Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“And miss all the fun?” She followed him in, trying not to show how worried she was. He was on painkillers… and looking for trouble. A bad combination. She’d seen him cross the line before, but he’d always been in control. But with his hands still blistered and pink, and the Complaints about to investigate him for involvement in a possible murder… There was a member of the staff behind the reception desk.

“Good morning,” the woman said brightly.

Rebus already had his ID out. “Lothian and Borders Police,” he said. “You’ve got a woman named Whiteread staying here.”

Fingers clacked against a computer keyboard. “That’s right.”

Rebus leaned across the desk. “I need access to her room.”

The receptionist looked confused. “I’m not…”

“If you’re not in charge, can I speak with whoever is?”

“I’m not sure…”

“Or you could save us the trouble and just give me a key.”

The woman looked more flustered than ever. “I’ll have to find my supervisor.”

“You do that, then.” Rebus placed his hands behind his back, as though impatient. The receptionist picked up her phone, tried a couple of numbers, but didn’t find who she was looking for. The lift sounded, doors slid open. One of the cleaners got out, carrying a duster and a can of aerosol spray. The receptionist put down the phone.

“I’ll just have to find her.” Rebus sighed and checked his watch. Then stared at the receptionist’s back as she pushed open some swing doors and disappeared. He leaned over the desk again, this time pulling the computer screen around so he could see it.

“Room two-twelve,” he told Siobhan. “You staying here?”

She shook her head, followed him to the lift. He pushed the button for the second floor. The doors closed with a dry, rasping sound.

“What if Whiteread comes back?” Siobhan asked.

“She’s busy searching the yacht.” Rebus looked at her and smiled. A bell sounded and the doors shuddered open. As Rebus had hoped, the cleaning staff were still working this floor: a couple of their carts were parked in the corridor. Sheets and towels were piled up, waiting to be taken away for the laundry. He had his story ready: forgotten something… key down in Reception… any chance you could open the door for me? If that didn’t work, maybe a fiver or a tenner would. But his luck was in: the door to 212 stood wide open. The maid was in the bathroom. He put his head around the door.

“Had to pop back for something,” he told her. “Just you carry on.” Then he scanned the bedroom. The bed had been made. Personal items sat on the dressing table. Clothes hung in the narrow wardrobe. Whiteread’s suitcase was empty.

“She probably takes everything with her,” Siobhan whispered. “Keeps it in the car.”

Rebus paid her no heed. He checked beneath the bed, went through both clothes drawers, and slid open the drawer to the bedside table, revealing a Gideon Bible.

“Just like Rocky Raccoon,” he muttered to himself. Then he straightened up. There was nothing here. He’d seen nothing in the bathroom either, when he’d peered around its door. But now he was staring at another door… a connecting door. He tried the handle, and it opened, leading to another door, with no handle on Rebus’s side. Which didn’t matter: it was already open an inch. Rebus pushed it, and found himself in the next bedroom. Clothes strewn over both available chairs. Magazines on the bedside table. Ties and socks spilling from an oversized black nylon sports holdall.

“Simms’s room,” Rebus commented. And there on the dressing table, a brown manila file. Rebus turned it over, picked out the words CONFIDENTIAL and PERSONNEL. Picked out the name LEE HERDMAN. Simms’s idea of security: placing it facedown so no one would see what it was.

“You want to read it here?” Siobhan asked. Rebus shook his head: had to run to forty or fifty sheets.

“Reckon our receptionist would copy it for us?”

“I’ve got a better idea.” Siobhan lifted the file. “There was a sign in Reception for a business suite. I’m guessing they’ll have a photocopier.”

“Then let’s go.” But Siobhan was shaking her head.

“One of us stays here. Last thing we want is the cleaner disappearing, leaving the place locked tight behind her.”

Rebus saw the reasonableness of this, and nodded. So Siobhan took the file while Rebus made a cursory examination of Simms’s room. The mags were the usual men’s fare: FHM, Loaded, GQ . Nothing under the pillows or mattress. None of Simms’s clothes had made it as far as the chest of drawers, though a couple of shirts and suits hung in the wardrobe. Connecting doors… he didn’t know what, if anything, to read into that. Whiteread’s door had been kept closed, meaning Simms couldn’t get into her room. But Simms had left his own door an inch or two open… Inviting her to join him some night? In his bathroom: toothpaste and battery-operated toothbrush. He’d brought his own shampoo: anti-dandruff. Twin-blade razor and a can of shaving cream. Back in the bedroom, Rebus looked more closely at the black holdall. Five pairs of socks and underpants. Two shirts hanging up, two more on the chairs. Making five shirts in total. A week’s worth. Simms had packed for a week’s trip. Rebus was thoughtful. An ex-soldier goes on a killing spree, the army sends two investigators to make sure nothing links back to the killer’s past. Why send two people? And would they require a full week at the scene? What kind of people would you send? Psychologists maybe, to look into the killer’s state of mind. Neither Whiteread nor Simms struck him as having any experience of psychology, or any interest in Herdman’s state of mind.

They were hunters, maybe hunter-gatherers: Rebus was convinced of it.

There was a soft tapping at the door. Rebus checked the spy hole: it was Siobhan. He let her in, and she put the file back on the dressing table.

“Pages in the right order?” Rebus asked.

“Good as gold.” She had the copied sheets in a padded yellow envelope. “We ready to leave?”

Rebus nodded, and followed her to Simms’s door. But then he stopped, turned back. The file was lying faceup. He turned it over, gave the room a final look around, and left.

They’d offered the receptionist a smile as they’d passed her. A smile, but no words.

“Think she’ll tell Whiteread?” Siobhan had asked.

“I doubt it.” And he’d shrugged, because even if she did, there was nothing Whiteread could do about it. There’d been nothing in her room for anyone to find, and nothing was missing. While Siobhan drove them along the A90 towards Barnton, Rebus got started on the file. A lot of it was chaff: various test scores and reports, medical stuff, results from promotion boards. Penciled marginalia commented on Herdman’s strengths and weaknesses. His physical stamina was questioned, but his career was textbook stuff: tours of duty in Northern Ireland, the Falklands, the Middle East; training exercises in the UK, Saudi Arabia, Finland, Germany. Rebus turned a page and found himself staring at a sheet blank save for a few typed words: REMOVED BY ORDER. There was a scribbled signature and a stamped date, going back only four days. The date of the killings. Rebus turned to the next page and found himself reading about Herdman’s closing few months in the army. He had told his employers that he wouldn’t be signing up again-a copy of his letter was enclosed. Moves had been made to entice him to stay, but to no avail. After which the file descended into a bureaucracy of form filling. Events taking their course.

“Did you see this?” Rebus said, tapping the words REMOVED BY ORDER.

Siobhan nodded. “What does it mean?”