A Question of Blood

19

Tuesday 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.

“Yes, I had,” she said, watching him prize open the lid. The first thing she saw was a photo of Martin Fairstone, taken shortly after his arrest. Mullen took the picture out and held it in front of her. She couldn’t help noticing that his nails were immaculate.

“Do you think this man deserved to die?”

“I’ve no real opinion,” she said.

“This is just between us, you understand?” Mullen lowered the photo a little so that the top half of his face appeared above it. “No taping, no third parties… all very discreet and informal.”

“Is that why you took your jacket off, trying for informality?”

He chose not to answer. “I’ll ask you again, DS Clarke, did this man deserve his fate?”

“If you’re asking me if I wanted him dead, the answer is ‘no.’ I’ve come across plenty of scumbags worse than Martin Fairstone.”

“You’d class him as what, then: a minor irritation?”

“I wouldn’t bother classifying him at all.”

“He died horribly, you know. Waking up to those flames and the choking smoke, trying to wrestle his way free from the chair… Not the way I’d choose to leave this life.”

“I’d guess not.”

They locked eyes, and Siobhan knew that any moment now he would get to his feet, start walking around, trying to unnerve her. She beat him to it, her chair scraping the floor as she rose. Arms folded, she walked to the farthest wall so that her interrogator had to turn around to see her.

“You look like you might make the grade, DS Clarke,” Mullen said. “Inspector within five years, maybe chief inspector before you’re forty… that gives you a whole ten years to catch up on DCS Templer.” He paused for effect. “All of that waiting for you, if you manage to steer clear of trouble.”

“I like to think I’ve got a pretty good navigation system.”

“I hope for your sake that you’re right. DI Rebus, on the other hand… well, whatever compass he uses seems to point unerringly towards grief, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’ve no real opinion.”

“Then it’s time you did. A career like the one you seem destined for, you need to choose your friends with care.”

Siobhan paced to the other end of the room, turning when she reached the door. “There must be plenty of candidates out there who’d want Fairstone dead.”

“Hopefully the inquiry will turn up lots of them,” Mullen said with a shrug.

“But meantime…”

“In the meantime you want to give DI Rebus a going-over?”

Mullen studied her. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“Do I make you nervous?” She leaned down over him, knuckles resting against the edge of the desk.

“Is that what you’ve been trying to do? I was beginning to wonder…”

She held his stare, then relented and sat down.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, “when you first found out that DI Rebus had visited Martin Fairstone on the night he died, what were your thoughts?”

She offered a shrug, nothing more.

“One theory,” the voice intoned, “is that someone could have been trying to give Fairstone a fright. It just went wrong, that’s all. Could be that DI Rebus tried to get back into the house to save the man…” His voice trailed away. “We had a call from a doctor… a psychologist, name of Irene Lesser. She had dealings recently with DI Rebus on another matter. She was thinking of making a complaint actually, something to do with a breach of patient confidentiality. At the end of her call, she offered the opinion that John Rebus is a ‘haunted’ man.” Mullen leaned forwards. “Would you say he was haunted, DS Clarke?”

“He lets his cases get to him sometimes,” Siobhan conceded. “I don’t know if that’s the same thing.”

“I think Dr. Lesser meant that he has trouble living in the present… that there’s a rage in him, something bottled up from years back.”

“I don’t see where Martin Fairstone fits in.”

“Don’t you?” Mullen smiled ruefully. “Do you consider DI Rebus a friend, someone you spend time with outside work?”

“Yes.”

“How much time?”

“Some.”

“Is he the kind of friend you’d take problems to?”

“Maybe.”

“But Martin Fairstone wasn’t a problem?”

“No.”

“Not to you, at any rate.” Mullen let the silence lie between them, then leaned back in his chair. “Do you ever feel the need to protect Rebus, DS Clarke?”

“No.”

“But you’ve been driving him around, while his hands mend.”

“Not the same thing.”

“Has he offered a believable explanation of how he managed to burn them in the first place?”

“He put them in water that was too hot for them.”

“I specified ‘believable.’”

“I believe it.”

“You don’t think it would be entirely in his nature for him to see you with a black eye, put two and two together, and go out hunting for Fairstone?”

“They sat in a pub together… I haven’t heard anyone saying they were having a fight.”

“Not in public perhaps. But once DI Rebus had inveigled an invite back to the house… in the privacy of that place…”

Siobhan was shaking her head. “That’s not what happened.”

“I’d love to have your confidence, DS Clarke.”

“Would that mean swapping it for your smug arrogance?”

Mullen seemed to consider this. Then he smiled and placed the photograph back in its box. “I think that’s all for now.” Siobhan made no motion to leave. “Unless there’s something else?” Mullen’s eyes glinted.

“Actually, there is.” She nodded towards the box. “The reason I was in DCS Templer’s office.”

Mullen looked at the box, too. “Oh?” Sounding interested.

“It’s nothing to do with Fairstone really. It’s the Port Edgar inquiry.” She decided she had nothing to lose by telling him. “Fairstone’s girlfriend, she’s been seen in South Queensferry.” Siobhan gave a surreptitious swallow before uttering her little white lie. “DI Hogan wants her for interview, but I couldn’t remember her address.”

“And it’s in here?” Mullen patted the box, considered for a moment, and then prized open the lid again. “Can’t see the harm,” he said, pushing it towards her.

The blonde’s name was Rachel Fox and she worked in a supermarket at the foot of Leith Walk. Siobhan drove down there, past the uninviting bars, secondhand shops and tattoo parlors. Leith, it seemed to her, was always on the verge of some renaissance or other. When the warehouses were turned into “loft-style apartments,” or a cinema complex opened, or the Queen’s superannuated yacht was berthed there for tourists to visit, there was always talk of the port’s “rejuvenation.” But to her mind, the place never really changed: same old Leith, same old Leithers. She’d never felt apprehensive there, even at the dead of night when knocking on the doors of brothels and drug dens. But it could seem a spiritless place, too, where a smile might mark you as an outsider. There were no spaces in the supermarket car park, so she did a circuit, eventually noting that a woman was loading her trunk with grocery bags. Siobhan waited, engine idling. The woman was shouting at a sobbing five-year-old. Two lines of light green mucus connected the boy’s nostrils to his top lip. His shoulders were slumped, hiccuping with each sob. He was dressed in a puffy silver Le Coq Sportif jacket two sizes too big for him, so that he appeared to have no hands. When he began to wipe his nose on one sleeve, his mother erupted, shaking him. Watching, Siobhan realized that her fingers were gripping the door handle. But she didn’t get out of the car, knew her interference wouldn’t make things any better for the child, and the woman wasn’t suddenly going to see the error of her ways, just because a complete stranger bothered to give her a chewing-out. The trunk was being closed, the child pushed into the car. As the woman walked around to the driver’s side, she looked at Siobhan and shrugged in what she thought was a sharing of her burden. You know what it’s like, the shrug seemed to say. Siobhan just glared, the futility of the gesture lingering as she parked, grabbed a cart, and wheeled it into the store.

