by Ian Rankin
“It’s a replica,” Bob stuttered. Rebus felt its heft, gave it a good look.
“No, it’s not,” he hissed. “You know it and I know it, and that means you’re going to jail, Bob. Next night at the theater for you will be in five years’ time. Hope you enjoy it.” He kept one hand on the gun, placed the other on Bob’s shoulder. “What phone call?” he repeated.
“I don’t know.” Bob sniffing and trembling. “Just some guy in a pub . . . next thing, we’re in the car.”
“Some guy in a pub saying what?”
Shaking his head violently. “Peacock never said.”
“No?”
The head going from side to side, eyes suddenly tearful. Rebus gnawed at his bottom lip, looked around. Nobody was paying much attention: buses and taxis on Lothian Road, a bouncer in the doorway of a nightclub nine or ten doors up. Rebus wasn’t really seeing any of it, mind spinning.
Could have been any of the drinkers in the pub that night, spotting him having a long talk with Fairstone, the two men seeming too pally . . . thinking Peacock Johnson might be interested. Peacock, who’d once known Fairstone as a friend. Then the falling-out over Rachel Fox. And . . . And what? Peacock worried that Martin Fairstone had turned rat? Because Fairstone knew something Rebus might be interested in.
The question was, what?
“Bob.” Rebus’s voice all balm now, trying to soothe and calm. “It’s all right, Bob. Don’t worry about it. Nothing to worry about. I just need to know what Peacock wanted with Marty.”
Another shake of the head, not as violent now, resignation taking hold. “He’ll kill me,” he stated quietly. “That’s what he’ll do.” Staring at Rebus, eyes an accusation.
“Then you need me to help you, Bob. You need me to start being your friend. Because if you’ll let that happen, it’ll be Peacock in jail, not you. You’ll be right as rain.”
The young man paused, as though taking this in. Rebus wondered what a halfway decent defense counsel would do to him in court. They’d question his ability and his wits, argue that he didn’t make a competent witness.
But he was all Rebus had.
They drove the route back to Rebus’s car in silence. Bob parked his own car on a side road, then got into Rebus’s.
“Best if you kip at my place tonight,” Rebus explained. “That way we both know you’re safe.” Safe: a nice euphemism. “Tomorrow, we’ll have a chat, okay?” Chat: another euphemism. Bob nodded, not saying anything. Rebus found a parking space at the top of Arden Street, then led Bob down the sidewalk towards the tenement’s main door. Pushed the door open, and noticed the light in the stairwell wasn’t working. Realizing too late what it might mean . . . hands grabbing him by the lapels, hurling him against the wall. A knee sought his groin, but Rebus was wise to the move, twisted his lower half so the blow connected with his thigh. He thudded his own forehead into his attacker’s face, connecting with a cheekbone. One of the hands was at his throat, seeking the carotid artery. Pressure there, and Rebus would start to lose consciousness. He clenched his fists, went for kidney blows, but the attacker’s leather jacket took most of the brunt.
“There’s someone else,” a woman’s voice hissed.
“What?” The attacker was male, English.
“Someone’s with him!”
The pressure on Rebus’s throat eased, the attacker backing off. Sudden flashlight illuminated the half-open door, Bob standing there, mouth gaping.
“Shit!” Simms said.
Whiteread was carrying the flashlight. She shone it in Rebus’s face. “Sorry about that . . . Gavin can get a bit too zealous at times.”
“Apology accepted,” Rebus said, getting his breathing back under control. Then he swung a punch. But Simms was quick, dodged out of its way and held his own fists up.
“Boys, boys,” Whiteread chided them. “We’re not in the playground now.”
“Bob,” Rebus ordered, “up here!” He started climbing the stairs.
“We need to talk.” Whiteread spoke calmly, as though nothing had just happened. Bob was moving past her, making to follow Rebus.
“We really do need to talk!” she called, angling her head upwards, able to make out Rebus’s silhouette as he reached the first landing.
“Fine,” he said eventually. “But put the lights back on first.”
He unlocked his door, motioned Bob down the hall, showing him the kitchen and the bathroom, then the spare bedroom, single bed prepared for visitors who seldom came. He touched the radiator. It was cold. Crouched down and turned the thermostat.
“It’ll warm up soon enough.”
“What was going on back there?” Bob sounded curious, but not altogether concerned. A lifetime’s experience of keeping out of other people’s business.
“Nothing for you to worry about.” When Rebus stood again, blood rushed into his ears. He steadied himself. “Best if you wait in here while I talk to them. D’you want a book or something?”
“A book?”
“To read.”
“I’ve never been a great one for reading.” Bob sat down on the edge of the bed. Rebus could hear his front door closing, which meant Whiteread and Simms were in the hall.
“Just wait here, then, okay?” he told Bob. The young man nodded, studying the room as if it were a cell. Punishment rather than refuge.
“No TV?” he asked.
Rebus left the room without answering. Motioned with his head for Whiteread and Simms to follow him into the living room. The photocopy of Herdman’s file was on the dining table, but Rebus didn’t mind them seeing it. He poured himself a glass of malt, not bothering to share. Downed it as he stood by the window, where he could watch their reflections.
“Where did you get the diamond?” Whiteread began, holding her hands in front of her.
