The view was magnificent. Siobhan was in the front, next to the pilot. Rebus was tucked in behind, an empty seat next to him. The noise from the propellers was deafening.
“We could’ve taken the corporate plane,” Doug Brimson was explaining, “but the fuel bill’s massive, and it might’ve been too big for the LZ.”
LZ: landing zone. Not a term Rebus had heard since he’d left the army.
“Corporate?” Siobhan was asking.
“I’ve got a seven-seater. Companies hire me to fly them to meetings-otherwise known as ‘jollies.’ I lay on some chilled champagne, crystal glasses…”
“Sounds fun.”
“Sorry, all we’ve got today is a canteen of tea.” He offered a laugh, turning to look at Rebus. “I was in Dublin for the weekend, flew a bunch of bankers there for some rugby match. They paid for me to stay over.”
“Lucky you.”
“A few weekends back, it was Amsterdam: businessman’s stag party…”
Rebus was thinking of his own weekend. When Siobhan had picked him up this morning, she’d asked what he’d done.
“Not much,” he’d said. “You?”
“Ditto.”
“Funny, the guys down at Leith said you’d been dropping in.”
“Funny, they told me the same thing about you.”
“Enjoying it so far?” Brimson asked now.
“So far,” Rebus said. In truth, he had no great head for heights. All the same, he’d watched with fascination the aerial view of Edinburgh, amazed at how indistinguishable landmarks like the Castle and Calton Hill were from their surroundings. No mistaking the volcanic heft of Arthur’s Seat, but the buildings suffered from a uniform gray coloring. Still, the elaborate patterning of the New Town’s geometric streets was impressive, and then they were out over the Forth, passing South Queensferry and the road and rail bridges. Rebus sought Port Edgar School, saw Hopetoun House first and then the school building not half a mile distant. He could even make out the Portakabin. They were heading west now, following the M8 towards Glasgow.
Siobhan was asking Brimson if he did a lot of corporate work.
“Depends how the economy’s doing. To be honest, if a company’s sending four or five people to a meeting, it can be cheaper to charter than to fly regular business class.”
“Siobhan tells me you were in the forces, Mr. Brimson,” Rebus said, leaning as far forward as his seat belt would allow.
Brimson smiled. “I was RAF. What about you, Inspector? Forces background?”
Rebus nodded. “Even trained for the SAS,” he admitted. “Didn’t quite make the grade.”
“Few do.”
“And some of those falter down the line.”
Brimson looked at him again. “You mean Lee?”
“And Robert Niles. How did you come to know him?”
“Through Lee. He told me he visited Robert. I asked if I could go with him one day.”
“And after that, you started going on your own?” Rebus was remembering the entries in the visitors’ log.
“Yes. He’s an interesting chap. We seem to get along.” He looked at Siobhan. “Fancy taking over the controls while I chat with your colleague?”
“No fear…”
“Another time maybe. I think you’d like it.” He gave her a wink. Then, to Rebus: “The army seems to treat its old boys pretty shabbily, wouldn’t you say?”
“I don’t know. There’s support available when you hit civvy street… wasn’t in my day.”
“High rate of marriage failures, breakdowns. More Falklands veterans have taken their own lives than were killed in the actual conflict. A lot of homeless people are ex-forces…”
“On the other hand,” Rebus said, “the SAS is big business these days. You can sell your story to a publisher, sell your services as a bodyguard. Way I hear it, all four SAS squadrons are below quota. Too many are leaving. Suicide rate’s lower than the average, too.”
Brimson didn’t appear to be listening. “One guy jumped out of a plane a few years back… maybe you heard about that, too. Recipient of the QGM.”
“Queen’s Gallantry Medal,” Rebus explained, for Siobhan’s benefit.
“Tried stabbing his ex-wife, thinking she was trying to kill him. Suffered from depression… Couldn’t take it anymore, went into freefall, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
“It happens,” Rebus said. He was remembering the book in Herdman’s flat, the one Teri’s photo had fallen from.
“Oh, it happens all right,” Brimson was continuing. “The SAS chaplain who took part in the Iranian embassy siege, he ended up committing suicide. Another ex-SAS man shot his girlfriend with a gun he’d brought back from the Gulf War.”
“And something similar happened to Lee Herdman?” Siobhan asked.
“Seems like,” Brimson said.
“Why pick on that school, though?” Rebus continued. “You went to a few of his parties, didn’t you, Mr. Brimson?”
“He threw a good party.”
“Always used to be plenty of teenagers hanging around.”
Brimson turned again. “Is that a question or a comment?”
“Ever see any drugs?”
Brimson seemed to be concentrating on the control panel in front of him. “Maybe a bit of pot,” he finally conceded.
“Is that as strong as it got?”
“It’s as much as I saw.”
“Not quite the same thing. Did you ever hear a rumor that Lee Herdman might be dealing?”
“No.”
“Or smuggling?”
Brimson looked towards Siobhan. “Shouldn’t I have a solicitor present?”
She gave a reassuring smile. “I think the detective inspector’s just making conversation.” She turned to Rebus. “Isn’t that right?” Her eyes telling Rebus to go easy.
“That’s right,” he said. “Just a bit of chat.” He tried not to think about the hours of lost sleep, his stinging hands, Andy Callis’s death. Concentrated instead on the view from his window, the changing landscape. They’d be over Glasgow soon, and then out into the Firth of Clyde, Bute and Kintyre…
“So you never associated Lee Herdman with drugs?” he asked.
“I never saw him with anything stronger than a joint.”
“That’s not exactly answering my question. What would you say if I told you drugs had been found on one of Herdman’s boats?”
“I’d say it’s none of my business. Lee was a friend, Inspector. Don’t expect me to play along with whatever game it is you’re -”
“Some of my colleagues think he was smuggling cocaine and Ecstasy into the country,” Rebus stated.
“It’s not my problem what your colleagues think,” Brimson muttered, sinking into silence.
“I saw your car on Cockburn Street last week,” Siobhan said, trying for a change of subject. “Just after I’d been out to Turnhouse to see you.”
“I’d probably stopped off at the bank.”
“This was past closing time.”
Brimson was thoughtful. “Cockburn Street?” Then he nodded to himself. “Some friends have got a shop there. I think I popped in.”
“Which shop is it?”
He looked at her. “It’s not really a shop as such. One of those tanning places.”
“Owned by Charlotte Cotter?” Brimson looked amazed. “We interviewed the daughter. She’s a pupil at the school.”
