Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“Light us a couple,” Rebus said, digging the pack out of his jacket pocket. She placed the lit cigarette between his lips.

“People will start to talk,” she said, exhaling smoke.

“I doubt it, Miss Teri.” He watched the door swing open, Siobhan walk in. She saw him, and nodded towards the toilets, holding up her hands to let him know she was going to wash them.

“You like being an outsider, don’t you?” Rebus asked.

Teri Cotter nodded.

“And that’s why you liked Lee Herdman: he was an outsider, too.” She looked at him. “We found your photo in his flat. From which I assume you knew him.”

“I knew him. Can I see the photo?”

Rebus took it from his pocket. It was held inside a clear polyethylene envelope. “Where was it taken?” he asked.

“Right here,” she said, gesturing towards the street.

“You knew him pretty well, didn’t you?”

“He liked us. Goths, I mean. Never really understood why.”

“He had a few parties, didn’t he?” Rebus was remembering the albums in Herdman’s flat: music for Goths to dance to.

Teri was nodding, blinking back tears. “Some of us used to go to his place.” She held up the photo. “Where did you find this?”

“Inside a book he was reading.”

“Which book?”

“Why do you want to know?”

She shrugged. “Just wondered.”

“It was a biography, I think. Some soldier who ended up doing himself in.”

“You think that’s a clue?”

“A clue?”

She nodded. “To why Lee killed himself.”

“Might be, I suppose. Did you ever meet any of his friends?”

“I don’t think he had many friends.”

“What about Doug Brimson?” The question came from Siobhan. She was sliding onto the banquette.

Teri’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, I know him.”

“You don’t sound enthusiastic,” Rebus commented.

“You could say that.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Siobhan wanted to know. Rebus could see her prickling.

Teri just shrugged.

“The two lads who died,” Rebus said, “ever see them at the parties?”

“As if.”

“Meaning what?”

She looked at him. “They weren’t the type. Rugby and jazz music and the Cadets.” As if this explained everything.

“Did Lee ever talk about his time in the army?”

“Not much.”

“But you asked him?” She nodded slowly. “And you knew he had a thing about guns?”

“I knew he kept pictures…” She bit her lip, but too late.

“On the inside of his wardrobe door,” Siobhan added. “It’s not everyone who’d know that, Teri.”

“Doesn’t mean anything!” Teri’s voice had risen. She was playing with her neck chain again.

“Nobody’s on trial here, Teri,” Rebus said. “We just want to know what made him do it.”

“How should I know?”

“Because you knew him, and it seems not many people did.”

Teri was shaking her head. “He never told me anything. That was the thing about him-like he had secrets. But I never thought he’d…”

“No?”

She fixed her eyes on Rebus’s but said nothing.

“He ever show you a gun, Teri?” Siobhan asked.

“No.”

“Ever hint that he had access to one?”

A shake of the head.

“You say he never really opened up to you… what about the other way round?”

“How do you mean?”

“Did he ask about you? Maybe you spoke to him about your family?”

“I might have.”

Rebus leaned forwards. “We were sorry to hear about your brother, Teri.”

Siobhan, too, leaned forwards. “You probably mentioned the crash to Lee Herdman.”

“Or maybe one of your pals did,” Rebus added.

Teri saw that they were hemming her in. No escape from their stares and questions. She had placed the photo on the table, concentrating her attention on it.

“Lee didn’t take this,” she said, as if trying to change the subject.

“Anyone else we should talk to, Teri?” Rebus was asking. “People who went to Lee’s little soirees?”

“I don’t want to answer any more questions.”

“Why not, Teri?” Siobhan asked, frowning as though genuinely puzzled.

“Because I don’t.”

“Other names we can talk to…” Rebus was saying. “Might get us off your back.”

Teri Cotter sat for a moment longer, then rose to her feet and climbed onto the banquette, stepped onto the table and jumped down to the floor at the other side, the gauzy black layers of her skirts billowing out around her. Without looking back, she made for the door, opened it and banged it shut behind her. Rebus looked at Siobhan and gave a grudging smile.

“The girl has a certain style,” he said.

“We panicked her,” Siobhan admitted. “Pretty much as soon as we mentioned her brother’s death.”

“Could be they were just close,” Rebus argued. “You’re not really going for the assassin theory?”

“All the same,” she said. “There’s something…” The door opened again, and Teri Cotter strode towards the table, leaning on it with both hands, her face close to her inquisitors.

“James Bell,” she hissed. “There’s a name for you, if you want one.”

“He went to Herdman’s parties?” Rebus asked.

Teri Cotter just nodded, then turned away again. The regulars, watching her make her exit, shook their heads and went back to their drinks.

“That interview we listened to,” Rebus said, “what was it James Bell said about Herdman?”

“Something about going water-skiing.”

“Yes, but the way he said it: ‘we’d met socially,’ something like that.”

Siobhan nodded. “Maybe we should have picked up on it.”

“We need to talk to him.”

Siobhan kept nodding, but she was looking at the table. She peered beneath it.

“Lost something?” Rebus asked.

“No, but you have.”

Rebus looked, too, and it dawned on him. Teri Cotter had taken her photograph with her.

“Think that was why she came back?” Siobhan guessed.

Rebus shrugged. “I suppose it counts as her property… a memento of the man she’s lost.”

“You think they were lovers?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“In which case…”

But Rebus shook his head. “Using her womanly wiles to persuade him to turn assassin? Do me a favor, Siobhan.”

“Stranger things have happened,” she echoed.

“Speaking of which, any chance of you buying me a drink?” He held up his empty glass.

“None whatsoever,” she said, getting up to leave. Glumly, he followed her out of the bar. She was standing by her car, seemingly transfixed by something. Rebus couldn’t see anything worthy of note. The Goths were milling around as before, minus Miss Teri. No sign of the Lost Boys either. A few tourists stopping for photographs.

“What is it?” he asked.

She nodded towards a car parked opposite. “Looks like Doug Brimson’s Land Rover.”

“You sure?”

“I saw it when I was out at Turnhouse.” She looked up and down Cockburn Street. Brimson wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

“It’s in worse shape than my Saab,” Rebus commented.

“Yes, but you don’t have a Jag garaged at home.”

“A Jag and a clapped-out Land Rover?”

“I reckon it’s an image thing… boys and their toys.” She looked up and down the street again. “Wonder where he is.”

“Maybe he’s stalking you,” Rebus suggested. He saw the look on her face and shrugged an apology. She turned her attention to the car again, certain in her mind that it was his. Coincidence, she told herself, that’s all it is.

Coincidence.

But all the same, she jotted down the number.