Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

The shed was just that: a shed, albeit a well-fed example of the species. About twenty feet wide, knocked together from a mixture of wooden slats and corrugated metal. Half its width was a sliding door, which stood closed. Two sets of chains lay on the ground, evidence that police had forced their way in with bolt cutters. A length of blue and white tape had replaced the chains, and someone had fixed an official notice to the door, warning that entry was prohibited under pain of prosecution. A handmade sign above announced that the shed was actually “SKI AND BOAT-prop. L. Herdman.”

“Catchy title,” Rebus mused as Siobhan untied the tape and pushed the door open.

“Does exactly what it says on the tin,” she responded in kind. This was where Herdman ran his business, teaching fledgling sailors and scaring the wits out of his water-skiing clientele. Inside, Rebus could see a dinghy, maybe a twenty-footer. It sat on a trailer whose tires needed some air. There were a couple of powerboats, too, again on trailers, their outboard motors gleaming, as was a new-looking Jet Ski. The place was almost too tidy, as though swept and polished by an obsessive. Against one wall stood a workbench, the tools neatly arrayed on the wall above. A single oily rag gave the clue that mechanical work might actually go on here, lest the unwary visitor suspect they’d stepped into the marina’s exhibit space.

“Where was the gun found?” Rebus asked, walking in.

“Cabinet under the workbench.”

Rebus looked: a neatly severed padlock lay on the concrete floor. The cabinet door was open, showing only a selection of ratchets and wrenches.

“Don’t suppose there’s much left for us to find,” Siobhan stated.

“Probably not.” But Rebus was still interested, curious as to what the space could tell him about Lee Herdman. So far it told him Herdman had been a conscientious worker, tidying up after himself. His flat had indicated a man who wasn’t nearly as fussy in his personal life. But professionally… professionally, Herdman gave a hundred percent. This chimed with his background. In the army, it didn’t matter how messy your personal life might be, you didn’t let it interfere with your work. Rebus had known soldiers whose marriages were collapsing but still kept their kit immaculate, perhaps because, as one RSM had put it, the army’s the best fucking shag you’ll ever have…

“What do you think?” Siobhan asked.

“It’s almost as if he was waiting for a visit from Health and Safety.”

“Looks to me like his boats are worth more than his flat.”

“Agreed.”

“Signs of a split personality…”

“How so?”

“Chaotic home life, quite the opposite at his place of work. Cheap flat and furnishings, expensive boats…”

“Quite the little psychoanalyst,” a voice boomed from behind them. The speaker was a stocky woman of about fifty, hair pulled back so tightly into a bun that it seemed to push her face forwards. She was wearing a black two-piece suit and plain black shoes, olive-colored blouse with a string of pearls at the neck. A black leather backpack was slung over one shoulder. Next to her stood a tall, broad-shouldered man maybe half her age, black hair cropped short, hands pressed together in front of him. He wore a dark suit, white shirt and navy tie.

“You’ll be Detective Inspector Rebus,” the woman said, stepping forwards briskly as if to shake hands, unfazed when Rebus didn’t reciprocate. Her voice had dropped a single decibel. “I’m Whiteread, this is Simms.” Her small, beady eyes fixed on Rebus. “You’ve been to the flat, I take it? DI Hogan said you might…” Her voice drifted off as she moved just as briskly away from Rebus, into the interior of the shed. She circled the dinghy, inspecting it with a buyer’s eye. English accent, Rebus was thinking.

“I’m DS Clarke,” Siobhan piped up. Whiteread stared at her and gave the briefest of smiles.

“Of course you are,” she said.

Simms had walked forwards in the meantime, repeating his name by way of introduction and then turning to Siobhan to go through the exact same procedure, but this time with a handshake. His accent was English, too, voice emotionless, the pleasantries a formality.

“Where was the gun found?” Whiteread asked. Then she noticed the broken padlock and answered her own question with a nod, walking over to the cabinet and squatting down sharply in front of it, her skirt rising to just above the knees.

“Mac- 10,” she stated. “Notorious for jamming.” She stood up again, patted her skirt back down.

“Better than some kit,” Simms responded. Introductions over, he was standing between Rebus and Siobhan, legs slightly apart, back straight, hands again clasped in front of him.

“Care to show some ID?” Rebus asked.

“DI Hogan knows we’re here,” Whiteread replied casually. She was examining the surface of the workbench now. Rebus followed her slowly.

“I asked you for ID,” he said.

“I’m well aware of that,” Whiteread said, her attention shifting to what looked like a small office at the rear of the building. She made off towards it, Rebus at her heels.

“You’re marching,” he warned her. “Dead giveaway.” She said nothing. The office had once sported a large padlock, but it, too, had been broken open, and the door fixed shut afterwards with more police-issue tape. “Plus your partner used the word ‘kit,’” Rebus went on. Whiteread peeled the tape away and looked inside. Desk, chair, a single filing cabinet. No space for anything else, other than what looked like a two-way radio on a shelf. No computers or copiers or fax machines. The desk drawers had been opened, contents examined. Whiteread lifted out a sheaf and started flipping through.

“You’re army,” Rebus stated into the silence. “You might be in mufti, but you’re still army. No women in the SAS as far as I know, so what does that make you?”

She snapped her head towards him. “It makes me someone who can help.”

“Help what?”

“With this sort of thing.” She went back to her work. “To stop it from happening again.”

Rebus stared at her. Siobhan and Simms were standing just outside the door. “Siobhan, call Bobby Hogan for me. I want to know what he knows about these two.”

“He knows we’re here,” Whiteread said, not looking up. “He even told me we might be bumping into you. How else would I know your name?”

Siobhan had the mobile in her hand. “Make the call,” Rebus told her.

Whiteread stuffed the paperwork back into its drawer and pushed it shut. “You never quite made it into the regiment, did you, DI Rebus?” She turned slowly towards him. “Way I hear it, the training broke you.”

“How come you’re not in uniform?” Rebus asked.

“It scares some people,” Whiteread said.

“Is that it? Couldn’t be that you don’t want to add to all the bad publicity?” Rebus was smiling coldly. “Doesn’t look good when one of your own throws a maddie, does it? Last thing you want is to remind everybody that he was one of yours.”

“What’s done is done. If we can stop it from happening again, so much the better.” She paused, standing right in front of him. Half a foot shorter, but every bit his equal. “Why should you have a problem with that?” Now she returned his smile. If his had been cold, hers came straight from the deep freeze. “You fell down, didn’t make the grade. No need to let that get to you, Detective Inspector.”

Rebus heard “Detective” as “Defective.” Either her accent, or she’d been trying for the pun. Siobhan had been connected, but it was taking a few moments for Hogan to come to the phone.

“We should take a look in the boat,” Whiteread said to her partner, squeezing past Rebus.