Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“Don’t worry,” Rebus said. “I had a word. McAllister’s shift starts in a few minutes.”

“Just long enough for you to enlighten me, then.” She slipped off her coat. Rebus was rising to his feet.

“Let me get you a drink first. What’ll it be?”

“Lime and soda.”

“Nothing stronger?”

She frowned at his near-empty glass. “Some of us are driving.”

“Don’t worry, I’m only having the one.” He made his way to the bar, came back with two drinks: lime and soda for her, cola for him. “See?” he said. “I can be all smug and virtuous, too, when I want to be.”

“Better that than drunk at the wheel.” She lifted the straw from her glass and deposited it in the ashtray, sat back and placed her hands on her thighs. “Right, then… I’m ready if you are.”

At which, the door creaked open.

“Speak of the devil,” Rebus said as Rod McAllister walked in. McAllister saw that he was being stared at. When he looked, Rebus beckoned him over. McAllister was unzipping a scuffed leather jacket. He pulled the black scarf from around his neck and stuffed it into a pocket.

“I’ve got to start work,” he said when Rebus patted an empty stool.

“This’ll only take a minute,” Rebus offered with a smile. “Susie won’t mind.” He nodded towards the barmaid.

McAllister hesitated, then sat down, elbows pressing against his thin legs, hands cupped below his chin. Rebus mimicked the posture.

“It’s about Lee, then?” McAllister guessed.

“Not strictly speaking,” Rebus said. Then he glanced towards Siobhan.

“We may come back to that,” she told the barman. “But right now, we’re more interested in your sister.”

He looked from Siobhan to Rebus and then back again. “Which one?”

“Rachel Fox. Funny you’ve got different surnames.”

“We haven’t.” McAllister’s eyes were still shifting between the two detectives, unable to decide whom he should be addressing. Siobhan answered with a click of her fingers. He focused on her, narrowed his eyes slightly. “She changed her name a while back, trying to get into modeling. What’s she got to do with you lot?”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugged.

“Marty Fairstone?” Siobhan prompted. “Don’t tell me she never introduced you?”

“Yeah, I knew Marty. I was gutted when I heard.”

“What about a fellow named Johnson?” Rebus asked. “His nickname’s Peacock… friend of Marty’s…”

“Yeah?”

“Ever come across him?”

McAllister seemed to be thinking. “Not sure,” he said at last.

“Peacock and Rachel,” Siobhan began, angling her head to catch his attention again, “we think they might’ve had a thing going.”

“Oh, aye?” McAllister raised an eyebrow. “That’s news to me.”

“She never mentioned him?”

“No.”

“The pair of them have been hanging about town.”

“Plenty of people hanging about recently. Take you two, for example.” He sat back, stretching his spine, glancing at the clock above the bar. “Don’t want to get in Susie’s bad books…”

“Rumor is, Fairstone and Johnson had a falling-out, maybe over Rachel.”

“Oh, aye?”

“If you’re finding the questions too awkward, Mr. McAllister,” Rebus said, “feel free to say…”

Siobhan was staring at McAllister’s T-shirt, revealed now that he wasn’t slouched forwards anymore. It showed an album cover, an album she knew.

“Mogwai fan, eh, Rod?”

“Anything that’s loud.” McAllister examined his shirt.

“It’s their Rock Action album, isn’t it?”

“That’s the one.”

McAllister made to stand up, turning towards the bar. Siobhan locked eyes with Rebus and nodded slowly. “Rod,” she said, “that first time we met… you remember I gave you my card?”

McAllister nodded, walking away from her. But Siobhan was on her feet, following him, her voice rising.

“It had the St. Leonard’s address on it, didn’t it, Rod? And when you saw my name, you knew who I was, didn’t you? Because Marty had mentioned me… or maybe it was Rachel. You remember that Mogwai album, Rod, the one before Rock Action ?”

McAllister had lifted the hatch so he could move behind the bar. He slammed it shut after him. The barmaid was staring at him. Siobhan lifted the hatch.

