by Ian Rankin
“What does a CID office look like?” Whiteread asked. “I’ve often wondered . . .”
“I’ll give you the tour sometime,” Siobhan answered. “When we’re not up to our eyes.”
It was an answer Whiteread was forced to accept, but Siobhan could see she liked it about as much as she would a Mogwai concert.
10
Lord Jarvies was in his late fifties. Bobby Hogan had filled Rebus in on family history during the drive back to Edinburgh. Divorced from his first wife, remarried, Anthony the only child from this second relationship. The family lived in Murrayfield.
“Plenty of good schools around there,” Rebus had commented, wondering at the distance between Murrayfield and South Queensferry. But Roland Jarvies was a former pupil of Port Edgar. In his twenties, he’d even played for the Port Edgar FP rugby team.
“What position?” Rebus had asked.
“John,” Hogan had replied, “what I know about rugby could be written on the leftovers of one of your cigarettes.”
Hogan had expected that they would find the judge at home, in shock and in mourning. But a couple of calls revealed that Jarvies was back at work, and therefore to be found in the Sheriff Court on Chambers Street, opposite the museum where Jean Burchill worked. Rebus considered calling her—there might be time for a quick coffee—but decided against it. She was bound to notice his hands, wasn’t she? Best to hang fire till they’d mended. He could still feel the handshake Robert Niles had pressed on him.
“You ever come up against Jarvies?” Hogan asked as he parked on a single yellow line, outside what had been the city’s dental hospital, now transformed into a nightclub and bar.
“A few times. You?”
“Once or twice.”
“Give him any cause to remember you?”
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Hogan said, placing a notice on the inside of the windshield identifying the car as being “on police business.”
“Might be cheaper to risk a ticket,” Rebus advised.
“How so?”
“Think about it.”
Hogan frowned in thought, then nodded. Not everyone who walked out of the courthouse would have reason to be enamored of the police. A ticket might cost thirty quid (and could always be canceled after a quiet word); scratched bodywork came in a little more expensive. Hogan removed the notice.
The Sheriff Court was a modern building, but its visitors were taking their toll. Dried spittle on the windows, graffiti on the walls. The judge was in the robing room, and that was where Rebus and Hogan were taken to meet with him. The attendant bowed slightly before he left.
Jarvies had just about finished changing out of his robes of office and back into a pinstripe suit, complete with watch chain. His burgundy tie sported a perfect knot, and his shoes were highly polished black brogues. His face looked polished, too, highlighting a network of tiny red veins in either cheek. On a long table sat other judges’ workday clothes: black gowns, white collars, gray wigs. Each set bore its owner’s name.
“Take a seat, if you can find one,” Jarvies said. “I won’t be long.” He looked up, mouth hanging slightly open, as it often did when he was in the courtroom. The first time Rebus had given evidence in front of Jarvies, the mannerism had disconcerted him, making him think the judge had been about to interrupt. “I do have another appointment, which is why I had to see you here or not at all.”
“Quite all right, sir,” Hogan said.
“To be honest,” Rebus added, “with everything you’ve been through, we’re surprised to see you here at all.”
“Can’t let the bastards beat us, can we?” the judge replied. It didn’t sound like the first time he’d had to offer the explanation. “So, what is it I can do for you?”
Rebus and Hogan shared a look, both finding it hard to believe the man in front of them had just lost a son.
“It’s about Lee Herdman,” Hogan stated. “Seems he was friends with Robert Niles.”
“Niles?” The judge looked up. “I remember him . . . stabbed his wife, didn’t he?”
“Slit her throat,” Rebus corrected. “He went to jail, but right now he’s in Carbrae.”
“What we’re wondering,” Hogan added, “is whether you’ve ever had cause to fear a reprisal.”
Jarvies stood up slowly, took out his watch and flipped it open, checking the time. “I think I see,” he said. “You’re seeking a motive. Isn’t it enough to say that Herdman merely lost the balance of his mind?”
