A Question of Blood (2003) (10 page)

Fogg shook his head. “I used to: RME—religious and moral education.”

“Instilling a sense of morality in teenagers? That must’ve been tough.”

“I’ve yet to meet a teenager who started a war.” The voice rang slightly false: another prepared answer to an oft-put point.

“Only because we don’t tend to give them the firepower,” Rebus commented, staring again at the array of arms.

Fogg was relocking the iron gate.

“So nothing’s missing?” Rebus asked.

Hogan shook his head. “But both victims were in the CCF.”

Rebus looked at Fogg, who nodded confirmation. “Anthony was a very keen member . . . Derek a little less so.”

Anthony Jarvies: the judge’s son. His father, Roland Jarvies, was well known in Scottish courts. Rebus had probably given evidence fifteen or twenty times in cases over which Lord Jarvies had presided with wit and what one lawyer had described as “a gimlet eye.” Rebus wasn’t sure what a gimlet eye was, but he got the idea.

“We were wondering,” Siobhan was saying, “whether anyone’s been looking at Herdman’s bank or credit union.”

Hogan studied her. “His accountant’s been very helpful. Business wasn’t going to the wall or anything.”

“But no sudden deposits?” Rebus asked.

Hogan narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

Rebus glanced in the principal’s direction. He hadn’t meant for Fogg to notice, but he did.

“Would you like me to . . . ?” Fogg said.

“We’re not quite finished, Dr. Fogg, if that’s all right.” Hogan’s eyes met Rebus’s. “I’m sure whatever DI Rebus wants to say will be kept between us.”

“Of course,” Fogg stressed. He had locked the door of the vault and now turned the combination wheel.

“The other kid who was killed,” Rebus started to explain to Hogan. “He was in a car crash last year. The driver was killed. We’re wondering if it’s too far back for revenge to be a motive.”

“Doesn’t explain why Herdman would top himself after.”

“Botched job maybe,” Siobhan said, folding her arms. “Two other kids got hit, Herdman panicked . . .”

“So when you talk about Herdman’s bank, you’re thinking a big, recent deposit?”

Rebus nodded.

“I’ll get someone to take a look. Only thing we’ve got from his business accounts is a missing computer.”

“Oh?”

Siobhan asked if it could be a tax dodge.

“Could be,” Hogan agreed. “But there’s a receipt. We’ve talked to the shop that sold him the setup—top of the line.”

“Reckon he ditched it?” Rebus asked.

“Why would he do that?”

Rebus shrugged.

“Perhaps to cover something up?” Fogg suggested. When they looked at him, he lowered his eyes. “Not that it’s my place to . . .”

“Don’t apologize, sir,” Hogan reassured him. “You might have a good point.” Hogan rubbed a hand across his eyes, turned his attention back to Rebus. “Anything else?”

“These army bastards,” Rebus began. Hogan held up the same hand.

“You just have to accept them.”

“Come on, they’re not here to shed any light. If anything, it’ll be the opposite. They want his SAS past forgotten, hence the plainclothes. For Whiteread, read ‘whitewash.’”

“Look, I’m sorry if they’re stepping on your toes —”

“Or trampling us to death,” Rebus interrupted.

“John, this investigation’s bigger than you and me, bigger than
anything!
” Hogan’s voice had risen, quavering slightly. “Last thing I need is this sort of shit!”

“Language, please, Bobby,” Rebus said, glancing meaningfully towards Fogg.

As Rebus had hoped, Hogan started to remember Rebus’s own recent outburst, and his face cracked into a smile.

“Just get on with it, eh?”

“We’re on your side, Bobby.”

Siobhan took a step forwards. “One thing we’d like to do . . .”—she ignored Rebus’s gaze, a gaze that said this was the first he’d heard of it—“is interview the survivor.”

Hogan frowned. “James Bell? What for?” His eyes were on Rebus, but it was Siobhan who answered.

“Because he survived, and he’s the only one in the room who did.”