“Hoi, staff only,” Susie said. But Siobhan wasn’t listening, was hardly aware that Rebus had risen from his chair and was approaching the bar. She grabbed McAllister by the sleeve of his jacket. He tried to shake her off, but she turned him to face her.

“Remember what it was called, Rod? It was Come On Die Young . C.O.D.Y., Rod. Same letters as on your second note.”

“Get the fuck off me!” he yelled.

“Whatever it is between you,” Susie was saying, “take it outside.”

“It’s a serious offense, Rod, sending threats like that.”

“Let go of me, you bitch!” He jerked his arm free, then swung it, catching her on the side of her face. She crashed into the shelves, sending bottles flying. Rebus had reached over the bar and grabbed McAllister by his hair, pulling his head down until it connected hard with the slop tray. McAllister’s arms were thrashing, his voice a wordless bellow, but Rebus wasn’t about to let go.

“Any cuffs?” he asked Siobhan. She stumbled from behind the bar, glass crunching underfoot, ran to her bag, emptying its contents onto the table until she found the handcuffs. McAllister caught her a couple of good ones to the shins with the heels of his cowboy boots, but she squeezed the cuffs tight, knowing they’d hold. She moved away from him, feeling dizzy, not knowing if it was a concussion, adrenaline, or the fumes from half a dozen smashed liquor bottles.

“Call it in,” Rebus hissed, still not letting go of his prisoner. “A night in the cells won’t do this bastard any harm at all.”

“Here, you can’t do that,” Susie complained. “Who’s going to cover his shift?”

“Not our problem, love,” Rebus told her, offering what he hoped might be taken for an apologetic smile.

They’d taken McAllister to St. Leonard’s, booked him into the only empty cell left. Rebus had asked Siobhan if they’d be charging him formally. She’d shrugged.

“I doubt he’ll be sending any more notes.” One side of her face was still raw from where he’d connected, but it didn’t look like it would bruise.

In the car park, they went their separate ways. Siobhan’s parting words: “What about that diamond?” Rebus waving to her as he drove off.

He made for Arden Street, ignoring the ringing of his mobile: Siobhan, wanting to put that question to him again. He couldn’t find a parking space, decided he was too hyped-up anyway for a quiet night at home. So he kept driving, cruising the city’s south side until he found himself in Gracemount, back at the bus shelter where he’d confronted the Lost Boys what seemed like half a lifetime ago. Had it really only been Wednesday night? The shelter was deserted now. Rebus parked curbside anyway, let his window down an inch and smoked a cigarette. He didn’t know what he’d do with Rab Fisher if he found him, knew he wanted a few answers about Andy Callis’s death. The episode in the bar had given him a taste. He looked at his hands. They were still tingling from contact with McAllister, but it wasn’t altogether an unpleasant feeling.

Buses came but didn’t linger: no one was getting on or off. Rebus started the ignition and headed into the mazy housing projects, covering every possible route, sometimes finishing in a cul-de-sac and having to back out. There were kids playing a game of football in the near-dark on a stunted patch of parkland. Others skateboarding towards an underpass. This was their territory, their time of day. He could ask about the Lost Boys but knew that these kids learned the rules young. They wouldn’t rat out the local gang, not when their chief aspiration in life was probably membership of the same. Rebus parked again outside a low-rise block, smoked another cigarette. He’d need to find a shop soon, somewhere he could stock up. Or head for a pub, where one of the drinkers would doubtless sell him a job lot cheap, no questions asked. He checked the radio to see if anything bearable was being broadcast, but all he could find were rap and dance. There was a tape in the player, but it was Rory Gallagher, Jinx, and he wasn’t in the mood. Seemed to remember one of the tracks was called “The Devil Made Me Do It.” Not much of a defense these days, but plenty of others had come along in Old Nick’s place. No such thing as an inexplicable crime, not now that there were scientists and psychologists who’d talk about genes and abuse, brain damage and peer pressure. Always a reason… always, it seemed, an excuse.