DAY SEVEN. Wednesday

23

The sun was shining when Rebus woke up. He checked his watch, then swiveled out of bed and got dressed. Filled the kettle and switched it on, gave his face a wash before treating it to a once-over with the electric razor. Listened at the door to Bob’s bedroom. No sound. He knocked, waited, then shrugged and went into the living room. Called the forensics lab, still no answer.

“Lazy sods.” Speaking of which… This time, he banged harder on Bob’s door, then opened it an inch. “Time to face the world.” The curtains were open, the bed empty. Cursing under his breath, Rebus walked in, but there were no feasible hiding places. The copy of The Wind in the Willows was lying on the pillow. Rebus pressed his palm to the mattress, thought he could still feel some warmth there. Back in the hall, he saw that the door wasn’t properly closed.

“Should have locked us in,” he muttered, going to push it shut. He’d get his jacket and shoes on and go out hunting again. Doubtless Bob would head for his car first of all. After which, if he had any sense at all, he’d take the road south. Rebus doubted he’d have a passport. He wished he’d thought to take down Bob’s license plate. It would be traceable, but it would take time…

“Hang on, though,” he said to himself. He went back to the bedroom, picked up the book. Bob had used the flyleaf as a page marker. Why would he have done that unless…? Rebus opened the front door and stepped out onto the landing. Feet were shuffling up the steps.

“Didn’t wake you, did I?” Bob said. He lifted a carrier bag for Rebus to see. “Milk and tea bags, plus four rolls and a packet of sausages.”

“Good thinking,” Rebus said, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.


Breakfast over, they headed in Rebus’s car to St. Leonard’s. He was trying not to make it seem like a big deal. At the same time, there was no disguising the fact that they were going to be spending most of the day in an interview room, tapes loaded into the dual voice recorder, with another tape for the video.

“Can of juice or anything before we get started?” Rebus asked. Bob had brought a morning tabloid with him and had it spread out on the desk, lips moving as he read. He shook his head. “I’ll be back in a sec, then,” Rebus told him, opening the door and closing it, locking it after him. He climbed the stairs to the CID suite. Siobhan was at her desk.

“Busy day ahead?” he asked her.

“I’ve got my first flying lesson this afternoon,” she said, looking up from her computer.

“Courtesy of Doug Brimson?” Rebus studied her face as she nodded. “How’re you feeling?”

“No visible signs of damage.”

“Has McAllister been let out of the cells yet?”

Siobhan looked up at the clock above the door. “I suppose I better do that.”

“Not charging him, then?”

“You think I should?”

Rebus shook his head. “But before you let him waltz out, maybe you should ask him a few things.”

She rested against the back of her chair and stared up at him. “Like what?”

“I’ve got Evil Bob downstairs. He says Peacock Johnson started the fire. Stuck the heat under the chip pan and left it.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Does he say why?”

“My idea is, he thought Fairstone had turned rat. Already no love lost between them, then someone calls Johnson and says I’m having a friendly drink with Fairstone.”

“And he murdered him for that?

Rebus shrugged. “Must’ve had cause to worry.”

“But you don’t know why?”

“Not yet. Maybe it was just meant to scare Fairstone off.”

“You reckon this Bob character’s the missing link?”

“I think he can be persuaded.”

“How does Rod McAllister enter this food chain of yours?”

“We won’t know that until you use your brilliant detective powers on him.”

Siobhan started sliding her mouse around its mat, saving what she was working on. “I’ll see what I can do. You coming with me?”

He shook his head. “I need to get back to the interview room.”

“This talk you’re having with Johnson’s sidekick… is it formal?”

“Informally formal, you might say.”

“Then you should have someone else present.” She looked at him. “Go by the rule book for once in your life.”

He knew she was right. “I could wait till you’ve finished with the barman,” he suggested.

“Kind of you to offer.” She looked around the suite. DC Davie Hynds was taking a call, writing something down as he listened. “Davie’s your man,” she said. “Bit more flexible than George Silvers.”

Rebus looked towards Hynds’s desk. He’d finished the call and was putting the receiver down with one hand while still scribbling with the other. He saw that he was being stared at, looked up and lifted one eyebrow questioningly. Rebus crooked a finger, beckoning him over. He didn’t know Hynds well, hadn’t really worked with him much. But he trusted Siobhan’s judgment.

“Davie,” he said, laying a companionable arm on the younger man’s shoulder, “take a walk with me, will you? I need to fill you in on the guy we’re about to interview.” He paused. “Best bring that notebook with you…”


Twenty minutes in, however, and with Bob still giving them general background, there was a knock at the door. Rebus opened it, saw a female uniform standing there.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Call for you.” She pointed back towards reception.

“I’m busy here.”

“It’s DI Hogan. He says it’s urgent, and you’re to be pulled out of anything short of triple-bypass surgery.”

Despite himself, Rebus smiled. “His exact words?” he guessed.

“Exact words,” the female officer echoed. Rebus turned back into the room, told Hynds he wouldn’t be long. Hynds switched off the machines.

“Get you anything, Bob?” Rebus asked.

“I’m thinking maybe you should get me my lawyer, Mr. Rebus.”

Rebus stared at him. “That’ll be Peacock’s lawyer, too, will it?”

Bob considered this. “Maybe not just yet,” he said.

“Not just yet,” Rebus agreed, leaving the interview room. He told the officer he could find reception without her help, and entered the comms room, crossing the floor and through an open doorway. Picked up the handset that was lying on the desk.

“Hello?”

“Christ, John, have you gone into purdah or something?” Bobby Hogan sounded not altogether pleased. Rebus was watching the bank of screens in front of him. They showed half a dozen views of St. Leonard’s, exterior and interior, the viewpoints flickering every thirty seconds or so, shifting from one camera to another.

“What can I do for you, Bobby?”

“Forensics has finally come back to us on the shootings.”

“Oh, aye?” Rebus winced. He’d meant to try phoning them again.

“I’m headed down there. Suddenly remembered that I’d have to drive straight past St. Leonard’s.”

“They’ve found something, haven’t they, Bobby?”

“They say they’ve got a bit of a puzzle,” Hogan agreed. Then he broke off. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“Not in so many words. It’s to do with the locus, am I right?” Rebus stared at one of the screens. It showed Detective Chief Superintendent Gill Templer entering the building. She carried a briefcase, with a heavy-looking satchel slung over one shoulder.

“That’s right. A few… anomalies.”

“Good word that: anomalies. Covers a multitude of sins.”

“I just wondered if you fancied coming with me.”

“What does Claverhouse say?”

There was a pause on the line. “Claverhouse doesn’t know,” Hogan said quietly. “The call came direct to me.”

“Why haven’t you told him, Bobby?”

Another pause. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe a certain fellow officer’s pernicious influence?”

“Maybe.”

Rebus smiled. “Pick me up when you’re ready, Bobby. Depending on what Forensics has got to tell us, I might have a few questions for them myself.”

He opened the interview room door, beckoned for Hynds to step into the corridor. “We’ll just be a minute, Bob,” he explained. Closed the door and faced Hynds, arms folded.

“I need to go to Howdenhall. Orders from above.”

“Want him put in the cells till you…?”

But Rebus was already shaking his head. “I want you to keep going. I shouldn’t be too long. If it gets sticky, call me on my mobile.”