What was she doing here anyway? Was she here because of Fairstone, or the notes, or because Rachel Fox had turned up at the Boatman’s? Maybe all three. Fox was a checkout assistant, so Siobhan scanned the row of registers and saw her almost immediately. She was wearing the same blue uniform as the other women and had piled her hair atop her head, a ringlet hanging down over either ear. She had a vacant look on her face as she slid item after item over the bar-code reader. The sign above her register read NINE ITEMS OR LESS. Siobhan made her way down the first aisle, couldn’t find anything she needed. She didn’t want to wait in the queues at the fish and meat counters. It would be just her luck if Fox took a break, or skipped out early. Two bars of chocolate went into the cart, followed by a kitchen towel and a can of Scotch broth. Four items. At the top of the next aisle, she made sure Fox was still working the checkout. She was, and three pensioners were waiting their turn to pay. Siobhan added a tube of tomato puree to her provisions. A woman in an electric wheelchair whizzed past, her husband toiling to keep up. She kept yelling instructions to him: “Toothpaste! The pump, mind, not the tube! And did you remember the cucumber?”

His sudden wince told Siobhan that he had in fact forgotten the cucumber and would need to go back.

The other shoppers seemed to be moving at half-speed, as if trying to make the activity last longer than was strictly necessary. They’d probably end the trip with a visit to the in-store café-tea and a slice of cake, the cake to be chewed slowly, the tea sipped. And then home to the afternoon cooking shows.

A bag of pasta. Six items.

Only one pensioner was now waiting at the express lane. Siobhan fell in behind him. He said hello to Fox, who managed a tired “Hiya,” cutting off any further conversation.

“Grand day,” the man said. His mouth seemed to be lacking the necessary dental plates, tongue protruding wetly. Fox just gave a nod, concentrating on processing his purchases as speedily as possible. Looking down at the conveyor belt, two things struck Siobhan. The first was that the gentleman had twelve items. The second, that like him she should have bought some eggs.

“Eight-eighty,” Fox said. The man’s hand withdrew slowly from his pocket, counting out coins. He frowned and counted again. Fox held out her hand and took the money from him.

“Fifty pence short,” she informed him.

“Eh?”

“You’re fifty pence short. You’ll have to put something back.”

“Here, take this,” Siobhan said, adding another coin to the collection. The man looked at her, gave a toothless grin and a bow of his head. Then he lifted his bag and shuffled towards the exit.

Rachel Fox began dealing with her new customer. “You’re thinking ‘poor old soul,’” she said without looking up. “But he tries pulling that one every week or so.”

“More fool me, then,” Siobhan said. “It was worth it just to stop him doing another slow-motion recount.”

Fox glanced up, then back to the conveyor belt, then up again. “I know you from somewhere.”

“Been sending me any letters, Rachel?”

Fox’s hand froze on the pasta. “How d’you know my name?”

“It’s on your badge, for one thing.”

But Fox knew now. Her eyes were heavily made up. She narrowed them as she stared at Siobhan. “You’re that cop, tried to get Marty put away.”

“I gave evidence at his trial,” Siobhan conceded.

“Yeah, I remember you… Got one of your pals to torch him, too.”

“Don’t believe everything the tabloids tell you, Rachel.”

“You were giving him hassle, weren’t you?”

“No.”

“He talked about you… said you had it in for him.”

“I can assure you I didn’t.”

“Then how come he’s dead?”

The last of Siobhan’s six items had gone through, and she was holding out a ten-pound note. The cashier at the next register had stopped serving and, like her customer, was now listening in.

“Can I talk to you someplace, Rachel?” Siobhan looked around. “Somewhere more private.” But Fox’s eyes were filling with tears. Suddenly she reminded Siobhan of the kid outside. In some ways, she thought, we just don’t grow up. Emotionally, we never grow up…

“Rachel…” she said.

But Fox had opened the register to give Siobhan her change. She was shaking her head slowly. “Got nothing to say to you lot.”

“What about the notes I’ve been getting, Rachel? Can you tell me about the notes?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The sound of a motor told Siobhan that the woman in the wheelchair was right behind her. No doubt there were exactly nine items in her husband’s cart. Siobhan turned, and saw that the woman was cradling a hand basket, with what looked like another nine items inside. The woman was glowering at Siobhan, wishing her gone.

“I saw you in the Boatman’s,” Siobhan told Rachel Fox. “What were you doing there?”

“Where?”

“The Boatman’s… South Queensferry.”

Fox handed over Siobhan’s change and receipt, gave a loud sniff. “That’s where Rod works.”

“He’s a… friend… is he?”

“He’s my brother,” Rachel Fox said. When she looked up at Siobhan, the water in her eyes had been replaced by fire. “Does that mean you’re going to want him killed, too? Eh? Does it?”

“Maybe we’ll try another register, Davie,” the woman in the wheelchair told her husband. She was backing away as Siobhan snatched her shopping bag and headed for the exit, Rachel Fox’s voice following her all the way out:

“Murdering bitch! What had he ever done to you? Murderer! Murderer!”

She dumped the bag on the passenger seat, got in behind the steering wheel.

“Nothing but a slut!” Rachel Fox was walking towards the car. “Couldn’t get a man if you tried!”

Siobhan turned the ignition, backed out of the space as Fox aimed a kick at the driver’s-side headlight. She was wearing sneakers, and her foot glanced off the glass. Siobhan was craning her neck around, making sure she didn’t hit anyone behind her. When she turned, Fox was wrestling with a line of parked carts. Siobhan moved the car forwards, pushing the accelerator hard, hearing the clatter of the carts as they just missed her. Looked in the rearview and saw them blocking the road behind her, their leader bumping against a parked VW Beetle.

And Rachel Fox, still snarling, shaking both fists, then pointing a finger in the direction of the disappearing car, drawing the same finger across her throat. Nodding slowly, to let Siobhan know she meant it.

“Right you are, Rachel,” Siobhan muttered, turning out of the car park.