“We’ve talked to him half a dozen times. Kid’s in shock, God knows what else.”

“We’d go easy,” Siobhan insisted quietly.

“
You
might, but then it’s not you that worries me . . .” His eyes were still on Rebus.

“It’d be good to hear it from someone who was there,” Rebus said. “How Herdman acted, anything he said. Nobody seems to have seen him that morning: not the neighbors, no one at the marina. We need to fill in some of the blanks.”

Hogan sighed. “First of all, listen to the tapes.” Meaning recordings of the interviews with James Bell. “If you still think you need to see him face-to-face . . . well, we’ll see.”

“Thank you, sir,” Siobhan said, feeling the moment merited a certain formality.

“I said we’ll see: no promises.” Hogan raised a warning finger.

“And take another look at his finances?” Rebus added. “Just in case.”

Hogan nodded tiredly.

“Ah, there you are!” a voice boomed. Jack Bell was marching down the corridor towards them.

“Oh, Christ,” Hogan muttered. But Bell’s attention was focused on the principal.

“Eric,” he said loudly, “what the hell’s this I’m hearing that you won’t go on the record about the school’s inadequate security?”

“The school had adequate security, Jack,” Fogg said with a sigh, indicating that this was an argument he’d had before.

“Complete rubbish, and you know it. Look, all I’m trying to do is highlight that the lessons of Dunblane have not been learned.” He held up a finger. “Our schools still aren’t safe . . .” A second finger was raised. “And guns are flooding the streets.” He paused for effect. “And something’s got to be done, you must see that.” His eyes narrowed. “I could have lost my son!”

“A school is not a fortress, Jack,” the principal pleaded, but to no effect.

“Nineteen ninety-seven,” Bell steamrollered on, “aftermath of Dunblane, hand weapons above .22 were banned. Legitimate owners surrendered their weapons, and what did that leave us?” He looked around, but no answer was forthcoming. “The only people hanging on to their guns were the underworld, who seem to find it increasingly easy to get hold of any amount of armaments they desire!”

“You’re preaching to the wrong audience,” Rebus stated.

Bell stared at him. “Maybe I am,” he agreed, pointing a finger. “Because you lot seem utterly incapable of tackling the problem to any degree whatsoever!”

“Now hang on, sir,” Hogan started to argue.

“Let him rattle on, Bobby,” Rebus interrupted. “The hot air might help keep the school heated.”

“How dare you!” Bell snarled. “What makes you think you can talk to me like that?”

“I suppose I just
elected
to,” Rebus retorted, stressing the word, reminding the MSP of the precarious nature of his calling.

In the silence that followed, Bell’s mobile phone began to trill. He managed a sneer in Rebus’s direction before turning on his heels, moving a few paces back down the corridor as he answered the call.

“Yes? What?” Glanced at his wristwatch. “Is it radio or TV?” Listened again. “Local radio or national? I’ll only do national . . .” He kept walking, leaving his audience to relax a little, sharing looks and gestures.

“Right,” the principal was saying, “I suppose I’d best get back to . . .”

“Mind if I walk you to your office, sir?” Hogan asked. “Couple more things we need to talk about.” He nodded to Rebus and Siobhan. “Back to work,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Siobhan agreed. Suddenly the corridor was empty, save for Rebus and her. She puffed out her cheeks, then exhaled noisily. “Bell’s a real piece of work.”

Rebus nodded. “He’s ready to exploit this whole thing to the hilt.”

“He wouldn’t be a politician if he didn’t.”

“Natural instincts, eh? Funny how things turn out. His career could have gone down the toilet pan after he was nabbed in Leith.”

“Think he wants a spot of revenge?”

“He’ll drag us down if he can. We have to make sure we’re moving targets.”

“And that was you being a ‘moving target,’ was it? Answering him back like that?”

“Man’s got to have a little fun, Siobhan.” Rebus stared down the empty corridor. “You think Bobby’s going to be okay?”

