A Question of Blood (2003) (33 page)

“Probably more than he liked me.”

Rebus was remembering his last meeting with James Bell, and what Siobhan had said afterwards. “What about Teri Cotter?” he asked.

“What about her?” James had taken a couple of steps back into the room, but seemed still restless.

“We think Herdman and Teri may have been an item.”

“So?”

“Did you know?”

James made to shrug with both shoulders, ended up flinching in pain.

“Forgot your wound for a moment there, eh?” Rebus commented. “I remember you had a computer in your room. Ever visited Teri’s website?”

“Didn’t know she had one.”

Rebus nodded slowly. “Derek Renshaw never mentioned it, then?”

“Derek?”

Rebus was still nodding. “Seems Derek was a bit of a fan. You were often in the common room, same time as him and Tony Jarvies . . . thought they might’ve talked about it.”

James was shaking his head, looking thoughtful. “Not that I remember,” he said.

“Not to worry, then.” Rebus made to stand up. “This book of yours, can I help you look for it?”

“Book?”

“The one you’re looking for.”

James smiled at his own stupidity. “Yes, sure. That’d be great.” He looked around the cluttered room, walked over to the desk. “Hang on a sec,” he said, “this is it.” He held up the paperback for Rebus to see.

“What’s it about?”

“A soldier who went off the rails.”

“Tried killing his wife, then leapt from an airplane?”

“You know the story?”

Rebus nodded. James flicked through the book, then tapped it against his thigh. “Reckon I’ve got what I came for,” he said.

“Anything else you want to take?” Rebus lifted a CD. “It’ll probably go into a Dumpster, to be honest.”

“Will it?”

“His wife doesn’t seem interested.”

“What a waste . . .” Rebus held out the CD, but James shook his head. “I couldn’t. It wouldn’t seem right.”

Rebus nodded, remembering his own reticence in front of the fridge.

“I’ll leave you to it, Inspector.” James tucked the book beneath his arm, stretched out his right hand for Rebus to shake. The coat slipped from his shoulder, crumpling to the floor. Rebus stepped around him and picked it up, replacing it.

“Thank you,” James Bell said. “I’ll see myself out.”

“Cheers, James. Good luck to you.”

Rebus waited in the living room, chin resting on one gloved hand as he listened to the front door open and then close. James was a long way from home . . . drawn by a light shining in a dead man’s house. Rebus still wondered who the young man had expected to find . . . Muffled footsteps descending the stone stairs. Rebus crossed to the desk and shuffled through the remaining books. They all had a military theme, but Rebus was confident he knew which one the young man had taken.

The same one Siobhan had held up on their first visit to the flat.

The one from which Teri Cotter’s photo had fallen . . .

DAY SIX

Tuesday

19

T
uesday morning, Rebus left his flat, walked to the foot of Marchmont Road, and proceeded across the Meadows, an area of parkland leading to the university. Students passed him, some of them on creaky bicycles. Others shuffled sleepily towards classes. The day was overcast, the sky’s color mirroring the slate-gray roofs. Rebus was headed for George IV Bridge. By now, he knew the drill at the National Library. The guard would allow you through, but you then had to climb the stairs and persuade the librarian on duty that your need was desperate and no other library would do. Rebus showed his warrant card, explained what he wanted, and was directed towards the microfiche room. That was the way they kept the old papers nowadays: as rolls of microfilm. Years back, working one particular case, Rebus had taken a seat in the reading room, a janitor dutifully unloading a cart of bound broadsheets onto the desk. Now, it was a case of switching on a screen and threading a spool of tape through the machine.

Rebus had no specific dates in mind. He’d decided to go back a full month before the crash on Jura and just let the days roll across his vision, see what was happening back then. By the time he got to the day of the crash, he had a pretty good idea. The story had made the front page of the
Scotsman,
accompanied by photos of two of the victims: Brigadier General Stuart Phillips and Major Kevin Spark. A day later, Phillips being Scots-born, the paper ran a lengthy obituary, giving Rebus more than he needed to know about the man’s upbringing and professional accomplishments. He checked the notes he’d been scribbling and wound the film to its end, replacing it with a roll from the previous two weeks, eventually spooling back to the date in his notes, the story about the IRA cease-fire in Northern Ireland, and the part being played in ongoing negotiations by Brigadier General Stuart Phillips. Preconditions being discussed, distrustful paramilitaries on both sides, splinter groups to be appeased . . . Rebus tapped his pen against his teeth until he noticed another user nearby frowning. Rebus mouthed the word “sorry” and cast his eyes over some of the other stories in the paper: earth summits, foreign wars, football reports . . . The face of Christ found in a pomegranate; a cat that got lost but found its way back to its owners, even though they’d moved in the interim . . .

The photo of the cat reminded him of Boethius. He went back to the main desk, asked where the encyclopedias were kept. He looked up Boethius. Roman philosopher, translator, politician . . . accused of treason and while awaiting execution wrote
The Consolations of Philosophy,
in which he argued that everything was changeable and lacked any measure of certainty . . . everything except virtue. Rebus wondered if the book might help him comprehend Derek Renshaw’s fate, and its effect on those closest to him. Somehow he doubted it. In his universe, the guilty too often went unpunished, while the victims went unnoticed. Bad things were always happening to good people, and vice versa. If God had planned things that way, the old bastard was blessed with a sick sense of humor. Easier to say that there was no plan, that random chance had taken Lee Herdman into that classroom.