“But…”

“Davie”-Rebus laid a hand on Hynds’s shoulder-“you’re doing fine in there. You’ll manage without me.”

“But there needs to be another officer present,” Hynds objected.

Rebus looked at him. “Has Siobhan been coaching you, Davie?” He pursed his lips, thought for a moment and then nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “Ask DCS Templer if she’ll sit in with you.”

Both eyebrows shot up, connecting with Hynds’s fringe. “The boss won’t…”

“Yes, she will. Tell her it’s about Fairstone. Believe me, she’ll be only too happy to oblige.”

“She’ll need to be briefed first.”

The hand that had been resting on Hynds’s shoulder now patted it. “You do it.”

“But, sir…”

Rebus shook his head slowly. “This is your chance to show what you can do, Davie. Everything you’ve learned from watching Siobhan.” Rebus removed his hand and bunched it into a fist. “Time to start using it.”

Hynds pulled himself a little more upright as he nodded his agreement.

“Good lad,” Rebus said. He turned to leave but stopped in his tracks. “Oh, and Davie?”

“Yes?”

“Tell DCS Templer she needs to act mumsy.”

“Mumsy?”

Rebus nodded. “Just tell her,” he said, making for the exit.


“Forget the XJK. Anything from Porsche can leave the Jags standing.”

“I think the Jaguar’s a better-looking car, though,” Hogan argued, causing Ray Duff to look up from his work. “More classic.”

“Old-fashioned, you mean?” Duff was sorting out a large number of crime scene photos, spreading them across every available wall surface. The room they were in looked like a disused school laboratory, with four free-standing workbenches at its center. The photos showed the Port Edgar classroom from every conceivable angle, concentrating on the bloodied walls and floor and the positioning of the bodies.

“Call me a traditionalist,” Hogan said, folding his arms in the hope this would put an end to yet another of Ray Duff’s discussions.

“Go on, then: top five British cars.”

“I’m not that much of a buff, Ray.”

“I like my Saab,” Rebus added, responding to Hogan’s scowl with a wink.

Duff made a noise at the back of his throat. “Don’t get me started on the Swedes…”

“Okay, how about we concentrate on Port Edgar instead?” Rebus was thinking of Doug Brimson, another Jag fancier.

Duff was looking around, locating his laptop. He plugged it into an outlet on one of the benches and gestured for the two detectives to join him as he switched it on.

“Just while we’re waiting,” he said, “how’s Siobhan doing?”

“Fine,” Rebus assured him. “That little difficulty of hers…”

“Yes?”

“Resolved.”

“What difficulty?” Hogan asked. Rebus ignored the question.

“She’s having a flying lesson this afternoon.”

“Really?” Duff raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t come cheap.”

“I think it’s a freebie, courtesy of a guy who owns an airfield and a Jag.”

“Brimson?” Hogan guessed. Rebus nodded.

“My offer to her of a ride in my MG pales by comparison,” Duff grumbled.

“You can’t compete with this guy. He’s got one of those corporate jets.”

Duff whistled. “Must be loaded, then. Those can set you back a few mil.”

“Aye, right,” Rebus said dismissively.

“I’m serious,” Duff said. “And that’s secondhand.”

“You mean millions of pounds?” This from Bobby Hogan. Duff nodded. “Business must be good, eh?”

Yes, Rebus was thinking, so good Brimson could afford a day off for a trip to Jura…

“Here we go,” Duff was saying, drawing their attention back to the laptop. “Basically, this has everything I need.” He ran an admiring finger along the edge of the screen. “There’s a simulation we can run… shows the pattern you’d expect to get when a gun is fired from whatever distance, whatever angle to the head or body.” He clicked a few more buttons and Rebus heard the whirr of the laptop’s CD drive. The graphics appeared, a skeletal figure standing sideways to a wall. “See here?” Duff was saying. “Subject is twenty centimeters from the wall, bullet is fired from a distance of two meters… entry and exit and… boom!” They watched as a line seemed to enter the skull, reappearing as a fine speckling. Duff’s finger moved across the touch pad, highlighting the marked area of wall, which then was magnified on-screen.

“Gives us a pretty good picture,” he said with a smile.

“Ray,” Hogan said quietly, “just so you know, DI Rebus here lost a family member in that room.”

Duff’s smile melted away. “I didn’t mean to make light of…”

“Maybe if we could just cut to the chase,” Rebus replied coolly. He didn’t blame Duff: how could he? The man hadn’t known. But anything to speed things up.

Duff plunged his hands into the pockets of his white lab coat and turned towards the photographs.

“We need to look at these now,” he said, eyes on Rebus.

“That’s fine,” Rebus agreed with a nod. “Let’s just get it done, eh?”

The early animation had left Duff’s voice when he spoke now. “First victim was the one nearest the door. That was Anthony Jarvies. Herdman walks in and aims at the person nearest him-stands to reason. From the evidence, the two were just under two meters apart. No real sense of an angle… Herdman was about the same height as his victim, so the bullet takes a lateral path through the skull. Blood spatter pattern is pretty much what we’d expect to find. Then Herdman turns. Second victim is a little farther away, maybe three meters. Herdman may have closed that gap before firing, but probably not by much. This time the bullet angles down through the skull, indicating that Derek Renshaw was maybe trying to duck out of the way.” He looked at his audience. “With me so far?” Rebus and Hogan nodded, and the three men moved along the wall. “Blood stains on the floor are explicable, nothing out of place.” Duff paused.

“Until now?” Rebus guessed. The scientist nodded.

“We’ve got a lot of data on firearms, what sort of damage they do to the human body and to anything else they come in contact with…”

“And James Bell is proving a puzzle?”

Duff nodded. “A bit of a puzzle, yes.”

Hogan looked from Duff to Rebus and back again. “How so?”

“In Bell’s statement he says he was hit while in movement. Basically, he was diving for the floor. He seemed to think this might explain why he wasn’t killed. He also said that Herdman was about three and a half meters away when he fired.” He crossed to the computer again, and brought a 3-D simulation onto the screen, showing the classroom and pointing to the positions of gunman and schoolboy. “Again, the victim is of similar height to Herdman. But this time, the angle of the shot appears to be upwards.” Duff paused to let this sink in. “As if the person doing the firing was the one crouching down.” He bent low at the knees and pointed an imaginary pistol, then straightened and crossed to another of the benches. There was a light box sitting on it, and he switched it on, illuminating a set of X-rays showing the route the bullet had taken in ripping through James Bell’s shoulder. “Entry wound at the front, exit at the back. You can see the trajectory quite clearly.” He traced it for them with his finger.

“So Herdman was crouching down,” Bobby Hogan said, with a shrug of the shoulders.

“I get the feeling Ray’s just warming up,” Rebus said quietly, thinking that he wouldn’t have too many questions for the scientist after all.

Duff returned Rebus’s look and went back to the photographs. “No blood spatter pattern,” he said, circling the area of the wall. Then he held up a hand. “Actually, that’s not strictly true. There’s blood present, but it’s such a fine diffusion you can’t really make it out.”

“Meaning what?” Hogan asked, not bothering to hide his impatience.

“Meaning James Bell wasn’t standing where he said he was at the time he was shot. He was much farther into the room, which means closer to Herdman.”

“Yet there’s still that upward trajectory to the shot?” Rebus noted.

