Ian Rankin: A Question of Blood

More common than you might think, her doctor would eventually tell her, after the second attack.

Between times, Martin Fairstone made a complaint of harassment, dropping it eventually. And he’d also kept on calling. She’d tried to keep it from Rebus, didn’t want to know what he meant by “fireworks”…

The CID office was dead. People were out on calls, or busy in court. It seemed you could spend half your life waiting to give evidence, only for the case to collapse or the accused to make a change of plea. Sometimes a juror went AWOL, or someone crucial was sick. Time seeped away, and at the end of it all the verdict was “not guilty.” Even when found guilty, it might be a question of a fine or suspended sentence. The prisons were full and seen more than ever as a last resort. Siobhan didn’t think she was growing cynical, just realistic. There’d been criticism recently that Edinburgh had more traffic wardens than cops. When something like South Queensferry came up, it stretched things tighter. Holidays, sick leave, paperwork, and court… and not nearly enough hours in any given day. Siobhan was aware that there was a backlog on her desk. Because of Fairstone, her work had been suffering. She could still feel his presence. If a phone rang, she would freeze, and a couple of times she caught herself heading for the window, to check if his car was out there. She knew she was being irrational, but couldn’t help it. Knew, too, that it wasn’t the kind of thing she could talk to someone about… not without seeming weak.

The phone was ringing now. Not on her own desk, but on Rebus’s. If no one answered, the switchboard might try another extension. She crossed the floor, willing the sound to stop. It did so only when she picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Who’s that?” A male voice. Brisk, businesslike.

“DS Clarke.”

“Hiya, Shiv. It’s Bobby Hogan here.” Detective Inspector Bobby Hogan. She’d asked him before not to call her Shiv. A lot of people tried it. Siobhan, pronounced “Shi-vawn,” shortened to Shiv. When people wrote her name down, it turned into all sorts of erroneous spellings. She remembered that Fairstone had called her Shiv a few times, attempting familiarity. She hated it and knew she should correct Hogan, but she didn’t.

“Keeping busy?” she asked instead.

“You know I’m handling Port Edgar?” He broke off. ’Course you do, stupid question.”

“You come over well on TV, Bobby.”

“I’m always open to flattery, Shiv, and the answer is ‘no.’”

She couldn’t help smiling. “I’m not exactly snowed under here,” she lied, glancing across at the folders on her desk.

“If I need an extra pair of hands, I’ll let you know. Is John around?”

“Mr. Popular? He’s taken a sickie. What do you want him for?”

“Is he at home?”

“I can probably get a message to him.” She was intrigued now. There was some urgency in Hogan’s voice.

“You know where he is?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“You never answered my question: what do you want him for?”

Hogan gave a long sigh. “Because I need that other pair of hands,” he told her.

“And only his will do?”

“So far as I know.”

“I’m suitably crushed.”

He ignored her tone. “How soon can you let him know?”

“He might not be well enough to help.”

“If he’s anywhere short of an iron lung, I’ll take him.”

She rested her weight against Rebus’s desk. “What’s going on?”

“Just get him to call me, eh?”

“Are you at the school?”

“Best if he tries my mobile. Bye, Shiv.”

“Hang on a sec!” Siobhan was looking towards the doorway.

“What?” Hogan failed to mask his exasperation.

“He’s just here. I’ll put him on.” She stretched the receiver out towards Rebus. His clothes all seemed to be hanging awkwardly. At first, she thought he must be drunk, but then she realized what it was. He’d struggled to get dressed. His shirt was tucked into his waistband, but only just. His tie hung loose around his neck. Instead of taking the phone from her, he came forward and leaned his ear against it.

“It’s Bobby Hogan,” she explained.

“Hiya, Bobby.”

“John? Connection must be breaking up…”

Rebus looked at Siobhan. “Bit closer,” he whispered. She angled the mouthpiece so it rested against his chin, noting that his hair needed washing. It was plastered to his scalp in the front, but sticking up in the back.

“That better, Bobby?”

“Fine, yes. John, I need a favor.”

When the phone dipped a little, Rebus looked up at Siobhan. Her gaze was directed at the doorway again. He glanced around and saw Gill Templer standing there.

“My office!” she snapped. “Now!”

Rebus ran the tip of his tongue around his lips. “I think I’m going to have to call you back, Bobby. Boss wants a word.”

He straightened up, hearing Hogan’s voice becoming tinny and mechanical. Templer was beckoning for him to follow. He gave a little shrug in Siobhan’s direction and began to leave the room again.

“He’s gone,” she told the mouthpiece.

“Well, get him back!”

“I don’t think that’s going to be possible. Look… maybe if you could give me a clue what this is all about. I might be able to help…”

“I’ll leave it open if you don’t mind,” Rebus said.

“If you want the whole station to hear, that’s fine by me.”

Rebus slumped down on the visitor’s chair. “It’s just that I’m having a bit of trouble with door handles.” He lifted his hands for Templer to see. Her expression changed immediately.

“Christ, John, what the hell happened?”

“I scalded myself. Looks worse than it is.”

“Scalded yourself?” She leaned back, fingers pressing the edge of the desk.

He nodded. “There’s no more to it than that.”

“Despite what I’m thinking?”

“Despite what you’re thinking. I filled the kitchen sink to do some dishes, forgot I hadn’t added cold and plunged my hands in.”

“For how long exactly?”

“Long enough to scald them, apparently.” He tried for a smile, reckoned the dishes story was easier to swallow than the bathtub, despite which Templer looked far from convinced. Her phone started ringing. She picked up the receiver and dropped it again, cutting the connection.

“You’re not the only one having some bad luck. Martin Fairstone died in a fire.”

“Siobhan told me.”

“And?”

“Accident with a chip pan.” He shrugged. “It happens.”

“You were with him Sunday night.”

“Was I?”

“Witnesses saw you together in a bar.”

Rebus shrugged. “I did chance to bump into him.”

“And left the bar with him?”

“No.”

“Went back to his place?”

“Says who?”

“John…”

His voice was rising. “Who says it wasn’t an accident?”

“The fire investigators are still looking.”

“Good luck to them.” Rebus made to fold his arms, realized what he was doing, and dropped them to either side again.

“That probably hurts,” Templer commented.

“It’s bearable.”

“And it happened on Sunday night?”

He nodded.

“Look, John…” She leaned forwards, elbows on the desktop. “You know what people are going to say. Siobhan claimed Fairstone was stalking her. He denied it, then countered that you’d threatened him.”

“A charge he decided to drop.”

“But now I hear from Siobhan that Fairstone attacked her. Did you know about that?”

He shook his head. “The fire’s just a stupid coincidence.”

She lowered her eyes. “It doesn’t look good, though, does it?”