“Hang on, though,” he said to himself. He went back to the bedroom, picked up the book. Bob had used the flyleaf as a page marker. Why would he have done that unless . . . ? Rebus opened the front door and stepped out onto the landing. Feet were shuffling up the steps.
“Didn’t wake you, did I?” Bob said. He lifted a carrier bag for Rebus to see. “Milk and tea bags, plus four rolls and a packet of sausages.”
“Good thinking,” Rebus said, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.
Breakfast over, they headed in Rebus’s car to St. Leonard’s. He was trying not to make it seem like a big deal. At the same time, there was no disguising the fact that they were going to be spending most of the day in an interview room, tapes loaded into the dual voice recorder, with another tape for the video.
“Can of juice or anything before we get started?” Rebus asked. Bob had brought a morning tabloid with him and had it spread out on the desk, lips moving as he read. He shook his head. “I’ll be back in a sec, then,” Rebus told him, opening the door and closing it, locking it after him. He climbed the stairs to the CID suite. Siobhan was at her desk.
“Busy day ahead?” he asked her.
“I’ve got my first flying lesson this afternoon,” she said, looking up from her computer.
“Courtesy of Doug Brimson?” Rebus studied her face as she nodded. “How’re you feeling?”
“No visible signs of damage.”
“Has McAllister been let out of the cells yet?”
Siobhan looked up at the clock above the door. “I suppose I better do that.”
“Not charging him, then?”
“You think I should?”
Rebus shook his head. “But before you let him waltz out, maybe you should ask him a few things.”
She rested against the back of her chair and stared up at him. “Like what?”
“I’ve got Evil Bob downstairs. He says Peacock Johnson started the fire. Stuck the heat under the chip pan and left it.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Does he say why?”
“My idea is, he thought Fairstone had turned rat. Already no love lost between them, then someone calls Johnson and says I’m having a friendly drink with Fairstone.”
“And he murdered him for that?”
Rebus shrugged. “Must’ve had cause to worry.”
“But you don’t know why?”
“Not yet. Maybe it was just meant to scare Fairstone off.”
“You reckon this Bob character’s the missing link?”
“I think he can be persuaded.”
“How does Rod McAllister enter this food chain of yours?”
“We won’t know that until you use your brilliant detective powers on him.”
Siobhan started sliding her mouse around its mat, saving what she was working on. “I’ll see what I can do. You coming with me?”
He shook his head. “I need to get back to the interview room.”
“This talk you’re having with Johnson’s sidekick . . . is it formal?”
“Informally formal, you might say.”
“Then you should have someone else present.” She looked at him. “Go by the rule book for once in your life.”
He knew she was right. “I could wait till you’ve finished with the barman,” he suggested.
“Kind of you to offer.” She looked around the suite. DC Davie Hynds was taking a call, writing something down as he listened. “Davie’s your man,” she said. “Bit more flexible than George Silvers.”
Rebus looked towards Hynds’s desk. He’d finished the call and was putting the receiver down with one hand while still scribbling with the other. He saw that he was being stared at, looked up and lifted one eyebrow questioningly. Rebus crooked a finger, beckoning him over. He didn’t know Hynds well, hadn’t really worked with him much. But he trusted Siobhan’s judgment.
“Davie,” he said, laying a companionable arm on the younger man’s shoulder, “take a walk with me, will you? I need to fill you in on the guy we’re about to interview.” He paused. “Best bring that notebook with you . . .”
Twenty minutes in, however, and with Bob still giving them general background, there was a knock at the door. Rebus opened it, saw a female uniform standing there.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Call for you.” She pointed back towards reception.
“I’m busy here.”
“It’s DI Hogan. He says it’s urgent, and you’re to be pulled out of anything short of triple-bypass surgery.”
Despite himself, Rebus smiled. “His exact words?” he guessed.
“Exact words,” the female officer echoed. Rebus turned back into the room, told Hynds he wouldn’t be long. Hynds switched off the machines.