20

It had taken all of Bobby Hogan’s powers of persuasion-something he wasn’t going to let Rebus forget. The look he gave said it all: Number one, you owe me; number two, don’t screw this up…

They were in one of the offices at “the Big House”: Lothian and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue. This was the home of Drugs and Major Crime, and as such Rebus was here on sufferance. Rebus didn’t know quite how Hogan had persuaded Claverhouse to let him sit in on the interview, but here they were. Ormiston was present, too, snuffling and screwing his eyes shut tight whenever he blinked. Teri Cotter had come accompanied by her father, and a female police constable was seated nearby.

“Sure you want your father present?” Claverhouse asked matter-of-factly. Teri looked at him. She was in full Goth camouflage, down to knee-length boots with multiple shiny buckles.

“Way you make it sound,” Mr. Cotter said, “maybe I should’ve brought my solicitor, too.”

Claverhouse just shrugged. “I merely asked because I don’t want Teri getting embarrassed in front of you…” He let his voice trail off, eyes fixing on Teri’s.

“Embarrassed?” Mr. Cotter echoed, looking in his daughter’s direction, so that he missed it when Claverhouse made a gesture with his fingers, as if typing on a keyboard. But Teri saw it, and knew what it meant.

“Dad,” she said, “maybe it’d be better if you waited outside.”

“I’m not sure I -”

“Dad.” She laid her hand on his. “It’s fine. I’ll explain later… honest, I will.” Her eyes boring into his.

“Well, I don’t know…” Cotter looked around the room.

“It’ll be fine, sir,” Claverhouse was reassuring him, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. “Nothing to worry about, just some background info we think Teri can help us with.” He nodded towards Ormiston. “DS Ormiston can show you to the cafeteria, get yourself a cup of something and we’ll be finished here before you know it…”

Ormiston looked unhappy, eyes flickering towards Rebus and Hogan as if asking his partner why one of them couldn’t go in his place. Cotter was studying his daughter again.

“I don’t like leaving you here.” But his words had a defeated sound to them, and Rebus wondered if the man had ever stood up to either Teri or his wife. A man happiest with rows of numbers, stock market movements-things he felt he could predict and control. Maybe the car smash, the death of his son, had robbed him of self-belief, showing him up as powerless and puny in the face of random chance. He was already rising to his feet, Ormiston meeting him at the door, the two men exiting. Rebus thought suddenly of Allan Renshaw, of the effect losing a son could have on a father…

Claverhouse beamed a smile at Teri Cotter, who responded by folding her arms defensively.

“You know what this is about, Teri?”

“Do I?”

Claverhouse repeated the typing motion with his fingers. “You know what that means, though?”

“Why don’t you tell me.”

“It means you’ve got a website, Miss Teri. It means people can watch your bedroom any hour of the day or night. DI Rebus here seems to be one of your fans.” Claverhouse nodded in Rebus’s direction. “Lee Herdman was another.” Claverhouse paused, studying her face. “You don’t seem very surprised.”

She offered a shrug.

“Mr. Herdman had a bit of a voyeur thing going.” Claverhouse glanced towards Rebus, as if wondering whether he might fit this category, too. “Quite a lot of sites he liked to go to, most of them he had to use his credit card…”

“So?”

“So you’re giving it away for free, Teri.”

“I’m not like those sites!” she spat.

“Then what sort of site are you?”

She seemed about to say something, but bit it back.

“You like being watched?” Claverhouse guessed. “And Herdman liked to watch. Seems the two of you were pretty compatible.”

“He’d screwed me a few times, if that’s what you mean,” she said coldly.

“I might not have used quite those words.”

“Teri,” Rebus said, “there’s a computer Lee bought, we’re having trouble tracing it… Is that because it’s sitting in your bedroom?”

“Maybe.”

“He bought it for you, set it up for you?”

“Did he?”

“Showed you how to design a site, set up the webcam?”

“Why are you asking me if you already know?” Her voice had taken on an edge of petulance.

“What did your parents say?”

She looked at him. “I’ve got money of my own.”

“They thought you’d paid for it? They didn’t know about you and Lee?”

She gave him a look that confirmed how stupid his questions were.

“He liked watching you,” Claverhouse stated. “Wanted to know where you were, what you were doing. That’s why you set up the site?”

She was shaking her head. “Dark Entry is for anyone who cares to look.”

“Was that his idea or yours?” Hogan asked.

She gave a shrill laugh. “Am I supposed to be Red Riding Hood, is that it? With Lee as the big bad wolf?” She took a breath. “Lee gave me the computer, said maybe we could keep in touch by webcam. Dark Entry was my idea. No one else’s, just mine.” She pointed a finger at herself, finding a piece of bare flesh between her breasts. Her black lace top was low-cut. Her finger went to the diamond, hanging from its gold chain, and she played with it absentmindedly.

“Did he give you that, too?” Rebus asked.

She peered down at the chain, nodded, folded her arms again.

“Teri,” Rebus said quietly, “did you know who else was accessing your site?”

She shook her head. “Being anonymous is part of the fun.”

“You were hardly anonymous. There was plenty of information to tell people who you were.”

She considered this and shrugged.

“Anyone from your school know about it?” Rebus asked.

Another shrug.

“I’ll tell you one person who did know… Derek Renshaw.”

Her eyes widened, mouth opening into an O.

“And Derek probably told his good friend Anthony Jarvies,” Rebus went on.

Claverhouse had straightened in his seat, holding up a hand. “Wait a minute…” He looked towards Hogan, who offered a shrug, then back to Rebus. “This is the first I’m hearing about this.”

“Teri’s site was bookmarked on Derek’s computer,” Rebus explained.

“And the other kid knew, too? The one Herdman killed?”

Rebus shrugged. “I’d say it’s likely.”

Claverhouse bounded to his feet, rubbing at his jaw. “Teri,” he asked, “was Lee Herdman the jealous type?”

“I don’t know.”

“He knew about your site… I’m assuming you told him?” He was standing over her.

“Yes,” she said.

“How did he feel about that? I mean, about the fact that anyone-anyone-could watch you in your bedroom of a night?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You think that’s why he shot them?”

Claverhouse leaned down over her, so his face was inches from hers. “How does it look to you, Teri? Do you think it’s possible?” He didn’t wait for her reply, wheeled away on one heel and clapped his hands together. Rebus knew what he was thinking: he was thinking that he personally, Detective Inspector Charlie Claverhouse, had just cracked the case, on his first day in charge. And he was wondering how soon he could go trumpeting his triumph to his senior officers. He went to the door and threw it open, looking up and down the corridor, disappointed to find it empty. Rebus took the opportunity to rise from his own chair and place himself in Claverhouse’s. Teri was staring into her lap, one finger running up and down the chain again.

“Teri,” he said quietly, to get her attention. She looked at him, eyes red-rimmed behind the liner and mascara. “You okay?” She nodded slowly. “Sure of that? Anything I can fetch you?”