Duff nodded, then pulled open a drawer and brought out a bag. It was clear polyethylene, edged with brown paper. An evidence bag. Folded up inside lay a bloodstained white shirt, the bullet hole at the shoulder clearly visible.

“James Bell’s shirt,” Duff stated. “And here we find something else…”

“Powder burns,” Rebus said quietly. Hogan turned to him.

“How come you already know all this?” he hissed.

Rebus shrugged. “I’ve got no social life, Bobby. Nothing to do with myself but sit and think about things.” Hogan glowered, letting Rebus know this was well short of an acceptable answer.

“DI Rebus is spot on,” Duff said, gaining their attention again. “You wouldn’t expect powder burns on the bodies of the first two victims. They were shot from a distance. You only get powder burns when the gun is close to the skin or, say, the victim’s clothes…”

“Did Herdman himself have powder burns?” Rebus asked.

Duff nodded. “Consistent with placing the pistol to his temple and firing.”

Rebus went back along the display of photos, taking his time. They weren’t really telling him anything, which in a way was the whole point. You had to peer beneath their surface to begin to glimpse the truth. Hogan was scratching the nape of his neck.

“I’m not really getting this,” he said.

“It’s a puzzle,” Duff agreed. “Hard to square the witness’s account with the evidence.”

“Depends which way you look at it, though, Ray, am I right?”

Duff fixed eyes with Rebus and nodded. “There’s always a way to explain things.”

“Take your time, then.” Hogan slapped his hands down on the workbench. “I had nothing better to do with myself today anyway.”

“Just got to look at it a different way, Bobby,” Rebus told him. “James Bell was shot at point-blank range…”

“By someone the approximate size of a garden gnome,” Hogan said dismissively.

Rebus shook his head. “It’s just that Herdman couldn’t have done it.”

Hogan’s eyes widened. “Wait a second…”

“Isn’t that right, Ray?”

“It’s one conclusion, certainly.” Duff was rubbing the underside of his jaw.

“Couldn’t have done it?” Hogan echoed. “You’re saying there was someone else in there? An accomplice?”

Rebus shook his head. “I’m saying it’s possible-maybe even probable-that Lee Herdman only killed one person in that room.”

Hogan’s eyes narrowed. “And who would that be?”

Rebus turned his attention to Ray Duff, who supplied the answer.

“Himself,” Duff stated, as though it were the simplest explanation in the world.

24

Rebus and Hogan sat in Hogan’s idling car. They’d been silent for a few minutes. The passenger-side window was open, and Rebus was smoking, while Hogan’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel.

“How do we play this?” Hogan asked. This time around, Rebus had an answer.

“You know my preferred technique, Bobby,” he said.

“Bull in a china shop?” Hogan guessed.

Rebus nodded slowly, finishing his cigarette and flicking the butt onto the roadway. “It’s served me well enough in the past.”

“But this is different, John. Jack Bell’s an MSP.”

“Jack Bell’s a clown.”

“Don’t underestimate him.”

Rebus turned to face his colleague. “Having second thoughts, Bobby?”

“I just wonder if we shouldn’t…”

“Cover our arses?”

“Unlike you, John, I’ve never been an aficionado of china shops.”

Rebus stared out through the windshield. “I’m going in there anyway, Bobby. You know that. Whether you’re with me or not is up to you. You can always call Claverhouse and Ormiston, let them know the score. But I need to hear it for myself.” He turned again to stare at Hogan, eyes shining. “Sure I can’t tempt you?”

Bobby Hogan ran his tongue around his lips, clockwise, then counterclockwise. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

“Hell with it,” he said. “What’s a bit of broken crockery between friends?”


***

The door to the Barnton house was opened by Kate Renshaw.

“Hiya, Kate,” Rebus said, face stony, “how’s your dad?”

“He’s all right.”

“Not think you’d be better off spending a bit more time with him?”

She’d opened the door wide to let them in, Hogan having phoned ahead to say they were coming.

“I’m doing something useful here,” Kate argued.

“Bolstering a curb crawler’s career?”

Her eyes flashed fire, but Rebus ignored them. Through glass doors to the right, he could see the dining room, its table spread with the paperwork from Jack Bell’s campaign. Bell himself was descending the staircase, rubbing his hands together as though he’d just washed them.

“Officers,” he said, not bothering to sound welcoming. “I hope this won’t take long.”

“Same here,” Hogan countered.

Rebus looked around. “Is Mrs. Bell in the house?”

“She’s out visiting. Was there something in particular…?”

“Just wanted to tell her I saw Wind in the Willows last night. Cracking good show.”

The MSP raised an eyebrow. “I’ll pass on the message.”

“You told your son to expect us?” Hogan asked.

Bell nodded. “He’s watching TV.” He gestured towards the living room. Without waiting to be asked, Hogan walked over to the door and opened it. James Bell was lying along the cream leather sofa, shoes off, head resting on the hand of his good arm.

“James,” his father said, “the police are here.”

“So I see.” James swiveled his feet back onto the carpet.

“Hello again, James,” Hogan said. “I think you know DI Rebus…”

James nodded.

“Mind if we sit down?” Hogan asked, aiming the question at son rather than father. Not that Hogan was about to wait for permission. He made himself comfortable in an armchair, while Rebus was content to stand by the fireplace. Jack Bell sat down next to his son and placed a hand on James’s knee, which the young man swatted away. James leaned down and picked up a glass of water from the floor, lifted it to his lips and sipped.

“I’d still like to know what’s going on,” Jack Bell said impatiently: a busy man, a man who had better things to do with his time. Rebus’s mobile sounded, and he mouthed an apology as he brought it out of his pocket. Looked at the display and saw who was calling. Apologized again as he stood up and left the room.

“Gill?” he said into the mouthpiece. “How’s Bob coming along?”

“Since you ask, he’s a fund of good stories.”

Rebus looked into the dining room. There was no sign of Kate. “He didn’t know the chip pan was meant to catch fire.”

“Agreed.”

“So what else has he said?”

“He seems to have taken against Rab Fisher, without realizing how much he’s implicating his friend Peacock in the process.”

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”

“The reason Fisher was walking up and down nightclub queues, letting people get a glimpse of the gun he was carrying…”

“Yes?”

“He was trying to sell drugs.”

“Drugs?”

“Working for your friend Johnson.”

“Peacock’s sold some hash in the past, but not enough to merit an assistant.”

“Bob’s not spelling it out, but I think we might be talking crack.”

“Jesus… so who was his source?”

“I’d have thought that was obvious.” She gave a short laugh. “Your other friend, the one with the boats.”

“I don’t think so,” Rebus stated.

“Remind me, wasn’t cocaine found on his boat?”

“All the same…”

“Well, someone else, then.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, it’s a good start, wouldn’t you say?”

“Must be the woman’s touch.”

“He just needs someone to mother him, John. Thanks for the tip.”

“Does this mean I’m out of the woods?”

“It means I need to bring Mullen in, let him hear what we’ve got.”

“But you don’t think I killed Martin Fairstone?”

“Let’s just say I’m wavering.”

“Thanks for backing me up, boss. Let me know if you get anything else, will you?”

“I’ll try. What are you up to? Anything new I should be starting to worry about?”

“Maybe… Watch the sky over Barnton for fireworks.” He cut the call, made sure his phone was switched off, and went back into the room.

