A Question of Blood

by Ian Rankin

  “You can come in,” Hogan told them. “The SOCOs have been through this lot with a fine-toothed comb.”

  They edged into the room. Yes, the SOCOs—the scene of crime officers—had been here, because this was where it had happened. Blood spatters on one wall, a fine airbrushing of dull red. Larger drops on the floor, and what looked like skid marks from where feet had slid across a couple of pools. White chalk and yellow adhesive tape showed where evidence had been gathered.

  “He entered through one of the side doors,” Hogan was explaining. “It was break time, they weren’t locked. Walked down the corridor and straight in here. Nice sunny day, so most of the kids were outside. He only found three . . .” Hogan nodded towards where the victims had been. “Listening to music, flicking through magazines.” It was as if he were talking to himself, hoping if he repeated the words often enough, they would start answering his questions.

  “Why here?” Siobhan asked. Hogan looked up as if seeing her for the first time. “Hiya, Shiv,” he said with just a trace of a smile. “You here out of curiosity?”

  “She’s helping me,” Rebus said, raising his hands.

  “Christ, John, what happened?”

  “Long story, Bobby. Siobhan asked a good question.”

  “You mean, why this particular school?”

  “More than that,” Siobhan said. “You said yourself, most of the kids were outdoors. Why didn’t he start with them?”

  Hogan answered with a shrug. “I’m hoping we’ll find out.”

  “So how can we help, Bobby?” Rebus asked. He hadn’t moved far into the room, content to stay just inside the threshold while Siobhan browsed the posters on the walls. Eminem seemed to be giving the world the benefit of his middle finger, while a group next to him, boiler-suited and rubber-masked, looked like extras from a mid-budget horror film.

  “He was ex-army, John,” Hogan was saying. “More than that, he was ex-SAS. I remember you telling me once that you’d tried for the Special Air Service.”

  “That was thirty-odd years ago, Bobby.”

  Hogan wasn’t listening. “Seems like he was a bit of a loner.”

  “A loner with some sort of grudge?” Siobhan asked.

  “Who knows.”

  “But you want me to ask around?” Rebus guessed.

  Hogan looked at him. “Any buddies he had are likely to be like him—armed forces castoffs. They might open up to someone who’s been the same road as them.”

  “It was thirty-odd years ago,” Rebus repeated. “And thanks for grouping me with the ‘castoffs.’”

  “Ach, you know what I mean . . . Just for a day or two, John, that’s all I’m asking.”

  Rebus stepped back into the corridor and looked around him. It seemed so quiet, so peaceful. And yet the work of a few moments had changed everything. The town, the school would never be the same. The lives of everyone involved would stay convulsed. The school secretary might never emerge from behind that borrowed handkerchief. The families would bury their sons, unable to think beyond the terror of their final moments . . .

  “What about it, John?” Hogan was asking. “Will you help?”

  Warm, fuzzy cotton . . . it could protect you, cushion you . . .

  No mystery . . . Siobhan’s words . . . lost his marbles, that’s all . . .

  “Just one question, Bobby.”

  Bobby Hogan looked tired and slightly lost. Leith meant drugs, stabbings, prossies. Those, Bobby could deal with. Rebus got the feeling he’d been summoned here because Bobby Hogan needed a friend by his side.

  “Fire away,” Hogan said.

  “Got a cigarette on you?” Rebus asked.

  There were too many people fighting for space in the Portakabin. Hogan loaded Siobhan’s arms with paperwork, everything they had on the case, the copies still warm from the machine in the school office. Outside, a group of herring gulls had gathered on the lawn, seemingly curious. Rebus flicked them his cigarette butt and they sprinted towards it.

  “I could report you for cruelty,” Siobhan told him.

  “Ditto,” he said, looking the amount of paperwork up and down. Grant Hood was finishing a phone call, tucking his mobile back in his pocket. “Where did our friend go?” Rebus asked him.

  “You mean Dirty Mac Jack?” Rebus smiled at the nickname, which had graced the front page of a tabloid the morning after Bell’s arrest.

  “That’s who I mean.”

