A Question of Blood Read online

  “Keeping busy?” she asked instead.

  “You know I’m handling Port Edgar?” He broke off. ’Course you do, stupid question.”

  “You come over well on TV, Bobby.”

  “I’m always open to flattery, Shiv, and the answer is ‘no.’”

  She couldn’t help smiling. “I’m not exactly snowed under here,” she lied, glancing across at the folders on her desk.

  “If I need an extra pair of hands, I’ll let you know. Is John around?”

  “Mr. Popular? He’s taken a sickie. What do you want him for?”

  “Is he at home?”

  “I can probably get a message to him.” She was intrigued now. There was some urgency in Hogan’s voice.

  “You know where he is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “You never answered my question: what do you want him for?”

  Hogan gave a long sigh. “Because I need that other pair of hands,” he told her.

  “And only his will do?”

  “So far as I know.”

  “I’m suitably crushed.”

  He ignored her tone. “How soon can you let him know?”

  “He might not be well enough to help.”

  “If he’s anywhere short of an iron lung, I’ll take him.”

  She rested her weight against Rebus’s desk. “What’s going on?”

  “Just get him to call me, eh?”

  “Are you at the school?”

  “Best if he tries my mobile. Bye, Shiv.”

  “Hang on a sec!” Siobhan was looking towards the doorway.

  “What?” Hogan failed to mask his exasperation.

  “He’s just here. I’ll put him on.” She stretched the receiver out towards Rebus. His clothes all seemed to be hanging awkwardly. At first, she thought he must be drunk, but then she realized what it was. He’d struggled to get dressed. His shirt was tucked into his waistband, but only just. His tie hung loose around his neck. Instead of taking the phone from her, he came forward and leaned his ear against it.

  “It’s Bobby Hogan,” she explained.

  “Hiya, Bobby.”

  “John? Connection must be breaking up . . .”

  Rebus looked at Siobhan. “Bit closer,” he whispered. She angled the mouthpiece so it rested against his chin, noting that his hair needed washing. It was plastered to his scalp in the front, but sticking up in the back.

  “That better, Bobby?”

  “Fine, yes. John, I need a favor.”

  When the phone dipped a little, Rebus looked up at Siobhan. Her gaze was directed at the doorway again. He glanced around and saw Gill Templer standing there.

  “My office!” she snapped. “Now!”

  Rebus ran the tip of his tongue around his lips. “I think I’m going to have to call you back, Bobby. Boss wants a word.”

  He straightened up, hearing Hogan’s voice becoming tinny and mechanical. Templer was beckoning for him to follow. He gave a little shrug in Siobhan’s direction and began to leave the room again.

  “He’s gone,” she told the mouthpiece.

  “Well, get him back!”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be possible. Look . . . maybe if you could give me a clue what this is all about. I might be able to help . . .”

  “I’ll leave it open if you don’t mind,” Rebus said.

  “If you want the whole station to hear, that’s fine by me.”

  Rebus slumped down on the visitor’s chair. “It’s just that I’m having a bit of trouble with door handles.” He lifted his hands for Templer to see. Her expression changed immediately.

  “Christ, John, what the hell happened?”

  “I scalded myself. Looks worse than it is.”

  “Scalded yourself?” She leaned back, fingers pressing the edge of the desk.

  He nodded. “There’s no more to it than that.”

  “Despite what I’m thinking?”

  “Despite what you’re thinking. I filled the kitchen sink to do some dishes, forgot I hadn’t added cold and plunged my hands in.”

  “For how long exactly?”

  “Long enough to scald them, apparently.” He tried for a smile, reckoned the dishes story was easier to swallow than the bathtub, despite which Templer looked far from convinced. Her phone started ringing. She picked up the receiver and dropped it again, cutting the connection.

  “You’re not the only one having some bad luck. Martin Fairstone died in a fire.”

  “Siobhan told me.”

  “And?”

  “Accident with a chip pan.” He shrugged. “It happens.”

  “You were with him Sunday night.”