“I assure you, we’ll be as quick as we can,” Hogan was saying. Then he looked up at Rebus. “Now I’m going to hand things over to my colleague.” Rebus pretended to take his time over forming his first question, then stared hard at James Bell.

“Why did you do it, James?”

“What?”

Jack Bell shifted forwards. “I think I must protest at your tone…”

“Sorry about that, sir. I get a bit agitated sometimes when someone’s been lying to me. Not just to me, but to everyone: the whole inquiry, his parents, the media… everyone.” James was staring back at him. Rebus folded his arms. “See, James, we’re beginning to piece together what really happened in that classroom, and I’ve got news for you. When you fire a gun, there are traces left on your skin. They can last weeks, last through a dozen washings and scrubbings. On your shirt cuffs, too. Remember, we’ve still got the shirt you were wearing.”

“What the hell are you saying?” Jack Bell snarled, face filling with blood. “Do you expect me to let you walk into my house and accuse an eighteen-year-old boy of…? Is that the way you work in the police force these days?”

“Dad…”

“It’s because of me, isn’t it? You’re trying to get at me through my son. Just because you made a horrific mistake that nearly cost me my job, my marriage…”

“Dad…” James’s voice had risen a fraction.

“Now this terrible tragedy occurs and all you can do is -”

“There’s no vendetta here, sir,” Hogan was protesting.

“Even though the arresting officer in Leith swears he had you dead to rights,” Rebus couldn’t help adding.

“John…,” Hogan warned.

“You see?” Jack Bell’s voice was a tremor of anger. “You see the way it is, and always will be? Because you’re too arrogant to -”

James leapt to his feet. “Will you shut the fuck up? For once in your bloody life, will you just shut the fuck up?”

Silence in the room, even though the words seemed to hang in the air, reverberating. James Bell sat back down again slowly.

“Maybe,” Hogan said quietly, “if we could let James have his say.” Directing his words to the MSP, who seemed stunned, eyes on a son he’d never known existed, someone suddenly revealed to him.

“You can’t talk to me like that.” Looking at James, voice barely audible.

“I thought I just did,” James told his father. Then, eyes focused on Rebus, “Let’s get this over with.”

Rebus moistened his lips. “Right now, James, probably the only thing we can prove is that you were shot at point-blank range-contrary to the story you’ve been sticking to thus far-and that the angle of the shot would suggest that you did it yourself. However, you’ve also admitted knowing of at least one of Lee Herdman’s guns, which is why I think maybe you took the Brocock intending to shoot and kill Anthony Jarvies and Derek Renshaw.”

“They were wankers, the pair of them.”

“And that constitutes a good enough reason?”

“James,” Jack Bell warned, “I don’t want you saying anything to these men.”

His son ignored him. “They had to die.”

Jack Bell’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. James concentrated on the water glass, turning it and turning it.

“Why did they have to die?” Rebus asked quietly.

James shrugged. “I’ve already said.”

“You didn’t like them?” Rebus suggested. “And that’s all there is to it?”

“Plenty of my peers have killed for less. Or haven’t you been watching the news? America, Germany, Yemen… Sometimes it’s enough that you don’t like Mondays.”

“Help me understand, James. I know you had different taste in music…”

“Not just in music: in everything!”

“A different outlook on life?” Hogan suggested.

“Maybe,” Rebus said, “a part of you wanted to impress Teri Cotter, too.”

James glared at him. “Leave her out of this.”

“That’s not easy to do, James. After all, Teri’d told you she was obsessed with death, hadn’t she?” James said nothing. “I think you’d become a bit infatuated with her.”

“How would you know?” the teenager sneered.

“Well, for a start, you made that trip to Cockburn Street to take her picture.”

“I took a lot of photos.”

“But you kept hers in that book you loaned to Lee. You didn’t like it that she’d slept with him, did you? Didn’t like it when Jarvies and Renshaw told you they’d found her website, watching her in her bedroom.” Rebus paused. “How am I doing?”

“You know a lot, Inspector.”

Rebus shook his head. “But there’s so much I don’t know, James. And I’m hoping maybe you’ll fill in the gaps.”

“You don’t have to say anything, James,” his father croaked. “You’re a minor… there are laws to protect you. You’ve suffered a trauma. No court in the land would…” He looked across at the detectives. “Surely he should have a solicitor present?”

“I don’t want one,” James snapped.

“But you must.” The father sounded aghast.

The son sneered. “It’s not about you anymore, Dad, do you see? It’s all about me now. I’m the one who’s going to put you back on the front pages, but for all the wrong reasons. And in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not a minor-I’m eighteen. Old enough to vote, old enough to do lots of things.” He seemed to wait for a retort that did not come, then turned his attention back to Rebus. “What is it you need to know?”

“Am I right about Teri?”

“I knew she was sleeping with Lee.”

“When you gave him that book… you left her photo there deliberately?”

“I suppose so.”

“Hoping he’d see it, and do what?” Rebus watched as James shrugged. “Maybe it was enough that he would know you liked her, too.” Rebus paused. “Why that particular book, though?”

James looked at him. “Because Lee wanted to read it. He knew the story, how the guy had jumped to his death from a plane. He wasn’t…” James seemed unable to find the words he needed. He took a deep breath. “He was a deeply unhappy man, you must realize that.”

“Unhappy in what way?”

The word came to James. “Haunted,” he said. “That’s the sense I always got. He was haunted.”

There was silence in the room for a moment, broken by Rebus: “You took the gun from Lee’s flat?”

“That’s right.”

“He didn’t know?”

A shake of the head.

“You knew about the Brocock?” Bobby Hogan asked, just about keeping his voice under control. James nodded.

“So how come he turned up at the school?” Rebus asked.

“I left him a note. Didn’t expect him to find it so soon.”

“What was your plan then, James?”

“Just walk into the common room-usually only the two of them there-and kill them.”

“In cold blood?”

“That’s right.”

“Two kids who’d done you no harm?”

“Two less on the planet.” The teenager shrugged. “I don’t see typhoons and hurricanes, earthquakes and famine…”

“And that’s why you did it, because it wouldn’t matter?”

James was thoughtful. “Maybe.”

Rebus looked down at the carpet, trying to control the rage growing within him. My family… my blood

“It all happened so fast,” James was telling them. “I was amazed how calm I felt. Bang bang, two bodies… Lee was walking in the door as I shot the second one. He just stood there, the pair of us did. Didn’t know quite what to do.” He smiled at the memory. “Then he held out his hand for the gun, and I handed it over.” The smile evaporated. “Last thing I expected was for the stupid sod to point it at his own head.”

“Why do you think he did that?”

James shook his head slowly. “I’ve been trying to work it out ever since… Do you know?” An imploring edge to the question; needing an answer. Rebus had a few theories: because the gun was his, and he felt responsible… because the incident would bring whole teams of professionals sniffing around, including the army… because it was a way out…

Because he would no longer be haunted.

“You took the gun from him and shot yourself in the shoulder,” Rebus said quietly. “Then placed it back in his hand?”

“Yes. The note I’d left for him, it was in his other hand. I took that, too.”

“What about fingerprints.”

“I did what they do in the films, wiped the pistol with my shirt.”

“But when you first walked in there… you must have been prepared for everyone to know you’d done it. Why the change of heart?”

