Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“ Psycho ’s not the right word,” Whiteread corrected him for Siobhan’s benefit.

“But you had John flagged?” Siobhan guessed.

“Yes,” Whiteread admitted. “The breakdown, you see… And then he became a policeman, his name appearing quite regularly in the media…”

And about to appear again, Siobhan was thinking. “I still don’t see what this has to do with the inquiry,” she said, hoping she sounded calm.

“It’s just that DI Rebus may have insights that could prove useful,” Whiteread explained. “DI Hogan certainly seems to think so. He’s taken Rebus with him to Carbrae, hasn’t he? To see Robert Niles?”

“Another of your spectacular failures,” Siobhan felt compelled to say.

Whiteread seemed content to accept the comment, putting most of the sandwich back down on her plate, lifting her cup instead. Siobhan’s mobile rang. She checked its screen: Rebus.

“Sorry,” she said, getting up from the table, walking towards the drink machine. “How did it go?” she asked into the mouthpiece.

“We got a name: can you start running a check?”

“What’s the name?”

“Brimson.” Rebus spelled it for her. “First name Douglas. Address at Turnhouse.”

“As in the airport?”

“So far as we know. He was another of Niles’s visitors…”

“And doesn’t live far from South Queensferry, so chances are he might have known Lee Herdman.” Siobhan looked back to where Whiteread and Simms sat, talking to each other. “I’ve got your army pals here. Want me to run this Brimson character past them, just in case he’s ex-forces?”

“Christ, no. Are they listening in?”

“I was having lunch with them in the cafeteria. Don’t worry, they’re out of earshot.”

“What are they doing there?”

“Whiteread’s got a sandwich, Simms is wolfing down a plate of chips.” She paused. “But it’s me they’ve been trying to grill.”

“Am I expected to laugh at that?”

“Sorry. Feeble effort. Has Templer spoken with you yet?”

“No. What sort of mood’s she in?”

“I’ve managed to steer clear of her all morning.”

“She’s probably been meeting the pathologists, prior to giving me a roasting.”

“Now who’s the one making jokes?”

“I wish it was a joke, Siobhan.”

“How soon will you be back?”

“Not today, if I can help it. Bobby wants to talk to the judge.”

“Why?”

“To clear up a couple of points.”

“And that’ll take you the rest of the day?”

“You’ve plenty to keep you busy without me there. Meantime, tell the Gruesome Twosome nothing.”

The Gruesome Twosome: Siobhan glanced over in their direction. They’d stopped talking, finished eating. Both were staring at her.

“Steve Holly’s been sniffing around, too,” Siobhan told Rebus.

“I assume you kicked him in the balls and sent him on his way?”

“Not far off it, actually…”

“Let’s talk again before the end of play.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Nothing from the laptop?”

“Not so far.”

“Keep trying.”

The phone went dead, a merry-sounding series of bleeps telling Siobhan that Rebus had cut the connection. She walked back to the table, fixing a smile on her face.

“I’ve got to get back,” she said.

“We could give you a lift,” Simms suggested.

“I mean back upstairs.”

“You’re finished at South Queensferry?” Whiteread asked.

“I just have some stuff here to be getting on with.”

“Stuff?”

“Odds and ends from before this all started.”

“Paperwork, eh?” Simms sympathized. But the look on Whiteread’s face said she wasn’t falling for it.

“I’d better see you out,” Siobhan added.

“What does a CID office look like?” Whiteread asked. “I’ve often wondered…”

“I’ll give you the tour sometime,” Siobhan answered. “When we’re not up to our eyes.”

It was an answer Whiteread was forced to accept, but Siobhan could see she liked it about as much as she would a Mogwai concert.

Lord Jarvies was in his late fifties. Bobby Hogan had filled Rebus in on family history during the drive back to Edinburgh. Divorced from his first wife, remarried, Anthony the only child from this second relationship. The family lived in Murrayfield.

“Plenty of good schools around there,” Rebus had commented, wondering at the distance between Murrayfield and South Queensferry. But Roland Jarvies was a former pupil of Port Edgar. In his twenties, he’d even played for the Port Edgar FP rugby team.

“What position?” Rebus had asked.

“John,” Hogan had replied, “what I know about rugby could be written on the leftovers of one of your cigarettes.”

Hogan had expected that they would find the judge at home, in shock and in mourning. But a couple of calls revealed that Jarvies was back at work, and therefore to be found in the Sheriff Court on Chambers Street, opposite the museum where Jean Burchill worked. Rebus considered calling her-there might be time for a quick coffee-but decided against it. She was bound to notice his hands, wasn’t she? Best to hang fire till they’d mended. He could still feel the handshake Robert Niles had pressed on him.

“You ever come up against Jarvies?” Hogan asked as he parked on a single yellow line, outside what had been the city’s dental hospital, now transformed into a nightclub and bar.

“A few times. You?”

“Once or twice.”

“Give him any cause to remember you?”

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Hogan said, placing a notice on the inside of the windshield identifying the car as being “on police business.”

“Might be cheaper to risk a ticket,” Rebus advised.

“How so?”

“Think about it.”

Hogan frowned in thought, then nodded. Not everyone who walked out of the courthouse would have reason to be enamored of the police. A ticket might cost thirty quid (and could always be canceled after a quiet word); scratched bodywork came in a little more expensive. Hogan removed the notice.

The Sheriff Court was a modern building, but its visitors were taking their toll. Dried spittle on the windows, graffiti on the walls. The judge was in the robing room, and that was where Rebus and Hogan were taken to meet with him. The attendant bowed slightly before he left.

Jarvies had just about finished changing out of his robes of office and back into a pinstripe suit, complete with watch chain. His burgundy tie sported a perfect knot, and his shoes were highly polished black brogues. His face looked polished, too, highlighting a network of tiny red veins in either cheek. On a long table sat other judges’ workday clothes: black gowns, white collars, gray wigs. Each set bore its owner’s name.

“Take a seat, if you can find one,” Jarvies said. “I won’t be long.” He looked up, mouth hanging slightly open, as it often did when he was in the courtroom. The first time Rebus had given evidence in front of Jarvies, the mannerism had disconcerted him, making him think the judge had been about to interrupt. “I do have another appointment, which is why I had to see you here or not at all.”

“Quite all right, sir,” Hogan said.

“To be honest,” Rebus added, “with everything you’ve been through, we’re surprised to see you here at all.”

“Can’t let the bastards beat us, can we?” the judge replied. It didn’t sound like the first time he’d had to offer the explanation. “So, what is it I can do for you?”

Rebus and Hogan shared a look, both finding it hard to believe the man in front of them had just lost a son.

“It’s about Lee Herdman,” Hogan stated. “Seems he was friends with Robert Niles.”