“I’m fine.”

He nodded, as if trying to convince himself. Hogan had shifted places, too, and was now standing next to Claverhouse in the doorway, one calming hand on his shoulder. Rebus couldn’t make out what they were saying, wasn’t really interested.

“I can’t believe that bastard was watching me.”

“Who? Lee?”

“Derek Renshaw,” she spat. “He as good as killed my brother!” Her voice was rising. Rebus lowered his even further when he spoke.

“As far as I can see, he was in the car with your brother, but that doesn’t mean he was responsible.” Unbidden, an image of Derek’s father flashed into Rebus’s head: a kid abandoned at the edge of the sidewalk, gripping a newly bought football for dear life while the dizzying world spun past. “You really think Lee would walk into a school and kill two people because he was jealous?”

She thought about this, then shook her head.

“Me neither,” Rebus said. She looked at him. “For one thing,” he went on, “how could he have known? Doesn’t look like he knew either of the victims. So how would he have been able to pick them out?” He watched her take this in. “Shooting’s a bit excessive, wouldn’t you say? And in such a public place… he’d have to’ve been mad with jealousy. Out of his mind with it.”

“So… what did happen?” she asked.

Rebus looked towards the doorway. Ormiston had returned from the cafeteria and was now being hugged by Claverhouse, who’d probably have lifted the larger man off his feet if he’d been able. Rebus caught a hissed “we did it,” followed by a cautious muttering from Hogan.

“I’m still not sure,” Rebus said, answering Teri’s question. “It’s a pretty good motive, which is why you’ve made DI Claverhouse a happy man.”

“You don’t like him, do you?” A smile flitted across her face.

“Don’t worry: the feeling’s entirely mutual.”

“When you clicked on Dark Entry…” She lowered her eyes again. “Was I doing anything in particular?”

Rebus shook his head. “The room was empty.” Didn’t want her to know he’d watched her sleeping. “Mind if I ask you something?” He looked towards the doorway again, checking that no one was listening. “Doug Brimson says he’s a family friend, but I get the feeling he’s not at the top of your hit parade?”

Her face sagged. “My mum’s having an affair with him,” she said dismissively.

“You sure?” She nodded, not making eye contact. “Does your dad know?”

Now she did look up, horror-struck. “He doesn’t need to know, does he?”

Rebus considered this. “Suppose not,” he decided. “How did you find out?”

“Woman’s intuition,” she said, with no trace of irony. Rebus sat back, deep in thought. He was thinking about Teri and Lee Herdman and Dark Entry, wondering if any or all of it was a way of getting back at the mother.

“Teri, you’re sure you’d no way of knowing who was watching you on the webcam? None of the other kids at school ever hinted…?”

She shook her head. “I get messages in my guest book, but never from anyone I know.”

“Are any of those messages ever… I don’t know… off the wall?”

“That’s the way I like them.” She angled her head slightly, trying for the persona of Miss Teri, but too late: Rebus had seen her as plain Teri Cotter, and that was who she’d remain. He stretched his own neck and back. “Tell you who I saw last night,” he said chattily.

“Who?”

“James Bell.”

“So?” Inspecting her black gloss fingernails.

“So I was wondering… that photo of you… do you remember? You palmed it that day we were in the pub on Cockburn Street.”

“It belonged to me.”

“I’m not saying it didn’t. I also seem to recall that as you lifted it, you were telling me how James used to turn up at Lee’s parties.”

“Does he say he didn’t?”

“On the contrary, the two of them seem to have known each other pretty well, wouldn’t you say?”

The three detectives-Claverhouse, Hogan and Ormiston-were coming back into the room. Ormiston was patting Claverhouse’s back, and with it his ego.

“He liked Lee,” Teri was saying, “no doubt about that.”

“But was it mutual?”

Her eyes narrowed. “James Bell… he could have pointed Renshaw and Jarvies out to Lee, couldn’t he?”

“Wouldn’t explain why Lee then shot him, too. Thing is…” Rebus knew he had seconds before the interview was wrenched away from him again. “That photo of you… you said it was taken on Cockburn Street. What I’m wondering is, who took it?”

She seemed to be looking for the purpose behind the question. Claverhouse was standing in front of them, clicking his fingers to let Rebus know it was time to relinquish the chair. Rebus kept his eyes on Teri as he rose slowly to his feet.

“James Bell?” he asked her. “Was that who it was?”

And she nodded, unable to think of any reason not to tell him.

“He came to see you in Cockburn Street?”

“He was taking shots of all of us-a school project…”

“What’s this?” Claverhouse said, bouncing down on to the chair with a grin.

“He was asking me about James Bell,” Teri told Claverhouse matter-of-factly.

“Oh, aye? What about him?”

“Nothing,” she said, sending a wink towards the retreating Rebus. Claverhouse twitched, turned in his seat, but Rebus offered nothing more than a smile and a shrug. When Claverhouse turned away again, Rebus made a downstroke in the air with his forefinger, letting Teri know he owed her one. He knew what Claverhouse would have done with the information: James Bell lends Lee Herdman a book, not realizing there’s a photo of Teri inside, maybe being used as a bookmark… Herdman finds it and feels jealous… It gave him a reason to wound James: not a gross enough infringement to merit killing him, and besides, James was a friend…

As it was, Claverhouse would be wrapping up the inquiry today. Straight to the assistant chief constable’s office to ask for his gold star. The Portakabin at Port Edgar Academy would be emptied, officers returned to their normal duties.

Rebus back under suspension.

And yet none of it really added up. Rebus knew that now. Knew, too, that something was staring him in the face. Then he looked at Teri Cotter, playing with her chain again, and he knew exactly what it was. Porn and drugs weren’t Rotterdam’s only businesses…

Rebus reached Siobhan in her car.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“The A90, heading for South Queensferry. What about you?”

“Sitting at a red light on Queensferry Road.”

“Driving and using your phone? The hands must be healing.”

“Getting there. What’ve you been up to?”

“Fairstone’s girlfriend.”

“Any joy?”

“Of a sort. What about you?”

“Sitting in on an interview with Teri Cotter. Claverhouse thinks he’s found his motive.”

“Oh yes?”

“Herdman was jealous because the two kids were logging on to Teri’s site.”

“And James Bell just happened to get in the way?”

“I’m sure that’s how Claverhouse will see it.”

“So what now?”

“Everything shuts down.”

“And Whiteread and Simms?”

“You’re right. They won’t like it.” He watched the light in front of him turn green.

“Because they’ll go away empty-handed?”

“Yes.” Rebus thought for a moment, holding the phone between jaw and shoulder as he changed up through the gears. Then: “So what’s waiting for you in Queensferry?”