  “Was I?”

  “Witnesses saw you together in a bar.”

  Rebus shrugged. “I did chance to bump into him.”

  “And left the bar with him?”

  “No.”

  “Went back to his place?”

  “Says who?”

  “John . . .”

  His voice was rising. “Who says it wasn’t an accident?”

  “The fire investigators are still looking.”

  “Good luck to them.” Rebus made to fold his arms, realized what he was doing, and dropped them to either side again.

  “That probably hurts,” Templer commented.

  “It’s bearable.”

  “And it happened on Sunday night?”

  He nodded.

  “Look, John . . .” She leaned forwards, elbows on the desktop. “You know what people are going to say. Siobhan claimed Fairstone was stalking her. He denied it, then countered that you’d threatened him.”

  “A charge he decided to drop.”

  “But now I hear from Siobhan that Fairstone attacked her. Did you know about that?”

  He shook his head. “The fire’s just a stupid coincidence.”

  She lowered her eyes. “It doesn’t look good, though, does it?”

  Rebus made a show of examining himself. “Since when have I been interested in looking good?”

  Despite herself, she almost smiled. “I just want to know that we’re clean on this.”

  “Trust me, Gill.”

  “Then you won’t mind making it all official? Get it down in writing?” Her phone had started ringing again.

  “I’d answer it this time,” a voice said. Siobhan was standing in the hallway, arms folded. Templer looked at her, then picked up the receiver.

  “DCS Templer speaking.”

  Siobhan caught Rebus’s eye and gave a wink. Gill Templer was listening to whatever the caller was telling her.

  “I see . . . yes . . . I suppose that would be . . . Care to tell me why him exactly?”

  Rebus suddenly knew. It was Bobby Hogan. Maybe not on the phone—Hogan could have gone over Templer’s head, got the deputy chief constable to make the call on his behalf. Needing that favor from Rebus. Hogan had a certain measure of power right now, power gifted him along with his latest case. Rebus wondered what sort of favor he wanted.

  Templer put down the phone. “You’re to report to South Queensferry. Seems DI Hogan needs his hand-holding.” She was staring at her desktop.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Rebus said.

  “Fairstone won’t be going anywhere, John, remember that. Soon as Hogan’s finished with you, you’re mine again.”

  “Understood.”

  Templer looked past him to where Siobhan was still standing. “Meantime, maybe DS Clarke will shed some light —”

  Rebus cleared his throat. “Might be a problem there, ma’am.”

  “In what way?”

  Rebus held up his arms again and turned his wrists slowly. “I might be all right for holding Bobby Hogan’s hand, but I’ll need a bit of help for everything else.” He half turned in the chair. “So if I could just borrow DS Clarke for a little while . . .”

  “I can get you a driver,” Templer snapped.

  “But for writing notes . . . making and taking calls . . . needs to
be CID. And from what I saw in the office, that narrows things down.” He paused. “With your permission.”

  “Get out then, the pair of you.” Templer made a show of reaching for some paperwork. “Soon as there’s news from the fire investigators, I’ll let you know.”

  “Very decent of you, boss,” Rebus said, rising to his feet.

  Back in the CID room, he had Siobhan slide a hand into his jacket pocket, bringing out a small plastic jar of pills. “Bastards measured them out like gold,” he complained. “Get me some water, will you?”

  She fetched a bottle from her desk and helped him wash down two tablets. When he demanded a third, she checked the label.

  “Says to take two every four hours.”

  “One more won’t do any harm.”

  “Not going to last long at this rate.”

  “There’s a prescription in my other pocket. We’ll stop at a chemist’s once we’re on the road.”

  She screwed the top of the jar back on. “Thanks for taking me with you.”

  “No problem.” He paused. “Want to talk about Fairstone?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I’m assuming neither of us is responsible.” Her eyes bored into his.

  “Correct,” he said. “Which means we can concentrate on helping Bobby Hogan instead. But there’s one last thing before we start . . .”

  “What?”

