by Ian Rankin
“The mother’s been erased from history,” she commented.
“Something else,” Rebus said casually. She looked at him.
“What?”
He waved an arm towards the shelf units. “It may be my imagination, but seems like there are more photos of Derek than there are of Kate.”
Siobhan saw what he meant. “What do we make of that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe some of the photos of Kate had her mother in them, too.”
“Then again, they sometimes say the youngest child becomes the parents’ favorite.”
“You’re speaking from experience?”
“I’ve got a younger brother, if that’s what you mean.”
Siobhan thought about this. “Do you think you should tell him?”
“Who?”
“Your brother.”
“Tell him he was always the apple of our dad’s eye?”
“No, tell him what’s happened here.”
“That would entail locating his whereabouts.”
“You don’t even know where your own brother is?”
Rebus shrugged. “That’s the way it is, Siobhan.”
They heard footsteps on the stairs. Kate came back into the room.
“He’s asleep,” she said. “He’s been sleeping a lot.”
“I’m sure it’s the best thing,” Siobhan said, almost wincing as the cliché trickled out.
“Kate,” Rebus interrupted, “we’re going to leave you alone now. But I’ve got one last question, if that’s all right with you.”
“I won’t know till I’ve heard it.”
“It’s just this: I’m wondering if you can tell us exactly when and where Derek’s car crash took place?”
D Division headquarters was a venerable old building in the middle of Leith. The drive from South Queensferry hadn’t taken too long—the evening traffic had been heading out of the city rather than in. The CID offices were quiet. Rebus reckoned everyone had been pulled to the school shooting. He found a member of the admin staff and asked her where the files might be kept. Siobhan was already stabbing at a keyboard, in case she could find anything that way. In the end, the file was tracked down to one of the storage closets, moldering on a shelf alongside hundreds of others. Rebus thanked the admin clerk.
“Happy to help,” she said. “This place has been a real graveyard today.”
“Just as well the villains don’t know that,” Rebus said with a wink.
She snorted. “It’s bad enough at the best of times.” By which she meant understaffing.
“I owe you a drink,” Rebus told her as she turned to go. Siobhan watched her wave a hand, not looking back.
“You didn’t even get her name,” she said.
“I won’t be buying her a drink either.” Rebus placed the file on a desk and sat down, making room so that Siobhan could slide a chair across to join him.
“Still seeing Jean?” she asked as he opened the file. Then she screwed up her face. Sitting on top of the sheets of paper was a glossy color photograph of the accident scene. The dead teenager had been wrenched from the driving seat, so that the upper half of his body was sprawled across the car hood. There were more photos underneath: autopsy shots. Rebus slid them beneath the file and started to read.
Two friends: Derek Renshaw, sixteen, and Stuart Cotter, seventeen. They’d decided to borrow Stuart’s dad’s car, a nippy Audi TT. The father was on a business trip, due back later that night, flying in and taking a taxi home. The boys had plenty of time, and decided to drive into Edinburgh. They had a drink at one of the shoreside bars in Leith, then headed for Salamander Street. The plan had been to hit the A1, put the car through its paces, then head for home. But Salamander Street looked to them like a nice racing straight. It was calculated that they’d probably been doing seventy when Stuart Cotter lost control. The car had tried braking for the light, spun across the road, up onto the sidewalk and into a brick wall. Head-on. Derek had been wearing a seat belt and survived. Stuart, despite the airbag, had not.
“Do you remember this?” Rebus asked Siobhan. She shook her head. He didn’t remember it either. Maybe he’d been away, or involved in a case of his own. If he’d come across the report . . . well, it was nothing he hadn’t seen too many times before. Young men confusing thrills with stupidity, adulthood with risk. The name Renshaw might have clicked with him, but there were a lot of Renshaws out there. He sought the name of the officer in charge. Detective Sergeant Calum McLeod. Rebus knew him vaguely: a good cop. Meaning the report would be scrupulous.
“I want to know something,” Siobhan said.
“What?”
“Are we seriously considering that this was a revenge killing?”
“No.”
“I mean, why wait a whole year? Not even a year to the day . . . thirteen months. Why wait that long?”
“No reason at all.”
“So we don’t think . . .”
“Siobhan, it’s a motive. Right now, I think that’s what Bobby Hogan wants from us. He wants to be able to say that Lee Herdman just lost it one day and decided to top a couple of schoolkids. What he doesn’t want is for the media to get hold of a conspiracy theory or anything that could make it look as though we’d left some stone unturned.” Rebus sighed. “Revenge is the oldest motive there is. If we clear Stuart Cotter’s family, it’s one less thing to worry about.”
Siobhan nodded. “Stuart’s father’s a businessman. Drives an Audi TT. Probably got the money to pay for someone like Herdman.”
“Fine, but why kill the judge’s son? And that other kid he wounded? Why kill himself, if it comes to it? That’s not what a hired assassin does.”
Siobhan shrugged. “You’d know more about that than me.” She flicked through more sheets. “Doesn’t say what line of business Mr. Cotter is in . . . Ah, here it is: entrepreneur. Well, that covers a multitude of sins.”