“Right.” Brimson nodded. He’d been flying with a headset on, one of the ear protectors pushed away from his ear. But now he fixed it on and angled the mike towards his mouth. “Go ahead, Tower,” he said. Then he listened as the control tower at Glasgow Airport told him which route to take so as to avoid an incoming flight. Rebus was staring at the back of Brimson’s head, thinking to himself that Teri hadn’t mentioned him being a friend of the family… hadn’t sounded as if she liked him at all…
The Cessna banked steeply, Rebus trying not to grip his armrest too tightly. A minute later, they were passing over Greenock, and then the short stretch of water that separated it from Dunoon. The countryside below was growing wilder: more forests, fewer settlements. They crossed Loch Fyne and were out into the Sound of Jura. The wind seemed to pick up almost immediately, buffeting the plane.
“I’ve not been this way before,” Brimson admitted. “Looked at the charts last night. Just the one road, up the eastern side of the island. Bottom half’s mostly forest and some decent peaks.”
“And the landing strip?” Siobhan asked.
“You’ll see.” He turned to Rebus again. “Ever read any poetry, Inspector?”
“Do I look the type?”
“Frankly, no. I’m a great fan of Yeats. There’s a poem of his I was reading the other night: ‘I know that I shall meet my fate / Somewhere among the clouds above; / Those that I fight I do not hate, / Those that I guard I do not love.’” He looked at Siobhan. “Isn’t that the saddest thing?”
“You think Lee felt that way?” she asked.
He shrugged. “The poor bastard who jumped out of the plane did.” He paused. “Know what the poem’s called? ‘An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.’” Another glance at the instrument panel. “This is us over Jura now.”
Siobhan looked out on to wilderness. The plane made a tight circuit, and she could see the coastline again and a road running alongside it. As the plane made its descent, Brimson seemed to be checking the road for something… some marker perhaps.
“I don’t see anywhere to land,” Siobhan said. But she noticed a man, who appeared to be waving both arms at them. Brimson took the plane back up, and made a further circuit.
“Any traffic?” he said, as they flew low over the road once more. Siobhan thought he must be talking to someone on the mike, some tower somewhere. But then she realized he was talking to her. And by “traffic” he meant on the road beneath.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said, turning to see if Rebus shared her disbelief, but he seemed to be concentrating on guiding the plane down by willpower alone. The wheels rumbled as they hit the tarmac, the plane bouncing once as if straining to be airborne again. Brimson had his teeth clenched but was smiling, too. He turned to Siobhan as if in triumph, and taxied along the highway towards the waiting man, the man who was still waving his arms, and now guiding the small plane through an open gateway, leading to a field of stubble. They bumped over the ruts. Brimson cut the engines and slid off his headphones.
There was a house next to the field, and a woman standing there watching them, nursing a baby. Siobhan opened her door, undid her selt belt and leapt out. The ground felt as if it were vibrating, but she realized it was her body, still shaken up from the flight.
“I’ve never landed on a road before,” a grinning Brimson was telling the man.
“It was that or the field,” the man said, in a thick accent. He was tall and muscular, with curly brown hair and bright pink cheeks. “I’m Rory Mollison.” He shook Brimson’s hand, then was introduced to Siobhan. Rebus, who was lighting a cigarette, nodded but didn’t offer his own hand. “You found the place all right, then,” Mollison said, as if they’d arrived by car.
“As you can see,” Siobhan said.
“Thought it would work,” Mollison said. “The SAS guys landed by helicopter. It was their pilot who told me the road would make a good landing strip. No potholes, you see.”
“He was right,” Brimson said.
Mollison was the rescue team’s “local guide.” When Siobhan had asked her favor of Brimson-a plane ride to Jura-he’d asked if she knew anywhere they could land. Rebus had passed along Mollison’s name…
Siobhan waved at the woman, who waved back with no real enthusiasm.
“My wife, Mary,” Mollison said. “And our little one, Seona. Are you coming in for some tea?”
Rebus made a show of looking at his watch. “Best if we get started, actually.” He turned to Brimson. “You’ll be all right here till we get back?”
“What do you mean?”
“We should only be a few hours…”
“Hang on, I’m coming, too. I don’t suppose Mrs. Mollison wants me moping around here. And after flying you here, I don’t see how you can turn me down.”
Rebus looked to Siobhan, then conceded with a shrug.
“You’ll want to come in and get changed,” Mollison was saying. Siobhan lifted her backpack and nodded.
“Changed?” Rebus echoed.
“Climbing gear.” Mollison looked him up and down. “Is that all you’ve brought?”
Rebus shrugged. Siobhan had opened her own pack to show hiking boots, cagoule, and canteen. “A regular Mary Poppins,” Rebus commented.
“You can borrow from me,” Mollison assured him, leading the three visitors towards the house.
“You’re not a professional guide, then?” Siobhan asked. Mollison shook his head.
“But I know this island like the back of my hand. I must have traversed every square inch of it these past twenty years.” They had taken Mollison’s Land Rover as far as they could along muddy logging tracks, bumpy enough to shake the fillings from their teeth. Mollison was a skilled driver; either that or a madman. There were times when there seemed to be no track at all, and they were pitching wildly across the moss-covered forest floor, dropping down a gear to pass over rocky outcrops or through streams. But eventually even he had to concede defeat. It was time for them to walk.
Rebus was wearing a venerable pair of climbing boots whose leather had turned implacably hard, making it difficult for him to bend his feet at the toes. He had on waterproof trousers, splattered with old mud, and an oily Barbour jacket. With the car engine turned off, silence had returned to the woods.
“Ever see the first Rambo film?” Siobhan asked in a whisper. Rebus didn’t think she was expecting an answer. He turned to Brimson instead.
“What made you leave the RAF?”
“I just got tired of it, I suppose. Tired of taking orders from people I didn’t respect.”
“What about Lee? Did he ever say why he left the SAS?”
Brimson shrugged. His eyes were on the ground, watching for roots and puddles. “Much the same thing, I’d guess.”
“But he never spelled it out?”
“No.”
“So what did the two of you find to talk about?”
Brimson glanced up at him. “Plenty of things.”
“He was easy to get along with? No fallings-out?”
“We might have argued about politics once or twice… the way the world was headed. Nothing to make me think he was about to go off the rails. I’d have helped him if he’d hinted.”
Rails: Rebus thought of that word, saw Andy Callis’s body being hauled up from the railway tracks. He wondered if his visits had helped, or had they merely been painful reminders of everything the man had lost? Then he remembered how Siobhan had been about to say something in the car last night. Maybe to do with why he felt he had to get involved in all these other lives… not always for the best.
“How far are we going?” Brimson was asking Mollison.
“Maybe an hour’s hike, the same back.” Mollison had a knapsack slung over one shoulder. He looked at his companions, eyes lingering on Rebus. “Actually,” he corrected himself, “maybe an hour and a half.”
Rebus had already told Brimson part of the story back at the house, asking if Herdman had ever mentioned the mission to him. Brimson had shaken his head.
“I remember it from the papers, though. People thought the IRA had blown the chopper out of the skies.”