“Get you anything, Bob?” Rebus asked.
“I’m thinking maybe you should get me my lawyer, Mr. Rebus.”
Rebus stared at him. “That’ll be Peacock’s lawyer, too, will it?”
Bob considered this. “Maybe not just yet,” he said.
“Not just yet,” Rebus agreed, leaving the interview room. He told the officer he could find reception without her help, and entered the comms room, crossing the floor and through an open doorway. Picked up the handset that was lying on the desk.
“Hello?”
“Christ, John, have you gone into purdah or something?” Bobby Hogan sounded not altogether pleased. Rebus was watching the bank of screens in front of him. They showed half a dozen views of St. Leonard’s, exterior and interior, the viewpoints flickering every thirty seconds or so, shifting from one camera to another.
“What can I do for you, Bobby?”
“Forensics has finally come back to us on the shootings.”
“Oh, aye?” Rebus winced. He’d meant to try phoning them again.
“I’m headed down there. Suddenly remembered that I’d have to drive straight past St. Leonard’s.”
“They’ve found something, haven’t they, Bobby?”
“They say they’ve got a bit of a puzzle,” Hogan agreed. Then he broke off. “You knew, didn’t you?”
“Not in so many words. It’s to do with the locus, am I right?” Rebus stared at one of the screens. It showed Detective Chief Superintendent Gill Templer entering the building. She carried a briefcase, with a heavy-looking satchel slung over one shoulder.
“That’s right. A few . . . anomalies.”
“Good word that: anomalies. Covers a multitude of sins.”
“I just wondered if you fancied coming with me.”
“What does Claverhouse say?”
There was a pause on the line. “Claverhouse doesn’t know,” Hogan said quietly. “The call came direct to me.”
“Why haven’t you told him, Bobby?”
Another pause. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe a certain fellow officer’s pernicious influence?”
“Maybe.”
Rebus smiled. “Pick me up when you’re ready, Bobby. Depending on what Forensics has got to tell us, I might have a few questions for them myself.”
He opened the interview room door, beckoned for Hynds to step into the corridor. “We’ll just be a minute, Bob,” he explained. Closed the door and faced Hynds, arms folded.
“I need to go to Howdenhall. Orders from above.”
“Want him put in the cells till you . . . ?”
But Rebus was already shaking his head. “I want you to keep going. I shouldn’t be too long. If it gets sticky, call me on my mobile.”
“But . . .”
“Davie”—Rebus laid a hand on Hynds’s shoulder—“you’re doing fine in there. You’ll manage without me.”
“But there needs to be another officer present,” Hynds objected.
Rebus looked at him. “Has Siobhan been coaching you, Davie?” He pursed his lips, thought for a moment and then nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “Ask DCS Templer if she’ll sit in with you.”
Both eyebrows shot up, connecting with Hynds’s fringe.
“The boss won’t . . .”
“Yes, she will. Tell her it’s about Fairstone. Believe me, she’ll be only too happy to oblige.”
“She’ll need to be briefed first.”
The hand that had been resting on Hynds’s shoulder now patted it. “You do it.”
“But, sir . . .”
Rebus shook his head slowly. “This is your chance to show what you can do, Davie. Everything you’ve learned from watching Siobhan.” Rebus removed his hand and bunched it into a fist. “Time to start using it.”
Hynds pulled himself a little more upright as he nodded his agreement.
“Good lad,” Rebus said. He turned to leave but stopped in his tracks. “Oh, and Davie?”
“Yes?”
“Tell DCS Templer she needs to act mumsy.”
“Mumsy?”
Rebus nodded. “Just tell her,” he said, making for the exit.
“Forget the XJK. Anything from Porsche can leave the Jags standing.”
“I think the Jaguar’s a better-looking car, though,” Hogan argued, causing Ray Duff to look up from his work. “More classic.”