“The barman at the Boatman’s, he’s Fox’s brother.”

“Fox?”

“Fairstone’s girlfriend.”

“Explaining why she was in the bar…”

“Yes.”

“So you’ve talked to her?”

“We exchanged a few pleasantries.”

“Did she say anything about Peacock Johnson, whether his falling-out with Fairstone had anything to do with her?”

“I forgot to ask.”

“You forgot…?”

“Things got a bit fraught. I thought maybe I’d ask her brother instead.”

“You reckon he’d know if she had a thing going with Peacock?”

“Don’t know till I ask.”

“Why don’t we hook up? I was planning a trip to the marina.”

“You want to go there first?”

“Then we can end the day with a well-earned drink.”

“I’ll see you at the boatyard then.”

She ended the call and came off the highway at the last off-ramp before the Forth Road Bridge. Drove down the hill into South Queensferry and turned left on Shore Road. Her phone trilled again.

“Change of plan?” she asked into the mouthpiece.

“Not until we’ve got a plan to change, which is the very reason I’m calling.”

She recognized the voice: Doug Brimson. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else. What can I do for you?”

“I was just wondering if you’re ready to take to the skies again.”

She smiled to herself. “Maybe I am.”

“Great. How about tomorrow?”

She considered for a moment. “I could probably sneak out for an hour.”

“Late afternoon? Just before the sun goes down?”

“Okay.”

“And you’ll take the controls this time?”

“I think I could be persuaded.”

“Great. How does sixteen hundred hours sound?”

“It sounds like four in the afternoon.”

He laughed. “I’ll see you then, Siobhan.”

“Good-bye, Doug.”

She placed the phone back on the passenger seat, staring at the sky through her windshield. Imagined herself flying a plane… Imagined having a panic attack in the middle of it. But she didn’t think she’d panic. Besides, Doug Brimson would be there with her. No need for her to worry.

She parked outside the marina’s cafeteria, went in and reappeared with a Mars bar. She was throwing out the wrapper when Rebus’s Saab arrived. He passed her and stopped at the far end of the car park, fifty yards closer to Herdman’s shed. By the time he’d got out and locked his door, she’d caught up with him.

“So what are we doing here?” she asked, swallowing the last cloying mouthful.

“Apart from ruining our teeth?” he said. “I want one last look at the shed.”

“Why?”

“Just because.”

The doors to the boathouse were closed but not locked. Rebus slid them open. Simms was crouching on the deck of the parked dinghy. He looked up at the interruption. Rebus nodded towards the crowbar in his hand.

“Taking the place apart?” he guessed.

“Never know what you’ll find,” Simms said. “Our record in that department is rather better than yours, after all.”

Hearing the voices, Whiteread had emerged from the office. She was holding a sheaf of papers.

“All getting a bit frantic, isn’t it?” Rebus said, walking towards her. “Claverhouse is getting ready to call it a day, and that’s not what you’d call music to the ears, is it?”

Whiteread managed a thin, cold smile. Rebus wondered what it would take to faze her, thought he had a pretty good idea.

“I assume it was you who put that journalist on to us,” she said. “He wanted to ask about a helicopter crash on Jura. Which got me wondering…”

“Do tell,” Rebus said.

“I had an interesting chat this morning,” she drawled, “with a man named Douglas Brimson. Seems the three of you took a little trip together.” Her eyes flitted towards Siobhan.

“Did we?” Rebus said. He’d stopped walking, but Whiteread hadn’t, not until her face was inches from his.

“He took you to Jura. From there, you went looking for a crash site.” She was studying his face for any sign of weakness. Rebus’s eyes flickered in Siobhan’s direction. Bastard didn’t need to tell them! A red tint had appeared on her cheeks.

“Did we?” was all Rebus could think to say.

Whiteread had risen on her toes, so her face was level with his. “The thing is, DI Rebus, how could you possibly have known about that?”

“About what?”

“Only way you could have known was if you had access to confidential files.”

“Is that right?” Rebus watched Simms climb down from the boat, still holding the crowbar. He gave a shrug. “Well, if these files you’re talking about are confidential, I can’t have seen them, can I?”

“Not without a spot of breaking and entering…” Whiteread turned her attention to Siobhan. “Not to mention photocopying.” She angled her head, pretending to examine the younger woman’s face. “Caught a touch of the sun, DS Clarke? Only, your cheeks seem to be burning.” Siobhan didn’t move, didn’t say anything. “Cat got your tongue?”

Simms was smirking, enjoying the detectives’ discomfort.

“I hear tell,” Rebus said to him, “you’re scared of the dark.”

“Eh?” Simms frowned.

“Explains why you like to keep your door ajar.” Rebus gave a wink, then turned back to Whiteread. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere with this. Not unless you want everyone on the inquiry knowing why you’re really here.”

“From what I hear, you’re already on suspension. Could be facing a murder charge anytime soon.” Whiteread’s eyes were dark points of light. “Added to which, the psychologist at Carbrae says you went behind her back, looked up records without permission.” She paused. “Seems to me you’re already shoulder-deep in shit, Rebus. I can’t think why you’d want more trouble than you’ve already got. Yet here you are, ready and willing to pick a fight with me. Let me try to get through to you.” She leaned forwards so her lips were an inch from his ear. “You’ve not got a prayer,” she said quietly. She pulled back slowly, ready to measure his response. Rebus had one gloved hand held up. She wasn’t sure what the gesture meant. A frown furrowed her brow. And then she saw what he was holding between thumb and middle finger. Saw it glint and sparkle in the light.

A single diamond.

“What the hell…?” Simms muttered.

Rebus closed his hand around the diamond.

“Finders keepers,” he said, turning, starting to walk away. Siobhan fell into step with him, waited till they were back outdoors before she spoke.

“What was all that about?”

“Just a fishing expedition.”

“But what does it mean? Where did the diamond come from?”

Rebus smiled. “Friend of mine, he runs a jeweler’s shop on Queensferry Street.”

“And?”

“I persuaded him to let me borrow it.” Rebus was tucking the diamond back into his pocket. “Thing is, they don’t know that.”

“But you’re going to explain it to me, right?”

Rebus nodded slowly. “Just as soon as I find out what I’ve caught with my hook.”

“John…” Half warning, half pleading.

“We going for that drink now?” Rebus asked.

She didn’t reply, tried staring him down as they walked back to his car. She was still staring as he unlocked his door and got in. He started the engine, put it in gear, then rolled down his window.

“I’ll see you there, then” was all he said, making to drive off. Siobhan stood her ground, but he just gave her a wave. Cursing silently, she started stalking towards her own car.