  “Any chance you could do my tie properly? Nurse hadn’t a clue.”

  She smiled. “I’ve been waiting to get my hands around your throat.”

  “Any more of that and I’ll throw you back to the boss.”

  But he didn’t, even when she proved incapable of following his instructions for knotting a tie. In the end, the woman at the chemist’s did it for him while they waited for the pharmacist to fill his prescription.

  “Used to do it for my husband all the time,” she said. “God rest his soul.”

  Outside on the sidewalk, Rebus looked up and down the street. “I need cigarettes,” he said.

  “Don’t expect me to light them for you,” Siobhan said, folding her arms. He stared at her. “I’m serious,” she added. “This is the best chance of quitting that you’re ever likely to have.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Beginning to,” she admitted, opening the car door for him with a flourish of her arm.

  2

  There was no quick route to South Queensferry. They headed across the city center and down Queensferry Road, picking up speed only when they hit the A90. The town they were approaching seemed to be nestled between the two bridges—road and rail—that spanned the Firth of Forth.

  “Haven’t been out here in years,” Siobhan said, just to fill the silence inside the car. Rebus didn’t bother answering. It seemed to him as if the whole world had been bandaged, muffled. He guessed the tablets were to blame. One weekend, a couple of months back, he’d brought Jean to South Queensferry. They’d had a bar lunch, a walk along the promenade. They’d watched the lifeboat being launched—no urgency about it, probably an exercise. Then they’d driven to Hopetoun House, taking a guided tour of the stately home’s ornate interior. He knew from the news that Port Edgar Academy was near Hopetoun House, thought he remembered driving past its gates, no building visible from the road. He gave Siobhan directions, only for them to end up in a cul-de-sac. She did a three-point turn and found Hopetoun Road without further help from the passenger seat. As they neared the gates to the school, they had to squeeze past news vans and reporters’ cars.

  “Hit as many as you like,” Rebus muttered. A uniform checked their ID and opened the wrought-iron gates. Siobhan drove through.

  “I thought it would be on the waterfront,” she said, “with a name like Port Edgar.”

  “There’s a marina called Port Edgar. Can’t be too far away.” As the car climbed a winding slope, he turned to look back. He could see the water, masts seeming to rise from it like spikes. But then it was lost behind trees, and turning again, he saw the school come into view. It was built in the Scots baronial style: dark slabs of stone topped with gables and turrets. A saltire flew at half-mast. The car park had been taken over by official vehicles, people milling around a Portakabin. The town boasted only a single, tiny police substation, probably not big enough to cope. As their tires crunched over gravel, eyes turned to check them out. Rebus recognized a few faces, and those faces knew him, too. Nobody bothered to smile or wave. As the car stopped, Rebus made an attempt to pull the door handle but had to wait for Siobhan to get out, walk around to the passenger side, and open the door.

  “Thanks,” he said, easing himself out. A uniformed constable walked over. Rebus knew him from Leith. His name was Brendan Innes, an Australian. Rebus had never got around to asking him how he’d ended up in Scotland.

  “DI Rebus?” Innes was saying. “DI Hogan’s up at the school. Told me to tell you.”

  Rebus nodded. “Got a cigarette on you?”

  “Don’t smoke.”

  Rebus looked around, seeking out a likely candidate.

  “He said you’re to go right up,” Innes was stressing. Both men turned at a noise from the Portakabin’s interior. The door flew open and a man stomped down the three exterior steps. He was dressed as if for a funeral: somber suit, white shirt, black tie. It was the hair Rebus recognized, in all its silvery back-combed glory: Jack Bell, MSP. Bell was in his mid-forties, face square-jawed, permanently tanned. Tall and wide-bodied, he had the look of a man who’d always be surprised not to get his own way.

  “I’ve every right!” he was yelling. “Every bloody right in the world! But I might’ve known to expect nothing from you lot but utter bloody downright obstructiveness!” Grant Hood, liaison officer on the case, had come to the doorway.

  “You’re welcome to your opinion, sir,” he tried remonstrating.

