Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“We could park at the bottom of the road and walk up,” Siobhan suggested as they neared Cockburn Street.

“I’d rather park at the top and walk down,” Rebus countered.

They were in luck: a space opened up just as they approached, and they were able to park on Cockburn Street itself, only a few yards from where a bunch of Goths were milling around.

“Bingo,” Rebus said, spotting Miss Teri in animated conversation with two friends.

“You’ll need to get out first,” Siobhan told him. Rebus saw the problem: there were bags of rubbish sitting curbside, awaiting collection and blocking the driver’s-side door. He got out, holding the door open so Siobhan could slide across and make her exit. Feet were running down the sidewalk, and then Rebus saw one of the rubbish bags disappear. He looked up and saw five youths hurtling past the car, dressed in hooded tops and baseball caps. One of them was swinging the rubbish bag into the group of Goths. The bag burst, spraying its contents everywhere. There were shouts, screams. Feet were swinging, as were fists. One Goth was sent flying headfirst down the stone steps. Another dodged into the roadway and was winged by a passing taxi. Bystanders were yelling warnings, shopkeepers coming to their doors. Someone called out to phone the police.

The fighting was spilling across the street, bodies pushed against windows, hands clawing at necks. Only five attackers to a dozen Goths, but the five were strong and vicious. Siobhan had run forward to tackle one of them. Rebus saw Miss Teri diving through a shop doorway, slamming the door after her. The door was glass, and her pursuer was looking around for something to throw through it. Rebus took a deep breath and hollered.

“Rab Fisher! Hey, Rab! Over here!” The pursuer stopped, looked in Rebus’s direction. Rebus was waving a gloved hand. “Remember me, Rab?”

Fisher’s mouth twisted in a sneer. Another of his gang had recognized Rebus. “Polis!” he yelled, the other Lost Boys heeding his call. They gathered in the middle of the road, chests pumping, breathing hard.

“Ready for that trip to Saughton, lads?” Rebus asked loudly, taking a step forwards. Four of them turned and ran, jogging downhill. Rab Fisher lingered, then gave the glass door a final stubborn kick before sauntering off to join his friends. Siobhan was helping a couple of the Goths to their feet, checking for injuries. There had been no knives or missiles; mostly it was only pride that had taken a beating. Rebus walked over to the glass door. Behind it, Miss Teri had been joined by a woman in a white coat, the kind worn by doctors and pharmacists. Rebus saw a row of gleaming cubicles; it was a tanning salon, brand-new by the look of it. The woman was running a hand down Teri’s hair while Teri tried to wriggle free. Rebus pushed open the door.

“Remember me, Teri?” he said.

She studied him, then nodded. “You’re the policeman I met.” Rebus held out a hand towards the woman.

“You must be Teri’s mother. I’m DI Rebus.”

“Charlotte Cotter,” the woman said, taking his hand. She was in her late thirties, with lots of wavy ash-blond hair. Her face was lightly tanned, almost glowing. Looking at the two women, it was hard to see any similarity. If told they were related, Rebus might have guessed they were contemporaries: not sisters, but maybe cousins. The mother was an inch or two shorter than her daughter, slimmer and toned-looking. Rebus thought he knew now which member of the Cotter family made use of the indoor pool.

“What was all that about?” he asked Teri.

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

“You get a lot of hassle?”

“They’re always getting hassle,” her mother answered for her, receiving a glare for her trouble. “Verbal abuse, sometimes more.”

“Like you’d know,” her daughter argued.

“I see things.”

“Is that why you opened this place? To keep an eye on me?” Teri had started playing with the gold chain around her neck. Rebus could see a diamond hanging from it.

“Teri,” Charlotte Cotter said with a sigh, “all I’m saying is -”

“I’m going outside,” Teri muttered.

“Before you do,” Rebus interrupted, “any chance I could have a word?”

“I’m not going to press charges, or anything!”

“You see how stubborn she is?” Charlotte Cotter said, sounding exasperated. “I heard you shout out a name, Inspector. Does that mean you know these thugs? You can arrest them…?”

“I’m not sure it would do any good, Mrs. Cotter.”

“But you saw them!”

Rebus nodded. “And now they’ve been warned. Could be enough to do the trick. Thing is, it’s not just chance that I was here. I wanted a word with Teri.”

“Oh?”

“Come on, then,” Teri said, grabbing him by the arm. “Sorry, Mum, got to go help the police with their inquiries.”

“Hang on, Teri…”

But it was too late. Charlotte Cotter could only watch as her daughter dragged the detective back outside and across the road to where the mood was lightening. Battle scars were being compared. One boy in a black trench coat was sniffing his lapels, wrinkling his nose to acknowledge that the coat would need a good wash. The rubbish from the torn bag had been gathered together-mostly by Siobhan, Rebus guessed. She was trying to elicit help in filling an intact bag, the gift of a neighboring shop.

“Everybody okay?” Teri asked. There were smiles and nods. It looked to Rebus like they were enjoying the moment. Victims again, and happy with their lot. Like the punks and the woman, they had got their reaction. Still a group, but strengthened now: war stories they could share. Other kids-on their slow route home from school, still dressed in uniform-had stopped to listen. Rebus led Miss Teri back up the street and into the nearest watering hole.

“We don’t serve her kind!” the woman behind the bar snapped.

“You do when I’m here,” Rebus snapped back.

“She’s underage,” the woman pressed.

“Then she’ll take a soft drink.” He turned to Teri. “What’ll it be?”

“Vodka tonic.”

Rebus smiled. “Give her a Coke. I’ll have a Laphroaig with a splash of water.” He paid for the drinks, confident enough now to try bringing coins from his pocket as well as notes.

“How are the hands?” Teri Cotter asked.

“Fine,” he said. “You can carry the drinks, though.” They received a few stares as they made their way to a table. Teri seemed pleased with the reception, blowing a kiss at one man, who just sneered and looked away.

“You pick a fight in here,” Rebus warned her, “you’re on your own.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I saw that, the way you ran to your mum’s as soon as the Lost Boys arrived.”

She glowered at him.

“Good plan, by the way,” he added. “Defense the better part of valor and all that. Is it true what your mum says, this sort of thing happens a lot?”

“Not as much as she seems to think.”

“And yet you keep coming to Cockburn Street?”

“Why shouldn’t we?”

He shrugged. “No reason. Bit of masochism never hurt anyone.”

She stared at him, then smiled, gazing down into her glass.

“Cheers,” he said, lifting his own.

“You got the quote wrong,” she said. “‘The better part of valor is discretion.’” Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part One. ”

“Not that you and your pals could be described as discreet.”

“I try not to be.”

“You do a good job. When I mentioned the Lost Boys, you didn’t seem surprised. Meaning you know them?”

She looked down again, the hair falling over her pale face. Her fingers stroked the glass, nails glossy black. Slender hands and wrists. “Got a cigarette?” she asked.