Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

Rebus shrugged. “I’ve got no social life, Bobby. Nothing to do with myself but sit and think about things.” Hogan glowered, letting Rebus know this was well short of an acceptable answer.

“DI Rebus is spot on,” Duff said, gaining their attention again. “You wouldn’t expect powder burns on the bodies of the first two victims. They were shot from a distance. You only get powder burns when the gun is close to the skin or, say, the victim’s clothes…”

“Did Herdman himself have powder burns?” Rebus asked.

Duff nodded. “Consistent with placing the pistol to his temple and firing.”

Rebus went back along the display of photos, taking his time. They weren’t really telling him anything, which in a way was the whole point. You had to peer beneath their surface to begin to glimpse the truth. Hogan was scratching the nape of his neck.

“I’m not really getting this,” he said.

“It’s a puzzle,” Duff agreed. “Hard to square the witness’s account with the evidence.”

“Depends which way you look at it, though, Ray, am I right?”

Duff fixed eyes with Rebus and nodded. “There’s always a way to explain things.”

“Take your time, then.” Hogan slapped his hands down on the workbench. “I had nothing better to do with myself today anyway.”

“Just got to look at it a different way, Bobby,” Rebus told him. “James Bell was shot at point-blank range…”

“By someone the approximate size of a garden gnome,” Hogan said dismissively.

Rebus shook his head. “It’s just that Herdman couldn’t have done it.”

Hogan’s eyes widened. “Wait a second…”

“Isn’t that right, Ray?”

“It’s one conclusion, certainly.” Duff was rubbing the underside of his jaw.

“Couldn’t have done it?” Hogan echoed. “You’re saying there was someone else in there? An accomplice?”

Rebus shook his head. “I’m saying it’s possible-maybe even probable-that Lee Herdman only killed one person in that room.”

Hogan’s eyes narrowed. “And who would that be?”

Rebus turned his attention to Ray Duff, who supplied the answer.

“Himself,” Duff stated, as though it were the simplest explanation in the world.

Rebus and Hogan sat in Hogan’s idling car. They’d been silent for a few minutes. The passenger-side window was open, and Rebus was smoking, while Hogan’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel.

“How do we play this?” Hogan asked. This time around, Rebus had an answer.

“You know my preferred technique, Bobby,” he said.

“Bull in a china shop?” Hogan guessed.

Rebus nodded slowly, finishing his cigarette and flicking the butt onto the roadway. “It’s served me well enough in the past.”

“But this is different, John. Jack Bell’s an MSP.”

“Jack Bell’s a clown.”

“Don’t underestimate him.”

Rebus turned to face his colleague. “Having second thoughts, Bobby?”

“I just wonder if we shouldn’t…”

“Cover our arses?”

“Unlike you, John, I’ve never been an aficionado of china shops.”

Rebus stared out through the windshield. “I’m going in there anyway, Bobby. You know that. Whether you’re with me or not is up to you. You can always call Claverhouse and Ormiston, let them know the score. But I need to hear it for myself.” He turned again to stare at Hogan, eyes shining. “Sure I can’t tempt you?”

Bobby Hogan ran his tongue around his lips, clockwise, then counterclockwise. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

“Hell with it,” he said. “What’s a bit of broken crockery between friends?”

The door to the Barnton house was opened by Kate Renshaw.

“Hiya, Kate,” Rebus said, face stony, “how’s your dad?”

“He’s all right.”

“Not think you’d be better off spending a bit more time with him?”

She’d opened the door wide to let them in, Hogan having phoned ahead to say they were coming.

“I’m doing something useful here,” Kate argued.

“Bolstering a curb crawler’s career?”

Her eyes flashed fire, but Rebus ignored them. Through glass doors to the right, he could see the dining room, its table spread with the paperwork from Jack Bell’s campaign. Bell himself was descending the staircase, rubbing his hands together as though he’d just washed them.

“Officers,” he said, not bothering to sound welcoming. “I hope this won’t take long.”

“Same here,” Hogan countered.

Rebus looked around. “Is Mrs. Bell in the house?”

“She’s out visiting. Was there something in particular…?”

“Just wanted to tell her I saw Wind in the Willows last night. Cracking good show.”

The MSP raised an eyebrow. “I’ll pass on the message.”

“You told your son to expect us?” Hogan asked.

Bell nodded. “He’s watching TV.” He gestured towards the living room. Without waiting to be asked, Hogan walked over to the door and opened it. James Bell was lying along the cream leather sofa, shoes off, head resting on the hand of his good arm.

“James,” his father said, “the police are here.”

“So I see.” James swiveled his feet back onto the carpet.

“Hello again, James,” Hogan said. “I think you know DI Rebus…”

James nodded.

“Mind if we sit down?” Hogan asked, aiming the question at son rather than father. Not that Hogan was about to wait for permission. He made himself comfortable in an armchair, while Rebus was content to stand by the fireplace. Jack Bell sat down next to his son and placed a hand on James’s knee, which the young man swatted away. James leaned down and picked up a glass of water from the floor, lifted it to his lips and sipped.

“I’d still like to know what’s going on,” Jack Bell said impatiently: a busy man, a man who had better things to do with his time. Rebus’s mobile sounded, and he mouthed an apology as he brought it out of his pocket. Looked at the display and saw who was calling. Apologized again as he stood up and left the room.

“Gill?” he said into the mouthpiece. “How’s Bob coming along?”

“Since you ask, he’s a fund of good stories.”

Rebus looked into the dining room. There was no sign of Kate. “He didn’t know the chip pan was meant to catch fire.”

“Agreed.”

“So what else has he said?”

“He seems to have taken against Rab Fisher, without realizing how much he’s implicating his friend Peacock in the process.”

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”

“The reason Fisher was walking up and down nightclub queues, letting people get a glimpse of the gun he was carrying…”

“Yes?”

“He was trying to sell drugs.”

“Drugs?”

“Working for your friend Johnson.”

“Peacock’s sold some hash in the past, but not enough to merit an assistant.”

“Bob’s not spelling it out, but I think we might be talking crack.”

“Jesus… so who was his source?”

“I’d have thought that was obvious.” She gave a short laugh. “Your other friend, the one with the boats.”

“I don’t think so,” Rebus stated.

“Remind me, wasn’t cocaine found on his boat?”

“All the same…”

“Well, someone else, then.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, it’s a good start, wouldn’t you say?”

“Must be the woman’s touch.”

“He just needs someone to mother him, John. Thanks for the tip.”

“Does this mean I’m out of the woods?”

“It means I need to bring Mullen in, let him hear what we’ve got.”

“But you don’t think I killed Martin Fairstone?”