“He looked knackered, if I’m being honest. By the way . . . you don’t think he needs to be told?”

“Told what?”

“That the Renshaws are your family.”

Rebus fixed her with his eyes. “Might lead to complications. I don’t think Bobby needs any more of those right now.”

“It’s your decision.”

“That’s right, it is. And we both know I’m never wrong.”

“I’d forgotten that,” Siobhan said.

“Happy to remind you, DS Clarke. Always happy to oblige . . .”

5

T
he South Queensferry police station was a squat box, most of it single-story, sited across the road from an Episcopal church. A notice outside stated that the station was open for public inquiries between nine and five on weekdays, manned by a “civilian assistant.” Another notice explained that there was, contrary to local rumors, a twenty-four-hour police presence in the town. This soulless spot was where the witnesses had been interviewed, all except James Bell.

“Cozy, isn’t it?” Siobhan said, pulling open the front door. There was a short, narrow waiting area, its only inhabitant a constable, who put down his bike magazine and lifted himself from his seat.

“At ease,” Rebus told him while Siobhan showed her ID. “We need to listen to the Bell tapes.”

The officer nodded and unlocked an interior door, leading them into a dispiriting, windowless room. The desk and chairs had seen better days. Last year’s calendar—promoting the merits of a local shop—curled on one wall. There was a tape player on top of a filing cabinet. The uniform lifted it down and plugged it in, placing it on the desk. Then he unlocked the cabinet and found the correct tape, sealed in a clear plastic bag.

“This is the first of six,” he explained. “You’ll need to sign for it.” Siobhan did the necessary.

“Any ashtrays around here?” Rebus asked.

“No, sir. Smoking’s not allowed.”

“That was more information than I needed.”

“Yes, sir.” The constable was trying not to stare at Rebus’s gloves.

“Is there so much as a kettle?”

“No, sir.” The constable paused. “Neighbors sometimes drop off a flask or a bit of cake.”

“Any chance of that happening in the next ten minutes?”

“Unlikely, I’d say.”

“Off you go and do some foraging, then. See what marks you can get for initiative.”

The constable hesitated. “I’m supposed to stay here.”

“We’ll guard the fort, son,” Rebus said, sliding off his jacket and hanging it over the back of a chair.

The constable looked skeptical.

“I’ll take mine white,” Rebus said.

“Me too, no sugar,” Siobhan added.

The constable stood there a moment or two longer, watching them get as comfortable as the room would allow. Then he backed out and closed the door slowly after him.

Rebus and Siobhan looked at each other and shared a complicit smile. Siobhan had brought the notes relevant to James Bell, and Rebus reread them while she took the tape out and slotted it home.

Eighteen . . . son of the MSP Jack Bell and his wife, Felicity, who worked as an administrator at the Traverse Theatre. The family lived in Barnton. James intended going to university to study politics and economics . . . a “competent pupil,” according to the school: “James goes his own way, not always outgoing, but can turn on the charm when necessary.” He preferred chess to sports.

“Probably not CCF material,” Rebus mused. A moment later, he was listening to James Bell’s voice.

The interviewing officers identified themselves: DI Hogan, DC Hood. A shrewd move, involving Grant Hood: being press liaison officer on the case, he would need to know the survivor’s story. Some of it might provide morsels that he could offer the journos in return for favors. It was important to have the media on your side; important, too, to maintain as much control over them as possible. They wouldn’t be getting near James Bell yet. They’d have to go through Grant Hood.

Bobby Hogan’s voice identified the date and time—Monday evening—and the scene of the interview—A&E at the Royal Infirmary. Bell had been wounded in the left shoulder. A clean shot, ripping through flesh, missing bones, exiting again, the bullet lodged in the wall of the common room.

“Are you up to talking, James?”

“I think so . . . hurts like buggery.”

“I’m sure it does. For the tape, then, you are James Elliot Bell, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Elliot?” Siobhan asked.

“Mother’s maiden name,” Rebus explained, checking the notes again.