“Old-fashioned, you mean?” Duff was sorting out a large number of crime scene photos, spreading them across every available wall surface. The room they were in looked like a disused school laboratory, with four free-standing workbenches at its center. The photos showed the Port Edgar classroom from every conceivable angle, concentrating on the bloodied walls and floor and the positioning of the bodies.
“Call me a traditionalist,” Hogan said, folding his arms in the hope this would put an end to yet another of Ray Duff’s discussions.
“Go on, then: top five British cars.”
“I’m not that much of a buff, Ray.”
“I like my Saab,” Rebus added, responding to Hogan’s scowl with a wink.
Duff made a noise at the back of his throat. “Don’t get me started on the Swedes . . .”
“Okay, how about we concentrate on Port Edgar instead?” Rebus was thinking of Doug Brimson, another Jag fancier.
Duff was looking around, locating his laptop. He plugged it into an outlet on one of the benches and gestured for the two detectives to join him as he switched it on.
“Just while we’re waiting,” he said, “how’s Siobhan doing?”
“Fine,” Rebus assured him. “That little difficulty of hers . . .”
“Yes?”
“Resolved.”
“What difficulty?” Hogan asked. Rebus ignored the question.
“She’s having a flying lesson this afternoon.”
“Really?” Duff raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t come cheap.”
“I think it’s a freebie, courtesy of a guy who owns an airfield and a Jag.”
“Brimson?” Hogan guessed. Rebus nodded.
“My offer to her of a ride in my MG pales by comparison,” Duff grumbled.
“You can’t compete with this guy. He’s got one of those corporate jets.”
Duff whistled. “Must be loaded, then. Those can set you back a few mil.”
“Aye, right,” Rebus said dismissively.
“I’m serious,” Duff said. “And that’s secondhand.”
“You mean millions of pounds?” This from Bobby Hogan. Duff nodded. “Business must be good, eh?”
Yes, Rebus was thinking, so good Brimson could afford a day off for a trip to Jura . . .
“Here we go,” Duff was saying, drawing their attention back to the laptop. “Basically, this has everything I need.” He ran an admiring finger along the edge of the screen. “There’s a simulation we can run . . . shows the pattern you’d expect to get when a gun is fired from whatever distance, whatever angle to the head or body.” He clicked a few more buttons and Rebus heard the whirr of the laptop’s CD drive. The graphics appeared, a skeletal figure standing sideways to a wall. “See here?” Duff was saying. “Subject is twenty centimeters from the wall, bullet is fired from a distance of two meters . . . entry and exit and . . . boom!” They watched as a line seemed to enter the skull, reappearing as a fine speckling. Duff’s finger moved across the touch pad, highlighting the marked area of wall, which then was magnified on-screen.
“Gives us a pretty good picture,” he said with a smile.
“Ray,” Hogan said quietly, “just so you know, DI Rebus here lost a family member in that room.”
Duff’s smile melted away. “I didn’t mean to make light of . . .”
“Maybe if we could just cut to the chase,” Rebus replied coolly. He didn’t blame Duff: how could he? The man hadn’t known. But anything to speed things up.
Duff plunged his hands into the pockets of his white lab coat and turned towards the photographs.
“We need to look at these now,” he said, eyes on Rebus.
“That’s fine,” Rebus agreed with a nod. “Let’s just get it done, eh?”
The early animation had left Duff’s voice when he spoke now. “First victim was the one nearest the door. That was Anthony Jarvies. Herdman walks in and aims at the person nearest him—stands to reason. From the evidence, the two were just under two meters apart. No real sense of an angle . . . Herdman was about the same height as his victim, so the bullet takes a lateral path through the skull. Blood spatter pattern is pretty much what we’d expect to find. Then Herdman turns. Second victim is a little farther away, maybe three meters. Herdman may have closed that gap before firing, but probably not by much. This time the bullet angles down through the skull, indicating that Derek Renshaw was maybe trying to duck out of the way.” He looked at his audience. “With me so far?” Rebus and Hogan nodded, and the three men moved along the wall. “Blood stains on the floor are explicable, nothing out of place.” Duff paused.
