A Question of Blood (2003) (23 page)

“The Boatman’s has a couple of rooms, doesn’t it?”

Rebus nodded slowly. “Let’s start there, then.”

“Am I allowed to ask why?”

Rebus shook his head. “Less you know, the better—that’s a promise.”

“You don’t think you’re in enough trouble?”

“Room for a bit more, I think.” He tried a reassuring wink, but Siobhan looked far from convinced.

The Boatman’s wasn’t yet open for business, but when the barman recognized Siobhan, he let them in.

“It’s Rod, isn’t it?” Siobhan said. Rod McAllister nodded. “This is my colleague, DI Rebus.”

“Hello,” McAllister said.

“Rod knew Lee Herdman,” Siobhan reminded Rebus.

“Did he ever sell you any Eckies?” Rebus asked.

“Pardon?”

Rebus just shook his head. Now that they were inside the bar, he breathed deeply: last night’s beer and cigarettes, failing to be masked by furniture polish. McAllister had been busy with paperwork, piled on top of the bar. He was running a hand beneath his baggy T-shirt, scratching his chest. The T-shirt had faded badly, its seam broken at one shoulder.

“You a Hawkwind fan?” Siobhan asked. McAllister looked down at the front of the shirt. The faint print showed the cover of
In Search of Space
. “We won’t keep you,” Siobhan went on. “Just wondered if you had a couple of guests —”

Rebus butted in to provide the names, but McAllister shook his head. He was looking at Siobhan, didn’t seem interested in Rebus.

“Anywhere else in the town that might put up visitors?” Siobhan asked.

McAllister scratched at his stubble, reminding Rebus that the shaving he himself had carried out this morning had been tentative at best.

“There’s a few,” McAllister admitted. “You said someone might come to talk to me about Lee . . . ?”

“Did I?”

“Well, it’s just that nobody has.”

“Any idea why he did it?” Rebus asked abruptly. McAllister shook his head. “Then let’s concentrate on those addresses, shall we?”

“Addresses?”

“B and Bs, other hotels . . .”

McAllister understood. Siobhan took out her notebook, and he started reciting the names. After half a dozen, he shook his head to let them know he was finished. “Might be more,” he admitted with a shrug.

“Enough to be going on with,” Rebus said. “We’ll let you get back to the important work, Mr. McAllister.”

“Right . . . thanks.” McAllister made a little bow, and held the door open for Siobhan. Outside, she consulted her notebook.

“This could take all day.”

“If we want it to,” Rebus said. “Looks like you’ve got an admirer.”

She looked up in the direction of the hotel window, saw McAllister’s face there. He shrank back, turned away. “You could do a lot worse—just imagine, never having to pay for another drink in your life . . .”

“Something you’ve striven towards.”

“That’s a low blow. I pay my share.”

“If you say so.” She waved the notebook at him. “There’s an easier route, you know.”

“Name it.”

“Ask Bobby Hogan. He’s bound to know where they’re staying.”

Rebus shook his head. “Best keep Bobby out of it.”

“Why am I getting such a bad feeling about this?”

“Let’s get back in the car and you can start making those calls.”

Sliding into her seat, she turned to him. “A sixty-grand yacht—where did the money come from?”

“Drugs, obviously.”

“You think so?”

“I think it’s what we’re supposed to be thinking. Nothing we’ve learned about Herdman makes him look like a drug baron.”

“Except his magnetic attraction for bored teenagers.”

“Didn’t they teach you anything at college?”

“Such as?”

“Not jumping to conclusions.”

“I forgot—that’s your department.”

“Another one below the belt. Careful, or the referee will step in.”

She stared at him. “You know something, don’t you?”

He held her stare and shook his head slowly. “Not until you make those calls . . .”

13

T
hey got lucky: the third address was a hotel just outside town, overlooking the Road Bridge. Its car park was blustery and deserted. Two telescopes were waiting forlornly for tourists. Rebus tried one but couldn’t see anything.

“You have to put money in,” Siobhan explained, indicating the coin slot. Rebus didn’t bother, made for reception instead.

“You should wait out here,” he warned her.

