Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“So what’s it got to do with the shooting?” Rebus asked.

She shrugged. “Nothing at all. It’s just that when I heard… when Dad phoned me… I suddenly remembered something Derek told me a few months after the crash. He said the dead boy’s family hated him. And that’s why I thought what I did. Soon as I remembered that, the word that jumped into my head was… revenge. ” She rose from her chair, holding on to Boethius, placing the cat on the vacant seat. “I think I should check on Dad. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Siobhan got up, too. “Kate,” she said, “how are you coping?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m sorry about your mother.”

“Don’t be. Her and Dad used to fight all the time. At least we don’t have that anymore…” And with another forced smile, Kate left the kitchen. Rebus looked at Siobhan, a slight raising of the eyebrows the only indication that he’d heard anything of interest in the past ten minutes. He followed Siobhan into the living room. It was dark outside now, and he switched on one of the lamps.

“Think I should close the curtains?” Siobhan asked.

“Reckon anyone would open them again come morning?”

“Maybe not.”

“Then leave them open.” Rebus switched on another lamp. “This place needs all the light it can get.” He sifted through some of the photos. Blurred faces, backdrops he recognized. Siobhan was studying the family portraits lining the room.

“The mother’s been erased from history,” she commented.

“Something else,” Rebus said casually. She looked at him.

“What?”

He waved an arm towards the shelf units. “It may be my imagination, but seems like there are more photos of Derek than there are of Kate.”

Siobhan saw what he meant. “What do we make of that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe some of the photos of Kate had her mother in them, too.”

“Then again, they sometimes say the youngest child becomes the parents’ favorite.”

“You’re speaking from experience?”

“I’ve got a younger brother, if that’s what you mean.”

Siobhan thought about this. “Do you think you should tell him?”

“Who?”

“Your brother.”

“Tell him he was always the apple of our dad’s eye?”

“No, tell him what’s happened here.”

“That would entail locating his whereabouts.”

“You don’t even know where your own brother is?”

Rebus shrugged. “That’s the way it is, Siobhan.”

They heard footsteps on the stairs. Kate came back into the room.

“He’s asleep,” she said. “He’s been sleeping a lot.”

“I’m sure it’s the best thing,” Siobhan said, almost wincing as the cliché trickled out.

“Kate,” Rebus interrupted, “we’re going to leave you alone now. But I’ve got one last question, if that’s all right with you.”

“I won’t know till I’ve heard it.”

“It’s just this: I’m wondering if you can tell us exactly when and where Derek’s car crash took place?”

D Division headquarters was a venerable old building in the middle of Leith. The drive from South Queensferry hadn’t taken too long-the evening traffic had been heading out of the city rather than in. The CID offices were quiet. Rebus reckoned everyone had been pulled to the school shooting. He found a member of the admin staff and asked her where the files might be kept. Siobhan was already stabbing at a keyboard, in case she could find anything that way. In the end, the file was tracked down to one of the storage closets, moldering on a shelf alongside hundreds of others. Rebus thanked the admin clerk.

“Happy to help,” she said. “This place has been a real graveyard today.”

“Just as well the villains don’t know that,” Rebus said with a wink.

She snorted. “It’s bad enough at the best of times.” By which she meant understaffing.

“I owe you a drink,” Rebus told her as she turned to go. Siobhan watched her wave a hand, not looking back.

“You didn’t even get her name,” she said.

“I won’t be buying her a drink either.” Rebus placed the file on a desk and sat down, making room so that Siobhan could slide a chair across to join him.

“Still seeing Jean?” she asked as he opened the file. Then she screwed up her face. Sitting on top of the sheets of paper was a glossy color photograph of the accident scene. The dead teenager had been wrenched from the driving seat, so that the upper half of his body was sprawled across the car hood. There were more photos underneath: autopsy shots. Rebus slid them beneath the file and started to read.

Two friends: Derek Renshaw, sixteen, and Stuart Cotter, seventeen. They’d decided to borrow Stuart’s dad’s car, a nippy Audi TT. The father was on a business trip, due back later that night, flying in and taking a taxi home. The boys had plenty of time, and decided to drive into Edinburgh. They had a drink at one of the shoreside bars in Leith, then headed for Salamander Street. The plan had been to hit the A1, put the car through its paces, then head for home. But Salamander Street looked to them like a nice racing straight. It was calculated that they’d probably been doing seventy when Stuart Cotter lost control. The car had tried braking for the light, spun across the road, up onto the sidewalk and into a brick wall. Head-on. Derek had been wearing a seat belt and survived. Stuart, despite the airbag, had not.

“Do you remember this?” Rebus asked Siobhan. She shook her head. He didn’t remember it either. Maybe he’d been away, or involved in a case of his own. If he’d come across the report… well, it was nothing he hadn’t seen too many times before. Young men confusing thrills with stupidity, adulthood with risk. The name Renshaw might have clicked with him, but there were a lot of Renshaws out there. He sought the name of the officer in charge. Detective Sergeant Calum McLeod. Rebus knew him vaguely: a good cop. Meaning the report would be scrupulous.

“I want to know something,” Siobhan said.

“What?”

“Are we seriously considering that this was a revenge killing?”

“No.”

“I mean, why wait a whole year? Not even a year to the day… thirteen months. Why wait that long?”

“No reason at all.”

“So we don’t think…”

“Siobhan, it’s a motive. Right now, I think that’s what Bobby Hogan wants from us. He wants to be able to say that Lee Herdman just lost it one day and decided to top a couple of schoolkids. What he doesn’t want is for the media to get hold of a conspiracy theory or anything that could make it look as though we’d left some stone unturned.” Rebus sighed. “Revenge is the oldest motive there is. If we clear Stuart Cotter’s family, it’s one less thing to worry about.”

Siobhan nodded. “Stuart’s father’s a businessman. Drives an Audi TT. Probably got the money to pay for someone like Herdman.”

“Fine, but why kill the judge’s son? And that other kid he wounded? Why kill himself, if it comes to it? That’s not what a hired assassin does.”

Siobhan shrugged. “You’d know more about that than me.” She flicked through more sheets. “Doesn’t say what line of business Mr. Cotter is in… Ah, here it is: entrepreneur. Well, that covers a multitude of sins.”

“What’s his first name?” Rebus had the notebook out but couldn’t hold the pen. Siobhan took it from him.

“William Cotter,” she said, writing it down and adding the address. “Family lives in Dalmeny. Where’s that?”

“Next door to South Queensferry.”

“Sounds posh: Long Rib House, Dalmeny. No street name or anything.”

“Things must be good in the entrepreneur business.” Rebus studied the word. “I’m not even sure I could spell it.” He read a little further. “Partner’s name is Charlotte, runs two tanning salons in the city.”