Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“I’ve been thinking of trying one of those,” Siobhan said.

“Now’s your chance.” Rebus was almost at the bottom of the page. “One daughter, Teri, aged fourteen at the time of the crash. Making her fifteen now.” He frowned in concentration and tried as best he could to sift through the other sheets.

“What are you looking for?”

“A photo of the family…” He was in luck. DS McLeod had indeed been scrupulous, clipping newspaper stories about the case. One tabloid had got hold of a family snapshot, mum and dad on the sofa, son and daughter behind so that only their faces could be seen. Rebus was fairly sure he recognized the girl. Teri. Miss Teri. What was it she’d said to him?

You can see me whenever you like…

What the hell had she meant by that?

Siobhan had seen the look on his face. “Not someone else you know?”

“Bumped into her when I was walking to the Boatman’s. She’s changed a bit though.” He studied the shining, makeup-free face. The hair seemed mousy-brown rather than jet-black. “Dyed her hair, powdered her face white with big black eyes and mouth… black clothes, too.”

“A Goth, you mean? That’s why you were asking me about heavy metal?”

He nodded.

“Think it has anything to do with her brother’s death?”

“Might have. There’s something else, though.”

“What?”

“It was what she said… Something about not being sad they were dead…”

They got takeaway food from Rebus’s favorite curry house on Causewayside. While the order was being filled, a liquor store down the street yielded six bottles of chilled lager.

“Fairly abstemious really,” Siobhan said, hoisting the shopping bag from the counter.

“You don’t honestly think I’m sharing these?” Rebus stated.

“I’m sure I can twist your arm.”

They took the provisions to his flat in Marchmont, parking the car in the last space going. The flat was two flights up. Rebus fumbled to slot the key into the lock.

“I’ll do it,” Siobhan said.

Inside, the flat was musty. There was a fug which could have been bottled as eau de bachelor. Stale food, alcohol, sweat. CDs were scattered across the living-room carpet, marking out a trail between the hi-fi and Rebus’s favorite chair. Siobhan left the food on the dining table and went into the kitchen for plates and cutlery. There were few signs that anyone had been cooking of late. Two mugs in the sink, a margarine tub open on the draining board, its contents spotted with mold. A shopping list in the form of a yellow Post-it note had been stuck to the refrigerator door: bread / milk / marge / bacon / b.sauce / w.up liq / lightbulbs. The note was beginning to curl, and she wondered how long it had been there.

When she returned to the living room, Rebus had managed to put on a CD. It was something she’d given him as a present: Violet Indiana.

“You like it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I thought you might.” Meaning he hadn’t got around to playing it until now.

“Better than some of that dinosaur stuff you play in your car.”

“Don’t forget, you’re speaking to a dinosaur.”

She smiled and started lifting containers out of the bag. Glancing over to the hi-fi, she saw Rebus chewing on a bandage.

“You can’t be that hungry.”

“Easier to eat with these things off.” He started unwinding the strips of gauze, first one hand and then the other. She noticed that he slowed down as he got closer to the end. Finally, both hands were revealed, red and blistered and hot-looking. He tried flexing his fingers.

“Time for some more tablets?” Siobhan suggested.

He nodded, went over to the table and sat down. She opened a couple of lagers and they started to eat. Rebus didn’t have a strong grip on his fork, but he persevered, dripping dollops of sauce onto the table but managing to avoid splashing his shirt. They ate in silence, other than to comment on the food. When they’d finished, Siobhan cleared the table and wiped it clean.

“Better add Handi Wipes to your shopping list,” she said.

“What shopping list?” Rebus sat down in his chair, resting a second bottle of lager on his thigh. “Can you see if there’s any cream?”

“Are we having dessert?”

“I mean in the bathroom-antiseptic cream.”

Dutifully, she checked the cabinet, noticing that the bath was full to the brim. The water looked cold. She came back holding a blue tube. “For stings and infections,” she said.

“That’ll do.” He took the tube from her and rubbed a thick layer of white cream over both hands. She’d opened her second bottle, rested against an arm of the sofa.

“Want me to let the water out?” she asked.

“What water?”

“The bath. You forgot to pull the plug. I’m assuming it’s the one you say you fell into…”

Rebus looked at her. “Who’ve you been talking to?”

“Doctor at the hospital. He sounded skeptical.”

“So much for patient confidentiality,” Rebus muttered. “Well, at least he’ll have told you they really are scalds, not burns?” She twitched her nose. “Thanks for checking up on my story.”

“I just knew it wasn’t very likely you’d be washing dishes. Now, about that bathwater…?”

“I’ll do it later.” He sat back, took a swig from his bottle. “Meantime, what are we going to do about Martin Fairstone?”

She shrugged, slid down onto the sofa proper. “What are we supposed to do? Apparently, neither of us killed him.”

“Talk to any fireman, they’ll all say the same thing: you want to do someone in and get away with it, you get them blind drunk and then turn on the chip pan.”

“So?”

“It’s something every cop knows, too.”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t an accident.”

“We’re cops, Siobhan: guilty until proven innocent. When did Fairstone give you that shiner?”

“How do you know it was him?” The look on Rebus’s face told her he felt insulted by the question. She sighed. “The Thursday before he died.”

“What happened?”

“He must’ve been following me. I was unloading bags of groceries from the car, carrying them into the stairwell. When I turned round, he was biting into an apple. He’d lifted it from one of the bags sitting at the curb. Had this big smile on his face. I walked right up to him… I was furious. Now he knew where I lived. I gave him a slap…” She smiled at the memory. “The apple went flying halfway across the road.”

“He could have had you for assault.”

“Well, he didn’t. He threw a fast right, caught me just below the eye. I staggered back and tripped over the step. Landed on my backside. He just walked away, picking up the apple again as he crossed the road.”

“You didn’t report it?”

“No.”

“Tell anyone how it happened?”

She shook her head. She remembered Rebus asking her; she’d shaken her head then, too. But knowing… knowing he wouldn’t have to work too hard. “Only after I found out he was dead,” she said. “I went to the boss and told her.”

There was a silence between them. Bottles were raised to mouths, eyes meeting eyes. Siobhan swallowed and licked her lips.

“I didn’t kill him,” Rebus said quietly.

“He made that complaint about you.”

“And withdrew it pronto.”

“Then it was an accident.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Guilty until proven innocent,” he repeated.

Siobhan lifted her drink. “Here’s to the guilty.”

Rebus managed a half-smile. “That was the last time you saw him?” he asked.

She nodded. “What about you?”

“Weren’t you scared he’d come back?” He saw the look she gave him. “Okay, not ‘scared,’ then… but you must have wondered?”