Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“These army bastards,” Rebus began. Hogan held up the same hand.

“You just have to accept them.”

“Come on, they’re not here to shed any light. If anything, it’ll be the opposite. They want his SAS past forgotten, hence the plainclothes. For Whiteread, read ‘whitewash.’”

“Look, I’m sorry if they’re stepping on your toes -”

“Or trampling us to death,” Rebus interrupted.

“John, this investigation’s bigger than you and me, bigger than anything! ” Hogan’s voice had risen, quavering slightly. “Last thing I need is this sort of shit!”

“Language, please, Bobby,” Rebus said, glancing meaningfully towards Fogg.

As Rebus had hoped, Hogan started to remember Rebus’s own recent outburst, and his face cracked into a smile.

“Just get on with it, eh?”

“We’re on your side, Bobby.”

Siobhan took a step forwards. “One thing we’d like to do…”-she ignored Rebus’s gaze, a gaze that said this was the first he’d heard of it-“is interview the survivor.”

Hogan frowned. “James Bell? What for?” His eyes were on Rebus, but it was Siobhan who answered.

“Because he survived, and he’s the only one in the room who did.”

“We’ve talked to him half a dozen times. Kid’s in shock, God knows what else.”

“We’d go easy,” Siobhan insisted quietly.

“ You might, but then it’s not you that worries me…” His eyes were still on Rebus.

“It’d be good to hear it from someone who was there,” Rebus said. “How Herdman acted, anything he said. Nobody seems to have seen him that morning: not the neighbors, no one at the marina. We need to fill in some of the blanks.”

Hogan sighed. “First of all, listen to the tapes.” Meaning recordings of the interviews with James Bell. “If you still think you need to see him face-to-face… well, we’ll see.”

“Thank you, sir,” Siobhan said, feeling the moment merited a certain formality.

“I said we’ll see: no promises.” Hogan raised a warning finger.

“And take another look at his finances?” Rebus added. “Just in case.”

Hogan nodded tiredly.

“Ah, there you are!” a voice boomed. Jack Bell was marching down the corridor towards them.

“Oh, Christ,” Hogan muttered. But Bell’s attention was focused on the principal.

“Eric,” he said loudly, “what the hell’s this I’m hearing that you won’t go on the record about the school’s inadequate security?”

“The school had adequate security, Jack,” Fogg said with a sigh, indicating that this was an argument he’d had before.

“Complete rubbish, and you know it. Look, all I’m trying to do is highlight that the lessons of Dunblane have not been learned.” He held up a finger. “Our schools still aren’t safe…” A second finger was raised. “And guns are flooding the streets.” He paused for effect. “And something’s got to be done, you must see that.” His eyes narrowed. “I could have lost my son!”

“A school is not a fortress, Jack,” the principal pleaded, but to no effect.

“Nineteen ninety-seven,” Bell steamrollered on, “aftermath of Dunblane, hand weapons above.22 were banned. Legitimate owners surrendered their weapons, and what did that leave us?” He looked around, but no answer was forthcoming. “The only people hanging on to their guns were the underworld, who seem to find it increasingly easy to get hold of any amount of armaments they desire!”

“You’re preaching to the wrong audience,” Rebus stated.

Bell stared at him. “Maybe I am,” he agreed, pointing a finger. “Because you lot seem utterly incapable of tackling the problem to any degree whatsoever!”

“Now hang on, sir,” Hogan started to argue.

“Let him rattle on, Bobby,” Rebus interrupted. “The hot air might help keep the school heated.”

“How dare you!” Bell snarled. “What makes you think you can talk to me like that?”

“I suppose I just elected to,” Rebus retorted, stressing the word, reminding the MSP of the precarious nature of his calling.

In the silence that followed, Bell’s mobile phone began to trill. He managed a sneer in Rebus’s direction before turning on his heels, moving a few paces back down the corridor as he answered the call.

“Yes? What?” Glanced at his wristwatch. “Is it radio or TV?” Listened again. “Local radio or national? I’ll only do national…” He kept walking, leaving his audience to relax a little, sharing looks and gestures.

“Right,” the principal was saying, “I suppose I’d best get back to…”

“Mind if I walk you to your office, sir?” Hogan asked. “Couple more things we need to talk about.” He nodded to Rebus and Siobhan. “Back to work,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Siobhan agreed. Suddenly the corridor was empty, save for Rebus and her. She puffed out her cheeks, then exhaled noisily. “Bell’s a real piece of work.”

Rebus nodded. “He’s ready to exploit this whole thing to the hilt.”

“He wouldn’t be a politician if he didn’t.”

“Natural instincts, eh? Funny how things turn out. His career could have gone down the toilet pan after he was nabbed in Leith.”

“Think he wants a spot of revenge?”

“He’ll drag us down if he can. We have to make sure we’re moving targets.”

“And that was you being a ‘moving target,’ was it? Answering him back like that?”

“Man’s got to have a little fun, Siobhan.” Rebus stared down the empty corridor. “You think Bobby’s going to be okay?”

“He looked knackered, if I’m being honest. By the way… you don’t think he needs to be told?”

“Told what?”

“That the Renshaws are your family.”

Rebus fixed her with his eyes. “Might lead to complications. I don’t think Bobby needs any more of those right now.”

“It’s your decision.”

“That’s right, it is. And we both know I’m never wrong.”

“I’d forgotten that,” Siobhan said.

“Happy to remind you, DS Clarke. Always happy to oblige…”

The South Queensferry police station was a squat box, most of it single-story, sited across the road from an Episcopal church. A notice outside stated that the station was open for public inquiries between nine and five on weekdays, manned by a “civilian assistant.” Another notice explained that there was, contrary to local rumors, a twenty-four-hour police presence in the town. This soulless spot was where the witnesses had been interviewed, all except James Bell.

“Cozy, isn’t it?” Siobhan said, pulling open the front door. There was a short, narrow waiting area, its only inhabitant a constable, who put down his bike magazine and lifted himself from his seat.

“At ease,” Rebus told him while Siobhan showed her ID. “We need to listen to the Bell tapes.”

The officer nodded and unlocked an interior door, leading them into a dispiriting, windowless room. The desk and chairs had seen better days. Last year’s calendar-promoting the merits of a local shop-curled on one wall. There was a tape player on top of a filing cabinet. The uniform lifted it down and plugged it in, placing it on the desk. Then he unlocked the cabinet and found the correct tape, sealed in a clear plastic bag.

“This is the first of six,” he explained. “You’ll need to sign for it.” Siobhan did the necessary.

“Any ashtrays around here?” Rebus asked.

“No, sir. Smoking’s not allowed.”

“That was more information than I needed.”

“Yes, sir.” The constable was trying not to stare at Rebus’s gloves.

“Is there so much as a kettle?”

“No, sir.” The constable paused. “Neighbors sometimes drop off a flask or a bit of cake.”