The teenager shrugged. “Because the chance presented itself maybe. Do we really know why we do what we do… in the heat of the moment?” He turned to his father. “Instincts sometimes get the better of us. Those dark little thoughts…”

Which was when his father lunged at him, grabbing him around the neck, the two of them falling backwards over the sofa, crashing to the floor.

“You little bastard!” Jack Bell was yelling. “Do you know what you’ve done? I’m ruined now! In tatters! Absolute fucking tatters!”

Rebus and Hogan separated them, the father still snarling and swearing, the son almost serene by comparison and studying his father’s incoherent ire as though it was a memory he would treasure in the years to come. The door had opened, Kate standing there. Rebus wanted to make James Bell fall down at her feet, beg forgiveness. She was taking in the scene, trying to make sense of it.

“Jack?” she asked softly.

Jack Bell looked at her, as if she was a stranger to him. Rebus was still holding the MSP in a bear hug from behind.

“Get out of here, Kate,” he pleaded. “Just go home.”

“I don’t understand.”

James Bell, passive in Hogan’s grasp, looked across to the doorway, then over to where his father and Rebus stood. A smile spread slowly across his face.

“Will you tell her, or shall I…?”

25

I can’t believe it,” Siobhan said, not for the first time. Rebus’s phone call to her had lasted almost the whole of her drive from St. Leonard’s to the airfield.

“I’m having a hard time taking it in myself.”

She was on the A8, heading west out of the city. Looked in her mirror, then signaled, moving out to pass a taxi. Businessman in the back of it, calmly reading a newspaper on his way to his flight. Siobhan felt like she needed to pull over on to the hard shoulder, bolt from her car and do some screaming, just to release whatever it was she was feeling. Was it the rush of getting a result? Two results really: the Herdman case and Fairstone’s murder. Or was it the frustration of not being around at the time?

“He couldn’t have shot Herdman, too, could he?” she asked.

“Who? Young Master Bell?” She could hear Rebus turning from his phone to relay her question to Bobby Hogan.

“He leaves the note, knowing Herdman will follow him,” Siobhan was saying, mind rushing. “Kills all three and turns the gun on himself.”

“It’s a theory,” Rebus’s voice crackled, sounding unconvinced. “What’s that noise?”

“My phone. It’s telling me it needs a recharge.” She took the airport access road, the taxi still visible in her mirror. “I could cancel, you know.” Meaning the flying lesson.

“What’s the point? Nothing doing here.”

“You’re heading for Queensferry?”

“Already there. Bobby’s driving in through the school gates as I speak.” He turned away from the phone again, said something to Hogan. Sounded like he was saying he wanted to be there when Hogan explained everything to Claverhouse and Ormiston. Siobhan caught the words “especially that the drug-running’s a non-starter.”

“Who put the drugs on his boat?” she asked.

“Didn’t catch that, Siobhan.”

She repeated the question. “You think Whiteread did it to keep the inquiry active?”

“I’m not sure even she has the clout for that sort of sting. We’re rounding up the small fry. Cars are already out looking for Rab Fisher and Peacock Johnson. Bobby’s just about to deliver the news to Claverhouse.”

“I wish I could be there.”

“Catch us afterwards. We’ll be adjourning to the pub.”

“Not the Boatman’s, though?”

“I thought maybe we’d try the place next door… just for a change.”

“I should only be an hour or so.”

“Take your time. I don’t suppose we’ll be going anywhere. Bring Brimson with you, if you like.”

“Should I tell him about James Bell?”

“That’s up to you… papers will have it by the close of play.”

“Meaning Steve Holly?”

“Reckon I owe the sod that much. At least then Claverhouse doesn’t get the pleasure of breaking the news.” He paused. “Did you manage to put the frighteners on Rod McAllister?”

“He still denies writing the letters.”

“It’s enough that you know… and that he knows you do. Feeling okay about the flying lesson?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe I should alert air traffic control.” She could hear Hogan saying something in the background, and Rebus chuckling.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“Bobby reckons we might be better off warning the coast guard.”

“That’s him crossed off my dinner list.”

She listened as Rebus relayed her message to Hogan. Then: “Okay, Siobhan, that’s us at the car park. Got to go deliver the news to Claverhouse.”

“Any chance of you keeping your composure?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be cool, calm and collected.”

“Really?”

“Just as soon as I’ve rubbed his nose in the shit.”

She smiled, ended the call. Decided she might as well switch her phone off. Wouldn’t be making calls at five thousand feet… Glanced at the dashboard clock and saw that she was going to be early. Didn’t suppose Doug Brimson would mind. She tried to shake her head clear of everything she’d heard.

Lee Herdman didn’t kill those kids.

John Rebus didn’t torch Martin Fairstone’s house.

She felt bad about having suspected Rebus, but it was his own fault… always so secretive. And Herdman, too, with his secret life, his daily fears. The media would be forced to eat humble pie and would turn their fury on the easiest target available: Jack Bell.

Which almost counted as a happy ending…

As she arrived at the airfield gates, a car was just leaving. Brimson got out of the passenger side, offered a cautious smile as he undid the lock, pulled the gate open. Waited there as the car drove through, passing Siobhan at speed, a scowling face in its front seat. Brimson beckoned for Siobhan to drive in. She did so, then waited while the gate was locked again. Brimson opened the passenger-side door, got in.

“Wasn’t expecting you quite yet,” he said.

Siobhan eased her foot from the clutch. “Sorry about that,” she said quietly, staring through the windshield. “Who was your visitor?”

Brimson screwed up his face. “Just someone interested in flying lessons.”

“Didn’t seem the type somehow.”

“You mean the shirt?” Brimson laughed. “Bit loud, wasn’t it?”

“A bit.” They’d arrived at the office, Siobhan pulling on the hand brake. Brimson got out. She stayed where she was, watching him. He came around to her side of the car, opened the door, as if this was what she’d been waiting for. Avoiding eye contact.

“There’s some paperwork,” he was saying. “Liability waiver… stuff like that.” He made towards the open doorway.

“Did your customer have a name?” she asked, following him in.

“Jackson… Jobson… something like that.” He’d entered his office, falling into his chair, hands sifting through paperwork. Siobhan kept on her feet.

“It’ll be on the paperwork,” she said.

“What?”

“If he was here for lessons, I assume you’ve got his details?”

“Oh… yes… here somewhere.” He shuffled the sheets of paper. “Time I got a secretary,” he said, attempting a grin.

“His name’s Peacock Johnson,” Siobhan said quietly.

“Is it?”

“And he wasn’t here for flying lessons. Did he want you to fly him out of the country?”

“You know him, then?”

“I know he’s a wanted man, responsible for the death of a petty criminal named Martin Fairstone. And now Peacock’s panicking because he can’t find his trusted lieutenant and probably knows we’ve got him.”

“All of which comes as news to me.”

“But you know who Johnson is… and what he is.”

“No, I told you… he just wanted flying lessons.” Brimson’s hands were busier than ever, sorting through the paperwork.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Siobhan said. “We’ve tied up the Port Edgar case. Lee Herdman didn’t kill those kids; it was the MSP’s son.”

“What?” Brimson didn’t seem to be taking the news in.

“James Bell did it, then turned the gun on himself, after Lee had committed suicide.”

“Really?”

“Doug, are you looking for anything in particular, or trying to dig your way out of here through the desk?”

He looked up at her and grinned.

“I was telling you,” she went on, “that Lee didn’t kill those two boys.”