Now, as they commenced the climb, Mollison was talking. “That’s what they told me we were looking for: evidence of a missile attack.”
“So they weren’t interested in finding the bodies?” Siobhan asked. She had changed into thick socks, tucking her trouser bottoms into them. The boots looked new, or if not new, then seldom worn.
“Oh, I think there was that, too. But they were more interested in why the crash happened.”
“How many of them were there?” Rebus asked.
“Half a dozen.”
“And they came straight to you.”
“I daresay they spoke to someone from Mountain Rescue, who told them I was as good a guide as they were going to get.” He paused. “Not that there’s much in the way of competition.” He paused again. “They made me sign the Official Secrets Act.”
Rebus stared at him. “Before or after?”
Mollison scratched behind one ear. “Right at the start. They said it was standard procedure.” He looked at Rebus. “Does that mean I shouldn’t be talking to you?”
“I don’t know… Did you find anything you think needs to be kept secret?”
Mollison considered his answer, then shook his head.
“Then it’s all right,” Rebus told him. “Probably just procedure after all.” Mollison set off again, Rebus keen to keep by his side, though the boots seemed to have other ideas. “Has anyone been here since?” Rebus asked.
“We get plenty of walkers in the summer.”
“I meant from the army.”
Mollison’s hand went to his ear again. “There was one woman, middle of last year, I think it was… maybe more than that. She was trying to look like a tourist.”
“But not quite pulling it off?” Rebus suggested, going on to describe Whiteread.
“You’ve got her to a T,” Mollison admitted. Rebus and Siobhan shared a look.
“It may just be me,” Brimson said, pausing to catch his breath, “but what has any of this got to do with what Lee did?”
“Maybe nothing,” Rebus conceded. “But the exercise will do us good, all the same.”
As the walk continued, all of it uphill now, they fell quiet, saving energy. Eventually they emerged from the forest. The steep slope directly in front of them boasted only a few stunted trees. Grass, heather and bracken were broken by jagged stumps of rock. No more walking: if they wanted to go any farther, it would be by climbing. Rebus craned his neck, seeking the distant summit.
“Don’t worry,” Mollison said, “we’re not going up there.” He pointed upwards. “Helicopter hit the rock face about halfway to the top, came tumbling down here.” He waved an arm in the direction of the area around them. “It was a big helicopter. Looked to me like it had too many propellers.”
“It was a Chinook,” Rebus explained. “Two sets of rotor blades, one lot at the front, one at the back.” He looked at Mollison. “There must’ve been a lot of debris.”
“There was that. And the bodies… well, they were all over. One stuck on a ledge a hundred meters up. Myself and another fellow brought him down. They brought in a salvage team to take away what wreckage there was. But they had someone here to examine it. He didn’t find anything.”
“Meaning it wasn’t a missile?”
Mollison shook his head in agreement. He pointed back towards the tree line. “A lot of papers had been blown about. Mostly they were scouring the woods for them. Some of the sheets were stuck up trees. Would you believe they shinnied up to fetch them?”
“Did anyone say why?”
Mollison shook his head again. “Not officially, but when the guys stopped to boil a brew-they were always doing that-I’d hear what they were saying. The helicopter was on its way to Ulster, majors and colonels onboard. Had to be carrying documents they didn’t want the terrorists to see. Might explain why they were carrying guns.”
“Guns?”
“The rescue team brought rifles with them. I thought it was a bit odd at the time.”
“Did you ever happen across any of these documents yourself?” Rebus asked. Mollison nodded. “But I never looked at them. Just crunched them into a ball and brought them back.”
“Pity,” Rebus said, with the wriest smile he could manage.
“It’s beautiful up here,” Siobhan said suddenly, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“It is, isn’t it?” Mollison agreed, face breaking into a grin.
“Speaking of boiling a brew,” Brimson interrupted, “got that canteen of tea on you?” Siobhan opened her backpack and handed it over. The four of them passed the single plastic cup between them. It tasted the way tea always did from a canteen: hot, but somehow not quite right. Rebus was walking around the area at the foot of the incline.
“Did anything strike you as strange?” he was asking Mollison.
“Strange?”
“About the mission… about the people or what they were up to?” Mollison shook his head. “Did you get to know them at all?”
“We were only out here the two days.”
“You didn’t know Lee Herdman?” Rebus had brought a photo with him. He handed it over.
“He’s the one who shot the schoolkids?” Mollison waited for Rebus to nod, then stared at the photo again. “I remember him, all right. Nice enough guy… quiet. Not exactly what you’d call a team player.”
“How do you mean?”
“He liked it best in the woods, tracking down the bits and pieces of paper. Every little scrap. The others joked about it. They’d have to call him two or three times when the tea was being poured.”
“Maybe he knew it wasn’t worth hurrying for.” Brimson sniffed the surface of the cup.
“Are you saying I can’t make tea?” Siobhan complained. Brimson held up his hands in surrender.
“How long were they here?” Rebus was asking Mollison.
“Two days. The salvage squad arrived on the second day. Took them another week to ship the wreckage out.”
“Did you get talking to them much?”
Mollison shrugged. “Seemed nice enough lads. Very focused on their work.”
Rebus nodded and started walking into the forest. Not too far, but it was amazing how quickly you started to get the sense of being isolated, cut off from the still visible faces and still audible voices. What was that Brian Eno album? Another Green World. First there had been the world as seen from the air, and now this… equally alien and vibrant. Lee Herdman had walked into these woods and almost not come out again. His last mission before leaving the SAS. Had he learned something here? Found something?
Rebus had a sudden thought: you never really left the SAS. An indelible mark remained, just beyond your everyday feelings and actions. You came to the realization that there were other worlds, other realities. You’d had experiences beyond the usual. You’d been trained to see life as just another mission, filled with potential booby traps and assassins. Rebus wondered how far he himself had been able to travel from his days in the Paras, and training for the SAS.
Had he been in free fall ever since?
And had Lee Herdman, like the airman of the poem, foreseen his own death?
He crouched down, ran a hand over the ground. Twigs and leaves, springy moss, a covering of native flowers and weeds. Saw in his mind’s eye the helicopter hit the rock face. Malfunction, or pilot error.
Malfunction, pilot error, or something more terrible…
Saw the sky explode as the fuel ignited, rotor blades slowing, buckling. It would drop like a stone, bodies flying from it, concertinaing on impact. The dull thud of flesh hitting solid ground… same noise Andy Callis’s body would have made when it hit the railway line. The explosion sending the contents of the chopper bursting outwards, paper crisped at the edges or reduced to confetti. Secret papers, needing the SAS to recover them. And Lee Herdman busier than most as he plunged deeper and deeper into the woods. He recalled Teri Cotter’s words about Herdman: that was the thing about him… like he had secrets. He thought of the missing computer, the one Herdman had bought for his business. Where was it? Who had it? What secrets might it reveal?
