A Question of Blood (2003) (3 page)

Still he wouldn’t give up, and she realized that what had started—presumably—as a joke had turned into a more serious form of game. So she’d decided to bring one of her stronger pieces into play. Rebus had noticed anyway: the calls she wasn’t taking, the time she spent by the office window, the way she kept glancing around her when they were out on a call. So eventually she’d told him, and the pair of them had paid a visit to Fairstone’s public housing unit in Gracemount.

It had started badly, Siobhan soon realizing that her “piece” played by his own set of rules rather than anyone else’s. A struggle, the leg snapping from a coffee table, pine veneer yielding to the MDF within. Siobhan feeling worse than ever afterwards—weak, because she had brought Rebus in rather than deal with it herself; trembling, because at the back of her mind lurked the thought that she’d known what would happen, and had wanted it to happen. Instigator and coward.

They’d stopped for a drink on the way back into town.

“Think he’ll do anything?” Siobhan had asked.

“He started it,” Rebus told her. “If he keeps on hassling you, he knows now what he’s in for.”

“A hiding, you mean?”

“All I did was defend myself, Siobhan. You were there. You saw.” His eyes fixing hers until she nodded. And he was right. Fairstone had lunged at him. Rebus had pushed him down onto the coffee table, trying to hold him there. Then the leg snapped and both men slid to the floor, rolling and struggling. It had all been over in a matter of seconds, Fairstone’s voice shaking with rage as he told them to get out. Rebus pointing a warning finger, repeating his order to “back off from DS Clarke.”

“Just clear out, the pair of you!”

Her hand touching Rebus’s arm. “It’s finished. Let’s go.”

“You think it’s finished?” Flecks of white saliva spitting from the corners of Fairstone’s mouth.

Rebus’s final words: “It better be, pal, unless you really want to start seeing some fireworks.”

She’d wanted to ask him what he’d meant, but instead had bought a final round of drinks. In bed that night, she’d stared at the dark ceiling before falling into a doze, waking with a sudden feeling of terror, leaping to her feet, adrenaline surging through her. She’d crawled on hands and knees from her bedroom, believing that if she got to her feet, she would die. Eventually it passed, and she used her hands on the hallway wall as she rose up from the floor. She walked slowly back to bed and lay down on her side, curled into a ball.

More common than you might think,
her doctor would eventually tell her, after the second attack.

Between times, Martin Fairstone made a complaint of harassment, dropping it eventually. And he’d also kept on calling. She’d tried to keep it from Rebus, didn’t want to know what he meant by “fireworks” . . .

The CID office was dead. People were out on calls, or busy in court. It seemed you could spend half your life waiting to give evidence, only for the case to collapse or the accused to make a change of plea. Sometimes a juror went AWOL, or someone crucial was sick. Time seeped away, and at the end of it all the verdict was “not guilty.” Even when found guilty, it might be a question of a fine or suspended sentence. The prisons were full and seen more than ever as a last resort. Siobhan didn’t think she was growing cynical, just realistic. There’d been criticism recently that Edinburgh had more traffic wardens than cops. When something like South Queensferry came up, it stretched things tighter. Holidays, sick leave, paperwork, and court . . . and not nearly enough hours in any given day. Siobhan was aware that there was a backlog on her desk. Because of Fairstone, her work had been suffering. She could still feel his presence. If a phone rang, she would freeze, and a couple of times she caught herself heading for the window, to check if his car was out there. She knew she was being irrational, but couldn’t help it. Knew, too, that it wasn’t the kind of thing she could talk to someone about . . . not without seeming weak.

The phone was ringing now. Not on her own desk, but on Rebus’s. If no one answered, the switchboard might try another extension. She crossed the floor, willing the sound to stop. It did so only when she picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Who’s that?” A male voice. Brisk, businesslike.

“DS Clarke.”

“Hiya, Shiv. It’s Bobby Hogan here.” Detective Inspector Bobby Hogan. She’d asked him before not to call her Shiv. A lot of people tried it. Siobhan, pronounced “Shi-vawn,” shortened to Shiv. When people wrote her name down, it turned into all sorts of erroneous spellings. She remembered that Fairstone had called her Shiv a few times, attempting familiarity. She hated it and knew she should correct Hogan, but she didn’t.