But Rebus suspected that this wasn’t true either . . .

He decided to head out onto George IV Bridge for coffee and a cigarette. He’d spoken to Siobhan first thing by telephone, letting her know he’d be busy in town and wouldn’t be hooking up with her. She hadn’t sounded too bothered, hadn’t even seemed curious. She seemed to be drifting away from him, not that he could blame her. He’d always been a magnet for trouble, and her career prospects wouldn’t exactly be enhanced by his proximity. All the same, he thought there was more to it than that. Maybe she really did see him as a collector, as someone who got too close to certain people, people he cared about or was interested in . . . uncomfortably close at times. He thought of Miss Teri’s website, how it maintained an illusion that the viewer was connected to her. A one-way relationship: they could see her, but she couldn’t see them. Was she another example of a “specimen”?

Seated in the Elephant House coffee shop, sipping a large milky coffee, Rebus took out his mobile. He’d smoked a cigarette on the pavement before coming in: never knew these days whether smoking would be allowed indoors or not. He punched buttons with his thumbnail, connecting to Bobby Hogan’s mobile.

“Goon Squad taken over yet, Bobby?” he asked.

“Not completely.” Hogan knowing who Rebus meant: Claverhouse and Ormiston.

“But they’re in the area?”

“Pallying up to your girlfriend.”

It took Rebus a moment to work it out. “Whiteread?” he guessed.

“That’s the one.”

“Nothing Claverhouse would like more than hearing a few old stories about me.”

“Might explain the grin on his face.”

“Exactly how persona non grata do you reckon I am?”

“Nobody’s said. Whereabouts are you anyway? Is that an espresso machine I can hear hissing in the background?”

“Mid-morning break, guv’nor, that’s all. I’m digging into Herdman’s time in the regiment.”

“You know I fell at the first hurdle?”

“Don’t worry about it, Bobby. I couldn’t see the SAS handing over his file without a bigger fight than we can put up.”

“So how are you managing to look into his army record?”

“Laterally, you might say.”

“Care to enlighten me further?”

“Not until I’ve found something useful.”

“John . . . the parameters of the inquiry are shifting.”

“In plain English, Bobby?”

“The ‘why’ doesn’t seem to matter so much anymore.”

“Because the drug angle’s a lot more interesting?” Rebus guessed. “Are you shutting me down, Bobby?”

“Not my style, John, you know that. What I’m saying is, it may be out of my hands.”

“And Claverhouse isn’t running my fan club?”

“He’s not even on the mailing list.”

Rebus was thoughtful. Hogan filled the silence. “Way things are going, I might as well join you for that coffee . . .”

“You’re being sidelined?”

“From referee to fourth official.”

Rebus had to smile at the image. Claverhouse as ref, Ormiston and Whiteread his linesmen . . . “Any other news?” he asked.

“Herdman’s boat, the one with the dope on it, seems that when he purchased it he paid the bulk in cash—dollars, to be precise. The international currency of illegal substances. More than a few trips to Rotterdam this past year, most he tried to keep hidden.”

“Looks good, doesn’t it?”

“Claverhouse is wondering if there might be a porn angle, too.”

“The man’s mind is a sewer.”

“He may have a point: plenty of hard core to be found in places like Rotterdam. Thing is, our friend Herdman seems to have been a bit of a lad.”

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. “Defined as . . . ?”

“We took his computer from home, remember?” Rebus remembered: it had already gone by the time he’d made his first visit to Herdman’s flat. “The lab guys at Howdenhall were able to pinpoint sites he’d been using. A lot of them were aimed at peepers.”

“You mean voyeurs?”

“That’s what I mean. Mr. Herdman liked to
watch
. And how about this: some of the sites are registered in the Netherlands. Herdman paid his dues every month by credit card.”

Rebus was staring out of the window. It had started to rain, a softly angled drizzle. People were lowering their heads, walking faster. “Ever heard of a porn baron paying to watch the stuff, Bobby?”

“First time for everything.”

“It’s a non-starter, trust me . . .” Rebus paused, eyes narrowing. “You’ve looked at these sites?”

“Duty-bound to study the evidence, John.”

“Describe them.”

“You after a cheap thrill?”

“For those I go to Frank Zappa. Humor me, Bobby.”

“A girl sits on a bed, she’s wearing stockings, suspenders . . . all that sort of stuff. Then you type in whatever it is you want her to do.”

“Do we know what Herdman liked them to do?”

“Afraid not. Apparently there’s only so much the lab guys can extract.”

“You got a list of the sites, Bobby?” Rebus was forced to listen to a low chuckle on the line. “I’m just hazarding a guess here, but was there one called Miss Teri’s or Dark Entry?”

Silence at the other end, and then: “How did you know?”