“You okay?” Siobhan’s voice. She was holding the cup, newly replenished. Rebus rose to his feet.
“Fine,” he said.
“I called you.”
“I didn’t hear.” He took the cup from her.
“A touch of the Lee Herdmans?” she said.
“Could be.” He took a slurp of tea.
“Are we going to find anything here?”
He shrugged. “Maybe it’s enough just to see the place.”
“You think he took something, don’t you?” Her eyes were on his. “You think he took something, and the army wants it back.” No longer a question but a statement. Rebus nodded slowly.
“And this concerns us how?” she asked.
“Maybe because we don’t like them,” Rebus answered. “Or because whatever it is, they haven’t found it yet, which means someone else might. Maybe someone found it last week…”
“And when Herdman found out, he went berserk?”
Rebus shrugged again, handed back the empty cup. “You like Brimson, don’t you?”
She didn’t blink but couldn’t hold his gaze.
“It’s okay,” he said with a smile. She misread his tone, managed a glare.
“Oh, so I have your permission, do I?”
His turn to raise his hands in surrender. “I just meant…” But he didn’t think anything he said would help, so he let the words trail off. “Tea’s too strong, by the way,” he told her, making his way back towards the rock face.
“At least I thought to bring some,” Siobhan muttered, tipping out the dregs.
On the flight back, Rebus sat silently in the backseat, though Siobhan had offered to swap. He kept his face to the window, as if transfixed by the passing views, giving Siobhan and Brimson the chance to talk. Brimson showed her the controls and how to use them, and made her promise to take a flying lesson from him. It was as if they’d forgotten about Lee Herdman, and maybe, Rebus was forced to reflect, they had a point. Most people in South Queensferry, even the families of the victims, just wanted to get on with their lives. What was past was past, and there was no changing it or making things right again. You had to let go sometime…
If you could.
Rebus closed his eyes against the sun’s sudden glare. It bathed his face in warmth and light. He realized he was exhausted, in danger of dropping off to sleep; realized, too, that it didn’t matter. Sleep was fine. But he awoke again minutes later with a start, having dreamed that he was alone in a strange city, clad only in an old-fashioned pair of striped pajamas. Barefoot and with no money on him, seeking out anyone who might help, while all the time trying to look as if he fitted in. Peering through a café window, he’d spotted a man sliding a gun beneath a table, hiding it there on his lap. Rebus knowing he couldn’t go in, not without money. So just standing there, watching with his palms pressed to the glass, trying not to make a fuss…
Blinking his eyes back into focus, he saw that they were over the Firth of Forth again, making their final approach. Brimson was talking.
“I often think about the damage a terrorist could do, even with something as small as a Cessna. You’ve got the dockyard, the ferry, road and rail bridges… airport nearby.”
“They’d be spoiled for choice,” Siobhan agreed.
“I can think of bits of the city I’d rather see leveled,” Rebus commented.
“Ah, you’re with us again, Inspector. I can only apologize that our company wasn’t more sparkling.” Brimson and Siobhan shared a smile, letting Rebus know he hadn’t been too sorely missed.
The landing was smooth, Brimson taxiing towards where Siobhan’s car sat waiting. Climbing out, Rebus shook Brimson’s hand.
“Thanks for letting me tag along,” Brimson said.
“It’s me who should be thanking you. Send us the bill for your fuel and your time.”
Brimson just shrugged, turned to squeeze Siobhan’s hand, holding on to it a little longer than necessary. Wagged a finger of his free hand at her.
“Remember, I’ll be expecting you.”
She smiled. “A promise is a promise, Doug. But meantime, I wonder if I can be cheeky…?”
“Go ahead.”
“I just wondered if I could take a peek at the corporate jet, to see how the other half lives.”
He stared at her for a moment, then smiled back. “No problem. It’s in the hangar.” Brimson started to lead the way. “Coming, Inspector?”
“I’ll wait here,” Rebus said. After they’d gone, he managed to get a cigarette lit, sheltering by the side of the Cessna. They reappeared five minutes later, Brimson’s good humor evaporating as he saw the stub of Rebus’s cigarette.
“Strictly forbidden,” he said. “Fire hazard, you understand.”
Rebus gave a shrug of apology, nipped the cigarette and crushed it underfoot. As he followed Siobhan to her car, Brimson was getting into the Land Rover, ready to drive to the gate and unlock it.
“Nice guy,” Rebus said.
“Yes,” Siobhan agreed. “Nice guy.”
“You really think so?”
She looked at him. “Don’t you?”
Rebus shrugged. “I get the feeling he’s a collector.”
“Of what?”
Rebus thought for a moment. “Of interesting specimens… people like Herdman and Niles.”
“He knows the Cotters, too, don’t forget.” Siobhan’s hackles weren’t ready to go down just yet.
“Look, I’m not saying…”
“You’re warning me off him, aren’t you?”
Rebus stayed silent.
“Aren’t you?” she repeated.
“I just don’t want all that corporate jet glamour going to your head.” He paused. “What was it like anyway?”
She glared at him, then relented. “Smallish. Leather seats. They do champagne and hot meals on the flights.”
“Don’t go getting any ideas.”
She gave a twitch of the mouth, asked where he wanted to go, and he told her: Craigmillar police station. The detective there was named Blake. He was a DC, less than a year out of uniform. Rebus didn’t mind that: it meant he’d be keen to prove himself. So Rebus told him what he knew about Andy Callis and the Lost Boys. Blake kept a look of concentration on his face throughout, stopping Rebus from time to time and asking a question, noting everything on a lined legal pad. Siobhan sat in the room with them, arms folded, mostly just staring at the wall ahead. Rebus got the feeling she was thinking of airplane rides…
At the end of the interview, Rebus asked if there’d been any progress. Blake shook his head.
“Still no witnesses. Dr. Curt’s doing the autopsy this afternoon.” He checked his watch. “I might head on down there. You’re welcome to…”
But Rebus was shaking his head. He had no wish to see his friend dissected. “Will you bring Rab Fisher in?”
Blake nodded. “Don’t worry about that, I’ll have a word with him.”
“Don’t expect much in the way of cooperation,” Rebus warned.
“I’ll talk to him.” The young man’s tone told Rebus that he was close to pushing too hard.
“Nobody likes to be told how to do their job,” Rebus acknowledged with a smile.
“At least not until after they’ve screwed it up.” Blake got to his feet, Rebus doing the same. The two men shook hands.
“Nice guy,” Rebus said to Siobhan, as they walked back to her car.
“Too cocky by half,” she responded. “He doesn’t think he’s going to screw anything up… ever.”