“Right.”

“Which means the only puzzle left is the drugs found on his boat. I’m assuming you knew about the yacht he kept moored shoreside?”

He could no longer hold her gaze. “Why would I know anything about that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“Look, Siobhan…” Brimson made a show of checking his watch. “Maybe we can leave the paperwork. Wouldn’t do to miss our slot…”

She ignored this. “The yacht looked good because Lee sailed to Europe, but now we know he was selling diamonds.”

“And buying drugs at the same time?”

She shook her head. “You knew about his boat, and probably knew he went to the Continent.” She’d taken a step towards the desk. “It’s the corporate flights, isn’t it, Doug? Your own little trips to the Continent, taking businessmen to meetings and on jollies… that’s how you bring the drugs in.”

“It’s all going to hell,” he said, almost too calmly. He’d leaned back in the chair, hands smoothing his hair, eyes staring ceilingwards. “I told that stupid bastard never to come here.”

“You mean Peacock?”

He nodded slowly.

“Why plant the drugs?” Siobhan asked.

“Why not?” He gave another burst of laughter. “Lee was dead. Way I saw it, it would focus attention on him.”

“Taking the heat off you?” She decided to sit down. “Thing was, there was no heat on you.”

“Charlotte thought there was. You lot were sniffing into every nook and cranny, talking to Teri, talking to me…”

“Charlotte Cotter’s involved?”

Brimson looked at her as though she were stupid. “It’s a cash business… all needs to be laundered.”

“Through the tanning salons?” Siobhan nodded, letting him know she understood. Brimson and Teri’s mother: business partners.

“Lee wasn’t squeaky clean, you know,” Brimson was saying. “He was the one who introduced me to Peacock Johnson in the first place.”

“Lee knew Peacock Johnson? Is that where the guns came from?”

“That’s one thing I was going to give you, only I couldn’t see how…”

“What thing?”

“Johnson had these decommissioned guns, needed someone to put the firing pins back, that sort of thing.”

“And Lee Herdman did it?” She thought of the well-stocked workshop at the boatyard. Yes, a simple enough job, with the tools and the know-how. Herdman had had both.

Brimson was quiet for a moment. “We could still go for that flight; shame to miss the slot.”

“I’ve not brought my passport.” She reached out a hand towards his phone. “I need to make a call now, Doug.”

“I’d cleared our path, you know… cleared it with the flight tower. I was going to show you so much…” She’d risen to her feet, lifted the receiver.

“Maybe another time, eh?”

The two of them knowing there would be no other time. Brimson’s palms were flat against the desktop. Siobhan was holding the receiver to her ear, halfway through punching in the numbers. “I’m sorry, Doug,” she said.

“Me too, Siobhan. Believe me, I’m as sorry as hell.”

He pushed up from the desk, lunged across it, sending all the paperwork flying as he came. She dropped the phone and took a step back, colliding with the chair behind her, tripping over it and hitting the floor, hands outstretched to cushion the blow.

Doug Brimson’s whole weight landing on her, pinning her down, punching all the breath from her chest.

“Got to fly, Siobhan,” he snarled, gripping her by the wrists. “Got to fly…”

26

Happy, Bobby?” Rebus asked. “Deliriously so,” Bobby Hogan replied. They were entering the bar on South Queensferry’s waterfront. The meeting at the school could hardly have been better timed. They’d managed to interrupt a meeting between Claverhouse and Assistant Chief Constable Colin Carswell, Hogan taking a deep breath before stating that everything Claverhouse was saying was nonsense before going on to explain why.

At the end of the meeting, Claverhouse had walked out without any comment, leaving his colleague Ormiston to shake Hogan’s hand, telling him he deserved the credit.

“Which doesn’t mean you’ll get it, Bobby,” Rebus had said. But he’d patted Ormiston’s arm, to let him know the gesture was appreciated. He’d even asked him to join them for a drink, but Ormiston had shaken his head.

“I think you’ve just assigned me to solace duty,” he’d said.

So it was just Rebus and Hogan in the bar. As they waited their turn, Hogan seemed to deflate just a little. Usually at the end of a case, the whole team gathered in the murder room while cases of beer were dragged in and opened. Maybe a bottle of fizz from the brass. Whiskey for the more traditionally minded. This didn’t seem the same, just the two of them, the original team already dispersed…

“What’ll it be?” Hogan asked, trying to sound breezy.

“Maybe a Laphroaig, Bobby.”

“The measures don’t look generous.” Hogan had run an expert eye over the gantry.

“Better make it a double.”

“And decide right now who’s the designated driver.”

Hogan’s mouth twitched. “I thought you said Siobhan was joining us.”

“That’s cruel, Bobby.” Rebus paused. “Cruel but fair.”

The barman was ready for them. Hogan ordered Rebus’s whiskey and a pint of lager for himself. “And two cigars,” he added, turning towards Rebus, seeming to study him. He rested his arm on the edge of the bar. “Result like this, John, makes me think I want to go out while I’m winning.”

“Christ, Bobby, you’re in your prime.”

Hogan snorted. “Five years ago I’d have agreed with you.” He took a wad of notes from his pocket and extracted a ten. “But this just about does it for me.”

“So what’s changed?”

Hogan shrugged. “A kid who can go and shoot two classmates, no real motive, I mean, none that makes any sense to me… It’s a different world from the one I used to know, John.”

“Just means we’re needed more than ever.”

Hogan snorted again. “You really think so? You see yourself as being wanted, do you?”

“I didn’t say ‘wanted’; I said needed.”

“And who needs us? People like Carswell, because we make him look good? Or Claverhouse, so he’s not screwing up any more than he already is?”

“They’ll do for a start,” Rebus said, smiling. His glass was placed in front of him, and he dribbled some water into it, just enough to take the edge off. Two thin cigars had arrived, and Hogan was unwrapping his.

“We still don’t really know, do we?”

“Know what?”

“Why Herdman did it… topped himself.”

“Did you think we ever would? I had the feeling you brought me in because all the young folk around you were scaring you. You needed another dinosaur in the vicinity.”

“You’re not a dinosaur, John.” Hogan lifted his glass, chinked it against Rebus’s. “Here’s to the two of us.”

“Not forgetting Jack Bell, without whose presence James might have realized he could keep quiet and end up getting away with it.”

“Right enough,” Hogan said with a broad grin. “Families, eh, John?” He started shaking his head.

“Families,” Rebus agreed, lifting the glass to his mouth.

When his phone sounded, Hogan told him to leave it. But Rebus checked the display, wondering if it might be Siobhan. It wasn’t. Rebus motioned to Hogan that he was stepping back outside, where it was quieter. There was a beer garden to the front, just an area of pavement with some tables. Too chill a breeze for anyone to be using them. Rebus lifted the phone to his ear.

“Gill?” he said.

“You wanted to be kept in touch.”

“Young Bob’s still singing, then?”

“I almost wish he’d stop,” Gill Templer said with a sigh. “We’ve had his childhood, bullied at school, the time he wet himself… He keeps bouncing backwards and forwards, I never know if something happened last week or last decade. He says he wants to borrow The Wind in the Willows…”

Rebus smiled. “It’s at my flat. I’ll fetch it for him.” Rebus heard the drone of a light aircraft in the distance. Peered up, shading his eyes with his free hand. The plane was over the Forth Road Bridge, too far away to tell if it was the same one they’d traveled to Jura in. Same sort of size, crawling almost lazily across the sky.