21

Rebus was seated at a window table in the Boatman’s, checking a text message from Steve Holly.

Wot u got 4 me? Mite av 2 refresh chip pan story if u dont help.

Rebus debated whether to reply or not, then started pressing keys:

jura crash herdman there took sth army want back u could ask whiteread again

He wasn’t sure that Holly would understand, Rebus not having worked out how to add punctuation or capitals to his text messages. But it would keep the reporter busy, and if he did end up confronting Whiteread and Simms, so much the better. Let them think the world was closing in on them. Rebus picked up his half-pint and made a little toast to himself with it just as Siobhan arrived. He’d been debating whether to pass on Teri’s news: Brimson and her mum. Thing was, if he told her, she probably couldn’t keep it to herself. Next time she met Brimson, he’d see it in her face, the way she spoke to him, a reluctance to meet his eyes. Rebus didn’t want that, couldn’t see it doing anyone any good, not at this juncture. Siobhan slung her bag onto the table and looked towards the bar, where a woman she’d never seen before was pulling pints.

“Don’t worry,” Rebus said. “I had a word. McAllister’s shift starts in a few minutes.”

“Just long enough for you to enlighten me, then.” She slipped off her coat. Rebus was rising to his feet.

“Let me get you a drink first. What’ll it be?”

“Lime and soda.”

“Nothing stronger?”

She frowned at his near-empty glass. “Some of us are driving.”

“Don’t worry, I’m only having the one.” He made his way to the bar, came back with two drinks: lime and soda for her, cola for him. “See?” he said. “I can be all smug and virtuous, too, when I want to be.”

“Better that than drunk at the wheel.” She lifted the straw from her glass and deposited it in the ashtray, sat back and placed her hands on her thighs. “Right, then… I’m ready if you are.”

At which, the door creaked open.

“Speak of the devil,” Rebus said as Rod McAllister walked in. McAllister saw that he was being stared at. When he looked, Rebus beckoned him over. McAllister was unzipping a scuffed leather jacket. He pulled the black scarf from around his neck and stuffed it into a pocket.

“I’ve got to start work,” he said when Rebus patted an empty stool.

“This’ll only take a minute,” Rebus offered with a smile. “Susie won’t mind.” He nodded towards the barmaid.

McAllister hesitated, then sat down, elbows pressing against his thin legs, hands cupped below his chin. Rebus mimicked the posture.

“It’s about Lee, then?” McAllister guessed.

“Not strictly speaking,” Rebus said. Then he glanced towards Siobhan.

“We may come back to that,” she told the barman. “But right now, we’re more interested in your sister.”

He looked from Siobhan to Rebus and then back again. “Which one?”

“Rachel Fox. Funny you’ve got different surnames.”

“We haven’t.” McAllister’s eyes were still shifting between the two detectives, unable to decide whom he should be addressing. Siobhan answered with a click of her fingers. He focused on her, narrowed his eyes slightly. “She changed her name a while back, trying to get into modeling. What’s she got to do with you lot?”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugged.

“Marty Fairstone?” Siobhan prompted. “Don’t tell me she never introduced you?”

“Yeah, I knew Marty. I was gutted when I heard.”

“What about a fellow named Johnson?” Rebus asked. “His nickname’s Peacock… friend of Marty’s…”

“Yeah?”

“Ever come across him?”

McAllister seemed to be thinking. “Not sure,” he said at last.

“Peacock and Rachel,” Siobhan began, angling her head to catch his attention again, “we think they might’ve had a thing going.”

“Oh, aye?” McAllister raised an eyebrow. “That’s news to me.”

“She never mentioned him?”

“No.”

“The pair of them have been hanging about town.”

“Plenty of people hanging about recently. Take you two, for example.” He sat back, stretching his spine, glancing at the clock above the bar. “Don’t want to get in Susie’s bad books…”

“Rumor is, Fairstone and Johnson had a falling-out, maybe over Rachel.”

“Oh, aye?”

“If you’re finding the questions too awkward, Mr. McAllister,” Rebus said, “feel free to say…”

Siobhan was staring at McAllister’s T-shirt, revealed now that he wasn’t slouched forwards anymore. It showed an album cover, an album she knew.

“Mogwai fan, eh, Rod?”

“Anything that’s loud.” McAllister examined his shirt.

“It’s their Rock Action album, isn’t it?”

“That’s the one.”

McAllister made to stand up, turning towards the bar. Siobhan locked eyes with Rebus and nodded slowly. “Rod,” she said, “that first time we met… you remember I gave you my card?”

McAllister nodded, walking away from her. But Siobhan was on her feet, following him, her voice rising.

“It had the St. Leonard’s address on it, didn’t it, Rod? And when you saw my name, you knew who I was, didn’t you? Because Marty had mentioned me… or maybe it was Rachel. You remember that Mogwai album, Rod, the one before Rock Action?”

McAllister had lifted the hatch so he could move behind the bar. He slammed it shut after him. The barmaid was staring at him. Siobhan lifted the hatch.

“Hoi, staff only,” Susie said. But Siobhan wasn’t listening, was hardly aware that Rebus had risen from his chair and was approaching the bar. She grabbed McAllister by the sleeve of his jacket. He tried to shake her off, but she turned him to face her.

“Remember what it was called, Rod? It was Come On Die Young. C.O.D.Y., Rod. Same letters as on your second note.”

“Get the fuck off me!” he yelled.

“Whatever it is between you,” Susie was saying, “take it outside.”

“It’s a serious offense, Rod, sending threats like that.”

“Let go of me, you bitch!” He jerked his arm free, then swung it, catching her on the side of her face. She crashed into the shelves, sending bottles flying. Rebus had reached over the bar and grabbed McAllister by his hair, pulling his head down until it connected hard with the slop tray. McAllister’s arms were thrashing, his voice a wordless bellow, but Rebus wasn’t about to let go.

“Any cuffs?” he asked Siobhan. She stumbled from behind the bar, glass crunching underfoot, ran to her bag, emptying its contents onto the table until she found the handcuffs. McAllister caught her a couple of good ones to the shins with the heels of his cowboy boots, but she squeezed the cuffs tight, knowing they’d hold. She moved away from him, feeling dizzy, not knowing if it was a concussion, adrenaline, or the fumes from half a dozen smashed liquor bottles.

“Call it in,” Rebus hissed, still not letting go of his prisoner. “A night in the cells won’t do this bastard any harm at all.”

“Here, you can’t do that,” Susie complained. “Who’s going to cover his shift?”

“Not our problem, love,” Rebus told her, offering what he hoped might be taken for an apologetic smile.

