Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“We think maybe murder,” he said, nodding slowly. “Some evidence that he was tied to the chair. I have photos…” He reached into a briefcase that was on the floor next to him.

“Doc,” Rebus was saying, “you probably shouldn’t be showing me these.”

“I know, and I wouldn’t if I thought there was the slightest chance that you were involved.” He looked up. “But I know you, John.”

Rebus was looking towards the briefcase. “People have been wrong about me before.”

“Maybe.”

The manila file was on the table between them, resting on damp coasters. Rebus picked it up, opened it. There were a couple of dozen photographs of the kitchen, wisps of smoke still evident in the background. Martin Fairstone was barely recognizable as human. More like a blackened, blistered store mannequin. He was lying facedown. A chair lay behind him, reduced to a couple of stumps and part of the seat. What got Rebus was the oven. For some reason, its surface had been left mostly untouched. He could see the chip pan sitting on one of its rings. Christ, clean it up and it might still be useable… Hard to think that a chip pan could survive where a human couldn’t.

“What you’ll see from this is the way the chair has fallen. It’s tipped forwards, taking the victim with it. It’s almost like he fell on his knees, pitched that way, and then later slid into a completely prone position. And you see how his arms are positioned? Flat by his sides?”

Rebus saw, but wasn’t sure what he was supposed to take from any of it.

“We think we found the remains of some rope… a plastic clothesline. The covering has melted, but the nylon was pretty resilient.”

“You often get a clothesline in a kitchen,” Rebus said, playing devil’s advocate now because suddenly he knew where this was leading.

“Agreed. But Professor Gates… well, he’s got the forensics people looking at it…”

“Because he thinks Fairstone was tied to the chair?”

Curt just nodded. “The other photos, in some of them… the close-ups… you can see the bits of rope.”

Rebus saw.

“And there’s this train of events, you see. A man is unconscious, tied to a chair. He wakes up, fire is raging around him, the fumes already deep in his lungs. He’s trying to wrestle himself free, the chair tips, and he starts to suffocate. It’s the smoke that’s killing him… he’s dead before the flames can break his bonds…”

“It’s a theory,” Rebus said.

“Yes, it is,” the pathologist said quietly.

Rebus sorted through the pictures again. “So suddenly it’s murder?”

“Or culpable homicide. I suppose a lawyer could argue that tying him up wasn’t what killed him… that it was meant merely as a warning, say.”

Rebus looked at him. “You’ve been giving this some thought.”

Curt lifted his glass again. “Professor Gates will talk to Gill Templer tomorrow. He’ll show her these photos. Forensics will have their say… People are whispering that you were there.”

“Has a reporter been in touch by any chance?” Rebus watched Curt nod. “Name of Steve Holly?” Another nod. Rebus cursed out loud, just as Harry the barman came in to clear the empty glasses. Harry was whistling, a sure sign that he had a woman on the go. Probably wanted to brag about it, but Rebus’s outburst had him beating a retreat.

“How are you going to…?” Curt couldn’t find the right words.

“Fight it?” Rebus suggested. Then he smiled sourly. “I can’t fight something like this, Doc. I was there, whole world knows it, or will soon.” He made to gnaw at a fingernail, then remembered he couldn’t. He felt like punching the table, but couldn’t do that either.

“It’s all circumstantial,” Curt was saying. “Well, almost…” He reached across the table and found one particular photograph, a close-up of the skull, its mouth gaping. Rebus felt the beer churning in his stomach. Curt was pointing to the neck.

“Might look like skin to you, but there’s something… there’s been something hanging around the throat. The deceased didn’t wear a cravat or anything?”

The idea was so ridiculous that Rebus burst out laughing. “This was a housing project in Gracemount, Doc, not a gentlemen’s club in the New Town.” Rebus started to pick his drink up but found he didn’t want it. He was still shaking his head at the notion of Martin Fairstone in a cravat. Why not a smoking jacket, too? A butler to roll him his cigarettes…

“The thing is,” Dr. Curt was saying, “if he wasn’t wearing something around his throat, a neckerchief or something, then what this begins to look like is a gag of some sort. Maybe a handkerchief stuffed into his mouth, knotted behind the head. Only he was able to slip it off… maybe too late by then to call out. It slid down around his neck, you see.”

And again, Rebus saw.

He saw himself trying to talk his way out of it.

Saw himself failing.

Siobhan had this idea. The panic attacks often came when she was asleep. Maybe it had to do with her bedroom. So she decided to try sleeping on the sofa: perfect arrangement really. Duvet thrown over her, TV in the corner, coffee and a box of Pringles. Three times during the evening, she’d found herself standing by the window, looking out on to her street. If the shadows seemed to have movement to them, she’d watch the same spot for a few minutes until reassured. When Rebus had called to tell her about his meeting with Dr. Curt, she’d asked him a question.

Had the body been properly ID’d?

He’d asked what she’d meant.

“Charred remains… the ID will come down to DNA, right? Has anyone done that yet?”

“Siobhan…”

“Just for the sake of argument.”

“He’s dead, Siobhan. You can start to forget about him.”

Biting her bottom lip, less reason than ever now to bother him with the letter. His plate was already heaped.

He’d rung off. Reason for calling her: if the shit hit the fan the next day, he wouldn’t be around for it, and Templer might go looking for a surrogate.

Siobhan decided to make more coffee-instant decaf. It left a sour taste in her mouth. She stopped by the window, a quick glance out before she headed for the kitchen. Her doctor had asked her to write down a list of her “menus’ for a typical week, then had circled everything he thought might be contributing to her attacks. She tried not to think about the Pringles… problem was, she liked them. Liked wine, too, and fizzy drinks, and takeout. As she’d reasoned with her doctor, she didn’t smoke, exercised regularly. She had to let off steam sometime…

“Booze and fast food are how you let off steam?”

“They’re how I wind down at day’s end.”

“Maybe you should try not getting wound up in the first place.”

“You’re going to tell me you’ve never smoked or had a drink?”

But of course he wasn’t going to say that. Doctors had higher stress levels than cops. One thing she had done-her own initiative-was try getting into ambient music. Lemon Jelly, Oldsolar, Boards of Canada. Some hadn’t worked-Aphex Twin and Autechre; not enough meat on their bones.

Meat on their bones…

She was thinking of Martin Fairstone. The way he smelled: male chemicals. His discolored teeth. Standing by her car, chewing his way into her shopping, casual in his aggression, secure in it. Rebus was right: he had to be dead. The note was a sick joke. Problem was, she couldn’t seem to find a candidate. There had to be someone out there, someone she was failing to remember…

Bringing her coffee in from the kitchen, she wandered over to the window again. There were lights on in the tenement across the way. A while back, someone had spied on her from there… a cop called Linford. He was still on the force, working at HQ. At one time, she’d thought about moving, but she liked this place, liked her flat, the street, the area. Corner shops, young families and professional singles… most of the “families” were younger than her, she realized. She was always being asked: when you going to find a fellah? Toni Jackson seemed to ask every time the Friday Club met. She would point out eligible men in the bars and clubs, not taking no for an answer, leading them over to the table where Siobhan sat with her head in her hands.