A Question of Blood

  Rebus considered this. “Suppose not,” he decided. “How did you find out?”

  “Woman’s intuition,” she said, with no trace of irony. Rebus sat back, deep in thought. He was thinking about Teri and Lee Herdman and Dark Entry, wondering if any or all of it was a way of getting back at the mother.

  “Teri, you’re sure you’d no way of knowing who was watching you on the webcam? None of the other kids at school ever hinted . . . ?”

  She shook her head. “I get messages in my guest book, but never from anyone I know.”

  “Are any of those messages ever . . . I don’t know . . . off the wall?”

  “That’s the way I like them.” She angled her head slightly, trying for the persona of Miss Teri, but too late: Rebus had seen her as plain Teri Cotter, and that was who she’d remain. He stretched his own neck and back. “Tell you who I saw last night,” he said chattily.

  “Who?”

  “James Bell.”

  “So?” Inspecting her black gloss fingernails.

  “So I was wondering . . . that photo of you . . . do you remember? You palmed it that day we were in the pub on Cockburn Street.”

  “It belonged to me.”

  “I’m not saying it didn’t. I also seem to recall that as you lifted it, you were telling me how James used to turn up at Lee’s parties.”

  “Does he say he didn’t?”

  “On the contrary, the two of them seem to have known each other pretty well, wouldn’t you say?”

  The three detectives—Claverhouse, Hogan and Ormiston—were coming back into the room. Ormiston was patting Claverhouse’s back, and with it his ego.

  “He liked Lee,” Teri was saying, “no doubt about that.”

  “But was it mutual?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “James Bell . . . he could have pointed Renshaw and Jarvies out to Lee, couldn’t he?”

  “Wouldn’t explain why Lee then shot him, too. Thing is . . .” Rebus knew he had seconds before the interview was wrenched away from him again. “That photo of you . . . you said it was taken on Cockburn Street. What I’m wondering is, who took it?”

  She seemed to be looking for the purpose behind the question. Claverhouse was standing in front of them, clicking his fingers to let Rebus know it was time to relinquish the chair. Rebus kept his eyes on Teri as he rose slowly to his feet.

  “James Bell?” he asked her. “Was that who it was?”

  And she nodded, unable to think of any reason not to tell him.

  “He came to see you in Cockburn Street?”

  “He was taking shots of all of us—a school project . . .”

  “What’s this?” Claverhouse said, bouncing down on to the chair with a grin.

  “He was asking me about James Bell,” Teri told Claverhouse matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, aye? What about him?”

  “Nothing,” she said, sending a wink towards the retreating Rebus. Claverhouse twitched, turned in his seat, but Rebus offered nothing more than a smile and a shrug. When Claverhouse turned away again, Rebus made a downstroke in the air with his forefinger, letting Teri know he owed her one. He knew what Claverhouse would have done with the information: James Bell lends Lee Herdman a book, not realizing there’s a photo of Teri inside, maybe being used as a bookmark . . . Herdman finds it and feels jealous . . . It gave him a reason to wound James: not a gross enough infringement to merit killing him, and besides, James was a friend . . .

  As it was, Claverhouse would be wrapping up the inquiry today. Straight to the assistant chief constable’s office to ask for his gold star. The Portakabin at Port Edgar Academy would be emptied, officers returned to their normal duties.

  Rebus back under suspension.

  And yet none of it really added up. Rebus knew that now. Knew, too, that something was staring him in the face. Then he looked at Teri Cotter, playing with her chain again, and he knew exactly what it was. Porn and drugs weren’t Rotterdam’s only businesses . . .

  Rebus reached Siobhan in her car.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “The A90, heading for South Queensferry. What about you?”

  “Sitting at a red light on Queensferry Road.”

  “Driving and using your phone? The hands must be healing.”

  “Getting there. What’ve you been up to?”

  “Fairstone’s girlfriend.”

  “Any joy?”

  “Of a sort. What about you?”

  “Sitting in on an interview with Teri Cotter. Claverhouse thinks he’s found his motive.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Herdman was jealous because the two kids were logging on to Teri’s site.”

