Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“There’s someone else,” a woman’s voice hissed.

“What?” The attacker was male, English.

“Someone’s with him!”

The pressure on Rebus’s throat eased, the attacker backing off. Sudden flashlight illuminated the half-open door, Bob standing there, mouth gaping.

“Shit!” Simms said.

Whiteread was carrying the flashlight. She shone it in Rebus’s face. “Sorry about that… Gavin can get a bit too zealous at times.”

“Apology accepted,” Rebus said, getting his breathing back under control. Then he swung a punch. But Simms was quick, dodged out of its way and held his own fists up.

“Boys, boys,” Whiteread chided them. “We’re not in the playground now.”

“Bob,” Rebus ordered, “up here!” He started climbing the stairs.

“We need to talk.” Whiteread spoke calmly, as though nothing had just happened. Bob was moving past her, making to follow Rebus.

“We really do need to talk!” she called, angling her head upwards, able to make out Rebus’s silhouette as he reached the first landing.

“Fine,” he said eventually. “But put the lights back on first.”

He unlocked his door, motioned Bob down the hall, showing him the kitchen and the bathroom, then the spare bedroom, single bed prepared for visitors who seldom came. He touched the radiator. It was cold. Crouched down and turned the thermostat.

“It’ll warm up soon enough.”

“What was going on back there?” Bob sounded curious, but not altogether concerned. A lifetime’s experience of keeping out of other people’s business.

“Nothing for you to worry about.” When Rebus stood again, blood rushed into his ears. He steadied himself. “Best if you wait in here while I talk to them. D’you want a book or something?”

“A book?”

“To read.”

“I’ve never been a great one for reading.” Bob sat down on the edge of the bed. Rebus could hear his front door closing, which meant Whiteread and Simms were in the hall.

“Just wait here, then, okay?” he told Bob. The young man nodded, studying the room as if it were a cell. Punishment rather than refuge.

“No TV?” he asked.

Rebus left the room without answering. Motioned with his head for Whiteread and Simms to follow him into the living room. The photocopy of Herdman’s file was on the dining table, but Rebus didn’t mind them seeing it. He poured himself a glass of malt, not bothering to share. Downed it as he stood by the window, where he could watch their reflections.

“Where did you get the diamond?” Whiteread began, holding her hands in front of her.

“That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” Rebus smiled to himself. “The reason Herdman took so many precautions… he knew you’d come back someday.”

“You found it on Jura?” Simms guessed. He looked calm, unruffled.

Rebus shook his head. “I just worked it out, that’s all. Knew if I waved a diamond at you, you’d start jumping to conclusions.” He raised his empty glass towards Simms. “Which you’ve just done… cheers for that.”

Whiteread narrowed her eyes. “We’ve confirmed nothing.”

“You came running here… confirmation enough in my book. Plus you were in Jura last year, failing to pass yourself off as a tourist.” Rebus poured himself another drink, took a sip. This one was going to last him. “Army brass, negotiating an end to hostilities in Northern Ireland… stood to reason there’d be a price attached. Paying off the paramilitaries. Those guys are greedy, weren’t about to go broke. The government was buying them off with diamonds. Only the stash went down with that helicopter, SAS sent on a mission to retrieve them. Armed to the teeth in case the terrorists came looking for them, too.” Rebus paused. “How am I doing so far?”

Whiteread hadn’t moved. Simms had seated himself on an arm of the sofa, picking up a discarded Sunday supplement, rolling it into a tube. Rebus pointed at him.

“Going to crush my windpipe, Simms? There’s a witness next door, remember.”

“Maybe just wishful thinking,” Simms answered, eyes burning, voice cold. Rebus turned his attention back to Whiteread, who was over by the table, one hand resting on Herdman’s personnel file. “Reckon you can curb your monkey’s zeal?”

“You were spinning us a story about diamonds,” she said, not about to have her attention deflected.

“I never saw Herdman as a drug smuggler,” Rebus continued. “Did you plant that stuff on his boat?” She shook her head slowly. “Well, someone did.” He thought for a moment, took another sip. “But all those trips across the North Sea… Rotterdam’s a good place to trade diamonds. Way I see it, Herdman found the diamonds but wasn’t about to own up to it. Either lifted them at the time or hid them and came back later, sometime after his sudden decision not to re-enlist. Now, the army’s wondering what did happen to that stash, and Herdman’s suddenly flagged himself up. He’s got some money, buys himself a boat business… but you can’t prove anything.” Paused to take another sip. “Reckon by now there’s much left, or has he spent it?” Rebus thought of the boats: paid for with cash… dollars, the currency of the diamond exchange. And of the diamond around Teri Cotter’s neck, which had proved the catalyst he’d been looking for. He’d given Whiteread time to answer, but she was staying quiet. “In which case,” he said, “your business here was damage control, make sure there’s nothing anyone’s going to find that would lift the lid on the whole thing. Every government says it: we don’t negotiate with terrorists. Maybe not, but we did once try buying them out… and wouldn’t that make a juicy story in the papers.” He stared at Whiteread above the rim of his glass. “That’s about it, isn’t it?”

“And the diamond?” she asked.

“Borrowed from a friend.”

She was silent for the best part of a minute, Rebus content to bide his time, thinking that if he hadn’t brought Bob home… well, things might not have gone nearly as well for him. He could still feel Simms’s fingers around his neck… throat tight when he swallowed the whiskey.

“Has Steve Holly been back in touch?” Rebus asked into the silence. “See, anything happens to me, all of this goes to him.”

“You think that’s enough to protect you?”

“Shut up, Gavin!” Whiteread snapped. Slowly, she folded her arms. “What are you going to do?” she asked Rebus.

He shrugged. “It’s none of my business, far as I can see. No reason I should do anything, provided you can keep monkey boy here on his chain.”

Simms had risen to his feet, a hand reaching inside his jacket. Whiteread spun around and slapped his arm away. The move was so fast, if Rebus had blinked he’d have missed it.

“What I want,” he said quietly, “is for the pair of you to be gone by morning. Otherwise, I have to start thinking about talking to my friend from the fourth estate.”

“How do we know we can trust you?”

Rebus gave another shrug. “I don’t think either of us wants it in writing.” He put down his glass. “Now, if we’re all through, I’ve got a guest I need to see to.”

Whiteread looked towards the door. “Who is he?”

“Don’t worry, he’s not the talkative kind.”

She nodded slowly, then made as if to leave.

“One thing, Whiteread?” She paused, turned her head to face him. “Why do you think Herdman did it?”

“Because he was greedy.”

“I meant, why did he walk into that classroom?”

Her eyes seemed to gleam. “Why should I care?” And with that she walked from the room. Simms was still staring at Rebus, who gave him a cheeky wave before turning to face the window again. Simms drew the automatic pistol from his jacket and took aim at the back of Rebus’s head. Made a soft whistling sound between his teeth and then put the gun back in its holster.