Ian Rankin - A Question of Blood

“Why do you think he did that?”

James shook his head slowly. “I’ve been trying to work it out ever since… Do you know?” An imploring edge to the question; needing an answer. Rebus had a few theories: because the gun was his, and he felt responsible… because the incident would bring whole teams of professionals sniffing around, including the army… because it was a way out…

Because he would no longer be haunted.

“You took the gun from him and shot yourself in the shoulder,” Rebus said quietly. “Then placed it back in his hand?”

“Yes. The note I’d left for him, it was in his other hand. I took that, too.”

“What about fingerprints.”

“I did what they do in the films, wiped the pistol with my shirt.”

“But when you first walked in there… you must have been prepared for everyone to know you’d done it. Why the change of heart?”

The teenager shrugged. “Because the chance presented itself maybe. Do we really know why we do what we do… in the heat of the moment?” He turned to his father. “Instincts sometimes get the better of us. Those dark little thoughts…”

Which was when his father lunged at him, grabbing him around the neck, the two of them falling backwards over the sofa, crashing to the floor.

“You little bastard!” Jack Bell was yelling. “Do you know what you’ve done? I’m ruined now! In tatters! Absolute fucking tatters!”

Rebus and Hogan separated them, the father still snarling and swearing, the son almost serene by comparison and studying his father’s incoherent ire as though it was a memory he would treasure in the years to come. The door had opened, Kate standing there. Rebus wanted to make James Bell fall down at her feet, beg forgiveness. She was taking in the scene, trying to make sense of it.

“Jack?” she asked softly.

Jack Bell looked at her, as if she was a stranger to him. Rebus was still holding the MSP in a bear hug from behind.

“Get out of here, Kate,” he pleaded. “Just go home.”

“I don’t understand.”

James Bell, passive in Hogan’s grasp, looked across to the doorway, then over to where his father and Rebus stood. A smile spread slowly across his face.

“Will you tell her, or shall I…?”

I can’t believe it,” Siobhan said, not for the first time. Rebus’s phone call to her had lasted almost the whole of her drive from St. Leonard’s to the airfield.

“I’m having a hard time taking it in myself.”

She was on the A8, heading west out of the city. Looked in her mirror, then signaled, moving out to pass a taxi. Businessman in the back of it, calmly reading a newspaper on his way to his flight. Siobhan felt like she needed to pull over on to the hard shoulder, bolt from her car and do some screaming, just to release whatever it was she was feeling. Was it the rush of getting a result? Two results really: the Herdman case and Fairstone’s murder. Or was it the frustration of not being around at the time?

“He couldn’t have shot Herdman, too, could he?” she asked.

“Who? Young Master Bell?” She could hear Rebus turning from his phone to relay her question to Bobby Hogan.

“He leaves the note, knowing Herdman will follow him,” Siobhan was saying, mind rushing. “Kills all three and turns the gun on himself.”

“It’s a theory,” Rebus’s voice crackled, sounding unconvinced. “What’s that noise?”

“My phone. It’s telling me it needs a recharge.” She took the airport access road, the taxi still visible in her mirror. “I could cancel, you know.” Meaning the flying lesson.

“What’s the point? Nothing doing here.”

“You’re heading for Queensferry?”

“Already there. Bobby’s driving in through the school gates as I speak.” He turned away from the phone again, said something to Hogan. Sounded like he was saying he wanted to be there when Hogan explained everything to Claverhouse and Ormiston. Siobhan caught the words “especially that the drug-running’s a non-starter.”

“Who put the drugs on his boat?” she asked.

“Didn’t catch that, Siobhan.”

She repeated the question. “You think Whiteread did it to keep the inquiry active?”

“I’m not sure even she has the clout for that sort of sting. We’re rounding up the small fry. Cars are already out looking for Rab Fisher and Peacock Johnson. Bobby’s just about to deliver the news to Claverhouse.”

“I wish I could be there.”

“Catch us afterwards. We’ll be adjourning to the pub.”

“Not the Boatman’s, though?”

“I thought maybe we’d try the place next door… just for a change.”

“I should only be an hour or so.”

“Take your time. I don’t suppose we’ll be going anywhere. Bring Brimson with you, if you like.”

“Should I tell him about James Bell?”

“That’s up to you… papers will have it by the close of play.”

“Meaning Steve Holly?”

“Reckon I owe the sod that much. At least then Claverhouse doesn’t get the pleasure of breaking the news.” He paused. “Did you manage to put the frighteners on Rod McAllister?”

“He still denies writing the letters.”

“It’s enough that you know… and that he knows you do. Feeling okay about the flying lesson?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe I should alert air traffic control.” She could hear Hogan saying something in the background, and Rebus chuckling.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“Bobby reckons we might be better off warning the coast guard.”

“That’s him crossed off my dinner list.”

She listened as Rebus relayed her message to Hogan. Then: “Okay, Siobhan, that’s us at the car park. Got to go deliver the news to Claverhouse.”

“Any chance of you keeping your composure?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be cool, calm and collected.”

“Really?”

“Just as soon as I’ve rubbed his nose in the shit.”

She smiled, ended the call. Decided she might as well switch her phone off. Wouldn’t be making calls at five thousand feet… Glanced at the dashboard clock and saw that she was going to be early. Didn’t suppose Doug Brimson would mind. She tried to shake her head clear of everything she’d heard.

Lee Herdman didn’t kill those kids.

John Rebus didn’t torch Martin Fairstone’s house.

She felt bad about having suspected Rebus, but it was his own fault… always so secretive. And Herdman, too, with his secret life, his daily fears. The media would be forced to eat humble pie and would turn their fury on the easiest target available: Jack Bell.

Which almost counted as a happy ending…

As she arrived at the airfield gates, a car was just leaving. Brimson got out of the passenger side, offered a cautious smile as he undid the lock, pulled the gate open. Waited there as the car drove through, passing Siobhan at speed, a scowling face in its front seat. Brimson beckoned for Siobhan to drive in. She did so, then waited while the gate was locked again. Brimson opened the passenger-side door, got in.

“Wasn’t expecting you quite yet,” he said.

Siobhan eased her foot from the clutch. “Sorry about that,” she said quietly, staring through the windshield. “Who was your visitor?”

Brimson screwed up his face. “Just someone interested in flying lessons.”

“Didn’t seem the type somehow.”

“You mean the shirt?” Brimson laughed. “Bit loud, wasn’t it?”

“A bit.” They’d arrived at the office, Siobhan pulling on the hand brake. Brimson got out. She stayed where she was, watching him. He came around to her side of the car, opened the door, as if this was what she’d been waiting for. Avoiding eye contact.