Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

At the end of the interview, Rebus asked if there’d been any progress. Blake shook his head.

“Still no witnesses. Dr. Curt’s doing the autopsy this afternoon.” He checked his watch. “I might head on down there. You’re welcome to…”

But Rebus was shaking his head. He had no wish to see his friend dissected. “Will you bring Rab Fisher in?”

Blake nodded. “Don’t worry about that, I’ll have a word with him.”

“Don’t expect much in the way of cooperation,” Rebus warned.

“I’ll talk to him.” The young man’s tone told Rebus that he was close to pushing too hard.

“Nobody likes to be told how to do their job,” Rebus acknowledged with a smile.

“At least not until after they’ve screwed it up.” Blake got to his feet, Rebus doing the same. The two men shook hands.

“Nice guy,” Rebus said to Siobhan, as they walked back to her car.

“Too cocky by half,” she responded. “He doesn’t think he’s going to screw anything up… ever.”

“Then he’ll learn the hard way.”

“I hope so. I really do.”

The plan had been for them to head back to Siobhan’s flat so she could cook the dinner she’d been promising. They were quiet in the car, and as they got to the junction of Leith Street and York Place, the lights were against them. Rebus turned to her.

“Drink first?” he suggested.

“With me as designated driver?”

“You could take a taxi home after, pick up the car in the morning…”

She was staring at the red light, making up her mind. When it turned green, she signaled to move into the next lane over, heading for Queen Street.

“I’ll assume we’re gracing the Ox with our precious custom,” Rebus said.

“Would anywhere else suit sir’s stringent requirements?”

“Tell you what… we’ll have one drink there, and after that you can choose.”

“Deal.”

So they had their one drink in the smoky front room of the Oxford Bar, the place loud with after-work chat, the late afternoon drifting towards evening. Ancient Egypt on the Discovery Channel. Siobhan was watching the regulars: more entertaining than anything the TV could provide. She noticed that Harry, the dour barman, was smiling.

“He seems unusually chipper,” she commented to Rebus.

“I think young Harry’s in love.” Rebus was trying to make his pint last: Siobhan still hadn’t intimated whether they’d be sticking around for a second drink. She’d ordered a half of cider, already mostly gone. “Want the other half of that?” he asked, nodding towards her glass.

“One drink, you said.”

“Just to keep me company.” He held his own glass aloft, showing how much was left. But she shook her head.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” she told him. He attempted a look of shocked innocence, knowing it wouldn’t fool her for a second. A few more regulars were squeezing into the mêlée. There were three women seated at a table in the otherwise empty back room, but none in the front bar save Siobhan. She wrinkled her nose at the crush and steady escalation in noise, put her glass to her lips and drained it.

“Come on, then,” she said.

“Where?” Rebus affected a frown. But she just shook her head: not telling. “My jacket’s hanging up,” he told her. He’d taken it off in the hope of gaining a psychological advantage: a sign of how comfortable he felt here.

“Then get it,” she ordered. So he did, and gulped down the remains of his own drink before following her outside.

“Fresh air,” she was saying, breathing deeply. The car was parked on North Castle Street, but they walked past it, heading for George Street. Directly ahead of them, the Castle was illuminated against the ink-dark sky. They turned left, Rebus feeling a stiffness in both legs, the legacy of his trek across Jura.

“Long soak for me tonight,” he commented.

“Bet that was the most exercise you’ve had this year,” Siobhan replied with a smile.

“This decade,” Rebus corrected her. She’d stopped at some steps and was heading down. Her chosen bar was tucked away below sidewalk level, a shop directly above it. The interior was chic, with subdued lighting and music.

“Your first time in here?” Siobhan asked.

“What do you think?” He was heading for the bar, but Siobhan tugged his arm and gestured towards a free booth.

“It’s table service,” she said as they sat down. A waitress was already standing in front of them. Siobhan ordered a gin and tonic, Rebus a Laphroaig. When his malt arrived, he lifted the glass and peered at it, as if disapproving of the size of measure. Siobhan stirred her own drink, mashing the slice of lime against the ice cubes.

“Want to keep the tab open?” the waitress asked.

“Yes, please,” Siobhan said. Then, when the waitress had gone: “Are we any nearer finding out why Herdman shot those kids?”

Rebus shrugged. “I think maybe we’ll only know when we get there.”

“And everything up to that point…?”

“Is potentially useful,” Rebus said, knowing this wasn’t how she’d have chosen to finish the sentence. He lifted his glass to his mouth, but it was already empty. No sign of the waitress. Behind the bar, one of the staff was mixing a cocktail.

“Friday night, out at that railway line,” Siobhan was saying, “Silvers told me something.” She paused. “He said the Herdman case was being handed over to DMC.”

“Makes sense,” Rebus muttered. But with Claverhouse and Ormiston running the show, there’d be no place for him or Siobhan. “Didn’t there used to be a band called DMC, or am I thinking of Elton John’s record company?”

Siobhan was nodding. “Run DMC. I think they were a rap band.”

“Rap with a capital C, most likely.”

“No match for the Rolling Stones certainly.”

“Don’t knock the Stones, DC Clarke. None of the stuff you listen to would exist without them.”

“A point on which you’ve probably had many an argument.” She went back to stirring her drink. Rebus still couldn’t see their waitress.

“I’m getting a refill,” he said, sliding out of the booth. He wished Siobhan hadn’t mentioned Friday night. All weekend, Andy Callis hadn’t been far from his thoughts. He kept thinking of how different sequences of events-tiny chinks of altered time and space-could have saved him. Probably could have saved Lee Herdman, too… and stopped Robert Niles from killing his wife.

And stopped Rebus from scalding his hands.

Everything came down to the most minute contingencies, and to tinker with any single one of them was to change the future out of all recognition. He knew there was some argument in science, something to do with butterflies flapping their wings in the jungle… Maybe if he flapped his own arms, he would end up getting served. The barman was pouring a bright pink concoction into a martini glass, turning away from Rebus to serve it. The bar was double-sided, dividing the room in half. Rebus peered across into the gloom. Not too many customers in the other half. A mirror image of booths and squishy chairs, same decor and clientele. Rebus knew that he stood out by about thirty years. One young man had ranged himself across an entire banquette, arms stretched out behind him, legs crossed, looking cocksure and relaxed, wanting to be seen…

Seen by everyone but Rebus. The barman was ready to take Rebus’s order, but Rebus shook his head, walked to the end of the bar and through the short corridor that led to the bar’s other half. Across the floor until he was standing in front of Peacock Johnson.

“Mr. Rebus…” Johnson’s arms fell to his sides. He glanced to the right and left, as if expecting Rebus to have reinforcements. “The dapper detective, and no mistake. Looking for yours truly?”