Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“Something we shouldn’t have missed.” Hogan frowned. “For which I take responsibility, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“Seems Herdman owned another boat, something a bit bigger. Seagoing.”

“A yacht?” Siobhan guessed.

Hogan nodded. They were passing a series of anchored vessels, bobbing up and down. That same clanking sound from the rigging. Gulls overhead. There was a stiff breeze, and occasional salt spray. “Too big for him to store in his shed. He obviously used it; otherwise, it’d be kept ashore.” He indicated the shoreline, where a series of boats sat on blocks, well away from the aging effects of seawater.

“And?” Rebus asked.

“And see for yourself…”

Rebus saw. He saw a crowd of figures, recognized a couple of them as coming from Customs and Excise. Knew what that meant. They were examining something that had been laid out on a folded sheet of polyethylene. Shoes were being pressed to the corners of the polyethylene to stop it from blowing away.

“Sooner we get this lot indoors, the better,” one officer was saying. Another was arguing that Forensics should take a look first, before quitting the locus. Rebus stood behind one of the crouched figures, and saw the haul.

“Eckies,” Hogan explained, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. “We reckon about a thousand. Enough to keep a few all-night raves going.” The Ecstasy tablets were in twelve or so translucent blue plastic bags, the kind you might use to store scraps of food in a freezer. Hogan tipped a few onto his palm. “Anything from eight to ten grand’s worth at street prices.” The pills had a greenish tinge to them, each one half the size of the painkillers Rebus had taken that morning. “There’s some cocaine, too,” Hogan continued for Rebus’s benefit. “Only a grand or so’s worth, maybe for personal use.”

“We found traces of coke in his flat, didn’t we?” Siobhan asked.

“That’s right.”

“And where was this lot?” Rebus inquired.

“Stored in a locker belowdecks,” Hogan said. “Not very well hidden.”

“Who found it?”

“We did.”

Rebus turned towards the voice. Whiteread was walking down the short plank connecting yacht to pontoon, a smug-looking Simms right behind her. She made a show of brushing dust from her hands.

“Rest of the boat looks clean, but your officers might want to check anyway.”

Hogan nodded. “Don’t worry, we will.”

Rebus was standing in front of the two army investigators. Whiteread met his stare.

“You seem happy enough,” Rebus said. “Is that because you found the drugs, or were able to put one over on us?”

“If you’d done your job in the first place, DI Rebus…” Whiteread left it for Rebus to fill in the rest of the sentiment.

“I’m still asking myself the ‘how?’”

Whiteread’s mouth twitched. “There were records in his office. After which it was just a matter of talking to the marina manager.”

“You searched the boat?” Rebus was studying the yacht. It looked well-used. “On your own, or did you follow SOP?” SOP: standard operating procedure. Whiteread’s smile leveled out. Rebus turned his attention to Hogan. “Jurisdiction, Bobby. You might want to ask yourself why they went ahead with the search without contacting you first.” He pointed towards the two investigators. “I trust them about as much as I’d trust a junkie with a chemistry set.”

“What gives you the right to say that?” Simms was smiling, but only with his mouth. He looked Rebus up and down. “And talk about the pot calling the kettle black-it’s not us being investigated for -”

“That’s enough, Gavin!” Whiteread hissed. The young man fell silent. The whole marina seemed suddenly still and noiseless.

“This isn’t going to help us,” Bobby Hogan said. “Let’s send the stuff for analysis -”

“I know who needs analysis,” Simms muttered.

“- and meantime put our heads together to see what all of this might add to the inquiry. That all right with you?” He was looking at Whiteread, who nodded, apparently content. But she shifted her eyes to Rebus, daring him to hold her gaze. He stared back at her, knowing his message was being reinforced.

I don’t trust you…

They ended up in a convoy of cars, heading for Port Edgar Academy. There were fewer ghouls and news crews outside the gates, and no uniforms patrolling the perimeter to repel trespassers. The Portakabin had outgrown its usefulness, and someone had finally thought of annexing one of the classrooms in the school building. The school itself wouldn’t reopen for a few days yet; even then, the crime scene would remain locked and unused. Everyone had gathered behind desks, where pupils would normally have been seated to listen to their geography teacher. There were maps on the walls, rainfall charts, pictures of tribesmen, bats and igloos. Some of the team preferred to stand, legs slightly apart, arms folded. Bobby Hogan stood in front of the pristine blackboard. Beside it was a marker board bearing the single word Homework followed by three exclamation points.

“Could have been meant for us,” Hogan stated, tapping the board. “Thanks to our friends from the armed forces here…”-he nodded in the direction of Whiteread and Simms, who’d chosen to stand in the doorway-“the case has taken a slight turn. A seagoing yacht and a quantity of drugs. What do we make of that?”

“Smuggling, sir,” a voice stated.

“Just to add one fact…” The speaker was standing at the back of the room: Customs and Excise. “The majority of Ecstasy coming into the UK originates in Holland.”

“So we need to take a look at Herdman’s logs,” Hogan announced. “See where he’s been sailing to.”

“Logs can always be falsified, of course,” the Customs man added.

“We also need to talk to the Drugs Squad, see what they know about the Ecstasy scene.”

“We’re sure it’s Eckies, sir?” a voice piped up.

“Whatever it is, it’s not seasickness pills.” There was some forced laughter at this.

“Sir, does this mean the case will be handed over to DMC?” DMC: Drugs and Major Crime.

“I can’t answer that as yet. What we need to do is focus on the work we’re already doing.” Hogan looked around the room, making sure he had everyone’s attention. The only person not looking at him, he noted, was John Rebus. Rebus was staring at the two figures in the doorway, his eyebrows lowered in a thoughtful frown. “We also need to go over that yacht with a fine-tooth comb, see if we managed to miss anything else.” Hogan saw Whiteread and Simms share a look. “Right, any questions?” he asked. There were a few, but he dealt with them briskly. One officer wanted to know how much a yacht like Herdman’s would cost. An answer had already been provided by the marina manager: for a forty-foot yacht, six berths, you’d need sixty thousand pounds. If you were buying secondhand.

“Which didn’t come from his pension fund, trust me,” Whiteread commented.

“We’re already looking at Herdman’s various bank accounts and other assets,” Hogan told the room, glancing again in Rebus’s direction.

“Mind if we’re included in the search of the boat?” Whiteread asked. Hogan couldn’t think of any reason to refuse, so just gave a shrug. As the meeting broke up, he found Rebus by his side.

“Bobby,” the voice reduced to a murmur, “those drugs could be a plant.”

Hogan stared at him. “To what possible purpose?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t trust -”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

“Things were looking like they were winding down. This gives Whiteread and her lackey an excuse to stick around.”