  “And James Bell just happened to get in the way?”

  “I’m sure that’s how Claverhouse will see it.”

  “So what now?”

  “Everything shuts down.”

  “And Whiteread and Simms?”

  “You’re right. They won’t like it.” He watched the light in front of him turn green.

  “Because they’ll go away empty-handed?”

  “Yes.” Rebus thought for a moment, holding the phone between jaw and shoulder as he changed up through the gears. Then: “So what’s waiting for you in Queensferry?”

  “The barman at the Boatman’s, he’s Fox’s brother.”

  “Fox?”

  “Fairstone’s girlfriend.”

  “Explaining why she was in the bar . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’ve talked to her?”

  “We exchanged a few pleasantries.”

  “Did she say anything about Peacock Johnson, whether his falling-out with Fairstone had anything to do with her?”

  “I forgot to ask.”

  “You forgot . . . ?”

  “Things got a bit fraught. I thought maybe I’d ask her brother instead.”

  “You reckon he’d know if she had a thing going with Peacock?”

  “Don’t know till I ask.”

  “Why don’t we hook up? I was planning a trip to the marina.”

  “You want to go there first?”

  “Then we can end the day with a well-earned drink.”

  “I’ll see you at the boatyard then.”

  She ended the call and came off the highway at the last off-ramp before the Forth Road Bridge. Drove down the hill into South Queensferry and turned left on Shore Road. Her phone trilled again.

  “Change of plan?” she asked into the mouthpiece.

  “Not until we’ve got a plan to change, which is the very reason I’m calling.”

  She recognized the voice: Doug Brimson. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else. What can I do for you?”

  “I was just wondering if you’re ready to take to the skies again.”

  She smiled to herself. “Maybe I am.”

  “Great. How about tomorrow?”

  She considered for a moment. “I could probably sneak out for an hour.”

  “Late afternoon? Just before the sun goes down?”

  “Okay.”

  “And you’ll take the controls this time?”

  “I think I could be persuaded.”

  “Great. How does sixteen hundred hours sound?”

  “It sounds like four in the afternoon.”

  He laughed. “I’ll see you then, Siobhan.”

  “Good-bye, Doug.”

  She placed the phone back on the passenger seat, staring at the sky through her windshield. Imagined herself flying a plane . . . Imagined having a panic attack in the middle of it. But she didn’t think she’d panic. Besides, Doug Brimson would be there with her. No need for her to worry.

  She parked outside the marina’s cafeteria, went in and reappeared with a Mars bar. She was throwing out the wrapper when Rebus’s Saab arrived. He passed her and stopped at the far end of the car park, fifty yards closer to Herdman’s shed. By the time he’d got out and locked his door, she’d caught up with him.

  “So what are we doing here?” she asked
, swallowing the last cloying mouthful.

  “Apart from ruining our teeth?” he said. “I want one last look at the shed.”

  “Why?”

  “Just because.”

  The doors to the boathouse were closed but not locked. Rebus slid them open. Simms was crouching on the deck of the parked dinghy. He looked up at the interruption. Rebus nodded towards the crowbar in his hand.

  “Taking the place apart?” he guessed.

  “Never know what you’ll find,” Simms said. “Our record in that department is rather better than yours, after all.”

  Hearing the voices, Whiteread had emerged from the office. She was holding a sheaf of papers.

  “All getting a bit frantic, isn’t it?” Rebus said, walking towards her. “Claverhouse is getting ready to call it a day, and that’s not what you’d call music to the ears, is it?”

  Whiteread managed a thin, cold smile. Rebus wondered what it would take to faze her, thought he had a pretty good idea.

  “I assume it was you who put that journalist on to us,” she said. “He wanted to ask about a helicopter crash on Jura. Which got me wondering . . .”

  “Do tell,” Rebus said.

  “I had an interesting chat this morning,” she drawled, “with a man named Douglas Brimson. Seems the three of you took a little trip together.” Her eyes flitted towards Siobhan.