“And miss all the fun?” She followed him in, trying not to show how worried she was. He was on painkillers . . . and looking for trouble. A bad combination. She’d seen him cross the line before, but he’d always been in control. But with his hands still blistered and pink, and the Complaints about to investigate him for involvement in a possible murder . . . There was a member of the staff behind the reception desk.

“Good morning,” the woman said brightly.

Rebus already had his ID out. “Lothian and Borders Police,” he said. “You’ve got a woman named Whiteread staying here.”

Fingers clacked against a computer keyboard. “That’s right.”

Rebus leaned across the desk. “I need access to her room.”

The receptionist looked confused. “I’m not . . .”

“If you’re not in charge, can I speak with whoever is?”

“I’m not sure . . .”

“Or you could save us the trouble and just give me a key.”

The woman looked more flustered than ever. “I’ll have to find my supervisor.”

“You do that, then.” Rebus placed his hands behind his back, as though impatient. The receptionist picked up her phone, tried a couple of numbers, but didn’t find who she was looking for. The lift sounded, doors slid open. One of the cleaners got out, carrying a duster and a can of aerosol spray. The receptionist put down the phone.

“I’ll just have to find her.” Rebus sighed and checked his watch. Then stared at the receptionist’s back as she pushed open some swing doors and disappeared. He leaned over the desk again, this time pulling the computer screen around so he could see it.

“Room two-twelve,” he told Siobhan. “You staying here?”

She shook her head, followed him to the lift. He pushed the button for the second floor. The doors closed with a dry, rasping sound.

“What if Whiteread comes back?” Siobhan asked.

“She’s busy searching the yacht.” Rebus looked at her and smiled. A bell sounded and the doors shuddered open. As Rebus had hoped, the cleaning staff were still working this floor: a couple of their carts were parked in the corridor. Sheets and towels were piled up, waiting to be taken away for the laundry. He had his story ready: forgotten something . . . key down in Reception . . . any chance you could open the door for me? If that didn’t work, maybe a fiver or a tenner would. But his luck was in: the door to 212 stood wide open. The maid was in the bathroom. He put his head around the door.

“Had to pop back for something,” he told her. “Just you carry on.” Then he scanned the bedroom. The bed had been made. Personal items sat on the dressing table. Clothes hung in the narrow wardrobe. Whiteread’s suitcase was empty.

“She probably takes everything with her,” Siobhan whispered. “Keeps it in the car.”

Rebus paid her no heed. He checked beneath the bed, went through both clothes drawers, and slid open the drawer to the bedside table, revealing a Gideon Bible.

“Just like Rocky Raccoon,” he muttered to himself. Then he straightened up. There was nothing here. He’d seen nothing in the bathroom either, when he’d peered around its door. But now he was staring at another door . . . a connecting door. He tried the handle, and it opened, leading to another door, with no handle on Rebus’s side. Which didn’t matter: it was already open an inch. Rebus pushed it, and found himself in the next bedroom. Clothes strewn over both available chairs. Magazines on the bedside table. Ties and socks spilling from an oversized black nylon sports holdall.

“Simms’s room,” Rebus commented. And there on the dressing table, a brown manila file. Rebus turned it over, picked out the words
CONFIDENTIAL
and
PERSONNEL.
Picked out the name
LEE HERDMAN.
Simms’s idea of security: placing it facedown so no one would see what it was.

“You want to read it here?” Siobhan asked. Rebus shook his head: had to run to forty or fifty sheets.

“Reckon our receptionist would copy it for us?”

“I’ve got a better idea.” Siobhan lifted the file. “There was a sign in Reception for a business suite. I’m guessing they’ll have a photocopier.”

“Then let’s go.” But Siobhan was shaking her head.

“One of us stays here. Last thing we want is the cleaner disappearing, leaving the place locked tight behind her.”

