Ian Rankin: A Question of Blood

“And that’s good enough for you?”

“It’ll do to be going on with.”

“James and Lee Herdman… I don’t really get it.”

Rebus thought for a moment. “Maybe James reckoned he’d found himself a hero, someone different from his dad, someone whose respect he’d give his eyeteeth for.”

“Or kill for?” Siobhan guessed.

Rebus smiled and stood up, patted her arm.

“You going already?”

He shrugged. “Lots to be getting on with; we’re an officer short at the station.”

“Nothing that can’t wait till tomorrow?”

“Justice never sleeps, Siobhan. Which doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. Anything I can get you before I go?”

“A sense of having achieved something, maybe?”

“I’m not sure the vending machines are up to it, but I’ll see what I can do.”

He’d done it again.

Ended up drinking too much… slumped on the toilet seat back in his flat, jacket discarded on the hall floor. Leaning forwards, head in hands.

Last time… Last time had been the night Martin Fairstone had died. Rebus had spent too long in too many pubs, tracking down his prey. A few more whiskies back at Fairstone’s place, and a taxi home. Driver had had to wake him up when they reached Arden Street. Rebus reeking of cigarettes, wanting to slough it all off. Running a bath, just the hot tap, thinking he’d add cold later. Sitting on the lavatory, half-undressed, head in hands, eyes closed.

World tilting in the darkness, shifting on its axis, pitching him forwards so his head thumped against the rim of the bath… waking on his knees, hands burning.

Hands hanging over the side of the bath, scalded by the rising water…

Scalded.

No mystery about it.

The sort of thing that could happen to anyone.

Couldn’t it?

But not tonight. He got back to his feet, steadied himself, managed to make it through to the living room and into his chair, pushing it over to the window with his feet. The night was still and calm, lights on in the tenement windows across the way. Couples relaxing, checking on the kids. Singles awaiting pizza deliveries, or sitting down to the videos they’d rented. Students debating another night out at the pub, unstarted essays troubling them.

Few if any of them harboring mysteries. Fears, yes; doubts, most certainly. Maybe even guilt about tiny mistakes and misdemeanors.

But nothing to trouble the likes of Rebus. Not tonight. His fingers patted the floor, feeling for the telephone. He sat with it in his lap, thinking of giving Allan Renshaw a call. There were things he had to tell him.

He’d been thinking about families: not just his own, but all those connected to the case. Lee Herdman, walking away from his family; James and Jack Bell, seemingly with nothing to connect them but blood; Teri Cotter and her mother… And Rebus himself, replacing his own family with colleagues like Siobhan and Andy Callis, producing ties that oftentimes seemed stronger than blood.

He stared at the phone in his lap, reckoned it was a bit late now to call his cousin. Shrugged and mouthed the word “tomorrow.” Smiled at the memory of lifting Siobhan off her feet.

Decided to see if he could make it to his bed. The laptop was in “sleep” mode. He didn’t bother waking it; unplugged it instead. It could go back to the station tomorrow.

He came to a stop in the hallway and walked into the guest room, lifted the copy of The Wind in the Willows . He’d keep it near him so he wouldn’t forget. Tomorrow he’d make a gift of it to Bob.

Tomorrow, God and the devil willing.

Jack Bell had spared no expense during the preliminary organization of his son’s defense. Not that James had seemed to notice. He’d remained adamant that he wasn’t going to fight anything. He was guilty, and that was what he’d say in court.

Nevertheless, the solicitor engaged by Jack Bell was reckoned to be the best Scotland had to offer. He was based in Glasgow, and charged traveling time to Edinburgh at his standard rate. Immaculately dressed in chalk-stripe suit and burgundy bow tie, he smoked a pipe whenever such was permitted, and held the pipe in his left hand at what seemed all other times.

As he sat opposite Jack Bell now, one leg crossed over the other at the knee, staring at a patch of wall just above the MSP’s head. Bell had become used to his ways, and knew this was by no means an indication that the lawyer was distracted-rather, that he was focused on the matter at hand.

“We’ve got a case,” the lawyer said. “A pretty good one, I’d say.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.” The lawyer examined the stem of his pipe, as if for flaws. “It all boils down to this, you see-Detective Inspector Rebus belongs to Derek Renshaw’s family… a cousin, to be precise. As a result of which, he should never have been let near the case.”

“Conflict of interest?” Jack Bell guessed.

“Self-evidently. You can’t have a relation of one of the victims going in and questioning possible suspects. Then there’s the matter of his suspension. You may not know this, but DI Rebus was being investigated by his own force at the time of the events at Port Edgar.” The lawyer’s attention had shifted to the pipe’s bowl, scrutinizing its interior. “A question of possible proceedings being taken against him in a murder case…”

“Better and better.”

“Nothing came of it, but all the same, one does have to wonder at the Lothian and Borders Police. I’m not sure that I’ve ever heard of an officer on suspension being able to move so freely around another ongoing inquiry.”

“It’s irregular, then?”

“Unheard-of, I’d suggest. Which leads to very serious questions about the validity of much of the Crown’s case.” The lawyer paused, tested the pipe between his teeth, his mouth forming a shape that might have been taken for a grin. “There are so many possible objections and technicalities, the Crown might even be forced to concede without the need of anything other than a preliminary hearing.”

“In other words, the case would be tossed out?”

“It’s entirely feasible. I’d say we’ve got a very strong case.” The lawyer paused for effect. “But only if James were to plead not guilty.”

Jack Bell nodded, and the two men’s eyes met for the first time, then both heads turned to face James, who was seated across the table.

“Well, James?” the lawyer said. “What do you think?”

The teenager seemed to be considering the offer. He returned his father’s stare as if it were all the nourishment he needed and he had a hunger that would never be stilled.

Ian Rankin is the #1 bestselling mystery writer in the United Kingdom, with sixteen Inspector Rebus novels under his belt and legions of devoted fans all over the globe. He is the recipient of the prestigious Gold Dagger Award and the Chandler-Fulbright Award. He lives in Edinburgh with his wife and their two sons.