Cotter was studying his daughter again.

  “I don’t like leaving you here.” But his words had a defeated sound to them, and Rebus wondered if the man had ever stood up to either Teri or his wife. A man happiest with rows of numbers, stock market movements—things he felt he could predict and control. Maybe the car smash, the death of his son, had robbed him of self-belief, showing him up as powerless and puny in the face of random chance. He was already rising to his feet, Ormiston meeting him at the door, the two men exiting. Rebus thought suddenly of Allan Renshaw, of the effect losing a son could have on a father . . .

  Claverhouse beamed a smile at Teri Cotter, who responded by folding her arms defensively.

  “You know what this is about, Teri?”

  “Do I?”

  Claverhouse repeated the typing motion with his fingers. “You know what that means, though?”

  “Why don’t you tell me.”

  “It means you’ve got a website, Miss Teri. It means people can watch your bedroom any hour of the day or night. DI Rebus here seems to be one of your fans.” Claverhouse nodded in Rebus’s direction. “Lee Herdman was another.” Claverhouse paused, studying her face. “You don’t seem very surprised.”

  She offered a shrug.

  “Mr. Herdman had a bit of a voyeur thing going.” Claverhouse glanced towards Rebus, as if wondering whether he might fit this category, too. “Quite a lot of sites he liked to go to, most of them he had to use his credit card . . .”

  “So?”

  “So you’re giving it away for free, Teri.”

  “I’m not like those sites!” she spat.

  “Then what sort of site are you?”

  She seemed about to say something, but bit it back.

  “You like being watched?” Claverhouse guessed. “And Herdman liked to watch. Seems the two of you were pretty compatible.”

  “He’d screwed me a few times, if that’s what you mean,” she said coldly.

  “I might not have used quite those words.”

  “Teri,” Rebus said, “there’s a computer Lee bought, we’re having trouble tracing it . . . Is that because it’s sitting in your bedroom?”

  “Maybe.”

  “He bought it for you, set it up for you?”

  “Did he?”

  “Showed you how to design a site, set up the webcam?”

  “Why are you asking me if you already know?” Her voice had taken on an edge of petulance.

  “What did your parents say?”

  She looked at him. “I’ve got money of my own.”

  “They thought you’d paid for it? They didn’t know about you and Lee?”

  She gave him a look that confirmed how stupid his questions were.

  “He liked watching you,” Claverhouse stated. “Wanted to know where you were, what you were doing. That’s why you set up the site?”

  She was shaking her head. “Dark Entry is for anyone who cares to look.”

  “Was that his idea or yours?” Hogan asked.

  She gave a shrill laugh. “Am I supposed to be Red Riding Hood, is that it? With Lee as the big bad wolf?” She took a breath. “Lee gave me the computer, said maybe we could keep in touch by webcam. Dark Entry was my idea. No one else’s, just mine.” She pointed a finger at herself, finding a piece of bare flesh between her breasts. Her black lace top was low-cut. Her finger went to the diamond, hanging from its gold chain, and she played with it absentmindedly.

  “Did he give you that, too?” Rebus asked.

  She peered down at the chain, nodded, folded her arms again.

  “Teri,” Rebus said quietly, “did you know who else was accessing your site?”

  She shook her head. “Being anonymous is part of the fun.”

  “You were hardly anonymous. There was plenty of information to tell people who you were.”

  She considered this and shrugged.

  “Anyone from your school know about it?” Rebus asked.

  Another shrug.

  “I’ll tell you one person who did know . . . Derek Renshaw.”

  Her eyes widened, mouth opening into an O.

  “And Derek probably told his good friend Anthony Jarvies,” Rebus went on.

  Claverhouse had straightened in his seat, holding up a hand. “Wait a minute . . .” He looked towards Hogan, who offered a shrug, then back to Rebus. “This is the first I’m hearing about this.”

  “Teri’s site was bookmarked on Derek’s computer,” Rebus explained.

  “And the other kid knew, too? The one Herdman killed?”

  Rebus shrugged. “I’d say it’s likely.”

  Claverhouse bounded to his feet, rubbing at his jaw. “Teri,” he asked, “was Lee Herdman the jealous type?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He knew about your site . . . I’m assuming you told him?” He was standing over her.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How did he feel about that? I mean, about the fact that anyone—anyone—could watch you in your bedroom of a night?”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You think that’s why he shot them?”

  Claverhouse leaned down over her, so his face was inches from hers. “How does it look to you, Teri? Do you think it’s possible?” He didn’t wait for her reply, wheeled away on one heel and clapped his hands together. Rebus knew what he was thinking: he was thinking that he personally, Detective Inspector Charlie Claverhouse, had just cracked the case, on his first day in charge. And he was wondering how soon he could go trumpeting his triumph to his senior officers. He went to the door and threw it open, looking up and down the corridor, disappointed to find it empty. Rebus took the opportunity to rise from his own chair and place himself in Claverhouse’s. Teri was staring into her lap, one finger running up and down the chain again.

  “Teri,” he said quietly, to get her attention. She looked at him, eyes red-rimmed behind the liner and mascara. “You okay?” She nodded slowly. “Sure of that? Anything I can fetch you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He nodded, as if trying to convince himself. Hogan had shifted places, too, and was now standing next to Claverhouse in the doorway, one calming hand on his shoulder. Rebus couldn’t make out what they were saying, wasn’t really interested.

  “I can’t believe that bastard was watching me.”

  “Who? Lee?”

  “Derek Renshaw,” she spat. “He as good as killed my brother!” Her voice was rising. Rebus lowered his even further when he spoke.

  “As far as I can see, he was in the car with your brother, but that doesn’t mean he was responsible.” Unbidden, an image of Derek’s father flashed into Rebus’s head: a kid abandoned at the edge of the sidewalk, gripping a newly bought football for dear life while the dizzying world spun past. “You really think Lee would walk into a school and kill two people because he was jealous?”

  She thought about this, then shook her head.

  “Me neither,” Rebus said. She looked at him. “For one thing,” he went on, “how could he have known? Doesn’t look like he knew either of the victims. So how would he have been ab
le to pick them out?” He watched her take this in. “Shooting’s a bit excessive, wouldn’t you say? And in such a public place . . . he’d have to’ve been mad with jealousy. Out of his mind with it.”

  “So . . . what did happen?” she asked.

  Rebus looked towards the doorway. Ormiston had returned from the cafeteria and was now being hugged by Claverhouse, who’d probably have lifted the larger man off his feet if he’d been able. Rebus caught a hissed “we did it,” followed by a cautious muttering from Hogan.

  “I’m still not sure,” Rebus said, answering Teri’s question. “It’s a pretty good motive, which is why you’ve made DI Claverhouse a happy man.”

  “You don’t like him, do you?” A smile flitted across her face.

  “Don’t worry: the feeling’s entirely mutual.”

  “When you clicked on Dark Entry . . .” She lowered her eyes again. “Was I doing anything in particular?”

  Rebus shook his head. “The room was empty.” Didn’t want her to know he’d watched her sleeping. “Mind if I ask you something?” He looked towards the doorway again, checking that no one was listening. “Doug Brimson says he’s a family friend, but I get the feeling he’s not at the top of your hit parade?”

  Her face sagged. “My mum’s having an affair with him,” she said dismissively.

  “You sure?” She nodded, not making eye contact. “Does your dad know?”

  Now she did look up, horror-struck. “He doesn’t need to know, does he?”