by Ian Rankin
“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 injur
ed 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 . . .
DAY SIX
Tuesday
19
Tuesday morning, Rebus left his flat, walked to the foot of Marchmont Road, and proceeded across the Meadows, an area of parkland leading to the university. Students passed him, some of them on creaky bicycles. Others shuffled sleepily towards classes. The day was overcast, the sky’s color mirroring the slate-gray roofs. Rebus was headed for George IV Bridge. By now, he knew the drill at the National Library. The guard would allow you through, but you then had to climb the stairs and persuade the librarian on duty that your need was desperate and no other library would do. Rebus showed his warrant card, explained what he wanted, and was directed towards the microfiche room. That was the way they kept the old papers nowadays: as rolls of microfilm. Years back, working one particular case, Rebus had taken a seat in the reading room, a janitor dutifully unloading a cart of bound broadsheets onto the desk. Now, it was a case of switching on a screen and threading a spool of tape through the machine.
Rebus had no specific dates in mind. He’d decided to go back a full month before the crash on Jura and just let the days roll across his vision, see what was happening back then. By the time he got to the day of the crash, he had a pretty good idea. The story had made the front page of the Scotsman, accompanied by photos of two of the victims: Brigadier General Stuart Phillips and Major Kevin Spark. A day later, Phillips being Scots-born, the paper ran a lengthy obituary, giving Rebus more than he needed to know about the man’s upbringing and professional accomplishments. He checked the notes he’d been scribbling and wound the film to
its end, replacing it with a roll from the previous two weeks, eventually spooling back to the date in his notes, the story about the IRA cease-fire in Northern Ireland, and the part being played in ongoing negotiations by Brigadier General Stuart Phillips. Preconditions being discussed, distrustful paramilitaries on both sides, splinter groups to be appeased . . . Rebus tapped his pen against his teeth until he noticed another user nearby frowning. Rebus mouthed the word “sorry” and cast his eyes over some of the other stories in the paper: earth summits, foreign wars, football reports . . . The face of Christ found in a pomegranate; a cat that got lost but found its way back to its owners, even though they’d moved in the interim . . .
The photo of the cat reminded him of Boethius. He went back to the main desk, asked where the encyclopedias were kept. He looked up Boethius. Roman philosopher, translator, politician . . . accused of treason and while awaiting execution wrote The Consolations of Philosophy, in which he argued that everything was changeable and lacked any measure of certainty . . . everything except virtue. Rebus wondered if the book might help him comprehend Derek Renshaw’s fate, and its effect on those closest to him. Somehow he doubted it. In his universe, the guilty too often went unpunished, while the victims went unnoticed. Bad things were always happening to good people, and vice versa. If God had planned things that way, the old bastard was blessed with a sick sense of humor. Easier to say that there was no plan, that random chance had taken Lee Herdman into that classroom.
But Rebus suspected that this wasn’t true either . . .
He decided to head out onto George IV Bridge for coffee and a cigarette. He’d spoken to Siobhan first thing by telephone, letting her know he’d be busy in town and wouldn’t be hooking up with her. She hadn’t sounded too bothered, hadn’t even seemed curious. She seemed to be drifting away from him, not that he could blame her. He’d always been a magnet for trouble, and her career prospects wouldn’t exactly be enhanced by his proximity. All the same, he thought there was more to it than that. Maybe she really did see him as a collector, as someone who got too close to certain people, people he cared about or was interested in . . . uncomfortably close at times. He thought of Miss Teri’s website, how it maintained an illusion that the viewer was connected to her. A one-way relationship: they could see her, but she couldn’t see them. Was she another example of a “specimen”?