Ian Rankin: A Question of Blood

“You’re welcome to your opinion, sir,” he tried remonstrating.

“It’s not an opinion, it’s an absolute, undeniable fact! You got egg all over your faces six months ago, and that’s not something you’re ever likely to forget or forgive, is it?”

Rebus had taken a step forward. “Excuse me, sir…?”

Bell spun around to face him. “Yes? What is it?”

“I just thought you might want to keep your voice down… out of respect.”

Bell jabbed a forefinger at Rebus. “Don’t you dare start playing that card! I’ll have you know my son could have been killed at the hands of that maniac!”

“I’m well aware of that, sir.”

“But I’m here representing my constituents, and as such I demand to be allowed inside…” Bell paused for breath. “Who are you anyway?”

“The name’s DI Rebus.”

“Then you’re no bloody good to me. It’s Hogan I need to see.”

“You’ll appreciate that Detective Inspector Hogan’s up to his eyes at the minute. It’s the classroom you want to see, is that right?” Bell nodded, looking around as if seeking out anyone more useful to him than Rebus. “Mind if I ask why, sir?”

“None of your business.”

Rebus shrugged. “It’s just that I’m on my way to talk to DI Hogan…” He turned away, started walking. “Thought I might be able to put a word in on your behalf.”

“Hold on,” Bell said, voice immediately losing some of its stridency. “Maybe you could show me…”

But Rebus was shaking his head. “Best if you wait here, sir. I’ll let you know what DI Hogan says.”

Bell nodded, but he was not to be placated for long. “It’s scandalous, you know. How can someone just walk into a school with a gun?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir.” Rebus looked the MSP up and down. “Got a cigarette on you, by any chance?”

“What?”

“A cigarette.”

Bell shook his head, and Rebus started heading towards the school again.

“I’ll be waiting, Inspector. I won’t be budging from this spot!”

“That’s fine, sir. Best place for you, I daresay.”

There was a sloping lawn to the front of the school, playing fields to one side. Uniformed officers were busy on the playing fields, turning away trespassers who had climbed the perimeter wall. Media maybe, but more likely just ghouls: you got them at every murder scene. Rebus caught a glimpse of a modern building behind the original school. A helicopter flew over. He couldn’t see any cameras aboard.

“That was fun,” Siobhan said, catching up with him.

“Always a pleasure to meet a politician,” Rebus agreed. “Especially one who holds our profession in such esteem.”

The school’s main entrance seemed to be a carved wooden double door with glass panels. Inside was a reception area with sliding windows leading to an office, probably the school secretary’s. She was in there now, giving a statement from behind a large white handkerchief, presumably belonging to the officer seated opposite her. Rebus knew his face but couldn’t put a name to it. Another set of doors led into the body of the school. They’d been wedged open. A sign on them stated that ALL VISITORS SHOULD REPORT TO THE OFFICE. An arrow pointed back towards the sliding windows.

Siobhan gestured towards a corner of the ceiling, where a small camera was fitted. Rebus nodded and passed through the open doors, into a long corridor with stairs off to one side and a large stained-glass window at the far end. The floor was polished wood, creaking under his weight. There were paintings on the walls: robed figures of past teachers, captured at their desks or reaching towards a bookcase. Farther along were lists of names-prefects of the school, headmasters, those who’d gone on to die in service of their country.

“Wonder how easy it was for him to get in,” Siobhan said quietly. Her words reverberated in the silence and a head appeared around a door halfway down the corridor.

“Took you long enough,” boomed the voice of DI Bobby Hogan. “Come and have a look.”

He had retreated back inside the sixth-year common room. It was about sixteen feet by twelve, with windows high up on the external wall. There were about a dozen chairs, and a desk with a computer on it. An old-looking hi-fi sat in one corner, CDs and tapes scattered about. Some of the chairs had magazines on them: FHM, Heat, M8. A novel lay open and facedown nearby. Backpacks and blazers hung on hooks below the windows.

“You can come in,” Hogan told them. “The SOCOs have been through this lot with a fine-toothed comb.”

They edged into the room. Yes, the SOCOs-the scene of crime officers-had been here, because this was where it had happened. Blood spatters on one wall, a fine airbrushing of dull red. Larger drops on the floor, and what looked like skid marks from where feet had slid across a couple of pools. White chalk and yellow adhesive tape showed where evidence had been gathered.

“He entered through one of the side doors,” Hogan was explaining. “It was break time, they weren’t locked. Walked down the corridor and straight in here. Nice sunny day, so most of the kids were outside. He only found three…” Hogan nodded towards where the victims had been. “Listening to music, flicking through magazines.” It was as if he were talking to himself, hoping if he repeated the words often enough, they would start answering his questions.

“Why here?” Siobhan asked. Hogan looked up as if seeing her for the first time. “Hiya, Shiv,” he said with just a trace of a smile. “You here out of curiosity?”

“She’s helping me,” Rebus said, raising his hands.

“Christ, John, what happened?”

“Long story, Bobby. Siobhan asked a good question.”

“You mean, why this particular school?”

“More than that,” Siobhan said. “You said yourself, most of the kids were outdoors. Why didn’t he start with them?”

Hogan answered with a shrug. “I’m hoping we’ll find out.”

“So how can we help, Bobby?” Rebus asked. He hadn’t moved far into the room, content to stay just inside the threshold while Siobhan browsed the posters on the walls. Eminem seemed to be giving the world the benefit of his middle finger, while a group next to him, boiler-suited and rubber-masked, looked like extras from a mid-budget horror film.

“He was ex-army, John,” Hogan was saying. “More than that, he was ex-SAS. I remember you telling me once that you’d tried for the Special Air Service.”

“That was thirty-odd years ago, Bobby.”

Hogan wasn’t listening. “Seems like he was a bit of a loner.”

“A loner with some sort of grudge?” Siobhan asked.

“Who knows.”

“But you want me to ask around?” Rebus guessed.

Hogan looked at him. “Any buddies he had are likely to be like him-armed forces castoffs. They might open up to someone who’s been the same road as them.”

“It was thirty-odd years ago,” Rebus repeated. “And thanks for grouping me with the ‘castoffs.’”

“Ach, you know what I mean… Just for a day or two, John, that’s all I’m asking.”

Rebus stepped back into the corridor and looked around him. It seemed so quiet, so peaceful. And yet the work of a few moments had changed everything. The town, the school would never be the same. The lives of everyone involved would stay convulsed. The school secretary might never emerge from behind that borrowed handkerchief. The families would bury their sons, unable to think beyond the terror of their final moments…

“What about it, John?” Hogan was asking. “Will you help?”

Warm, fuzzy cotton… it could protect you, cushion you…

No mystery … Siobhan’s words… lost his marbles, that’s all…