A Question of Blood (2003) (37 page)

And now Rebus had another face in his mind, another scene. James Bell’s mother,
The Wind in the Willows
. . .

Never too old
. . . Wagging her finger at him.
Never too old
. . .

He gave a final, apparently despairing look out of his side window, then drove off, revving hard as if annoyed by his pal’s no-show. Turned at the next junction and then slowed again, pulled in and made a call on his mobile. Scribbled down the number he was given, made a second call. Then did a circuit, no sign of the cart or his money, not that he was expecting either. Ended up at another Yield, a hundred yards in front of Bob’s car. Waited. Saw the trunk being slammed shut, the Lost Boys making their way back to the sidewalk, Bob getting behind the steering wheel. He had an air horn, it played “Dixie” as he dropped the hand brake, tires squealing, sending up wisps of smoke. He was heading for fifty as he passed Rebus, “Dixie” blaring again. Rebus started to follow.

He felt calm, purposeful. Decided it was time for the last cigarette in the pack. And maybe even a few minutes of Rory Gallagher, too. Remembered seeing Rory in the seventies, Usher Hall, the place filled with tartan shirts, faded denims. Rory playing “Sinner Boy,” “I’m Movin’ On” . . . Rebus had one sinner boy in his sights, hopeful of snaring two more.

Rebus eventually got what he was hoping for. Having chanced his luck at a couple of amber traffic lights, Bob was forced to stop for a red. Rebus drove up behind him, then passed and stopped, blocking the road. Opened the driver’s door and got out as “Dixie” sounded its warning. Bob looked angry, came out of the car ready for trouble. Rebus had his hands up in surrender.

“Evening, Bo-bo,” he said. “Remember me?”

Bob knew him now all right. “The name’s Bob,” he stated.

“Right you are.” The lights had turned green. Rebus waved for the cars behind to come around them.

“What’s this all about?” Bob was asking. Rebus was inspecting the car, a prospective buyer’s once-over. “I’ve no’ done nothing.”

Rebus had reached the trunk. He tapped it with his knuckles. “Care to give me a quick tour of the exhibit?”

Bob’s jaw jutted. “Got a search warrant?”

“Think somebody like me bothers with the niceties?” The baseball cap was shading Bob’s face. Rebus bent at the knees so he was looking up into it. “Think again.” He paused. “But as it happens . . .” He straightened. “All I want is for the pair of us to go somewhere.”

“I’ve no’ done nothing,” the young man repeated.

“No need to fret . . . the cells are jam-packed at St. Leonard’s as it is.”

“So where are we going?”

“My treat.” Rebus nodded towards his Saab. “I’m going to park curbside. You pull in behind and wait for me. Got that? And I don’t want to see you with your mobile in your hand.”

“I’ve no’ —”

“Understood,” Rebus interrupted. “But you’re about to do
something
. . . and you’ll like it, I promise you.” He held up a finger, then retreated to his car. Evil Bob parked behind him, good as gold, and waited while Rebus got into the passenger seat, telling him he could drive.

“Drive where, though?”

“Toad Hall,” Rebus said, pointing towards the road ahead.

22

T
hey’d missed the first half of the show, but their tickets for the second half were waiting at the Traverse box office. The audience comprised families, a busload of pensioners, and what looked like at least one school trip, the children wearing identical pale-blue jumpers. Rebus and Bob took their seats at the back of the auditorium.

“It’s not a panto,” Rebus told him, “but it’s the next best thing.” The lights were just going down for the second half. Rebus knew he’d read
The Wind in the Willows
as a kid, but couldn’t remember the story. Not that Bob seemed to mind. His caginess soon melted away as the lights illuminated the scenery and the actors bounded onstage. Toad was in jail as proceedings opened.

“Framed, no doubt,” Rebus whispered, but Bob wasn’t listening. He clapped and booed with the kids and by the climax—weasels put to flight by Toad and his allies—was on his feet, bellowing his support. He looked down at the still-seated Rebus and a huge grin spread across his face.

“Like I say,” Rebus offered as the houselights went up and kids began pouring out of the auditorium, “not quite pantomime, but you get the idea.”