“What do you know about tanning parlors?” Gill Templer was asking.

“Why?”

“They keep cropping up. Some connection with Johnson and the drugs…”

Rebus kept watching the plane. It dipped suddenly, engine changing tone. Then it leveled off, wings tilting from side to side. If it was Siobhan up there, she was learning the hard way.

“Teri Cotter’s mother owns a few,” Rebus said into the phone. “That’s about as much as I know.”

“Could they be a front?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so. I mean, where would she be getting…?” Rebus broke off. Brimson’s car, parked in Cockburn Street where Teri’s mum had one of her shops. Teri admitting to him that her mother was having an affair with Brimson…

Doug Brimson, friend of Lee Herdman. Brimson with his planes. Where the hell had he got the money for them? Millions, Ray Duff had said. It had struck a nerve at the time, but Rebus had become distracted by James Bell. Millions… the kind of money you could make from a few legitimate businesses, and dozens of illegal ones…

Rebus remembered what Brimson had said on the way back from Jura, with the Forth and Rosyth beneath: I often think about the damage… even with something as small as a Cessna… dockyard… ferry… road and rail bridges… airport… Rebus’s hand fell. He squinted into the light.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

“John? You still there?”

By the time she had the words out, he wasn’t.

Ran back into the bar, dragged Hogan out. “We need to get to the airfield!”

“What for?”

“No time!”

Hogan unlocking the car, Rebus getting behind the wheel. “I’m driving!” Hogan not about to argue. Rebus sending the car screaming out of the car park, but then screeching to a halt, staring from the driver’s-side window.

“Jesus, no…” Stumbling from the car, standing in the middle of the road, looking up. The plane had gone into a dive but was coming out of it.

“What’s going on?” Hogan yelled from the passenger seat.

Rebus got back behind the wheel, set off again. Following the plane’s progress as it passed over the rail bridge, made a steep arc as it neared the Fife coastline and started back towards the bridges again.

“That plane’s in trouble,” Hogan stated.

Rebus stopped the car again to watch. “It’s Brimson,” he hissed. “He’s got Siobhan with him.”

“Looks like it’s going to hit the bridge!” Both men were out of the car. They weren’t alone. Other drivers had stopped to watch. Pedestrians were pointing and muttering. The drone of the engine had grown louder, more discordant.

“Jesus,” Hogan gasped, as the plane flew underneath the rail bridge, mere feet from the surface of the water. It climbed steeply, almost vertically, leveled off, and then dived again. This time it went below the central span of the road bridge.

“Is he showing off, or trying to scare the wits out of her?” Hogan said.

Rebus shook his head. He was thinking of Lee Herdman, the way he would try to scare his teenage water-skiers… testing them.

“Brimson’s the one who planted those drugs. He’s bringing them into the country on his plane, Bobby, and I get the feeling Siobhan knows that.”

“So what the hell is he doing now?”

“Scaring her maybe. I hope to hell that’s all it is…” He thought of Lee Herdman, lifting a gun to his temple, and the ex-SAS man who jumped to his death from an airplane…

“Will they have parachutes?” Hogan was asking. “Could she get out?”

Rebus didn’t answer. His jaw was locked tight.

The plane was looping the loop now, but still far too close to the bridge. One wing clipped a suspension cable, sending the plane into a spiraling dive.

Rebus took an involuntary step forwards, yelled out the word “no!” stretching it for the length of time it took the machine to hit the water.

“Hell’s fucking bells,” Hogan cried. Rebus was staring at the spot… the plane already reduced to wreckage, wisps of smoke rising from it as the pieces began to disappear beneath the surface.

“We’ve got to get down there!” Rebus shouted.

“How?”

“I don’t know… get a boat! Port Edgar… they’ve got boats!” They got back into the car and did a squealing U-turn, drove to the boatyard, where a siren was sounding, regular sailors already heading for the scene. Rebus parked, and they ran down to the jetty, past Herdman’s boathouse, Rebus aware of movement at the corner of his eye, a flash of color. Dismissing it in the urgency to reach the water’s edge. Rebus and Hogan showed their ID to a man who was untying his speedboat.

“We need a lift.”

The man was in his late fifties, bald-headed with a silver beard. He looked them up and down. “You need life jackets,” he protested.

“No, we don’t. Now just get us out there.” Rebus paused. “Please.”

The man took another look at him, and nodded agreement. Rebus and Hogan clambered aboard, holding on as the owner raced out of the harbor. Other small boats had already congregated around the slick of oil, and the lifeboat from South Queensferry was approaching. Rebus scanned the surface of the water, knowing it was futile.

“Maybe it wasn’t them,” Hogan said. “Maybe she didn’t go.”

Rebus nodded in the hope that his friend might shut up. What debris there was, was already spreading out, the tide and the swell from the various craft dispersing it. “We need divers, Bobby. Frogmen… whatever it takes.”

“It’ll be taken care of, John. Somebody else’s job, not ours.” Rebus realized that Hogan’s hand was squeezing his arm. “Christ, and I made that stupid crack about the coast guard…”

“Not your fault, Bobby.”

Hogan was thoughtful. “Nothing we can do here, eh?”

Rebus was forced to admit defeat: there was nothing they could do. They asked the skipper to take them back, which he did.

“Terrible accident,” he yelled above the noise of the outboard engine.

“Yes, terrible,” Hogan agreed. Rebus just stared at the choppy surface of the water. “We still going to the airfield?” Hogan asked as they climbed back onto dry land. Rebus nodded, started striding towards the Passat. But then he paused outside Herdman’s boathouse, and turned his head to look at the much smaller shed next door, the one with the car parked in front. The car was an old 7-series BMW, tarnished black. He didn’t recognize it. Where had the flash of color come from? He looked at the shed. Its door was closed. Had it been open when they’d arrived? Had the flash of color flitted across the doorway? Rebus walked up to the door, gave it a push. It bounced back: someone behind it, holding it closed. Rebus stood back and gave the door an almighty kick, then shouldered it. It flew open, sending the man behind it sprawling.

Red short-sleeved shirt with palm trees on it.

Face turning to meet Rebus’s.

“Holy shit,” Bobby Hogan was muttering, studying the blanket on the ground, the array of weapons laid out on it. Two lockers stood gaping, emptied of their secrets. Pistols, revolvers, submachine guns…

“Thinking of starting a war, Peacock?” Rebus said. And when Peacock Johnson scrambled forwards, making towards the nearest gun, Rebus took a single step, swung back a foot, and kicked him straight in the middle of his face, throwing him back onto the floor again.

Johnson lay unconscious, spread-eagled. Hogan was shaking his head.

“How the hell did we miss this lot?” he was asking himself.

“Maybe because it was right under our noses, Bobby, same as everything else in this damned case.”

“But what does it mean?”

“I suggest you ask our friend here,” Rebus said, “just as soon as he wakes up.” He turned to walk away.

“Where are you going?”

“The airfield. You stay here with him, call it in.”

“John… what’s the point?”

Rebus stopped. He knew what Hogan meant: what’s the point of going to the airfield? But then he started walking again, couldn’t think of anything else to do. He punched Siobhan’s number into his mobile, but a recording told him the number wasn’t available and he should try again later. He punched it in again, same response. Dropped the tiny silver box onto the ground and stamped on it, hard as he could, with the heel of his shoe.


