Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“Sometimes?” Rebus encouraged her.

She shook her head, exhaled noisily and stretched her back, working her neck. “Thank God for the weekend. You got any plans?”

“Thought I might do some hill walking… pump some iron at the gym…”

“Just a hint of sarcasm there?”

“Just a hint.” He’d spotted something. “Slow down a bit.” He was turning to watch from the rear window. “Back the car up.”

She did so. They were on a street of low-rise flats. A supermarket cart, itself a long way from home, sat abandoned on the pavement. Rebus was looking down an alley between two blocks. One… no, two figures. Just silhouettes, so close together they seemed to merge. Then Rebus realized what was happening.

“A good old-fashioned knee-trembler,” Siobhan commented. “Who said the art of romance was dead?”

One of the faces had turned towards the car, noting the idling engine. A rough masculine voice called out: “Enjoying the view, pal? Better than you’re getting at home, eh?”

“Drive,” Rebus ordered.

Siobhan drove.

They ended up at St. Leonard’s, Siobhan explaining that her car was there, without elaborating any further. Rebus had told her he’d be okay to drive home: Arden Street was five minutes away. But by the time he parked outside his flat, his hands were burning. In the bathroom, he smeared more cream on and took a couple of painkillers, hoping he’d be able to snatch a few hours’ sleep. A whiskey might help, so he poured a large measure and sat himself down in the living room. The laptop had gone from screen-saver to sleep mode. He didn’t bother waking it, walked over to his dining table instead. He had some stuff about the SAS laid out there, alongside the copy of Herdman’s personnel file. He sat down in front of it.

Enjoying the view, pal?

Better than you’re getting at home?

Enjoying the view…?

The view was magnificent. Siobhan was in the front, next to the pilot. Rebus was tucked in behind, an empty seat next to him. The noise from the propellers was deafening.

“We could’ve taken the corporate plane,” Doug Brimson was explaining, “but the fuel bill’s massive, and it might’ve been too big for the LZ.”

LZ: landing zone. Not a term Rebus had heard since he’d left the army.

“Corporate?” Siobhan was asking.

“I’ve got a seven-seater. Companies hire me to fly them to meetings-otherwise known as ‘jollies.’ I lay on some chilled champagne, crystal glasses…”

“Sounds fun.”

“Sorry, all we’ve got today is a canteen of tea.” He offered a laugh, turning to look at Rebus. “I was in Dublin for the weekend, flew a bunch of bankers there for some rugby match. They paid for me to stay over.”

“Lucky you.”

“A few weekends back, it was Amsterdam: businessman’s stag party…”

Rebus was thinking of his own weekend. When Siobhan had picked him up this morning, she’d asked what he’d done.

“Not much,” he’d said. “You?”

“Ditto.”

“Funny, the guys down at Leith said you’d been dropping in.”

“Funny, they told me the same thing about you.”

“Enjoying it so far?” Brimson asked now.

“So far,” Rebus said. In truth, he had no great head for heights. All the same, he’d watched with fascination the aerial view of Edinburgh, amazed at how indistinguishable landmarks like the Castle and Calton Hill were from their surroundings. No mistaking the volcanic heft of Arthur’s Seat, but the buildings suffered from a uniform gray coloring. Still, the elaborate patterning of the New Town’s geometric streets was impressive, and then they were out over the Forth, passing South Queensferry and the road and rail bridges. Rebus sought Port Edgar School, saw Hopetoun House first and then the school building not half a mile distant. He could even make out the Portakabin. They were heading west now, following the M8 towards Glasgow.

Siobhan was asking Brimson if he did a lot of corporate work.

“Depends how the economy’s doing. To be honest, if a company’s sending four or five people to a meeting, it can be cheaper to charter than to fly regular business class.”

“Siobhan tells me you were in the forces, Mr. Brimson,” Rebus said, leaning as far forward as his seat belt would allow.

Brimson smiled. “I was RAF. What about you, Inspector? Forces background?”

Rebus nodded. “Even trained for the SAS,” he admitted. “Didn’t quite make the grade.”

“Few do.”

“And some of those falter down the line.”

Brimson looked at him again. “You mean Lee?”

“And Robert Niles. How did you come to know him?”

“Through Lee. He told me he visited Robert. I asked if I could go with him one day.”

“And after that, you started going on your own?” Rebus was remembering the entries in the visitors’ log.

“Yes. He’s an interesting chap. We seem to get along.” He looked at Siobhan. “Fancy taking over the controls while I chat with your colleague?”

“No fear…”

“Another time maybe. I think you’d like it.” He gave her a wink. Then, to Rebus: “The army seems to treat its old boys pretty shabbily, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know. There’s support available when you hit civvy street… wasn’t in my day.”

“High rate of marriage failures, breakdowns. More Falklands veterans have taken their own lives than were killed in the actual conflict. A lot of homeless people are ex-forces…”

“On the other hand,” Rebus said, “the SAS is big business these days. You can sell your story to a publisher, sell your services as a bodyguard. Way I hear it, all four SAS squadrons are below quota. Too many are leaving. Suicide rate’s lower than the average, too.”

Brimson didn’t appear to be listening. “One guy jumped out of a plane a few years back… maybe you heard about that, too. Recipient of the QGM.”

“Queen’s Gallantry Medal,” Rebus explained, for Siobhan’s benefit.

“Tried stabbing his ex-wife, thinking she was trying to kill him. Suffered from depression… Couldn’t take it anymore, went into freefall, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

“It happens,” Rebus said. He was remembering the book in Herdman’s flat, the one Teri’s photo had fallen from.

“Oh, it happens all right,” Brimson was continuing. “The SAS chaplain who took part in the Iranian embassy siege, he ended up committing suicide. Another ex-SAS man shot his girlfriend with a gun he’d brought back from the Gulf War.”

“And something similar happened to Lee Herdman?” Siobhan asked.

“Seems like,” Brimson said.

“Why pick on that school, though?” Rebus continued. “You went to a few of his parties, didn’t you, Mr. Brimson?”

“He threw a good party.”

“Always used to be plenty of teenagers hanging around.”

Brimson turned again. “Is that a question or a comment?”

“Ever see any drugs?”

Brimson seemed to be concentrating on the control panel in front of him. “Maybe a bit of pot,” he finally conceded.

“Is that as strong as it got?”

“It’s as much as I saw.”

“Not quite the same thing. Did you ever hear a rumor that Lee Herdman might be dealing?”

“No.”

“Or smuggling?”

Brimson looked towards Siobhan. “Shouldn’t I have a solicitor present?”

She gave a reassuring smile. “I think the detective inspector’s just making conversation.” She turned to Rebus. “Isn’t that right?” Her eyes telling Rebus to go easy.

“That’s right,” he said. “Just a bit of chat.” He tried not to think about the hours of lost sleep, his stinging hands, Andy Callis’s death. Concentrated instead on the view from his window, the changing landscape. They’d be over Glasgow soon, and then out into the Firth of Clyde, Bute and Kintyre…