“Then he’ll learn the hard way.”
“I hope so. I really do.”
The plan had been for them to head back to Siobhan’s flat so she could cook the dinner she’d been promising. They were quiet in the car, and as they got to the junction of Leith Street and York Place, the lights were against them. Rebus turned to her.
“Drink first?” he suggested.
“With me as designated driver?”
“You could take a taxi home after, pick up the car in the morning…”
She was staring at the red light, making up her mind. When it turned green, she signaled to move into the next lane over, heading for Queen Street.
“I’ll assume we’re gracing the Ox with our precious custom,” Rebus said.
“Would anywhere else suit sir’s stringent requirements?”
“Tell you what… we’ll have one drink there, and after that you can choose.”
“Deal.”
So they had their one drink in the smoky front room of the Oxford Bar, the place loud with after-work chat, the late afternoon drifting towards evening. Ancient Egypt on the Discovery Channel. Siobhan was watching the regulars: more entertaining than anything the TV could provide. She noticed that Harry, the dour barman, was smiling.
“He seems unusually chipper,” she commented to Rebus.
“I think young Harry’s in love.” Rebus was trying to make his pint last: Siobhan still hadn’t intimated whether they’d be sticking around for a second drink. She’d ordered a half of cider, already mostly gone. “Want the other half of that?” he asked, nodding towards her glass.
“One drink, you said.”
“Just to keep me company.” He held his own glass aloft, showing how much was left. But she shook her head.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” she told him. He attempted a look of shocked innocence, knowing it wouldn’t fool her for a second. A few more regulars were squeezing into the mêlée. There were three women seated at a table in the otherwise empty back room, but none in the front bar save Siobhan. She wrinkled her nose at the crush and steady escalation in noise, put her glass to her lips and drained it.
“Come on, then,” she said.
“Where?” Rebus affected a frown. But she just shook her head: not telling. “My jacket’s hanging up,” he told her. He’d taken it off in the hope of gaining a psychological advantage: a sign of how comfortable he felt here.
“Then get it,” she ordered. So he did, and gulped down the remains of his own drink before following her outside.
“Fresh air,” she was saying, breathing deeply. The car was parked on North Castle Street, but they walked past it, heading for George Street. Directly ahead of them, the Castle was illuminated against the ink-dark sky. They turned left, Rebus feeling a stiffness in both legs, the legacy of his trek across Jura.
“Long soak for me tonight,” he commented.
“Bet that was the most exercise you’ve had this year,” Siobhan replied with a smile.
“This decade,” Rebus corrected her. She’d stopped at some steps and was heading down. Her chosen bar was tucked away below sidewalk level, a shop directly above it. The interior was chic, with subdued lighting and music.
“Your first time in here?” Siobhan asked.
“What do you think?” He was heading for the bar, but Siobhan tugged his arm and gestured towards a free booth.
“It’s table service,” she said as they sat down. A waitress was already standing in front of them. Siobhan ordered a gin and tonic, Rebus a Laphroaig. When his malt arrived, he lifted the glass and peered at it, as if disapproving of the size of measure. Siobhan stirred her own drink, mashing the slice of lime against the ice cubes.
“Want to keep the tab open?” the waitress asked.
“Yes, please,” Siobhan said. Then, when the waitress had gone: “Are we any nearer finding out why Herdman shot those kids?”
Rebus shrugged. “I think maybe we’ll only know when we get there.”
“And everything up to that point…?”
“Is potentially useful,” Rebus said, knowing this wasn’t how she’d have chosen to finish the sentence. He lifted his glass to his mouth, but it was already empty. No sign of the waitress. Behind the bar, one of the staff was mixing a cocktail.
“Friday night, out at that railway line,” Siobhan was saying, “Silvers told me something.” She paused. “He said the Herdman case was being handed over to DMC.”
“Makes sense,” Rebus muttered. But with Claverhouse and Ormiston running the show, there’d be no place for him or Siobhan. “Didn’t there used to be a band called DMC, or am I thinking of Elton John’s record company?”
Siobhan was nodding. “Run DMC. I think they were a rap band.”
“Rap with a capital C, most likely.”
“No match for the Rolling Stones certainly.”
“Don’t knock the Stones, DC Clarke. None of the stuff you listen to would exist without them.”
“A point on which you’ve probably had many an argument.” She went back to stirring her drink. Rebus still couldn’t see their waitress.
“I’m getting a refill,” he said, sliding out of the booth. He wished Siobhan hadn’t mentioned Friday night. All weekend, Andy Callis hadn’t been far from his thoughts. He kept thinking of how different sequences of events-tiny chinks of altered time and space-could have saved him. Probably could have saved Lee Herdman, too… and stopped Robert Niles from killing his wife.
And stopped Rebus from scalding his hands.
Everything came down to the most minute contingencies, and to tinker with any single one of them was to change the future out of all recognition. He knew there was some argument in science, something to do with butterflies flapping their wings in the jungle… Maybe if he flapped his own arms, he would end up getting served. The barman was pouring a bright pink concoction into a martini glass, turning away from Rebus to serve it. The bar was double-sided, dividing the room in half. Rebus peered across into the gloom. Not too many customers in the other half. A mirror image of booths and squishy chairs, same decor and clientele. Rebus knew that he stood out by about thirty years. One young man had ranged himself across an entire banquette, arms stretched out behind him, legs crossed, looking cocksure and relaxed, wanting to be seen…
Seen by everyone but Rebus. The barman was ready to take Rebus’s order, but Rebus shook his head, walked to the end of the bar and through the short corridor that led to the bar’s other half. Across the floor until he was standing in front of Peacock Johnson.
“Mr. Rebus…” Johnson’s arms fell to his sides. He glanced to the right and left, as if expecting Rebus to have reinforcements. “The dapper detective, and no mistake. Looking for yours truly?”
“Not especially.” Rebus slid into the space across from Johnson. The young man’s choice of Hawaiian shirt didn’t look quite so garish in this light. A new waitress had appeared, and Rebus ordered a double. “On my friend’s tab,” he added, nodding across the table.
Johnson just shrugged magnanimously, and ordered another glass of merlot for himself. “So this is by way of a pure and actual coincidence?” he asked.
“Where’s your mongrel?” Rebus said, looking around.
“The wee evil fellow doesn’t quite have the cachet for an establishment of this caliber.”
“You tie him up outside?”
Johnson grinned. “I let him off the leash now and again.”
“An owner could get fined for that sort of thing.”
“He only bites when the Peacock gives the order.” Johnson finished the dregs of his wine, just as the new drinks arrived. The waitress put down a bowl of rice crackers between the two glasses. “Cheers, then,” Johnson said, hoisting the merlot.
Rebus ignored this. “I was just thinking of you actually,” he said.
“The purest of thoughts, I don’t doubt.”