It was dusk by the time Rebus arrived at the locked gates.

He got out of the car and tried the entry phone, but no one was answering. He could see Siobhan’s car through the fence, parked next to the office. The office door was standing open, as though someone had been in a hurry.

Or maybe struggling… not bothering to close it after them.

Rebus pushed at the gate, put his shoulder to it. The chain rattled but wasn’t going to yield. He stood back and kicked it. Kicked it again and again. Shouldered it, smashed his fists against it. Pressed his head to it, eyes squeezed shut.

“Siobhan…” His voice breaking.

He knew what he needed: bolt cutters. A patrol car could bring some, if Rebus had any way of calling one.

Brimson… he knew it now. Knew Brimson was running drugs, had planted them on his dead friend’s boat. He didn’t know why, but he’d find out. Siobhan had discovered the truth somehow, and had died as a result. Perhaps she’d wrestled with him, explaining the erratic flight path. He opened his eyes wide, blinking back tears.

Staring through the gate.

Blinking his vision back into focus.

Because someone was there… A figure in the doorway, one hand to its head, another to its stomach. Rebus blinked again, making sure.

“Siobhan!” he yelled. She raised a hand, waved it. Rebus grabbed the fence and hauled himself onto it, shouted her name again. She disappeared back into the building.

His voice cracked. Was he seeing things now? No: she was out of the building again, getting into her car, driving the short distance to the gate. As she neared, Rebus saw that it really was her. And she was fine.

She stopped the car and got out. “Brimson,” she was saying. “He’s the one with the drugs… in cahoots with Johnson and Teri’s mother…” She’d brought Brimson’s keys, was finding the right one to use on the padlock.

“We know,” Rebus told her, but she wasn’t listening.

“Must’ve made a run for it… laid me out cold. I only came to when the phone started buzzing.” She yanked the padlock free, the chain coming with it. Pulled open the gate.

And was picked off the ground by Rebus, his hug enveloping her.

“Ow, ow, ow,” she said, causing him to ease off. “Bit bruised,” she explained, her eyes meeting his. He couldn’t help himself, planted his lips on hers. The kiss lingered, his eyes tight shut, hers wide open. She broke away, took a step back, tried to catch her breath.

“Not that I’m not overwhelmed or anything, but what’s this all about?”

27

It was Rebus’s turn to visit Siobhan in the hospital. She’d been admitted for a concussion, was due to stay the night.

“This is ridiculous,” she protested. “I’m fine, really I am.”

“You’ll stay where you are, young lady.”

“Oh, yes? Like you did, you mean?”

As if to emphasize her point, the same nurse who had changed Rebus’s dressings walked past, pushing an empty cart.

Rebus pulled a chair across and sat down.

“You didn’t bring anything, then?” she asked.

Rebus shrugged. “Been a bit rushed; you know how it is.”

“What’s the story with Peacock?”

“He’s doing a good impression of a clam. Not that it’ll do him any good. Way Gill Templer sees it, Herdman wouldn’t want the guns lying around in his own boathouse, so Peacock rented the one next door. That’s where Herdman worked on them, reconditioning them, and they were stored in the shed. When he put a bullet to his head, things got too hot, no way Peacock could shift them…”

“But then he panicked?”

“Either that or he just wanted to tool himself up for what was to come.”

Siobhan closed her eyes. “Thank God that didn’t happen.”

They stayed quiet for a couple of minutes. Then: “And Brimson?” she asked.

“What about him?”

“The way he decided to end it all…”

“I think he chickened out, right at the last.”

She opened her eyes again. “Or came to his senses, couldn’t bring himself to involve anyone apart from himself.”

Rebus shrugged. “Whatever… he’s another statistic for the armed forces to work on.”

“Maybe they’ll try to say it was an accident.”

“Maybe it was at that. Could be he was planning to loop the loop and then smash onto the highway, go out in a blaze of mayhem.”

“I prefer my version.”

“Then you stick to it.”

“And what about James Bell?”

“What about him?”

“Reckon we’ll ever understand how he could do it?”

Rebus shrugged again. “All I know is, the papers are going to have a field day with his dad.”

“And that’s good enough for you?”

“It’ll do to be going on with.”

“James and Lee Herdman… I don’t really get it.”

Rebus thought for a moment. “Maybe James reckoned he’d found himself a hero, someone different from his dad, someone whose respect he’d give his eyeteeth for.”

“Or kill for?” Siobhan guessed.

Rebus smiled and stood up, patted her arm.

“You going already?”

He shrugged. “Lots to be getting on with; we’re an officer short at the station.”

“Nothing that can’t wait till tomorrow?”

“Justice never sleeps, Siobhan. Which doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. Anything I can get you before I go?”

“A sense of having achieved something, maybe?”

“I’m not sure the vending machines are up to it, but I’ll see what I can do.”


He’d done it again.

Ended up drinking too much… slumped on the toilet seat back in his flat, jacket discarded on the hall floor. Leaning forwards, head in hands.

Last time… Last time had been the night Martin Fairstone had died. Rebus had spent too long in too many pubs, tracking down his prey. A few more whiskies back at Fairstone’s place, and a taxi home. Driver had had to wake him up when they reached Arden Street. Rebus reeking of cigarettes, wanting to slough it all off. Running a bath, just the hot tap, thinking he’d add cold later. Sitting on the lavatory, half-undressed, head in hands, eyes closed.

World tilting in the darkness, shifting on its axis, pitching him forwards so his head thumped against the rim of the bath… waking on his knees, hands burning.

Hands hanging over the side of the bath, scalded by the rising water…

Scalded.

No mystery about it.

The sort of thing that could happen to anyone.

Couldn’t it?

But not tonight. He got back to his feet, steadied himself, managed to make it through to the living room and into his chair, pushing it over to the window with his feet. The night was still and calm, lights on in the tenement windows across the way. Couples relaxing, checking on the kids. Singles awaiting pizza deliveries, or sitting down to the videos they’d rented. Students debating another night out at the pub, unstarted essays troubling them.

Few if any of them harboring mysteries. Fears, yes; doubts, most certainly. Maybe even guilt about tiny mistakes and misdemeanors.

But nothing to trouble the likes of Rebus. Not tonight. His fingers patted the floor, feeling for the telephone. He sat with it in his lap, thinking of giving Allan Renshaw a call. There were things he had to tell him.

He’d been thinking about families: not just his own, but all those connected to the case. Lee Herdman, walking away from his family; James and Jack Bell, seemingly with nothing to connect them but blood; Teri Cotter and her mother… And Rebus himself, replacing his own family with colleagues like Siobhan and Andy Callis, producing ties that oftentimes seemed stronger than blood.

He stared at the phone in his lap, reckoned it was a bit late now to call his cousin. Shrugged and mouthed the word “tomorrow.” Smiled at the memory of lifting Siobhan off her feet.

Decided to see if he could make it to his bed. The laptop was in “sleep” mode. He didn’t bother waking it; unplugged it instead. It could go back to the station tomorrow.

He came to a stop in the hallway and walked into the guest room, lifted the copy of The Wind in the Willows. He’d keep it near him so he wouldn’t forget. Tomorrow he’d make a gift of it to Bob.

Tomorrow, God and the devil willing.

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