Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“What’s it like back in cattle class, Mr. Rebus?”

“I like it. The people tend to be that bit cleaner in their habits.”

“Now, now…” Another grin, this time accompanied by a wagging finger. “I won’t have uppity public servants soiling my VIP suite.”

“You’re going to love it in Barlinnie, Peacock,” Rebus said. “Put it another way: the guys in there are going to love you to absolute bits. Dressing up always tends to go down well in the Bar-L.”

“Mr. Rebus…” Johnson lowered his head and produced a sigh. “Vendettas are ugly things. Ask the Italians.”

Pettifer shifted in his chair, its legs scraping the floor. “Maybe if we could get back to the question of where you think Lee Herdman could have scored those guns…?”

“They’re mostly made in China these days, aren’t they?” Johnson said.

“I mean,” Pettifer went on, an edge creeping into his voice, “how would someone go about getting hold of them?”

Johnson gave an exaggerated shrug. “By the grip and the trigger?” He laughed at his own joke, laughed alone into the room’s silence. Then he shifted in his seat, tried for a solemn face. “Most gun sellers are Glasgow-based. They’re the cats you should be talking to.”

“Our colleagues in the west are doing just that,” Pettifer said. “But meantime, you can’t think of anyone in particular we should be asking?”

Johnson shrugged. “Search me.”

“You should do that, DC Pettifer,” Rebus said, making for the door. “You should definitely take him up on that…”

Outside, the situation was no calmer and there was no sign of Siobhan. Rebus guessed she’d retreated to the cafeteria, but instead of looking for her, he headed upstairs, glancing in on a couple of rooms before finding Evil Bob, who was being interviewed by a shirt-sleeved DS named George Silvers. Around St. Leonard’s, Silvers was known as “Hi-Ho.” He was a time-server, awaiting the oncoming pension with all the anticipation of a hitchhiker at a truck stop. He didn’t so much as nod when Rebus entered the room. There were a dozen questions on his list, and he wanted them asked and answered so that the specimen in front of him could be deposited back on the street. Bob watched as Rebus pulled a chair between the two men and sat down, his right knee only inches from Bob’s left. Bob squirmed.

“I’ve just been in with Peacock,” Rebus said, ignoring that he was interrupting one of Silvers’s questions. “He should change his name to canary.”

Bob stared at him dully. “Why’s that, then?”

“Why do you think?”

“Dunno.”

“What do canaries do?”

“Fly around… live in trees.”

“They live in your grannie’s fucking birdcage, you moron. And they sing.”

Bob thought about this; Rebus could almost hear the cogs grinding. With a lot of lowlifes, it was an act. Many of them were clever enough, wise not just in the ways of the street. But either Bob was Robert De Niro in full method mode, or else he was no actor at all.

“What sort of stuff?” he asked. Then he saw Rebus’s look. “I mean, what sort of stuff do they sing?”

Not De Niro, then…

“Bob,” Rebus said, elbows on knees, leaning close to the squat young man, “you hang around with Johnson, you’re going to spend half your life behind bars.”

“So?”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

Stupid question, Rebus realized as the words came out. The arch look from Silvers told him as much. Prison would be just another sleepwalking session for Bob. It would have no effect on him whatsoever.

“Peacock and me, we’re partners.”

“Oh, aye, and I’m sure he’s splitting it right down the middle. Come on, Bob…” Rebus smiled conspiratorially. “He’s ripping you off. Big grin on his face, blinding you with dental work. But he’s framing you. And when things start going wrong, guess who’ll be taking the fall? That’s why he keeps you around. You’re the guy in the panto who gets the custard pie in his face every performance. The pair of you buy and sell guns, for Christ’s sake! Think we’re not on to you?”

“Replicas,” Bob stated, as if remembering a lesson and repeating it rote. “For collectors to hang on their walls.”

“Oh, aye, everybody wants a bunch of fake Glock 17s and Walther PPKs above the fireplace…” Rebus straightened up. He didn’t know if it was possible to get through to Bob. There had to be something, a weakness to be exploited. But the guy was like so much wet dough. You could knead him, twist him all out of shape… you’d only ever end up with a spongy mass. He decided on one last try.

“One of these days, Bob, a kid’s going to draw one of your replicas and someone’ll take him down, thinking the gun’s real. It’s only a matter of time.” Rebus was aware that he was allowing some emotion to creep into his voice. Silvers was studying him, beginning to wonder what he was up to. Rebus looked at him, then shrugged, started to push up from the chair.

“Think about it, Bob, just do that for me.” Rebus tried for eye contact, but the young man was staring at the ceiling lights, as if at a fireworks display.

“I’ve never been to a panto…” he was starting to tell Silvers as Rebus left.

Siobhan, dumped by Rebus, had gone upstairs to CID. The main office was busy, detectives seated at borrowed desks, facing their interviewees. At her own desk, the computer monitor had been pushed to one side, her in-tray relegated to the floor. Detective Constable Davie Hynds was taking notes as a young man, pupils reduced to pinpoints, droned on.

“What’s wrong with your own desk?” Siobhan asked.

“DS Wylie pulled rank on me.” Hynds nodded towards where Detective Sergeant Ellen Wylie sat at his desk, preparing for her next interview. She looked up at the mention of her name and smiled. Siobhan smiled back. Wylie was based at the West End station. Same rank as Siobhan, but more years on her clock. Siobhan knew they might become rivals in the promotion stakes. She decided to squeeze her in-tray into one of the desk drawers, didn’t like the idea of this invasion. Each police station was a fiefdom of sorts. No telling what the raiders could take away with them…

When she picked up the in-tray, she saw the corner of a white envelope poking out from beneath a series of stapled reports. She eased it out, then placed the in-tray in the desk’s single deep drawer, closing and locking it. Hynds was looking at her.

“Nothing you need, is there?” Siobhan asked him. He shook his head, wondering if an explanation was on its way. But all Siobhan did was walk away, heading back downstairs to the drink machine. It was more peaceful down here. A couple of the visiting detectives were on a break, smoking and sharing some joke in the car park. She didn’t see Rebus there, so she stayed by the machine, opening the ice-cold can. The sugar hit her teeth and then her stomach. She found the can’s list of contents, reminding herself that the panic attack books said to lay off caffeine. She was trying to find room in her affections for decaf coffee, and she knew there were caffeine-free soft drinks out there somewhere. Salt: that was another one to avoid. High blood pressure and all that. Alcohol was all right in moderation. She wondered if a bottle of wine in the evening after work could be classed as “moderate,” doubted it somehow. Thing was, if she drank half a bottle, the rest tasted foul the next day. Memo to self: explore possibility of buying half-bottles of wine only.

She remembered the envelope, lifted it from her pocket. Handwritten, more of a scrawl really. She put her can down on top of the machine, already getting a bad feeling as she peeled the envelope open. Just a single sheet of paper, she was sure of that. No razor blades, no glass… Plenty of nutters out there keen to share their thoughts with her. She unfolded the letter. Big scrawled capitals.