“I was a mind-reader in a previous life.”

“I mean it, John: how did you know?”

“See? I knew you were going to ask that.” Rebus decided to put Hogan out of his misery. “Miss Teri is Teri Cotter. She’s a pupil at Port Edgar.”

“And doing porn on the side?”

“Her site’s not porn, Bobby . . .” Rebus broke off, but too late.

“You’ve seen it?”

“A webcam in her room,” Rebus admitted. “Seems to run twenty-four hours a day.” He winced, realizing again that he’d said too much.

“And how long have you spent watching it, just so you could be sure?”

“I’m not certain it’s got anything to do with —”

Hogan ignored him. “I need to go to Claverhouse with this.”

“No, you don’t.”

“John, if Herdman was obsessed with this girl . . .”

“If you’re going to interview her, I want to be there.”

“I don’t think you —”

“I
gave
you this, Bobby!” Rebus looked around, realizing his voice had risen. He was seated at a communal counter beside the window. He caught two young women, office workers on a break, just as they averted their eyes. How long had they been eavesdropping? Rebus lowered his voice. “I need to be there. Promise me that, Bobby.”

Hogan’s voice softened a little. “For what it’s worth, I promise. Doesn’t mean Claverhouse will be so accommodating.”

“Sure you have to go to him with this?”

“What do you mean?”

“The two of us, Bobby, we could talk to her . . .”

“That’s not how I work, John.” The tone stiffening again.

“I suppose not, Bobby.” Rebus had a thought. “Is Siobhan there?”

“I thought she’d be with you.”

“No matter. You’ll let me know about that interview?”

“Yes.” The word dissolving into a sigh.

“Cheers, Bobby. I owe you.” Rebus ended the call and walked away from what was left of his coffee. Outside, he lit another cigarette. The office girls were in a huddle, cupping hands to their mouths, maybe in case he could lip-read. They tried not to make eye contact with him. He blew smoke at the window and headed back to the library.

Siobhan had got to St. Leonard’s early, done some work in the gym, and then headed to the CID suite. There was a large walk-in closet where old case notes were stored, but when she examined the spines of the brown cardboard document boxes, she realized one was missing. In its place was a slip of paper.

Martin Fairstone. Removed by order. Gill Templer’s signature.

Stood to reason. Fairstone’s death was no accident. A murder investigation was being instigated, linked to an internal inquiry. Templer would have removed the file so it could be passed on to whoever needed it. Siobhan closed the door again and locked it, then went into the corridor and listened at Gill Templer’s door. Nothing but the distant trill of a telephone. She looked up and down the hall. There were bodies in the CID suite: DC Davie Hynds, and “Hi-Ho” Silvers. Hynds was still too new to query anything she might do, but if Silvers spotted her . . .

She took a deep breath, knocked and waited, then turned the handle and pushed.

The door wasn’t locked. She closed it behind her and tiptoed across her boss’s office. There was nothing on the desk itself, and the drawers weren’t big enough. She stared at the green four-drawer filing cabinet.

“In for a penny,” she told herself, sliding open the top compartment. There was nothing inside. Plenty of paperwork in the other three, but not what she was looking for. She exhaled noisily and took another look around. Who was she kidding? There were no hiding places here. It was as utilitarian a space as was feasible. Once upon a time, Templer had nurtured a couple of plants on the windowsill, but even those had gone, either killed by neglect or thrown away during a sort-out. Templer’s predecessor had lined his desk with framed photos of his extended family, but there was nothing here even to identify the occupant as a woman. Confident that she hadn’t missed anything, Siobhan opened the door, only to find a frowning man standing there.

“The very person I wanted to see,” he said.

“I was just . . .” Siobhan glanced back into the room as if seeking a believable end to the sentence she’d started.

“DCS Templer’s in a meeting,” the man explained.

“I’d gathered as much,” Siobhan said, regaining control of her voice. She clicked the door shut.

“By the way,” the man was saying, “my name’s —”

“Mullen.” Siobhan straightened her back, bringing her to within a few inches of his height.

“Of course,” Mullen said, displaying the thinnest of smiles. “You were DI Rebus’s driver the day I managed to run him to ground.”

“And now you want to ask me about Martin Fairstone?” Siobhan guessed.

“That’s right.” He paused. “Always supposing you can spare me a few minutes.”

Siobhan shrugged and smiled, as if to say that she could think of nothing more pleasant.

“If you’ll follow me, then,” Mullen said.

As they passed the open door of the CID suite, Siobhan glanced in and saw that Silvers and Hynds were standing side by side. Both were holding their neckties above their heads, necks twisted, as though they were swinging from a noose.

The last they saw of their victim was her raised middle finger as it disappeared from view.

She followed the Complaints officer as he descended the staircase and, just before reaching the reception area, unlocked the door to Interview Room 1.

“I assume you had a good reason to be in DCS Templer’s office,” he said, sliding out of his suit jacket and placing it over the back of one of the room’s two chairs. Siobhan sat down, watching him as he took his seat opposite, the chipped and ink-stained desk between them. Mullen leaned down and lifted a cardboard box from the floor.