“What’s his first name?” Rebus had the notebook out but couldn’t hold the pen. Siobhan took it from him.
“William Cotter,” she said, writing it down and adding the address. “Family lives in Dalmeny. Where’s that?”
“Next door to South Queensferry.”
“Sounds posh: Long Rib House, Dalmeny. No street name or anything.”
“Things must be good in the entrepreneur business.” Rebus studied the word. “I’m not even sure I could spell it.” He read a little further. “Partner’s name is Charlotte, runs two tanning salons in the city.”
“I’ve been thinking of trying one of those,” Siobhan said.
“Now’s your chance.” Rebus was almost at the bottom of the page. “One daughter, Teri, aged fourteen at the time of the crash. Making her fifteen now.” He frowned in concentration and tried as best he could to sift through the other sheets.
“What are you looking for?”
“A photo of the family . . .” He was in luck. DS McLeod had indeed been scrupulous, clipping newspaper stories about the case. One tabloid had got hold of a family snapshot, mum and dad on the sofa, son and daughter behind so that only their faces could be seen. Rebus was fairly sure he recognized the girl. Teri. Miss Teri. What was it she’d said to him?
You can see me whenever you like . . .
What the hell had she meant by that?
Siobhan had seen the look on his face. “Not someone else you know?”
“Bumped into her when I was walking to the Boatman’s. She’s changed a bit though.” He studied the shining, makeup-free face. The hair seemed mousy-brown rather than jet-black. “Dyed her hair, powdered her face white with big black eyes and mouth . . . black clothes, too.”
“A Goth, you mean? That’s why you were asking me about heavy metal?”
He nodded.
“Think it has anything to do with her brother’s death?”
“Might have. There’s something else, though.”
“What?”
“It was what she said . . . Something about not bei
ng sad they were dead . . .”
They got takeaway food from Rebus’s favorite curry house on Causewayside. While the order was being filled, a liquor store down the street yielded six bottles of chilled lager.
“Fairly abstemious really,” Siobhan said, hoisting the shopping bag from the counter.
“You don’t honestly think I’m sharing these?” Rebus stated.
“I’m sure I can twist your arm.”
They took the provisions to his flat in Marchmont, parking the car in the last space going. The flat was two flights up. Rebus fumbled to slot the key into the lock.
“I’ll do it,” Siobhan said.
Inside, the flat was musty. There was a fug which could have been bottled as eau de bachelor. Stale food, alcohol, sweat. CDs were scattered across the living-room carpet, marking out a trail between the hi-fi and Rebus’s favorite chair. Siobhan left the food on the dining table and went into the kitchen for plates and cutlery. There were few signs that anyone had been cooking of late. Two mugs in the sink, a margarine tub open on the draining board, its contents spotted with mold. A shopping list in the form of a yellow Post-it note had been stuck to the refrigerator door: bread/ milk/ marge/ bacon/ b.sauce/ w.up liq/ lightbulbs. The note was beginning to curl, and she wondered how long it had been there.
When she returned to the living room, Rebus had managed to put on a CD. It was something she’d given him as a present: Violet Indiana.
“You like it?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I thought you might.” Meaning he hadn’t got around to playing it until now.
“Better than some of that dinosaur stuff you play in your car.”
“Don’t forget, you’re speaking to a dinosaur.”
She smiled and started lifting containers out of the bag. Glancing over to the hi-fi, she saw Rebus chewing on a bandage.
“You can’t be that hungry.”
“Easier to eat with these things off.” He started unwinding the strips of gauze, first one hand and then the other. She noticed that he slowed down as he got closer to the end. Finally, both hands were revealed, red and blistered and hot-looking. He tried flexing his fingers.
“Time for some more tablets?” Siobhan suggested.
He nodded, went over to the table and sat down. She opened a couple of lagers and they started to eat. Rebus didn’t have a strong grip on his fork, but he persevered, dripping dollops of sauce onto the table but managing to avoid splashing his shirt. They ate in silence, other than to comment on the food. When they’d finished, Siobhan cleared the table and wiped it clean.
“Better add Handi Wipes to your shopping list,” she said.
“What shopping list?” Rebus sat down in his chair, resting a second bottle of lager on his thigh. “Can you see if there’s any cream?”
“Are we having dessert?”
“I mean in the bathroom—antiseptic cream.”
Dutifully, she checked the cabinet, noticing that the bath was full to the brim. The water looked cold. She came back holding a blue tube. “For stings and infections,” she said.
“That’ll do.” He took the tube from her and rubbed a thick layer of white cream over both hands. She’d opened her second bottle, rested against an arm of the sofa.
“Want me to let the water out?” she asked.
“What water?”
“The bath. You forgot to pull the plug. I’m assuming it’s the one you say you fell into . . .”
Rebus looked at her. “Who’ve you been talking to?”
“Doctor at the hospital. He sounded skeptical.”
“So much for patient confidentiality,” Rebus muttered. “Well, at least he’ll have told you they really are scalds, not burns?” She twitched her nose. “Thanks for checking up on my story.”
“I just knew it wasn’t very likely you’d be washing dishes. Now, about that bathwater . . . ?”
