Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“I took precautions.”

“What kind of precautions?”

“The usual: watched my back… tried not to go in or out after dark unless someone else was around.”

Rebus rested his head against the back of his chair. The music had finished. “Want to hear something else?” he asked.

“I want to hear you say that the last time you saw Fairstone was the time you had that fight.”

“I’d be lying.”

“So when did you see him?”

Rebus angled his head to look at her. “The night he died.” He paused. “But then, you already know that, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Templer told me.”

“I was just out for a drink, that’s all. Ended up next to him in a pub. We had a bit of a chat.”

“About me?”

“About the black eye. He said it was self-defense.” He paused. “Way you tell it, maybe it was.”

“Which pub was it?”

Rebus shrugged. “Somewhere near Gracemount.”

“Since when did you start drinking so far from the Oxford Bar?”

He looked at her. “So maybe I wanted to talk to him.”

“You went hunting for him?”

“Listen to Little Miss Prosecution!” Color had risen to Rebus’s face.

“And no doubt half the pub clocked you as CID,” she stated. “Which is how Templer found out.”

“Is that called ‘leading the witness’?”

“I can fight my own battles, John!”

“And he’d have put you on the deck every time. This bastard had a history of thumping people. You saw his record…”

“That didn’t give you the right -”

“We’re not talking about rights here.” Rebus leapt from the chair and made for the dining table, helping himself to a fresh bottle. “You want one?”

“Not if I’m driving.”

“Your choice.”

“That’s right, John. My choice, not yours.”

“I didn’t top him, Siobhan. All I did was…” Rebus swallowed back the words.

“What?” She’d turned her body on the sofa to face him. “What?” she repeated.

“I went back to his house.” She just stared, mouth open a fraction. “He invited me back.”

“He invited you?”

Rebus nodded. The bottle opener trembled in his hand. He delegated the job to Siobhan, who returned the opened bottle to him. “Bastard liked playing games, Siobhan. Said we should go back and have a drink, bury the hatchet.”

“Bury the hatchet?”

“His exact words.”

“And that’s what you did?”

“He wanted to talk… not about you, about anything but. Time he’d served, cell stories, how he grew up. Usual sob story, dad who thumped him, mum who didn’t care…”

“And you sat there and listened?”

“I sat there thinking how badly I wanted to smack him.”

“But you didn’t?”

Rebus shook his head. “He was pretty dopey by the time I left.”

“Not in the kitchen, though?”

“In the living room…”

“Did you see the kitchen?”

Rebus shook his head again.

“Have you told Templer this?”

He made to rub his forehead, then remembered that it would hurt like blazes. “Just go home, Siobhan.”

“I had to pull the two of you apart. Next thing you’re back at his house sharing a drink and a chat? You expect me to believe that?”

“I’m not asking you to believe anything. Just go home.”

She stood up. “I can -”

“I know, you can look after yourself.” Rebus sounded tired all of a sudden.

“I was going to say, I can wash the dishes, if you like.”

“That’s okay, I’ll do them tomorrow. Let’s just get some sleep, eh?” He walked across to the room’s large bay window, stared down at the quiet street.

“What time do you want to be picked up?”

“Eight.”

“Eight it is.” She paused. “Someone like Fairstone, he must have had enemies.”

“Almost certainly.”

“Maybe someone saw you with him, waited till you’d left…”

“See you tomorrow, Siobhan.”

“He was a bastard, John. I keep expecting to hear you say that.” She deepened her voice. “‘World’s better off without him.’”

“I don’t remember saying that.”

“You would have, though, not so long ago.” She made towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He waited, expecting to hear the lock click shut. Instead, he could hear a background gurgling of water. He drank from the bottle of lager, staring from the window. She did not emerge onto the street. When the living-room door opened, he could hear the bath filling.

“You going to scrub my back, too?”

“Beyond the call of duty.” She looked at him. “But a change of clothes wouldn’t be a bad idea. I can help you sort some out.”

He shook his head. “Really, I can manage.”

“I’ll hang around till you’re done in the bath… just to make sure you can get out again.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll wait anyway.” She’d walked towards him, plucked the lager from his loose grasp. Lifted it to her mouth.

“Better keep the water tepid,” he warned her.

She nodded, swallowed. “There’s just one thing I’m curious about.”

“What?”

“What do you do when you need the toilet?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I do what a man’s got to do.”

“Something tells me that’s as much as I need to know.” She handed back the bottle. “I’ll check the water’s not too hot this time round…”

Afterwards, wrapped in a toweling robe, he watched as she emerged at street level, looking up and down the sidewalk before making for her car. Looking up and down the sidewalk: checking her back, even though the bogeyman had gone.

Rebus knew there were more of them out there. Plenty of men like Martin Fairstone. Teased at school, becoming the “runt,” tagging along with gangs who would make jokes about him. But growing stronger for it, graduating to violence and petty theft, the only life he would ever know. He had told his story, and Rebus had listened.

“Reckon I need to see a head doctor, get myself checked out, like? See, what’s on the inside of your head isn’t always the same as what you do on the outside. Does that sound like pish? Maybe it’s because I’m pished. There’s more whiskey when you need a top-up. Just say the word, I’m not used to doing the whole host bit, know what I’m saying? Just chantering away here, don’t pay any heed…”

And more… so much more, with Rebus listening, taking small sips of whiskey, knowing he was feeling it. Four pubs he’d been to before tracking Fairstone down. And when the monologue had finally dried up, Rebus had leaned forwards. They were seated in squishy armchairs, coffee table between them with a cardboard box beneath in place of the missing leg. Two glasses, a bottle, and an overflowing ashtray, and Rebus leaning forwards now to say his first words in nearly half an hour.

“Marty, let’s put all this shit with DS Clarke on the back burner, eh? Fact is, I couldn’t give a monkey’s. But there is a question I’ve been meaning to ask…”

“What’s that?” Fairstone, heavy-lidded in his chair, cigarette held between thumb and forefinger.

“I heard a story that you know Peacock Johnson. Anything you can tell me about him?”

Rebus at the window, thinking about how many painkillers were left in the bottle. Thinking about nipping out for a proper drink. Turning from the window and making for his bedroom. Opening the top drawer and pulling out ties and socks, finally finding what he’d been looking for.

Winter gloves. Black leather, nylon-lined. Never worn, until now.

There were times when Rebus could swear he smelled his wife’s perfume on the cold pillow. Impossible: two decades of separation, not even a pillow she’d slept on or pressed her head against. Other perfumes, too-other women. He knew they were an illusion, knew he wasn’t really smelling them. Rather, he was smelling their absence.