“And this is all because of what I said that day?” With the play over, some of Bob’s mistrust was returning.

Rebus shrugged. “Maybe I just don’t see you as a natural-born weasel.”

Out in the foyer, Bob stopped, looking all around him, as though reluctant to leave.

“You can always come back,” Rebus told him. “Doesn’t have to be a special occasion.”

Bob nodded slowly, and allowed Rebus to lead him into the busy street. He already had his car keys out, but Rebus was rubbing his gloved hands together.

“A bag of chips?” he suggested. “Just to round the evening off . . .”

“I’m buying,” Bob was quick to stress. “You stumped up for the seats.”

“Well, in that case,” Rebus said, “I’m bumping my order to a fish supper.”

The chip shop was quiet: pubs hadn’t started emptying yet. They carried the warm, wrapped packages back to the car and got in, windows steaming up as they sat and ate. Bob gave a sudden, open-mouthed chuckle.

“Toad was an arse, wasn’t he?”

“Reminded me of your pal Peacock actually,” Rebus said. He’d removed his gloves so they wouldn’t get greasy, knew Bob wouldn’t see his hands in the dark. They’d bought cans of juice. Bob slurped from his, not saying anything. So Rebus tried again.

“I saw you earlier with Rab Fisher. What do you make of him?”

Bob chewed thoughtfully. “Rab’s okay.”

Rebus nodded. “Peacock thinks so, too, doesn’t he?”

“How would I know?”

“You mean he hasn’t said?”

Bob concentrated on his food, and Rebus knew he’d found the chink he was looking for. “Oh, aye,” he went on, “Rab’s rising in Peacock’s estimation all the time. Ask me, he’s just been lucky. See that time we busted him for the replica gun? Case got tossed, and that makes it look like Rab outwitted us.” Rebus shook his head, trying not to let thoughts of Andy Callis cloud his concentration. “But he didn’t, he just got lucky. When you’re lucky like that, though, people start to look up to you . . . They reckon you’re more sussed than others.” Rebus paused to let this sink in. “But I’ll tell you something, Bob, whether the guns are real or not isn’t the issue. The replicas look too good, no way for us to tell they’re not real. And that means sooner or later a kid’s going to get himself killed. And his blood’ll be on your hands.”

Bob had been licking ketchup from his fingers. He froze at the thought. Rebus took a deep breath and gave a sigh, leaning back against the headrest. “Way things are headed,” he added lightly, “Rab and Peacock are just going to get closer and closer . . .”

“Rab’s okay,” Bob repeated, but the words had a new hollowness to them.

“Good as gold, Rab is,” Rebus conceded. “He buy whatever you were selling?”

Bob gave him a look, and Rebus relented. “Okay, okay, none of my business. Let’s pretend you don’t have a gun or something wrapped in a blanket in your trunk.”

Bob’s face tightened.

“I mean it, son.” Rebus laying some stress on the
son,
wondering what sort of father Bob had known. “No good reason why you should open up to me.” He picked out another chip, dropped it into his mouth. Gave a satisfied grin. “Is there anything better than a good fish supper?”

“Cracking chips.”

“Almost like homemade.”

Bob nodded. “Peacock makes the best chips I know, crispy at the edges.”

“Peacock does a bit of cooking, eh?”

“Last time, we had to go before he’d finished . . .”

Rebus stared ahead as the young man crammed home more chips. He picked up his can and held it, just for something to do. His heart was pounding, felt like it was squeezing itself into his windpipe. He cleared his throat. “Marty’s kitchen, was it?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level. Bob nodded, scouring the corners of the carton for crumbs of batter. “I thought they’d fallen out over Rachel?”

“Yeah, but when Peacock got the phone call —” Bob stopped chewing, horror filling his eyes, realizing suddenly that this wasn’t just another chat with a pal.

“What phone call?” Rebus asked, allowing the chill to creep into his voice.

Bob was shaking his head. Rebus pushed open his door, snatched the keys from the ignition. Out of the car, scattering chips on the road, around to the back, opening the trunk.

Bob was next to him. “You can’t! You said . . . ! You bloody said . . . !”

