Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“Not especially.” Rebus slid into the space across from Johnson. The young man’s choice of Hawaiian shirt didn’t look quite so garish in this light. A new waitress had appeared, and Rebus ordered a double. “On my friend’s tab,” he added, nodding across the table.

Johnson just shrugged magnanimously, and ordered another glass of merlot for himself. “So this is by way of a pure and actual coincidence?” he asked.

“Where’s your mongrel?” Rebus said, looking around.

“The wee evil fellow doesn’t quite have the cachet for an establishment of this caliber.”

“You tie him up outside?”

Johnson grinned. “I let him off the leash now and again.”

“An owner could get fined for that sort of thing.”

“He only bites when the Peacock gives the order.” Johnson finished the dregs of his wine, just as the new drinks arrived. The waitress put down a bowl of rice crackers between the two glasses. “Cheers, then,” Johnson said, hoisting the merlot.

Rebus ignored this. “I was just thinking of you actually,” he said.

“The purest of thoughts, I don’t doubt.”

“Funnily enough, no.” Rebus leaned across the table, keeping his voice low. “In fact, if you were a mind-reader, they’d have scared the shit out of you.” He had Johnson’s attention now. “Know who died last Friday? Andy Callis. You remember him, don’t you?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“He was the armed-response cop who stopped your friend Rab Fisher.”

“Rab’s not so much a friend as a casual acquaintance.”

“Acquainted enough for you to sell him that gun.”

“A replica, if you don’t mind me reminding you.” Johnson was diving into the bowl of snacks, holding his paw to his mouth and feeding them in morsel by morsel, so that bits flew out as he spoke. “No case to answer, and I resent any implication to the contrary.”

“Except that Fisher was going around scaring people, and it nearly got him killed.”

“No case to answer,” Johnson repeated.

“And he turned my friend into a nervous wreck, and now that friend’s dead. You sold someone a gun, and someone else ended up dying.”

“A replica, perfectly legitimate at this point in time and space.” Johnson was trying not to listen, making to grab another fistful of crackers. Rebus swiped at the hand, scattering the bowl and its contents. He grabbed the young man’s wrist. Squeezed it hard.

“You’re about as legitimate as every other bad bastard I’ve ever come across.”

Johnson was trying to free his hand. “And you’re pure as the driven, is that what you’re saying? Everybody knows the lengths you’ll go to, Rebus!”

“And what lengths are those?”

“Anything that’ll get me! I know you tried framing me, saying I’m retooling deactivated guns.”

“Says who?” Rebus had released his grip.

“Says everyone!” There were flecks of saliva on Johnson’s chin, bits of snack food mixed in with them. “Christ, you’d have to be deaf in this town not to hear.”

It was true: Rebus had been putting out feelers. He’d wanted Peacock Johnson. He’d wanted something- something -as repayment for Callis leaving the force. And though people had shaken their heads and muttered words like replicas and trophies and deactivated, Rebus had gone on asking.

And somehow, Johnson had got to hear of it.

“How long have you known?” Rebus asked now.

“What?”

“How long?”

But Johnson just picked up his glass, eyes beady, waiting for Rebus to try to knock it from his grasp. Rebus lifted his own glass, drained it in one burning mouthful.

“Something you ought to know,” he said, nodding slowly. “I can hold a grudge for a lifetime: just you watch me.”

“Even though I’ve done nothing?”

“Oh, you’ll have done something, believe me.” Rebus made to stand. “I just haven’t found out what it is yet, that’s all.” He winked and turned away. Heard the table being pushed aside, looked around and Johnson was on his feet, fists clenched.

“Let’s settle it now!” he was shouting. Rebus slipped his hands into his pockets.

“I’d prefer to wait for the court case, if that’s all right with you,” he said.

“No way! I’m sick and tired of this!”

“Good,” Rebus said. He saw Siobhan emerging from the corridor, looking at him in disbelief. Probably thought he’d gone to the toilet. Her eyes said it all: I can’t leave you five damned minutes …

“Any trouble here?” The question coming not from Siobhan but from some sort of doorman, thick-necked and wearing a tight black suit over a black polo neck. He was fitted with an earpiece and microphone. His shaven head shone beneath what light there was.

“Just a little argument,” Rebus assured him. “In fact, maybe you can settle it: name of Elton John’s old record label?”

The doorman looked nonplussed. The barman had his hand raised. Rebus nodded at him. “DJM,” the barman said.

Rebus snapped his fingers. “That’s the one! Chalk up a drink for yourself, anything you like…” He headed for the corridor, pointed back towards Peacock Johnson. “On that little bastard’s tab…”

“You never talk much about your army days,” Siobhan said, bringing two plates in from the kitchen. Rebus had already been provided with a tray, knife and fork. Condiments were on the floor at his feet. He gave a nod of thanks, accepting the plate: a grilled pork chop with baked potato and corn on the cob.

“This looks great,” he said, lifting his wineglass. “Compliments to the chef.”

“I microwaved the potatoes, and the corn came out of the freezer.”

Rebus put a finger to his lips. “Never give away your secrets.”

“A lesson you’ve taken to heart.” She blew on a forkful of pork. “Want me to repeat the question?”

“Thing is, Siobhan, it wasn’t a question.”

She thought back, and saw that he was right. “Nevertheless,” she said.

“You want me to answer?” He watched her nod, then took a sip of his wine. Chilean red, she’d told him. Three quid a bottle. “Mind if I eat first?”

“You can’t eat and talk at the same time?”

“Bad manners, so my mum used to tell me.”

“You always listened to your parents?”

“Always.”

“And took their advice as gospel?” He nodded, chewing on some potato skin. “Then how come we’re talking and eating at the same time?”

Rebus washed the mouthful down with more wine. “Okay, I give in. To answer the question you didn’t ask, yes.” She was expecting more, but he was concentrating on his food again.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, it’s true I don’t talk much about my army days.”

Siobhan exhaled noisily. “I’d get more chat out of one of the clients down at the morgue.” She stopped, squeezed shut her eyes for a second. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s okay.” But Rebus’s chewing had slowed. Two of the current “clients”: family member and ex-colleague. Strange to think of them lying on adjacent metal trays in the morgue’s chilled lockers. “Thing about my army days is, I’ve spent years trying to forget them.”

“Why?”

“All sorts of reasons. I shouldn’t have signed on the dotted line in the first place. Then I woke up and I was in Ulster, aiming a rifle at kids armed with Molotovs. Ended up trying for the SAS and getting my brain scrambled in the process.” He gave a shrug. “That’s about all there is to it.”

“So why did you join the police?”

He raised the glass to his mouth. “Who else was going to take me?” He put the tray aside, leaned down to pour more wine. Raised the bottle towards Siobhan, but she shook her head. “Now you know why they’ve never got me to front a recruiting drive.”