“Until now?” Rebus guessed. The scientist nodded.
“We’ve got a lot of data on firearms, what sort of damage they do to the human body and to anything else they come in contact with . . .”
“And James Bell is proving a puzzle?”
Duff nodded. “A bit of a puzzle, yes.”
Hogan looked from Duff to Rebus and back again. “How so?”
“In Bell’s statement he says he was hit while in movement. Basically, he was diving for the floor. He seemed to think this might explain why he wasn’t killed. He also said that Herdman was about three and a half meters away when he fired.” He crossed to the computer again, and brought a 3-D simulation onto the screen, showing the classroom and pointing to the positions of gunman and schoolboy. “Again, the victim is of similar height to Herdman. But this time, the angle of the shot appears to be upwards.” Duff paused to let this sink in. “As if the person doing the firing was the one crouching down.” He bent low at the knees and pointed an imaginary pistol, then straightened and crossed to another of the benches. There was a light box sitting on it, and he switched it on, illuminating a set of X-rays showing the route the bullet had taken in ripping through James Bell’s shoulder. “Entry wound at the front, exit at the back. You can see the trajectory quite clearly.” He traced it for them with his finger.
“So Herdman was crouching down,” Bobby Hogan said, with a shrug of the shoulders.
“I get the feeling Ray’s just warming up,” Rebus said quietly, thinking that he wouldn’t have too many questions for the scientist after all.
Duff returned Rebus’s look and went back to the photographs. “No blood spatter pattern,” he said, circling the area of the wall. Then he held up a hand. “Actually, that’s not strictly true. There’s blood present, but it’s such a fine diffusion you can’t really make it out.”
“Meaning what?” Hogan asked, not bothering to hide his impatience.
“Meaning James Bell wasn’t standing where he said he was at the time he was shot. He was much farther into the room, which means closer to Herdman.”
“Yet there’s still that upward trajectory to the shot?” Rebus noted.
Duff nodded, then pulled open a drawer and brought out a bag. It was clear polyethylene,
edged with brown paper. An evidence bag. Folded up inside lay a bloodstained white shirt, the bullet hole at the shoulder clearly visible.
“James Bell’s shirt,” Duff stated. “And here we find something else . . .”
“Powder burns,” Rebus said quietly. Hogan turned to him.
“How come you already know all this?” he hissed.
Rebus shrugged. “I’ve got no social life, Bobby. Nothing to do with myself but sit and think about things.” Hogan glowered, letting Rebus know this was well short of an acceptable answer.
“DI Rebus is spot on,” Duff said, gaining their attention again. “You wouldn’t expect powder burns on the bodies of the first two victims. They were shot from a distance. You only get powder burns when the gun is close to the skin or, say, the victim’s clothes . . .”
“Did Herdman himself have powder burns?” Rebus asked.
Duff nodded. “Consistent with placing the pistol to his temple and firing.”
Rebus went back along the display of photos, taking his time. They weren’t really telling him anything, which in a way was the whole point. You had to peer beneath their surface to begin to glimpse the truth. Hogan was scratching the nape of his neck.
“I’m not really getting this,” he said.
“It’s a puzzle,” Duff agreed. “Hard to square the witness’s account with the evidence.”
“Depends which way you look at it, though, Ray, am I right?”
Duff fixed eyes with Rebus and nodded. “There’s always a way to explain things.”
“Take your time, then.” Hogan slapped his hands down on the workbench. “I had nothing better to do with myself today anyway.”
“Just got to look at it a different way, Bobby,” Rebus told him. “James Bell was shot at point-blank range . . .”
“By someone the approximate size of a garden gnome,” Hogan said dismissively.
Rebus shook his head. “It’s just that Herdman couldn’t have done it.”
Hogan’s eyes widened. “Wait a second . . .”