Very little background noise: had to be a private room at the hospital. A clearing of the throat from Grant Hood. The squall of a squeaky chair. Hood probably holding the mike, his chair closest to the bed. Turning the mike between Hogan and the boy, not always timing it right, so that a voice was sometimes muffled.

“Can you tell me what happened, Jamie?”

“Please, my name’s James. Could I have some water?”

The sound of the mike being laid down on top of bedclothes, water poured.

“Thank you.”
A pause until the cup was replaced on the bedside table. Rebus thought of his own cup falling, Siobhan catching it. Like James Bell, on Monday night he, too, had been in the hospital . . .
“It was mid-morning break. We get twenty minutes. I was in the common room.”

“Was that your usual hangout?”

“Better there than the grounds.”

“It wasn’t a bad day, though: warm enough.”

“I prefer to be inside. Do you think I’ll be able to play the guitar when I get out of here?”

“I don’t know,”
Hogan said.
“Could you play before you came in?”

“You spoiled the patient’s punch line. Shame on you.”

“Sorry about that, James. So how many of you were in the common room?”

“Three. Tony Jarvies, Derek Renshaw and me.”

“And what were you doing there?”

“There was some music on the hi-fi . . . I think Jarvies was doing homework, Renshaw was reading the paper.”

“Is that how you talk to one another? Using surnames?”

“Most of the time.”

“The three of you were friends?”

“Not especially.”

“But you often spent time together in the common room?”

“More than a dozen of us use that room.”
A pause.
“Are you trying to ask me if I think he targeted us deliberately?”

“It’s one thing we’re wondering about.”

“Why?”

“Because it was break time, lots of pupils outdoors . . .”

“But he walked into the school, into the common room, before he started shooting?”

“You’d make a good detective, James.”

“It’s not high on my list of career options.”

“Did you know the gunman?”

“Yes.”

“You knew him?”

“Lee Herdman, yes. Quite a lot of us knew him. Some of us took waterskiing lessons. And he was an interesting guy.”

“Interesting?”

“His background. The man was a trained killer, after all.”

“He told you that?”

“Yes. He was in Special Forces.”

“Did he know Anthony and Derek?”

“Quite possibly.”

“But he knew you?”

“We’d met socially.”

“Then you’ve maybe been asking yourself the same question we have.”

“You mean, why did he do it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard that people with his sort of background . . . they don’t always fit into society, do they? Something happens, and it tips them over the edge.”

“Any idea what tipped Lee Herdman over the edge?”

“No.”
A long pause followed, the mike muffled against the sheets as the two detectives seemed to confer. Then Hogan’s voice again.

“So can you take us through it, James? You were in the room . . .”

“I’d just put on a CD. One thing the three of us didn’t share was musical taste. When the door opened, I don’t think I even bothered looking round. Then there was this horrendous explosion, and Jarvies collapsed. I’d been crouching in front of the hi-fi, but I stood up again, turning. I saw this huge-looking gun. I mean, I’m not saying it was particularly large, but it seemed that way, pointing at Renshaw now . . . There was a figure behind the gun, but I couldn’t really see him . . .”

“Because of the smoke?”

“No . . . I don’t remember smoke. The only thing I seemed to be able to focus on was the gun barrel . . . I was sort of frozen. Then a second explosion, and Renshaw sort of collapsed like a puppet, just crumpled to the floor . . .”

Rebus found that he’d closed his eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d pictured the scene.

“Then he turned the gun on me . . .”

“Did you know who he was by this point?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Did you say anything?”

“I don’t know . . . maybe I opened my mouth to say something . . . I think I must have started moving, because when the shot came it . . . well, it didn’t kill me, did it? It was like a hard shove, pushing me back and over.”

“He hadn’t said anything up to this point?”

“Not a word. Mind you, my ears were ringing.”

“Small room like that, I’m not surprised. Is your hearing okay now?”

“There’s still a hissing, but they say that’ll go away.”

