Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“One day,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You won’t know when or where, but I’ll be the last face you see.”

“Great,” Rebus exhaled, not bothering to turn around. “I get to spend my last moments on earth staring at a complete arsehole.”

He listened to the footsteps retreat down the hall, the slamming shut of the door. Went to the doorway to check they’d really gone. Bob was standing just outside the kitchen.

“Made myself a mug of tea. You’re out of milk, by the way.”

“The servants are on their day off. Try to get some shut-eye. Long day ahead.” Bob nodded and went to his room, closing the door after him. Rebus poured himself a third drink, definitely the last. Sat down heavily in his armchair, stared at the rolled-up magazine on the sofa opposite. Almost imperceptibly, it was starting to uncurl. He thought of Lee Herdman, tempted by the diamonds, burying them, then walking out of the woods with a shrug of his shoulders. But maybe feeling guilty afterwards, and fearful, too. Because the suspicion would linger. He’d probably been interviewed, interrogated, maybe even by Whiteread. The years might pass, but the army would never forget. Last thing they liked was a loose end, especially one that could turn as if by magic into a loose cannon. That fear, pressing down on him, so that he kept friends to a minimum… kids were all right, kids couldn’t be his pursuers in disguise… Doug Brimson was apparently okay, too… All those locks, trying to shut out the world. Little wonder he snapped.

But to snap the way he did? Rebus still didn’t get it, couldn’t see it as plain jealousy.

James Bell, photographing Miss Teri on Cockburn Street…

Derek Renshaw and Anthony Jarvies, logging on to her website…

Teri Cotter, curious about death, ex-soldier for a lover…

Renshaw and Jarvies, close friends; different from Teri, different from James Bell. Jazz fans, not metal; dressing in their combat uniforms and parading at school, playing sports. Not like Teri Cotter.

Not at all like James Bell.

And when it came down to it, what, apart from their forces background, did Herdman and Doug Brimson have in common? Well, for a start, both knew Teri Cotter. Teri with Herdman, her mother seeing Brimson. Rebus imagined it as a weird sort of dance, the kind where you kept swapping partners. He rested his face in his hands, blocking out the light, smelling glove leather mixing with the fumes from his whiskey glass as the dancers spun around in his head.

When he blinked his eyes open again, the room was a blur. Wallpaper came into focus first, but he could see bloodstains in his mind, classroom blood.

Two fatal shots, one wounding.

No: three fatal shots…

“No.” He realized he’d said the word out loud. Two fatal shots, one wounding. Then another fatal shot.

Blood spraying the walls and floor.

Blood everywhere.

Blood, with its own stories to tell…

He’d poured the fourth whiskey without thinking, raised the glass to his lips before he caught himself. Tipped it back carefully into the neck of the bottle, pushed the stopper home. Went so far as to replace the bottle on the mantelpiece.

Blood, with its own stories to tell.

He picked up his phone. Didn’t think there’d be anyone at the forensics lab this time of night, but made the call anyway. You never could tell: some of them had their own little obsessions, their own little puzzles to solve. Not because the case demanded it, or even out of a sense of professional pride, but for their own, more private needs.

Like Rebus, they found it hard to let go. He no longer knew if this was a good or a bad thing; it was just the way it was. The phone was ringing, no one answering.

“Lazy bastards,” he muttered to himself. Then he noticed Bob’s head, peeping around the door.

“Sorry,” the young man said, shuffling into the room. He’d taken his coat off. Baggy gray T-shirt beneath, showing flabby, hairless arms. “Can’t really settle.”

“Sit down if you like.” Rebus nodded towards the sofa. Bob took a seat, but looked awkward. “TV’s there if you want it.”

Bob nodded, but his eyes were wandering. He saw the shelves of books, walked over to take a look. “Maybe I’ll…”

“Help yourself, take anything you fancy.”

“That show we saw… you said it’s based on a book?”

Rebus’s turn to nod. “I’ve not got a copy, though.” He listened to the ringing tone for another fifteen seconds, then gave up.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting,” Bob said. He still hadn’t touched any of the books, seemed to be regarding them as some rare species, to be stared at but not handled.

“You’re not.” Rebus got to his feet. “Just wait here a minute.” He went into the hall, unlocked a closet door. There were cardboard boxes high up, and he lifted one down. Some of his daughter’s old stuff… dolls and paint boxes, postcards and bits of rock picked up on seaside walks. He thought of Allan Renshaw. Thought of the ties which should have bound the two of them, ties too easily loosed. Allan with his boxes of photographs, his attic store of memories. Rebus put the box back, brought down the one next to it. Some of his daughter’s old books: little Ladybird offerings, some paperbacks with the covers scribbled on or half torn off, and a favored few hardcovers. Yes, here it was: green dust jacket, yellow spine with a drawing of Mr. Toad. Someone had added a speech bubble and in it the words “poop-poop.” He didn’t know if the handwriting was his daughter’s or not. Thought again of his cousin Allan, trying to put names to the long-dead faces in the photos.

Rebus put the box back where he’d found it, locked the cupboard, and took the book into the living room.

“Here you go,” he told Bob, handing it over. “Now you can find out what we missed in the first act.”

Bob seemed pleased but held the book warily, as if unsure how best to treat it. Then he retreated back to his room. Rebus stood by the window, staring out at the night, wondering if he, too, had missed something… not in the play, but right back at the start of the case.

The sun was shining when Rebus woke up. He checked his watch, then swiveled out of bed and got dressed. Filled the kettle and switched it on, gave his face a wash before treating it to a once-over with the electric razor. Listened at the door to Bob’s bedroom. No sound. He knocked, waited, then shrugged and went into the living room. Called the forensics lab, still no answer.

“Lazy sods.” Speaking of which… This time, he banged harder on Bob’s door, then opened it an inch. “Time to face the world.” The curtains were open, the bed empty. Cursing under his breath, Rebus walked in, but there were no feasible hiding places. The copy of The Wind in the Willows was lying on the pillow. Rebus pressed his palm to the mattress, thought he could still feel some warmth there. Back in the hall, he saw that the door wasn’t properly closed.

“Should have locked us in,” he muttered, going to push it shut. He’d get his jacket and shoes on and go out hunting again. Doubtless Bob would head for his car first of all. After which, if he had any sense at all, he’d take the road south. Rebus doubted he’d have a passport. He wished he’d thought to take down Bob’s license plate. It would be traceable, but it would take time…

“Hang on, though,” he said to himself. He went back to the bedroom, picked up the book. Bob had used the flyleaf as a page marker. Why would he have done that unless…? Rebus opened the front door and stepped out onto the landing. Feet were shuffling up the steps.

“Didn’t wake you, did I?” Bob said. He lifted a carrier bag for Rebus to see. “Milk and tea bags, plus four rolls and a packet of sausages.”