Ian Rankin: A Question of Blood

“Thank you, ma’am,” was all Siobhan said, opening the door and closing it again behind her. There was a toilet cubicle along the hall, and she went and sat there for a while, taking a small paper bag from her pocket and breathing into it. The first time she’d suffered a panic attack, she’d felt as if she was going into cardiac arrest: heart pounding, lungs giving out, her whole body surging with electricity. Her doctor had said she should take some time off. She’d entered his office thinking he would recommend her to the hospital for tests, but instead he’d told her to buy a book about her condition. She’d found one in a pharmacy. It listed every single one of her symptoms in its first chapter, and made a few suggestions. Cut down on caffeine and alcohol. Eat less salt and fat. Try breathing into a paper bag if an attack seems imminent.

The doctor had said her blood pressure was a bit high, suggested exercise. So she’d started coming into work an hour early, spending that time in the gym. The Commonwealth Pool was just down the road, and she’d promised herself she’d start swimming there.

“I eat fine,” she’d told her doctor.

“Try making a list over the course of a week,” he’d said. So far, she hadn’t bothered. And she kept forgetting her swimsuit, too.

All too easy to blame Martin Fairstone.

Fairstone: in court on two charges-housebreaking and assault. One of the neighbors challenging him as he left the flat he’d just looted; Fairstone smashing the woman’s head into a wall, stamping on her face so hard the sole of one sneaker left its impression. Siobhan giving evidence, doing her best. But they hadn’t recovered the shoe, and none of the haul from the flat had turned up in Fairstone’s home. The neighbor had given a description of her attacker, then had picked out Fairstone’s mug shot, later on choosing him again at the ID parade.

There were problems, which the procurator fiscal’s office had been quick to identify. No evidence at the scene. Nothing to link Fairstone to the crimes except an ID and the fact that he was a known housebreaker with several convictions for assault.

“The shoe would have been nice.” The fiscal depute had scratched at his beard and asked if they might try dropping either of the charges, maybe do a deal.

“And he gets a cuff round the ear and heads back home?” Siobhan had argued.

In court it was pointed out to Siobhan by the defense that the neighbor’s original description of her attacker bore little resemblance to the figure in the dock. The victim herself fared little better, admitting to a margin of uncertainty that the defense exploited to the full. When giving her own evidence, Siobhan used as many hints as she could to let everyone know that the defendant had a history. Eventually, the judge couldn’t ignore the remonstrations by the defense counsel.

“You’re on a final warning, Detective Sergeant Clarke,” he had said. “So unless you have some reason why you wish to scupper the Crown’s chances in this case, I suggest you choose your answers more carefully from now on.”

Fairstone had just glared at her, knowing full well what she was trying to do. And afterwards, the not-guilty verdict delivered, he’d bounded out of the court building as if there were springs in the heels of his brand-new sneakers. He’d grabbed Siobhan by the shoulder to stop her from walking away.

“That’s assault,” she’d told him, trying not to show how furious and frustrated she felt.

“Thanks for helping me get off in there,” he’d said. “Maybe I can return the favor someday. I’m off to the pub to celebrate. What’s your poison?”

“Drop down the nearest sewer, will you?”

“I think I’m in love.” A grin spreading to cover his narrow face. Someone called to him: his girlfriend. Bottle-blond hair, black tracksuit. Pack of cigs in one hand, mobile phone to her ear. She’d provided his alibi for the time of the attack. So had two of his friends.

“Looks like you’re wanted.”

“It’s you I want, Shiv.”

“You want me?” She waited till he nodded. “Then invite me along next time you’re going to beat up a complete stranger.”

“Give me your phone number.”

“I’m in the book-under ‘Police.’”

“Marty!” His girlfriend’s snarl.

“Be seeing you, Shiv.” Still grinning, he walked backwards for a few paces, then turned away. Siobhan had headed straight back over to St. Leonard’s to reacquaint herself with his file. An hour later, the switchboard had put through a call. It was him, phoning from a bar. She’d put the receiver down. Ten minutes later, he’d called again… and then another ten after that.

And the next day.

And the whole of the following week.

Unsure at first how to play it. She didn’t know if her silences were working. They just seemed to make him laugh, made him try all the harder. She prayed he would tire, find something else to occupy him. Then he turned up at St. Leonard’s, tried following her home. She’d spotted him that time, led him a dance while summoning help on her mobile. A patrol car had picked him up. Next day, he was curbside again, just outside the car park at the back of St. Leonard’s. She’d left him there, exiting on foot instead by the front door, taking a bus home.

Still he wouldn’t give up, and she realized that what had started-presumably-as a joke had turned into a more serious form of game. So she’d decided to bring one of her stronger pieces into play. Rebus had noticed anyway: the calls she wasn’t taking, the time she spent by the office window, the way she kept glancing around her when they were out on a call. So eventually she’d told him, and the pair of them had paid a visit to Fairstone’s public housing unit in Gracemount.

It had started badly, Siobhan soon realizing that her “piece” played by his own set of rules rather than anyone else’s. A struggle, the leg snapping from a coffee table, pine veneer yielding to the MDF within. Siobhan feeling worse than ever afterwards-weak, because she had brought Rebus in rather than deal with it herself; trembling, because at the back of her mind lurked the thought that she’d known what would happen, and had wanted it to happen. Instigator and coward.

They’d stopped for a drink on the way back into town.

“Think he’ll do anything?” Siobhan had asked.

“He started it,” Rebus told her. “If he keeps on hassling you, he knows now what he’s in for.”

“A hiding, you mean?”

“All I did was defend myself, Siobhan. You were there. You saw.” His eyes fixing hers until she nodded. And he was right. Fairstone had lunged at him. Rebus had pushed him down onto the coffee table, trying to hold him there. Then the leg snapped and both men slid to the floor, rolling and struggling. It had all been over in a matter of seconds, Fairstone’s voice shaking with rage as he told them to get out. Rebus pointing a warning finger, repeating his order to “back off from DS Clarke.”

“Just clear out, the pair of you!”

Her hand touching Rebus’s arm. “It’s finished. Let’s go.”

“You think it’s finished?” Flecks of white saliva spitting from the corners of Fairstone’s mouth.

Rebus’s final words: “It better be, pal, unless you really want to start seeing some fireworks.”

She’d wanted to ask him what he’d meant, but instead had bought a final round of drinks. In bed that night, she’d stared at the dark ceiling before falling into a doze, waking with a sudden feeling of terror, leaping to her feet, adrenaline surging through her. She’d crawled on hands and knees from her bedroom, believing that if she got to her feet, she would die. Eventually it passed, and she used her hands on the hallway wall as she rose up from the floor. She walked slowly back to bed and lay down on her side, curled into a ball.