“Keeping busy?” she asked instead.

“You know I’m handling Port Edgar?” He broke off. ’Course you do, stupid question.”

“You come over well on TV, Bobby.”

“I’m always open to flattery, Shiv, and the answer is ‘no.’”

She couldn’t help smiling. “I’m not exactly snowed under here,” she lied, glancing across at the folders on her desk.

“If I need an extra pair of hands, I’ll let you know. Is John around?”

“Mr. Popular? He’s taken a sickie. What do you want him for?”

“Is he at home?”

“I can probably get a message to him.” She was intrigued now. There was some urgency in Hogan’s voice.

“You know where he is?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“You never answered my question: what do you want him for?”

Hogan gave a long sigh. “Because I need that other pair of hands,” he told her.

“And only his will do?”

“So far as I know.”

“I’m suitably crushed.”

He ignored her tone. “How soon can you let him know?”

“He might not be well enough to help.”

“If he’s anywhere short of an iron lung, I’ll take him.”

She rested her weight against Rebus’s desk. “What’s going on?”

“Just get him to call me, eh?”

“Are you at the school?”

“Best if he tries my mobile. Bye, Shiv.”

“Hang on a sec!” Siobhan was looking towards the doorway.

“What?” Hogan failed to mask his exasperation.

“He’s just here. I’ll put him on.” She stretched the receiver out towards Rebus. His clothes all seemed to be hanging awkwardly. At first, she thought he must be drunk, but then she realized what it was. He’d struggled to get dressed. His shirt was tucked into his waistband, but only just. His tie hung loose around his neck. Instead of taking the phone from her, he came forward and leaned his ear against it.

“It’s Bobby Hogan,” she explained.

“Hiya, Bobby.”

“John? Connection must be breaking up . . .”

Rebus looked at Siobhan. “Bit closer,” he whispered. She angled the mouthpiece so it rested against his chin, noting that his hair needed washing. It was plastered to his scalp in the front, but sticking up in the back.

“That better, Bobby?”

“Fine, yes. John, I need a favor.”

When the phone dipped a little, Rebus looked up at Siobhan. Her gaze was directed at the doorway again. He glanced around and saw Gill Templer standing there.

“My office!” she snapped. “Now!”

Rebus ran the tip of his tongue around his lips. “I think I’m going to have to call you back, Bobby. Boss wants a word.”

He straightened up, hearing Hogan’s voice becoming tinny and mechanical. Templer was beckoning for him to follow. He gave a little shrug in Siobhan’s direction and began to leave the room again.

“He’s gone,” she told the mouthpiece.

“Well, get him back!”

“I don’t think that’s going to be possible. Look . . . maybe if you could give me a clue what this is all about. I might be able to help . . .”

“I’ll leave it open if you don’t mind,” Rebus said.

“If you want the whole station to hear, that’s fine by me.”

Rebus slumped down on the visitor’s chair. “It’s just that I’m having a bit of trouble with door handles.” He lifted his hands for Templer to see. Her expression changed immediately.

“Christ, John, what the hell happened?”

“I scalded myself. Looks worse than it is.”

“Scalded yourself?” She leaned back, fingers pressing the edge of the desk.

He nodded. “There’s no more to it than that.”

“Despite what I’m thinking?”

“Despite what you’re thinking. I filled the kitchen sink to do some dishes, forgot I hadn’t added cold and plunged my hands in.”

“For how long exactly?”

“Long enough to scald them, apparently.” He tried for a smile, reckoned the dishes story was easier to swallow than the bathtub, despite which Templer looked far from convinced. Her phone started ringing. She picked up the receiver and dropped it again, cutting the connection.

“You’re not the only one having some bad luck. Martin Fairstone died in a fire.”

“Siobhan told me.”

“And?”

“Accident with a chip pan.” He shrugged. “It happens.”

“You were with him Sunday night.”

“Was I?”

“Witnesses saw you together in a bar.”

Rebus shrugged. “I did chance to bump into him.”

“And left the bar with him?”

“No.”

“Went back to his place?”

“Says who?”

“John . . .”

His voice was rising. “Who says it wasn’t an accident?”

“The fire investigators are still looking.”