“That may end up as our conclusion,” Hogan conceded.
The judge was examining himself in the room’s full-length mirror. There was a faint aroma in Rebus’s nostrils, and at last he was able to place it. It was the smell of gentlemen’s outfitters, shops he’d been taken to as a child on those occasions when his father was being measured for a suit. Jarvies patted down a single stray hair. There were touches of gray at the temples, but otherwise his hair was chestnut-brown. Almost too brown, Rebus thought, wondering if some coloring had gone into it. The judge’s haircut with its precise left part gave the impression that no other style had been attempted since his schooldays.
“Sir?” Hogan prompted. “Robert Niles . . . ?”
“I’ve never received any kind of threat from that direction, Detective Inspector Hogan. Nor had I heard the name Herdman until after the shootings.” He turned his head from the mirror. “Does that answer your questions?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If Herdman had set out to target Anthony, why turn the gun on the other boys? Why wait so long after sentencing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Motive isn’t always the issue . . .”
Rebus’s phone trilled suddenly, sounding out of place, a modern distraction. He smiled an apology and stepped into the red-carpeted hallway.
“Rebus,” he said.
“I’ve just had a couple of interesting meetings,” Gill Templer said, straining to keep her temper in check.
“Oh, aye?”
“The forensics from Fairstone’s kitchen show that he was probably bound and gagged. That makes it murder.”
“Or someone trying to give him a bloody good scare.”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“Nothing much surprises me these days.”
“You already know, don’t you?” Rebus stayed silent; no point getting Dr. Curt into trouble. “Well, you can probably guess who the second meeting was with.”
“Carswell,” Rebus said. Colin Carswell: assistant chief constable.
“That’s right.”
“And I’m now to consider myself under suspension, pending investigation?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Is that all you wanted to tell me?”
“You’ll be required to attend an initial interview at HQ.”
“With the Complaints?”
“Something like this, it could even be the PSU.” Meaning the Professional Standards Unit.
“Ah, the Complaints’ paramilitary wing.”
“John . . .” Her tone was a mixture of warning and exasperation.
“I’ll look forward to talking to them,” Rebus said, ending the call. Hogan was stepping out of the robing room, thanking the judge for his time. He closed the door after him, spoke in an undertone.
“He’s taking it well.”
“Bottling it up, more like,” Rebus said, falling into step. “I’ve got a bit of news, by the way.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been suspended from duty. I daresay Carswell’s trying to find you right now to let you know.”
Hogan stopped walking, turned to face Rebus. “As predicted by you at Carbrae.”
“I went back to a guy’s house. Same night he died in a fire.” Hogan’s gaze dropped to Rebus’s gloves. “Nothing to do with it, Bobby. Just a coincidence.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“This guy had been hassling Siobhan.”
“And?”
“And it looks like he was tied
to a chair when the fire started.”
Hogan puffed out his cheeks. “Witnesses?”
“I was seen going into the house with him, apparently.”
Hogan’s phone went off, different tone from Rebus’s. Caller ID brought a twitch to Hogan’s mouth.
“Carswell?” Rebus guessed.
“HQ.”
“Then that’s who it is.”
Hogan nodded, dropped the phone back into his pocket.
“No point putting it off,” Rebus told him.
But Bobby Hogan shook his head. “There’s every point putting it off, John. Besides, they may be pulling you off casework, but Port Edgar isn’t really a case, is it? Nobody’s going to go to court. It’s just housekeeping.”
“I suppose so.” Rebus gave a wry smile. Hogan patted his arm.
“Don’t you worry, John. Uncle Bobby will look after you . . .”
“Thanks, Uncle Bobby,” Rebus said.
“. . . right up until the moment when the shit really does hit the fan.”
By the time Gill Templer got back to St. Leonard’s, Siobhan had already tracked down Douglas Brimson. It hadn’t been exactly onerous, due to the fact that Brimson was in the phone book. Two addresses and phone numbers: one home, the other business. Templer had disappeared into her office across the corridor, slamming the door after her. George Silvers had looked up from his desk.