  Hood nodded down the hill. “A member of the press corps called him, offering a TV slot at the school gates. Jack was off like a flash.”

  “So much for not budging from the spot. Are the press boys behaving themselves?”

  “What do you think?”

  Rebus responded with a twitch of the mouth. Hood’s phone sounded again, and he turned away to take the call. Rebus watched Siobhan maneuver the car trunk open, some of the sheets slipping onto the ground. She picked them up again.

  “That everything?” Rebus asked her.

  “For now.” She slammed shut the trunk. “Where are we taking them?”

  Rebus examined the sky. Thick, scudding clouds. Probably too windy for rain. He thought he could hear the distant sound of rigging clanging against yacht masts. “We could get a table at a pub. Down by the rail bridge, there’s a place called the Boatman’s . . .” She stared at him. “It’s an Edinburgh tradition,” he explained with a shrug. “In times past, professionals ran their businesses from the local pub.”

  “We wouldn’t want to mess with tradition.”

  “I’ve always preferred the old-fashioned methods.”

  She didn’t say anything to this, just walked around to the driver’s side and opened the door. She’d closed it and put the key in the ignition before she remembered. Cursing, she reached across to open Rebus’s door for him.

  “Too kind,” he said, smiling as he got in. He didn’t know South Queensferry that well, but he knew the pubs. He’d been brought up on the other side of the estuary, and remembered the view from North Queensferry: the way the bridges seemed to drift apart as you looked south. The same uniformed officer opened the gates to let them out. Jack Bell was in the middle of the road, saying his piece to the camera.

  “A nice long blast on the horn,” Rebus ordered. Siobhan obliged. The journalist lowered his microphone, turned to glower at them. The cameraman slid his headphones down around his neck. Rebus waved at the MSP, gave him what might pass for an apologetic smile. Sightseers blocked half the carriageway, staring at the car.

  “I feel like a bloody exhibit,” Siobhan muttered. A line of traffic was passing them at a crawl, wanting a look at the school. Not professionals, just members of the public who’d brought their families and video cameras with them. As Siobhan made to pass the tiny police station, Rebus said he would get out and walk.

  “I’ll meet you at the pub.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I just want to get a feel for the place.” He paused. “Mine’s a pint of IPA if you get there first.”

  He watched her drive away, taking her place in the slow procession of tourist traffic. Rebus stopped and turned to look up at the Forth Road Bridge, hearing its swoosh of cars and lorries, something almost tidal about it. There were tiny figures up there, standing on the footpath, looking down. He knew there would be more at the side of the opposite carriageway, where there was a better view of the school grounds. Shaking his head, he started walking.

  Commerce in South Queensferry took place on a single thoroughfare, stretching from the High Street to the Hawes Inn. But change was coming. Driving past the town recently, headed for the road bridge, he’d noticed a new supermarket and business park. A sign tempting the backup: TIRED OF COMMUTING? YOU COULD BE WORKING HERE. The message telling them that Edinburgh was full to the brim, the traffic slowing every year. South Queensferry wanted to be part of the movement away from the city. Not that you’d know it from the High Street: locally owned small shops, narrow pavements, tourist information. Rebus knew
some of the stories: a fire at the VAT 69 distillery, hot whiskey running down the streets, people drinking it and ending up in the hospital; a pet monkey that, teased to distraction, ripped open the throat of a scullery maid; apparitions such as the Mowbray Hound and the Burry Man . . .

  There was a celebration every year to commemorate the Burry Man, bunting and flags put up, a procession through the town. It was months away yet, but Rebus wondered if there’d be a procession this year.

  Rebus passed a clock tower, Remembrance Day wreaths still pinned to it, untouched by vandals. The road grew so narrow, traffic had to use passing places. Every now and then he caught glimpses of the estuary behind the buildings on the left. Across the road, the single-story row of shops was topped with a terrace, itself fronted by houses. Two elderly women were standing by an open front door, their arms folded as they shared the latest rumors, eyes flitting towards Rebus, knowing him for a stranger. Their scowls dismissed him as just another ghoul.