Rebus pushing aside the spare tire, revealing the gun, not wrapped in anything. A Walther PPK.

“It’s a replica,” Bob stuttered. Rebus felt its heft, gave it a good look.

“No, it’s not,” he hissed. “You know it and I know it, and that means you’re going to jail, Bob. Next night at the theater for you will be in five years’ time. Hope you enjoy it.” He kept one hand on the gun, placed the other on Bob’s shoulder. “What phone call?” he repeated.

“I don’t know.” Bob sniffing and trembling. “Just some guy in a pub . . . next thing, we’re in the car.”

“Some guy in a pub saying what?”

Shaking his head violently. “Peacock never said.”

“No?”

The head going from side to side, eyes suddenly tearful. Rebus gnawed at his bottom lip, looked around. Nobody was paying much attention: buses and taxis on Lothian Road, a bouncer in the doorway of a nightclub nine or ten doors up. Rebus wasn’t really seeing any of it, mind spinning.

Could have been any of the drinkers in the pub that night, spotting him having a long talk with Fairstone, the two men seeming too pally . . . thinking Peacock Johnson might be interested. Peacock, who’d once known Fairstone as a friend. Then the falling-out over Rachel Fox. And . . . And what? Peacock worried that Martin Fairstone had turned rat? Because Fairstone knew something Rebus might be interested in.

The question was, what?

“Bob.” Rebus’s voice all balm now, trying to soothe and calm. “It’s all right, Bob. Don’t worry about it. Nothing to worry about. I just need to know what Peacock wanted with Marty.”

Another shake of the head, not as violent now, resignation taking hold. “He’ll kill me,” he stated quietly. “That’s what he’ll do.” Staring at Rebus, eyes an accusation.

“Then you need me to help you, Bob. You need me to start being your friend. Because if you’ll let that happen, it’ll be Peacock in jail, not you. You’ll be right as rain.”

The young man paused, as though taking this in. Rebus wondered what a halfway decent defense counsel would do to him in court. They’d question his ability and his wits, argue that he didn’t make a competent witness.

But he was all Rebus had.

They drove the route back to Rebus’s car in silence. Bob parked his own car on a side road, then got into Rebus’s.

“Best if you kip at my place tonight,” Rebus explained. “That way we both know you’re safe.”
Safe:
a nice euphemism. “Tomorrow, we’ll have a chat, okay?”
Chat:
another euphemism. Bob nodded, not saying anything. Rebus found a parking space at the top of Arden Street, then led Bob down the sidewalk towards the tenement’s main door. Pushed the door open, and noticed the light in the stairwell wasn’t working. Realizing too late what it might mean . . . hands grabbing him by the lapels, hurling him against the wall. A knee sought his groin, but Rebus was wise to the move, twisted his lower half so the blow connected with his thigh. He thudded his own forehead into his attacker’s face, connecting with a cheekbone. One of the hands was at his throat, seeking the carotid artery. Pressure there, and Rebus would start to lose consciousness. He clenched his fists, went for kidney blows, but the attacker’s leather jacket took most of the brunt.

“There’s someone else,” a woman’s voice hissed.

“What?” The attacker was male, English.

“Someone’s with him!”

The pressure on Rebus’s throat eased, the attacker backing off. Sudden flashlight illuminated the half-open door, Bob standing there, mouth gaping.

“Shit!” Simms said.

Whiteread was carrying the flashlight. She shone it in Rebus’s face. “Sorry about that . . . Gavin can get a bit too zealous at times.”

“Apology accepted,” Rebus said, getting his breathing back under control. Then he swung a punch. But Simms was quick, dodged out of its way and held his own fists up.

“Boys, boys,” Whiteread chided them. “We’re not in the playground now.”

“Bob,” Rebus ordered, “up here!” He started climbing the stairs.

“We need to talk.” Whiteread spoke calmly, as though nothing had just happened. Bob was moving past her, making to follow Rebus.

“We really do need to talk!” she called, angling her head upwards, able to make out Rebus’s silhouette as he reached the first landing.

“Fine,” he said eventually. “But put the lights back on first.”