“I’ll do it later.” He sat back, took a swig from his bottle. “Meantime, what are we going to do about Martin Fairstone?”
She shrugged, slid down onto the sofa proper. “What are we supposed to do? Apparently, neither of us killed him.”
“Talk to any fireman, they’ll all say the same thing: you want to do someone in and get away with it, you get them blind drunk and then turn on the chip pan.”
“So?”
“It’s something every cop knows, too.”
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t an accident.”
“We’re cops, Siobhan: guilty until proven innocent. When did Fairstone give you that shiner?”
“How do you know it was him?” The look on Rebus’s face told her he felt insulted by the question. She sighed. “The Thursday before he died.”
“What happened?”
“He must’ve been following me. I was unloading bags of groceries from the car, carrying them into the stairwell. When I turned round, he was biting into an apple. He’d lifted it from one of the bags sitting at the curb. Had this big smile on his face. I walked right up to him . . . I was furious. Now he knew where I lived. I gave him a slap . . .” She smiled at the memory. “The apple went flying halfway across the road.”
“He could have had you for assault.”
“Well, he didn’t. He threw a fast right, caught me just below the eye. I staggered back and tripped over the step. Landed on my backside. He just walked away, picking up the apple again as he crossed the road.”
“You didn’t report it?”
“No.”
“Tell anyone how it happened?”
She shook her head. She remembered Rebus asking her; she’d shaken her head then, too. But knowing . . . knowing he wouldn’t have to work too hard. “Only after I found out he was dead,” she said. “I went to the boss and told her.”
There was a silence between them. Bottles were raised to mouths, eyes meeting eyes. Siobhan swallowed and licked her lips.
“I didn’t kill him,” Rebus said quietly.
“He made that complaint about you.”
“And withdrew it pronto.”
“Then it was an accident.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Guilty until proven innocent,” he repeated.
Siobhan lifted her drink. “Here’s to the guilty.”
Rebus managed a half-smile. “That was the last time you saw him?” he asked.
She nodded. “What about you?”
“Weren’t you scared he’d come back?” He saw the look she gave him. “Okay, not ‘scared,’ then . . . but you must have wondered?”
“I took precautions.”
“What kind of precautions?”
“The usual: watched my back . . . tried not to go in or out after dark unless someone else was around.”
Rebus rested his head against the back of his chair. The music had finished. “Want to hear something else?” he asked.
“I want to hear you say that the last time you saw Fairstone was the time you had that fight.”
“I’d be lying.”
“So when did you see him?”
Rebus angled his head to look at her. “The night he died.” He paused. “But then, you already know that, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Templer told me.”
“I was just out for a drink, that’s all. Ended up next to him in a pub. We had a bit of a chat.”
“About me?”
“About the black eye. He said it was self-defense.” He paused. “Way you tell it, maybe it was.”
“Which pub was it?”
Rebus shrugged. “Somewhere near Gracemount.”
“Since when did you start drinking so far from the Oxford Bar?”
He looked at her. “So maybe I wanted to talk to him.”
“You went hunting for him?”
“Listen to Little Miss Prosecution!” Color had risen to Rebus’s face.
“And no doubt half the pub clocked you as CID,” she stated. “Which is how Templer found out.”
“Is that called ‘leading the witness’?
”
“I can fight my own battles, John!”
“And he’d have put you on the deck every time. This bastard had a history of thumping people. You saw his record . . .”
“That didn’t give you the right —”
“We’re not talking about rights here.” Rebus leapt from the chair and made for the dining table, helping himself to a fresh bottle. “You want one?”
“Not if I’m driving.”
“Your choice.”
“That’s right, John. My choice, not yours.”
“I didn’t top him, Siobhan. All I did was . . .” Rebus swallowed back the words.
“What?” She’d turned her body on the sofa to face him. “What?” she repeated.
“I went back to his house.” She just stared, mouth open a fraction. “He invited me back.”
“He invited you?”
Rebus nodded. The bottle opener trembled in his hand. He delegated the job to Siobhan, who returned the opened bottle to him. “Bastard liked playing games, Siobhan. Said we should go back and have a drink, bury the hatchet.”
“Bury the hatchet?”
“His exact words.”
“And that’s what you did?”
“He wanted to talk . . . not about you, about anything but. Time he’d served, cell stories, how he grew up. Usual sob story, dad who thumped him, mum who didn’t care . . .”
“And you sat there and listened?”
“I sat there thinking how badly I wanted to smack him.”
“But you didn’t?”
Rebus shook his head. “He was pretty dopey by the time I left.”
“Not in the kitchen, though?”
“In the living room . . .”
“Did you see the kitchen?”
Rebus shook his head again.
“Have you told Templer this?”
He made to rub his forehead, then remembered that it would hurt like blazes. “Just go home, Siobhan.”
“I had to pull the two of you apart. Next thing you’re back at his house sharing a drink and a chat? You expect me to believe that?”
“I’m not asking you to believe anything. Just go home.”
She stood up. “I can —”
“I know, you can look after yourself.” Rebus sounded tired all of a sudden.