“Funnily enough, no.” Rebus leaned across the table, keeping his voice low. “In fact, if you were a mind-reader, they’d have scared the shit out of you.” He had Johnson’s attention now. “Know who died last Friday? Andy Callis. You remember him, don’t you?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“He was the armed-response cop who stopped your friend Rab Fisher.”
“Rab’s not so much a friend as a casual acquaintance.”
“Acquainted enough for you to sell him that gun.”
“A replica, if you don’t mind me reminding you.” Johnson was diving into the bowl of snacks, holding his paw to his mouth and feeding them in morsel by morsel, so that bits flew out as he spoke. “No case to answer, and I resent any implication to the contrary.”
“Except that Fisher was going around scaring people, and it nearly got him killed.”
“No case to answer,” Johnson repeated.
“And he turned my friend into a nervous wreck, and now that friend’s dead. You sold someone a gun, and someone else ended up dying.”
“A replica, perfectly legitimate at this point in time and space.” Johnson was trying not to listen, making to grab another fistful of crackers. Rebus swiped at the hand, scattering the bowl and its contents. He grabbed the young man’s wrist. Squeezed it hard.
“You’re about as legitimate as every other bad bastard I’ve ever come across.”
Johnson was trying to free his hand. “And you’re pure as the driven, is that what you’re saying? Everybody knows the lengths you’ll go to, Rebus!”
“And what lengths are those?”
“Anything that’ll get me! I know you tried framing me, saying I’m retooling deactivated guns.”
“Says who?” Rebus had released his grip.
“Says everyone!” There were flecks of saliva on Johnson’s chin, bits of snack food mixed in with them. “Christ, you’d have to be deaf in this town not to hear.”
It was true: Rebus had been putting out feelers. He’d wanted Peacock Johnson. He’d wanted something-something-as repayment for Callis leaving the force. And though people had shaken their heads and muttered words like replicas and trophies and deactivated, Rebus had gone on asking.
And somehow, Johnson had got to hear of it.
“How long have you known?” Rebus asked now.
“What?”
“How long?”
But Johnson just picked up his glass, eyes beady, waiting for Rebus to try to knock it from his grasp. Rebus lifted his own glass, drained it in one burning mouthful.
“Something you ought to know,” he said, nodding slowly. “I can hold a grudge for a lifetime: just you watch me.”
“Even though I’ve done nothing?”
“Oh, you’ll have done something, believe me.” Rebus made to stand. “I just haven’t found out what it is yet, that’s all.” He winked and turned away. Heard the table being pushed aside, looked around and Johnson was on his feet, fists clenched.
“Let’s settle it now!” he was shouting. Rebus slipped his hands into his pockets.
“I’d prefer to wait for the court case, if that’s all right with you,” he said.
“No way! I’m sick and tired of this!”
“Good,” Rebus said. He saw Siobhan emerging from the corridor, looking at him in disbelief. Probably thought he’d gone to the toilet. Her eyes said it all: I can’t leave you five damned minutes…
“Any trouble here?” The question coming not from Siobhan but from some sort of doorman, thick-necked and wearing a tight black suit over a black polo neck. He was fitted with an earpiece and microphone. His shaven head shone beneath what light there was.
“Just a little argument,” Rebus assured him. “In fact, maybe you can settle it: name of Elton John’s old record label?”
The doorman looked nonplussed. The barman had his hand raised. Rebus nodded at him. “DJM,” the barman said.
Rebus snapped his fingers. “That’s the one! Chalk up a drink for yourself, anything you like…” He headed for the corridor, pointed back towards Peacock Johnson. “On that little bastard’s tab…”
“You never talk much about your army days,” Siobhan said, bringing two plates in from the kitchen. Rebus had already been provided with a tray, knife and fork. Condiments were on the floor at his feet. He gave a nod of thanks, accepting the plate: a grilled pork chop with baked potato and corn on the cob.
“This looks great,” he said, lifting his wineglass. “Compliments to the chef.”
“I microwaved the potatoes, and the corn came out of the freezer.”
Rebus put a finger to his lips. “Never give away your secrets.”
“A lesson you’ve taken to heart.” She blew on a forkful of pork. “Want me to repeat the question?”
“Thing is, Siobhan, it wasn’t a question.”
She thought back, and saw that he was right. “Nevertheless,” she said.
“You want me to answer?” He watched her nod, then took a sip of his wine. Chilean red, she’d told him. Three quid a bottle. “Mind if I eat first?”
“You can’t eat and talk at the same time?”
“Bad manners, so my mum used to tell me.”
“You always listened to your parents?”
“Always.”
“And took their advice as gospel?” He nodded, chewing on some potato skin. “Then how come we’re talking and eating at the same time?”
Rebus washed the mouthful down with more wine. “Okay, I give in. To answer the question you didn’t ask, yes.” She was expecting more, but he was concentrating on his food again.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, it’s true I don’t talk much about my army days.”
Siobhan exhaled noisily. “I’d get more chat out of one of the clients down at the morgue.” She stopped, squeezed shut her eyes for a second. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay.” But Rebus’s chewing had slowed. Two of the current “clients”: family member and ex-colleague. Strange to think of them lying on adjacent metal trays in the morgue’s chilled lockers. “Thing about my army days is, I’ve spent years trying to forget them.”
“Why?”
“All sorts of reasons. I shouldn’t have signed on the dotted line in the first place. Then I woke up and I was in Ulster, aiming a rifle at kids armed with Molotovs. Ended up trying for the SAS and getting my brain scrambled in the process.” He gave a shrug. “That’s about all there is to it.”
“So why did you join the police?”
He raised the glass to his mouth. “Who else was going to take me?” He put the tray aside, leaned down to pour more wine. Raised the bottle towards Siobhan, but she shook her head. “Now you know why they’ve never got me to front a recruiting drive.”
She looked at his plate. Most of the chop was still left. “You going veggie on me?”
He patted his stomach. “It’s great, but I’m not that hungry.”
She thought for a moment. “It’s the meat, isn’t it? It hurts your hands when you try to cut it.”
He shook his head. “I’m just full, that’s all.” But he could see she knew she was right. She started eating again, while he concentrated on the wine.
“I think you’re a lot like Lee Herdman,” she said at last.
“A backhanded compliment if ever I heard one.”
“People thought they knew him, but they didn’t. There was so much he managed to keep hidden.”
“And that’s me, is it?”
She nodded, holding his stare. “Why did you go back to Martin Fairstone’s house? I get the feeling it wasn’t just about me.”
“You ‘get the feeling’?” He peered down into his wine, seeing his reflection there, red-hued and wavering. “I knew he’d given you that black eye.”
“Which gave you an excuse to go talk to him… but what was it you really wanted?”
