Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

Rebus was still concentrating on Kate, trying for eye contact. She seemed to be finding something fascinating in the near distance. The gulls on the playing field perhaps, or the rugby posts…

“Well, where can we film?” the MSP was asking.

“Outside the gates, same as everyone else,” Hogan replied. Bell exhaled furiously.

“You can be sure your obstructiveness will be noted,” he warned.

“Thank you, sir,” Hogan said, keeping his voice level while his eyes burned.

The common room had been emptied: no chairs, hi-fi or magazines. The principal, Dr. Fogg, was standing in the doorway, hands held before him, palms pressed together. He was dressed in a sober charcoal suit, white shirt, black tie. His eyes had dark rings around them, hair speckled with dandruff. He sensed Rebus behind him and turned, offered a watery smile.

“Trying to decide what use might best be made of the room,” he explained. “The chaplain thinks it could be turned into a sort of chapel, something the pupils could use for contemplation.”

“It’s an idea,” Rebus said. The principal had moved aside so Rebus could enter the room. Blood had dried into the walls and floor. Rebus tried to sidestep the stains.

“You could always lock it, leave it a few years. Kids will all have moved on by then… few coats of paint, new carpet…”

“Hard to look that far ahead,” Fogg said, managing another smile. “Well, I’ll leave you to… to your…” He made a little bow and turned away, walking back towards his office.

Rebus was staring at the blood spatter pattern on one wall. This was where Derek had been standing. Derek, part of his family, now obliterated.

Lee Herdman… Rebus was trying to visualize him, waking up that morning and reaching for a gun. What had happened? What in his life had changed? Were demons dancing around his bed when he awoke? Were the voices teasing him? The teenagers he’d befriended… had something broken that spell? Fuck you, kids, I’m coming for you… Driving into the school grounds, stopping the car rather than actually parking it. In a rush, leaving his driver’s door wide open. In through the side entrance, no cameras to catch him… Up the corridor and into this room. Here I am, kids. Anthony Jarvies, shot through the head. He’d probably been first. All the army teaching told you to aim for the center of the chest: bigger target, harder to miss and usually deadly. But Herdman had opted for the head… Why? That first shot had lost him the element of surprise. Maybe Derek Renshaw had been in movement, receiving a shot to the face for his trouble. James Bell ducking down, one bullet to the shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut tight as Herdman turned the gun on himself…

The third head shot, this time to his own temple.

“Why, Lee? That’s all we want to know,” Rebus whispered into the silence. He walked to the door, turned, entered the room again, holding out his right gloved hand as though it were the weapon. Swiveled from one firing position to another. He knew that the forensics team would be doing much the same, albeit in front of their computers. Reconstructing the scene in the room, computing the angles of bullet entry, positioning the gunman for each shot. Every shred of evidence added its own sentence to the story. Here’s where he was standing… then he turned, moved forwards… If we match angle of entry to the blood spatter pattern…

Eventually, they would know every move Herdman had made. They would have brought the scene vividly to life with their graphics and ballistics. And none of it might make them any the wiser about the only question that mattered.

The why.

“Don’t shoot,” a voice said from the doorway. It was Bobby Hogan, standing with arms raised. He had with him two figures Rebus knew. Claverhouse and Ormiston. Claverhouse, tall and lanky, was a detective inspector; Ormiston, shorter and stocky with a permanent sniffle, was a detective sergeant. Both worked for Drugs and Major Crime and had close links to the assistant chief constable, Colin Carswell. In fact, on a bad day Rebus might have called them Carswell’s hatchet men. He realized that he still had his gun hand out, so he lowered it.

“I hear the fascist look’s in this year,” Claverhouse said, indicating Rebus’s leather gloves.

“Making you fashionable year in and year out,” Rebus retorted.

“Now, children,” Hogan warned. Ormiston was peering at the blood on the floor, rubbing the tip of his shoe over it.

“So what brings you sniffing around?” Rebus asked, eyes on Ormiston as the stocky man rubbed the back of his hand across his nostrils.

“Drugs,” Claverhouse said. With all three buttons of his suit jacket closed, he resembled a shop-window mannequin.

“Looks like Ormy’s been sampling the goods.”

Hogan bowed his head to try to hide a smile. Claverhouse swiveled towards him. “I thought DI Rebus was out on his ear.”

“News travels fast,” Rebus said.

“Aye, especially good news,” Ormiston snapped back.

Hogan straightened up. “Do the three of you want detention?” No one replied. “To answer your question, DI Claverhouse, John’s here in a purely advisory capacity, due to his army background. He’s not ‘working’ per se…”

“No change there then,” Ormiston muttered.

“And the kettle’s trailing the pot, one-nil, at halftime,” Rebus informed him.

Hogan held up a hand. “And that’s a yellow card from the referee. Any more shite and you’re out of here, I mean it!” His voice had hardened. Claverhouse’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t say anything. Ormiston had his nose all but pressed to one of the bloodstains on the wall.

“Right…” Hogan said into the silence, sighing heavily. “So what is it you’ve got for us?”

Claverhouse took this as his cue. “Looks like the stuff you found on the boat is checking out: Ecstasy and cocaine. The cocaine’s pretty high grade. Maybe it was due to be cut a bit further…”

“Crack?” Hogan asked.

Claverhouse nodded. “It’s taken hold in a few places-fishing towns up north, some of the housing projects here and in Glasgow… A grand’s worth of good stuff can turn into ten when it’s cut.”

“There’s also a bundle of hash going around,” Ormiston added.

Claverhouse glared at him, not wanting to have his thunder stolen. “Ormy’s right, there’s plenty of hash on the streets.”

“What about Ecstasy?” Hogan asked.

Claverhouse nodded. “We thought it was coming up from Manchester. Could be we were wrong.”

“From Herdman’s logs,” Hogan said, “we know he’s been to and fro to the Continent. Seems to stop off at Rotterdam.”

“Lot of E factories in Holland,” Ormiston stated casually. He was still studying the wall in front of him, hands in pockets and leaning back on his heels, as if concentrating on the exhibit at a gallery. “Lot of cocaine over there, too.”

“And Customs wasn’t suspicious of these jaunts to Rotterdam?” Rebus asked.

Claverhouse shrugged. “Those poor buggers are stretched to the breaking point. No way they can check up on everybody hopping over to Europe, especially in these days of open borders.”

“So what you’re saying is, you let Herdman slip through your net?”

Claverhouse’s eyes met Rebus’s. “Like Customs, we depend on intelligence gathering.”

“Not much sign of that around here,” Rebus countered, shifting his gaze from Claverhouse to Ormiston and back again. “Bobby, have Herdman’s finances been looked into?”

Hogan nodded. “No evidence of sudden large deposits or withdrawals.”

“Dealers steer clear of banks,” Claverhouse stated. “Hence the need for money laundering. Herdman’s boat business would do just fine.”