“He didn’t say anything?”

“I didn’t hear him say anything. I just lay there, getting ready to play dead. And then there was the fourth shot . . . and for a split second I thought it was me . . . finishing me off. But when I heard the body fall, I sort of knew . . .”

“What did you do?”

“I opened my eyes. I was at floor level, and I could see his body through the legs of the chair. He still had the gun in his hand. I started to get up. My shoulder was feeling numb, and I knew there was blood pouring out, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the gun. I know this’ll sound ridiculous, but I was thinking of those horror films, you know?”

Hood’s voice:
“Where you think the bad guy’s dead . . .”

“And he keeps coming back to life, yes. And then there were people in the doorway . . . teaching staff, I suppose. They must have got a hell of a shock.”

“What about you, James? You bearing up?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure it’s really hit me yet—pardon the pun. We’re all being offered counseling. I suppose that’ll help.”

“You’ve been through an ordeal.”

“I have, haven’t I? Something to tell the grandkids, I suppose.”

“He’s so calm about it,” Siobhan said. Rebus nodded.

“We really appreciate you talking to us. Would it be okay if we left you a notepad and pen? You see, James, you’re probably going to find yourself going back over it time and again in your mind—and that’s good, it’s how we deal with things like this. But maybe you’ll remember something and want to write it down. Putting it all down is one more way of dealing with it.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“And we’ll want to talk to you again.”

Hood’s voice:
“As will the media. It’s up to you whether you want to say anything to them, but I can talk you through it, if you like.”

“I won’t be talking to anybody for a day or two. And don’t worry, I know all about the media.”

“Well, thanks again for this, James. I think your mum and dad are waiting outside.”

“Look, I’m feeling a bit tired after everything. Do you think you could tell them I’ve nodded off?”

At which point the tape went dead. Siobhan let it run for a few more seconds, then switched off the machine. “End of first interview—want to listen to another?” She nodded towards the filing cabinet. Rebus shook his head.

“Not for now, but I’d still like to talk to him,” he said. “He says he knew Herdman. That makes him relevant.”

“He also says he doesn’t know why Herdman did it.”

“All the same . . .”

“He sounded so calm.”

“Probably the shock. Hood was right, it takes time to sink in.”

Siobhan was thoughtful. “Why do you think he didn’t want to see his parents?”

“Are you forgetting who his dad is?”

“Yes, but all the same . . . Something like that happens, doesn’t matter what age you are, you want a hug.”

Rebus looked at her. “Do you?”

“
Most
people would . . . most normal people, I mean.” A knock at the door. It opened a fraction and the constable’s head appeared.

“No joy with the drinks,” he said.

“We’re done here anyway. Thanks for trying.”

They left the constable to lock the tape away again and headed out, squinting into the daylight. “James didn’t tell us much, did he?” Siobhan said.

“No,” Rebus admitted. He was replaying the interview in his mind, seeking anything they could use. The only glimmer: James Bell had known Herdman. But so what? Plenty of people in the town had known Lee Herdman.

“Shall we head up the High Street, see if we can find a café?”

“I know where we can get a cuppa,” Rebus said.

“Where?”

“Same place we got one yesterday . . .”

Allan Renshaw hadn’t shaved since the day before. He was alone in the house, having sent Kate out to see some friends.

“Not good for her being cooped up here with me,” he said as he led them through to the kitchen. The living room hadn’t been touched, photos still waiting to be pored over, sorted or shoved back into their boxes. Rebus noted that some remembrance cards had appeared on the mantelpiece. Renshaw picked up a remote from the arm of the sofa and switched off the TV. A video had been playing, homemade, family holiday. Rebus decided not to comment. Renshaw’s hair stuck up in places, and Rebus wondered if he’d slept in his clothes. Renshaw sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs, leaving Siobhan to fill the kettle. Boethius was lying on the countertop, and Siobhan made to stroke him, but the cat leapt onto the floor and padded through to the living room.