  He walked on, passing a newsagent’s. Several people had gathered inside, sharing information from the evening paper’s early printing. A news crew passed him on the other side of the road—a different crew from the one outside the school gates. The cameraman carried his camera in one hand, tripod slung over the other shoulder. Soundman with his rig hanging by his side, headphones around his neck, boom held like a rifle. They were on the lookout for a good spot, led by a young blond woman who kept peering down vennels in her search for the perfect shot. Rebus thought he’d seen her on TV, reckoned the crew were probably from Glasgow. Her report would start: A shattered community is today trying to come to terms with the horror which visited this once peaceful haven . . . Questions are being asked, but as yet the answers seem to be eluding everyone . . . Blah blah. Rebus knew he could write the script himself. With the police offering no leads, the media had nothing to do but harass the locals, seeking droplets of news and prepared to squeeze them out of any rock or stone that might yield.

  He’d seen it at Lockerbie and didn’t doubt Dunblane had been the same. Now it was South Queensferry’s turn. He came to a curve in the road, beyond which was the esplanade. Stopping for a moment, he turned back to view the town, but most of it was hidden: behind trees, behind other buildings, beyond the arc he’d just traveled. There was a seawall here, and he decided it was as good a place as any to light the spare cigarette Bobby Hogan had gifted him. The cigarette was tucked behind his right ear, and he pawed at it, not quite catching it as it fluttered to the ground, a gust sending it rolling. Stooped, eyes down, Rebus started following and almost collided with a pair of legs. The cigarette had come to rest against the pointed toe of a gloss-black ankle-high stiletto. The legs above the shoes were covered in ripped black fishnet tights. Rebus stood up straight. The girl could have been anything from thirteen to nineteen years old. Dyed black hair lay like straw against her head, Siouxsie Sioux style. Her face was deathly white, the eyes and lips painted black. She was wearing a black leather jacket over layers of gauzy black material.

  “Did you slash your wrists?” she asked, staring at his bandages.

  “I probably will if you crush that cigarette.”

  She bent down and picked it up, leaned forward to place it between his lips. “There’s a lighter in my pocket,” he said. She fished it out and lit the cigarette for him, cupping her hand expertly around the flame, keeping her eyes fixed on his as if to gauge his response to her nearness.

  “Sorry,” he apologized, “this is my last one.” It was hard to smoke and speak at the same time. She seemed to realize this, because after a couple of inhalations, she plucked the cigarette from his mouth, then placed it in her own. Inside her black lace gloves, her fingernails were black, too.

  “I’m no fashion expert,” Rebus said, “but I get the feeling you’re not just in mourning.”

  She smiled enough to show a row of small white teeth. “I’m not in mourning at all.”

  “But you go to Port Edgar Academy?” She looked at him, wondering how he knew. “Otherwise you’d probably still be in class,” he explained. “It’s only kids from Port Edgar who’re off just now.”

  “You a reporter?” She returned the cigarette to his mouth. It tasted of her lipstick.

  “I’m a cop,” he told her. “CID.” She didn’t seem interested. “You didn’t know the kids who died?”

  “I did.” She sounded hurt, not wanting to be left out.

  “But you don’t miss them.”

  She caught his meaning, nodding as she remembered her own words: I’m not in mourning at all. “If anything, I’m jealous.” Again, her eyes were boring into his. He couldn’t help wondering how she would look without the makeup. Pretty, probably; maybe even fragile. Her painted face was a mask, something she could hide behind.

  “Jealous?”

  “They’re dead, aren’t they?” She watched him nod, then gave a shrug of her own. Rebus looked down at the cigarette, and she took it from him, placing it in her mouth again.

  “You want to die?”

  “I’m just curious, that’s all. I want to know what it’s like.” She made an O of her lips and produced a swirling circle of smoke. “You must have seen dead people.”

  “Too many.”

  “And how many’s that? Ever watched someone die?”

  He wasn’t about to answer. “I’ve got to be going.” She made to give him what little was left of the cigarette, but he shook his head. “What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Teri.”

  “Terry?”