  “Did we?” Rebus said. He’d stopped walking, but Whiteread hadn’t, not until her face was inches from his.

  “He took you to Jura. From there, you went looking for a crash site.” She was studying his face for any sign of weakness. Rebus’s eyes flickered in Siobhan’s direction. Bastard didn’t need to tell them! A red tint had appeared on her cheeks.

  “Did we?” was all Rebus could think to say.

  Whiteread had risen on her toes, so her face was level with his. “The thing is, DI Rebus, how could you possibly have known about that?”

  “About what?”

  “Only way you could have known was if you had access to confidential files.”

  “Is that right?” Rebus watched Simms climb down from the boat, still holding the crowbar. He gave a shrug. “Well, if these files you’re talking about are confidential, I can’t have seen them, can I?”

  “Not without a spot of breaking and entering . . .” Whiteread turned her attention to Siobhan. “Not to mention photocopying.” She angled her head, pretending to examine the younger woman’s face. “Caught a touch of the sun, DS Clarke? Only, your cheeks seem to be burning.” Siobhan didn’t move, didn’t say anything. “Cat got your tongue?”

  Simms was smirking, enjoying the detectives’ discomfort.

  “I hear tell,” Rebus said to him, “you’re scared of the dark.”

  “Eh?” Simms frowned.

  “Explains why you like to keep your door ajar.” Rebus gave a wink, then turned back to Whiteread. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere with this. Not unless you want everyone on the inquiry knowing why you’re really here.”

  “From what I hear, you’re already on suspension. Could be facing a murder charge anytime soon.” Whiteread’s eyes were dark points of light. “Added to which, the psychologist at Carbrae says you went behind her back, looked up records without permission.” She paused. “Seems to me you’re already shoulder-deep in shit, Rebus. I can’t think why you’d want more trouble than you’ve already got. Yet here you are, ready and willing to pick a fight with me. Let me try to get through to you.” She leaned forwards so her lips were an inch from his ear. “You’ve not got a prayer,” she said quietly. She pulled back slowly, ready to measure his response. Rebus had one gloved hand held up. She wasn’t sure what the gesture meant. A frown furrowed her brow. And then she saw what he was holding between thumb and middle finger. Saw it glint and sparkle in the light.

  A single diamond.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Simms muttered.

  Rebus closed his hand around the diamond.

  “Finders keepers,” he said, turning, starting to walk away. Siobhan fell into step with him, waited till they were back outdoors before she spoke.

  “What was all that about?”

  “Just a fishing expedition.”

  “But what does it mean? Where did the diamond come from?”

  Rebus smiled. “Friend of mine, he runs a jeweler’s shop on Queensferry Street.”

  “And?”

  “I persuaded him to let me borrow it.” Rebus was tucking the diamond back into his pocket. “Thing is, they don’t know that.”

  “But you’re going to explain it to me, right?”

  Rebus nodded slowly. “Just as soon as I find out what I’ve caught with my hook.”

  “John . . .” Half warning, half pleading.

  “We going for that drink now?” Rebus asked.

  She didn’t reply, tried staring him down as they walked back to his car. She was still staring as he unlocked his door and got in. He started the engine, put it in gear, then rolled down his window.

  “I’ll see you there, then” was all he said, making to drive off. Siobhan stood her ground, but he just gave her a wave. Cursing silently, she started stalking towards her own car.

  21

  Rebus was seated at a window table in the Boatman’s, checking a text message from Steve Holly.

  Wot u got 4 me? Mite av 2 refresh chip pan story if u dont help.

  Rebus debated whether to reply or not, then started pressing keys:

  jura crash herdman there took sth army want back u could ask whiteread again

  He wasn’t sure that Holly would understand, Rebus not having worked out how to add punctuation or capitals to his text messages. But it would keep the reporter busy, and if he did end up confronting Whiteread and Simms, so much the better. Let them think the world was closing in on them. Rebus picked up his half-pint and made a little toast to himself with it just as Siobhan arrived. He’d been debating whether to pass on Teri’s news: Brimson and her mum. Thing was, if he told her, she probably couldn’t keep it to herself. Next time she met Brimson, he’d see it in her face, the way she spoke to him, a reluctance to meet his eyes. Rebus didn’t want that, couldn’t see it doing anyone any good, not at this juncture. Siobhan slung her bag onto the table and looked towards the bar, where a woman she’d never seen before was pulling pints.

