Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“What was it… nine, ten months back?”

“They put him in Barlinnie, but he flipped, went for another prisoner, then started cutting at himself.”

“So where’s he now?”

“Carbrae Special Hospital.”

Rebus was thoughtful. “You think Herdman was after the judge’s son?”

“It’s a possibility. Revenge and all that…”

Yes, revenge. That word now hung over both the dead boys…

“I’m going to see him,” Hogan was saying.

“Niles? Is he fit to see anyone?”

“Seems like. Want to tag along?”

“Bobby, I’m flattered. Why me?”

“Because Niles is ex-SAS, John. Served alongside Herdman. If anyone knows the inside of Lee Herdman’s head, it’s him.”

“A killer locked up in a psycho ward? My, aren’t we lucky.”

“The offer’s there, John.”

“When?”

“I was thinking first thing tomorrow. It’s a couple of hours by car.”

“Count me in.”

“Good man. Who knows, you might get stuff out of Niles… empathy and all that.”

“You think so?”

“Way I see it, one look at your hands, and he’ll take you for a fellow sufferer.”

Hogan was chuckling as Rebus handed the phone to Siobhan. She ended the call.

“I got most of that,” she said. Her phone chirruped immediately. It was Gill Templer.

“How come Rebus never answers his phone?” Templer bellowed.

“I think he has it switched off,” Siobhan said, eyes on Rebus. “He can’t push the buttons.”

“Funny, I’ve always taken him for an expert at pushing buttons.” Siobhan smiled: Especially yours, she thought.

“Do you want him?” she asked.

“I want the pair of you back here,” Templer said. “Pronto, with no excuses.”

“What’s happened?”

“You’ve got trouble, that’s what. The worst kind…” Templer let her words hang in the air. Siobhan saw what she must mean.

“The papers?”

“Bingo. Someone’s on to the story, only they’ve added some bells and whistles that I’d like John to explain to me.”

“What sort of bells and whistles?”

“He was spotted leaving the pub with Martin Fairstone, walking home with him, in fact. Spotted leaving, too, a good while later, and just before the house went up in flames. The paper in question is getting ready to lead with it.”

“We’re on our way.”

“I’ll be waiting.” The phone went dead. Siobhan started the car.

“We’ve to go back to St. Leonard’s,” she informed Rebus, going on to explain why.

“Which paper is it?” was all Rebus said at the end of a lengthy silence.

“I didn’t ask.”

“Call her again.”

Siobhan looked at him but made the call.

“Give me the phone,” Rebus ordered. “Don’t want you going off the road.”

He took the phone and held it to his ear, asked to be put through to the chief super’s office.

“It’s John,” he said when Templer answered. “Who’s got the story?”

“Reporter by the name of Steve Holly. And the sod’s like a terrier at a lamppost convention.”

I knew it would look bad,” Rebus explained to Templer. “That’s why I didn’t say anything.” They were in Templer’s office at St. Leonard’s. She was seated, Rebus standing. She held a sharpened pencil in one hand, manipulating it, studying its tip, maybe weighing it as a weapon. “You lied to me.”

“I just left out a few details, Gill…”

“A few details?”

“None of them relevant.”

“You went back to his house!”

“We had a drink together.”

“Just you and a known criminal who’d been threatening your closest colleague? Who’d made an allegation of assault against you?”

“I had a word with him. We didn’t argue or anything.” Rebus began to fold his arms, but this served to increase the blood pressure in his hands, so he unfolded them again. “Ask the neighbors, see if they heard raised voices. I’ll tell you right now, they didn’t. We were drinking whiskey in the living room.”

“Not the kitchen?”

Rebus shook his head. “I wasn’t in the kitchen all night.”

“What time did you leave?”

“No idea. Gone midnight, easy.”

“Not long before the fire, then?”

“Long enough.”

She stared at him.

“The man had had a skinful, Gill. We’ve all seen it: they get the munchies, turn on the chip pan, and fall asleep. It’s either that or the lit cigarette down the side of the sofa.”

Templer tested the pencil’s sharpness against her finger.

“How much trouble am I in?” Rebus asked, the silence getting to him.

“Depends on Steve Holly. He makes a song and dance, we have to be seen to be doing something about it.”

“Like putting me on suspension?”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“I don’t suppose I could blame you.”

“That’s awfully magnanimous, John. Why did you go to his house?”

“He asked me. I think he liked playing games. That’s all Siobhan was to him. Then I came along. He sat there feeding me drinks, spouting on about his adventures… I think it gave him a buzz.”

“And what did you think you were going to get out of it?”

“I don’t know exactly… I thought it might distract him from Siobhan.”

“She asked you for help?”

“No.”

“No, I’ll bet she didn’t. Siobhan can fight her own battles.”

Rebus nodded.

“So it’s a coincidence?”

“Fairstone was a disaster waiting to happen. It’s a blessing he didn’t take anyone else with him.”

“A blessing?”

“I won’t be losing too much sleep, Gill.”

“No, I suppose that would be too much to ask.”

Rebus straightened his back, held on to the silence, embracing it. Templer flinched. She’d drawn a bead of blood from her finger with the pencil tip.

“Final warning, John,” she said, dropping her hand, unwilling to deal with the injury-that sudden fallibility-in front of him.

“Yes, Gill.”

“Final means final with me.”

“I understand. Want me to fetch a Band-Aid?” His hand reached for the doorknob.

“I want you to leave.”

“If you’re sure there’s nothing -”

“Out!”

Rebus closed the door after him, feeling the muscles in his legs starting to work again. Siobhan was standing not ten feet away, one questioning eyebrow raised. Rebus gave her an awkward thumbs-up, and she shook her head slowly: I don’t know how you get away with it.

He wasn’t sure he knew either.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he said. “Cafeteria coffee all right?”

“That’s pushing the boat out.”

“I’m on a final warning. It’s hardly the winning goal at Hampden.”

“More of a throw-in at Easter Road?”

She managed a smile from him. He felt an aching in his jaw, the feeling of sustained tension that a simple smile could displace.

Downstairs, however, it was chaos. People milled around, the interview rooms all seemed to be full. Rebus recognized faces from Leith CID, meaning Hogan’s team. He grabbed an elbow.

“What’s going on?”

The face glowered at him, then softened as he was recognized. The detective constable’s name was Pettifer. He’d been only half a year in CID; already he was toughening up nicely.

“Leith’s jam-packed,” Pettifer explained. “Thought we’d use St. Leonard’s for the overflow.”

Rebus looked around. Pinched faces, ill-fitting clothes, bad haircuts… the cream of Edinburgh’s lower depths. Informers, junkies, touts, scammers, housebreakers, muscle, alkies. The station was filling with their mingled scents, their slurred, expletive-strewn protestations. They’d fight anyone, anytime. Where were their lawyers? Nothing to drink? Needing a pish. What was the game? What about human rights? No dignity in this fascist state…