Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

What was she doing here anyway? Was she here because of Fairstone, or the notes, or because Rachel Fox had turned up at the Boatman’s? Maybe all three. Fox was a checkout assistant, so Siobhan scanned the row of registers and saw her almost immediately. She was wearing the same blue uniform as the other women and had piled her hair atop her head, a ringlet hanging down over either ear. She had a vacant look on her face as she slid item after item over the bar-code reader. The sign above her register read NINE ITEMS OR LESS. Siobhan made her way down the first aisle, couldn’t find anything she needed. She didn’t want to wait in the queues at the fish and meat counters. It would be just her luck if Fox took a break, or skipped out early. Two bars of chocolate went into the cart, followed by a kitchen towel and a can of Scotch broth. Four items. At the top of the next aisle, she made sure Fox was still working the checkout. She was, and three pensioners were waiting their turn to pay. Siobhan added a tube of tomato puree to her provisions. A woman in an electric wheelchair whizzed past, her husband toiling to keep up. She kept yelling instructions to him: “Toothpaste! The pump, mind, not the tube! And did you remember the cucumber?”

His sudden wince told Siobhan that he had in fact forgotten the cucumber and would need to go back.

The other shoppers seemed to be moving at half-speed, as if trying to make the activity last longer than was strictly necessary. They’d probably end the trip with a visit to the in-store café-tea and a slice of cake, the cake to be chewed slowly, the tea sipped. And then home to the afternoon cooking shows.

A bag of pasta. Six items.

Only one pensioner was now waiting at the express lane. Siobhan fell in behind him. He said hello to Fox, who managed a tired “Hiya,” cutting off any further conversation.

“Grand day,” the man said. His mouth seemed to be lacking the necessary dental plates, tongue protruding wetly. Fox just gave a nod, concentrating on processing his purchases as speedily as possible. Looking down at the conveyor belt, two things struck Siobhan. The first was that the gentleman had twelve items. The second, that like him she should have bought some eggs.

“Eight-eighty,” Fox said. The man’s hand withdrew slowly from his pocket, counting out coins. He frowned and counted again. Fox held out her hand and took the money from him.

“Fifty pence short,” she informed him.

“Eh?”

“You’re fifty pence short. You’ll have to put something back.”

“Here, take this,” Siobhan said, adding another coin to the collection. The man looked at her, gave a toothless grin and a bow of his head. Then he lifted his bag and shuffled towards the exit.

Rachel Fox began dealing with her new customer. “You’re thinking ‘poor old soul,’” she said without looking up. “But he tries pulling that one every week or so.”

“More fool me, then,” Siobhan said. “It was worth it just to stop him doing another slow-motion recount.”

Fox glanced up, then back to the conveyor belt, then up again. “I know you from somewhere.”

“Been sending me any letters, Rachel?”

Fox’s hand froze on the pasta. “How d’you know my name?”

“It’s on your badge, for one thing.”

But Fox knew now. Her eyes were heavily made up. She narrowed them as she stared at Siobhan. “You’re that cop, tried to get Marty put away.”

“I gave evidence at his trial,” Siobhan conceded.

“Yeah, I remember you… Got one of your pals to torch him, too.”

“Don’t believe everything the tabloids tell you, Rachel.”

“You were giving him hassle, weren’t you?”

“No.”

“He talked about you… said you had it in for him.”

“I can assure you I didn’t.”

“Then how come he’s dead?”

The last of Siobhan’s six items had gone through, and she was holding out a ten-pound note. The cashier at the next register had stopped serving and, like her customer, was now listening in.

“Can I talk to you someplace, Rachel?” Siobhan looked around. “Somewhere more private.” But Fox’s eyes were filling with tears. Suddenly she reminded Siobhan of the kid outside. In some ways, she thought, we just don’t grow up. Emotionally, we never grow up …

“Rachel…” she said.

But Fox had opened the register to give Siobhan her change. She was shaking her head slowly. “Got nothing to say to you lot.”

“What about the notes I’ve been getting, Rachel? Can you tell me about the notes?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The sound of a motor told Siobhan that the woman in the wheelchair was right behind her. No doubt there were exactly nine items in her husband’s cart. Siobhan turned, and saw that the woman was cradling a hand basket, with what looked like another nine items inside. The woman was glowering at Siobhan, wishing her gone.

“I saw you in the Boatman’s,” Siobhan told Rachel Fox. “What were you doing there?”

“Where?”

“The Boatman’s… South Queensferry.”

Fox handed over Siobhan’s change and receipt, gave a loud sniff. “That’s where Rod works.”

“He’s a… friend… is he?”

“He’s my brother,” Rachel Fox said. When she looked up at Siobhan, the water in her eyes had been replaced by fire. “Does that mean you’re going to want him killed, too? Eh? Does it?”

“Maybe we’ll try another register, Davie,” the woman in the wheelchair told her husband. She was backing away as Siobhan snatched her shopping bag and headed for the exit, Rachel Fox’s voice following her all the way out:

“Murdering bitch! What had he ever done to you? Murderer! Murderer! ”

She dumped the bag on the passenger seat, got in behind the steering wheel.

“Nothing but a slut!” Rachel Fox was walking towards the car. “Couldn’t get a man if you tried!”

Siobhan turned the ignition, backed out of the space as Fox aimed a kick at the driver’s-side headlight. She was wearing sneakers, and her foot glanced off the glass. Siobhan was craning her neck around, making sure she didn’t hit anyone behind her. When she turned, Fox was wrestling with a line of parked carts. Siobhan moved the car forwards, pushing the accelerator hard, hearing the clatter of the carts as they just missed her. Looked in the rearview and saw them blocking the road behind her, their leader bumping against a parked VW Beetle.

And Rachel Fox, still snarling, shaking both fists, then pointing a finger in the direction of the disappearing car, drawing the same finger across her throat. Nodding slowly, to let Siobhan know she meant it.

“Right you are, Rachel,” Siobhan muttered, turning out of the car park.

It had taken all of Bobby Hogan’s powers of persuasion-something he wasn’t going to let Rebus forget. The look he gave said it all: Number one, you owe me; number two, don’t screw this up …

They were in one of the offices at “the Big House”: Lothian and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue. This was the home of Drugs and Major Crime, and as such Rebus was here on sufferance. Rebus didn’t know quite how Hogan had persuaded Claverhouse to let him sit in on the interview, but here they were. Ormiston was present, too, snuffling and screwing his eyes shut tight whenever he blinked. Teri Cotter had come accompanied by her father, and a female police constable was seated nearby.

“Sure you want your father present?” Claverhouse asked matter-of-factly. Teri looked at him. She was in full Goth camouflage, down to knee-length boots with multiple shiny buckles.

“Way you make it sound,” Mr. Cotter said, “maybe I should’ve brought my solicitor, too.”