“Good luck to them.” Rebus made to fold his arms, realized what he was doing, and dropped them to either side again.

“That probably hurts,” Templer commented.

“It’s bearable.”

“And it happened on Sunday night?”

He nodded.

“Look, John . . .” She leaned forwards, elbows on the desktop. “You know what people are going to say. Siobhan claimed Fairstone was stalking her. He denied it, then countered that you’d threatened him.”

“A charge he decided to drop.”

“But now I hear from Siobhan that Fairstone attacked her. Did you know about that?”

He shook his head. “The fire’s just a stupid coincidence.”

She lowered her eyes. “It doesn’t look good, though, does it?”

Rebus made a show of examining himself. “Since when have I been interested in looking good?”

Despite herself, she almost smiled. “I just want to know that we’re clean on this.”

“Trust me, Gill.”

“Then you won’t mind making it all official? Get it down in writing?” Her phone had started ringing again.

“I’d answer it this time,” a voice said. Siobhan was standing in the hallway, arms folded. Templer looked at her, then picked up the receiver.

“DCS Templer speaking.”

Siobhan caught Rebus’s eye and gave a wink. Gill Templer was listening to whatever the caller was telling her.

“I see . . . yes . . . I suppose that would be . . . Care to tell me why him exactly?”

Rebus suddenly knew. It was Bobby Hogan. Maybe not on the phone—Hogan could have gone over Templer’s head, got the deputy chief constable to make the call on his behalf. Needing that favor from Rebus. Hogan had a certain measure of power right now, power gifted him along with his latest case. Rebus wondered what sort of favor he wanted.

Templer put down the phone. “You’re to report to South Queensferry. Seems DI Hogan needs his hand-holding.” She was staring at her desktop.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Rebus said.

“Fairstone won’t be going anywhere, John, remember that. Soon as Hogan’s finished with you, you’re mine again.”

“Understood.”

Templer looked past him to where Siobhan was still standing. “Meantime, maybe DS Clarke will shed some light —”

Rebus cleared his throat. “Might be a problem there, ma’am.”

“In what way?”

Rebus held up his arms again and turned his wrists slowly. “I might be all right for holding Bobby Hogan’s hand, but I’ll need a bit of help for everything else.” He half turned in the chair. “So if I could just borrow DS Clarke for a little while . . .”

“I can get you a driver,” Templer snapped.

“But for writing notes . . . making and taking calls . . . needs to be CID. And from what I saw in the office, that narrows things down.” He paused. “With your permission.”

“Get out then, the pair of you.” Templer made a show of reaching for some paperwork. “Soon as there’s news from the fire investigators, I’ll let you know.”

“Very decent of you, boss,” Rebus said, rising to his feet.

Back in the CID room, he had Siobhan slide a hand into his jacket pocket, bringing out a small plastic jar of pills. “Bastards measured them out like gold,” he complained. “Get me some water, will you?”

She fetched a bottle from her desk and helped him wash down two tablets. When he demanded a third, she checked the label.

“Says to take two every four hours.”

“One more won’t do any harm.”

“Not going to last long at this rate.”

“There’s a prescription in my other pocket. We’ll stop at a chemist’s once we’re on the road.”

She screwed the top of the jar back on. “Thanks for taking me with you.”

“No problem.” He paused. “Want to talk about Fairstone?”

“Not particularly.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m assuming neither of us is responsible.” Her eyes bored into his.

“Correct,” he said. “Which means we can concentrate on helping Bobby Hogan instead. But there’s one last thing before we start . . .”

“What?”

“Any chance you could do my tie properly? Nurse hadn’t a clue.”

She smiled. “I’ve been waiting to get my hands around your throat.”

“Any more of that and I’ll throw you back to the boss.”

But he didn’t, even when she proved incapable of following his instructions for knotting a tie. In the end, the woman at the chemist’s did it for him while they waited for the pharmacist to fill his prescription.

“Used to do it for my husband all the time,” she said. “God rest his soul.”

Outside on the sidewalk, Rebus looked up and down the street. “I need cigarettes,” he said.

“Don’t expect me to light them for you,” Siobhan said, folding her arms. He stared at her. “I’m serious,” she added. “This is the best chance of quitting that you’re ever likely to have.”