They’d taken McAllister to St. Leonard’s, booked him into the only empty cell left. Rebus had asked Siobhan if they’d be charging him formally. She’d shrugged.

“I doubt he’ll be sending any more notes.” One side of her face was still raw from where he’d connected, but it didn’t look like it would bruise.

In the car park, they went their separate ways. Siobhan’s parting words: “What about that diamond?” Rebus waving to her as he drove off.

He made for Arden Street, ignoring the ringing of his mobile: Siobhan, wanting to put that question to him again. He couldn’t find a parking space, decided he was too hyped-up anyway for a quiet night at home. So he kept driving, cruising the city’s south side until he found himself in Gracemount, back at the bus shelter where he’d confronted the Lost Boys what seemed like half a lifetime ago. Had it really only been Wednesday night? The shelter was deserted now. Rebus parked curbside anyway, let his window down an inch and smoked a cigarette. He didn’t know what he’d do with Rab Fisher if he found him, knew he wanted a few answers about Andy Callis’s death. The episode in the bar had given him a taste. He looked at his hands. They were still tingling from contact with McAllister, but it wasn’t altogether an unpleasant feeling.

Buses came but didn’t linger: no one was getting on or off. Rebus started the ignition and headed into the mazy housing projects, covering every possible route, sometimes finishing in a cul-de-sac and having to back out. There were kids playing a game of football in the near-dark on a stunted patch of parkland. Others skateboarding towards an underpass. This was their territory, their time of day. He could ask about the Lost Boys but knew that these kids learned the rules young. They wouldn’t rat out the local gang, not when their chief aspiration in life was probably membership of the same. Rebus parked again outside a low-rise block, smoked another cigarette. He’d need to find a shop soon, somewhere he could stock up. Or head for a pub, where one of the drinkers would doubtless sell him a job lot cheap, no questions asked. He checked the radio to see if anything bearable was being broadcast, but all he could find were rap and dance. There was a tape in the player, but it was Rory Gallagher, Jinx, and he wasn’t in the mood. Seemed to remember one of the tracks was called “The Devil Made Me Do It.” Not much of a defense these days, but plenty of others had come along in Old Nick’s place. No such thing as an inexplicable crime, not now that there were scientists and psychologists who’d talk about genes and abuse, brain damage and peer pressure. Always a reason… always, it seemed, an excuse.

So why had Andy Callis died?

And why had Lee Herdman walked into that classroom?

Rebus smoked his cigarette in silence, took the diamond out and looked at it, pocketed it at a sound from outside: one kid wheeling another past in a supermarket cart. They both stared at him, as if he were the oddity here, and maybe he was. A couple of minutes later, they were back again. Rebus rolled his window all the way down.

“Looking for something, mister?” The cart-pusher was nine, maybe ten, head shaven, cheekbones prominent.

“Supposed to be meeting Rab Fisher.” Rebus pretended to look at his watch. “Bastard hasn’t shown up.”

The boys were wary, but not as wary as they would become in a year or two.

“Seen him earlier,” the cart passenger said. Rebus decided to skip the grammar lesson.

“I owe him some cash,” he explained instead. “Thought he’d be here.” Making a show now of looking all around, as though Fisher might suddenly appear.

“We could get it to him,” the cart-pusher said.

Rebus smiling. “Do I look like my head zips up the back?”

“Up to you.” The kid offering a shrug.

“Try two streets that way.” His passenger pointing ahead and right. “We’ll race you.”

Rebus turned the ignition again. Didn’t want to race. He’d be conspicuous enough without a shopping cart rattling along at his side. “Bet you could find me some ciggies,” he said, picking a five-pound note from his pocket. “Cheap as you like, and the change is all yours.”

The note was plucked from his hand. “What’s with the gloves, mister?”

“No fingerprints,” Rebus said with a wink, pushing the accelerator.

But nothing was happening two streets away. He came to a junction and looked left and right, saw another car parked by the curb, a huddle of figures leaning down into it. Rebus paused at the Yield, thinking the car was being broken into. Then he realized: they were talking to the driver. Four of them. Just the one head visible inside the car. Looked like the Lost Boys, Rab Fisher doing all the talking. The car’s engine was a low growl, even in neutral. Souped up, or missing its exhaust pipe. Rebus suspected the former. The car had been worked on: big brake light in its back window, spoiler attached to the trunk. The driver was wearing a baseball cap. Rebus wanted him to be a victim, mugged or threatened… something that would give Rebus the excuse to go storming in. But that wasn’t the scenario here. He could hear laughter, got the feeling some anecdote was being shared.

One of the gang looked in his direction, and he realized he’d been sitting too long at the empty intersection. He turned on to the new road, parked with his back to the other car, fifty yards farther along. Pretended to be looking up at the block of flats… just a visitor, here to pick up a pal. Two impatient blasts of his horn to complete the effect, the Lost Boys giving him a moment’s notice before dismissing him. Rebus put his phone to his ear, as if making a call to his missing friend…

And watched in his rearview.

Watched Rab Fisher gesticulating, animating his story, the driver someone he was keen to impress. Rebus could hear music, a rumble of bass, the driver’s radio tuned to one of the stations Rebus had rejected. He was wondering how long he could carry on the pretense. And what if the cart twosome really did bring him some cigarettes?

But now Fisher was straightening up, backing away from the car door, which was opening, the driver getting out.

And Rebus saw who it was: Evil Bob. Bob with his own car, acting big and tough, shoulders rolling as he walked around to the trunk, unlocking it. There was something inside he wanted them all to see, the gang forming a tight semicircle, blocking Rebus’s view.

Evil Bob… Peacock’s sidekick. But not acting the sidekick now, because though he might not be the brightest light on the Christmas tree, he was higher up that tree than a bauble like Fisher.

Not acting…

Rebus was remembering something from the interview room at St. Leonard’s, the day the lowlifes were being grilled. Bob, muttering about never having seen a panto, sounding disappointed. Bob, the big kid, hardly a grown-up at all. Which was why Peacock kept him around, treating him almost as a pet, a pet who did tricks for him.

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

They’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?”

“And the diamond?” she asked.

“Borrowed from a friend.”

She was silent for the best part of a minute, Rebus content to bide his time, thinking that if he hadn’t brought Bob home… well, things might not have gone nearly as well for him. He could still feel Simms’s fingers around his neck… throat tight when he swallowed the whiskey.

“Has Steve Holly been back in touch?” Rebus asked into the silence. “See, anything happens to me, all of this goes to him.”

“You think that’s enough to protect you?”

“Shut up, Gavin!” Whiteread snapped. Slowly, she folded her arms. “What are you going to do?” she asked Rebus.