Rebus saw the reasonableness of this, and nodded. So Siobhan took the file while Rebus made a cursory examination of Simms’s room. The mags were the usual men’s fare:
FHM, Loaded, GQ
. Nothing under the pillows or mattress. None of Simms’s clothes had made it as far as the chest of drawers, though a couple of shirts and suits hung in the wardrobe. Connecting doors . . . he didn’t know what, if anything, to read into that. Whiteread’s door had been kept closed, meaning Simms couldn’t get into her room. But Simms had left his own door an inch or two open . . . Inviting her to join him some night? In his bathroom: toothpaste and battery-operated toothbrush. He’d brought his own shampoo: anti-dandruff. Twin-blade razor and a can of shaving cream. Back in the bedroom, Rebus looked more closely at the black holdall. Five pairs of socks and underpants. Two shirts hanging up, two more on the chairs. Making five shirts in total. A week’s worth. Simms had packed for a week’s trip. Rebus was thoughtful. An ex-soldier goes on a killing spree, the army sends two investigators to make sure nothing links back to the killer’s past. Why send two people? And would they require a full week at the scene? What kind of people would you send? Psychologists maybe, to look into the killer’s state of mind. Neither Whiteread nor Simms struck him as having any experience of psychology, or any interest in Herdman’s state of mind.

They were hunters, maybe hunter-gatherers: Rebus was convinced of it.

There was a soft tapping at the door. Rebus checked the spy hole: it was Siobhan. He let her in, and she put the file back on the dressing table.

“Pages in the right order?” Rebus asked.

“Good as gold.” She had the copied sheets in a padded yellow envelope. “We ready to leave?”

Rebus nodded, and followed her to Simms’s door. But then he stopped, turned back. The file was lying faceup. He turned it over, gave the room a final look around, and left.

They’d offered the receptionist a smile as they’d passed her. A smile, but no words.

“Think she’ll tell Whiteread?” Siobhan had asked.

“I doubt it.” And he’d shrugged, because even if she did, there was nothing Whiteread could do about it. There’d been nothing in her room for anyone to find, and nothing was missing. While Siobhan drove them along the A90 towards Barnton, Rebus got started on the file. A lot of it was chaff: various test scores and reports, medical stuff, results from promotion boards. Penciled marginalia commented on Herdman’s strengths and weaknesses. His physical stamina was questioned, but his career was textbook stuff: tours of duty in Northern Ireland, the Falklands, the Middle East; training exercises in the UK, Saudi Arabia, Finland, Germany. Rebus turned a page and found himself staring at a sheet blank save for a few typed words:
REMOVED BY ORDER.
There was a scribbled signature and a stamped date, going back only four days. The date of the killings. Rebus turned to the next page and found himself reading about Herdman’s closing few months in the army. He had told his employers that he wouldn’t be signing up again—a copy of his letter was enclosed. Moves had been made to entice him to stay, but to no avail. After which the file descended into a bureaucracy of form filling. Events taking their course.

“Did you see this?” Rebus said, tapping the words
REMOVED BY ORDER.

Siobhan nodded. “What does it mean?”

“It means something’s been taken out, probably locked away somewhere in SAS HQ.”

“Sensitive information? Not for Whiteread’s and Simms’s eyes?”

Rebus was thoughtful. “Maybe.” He flicked back a page, concentrated on the final paragraphs. Seven months before Herdman had walked away from the SAS, he’d been part of a “salvage team” on Jura. On first glancing down the page, Rebus had seen the word
Jura
and assumed it referred to an exercise. Jura: a narrow island off the west coast. Isolated, just the one road and some mountains. Real wilderness country. Rebus had done some training there himself, back in his army days. Long marshy hikes, broken up with rock climbing. He remembered the range of hills: the “Paps of Jura.” Recalled the short ferry crossing to Islay, and how, at the end of the exercise, they’d all been taken to a distillery there.

But Herdman hadn’t been there on an exercise. He’d been part of a “salvage team.” Salvaging what exactly?

“Any further forwards?” Siobhan asked, braking hard as the divided highway ended. Ahead of them lay a backup from the Barnton roundabout.

“I’m not sure,” Rebus admitted. Nor was he sure how he felt about Siobhan’s involvement in his little spot of subterfuge. He should have made her stay in Simms’s room. That way, it would have been his face the staff member in the business suite would remember. His description they would give to Whiteread if she ever came sniffing . . .

“Was it worth it, then?” Siobhan was asking.

He just shrugged, growing thoughtful as they took a left at the roundabout, watching as she pulled up at a driveway, then turned the car into it. “Where are we?” he asked.

“James Bell’s house,” she told him. “Remember? We were going to talk to him?”

Rebus just nodded.

