Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

So why had Andy Callis died?

And why had Lee Herdman walked into that classroom?

Rebus smoked his cigarette in silence, took the diamond out and looked at it, pocketed it at a sound from outside: one kid wheeling another past in a supermarket cart. They both stared at him, as if he were the oddity here, and maybe he was. A couple of minutes later, they were back again. Rebus rolled his window all the way down.

“Looking for something, mister?” The cart-pusher was nine, maybe ten, head shaven, cheekbones prominent.

“Supposed to be meeting Rab Fisher.” Rebus pretended to look at his watch. “Bastard hasn’t shown up.”

The boys were wary, but not as wary as they would become in a year or two.

“Seen him earlier,” the cart passenger said. Rebus decided to skip the grammar lesson.

“I owe him some cash,” he explained instead. “Thought he’d be here.” Making a show now of looking all around, as though Fisher might suddenly appear.

“We could get it to him,” the cart-pusher said.

Rebus smiling. “Do I look like my head zips up the back?”

“Up to you.” The kid offering a shrug.

“Try two streets that way.” His passenger pointing ahead and right. “We’ll race you.”

Rebus turned the ignition again. Didn’t want to race. He’d be conspicuous enough without a shopping cart rattling along at his side. “Bet you could find me some ciggies,” he said, picking a five-pound note from his pocket. “Cheap as you like, and the change is all yours.”

The note was plucked from his hand. “What’s with the gloves, mister?”

“No fingerprints,” Rebus said with a wink, pushing the accelerator.

But nothing was happening two streets away. He came to a junction and looked left and right, saw another car parked by the curb, a huddle of figures leaning down into it. Rebus paused at the Yield, thinking the car was being broken into. Then he realized: they were talking to the driver. Four of them. Just the one head visible inside the car. Looked like the Lost Boys, Rab Fisher doing all the talking. The car’s engine was a low growl, even in neutral. Souped up, or missing its exhaust pipe. Rebus suspected the former. The car had been worked on: big brake light in its back window, spoiler attached to the trunk. The driver was wearing a baseball cap. Rebus wanted him to be a victim, mugged or threatened… something that would give Rebus the excuse to go storming in. But that wasn’t the scenario here. He could hear laughter, got the feeling some anecdote was being shared.

One of the gang looked in his direction, and he realized he’d been sitting too long at the empty intersection. He turned on to the new road, parked with his back to the other car, fifty yards farther along. Pretended to be looking up at the block of flats… just a visitor, here to pick up a pal. Two impatient blasts of his horn to complete the effect, the Lost Boys giving him a moment’s notice before dismissing him. Rebus put his phone to his ear, as if making a call to his missing friend…

And watched in his rearview.

Watched Rab Fisher gesticulating, animating his story, the driver someone he was keen to impress. Rebus could hear music, a rumble of bass, the driver’s radio tuned to one of the stations Rebus had rejected. He was wondering how long he could carry on the pretense. And what if the cart twosome really did bring him some cigarettes?

But now Fisher was straightening up, backing away from the car door, which was opening, the driver getting out.

And Rebus saw who it was: Evil Bob. Bob with his own car, acting big and tough, shoulders rolling as he walked around to the trunk, unlocking it. There was something inside he wanted them all to see, the gang forming a tight semicircle, blocking Rebus’s view.

Evil Bob… Peacock’s sidekick. But not acting the sidekick now, because though he might not be the brightest light on the Christmas tree, he was higher up that tree than a bauble like Fisher.

Not acting …

Rebus was remembering something from the interview room at St. Leonard’s, the day the lowlifes were being grilled. Bob, muttering about never having seen a panto, sounding disappointed. Bob, the big kid, hardly a grown-up at all. Which was why Peacock kept him around, treating him almost as a pet, a pet who did tricks for him.

And now Rebus had another face in his mind, another scene. James Bell’s mother, The Wind in the Willows …

Never too old … Wagging her finger at him. Never too old …

He gave a final, apparently despairing look out of his side window, then drove off, revving hard as if annoyed by his pal’s no-show. Turned at the next junction and then slowed again, pulled in and made a call on his mobile. Scribbled down the number he was given, made a second call. Then did a circuit, no sign of the cart or his money, not that he was expecting either. Ended up at another Yield, a hundred yards in front of Bob’s car. Waited. Saw the trunk being slammed shut, the Lost Boys making their way back to the sidewalk, Bob getting behind the steering wheel. He had an air horn, it played “Dixie” as he dropped the hand brake, tires squealing, sending up wisps of smoke. He was heading for fifty as he passed Rebus, “Dixie” blaring again. Rebus started to follow.

He felt calm, purposeful. Decided it was time for the last cigarette in the pack. And maybe even a few minutes of Rory Gallagher, too. Remembered seeing Rory in the seventies, Usher Hall, the place filled with tartan shirts, faded denims. Rory playing “Sinner Boy,” “I’m Movin’ On”… Rebus had one sinner boy in his sights, hopeful of snaring two more.

Rebus eventually got what he was hoping for. Having chanced his luck at a couple of amber traffic lights, Bob was forced to stop for a red. Rebus drove up behind him, then passed and stopped, blocking the road. Opened the driver’s door and got out as “Dixie” sounded its warning. Bob looked angry, came out of the car ready for trouble. Rebus had his hands up in surrender.

“Evening, Bo-bo,” he said. “Remember me?”

Bob knew him now all right. “The name’s Bob,” he stated.

“Right you are.” The lights had turned green. Rebus waved for the cars behind to come around them.

“What’s this all about?” Bob was asking. Rebus was inspecting the car, a prospective buyer’s once-over. “I’ve no’ done nothing.”

Rebus had reached the trunk. He tapped it with his knuckles. “Care to give me a quick tour of the exhibit?”

Bob’s jaw jutted. “Got a search warrant?”

“Think somebody like me bothers with the niceties?” The baseball cap was shading Bob’s face. Rebus bent at the knees so he was looking up into it. “Think again.” He paused. “But as it happens…” He straightened. “All I want is for the pair of us to go somewhere.”

“I’ve no’ done nothing,” the young man repeated.

“No need to fret… the cells are jam-packed at St. Leonard’s as it is.”

“So where are we going?”

“My treat.” Rebus nodded towards his Saab. “I’m going to park curbside. You pull in behind and wait for me. Got that? And I don’t want to see you with your mobile in your hand.”

“I’ve no’ -”

“Understood,” Rebus interrupted. “But you’re about to do something … and you’ll like it, I promise you.” He held up a finger, then retreated to his car. Evil Bob parked behind him, good as gold, and waited while Rebus got into the passenger seat, telling him he could drive.

“Drive where, though?”

“Toad Hall,” Rebus said, pointing towards the road ahead.

They’d missed the first half of the show, but their tickets for the second half were waiting at the Traverse box office. The audience comprised families, a busload of pensioners, and what looked like at least one school trip, the children wearing identical pale-blue jumpers. Rebus and Bob took their seats at the back of the auditorium.