  “It’s not an opinion, it’s an absolute, undeniable fact! You got egg all over your faces six months ago, and that’s not something you’re ever likely to forget or forgive, is it?”

  Rebus had taken a step forward. “Excuse me, sir . . . ?”

  Bell spun around to face him. “Yes? What is it?”

  “I just thought you might want to keep your voice down . . . out of respect.”

  Bell jabbed a forefinger at Rebus. “Don’t you dare start playing that card! I’ll have you know my son could have been killed at the hands of that maniac!”

  “I’m well aware of that, sir.”

  “But I’m here representing my constituents, and as such I demand to be allowed inside . . .” Bell paused for breath. “Who are you anyway?”

  “The name’s DI Rebus.”

  “Then you’re no bloody good to me. It’s Hogan I need to see.”

  “You’ll appreciate that Detective Inspector Hogan’s up to his eyes at the minute. It’s the classroom you want to see, is that right?” Bell nodded, looking around as if seeking out anyone more useful to him than Rebus. “Mind if I ask why, sir?”

  “None of your business.”

  Rebus shrugged. “It’s just that I’m on my way to talk to DI Hogan . . .” He turned away, started walking. “Thought I might be able to put a word in on your behalf.”

  “Hold on,” Bell said, voice immediately losing some of its stridency. “Maybe you could show me . . .”

  But Rebus was shaking his head. “Best if you wait here, sir. I’ll let you know what DI Hogan says.”

  Bell nodded, but he was not to be placated for long. “It’s scandalous, you know. How can someone just walk into a school with a gun?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir.” Rebus looked the MSP up and down. “Got a cigarette on you, by any chance?”

  “What?”

  “A cigarette.”

  Bell shook his head, and Rebus started heading towards the school again.

  “I’ll be waiting, Inspector. I won’t be budging from this sp
ot!”

  “That’s fine, sir. Best place for you, I daresay.”

  There was a sloping lawn to the front of the school, playing fields to one side. Uniformed officers were busy on the playing fields, turning away trespassers who had climbed the perimeter wall. Media maybe, but more likely just ghouls: you got them at every murder scene. Rebus caught a glimpse of a modern building behind the original school. A helicopter flew over. He couldn’t see any cameras aboard.

  “That was fun,” Siobhan said, catching up with him.

  “Always a pleasure to meet a politician,” Rebus agreed. “Especially one who holds our profession in such esteem.”

  The school’s main entrance seemed to be a carved wooden double door with glass panels. Inside was a reception area with sliding windows leading to an office, probably the school secretary’s. She was in there now, giving a statement from behind a large white handkerchief, presumably belonging to the officer seated opposite her. Rebus knew his face but couldn’t put a name to it. Another set of doors led into the body of the school. They’d been wedged open. A sign on them stated that ALL VISITORS SHOULD REPORT TO THE OFFICE. An arrow pointed back towards the sliding windows.

  Siobhan gestured towards a corner of the ceiling, where a small camera was fitted. Rebus nodded and passed through the open doors, into a long corridor with stairs off to one side and a large stained-glass window at the far end. The floor was polished wood, creaking under his weight. There were paintings on the walls: robed figures of past teachers, captured at their desks or reaching towards a bookcase. Farther along were lists of names—prefects of the school, headmasters, those who’d gone on to die in service of their country.

  “Wonder how easy it was for him to get in,” Siobhan said quietly. Her words reverberated in the silence and a head appeared around a door halfway down the corridor.

  “Took you long enough,” boomed the voice of DI Bobby Hogan. “Come and have a look.”

  He had retreated back inside the sixth-year common room. It was about sixteen feet by twelve, with windows high up on the external wall. There were about a dozen chairs, and a desk with a computer on it. An old-looking hi-fi sat in one corner, CDs and tapes scattered about. Some of the chairs had magazines on them: FHM, Heat, M8. A novel lay open and facedown nearby. Backpacks and blazers hung on hooks below the windows.