The house was modern and detached, with small windows and harled walls. Siobhan pressed the bell and waited. The door was opened by a tiny woman in her well-preserved fifties, with piercing blue eyes and her hair tied back with a black velvet bow.

“Mrs. Bell? I’m DS Clarke, this is DI Rebus. We were wondering if we could have a word with James.”

Felicity Bell examined both IDs, then stepped back to allow them inside. “Jack’s not here,” she said, in a voice devoid of energy.

“It’s your son we wanted to see,” Siobhan explained, voice dropping for fear of scaring this small, harried-looking creature.

“But all the same . . .” Mrs. Bell looked around her wildly. She’d brought them into the living room. In an attempt to calm her, Rebus lifted a family photo from the windowsill.

“You’ve got three children, Mrs. Bell?” he asked. She saw what he was holding, stepped forward to pluck it from his grasp, and did her best to put it back in the exact spot it had come from.

“James is the last,” she said. “The others are married . . . flown the nest.” She made a little flapping movement with one hand.

“The shooting must have been a terrible shock,” Siobhan said.

“Terrible, terrible.” The wild look had come back into her eyes.

“You work at the Traverse, don’t you?” Rebus asked.

“That’s right.” She didn’t seem surprised that he would know this about her. “We’ve got a new play just starting . . . really, I should be there to help out, but I’m needed here, you see.”

“What’s the play?”

“It’s a version of
The Wind in the Willows
. . . do either of you have children?”

Siobhan shook her head. Rebus explained that his daughter was too old.

“Never too old, never too old,” Felicity Bell said in her quavering voice.

“I take it you’re staying home to look after James?” Rebus said.

“Yes.”

“So he’s upstairs, is he?”

“In his room, yes.”

“And would he be able to spare us a couple of minutes, do you think?”

“Well, I don’t know . . .” Mrs. Bell’s hand had gone to her wrist at Rebus’s mention of “minutes.” Now she decided that she’d better look at her watch. “Gracious, nearly lunchtime already . . .” She made to wander out of the room, perhaps in the direction of the kitchen, but then remembered these two strangers in her midst. “Maybe I should call Jack.”

“Maybe you should,” Siobhan conceded. She was studying a framed photo of the MSP, triumphant on election night. “We’d be happy to speak to him.”

Mrs. Bell looked up, focusing on Siobhan. Her eyebrows drew together. “What do you need to speak to him for?” She had a clipped, educated Edinburgh accent.

“It’s James we want to talk to,” Rebus explained, taking a step forwards. “He’s in his room, is he?” He waited till she’d nodded. “And that’s upstairs, I take it?” Another nod. “Then here’s what we’ll do.” He had laid a hand on her bone-thin arm. “You go get the lunch started, and we’ll find our own way. Less fuss all round, don’t you think?”

Mrs. Bell seemed to take this in only slowly, but at last she beamed a smile. “Then that’s what I’ll do,” she said, retreating into the hall. Rebus and Siobhan shared a look, then a nod of agreement. The woman was not cooking with a full set of saucepans. They climbed the stairs, found what they took to be James’s room: stickers placed on the door in childhood had been scraped off. Nothing on it now but old concert tickets, mostly from English cities—Foo Fighters in Manchester, Rammstein in London, Puddle of Mudd in Newcastle. Rebus knocked but got no answer. He turned the handle and opened the door. James Bell was sitting up in bed. White sheets and duvet, stark-white walls with no ornamentation. Pale green carpet half-covered with throw rugs. Books were crammed onto bookshelves. Computer, hi-fi, TV . . . CDs scattered around. Bell wore a black T-shirt. He had his knees up, propping up a magazine. He turned the pages with one hand, the other arm being strapped across his chest. His hair was short and dark, face pale, one cheek picked out by a mole. Few signs of teenage rebellion in this room. When Rebus had been in his teens, his own bedroom had been little more than a series of hiding places: soft-porn mags under the carpet (the mattress wouldn’t do, it got turned occasionally), cigarettes and matches behind one leg of the wardrobe, a knife tucked away beneath the winter sweaters in the bottom drawer of the chest. He got the feeling that if he looked in the drawers here, he’d find clothes; nothing under the carpet but thick underlay.