Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“And you must be Mr. Cotter?” he guessed.

“William Cotter,” Miss Teri’s father said. He was in his early forties, short and stocky with a fashionably shaven head. He shook Siobhan’s hand when she offered it but didn’t seem put out that Rebus was keeping his own gloved hands firmly by his sides. “You better come in,” he said.

There was a long carpeted hallway, decorated with framed paintings and a grandfather clock. Rooms off to right and left, the doors firmly closed. Cotter led them to the end of the corridor and into an open-plan living area with a kitchen off it. This had the look of a recent extension, French doors leading out to a patio and offering a view across the expanse of rear garden towards another recent addition, wood-framed but with plenty of windows to show off its contents.

“Indoor pool,” Rebus mused. “That must be handy.”

“Gets more use than an outdoor one,” Cotter joked. “So what can I do for you?”

Rebus looked to Siobhan, who was casting an eye over the room, taking in the L-shaped cream leather sofa, the B amp;O hi-fi, and flat-screen TV. The TV was switched on, sound muted. It was tuned to Ceefax, showing a screen of stock market fluctuations. “It was Teri we wanted a word with,” Rebus said.

“Not in any trouble, is she?”

“Nothing like that, Mr. Cotter. It’s to do with Port Edgar. Just a few follow-up questions.”

Cotter narrowed his eyes. “Maybe it’s something I can help with…?” Angling for more information.

Rebus had decided to sit down on the sofa. There was a coffee table in front of him, newspapers spread out on it, open to the business pages. Cordless phone, and a pair of half-moon reading glasses, empty mug, pen, and legal pad. “You’re in business, Mr. Cotter?”

“That’s right.”

“Mind if I ask what sort?”

“Venture capital.” Cotter paused. “You know what that is?”

“Investing in start-ups?” Siobhan offered, staring out at the garden.

“More or less. I dabble in property, people with ideas…”

Rebus made a show of taking in his surroundings. “You’re obviously good at it.” He waited for the flattery to sink in. “Is Teri here?”

“Not sure,” Cotter said. He saw Rebus’s look and gave an apologetic smile. “You’re never sure with Teri. Sometimes she’s quiet as the grave. Knock on her door, she doesn’t answer.” He shrugged.

“Not like most teenagers, then.”

Cotter shook his head.

“But then I got that impression when I met her,” Rebus added.

“You’ve spoken to her before?” Cotter asked. Rebus nodded. “In full regalia?”

“I’m guessing she doesn’t go to school like that.”

Cotter shook his head again. “They’re not even allowed nose studs. Dr. Fogg’s strict about that sort of thing.”

“Could we maybe try her door?” Siobhan asked, turning to face Cotter.

“Can’t do any harm, I suppose,” Cotter said. They followed him back down the hall and up a short flight of stairs. Again they were confronted with a long, narrow corridor, doors along both sides. Again, all the doors were closed.

“Teri?” Cotter called as they reached the top of the stairs. “You still here, love?” He bit this final word off, and Rebus guessed he’d been warned off using it by his daughter. They reached the final door, and Cotter put his ear to it, knocking softly.

“Could be dozing, I suppose,” he said in an undertone.

“Mind if I…?” Without waiting for an answer, Rebus turned the handle. The door opened inwards. The room was dark, gauzy black curtains drawn shut. Cotter flicked the light switch. There were candles on every available surface. Black candles, many of them melted down to almost nothing. Prints and posters on the walls. Rebus recognized some by H. R. Giger, knew him because he’d designed an album for ELP. They were set in a kind of stainless-steel hell. The other pictures showed equally dark imaginings.

“Teenagers, eh?” was the father’s only comment. Books by Poppy Z. Brite and Anne Rice. Another called The Gates of Janus, apparently written by “Moors Murderer” Ian Brady. Plenty of CDs, all by noise merchants. The sheets on the single bed were black. So was the shiny duvet cover. The walls of the room were the color of meat, the ceiling split into four squares, two black, two red. Siobhan was standing by a computer desk. The setup on top of it looked high-quality: flat-screen monitor, DVD hard disk, scanner and webcam.

“I don’t suppose these come in black,” she mused.

“Otherwise, Teri would have them,” Cotter agreed.

“When I was her age,” Rebus said, “only Goths I knew of were pubs.”

Cotter laughed. “Yes, Gothenburgs. They were community pubs, weren’t they?”

Rebus nodded. “Unless she’s under the bed, I’m guessing she’s not here. Any idea where we might find her?”

“I could try her mobile…”

“Would that be this one?” Siobhan said, holding up a small glossy black phone.

“That’s it,” Cotter agreed.

“Not like a teenager to leave her phone at home,” Siobhan mused.

“No, well… Teri’s mum can be…” He twitched his shoulders, as if feeling a sudden discomfort.

“Can be what, sir?” Rebus prodded.

“She likes to keep tabs on Teri, is that it?” Siobhan guessed. Cotter nodded, relieved that she’d saved him the trouble of spelling it out.

“Teri should be home later,” he said, “if it can wait.”

“We’d rather get it over and done with, Mr. Cotter,” Rebus explained.

“Well…”

“Time being money and all that, as I’m sure you’d agree.”

Cotter nodded. “You could try Cockburn Street. A few of her friends sometimes congregate there.”

Rebus looked at Siobhan. “We should have thought of that,” he said. Siobhan’s mouth gave a twitch of agreement. Cockburn Street, a winding conduit between the Royal Mile and Waverley Station, had always enjoyed a louche reputation. Decades back, it had been the haunt of hippies and dropouts, selling cheesecloth shirts, tie-dye and cigarette papers. Rebus had frequented a good secondhand record stall, without ever bothering with the clothes. These days, the new alternative cultures lionized the place. A good street for browsing, if your tastes inclined towards the macabre or the stoned.

As they walked back along the hallway, Rebus noticed that one door had a small porcelain plaque stating that this was “Stuart’s Room.” Rebus paused in front of it.

“Your son?”

Cotter nodded slowly. “Charlotte… my wife… she wants it kept the way it was before the accident.”

“No shame in that, sir,” Siobhan offered, sensing Cotter’s embarrassment.

“I suppose not.”

“Tell me,” Rebus said, “did Teri’s Goth phase start before or after her brother’s death?”

Cotter looked at him. “Soon after.”

“The pair of them were close?” Rebus guessed.

“I suppose so… But I don’t see what any of this has to do with…”

Rebus shrugged. “Just curious, that’s all. Sorry: it’s one of the pitfalls of the job.”

Cotter seemed to accept this, and led them back down the staircase.

“I buy CDs there,” Siobhan said. They were back in the car, heading for Cockburn Street.

“Ditto,” Rebus told her. And he’d often seen the Goths, taking up more than their fair share of sidewalk, spilling down the flight of steps to the side of the old Scotsman building, sharing cigarettes and trading tips on the latest bands. They started to appear as soon as school had finished for the day, maybe changing out of their uniforms and into the regulation black. Makeup and baubles, hoping to fit in and stand out at the same time. Thing was, people were harder to shock these days. Once upon a time, collar-length hair would have done it. Then glam came along, followed by its bastard offspring, punk. Rebus still remembered one Saturday when he’d been out buying records. Starting the long climb up Cockburn Street and passing his first punks: all slouches and spiky hair, chains and sneers. It had been too much for the middle-aged woman behind him, who’d spluttered out the words “Can’t you walk like human beings?” probably making the punks’ day in the process.