He shrugged. “It’s none of my business, far as I can see. No reason I should do anything, provided you can keep monkey boy here on his chain.”

Simms had risen to his feet, a hand reaching inside his jacket. Whiteread spun around and slapped his arm away. The move was so fast, if Rebus had blinked he’d have missed it.

“What I want,” he said quietly, “is for the pair of you to be gone by morning. Otherwise, I have to start thinking about talking to my friend from the fourth estate.”

“How do we know we can trust you?”

Rebus gave another shrug. “I don’t think either of us wants it in writing.” He put down his glass. “Now, if we’re all through, I’ve got a guest I need to see to.”

Whiteread looked towards the door. “Who is he?”

“Don’t worry, he’s not the talkative kind.”

She nodded slowly, then made as if to leave.

“One thing, Whiteread?” She paused, turned her head to face him. “Why do you think Herdman did it?”

“Because he was greedy.”

“I meant, why did he walk into that classroom?”

Her eyes seemed to gleam. “Why should I care?” And with that she walked from the room. Simms was still staring at Rebus, who gave him a cheeky wave before turning to face the window again. Simms drew the automatic pistol from his jacket and took aim at the back of Rebus’s head. Made a soft whistling sound between his teeth and then put the gun back in its holster.

“One day,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You won’t know when or where, but I’ll be the last face you see.”

“Great,” Rebus exhaled, not bothering to turn around. “I get to spend my last moments on earth staring at a complete arsehole.”

He listened to the footsteps retreat down the hall, the slamming shut of the door. Went to the doorway to check they’d really gone. Bob was standing just outside the kitchen.

“Made myself a mug of tea. You’re out of milk, by the way.”

“The servants are on their day off. Try to get some shut-eye. Long day ahead.” Bob nodded and went to his room, closing the door after him. Rebus poured himself a third drink, definitely the last. Sat down heavily in his armchair, stared at the rolled-up magazine on the sofa opposite. Almost imperceptibly, it was starting to uncurl. He thought of Lee Herdman, tempted by the diamonds, burying them, then walking out of the woods with a shrug of his shoulders. But maybe feeling guilty afterwards, and fearful, too. Because the suspicion would linger. He’d probably been interviewed, interrogated, maybe even by Whiteread. The years might pass, but the army would never forget. Last thing they liked was a loose end, especially one that could turn as if by magic into a loose cannon. That fear, pressing down on him, so that he kept friends to a minimum… kids were all right, kids couldn’t be his pursuers in disguise… Doug Brimson was apparently okay, too… All those locks, trying to shut out the world. Little wonder he snapped.

But to snap the way he did? Rebus still didn’t get it, couldn’t see it as plain jealousy.

James Bell, photographing Miss Teri on Cockburn Street…

Derek Renshaw and Anthony Jarvies, logging on to her website…

Teri Cotter, curious about death, ex-soldier for a lover…

Renshaw and Jarvies, close friends; different from Teri, different from James Bell. Jazz fans, not metal; dressing in their combat uniforms and parading at school, playing sports. Not like Teri Cotter.

Not at all like James Bell.

And when it came down to it, what, apart from their forces background, did Herdman and Doug Brimson have in common? Well, for a start, both knew Teri Cotter. Teri with Herdman, her mother seeing Brimson. Rebus imagined it as a weird sort of dance, the kind where you kept swapping partners. He rested his face in his hands, blocking out the light, smelling glove leather mixing with the fumes from his whiskey glass as the dancers spun around in his head.

When he blinked his eyes open again, the room was a blur. Wallpaper came into focus first, but he could see bloodstains in his mind, classroom blood.

Two fatal shots, one wounding.

No: three fatal shots…

“No.” He realized he’d said the word out loud. Two fatal shots, one wounding. Then another fatal shot.

Blood spraying the walls and floor.

Blood everywhere.

Blood, with its own stories to tell…

He’d poured the fourth whiskey without thinking, raised the glass to his lips before he caught himself. Tipped it back carefully into the neck of the bottle, pushed the stopper home. Went so far as to replace the bottle on the mantelpiece.

Blood, with its own stories to tell.

He picked up his phone. Didn’t think there’d be anyone at the forensics lab this time of night, but made the call anyway. You never could tell: some of them had their own little obsessions, their own little puzzles to solve. Not because the case demanded it, or even out of a sense of professional pride, but for their own, more private needs.

Like Rebus, they found it hard to let go. He no longer knew if this was a good or a bad thing; it was just the way it was. The phone was ringing, no one answering.

“Lazy bastards,” he muttered to himself. Then he noticed Bob’s head, peeping around the door.

“Sorry,” the young man said, shuffling into the room. He’d taken his coat off. Baggy gray T-shirt beneath, showing flabby, hairless arms. “Can’t really settle.”

“Sit down if you like.” Rebus nodded towards the sofa. Bob took a seat, but looked awkward. “TV’s there if you want it.”

Bob nodded, but his eyes were wandering. He saw the shelves of books, walked over to take a look. “Maybe I’ll…”

“Help yourself, take anything you fancy.”

“That show we saw… you said it’s based on a book?”

Rebus’s turn to nod. “I’ve not got a copy, though.” He listened to the ringing tone for another fifteen seconds, then gave up.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting,” Bob said. He still hadn’t touched any of the books, seemed to be regarding them as some rare species, to be stared at but not handled.

“You’re not.” Rebus got to his feet. “Just wait here a minute.” He went into the hall, unlocked a closet door. There were cardboard boxes high up, and he lifted one down. Some of his daughter’s old stuff… dolls and paint boxes, postcards and bits of rock picked up on seaside walks. He thought of Allan Renshaw. Thought of the ties which should have bound the two of them, ties too easily loosed. Allan with his boxes of photographs, his attic store of memories. Rebus put the box back, brought down the one next to it. Some of his daughter’s old books: little Ladybird offerings, some paperbacks with the covers scribbled on or half torn off, and a favored few hardcovers. Yes, here it was: green dust jacket, yellow spine with a drawing of Mr. Toad. Someone had added a speech bubble and in it the words “poop-poop.” He didn’t know if the handwriting was his daughter’s or not. Thought again of his cousin Allan, trying to put names to the long-dead faces in the photos.

Rebus put the box back where he’d found it, locked the cupboard, and took the book into the living room.

“Here you go,” he told Bob, handing it over. “Now you can find out what we missed in the first act.”

Bob seemed pleased but held the book warily, as if unsure how best to treat it. Then he retreated back to his room. Rebus stood by the window, staring out at the night, wondering if he, too, had missed something… not in the play, but right back at the start of the case.