“Fairstone and Johnson were friends. I needed some ammo on Johnson.” He paused, realizing “ammo” was not the most subtle choice of word.
“Did you get any?”
Rebus shook his head. “Fairstone and Peacock had had a falling-out. Fairstone hadn’t seen him in weeks.”
“Why had they fallen out?”
“He wouldn’t say exactly. I got the feeling a woman might’ve been involved.”
“Does Peacock have a girlfriend?”
“One for every day of the year.”
“So maybe it was Fairstone’s girlfriend?”
Rebus nodded. “The blonde from the Boatman’s. What was her name again?”
“Rachel.”
“And there’s no good reason we can think of why she was in South Queensferry on Friday?”
Siobhan shook her head.
“But Peacock popped up in town, too, night of the vigil.”
“Coincidence?”
“What else could it be?” Rebus asked wryly. He stood up, taking the bottle with him. “You better help me out with this.” Went forwards to pour some wine into her glass, then emptied what was left into his own. He stayed standing, walked over to her window. “You really think I’m like Lee Herdman?”
“I don’t think either of you ever really managed to leave the past behind.”
He turned to look at her. She raised an eyebrow, inviting a comeback, but he just smiled and turned back to stare out at the night.
“And maybe you’re a bit like Doug Brimson, too,” she went on. “Remember what you said about him?”
“What?”
“You said he collected people.”
“And that’s what I do?”
“It might explain your interest in Andy Callis… and why it pisses you off to see Kate with Jack Bell.”
He turned slowly to face her, arms folded. “Does that make you one of my specimens?”
“I don’t know. What do you reckon?”
“I reckon you’re tougher than that.”
“You better believe it,” she said with just the hint of a smile.
When he’d called for the taxi, he’d given Arden Street as the destination, but that had been for Siobhan’s benefit. He told the driver there’d been a change of plan: they’d be making a short stop at the Leith police station before heading out to South Queensferry. At journey’s end, Rebus asked for a receipt, thinking he could maybe charge it to the inquiry. He’d have to be quick, though: he couldn’t see Claverhouse giving the nod to a twenty-quid taxi ride.
He walked down the dark vennel, pushing open the main door. There was no police guard anymore, no one checking the comings and goings at Lee Herdman’s address. Rebus climbed the stairs, listening for noise from the other two flats. He thought he could hear a TV set. Certainly he could smell the aftermath of an evening meal. A growl from his stomach reminded him that he maybe should have tried to eat more of the pork, and hang the pain. He took out the key to Herdman’s flat, the one he’d picked up at the station in Leith. It was a shiny, brand-new copy of the original and took a bit of maneuvering before it would meet with the tumblers, opening the door for him. Once inside, he closed the door behind him and switched on the hall light. The place was cold. Electricity hadn’t been disconnected yet, but someone had thought to turn off the central heating. Herdman’s widow had been asked if she would come north to empty the flat of its contents, but she had declined. What could that bastard have that I’d possibly want?
A good question, and one Rebus was here to consider. Lee Herdman assuredly had had something. Something people had wanted. He studied the back of the door. Bolts top and bottom, and two mortise locks as well as the Yale. The mortises would deter housebreakers, but the bolts were for when Herdman was at home. What had he been so afraid of? Rebus folded his arms and took a few steps back. There was one obvious answer to his question. The drug-dealing Herdman had been afraid of a bust. Rebus had encountered plenty of dealers over the course of his career. Usually they lived in high-rise public housing apartments, and their doors were steel-plated, offering considerably more resistance than Herdman’s. It seemed to Rebus that Herdman’s security measures were there to buy him a certain amount of time, and nothing more. Time, perhaps, to flush the evidence, but Rebus didn’t think so. There was nothing about the flat to suggest that it had been used at any time as a drug factory. Besides, Herdman could boast so many other hiding places: the boathouse, the boats themselves. He had no need to use his flat for storage. What then? Rebus turned and walked into the living room, seeking and finding the light switch.
What then?
He tried to think of himself as Herdman, then realized he didn’t need to. Hadn’t Siobhan hinted as much? I think you’re a lot like Lee Herdman. He closed his eyes, saw the room he was standing in as his own. This was his domain. He was in charge here. But say someone wanted in… some uninvited guest. He would hear them. Maybe they would try picking the locks, but the bolts would do them in. So then they’d have to shoulder the door. And he’d have time… time to fetch the gun from wherever it was hidden. The Mac-10 was kept in the boathouse, in case anyone came there. The Brocock was kept right here, in the wardrobe, surrounded by pictures of guns. Herdman’s little gun shrine. The pistol would give him the upper hand, because he didn’t expect the visitors to be armed. They might have questions, might want to take him away, but the Brocock would deter them.
Rebus knew who Herdman had been expecting: maybe not Simms and Whiteread exactly, but people like them. People who might want to take him away for questioning… questions about Jura, the helicopter crash, the papers fluttering from the trees. Something Herdman had taken from the crash site, could one of the kids have stolen it from him? Maybe at one of his parties? But the dead boys hadn’t known him, hadn’t come to his parties. Only James Bell, the sole survivor. Rebus sat down in Herdman’s armchair, his palms resting against its arms. Shooting the other two in order to scare James? So that James would tell all? No, no, no, because then why would Herdman turn the gun on himself? James Bell… so self-contained and apparently unperturbable… flicking through gun magazines to study the model that had wounded him. He, too, was an interesting specimen.
Rebus rubbed his forehead softly with one gloved hand. He felt close to an answer, so close he could taste it. He stood up again, walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge. There was food in there: an unopened packet of cheese, some slices of bacon and a box of eggs. Dead man’s food, he thought, I can’t eat it. He went to the bedroom instead. Not bothering this time with the light: enough was spilling through the open doorway.
Who was Lee Herdman? A man who’d abandoned career and family to head north. Starting a one-man enterprise, living in a one-bedroom flat. Settling by the coast, his boats providing a means of escape whenever necessary. No close relationships. Brimson was about the only friend he seemed to have who was near his own age. He coveted teenagers instead: because they wouldn’t be hiding anything from him; because he knew he could deal with them; because they’d be impressed by him. But not just any kids: they had to be outsiders, had to be cut from similar cloth… It struck Rebus that Brimson seemed to run a one-man show, too, and had few ties, if any at all. Spent as much time as he liked at one remove from the world. Ex-services, too.
Suddenly, Rebus heard a tapping. He froze, trying to place it. Coming from downstairs? No: the front door. Someone was knocking at the door. Rebus padded back down the hall and put his eye to the peephole. Recognized the face and opened up.
“Evening, James,” he said. “Nice to see you back on your feet.”
It took James Bell a moment to place Rebus. He slowly nodded a greeting, looking past his shoulder and down the hall.
“I saw lights on, wondered if anyone was here.”