  She spelled it for him. “But you can call me Miss Teri.”

  Rebus smiled. “I’ll assume that’s an assumed name. Maybe I’ll see you around, Miss Teri.”

  “You can see me whenever you like, Mr. CID.” She turned and started walking into town, confident in her inch-and-a-half heels, hands brushing her hair back and letting it fall, then giving a little wave of one lace-gloved hand. Knowing he was watching, enjoying playing the role. Rebus reckoned she qualified as a Goth. He’d seen them in town, hanging around outside record shops. For a time, anyone who fitted the description had been banned from entering Princes Street Gardens: a municipal edict, something to do with a trampled flowerbed and the knocking over of a litter bin. When Rebus had read about it, he’d smiled. The line stretched back from punks to teddy boys, teenagers undergoing their rites of passage. He’d been pretty wild himself before he’d joined the army. Too young for the first wave of teddy boys, but growing into a secondhand leather jacket, a sharpened steel comb in the pocket. The jacket hadn’t been right—not biker goods but three-quarter length. He’d cut it shorter with a kitchen knife, threads straggling from it, the lining showing.

  Some rebel.

  Miss Teri disappeared around the bend, and Rebus headed for the Boatman’s, where Siobhan was waiting with the drinks.

  “Thought I was going to have to drink yours,” she said by way of complaint.

  “Sorry.” He cupped the glass in both hands and lifted it. Siobhan had found them a corner table, nobody close by. Two piles of paperwork sat in front of her, alongside her lime soda and an open packet of peanuts.

  “How are the hands?” she asked.

  “I’m worried I may never play the piano again.”

  “A tragic loss to the world of popular music.”

  “You ever listen to heavy metal, Siobhan?”

  “Not if I can help it.” She paused. “Maybe a bit of Motorhead to get the party started.”

  “I was thinking of the newer stuff.”

  She shook her head. “You really think we’re all right here?”

  He looked around. “Locals don’t seem interested. It’s not like we’re going to be flashing autopsy photos or anything.”

  “There are pictures of the crime scene, though.”

  “Keep them tucked away for now.” Rebus swallowed another mouthful of beer.

  “You sure you can drink with those tablets you’re taking?”

  He ignored her, nodded
towards one of the piles instead. “So,” he said, “what have we got, and how long can we stretch this assignment out for?”

  She smiled. “Not keen on another meeting with the boss?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re looking forward to it?”

  She seemed to give this some thought, then offered a shrug.

  “You glad Fairstone’s dead?” Rebus asked.

  She glared at him.

  “Just curious,” he said, thinking again of Miss Teri. He made a show of trying to slide one of the top sheets towards him, until Siobhan took the hint and did it for him. Then the two of them sat side by side, not noticing the light outside waning as the afternoon slurred towards evening.

  Siobhan went to the bar for more drinks. The barman had tried asking her about the paperwork, but she’d deflected the conversation and they’d ended up talking about writers instead. She hadn’t known of the Boatman’s connection with the likes of Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson.

  “You’re not just drinking in a pub,” the barman had explained. “You’re drinking in history.” A line he’d used a hundred times before. It made her feel like a tourist. Ten miles from the city center, but everything felt different. It wasn’t just the murders—about which, she suddenly realized, her barman hadn’t said anything. Denizens of the city tended to lump the outlying settlements together—Portobello, Musselburgh, Currie, South Queensferry . . . they were regarded as just “bits” of the city. Yet even Leith, connected to the city center by the ugly umbilical cord of Leith Walk, worked hard to preserve a separate identity. She wondered why anywhere else should be different.

  Something had brought Lee Herdman here. He’d been born in Wishaw, joined the army at seventeen. Service in Northern Ireland and farther abroad, then SAS training. Eight years in that regiment before finding himself back, as he would probably have put it, “on civvy street.” He abandoned his wife, leaving her with two kids in Hereford, home of the SAS, and headed north. The background information was patchy. No mention of what happened to the wife and kids, or why he broke with them. He’d moved to South Queensferry six years ago. And he’d died here, age thirty-six.