  “Don’t worry,” Rebus said. “I had a word. McAllister’s shift starts in a few minutes.”

  “Just long enough for you to enlighten me, then.” She slipped off her coat. Rebus was rising to his feet.

  “Let me get you a drink first. What’ll it be?”

  “Lime and soda.”

  “Nothing stronger?”

  She frowned at his near-empty glass. “Some of us are driving.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m only having the one.” He made his way to the bar, came back with two drinks: lime and soda for her, cola for him. “See?” he said. “I can be all smug and virtuous, too, when I want to be.”

  “Better that than drunk at the wheel.” She lifted the straw from her glass and deposited it in the ashtray, sat back and placed her hands on her thighs. “Right, then . . . I’m ready if you are.”

  At which, the door creaked open.

  “Speak of the devil,” Rebus said as Rod McAllister walked in. McAllister saw that he was being stared at. When he looked, Rebus beckoned him over. McAllister was unzipping a scuffed leather jacket. He pulled the black scarf from around his neck and stuffed it into a pocket.

  “I’ve got to start work,” he said when Rebus patted an empty stool.

  “This’ll only take a minute,” Rebus offered with a smile. “Susie won’t mind.” He nodded towards the barmaid.

  McAllister hesitated, then sat down, elbows pressing against his thin legs, hands cupped below his chin. Rebus mimicked the posture.

  “It’s about Lee, then?” McAllister guessed.

  “Not strictly speaking,” Rebus said. Then he glanced towards Siobhan.

  “We may come ba
ck to that,” she told the barman. “But right now, we’re more interested in your sister.”

  He looked from Siobhan to Rebus and then back again. “Which one?”

  “Rachel Fox. Funny you’ve got different surnames.”

  “We haven’t.” McAllister’s eyes were still shifting between the two detectives, unable to decide whom he should be addressing. Siobhan answered with a click of her fingers. He focused on her, narrowed his eyes slightly. “She changed her name a while back, trying to get into modeling. What’s she got to do with you lot?”

  “You don’t know?”

  He shrugged.

  “Marty Fairstone?” Siobhan prompted. “Don’t tell me she never introduced you?”

  “Yeah, I knew Marty. I was gutted when I heard.”

  “What about a fellow named Johnson?” Rebus asked. “His nickname’s Peacock . . . friend of Marty’s . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Ever come across him?”

  McAllister seemed to be thinking. “Not sure,” he said at last.

  “Peacock and Rachel,” Siobhan began, angling her head to catch his attention again, “we think they might’ve had a thing going.”

  “Oh, aye?” McAllister raised an eyebrow. “That’s news to me.”

  “She never mentioned him?”

  “No.”

  “The pair of them have been hanging about town.”

  “Plenty of people hanging about recently. Take you two, for example.” He sat back, stretching his spine, glancing at the clock above the bar. “Don’t want to get in Susie’s bad books . . .”

  “Rumor is, Fairstone and Johnson had a falling-out, maybe over Rachel.”

  “Oh, aye?”

  “If you’re finding the questions too awkward, Mr. McAllister,” Rebus said, “feel free to say . . .”

  Siobhan was staring at McAllister’s T-shirt, revealed now that he wasn’t slouched forwards anymore. It showed an album cover, an album she knew.

  “Mogwai fan, eh, Rod?”

  “Anything that’s loud.” McAllister examined his shirt.

  “It’s their Rock Action album, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the one.”

  McAllister made to stand up, turning towards the bar. Siobhan locked eyes with Rebus and nodded slowly. “Rod,” she said, “that first time we met . . . you remember I gave you my card?”