Rebus pulled the door open a little wider. “Coming in?”
“Is it all right…?”
“There’s nobody else here.”
“I just thought… maybe you’re doing a search or something.”
“Nothing like that.” Rebus gestured with his head, and James Bell walked in. His left arm was in its sling, his right hand cradling it. A long black woolen Crombie-style coat was draped around his shoulders, flapping to show its crimson lining. “What brings you here?”
“I was just walking…”
“You’re a ways from home, though.”
James looked at him. “You’ve been to my house… maybe you can understand.”
Rebus nodded, closing the door again. “Putting a bit of distance between your mum and yourself?”
“Yes.” James was looking around the hall, as if seeing it for the first time. “And my dad.”
“Keeping busy, is he?”
“God knows.”
“I don’t think I ever got round to asking…” Rebus said.
“What?”
“How many times you’ve been here.”
James shrugged with his right shoulder. “Not that many.” Rebus was leading the way to the living room.
“You still haven’t said why you’re here.”
“I thought I had.”
“Not in so many words.”
“I suppose South Queensferry seemed as good a place as any for a walk.”
“You didn’t walk here from Barnton though.”
James shook his head. “I was hopping buses, just for the hell of it. One of them ended up bringing me here. When I saw the lights…”
“You wondered who was here? Who were you expecting to find?”
“Police, I suppose. Who else would be here?” He was studying the room. “Actually, there was one thing…”
“Yes?”
“A book of mine. Lee borrowed it, and I thought I might retrieve it before everything gets… well, before the place is emptied.”
“Good thinking.”
James’s hand went to his injured shoulder. “Bloody thing itches, if you can believe that.”
“I can believe it.”
James smiled suddenly. “I’m at a bit of a disadvantage here… I don’t think I ever caught your name.”
“It’s Rebus. Detective Inspector.”
The young man nodded. “My dad’s mentioned you.”
“Casting me in a flattering light, no doubt.” It was hard to meet the son’s eyes without being tricked into seeing the father peering from behind them.
“I’m afraid he sees incompetence wherever he looks… kith and kin not excluded.”
Rebus had perched on the arm of the sofa, nodding towards the chair, but James Bell seemed happier on his feet. “Did you ever find the gun?” Rebus asked. James seemed puzzled by the question. “The time I visited,” Rebus explained. “You had a gun magazine, looking for the Brocock.”
“Oh, right.” James nodded to himself. “There were photos of it in the papers. My dad’s been keeping all the stories, thinks he can spearhead a campaign.”
“You don’t sound altogether approving.”
James’s eyes hardened. “Maybe that’s because…” He broke off.
“Because what?”
“Because I’ve become useful to him, not for what I am but because of what happened.” His hand went to his shoulder again.
“You can never trust a politician,” Rebus commiserated.
“Lee told me something once. He said, ‘If you outlaw guns, the only people who have access to them are the outlaws.’” James smiled at the memory.
“Seems he was an outlaw all right. Two unlicensed guns at the very least. Did he ever tell you why he felt the need to keep a gun?”
“I just thought he was interested in them… his background and everything.”
“You never got the sense that he was expecting trouble?”
“What sort of trouble?”
“I don’t know,” Rebus conceded.
“You’re saying he had enemies?”
“Ever wonder why he had so many locks on his door?”
James walked to the doorway and looked down the hall. “I put that down to his background, too. Like when he went to the pub, he always sat in the corner, facing the door.”
Rebus had to smile, knowing he did the selfsame thing. “So he could check whoever came in?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“The two of you sound as if you were pretty close.”
“Close enough for him to end up shooting me.” James’s eyes went to his shoulder.
“Ever steal anything from him, James?”
The young man’s brow furrowed. “Why would I do that?”
Rebus just shrugged. “Did you, though?”
“Never.”
“Did Lee ever mention anything going missing? Ever seem agitated to you?”
The young man shook his head. “I don’t really see what you’re getting at.”
“That paranoia of his, I just wondered how far it extended.”
“I didn’t say he was paranoid.”
“The locks, the corner seat in the pub…”
“That just comes of being careful, wouldn’t you say?”
“Maybe.” Rebus paused. “You liked him, didn’t you?”
“Probably more than he liked me.”
Rebus was remembering his last meeting with James Bell, and what Siobhan had said afterwards. “What about Teri Cotter?” he asked.
“What about her?” James had taken a couple of steps back into the room, but seemed still restless.
“We think Herdman and Teri may have been an item.”
“So?”
“Did you know?”
James made to shrug with both shoulders, ended up flinching in pain.
“Forgot your wound for a moment there, eh?” Rebus commented. “I remember you had a computer in your room. Ever visited Teri’s website?”
“Didn’t know she had one.”
Rebus nodded slowly. “Derek Renshaw never mentioned it, then?”
“Derek?”
Rebus was still nodding. “Seems Derek was a bit of a fan. You were often in the common room, same time as him and Tony Jarvies… thought they might’ve talked about it.”
James was shaking his head, looking thoughtful. “Not that I remember,” he said.
“Not to worry, then.” Rebus made to stand up. “This book of yours, can I help you look for it?”
“Book?”
“The one you’re looking for.”
James smiled at his own stupidity. “Yes, sure. That’d be great.” He looked around the cluttered room, walked over to the desk. “Hang on a sec,” he said, “this is it.” He held up the paperback for Rebus to see.
“What’s it about?”
“A soldier who went off the rails.”
“Tried killing his wife, then leapt from an airplane?”
“You know the story?”
Rebus nodded. James flicked through the book, then tapped it against his thigh. “Reckon I’ve got what I came for,” he said.
“Anything else you want to take?” Rebus lifted a CD. “It’ll probably go into a Dumpster, to be honest.”
“Will it?”
“His wife doesn’t seem interested.”
“What a waste…” Rebus held out the CD, but James shook his head. “I couldn’t. It wouldn’t seem right.”
Rebus nodded, remembering his own reticence in front of the fridge.
“I’ll leave you to it, Inspector.” James tucked the book beneath his arm, stretched out his right hand for Rebus to shake. The coat slipped from his shoulder, crumpling to the floor. Rebus stepped around him and picked it up, replacing it.
“Thank you,” James Bell said. “I’ll see myself out.”
“Cheers, James. Good luck to you.”
Rebus waited in the living room, chin resting on one gloved hand as he listened to the front door open and then close. James was a long way from home… drawn by a light shining in a dead man’s house. Rebus still wondered who the young man had expected to find… Muffled footsteps descending the stone stairs. Rebus crossed to the desk and shuffled through the remaining books. They all had a military theme, but Rebus was confident he knew which one the young man had taken.
The same one Siobhan had held up on their first visit to the flat.
The one from which Teri Cotter’s photo had fallen…