“Sounds like she’s on the warpath,” he’d said, pocketing his pen and preparing to beat a retreat. Siobhan had tried phoning Rebus, but he was busy. Busy warding off blows from the chief super’s tomahawk, most probably.
With Silvers gone, Siobhan again found herself alone in the CID room. DCI Pryde was around somewhere; so was DC Davie Hynds. But both were managing to make themselves invisible. Siobhan stared at the screen of Derek Renshaw’s laptop, bored to death of sifting its inoffensive contents. Derek, she was sure, had been a good kid, but dull with it. He’d already known the path his life would take: three or four years at uni, business studies with computing, and then an office job, maybe in accountancy. Money to buy a waterfront penthouse, fast car and the best hi-fi system around . . .
But that future remained frozen, realized only in words on a screen, bytes of memory. The thought made her shiver. Everything changing in an instant . . . She held her face in her hands, rubbing her fingers over her eyes, knowing only one thing: she didn’t want to be here when Gill Templer emerged from behind that door. Because for once, Siobhan suspected she would give her boss as good as she got, and maybe even a bit more besides. She wasn’t in the mood to be anybody’s victim. She looked at her phone, then at the notebook containing Brimson’s details. Decided, she shut down the laptop, placing it in her shoulder bag. Picked up her mobile and the notebook.
Walked.
Her one detour: a quick stop home, where she found her CD of Come On Die Young. She played the album as she drove, listening for clues. Not easy when so much of it was instrumental . . .
Brimson’s home address turned out to be a modern bungalow on a narrow road between the airport and what had been Gogarburn Hospital. As Siobhan got out of her car, she could hear demolition work in the distance: Gogarburn was being dismantled. She thought the site had been sold to one of the major banks, to be transformed into their new headquarters. The house in front of her sat behind a tall hedge and green wrought-iron gates. She pushed open the gates and crunched across pink gravel. Tried the doorbell, then peered in through the windows on either side. One belonged to a living room, the other a bedroom. The bed had been made, and the living room looked little used. A couple of magazines sat on the blue leather sofa, pictures of airplanes on their covers. The garden to the front was mostly paved, with just a couple of beds where roses waited to grow. A narrow path separated the bungalow from its garage, with another gate that opened when she turned the handle, allowing entry to the rear garden. It comprised a huge expanse of sloping lawn, at the bottom of which stretched what looked like acres of farmland. The timber-framed conservatory seemed a recent addition to the house. Its door was locked. Windows showed her a large, very white kitchen and another bedroom. She got no sense of family life: no garden toys, nothing to suggest a woman’s touch. All the same, the place was kept in immaculate condition. Walking back down the path, she noticed a glass pane in the garage’s side door. There was a car inside, one of the sportier Jaguars, but its owner definitely wasn’t home.
She got back into her own car and headed for the airport, stopping in front of the terminal building. A security man warned her that parking wasn’t allowed but waved her on when she showed her ID. The terminal was busy: long queues for what looked like a charter flight to the sun, business suits wheeling their cases briskly towards the escalator. Siobhan studied the signs, saw one for Information and headed that way, asking at the desk to speak to Mr. Brimson. A quick clatter of a keyboard, then a shake of the head.
“I’m not getting that name.”
Siobhan spelled it for the woman, who nodded that she’d entered it correctly. She picked up her phone, spoke to someone. Her turn now to spell out the letters: B-r-i-m-s-o-n. She pulled her mouth down, again shaking her head.
“Sure he works here?” she asked.
Siobhan showed her the address, copied from the phone book. The woman smiled.