He unlocked his door, motioned Bob down the hall, showing him the kitchen and the bathroom, then the spare bedroom, single bed prepared for visitors who seldom came. He touched the radiator. It was cold. Crouched down and turned the thermostat.

“It’ll warm up soon enough.”

“What was going on back there?” Bob sounded curious, but not altogether concerned. A lifetime’s experience of keeping out of other people’s business.

“Nothing for you to worry about.” When Rebus stood again, blood rushed into his ears. He steadied himself. “Best if you wait in here while I talk to them. D’you want a book or something?”

“A book?”

“To read.”

“I’ve never been a great one for reading.” Bob sat down on the edge of the bed. Rebus could hear his front door closing, which meant Whiteread and Simms were in the hall.

“Just wait here, then, okay?” he told Bob. The young man nodded, studying the room as if it were a cell. Punishment rather than refuge.

“No TV?” he asked.

Rebus left the room without answering. Motioned with his head for Whiteread and Simms to follow him into the living room. The photocopy of Herdman’s file was on the dining table, but Rebus didn’t mind them seeing it. He poured himself a glass of malt, not bothering to share. Downed it as he stood by the window, where he could watch their reflections.

“Where did you get the diamond?” Whiteread began, holding her hands in front of her.

“That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” Rebus smiled to himself. “The reason Herdman took so many precautions . . . he knew you’d come back someday.”

“You found it on Jura?” Simms guessed. He looked calm, unruffled.

Rebus shook his head. “I just worked it out, that’s all. Knew if I waved a diamond at you, you’d start jumping to conclusions.” He raised his empty glass towards Simms. “Which you’ve just done . . . cheers for that.”

Whiteread narrowed her eyes. “We’ve confirmed nothing.”

“You came running here . . . confirmation enough in my book. Plus you were in Jura last year, failing to pass yourself off as a tourist.” Rebus poured himself another drink, took a sip. This one was going to last him. “Army brass, negotiating an end to hostilities in Northern Ireland . . . stood to reason there’d be a price attached. Paying off the paramilitaries. Those guys are greedy, weren’t about to go broke. The government was buying them off with diamonds. Only the stash went down with that helicopter, SAS sent on a mission to retrieve them. Armed to the teeth in case the terrorists came looking for them, too.” Rebus paused. “How am I doing so far?”

Whiteread hadn’t moved. Simms had seated himself on an arm of the sofa, picking up a discarded Sunday supplement, rolling it into a tube. Rebus pointed at him.

“Going to crush my windpipe, Simms? There’s a witness next door, remember.”

“Maybe just wishful thinking,” Simms answered, eyes burning, voice cold. Rebus turned his attention back to Whiteread, who was over by the table, one hand resting on Herdman’s personnel file. “Reckon you can curb your monkey’s zeal?”

“You were spinning us a story about diamonds,” she said, not about to have her attention deflected.

“I never saw Herdman as a drug smuggler,” Rebus continued. “Did you plant that stuff on his boat?” She shook her head slowly. “Well, someone did.” He thought for a moment, took another sip. “But all those trips across the North Sea . . . Rotterdam’s a good place to trade diamonds. Way I see it, Herdman found the diamonds but wasn’t about to own up to it. Either lifted them at the time or hid them and came back later, sometime after his sudden decision not to re-enlist. Now, the army’s wondering what did happen to that stash, and Herdman’s suddenly flagged himself up. He’s got some money, buys himself a boat business . . . but you can’t prove anything.” Paused to take another sip. “Reckon by now there’s much left, or has he spent it?” Rebus thought of the boats: paid for with cash . . . dollars, the currency of the diamond exchange. And of the diamond around Teri Cotter’s neck, which had proved the catalyst he’d been looking for. He’d given Whiteread time to answer, but she was staying quiet. “In which case,” he said, “your business here was damage control, make sure there’s nothing anyone’s going to find that would lift the lid on the whole thing. Every government says it: we don’t negotiate with terrorists. Maybe not, but we did once try buying them out . . . and wouldn’t that make a juicy story in the papers.” He stared at Whiteread above the rim of his glass. “That’s about it, isn’t it?”