Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“I didn’t really mean it, you know. I don’t really think Stuart’s family would… would do something like that.”

“Fair enough, Kate.” Another silence on the line, longer this time. “Have you hung up on me again?”

“No.”

“Anything else you want to talk about?”

“I should let you get back to work.”

“You can always call again, Kate. Anytime you want to chat.”

“Thanks, Siobhan. You’re a pal.”

“Bye, Kate.” Siobhan ended the call, stared at the screen again. She pressed a palm to her jacket pocket, felt the shape of the envelope.

C.O.D.Y.

Suddenly it didn’t seem so important.

She got back to work, plugged the laptop into a phone jack and used Derek’s password to access a slew of new e-mails, most of which turned out to be junk or regular sports updates. There were a few from names she recognized from the folder. Friends Derek had probably never met, except when online, friends around the globe who shared his passions. Friends who didn’t know he was dead.

She straightened her back, feeling vertebrae crackle. Her neck was stiff, and her watch told her it was going to be a late lunch. She didn’t feel hungry but knew she should eat. What she really felt like was a double espresso, maybe with a side order of chocolate. That double combo sugar-caffeine rush that made the world go round.

“I won’t give in,” she said to herself. Instead, she’d go to the Engine Shed, where they served organic meals and fruit teas. She fished a paperback and her mobile phone out of her shoulder bag, then locked the bag in the bottom drawer of her desk-you could never be too careful in a police station. The paperback was a critique of rock music by a female poet. She’d been trying to finish it for ages. George “Hi-Ho” Silvers came into the office as she was leaving.

“Just off to lunch, George,” Siobhan told him.

He looked around the empty office. “Mind if I join you?”

“Sorry, George, I’m meeting someone,” she lied blithely. “Besides, one of us has to hold down the fort.”

She walked downstairs and out of the station’s main entrance, turning left onto St. Leonard’s Lane. Her eyes were on the tiny screen of her phone, checking for messages. A hand landed heavily on her shoulder. A deep voice growled: “Hey.” Siobhan spun around, dropping both phone and paperback. She grabbed at a wrist, twisted it hard, pulling down so that her attacker dropped to his knees.

“Jesus fuck!” the man gasped. She couldn’t see much more than the top of his head. Short dark hair, gelled to stand up in little spikes. Charcoal suit. He was heavily built, not tall…

Not Martin Fairstone.

“Who are you?” Siobhan hissed. She was holding his wrist high up his back, pressing forwards on it. She heard car doors open and close, glanced up, saw a man and woman hurrying towards her.

“I just wanted a word,” her assailant gasped. “I’m a reporter. Holly… Steve Holly.”

Siobhan let go of his wrist. Holly cradled his hurt arm as he got to his feet.

“What’s going on here?” the woman asked. Siobhan recognized her: Whiteread, the army investigator. Simms was with her, a thin smile on his face, nodding approval of Siobhan’s reflexes.

“Nothing,” Siobhan told them.

“Didn’t look like nothing.” Whiteread was staring at Steve Holly.

“He’s a reporter,” Siobhan explained.

“If we’d known that,” Simms said, “we’d’ve waited a bit longer before stepping in.”

“Cheers,” Holly muttered, rubbing his elbow. He looked from Simms to Whiteread. “I’ve seen you before… outside Lee Herdman’s flat, if I’m not mistaken. I thought I knew all the CID faces.” He straightened up, held out a hand to Simms, mistaking him for the superior. “Steve Holly.”

Simms glanced at Whiteread, alerting Holly immediately to his error. He swiveled slightly so the hand was facing the woman, and repeated his name. Whiteread ignored him.

“Do you always treat the fourth estate this way, DS Clarke?”

“Sometimes I go for a headlock instead.”

“That’s a good idea, changing your attack,” Whiteread agreed.

“Means the enemy can’t predict your move,” Simms added.

“Why do I get the feeling you three are taking the piss?” Holly asked.

Siobhan had bent down to retrieve her phone and book. She checked the phone for damage. “What is it you want?”

“A quick couple of questions.”

“Concerning what exactly?”

Holly was staring at the army pair. “Sure you want an audience, DS Clarke?”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you anyway,” Siobhan told him.

“How do you know until you’ve heard me out?”

“Because you’re going to ask me about Martin Fairstone.”

“Am I?” Holly raised an eyebrow. “Well, maybe that was the plan… but I’m also wondering why you’re so jumpy, and why you don’t want to talk about Fairstone.”

I’m jumpy because of Fairstone, Siobhan felt like shouting. But she sniffed dismissively instead. The Engine Shed was no longer an option; nothing to stop Holly following her there, taking the chair next to her… “I’m going back in,” she said.

“Watch out nobody in there taps your shoulder,” Holly said. “And tell DI Rebus I’m sorry…”

Siobhan wasn’t going to fall for it. She turned towards the door, only to find Whiteread blocking her way.

“Mind if we have a word?” she asked.

“I’m on my lunch break.”

“I could do with something myself,” Whiteread said, glancing at her colleague, who nodded agreement. Siobhan sighed.

“You better come in, then.” She pushed the revolving door, Whiteread right behind her. Simms made to follow but paused for a moment, turning his attention to the reporter.

“You work for a newspaper?” he asked. Holly nodded. Simms smiled at him. “I killed a man once with one of those.” Then he turned and followed the women inside.

The cafeteria didn’t have much left. Whiteread and Siobhan opted for sandwiches, Simms a heaping plate of chips and beans.

“What did he mean about Rebus?” Whiteread asked, stirring sugar into her tea.

“Doesn’t matter,” Siobhan said.

“Sure about that?”

“Look…”

“We’re not the enemy here, Siobhan. I know what it’s like: you probably don’t trust officers at the next station, never mind outsiders like us. But we’re on the same side.”

“I don’t have a problem with that, but what just happened hasn’t got anything to do with Port Edgar, Lee Herdman, or the SAS.”

Whiteread stared at her, then gave a shrug of acceptance.

“So what was it you wanted?” Siobhan asked.

“Actually, we were hoping to talk to DI Rebus.”

“He’s not here.”

“So they told us at South Queensferry.”

“But you still came?”

Whiteread made a show of studying her sandwich filling. “Obviously, yes.”

“He wasn’t here… but you knew I was?”

Whiteread smiled. “Rebus trained for the SAS but didn’t make the grade.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Has he ever told you what happened?”

Siobhan decided not to answer, unwilling to admit that he’d never let her into that part of his history. Whiteread took her silence as answer enough.

“He cracked up. Left the army altogether, had a nervous breakdown. Lived beside a beach for a while, somewhere north of here.”

“Fife,” Simms added, mouth stuffed with chips.

“How come you know all this? It’s supposed to be Herdman you’re looking at.”

Whiteread nodded. “Thing is, we didn’t have Lee Herdman flagged.”

“Flagged?”

“As a potential psycho,” Simms said. Whiteread’s eyes flared, and he swallowed hard, went back to his eating.