“That says ‘airfield,’ love,” she explained. “That’s what you want, not the airport.” She then gave directions, and Siobhan thanked her and left, face flushed from having made the mistake in the first place. The airfield was just that. It adjoined the airport and could be reached by driving halfway around the perimeter. Light aircraft were hangared here, and according to the sign on the gate, it was also home to a flying school. There was a phone number below: the number Siobhan had copied from the phone book. The high metal gate was padlocked, but there was an old-fashioned telephone receiver in a wooden box attached to a post. Siobhan picked it up and heard the ringing tone.
“Hello?” A man’s voice.
“I’m looking for Mr. Brimson.”
“You’ve found him, sweetheart. What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Brimson, my name’s Detective Sergeant Clarke. I’m with Lothian and Borders Police. I was wondering if I could have a word with you.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then: “Just wait a tick. I’ll have to unlock the gate.”
Siobhan started to say another thank-you, but the phone was dead. She could see a few hangars, a couple of airplanes. One had a single propeller on its nose, the other boasted two, one on either wing. They looked like two-seaters. There were also a couple of squat prefabricated buildings, and it was from one of these that the figure emerged, hoisting itself into an open-topped, venerable-looking Land Rover. A plane coming in to land at the airport drowned out any sound of the engine starting. The Land Rover jolted forwards, speeding the hundred or so yards to the gate. The man leapt out again. He was tall, tanned, and muscular-looking. Probably just into his fifties, with a lined face that had cracked into a brief smile of introduction. A short-sleeved shirt, the same green-olive color as the Land Rover, showed off silver-haired arms. Brimson’s thick head of hair was the same silver color, and had probably been ash-blond in his youth. The shirt was tucked into gray canvas trousers, showing the beginnings of a gut.
“Have to keep the place locked,” he started to explain, jangling a vast set of keys taken from the Land Rover’s ignition. “Security.”
She nodded her understanding. There was something immediately likable about this man. Maybe it was his sense of energy and self-confidence, the way he rolled his shoulders as he walked up to the gate. That brief, winning smile.
But as he pulled open the gate for her, she noted that his face had become more serious. “I suppose it’s about Lee,” he said solemnly. “Bound to happen sooner or later.” Then he motioned for her to drive in. “Park by the office,” he said. “I’ll catch up with you.”
As she drove past him, she couldn’t help wondering about his choice
of words.
Bound to happen sooner or later . . .
Seated opposite him in the office, she got the chance to ask.
“All I meant was,” he replied, “you were bound to want to talk to me.”
“How so?”
“Because I’m guessing you want to know why he did it.”
“And?”
“And you’ll be asking his friends if they can help.”
“You were a friend of Lee Herdman’s?”
“Yes.” He frowned. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“In a roundabout way, yes. We found out that both yourself and Mr. Herdman paid visits to Carbrae.”
Brimson nodded slowly. “That’s clever,” he said. The kettle, having come to a boil, clicked off, and he leapt from his chair to pour water into two mugs of instant coffee, handing one to Siobhan. The office was tiny, just enough room for the desk and two chairs. The door led back to an anteroom with a few more chairs and a couple of filing cabinets. There were posters on the walls—various forms of aircraft.
“You’re a flying instructor, Mr. Brimson?” Siobhan said, accepting the mug.
“Call me Doug, please.” Brimson sat back down. A figure appeared, framed by the window behind him. A rap of knuckles on the pane. Brimson turned his head, gave a wave, which the other man returned.
“That’s Charlie,” he explained. “Going for a spin. Works as a banker, says he’d swap jobs with me tomorrow if it meant he could spend more time in the sky.”
“You rent out your planes, then?”
It took Brimson a moment to follow her question. “No, no,” he said at last. “Charlie has his own plane; he just keeps it here.”
“The airfield’s yours, though?”
Brimson nodded. “Inasmuch as I rent the actual ground from the airport. But, yes, all this is mine.” He opened his arms wide, offering another smile.
“And how long have you known Lee Herdman?”
The arms dropped, and the smile with them. “A good few years.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Pretty much since he moved here.”
“That would be six years, then?”