Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“There’s no sign he was interested in anything like that. But so what if he was?”

The director just shrugged, deciding he wasn’t going to get what he wanted from Rebus. “Jack, maybe you could do a quick interview with… sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” He smiled at Rebus.

“My name’s Fuck You,” Rebus said, returning the smile. Then he crossed the road again and pushed open the door of the police station.

“You’re a disgrace!” Jack Bell was shouting at him. “An absolute disgrace! Don’t think I won’t take this any further…!”

“That you making friends again?” the desk sergeant asked.

“I seem to be blessed that way,” Rebus informed him, climbing the stairs to the CID office. Overtime was available on the Herdman case, which meant a few souls were still working, even at this hour. Tapping reports into computers or sharing gossip over hot drinks. Rebus recognized DC Mark Pettifer and walked over to him.

“Something I need, Mark,” he said.

“What’s that, then, John?”

“The loan of a laptop.”

Pettifer smiled. “Thought your generation preferred quill and parchment.”

“One other thing,” Rebus added, ignoring this. “It has to be Internet-ready.”

“I think I can sort you something out.”

“While you’re doing that…” Rebus leaned in closer, dropping his voice. “Remember when Jack Bell got pulled in for curb crawling? That was some of your lads, wasn’t it?”

Pettifer nodded slowly.

“I don’t suppose there’d be any paperwork…?”

“I wouldn’t think so. He was never charged, was he?”

Rebus was thoughtful. “What about the guys who stopped his car: any chance I could have a word?”

“What’s this all about?”

“Just say I’m an interested party,” Rebus said.

But as it turned out, the young DC who’d dealt with Bell had moved stations and was now based at Torphichen Street. Rebus eventually got a mobile number for him. His name was Harry Chambers.

“Sorry to bother you,” Rebus said, having introduced himself.

“No bother, I’m just walking home from the boozer.”

“Hope you had a good night.”

“Pool competition, I made the semis.”

“Good for you. The reason I’m calling is Jack Bell.”

“What’s the oily bastard gone and done now?”

“He keeps getting under our feet at Port Edgar.” It was the truth, if not the whole truth. Rebus didn’t think he needed to explain his desire to prize Kate away from the MSP.

“Then make sure to wipe your shoes on him,” Chambers was saying. “About all he’s good for.”

“I’m sensing a slight antagonism, Harry.”

“After the curb crawling thing, he tried to get me knocked back to uniform. And all that guff he came out with: first he was on his way home from somewhere… then, when he couldn’t back that up, he was ‘researching’ the need for a tolerance zone. Aye, that’ll be right. The hoor he was talking to, she told me they’d already agreed on a price.”

“Reckon it was his first trip down that way?”

“No idea. Only thing I do know-and I’m being as objective as possible here-is that he’s a sleazy, lying, vindictive bastard. Why couldn’t that guy Herdman have done us all a favor and popped him instead of those poor bloody kids…?”

Back home, Rebus tried to remember Pettifer’s instructions as he set up the computer. It wasn’t the newest model. Pettifer’s comment: “If it seems sluggish, just feed in another shovelful of coal.” Rebus had asked him how old the machine was. Answer: two years, and already damn near obsolete.

Rebus decided that something so venerable should be cherished. He gave the keyboard and screen a wipe with a damp cloth. Like him, it was a survivor.

“Okay, old-timer,” he told it, “let’s see what you can do.”

After a frustrating few minutes, he put in a call to Pettifer, eventually finding him on his mobile-in his car and on his way home to bed. More instructions… Rebus kept the line open until he was sure he’d succeeded.

“Cheers, Mark,” he said, cutting the connection. Then he dragged his armchair over so that he could sit in relative comfort.

Seated, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, head tilted slightly to one side.

Watching Teri Cotter as she slept.

You slept in your clothes,” Siobhan commented, picking him up the next morning. Rebus ignored her. There was a tabloid on the passenger seat, same one Steve Holly had brandished the previous night.

HELL HOUSE COP MYSTERY

“It’s slim stuff,” Siobhan reassured him. And so it was. High on conjecture, low on facts. All the same, Rebus had ignored phone calls at 7:00 A.M., 7:15 and 7:30. He knew who it would probably be: the Complaints, trying to book an appointment for his persecution. He managed to turn the pages by dint of wetting the fingers of his gloves. “Rumors are flying at St. Leonard’s,” Siobhan added. “Fairstone was gagged and tied to a chair. Everyone knows you were there.”

“Did I say I wasn’t?” She looked at him. “It’s just that I left him alive, nodding off on his sofa.” He turned a few more pages, seeking refuge. Found it in the story of a dog who’d swallowed a wedding ring-the one shaft of light in a paper full of grim little headlines: pub stabbings, celebs being outed by their mistresses, Atlantic oil slicks and American tornadoes.

“Funny how a daytime TV host merits more column inches than an ecological disaster,” he commented, folding the paper and tossing it over his shoulder. “So where are we headed?”

“I thought maybe a face-to-face with James Bell.”

“Good enough.” His mobile rang, but he left it in his pocket.

“Your fan club?” Siobhan guessed.

“I can’t help being popular. How come you know the gossip at St. Leonard’s?”

“I went there before I came to pick you up.”

“A glutton for punishment.”

“I was using the gym.”

“Not a word I’ve come across before.”

She smiled. When her own phone rang, she looked at Rebus again. He shrugged, and she checked the number on her screen.

“Bobby Hogan,” she told Rebus, answering the call. He could hear only her side of the conversation. “We’re on our way… why, what’s happened?” A glance in Rebus’s direction. “He’s right here… not sure his phone’s charged up… yes, I’ll tell him.”

“Time you got one of those hands-free jobs,” Rebus told her as she ended the call.

“Is my driving that bad?”

“I meant so I could listen in.”

“Bobby says the Complaints are looking for you.”

“Really?”

“They asked him to pass on the message. Seems you’re not answering your phone.”

“I’m not sure it’s charged up. What else did he say?”

“Wants to meet us at the marina.”

“Did he say why?”

“Maybe he’s treating us to a day’s cruising.”

“That’ll be it. A thank-you for all our diligence and hard work.”

“Just don’t be surprised if the skipper turns out to be from Complaints…”

“You saw this morning’s paper?” Bobby Hogan asked. He was leading them along the concrete pier.

“I saw it,” Rebus admitted. “And Siobhan passed on your message. None of which explains what we’re doing here.”

“I’ve also had a call from Jack Bell. He’s toying with making an official complaint.” Hogan glanced at Rebus. “Whatever it was you did, please keep it up.”

“If that’s an order, Bobby, then I’m happy to oblige.”

Rebus saw that there was a cordon at the top of the wooden ramp leading down to the pontoons where the yachts and dinghies were moored. Three uniforms standing guard beside a sign saying, BERTH HOLDERS ONLY. Hogan lifted the tape so they could pass through, leading them down the slope.