“That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” Rebus smiled to himself. “The reason Herdman took so many precautions . . . he knew you’d come back someday.”
“You found it on Jura?” Simms guessed. He looked calm, unruffled.
Rebus shook his head. “I just worked it out, that’s all. Knew if I waved a diamond at you, you’d start jumping to conclusions.” He raised his empty glass towards Simms. “Which you’ve just done . . . cheers for that.”
Whiteread narrowed her eyes. “We’ve confirmed nothing.”
“You came running here . . . confirmation enough in my book. Plus you were in Jura last year, failing to pass yourself off as a tourist.” Rebus poured himself another drink, took a sip. This one was going to last him. “Army brass, negotiating an end to hostilities in Northern Ireland . . . stood to reason there’d be a price attached. Paying off the paramilitaries. Those guys are greedy, weren’t about to go broke. The government was buying them off with diamonds. Only the stash went down with that helicopter, SAS sent on a mission to retrieve them. Armed to the teeth in case the terrorists came looking for them, too.” Rebus paused. “How am I doing so far?”
Whiteread hadn’t moved. Simms had seated himself on an arm of the sofa, picking up a discarded Sunday supplement, rolling it into a tube. Rebus pointed at him.
“Going to crush my windpipe, Simms? There’s a witness next door, remember.”
“Maybe just wishful thinking,” Simms answered, eyes burning, voice cold. Rebus turned his attention back to Whiteread, who was over by the table, one hand resting on Herdman’s personnel file. “Reckon you can curb your monkey’s zeal?”
“You were spinning us a story about diamonds,” she said, not about to have her attention deflected.
“I never saw Herdman as a drug smuggler,” Rebus continued. “Did you plant that stuff on his boat?” She shook her head slowly. “Well, someone did.” He thought for a moment, took another sip. “But all those trips across the North Sea . . . Rotterdam’s a good place to trade diamonds. Way I see it, Herdman found the diamonds but wasn’t about to own up to it. Either lifted them at the time or hid them and came back later, sometime after his sudden decision
not to re-enlist. Now, the army’s wondering what did happen to that stash, and Herdman’s suddenly flagged himself up. He’s got some money, buys himself a boat business . . . but you can’t prove anything.” Paused to take another sip. “Reckon by now there’s much left, or has he spent it?” Rebus thought of the boats: paid for with cash . . . dollars, the currency of the diamond exchange. And of the diamond around Teri Cotter’s neck, which had proved the catalyst he’d been looking for. He’d given Whiteread time to answer, but she was staying quiet. “In which case,” he said, “your business here was damage control, make sure there’s nothing anyone’s going to find that would lift the lid on the whole thing. Every government says it: we don’t negotiate with terrorists. Maybe not, but we did once try buying them out . . . and wouldn’t that make a juicy story in the papers.” He stared at Whiteread above the rim of his glass. “That’s about it, isn’t it?”
“And the diamond?” she asked.
“Borrowed from a friend.”
She was silent for the best part of a minute, Rebus content to bide his time, thinking that if he hadn’t brought Bob home . . . well, things might not have gone nearly as well for him. He could still feel Simms’s fingers around his neck . . . throat tight when he swallowed the whiskey.
“Has Steve Holly been back in touch?” Rebus asked into the silence. “See, anything happens to me, all of this goes to him.”
“You think that’s enough to protect you?”
“Shut up, Gavin!” Whiteread snapped. Slowly, she folded her arms. “What are you going to do?” she asked Rebus.
He shrugged. “It’s none of my business, far as I can see. No reason I should do anything, provided you can keep monkey boy here on his chain.”
Simms had risen to his feet, a hand reaching inside his jacket. Whiteread spun around and slapped his arm away. The move was so fast, if Rebus had blinked he’d have missed it.
“What I want,” he said quietly, “is for the pair of you to be gone by morning. Otherwise, I have to start thinking about talking to my friend from the fourth estate.”
“How do we know we can trust you?”
Rebus gave another shrug. “I don’t think either of us wants it in writing.” He put down his glass. “Now, if we’re all through, I’ve got a guest I need to see to.”
Whiteread looked towards the door. “Who is he?”
“Don’t worry, he’s not the talkative kind.”
She nodded slowly, then made as if to leave.
“One thing, Whiteread?” She paused, turned her head to face him. “Why do you think Herdman did it?”
“Because he was greedy.”
“I meant, why did he walk into that classroom?”
Her eyes seemed to gleam. “Why should I care?” And with that she walked from the room. Simms was still staring at Rebus, who gave him a cheeky wave before turning to face the window again. Simms drew the automatic pistol from his jacket and took aim at the back of Rebus’s head. Made a soft whistling sound between his teeth and then put the gun back in its holster.
“One day,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You won’t know when or where, but I’ll be the last face you see.”
“Great,” Rebus exhaled, not bothering to turn around. “I get to spend my last moments on earth staring at a complete arsehole.”
He listened to the footsteps retreat down the hall, the slamming shut of the door. Went to the doorway to check they’d really gone. Bob was standing just outside the kitchen.
“Made myself a mug of tea. You’re out of milk, by the way.”
“The servants are on their day off. Try to get some shut-eye. Long day ahead.” Bob nodded and went to his room, closing the door after him. Rebus poured himself a third drink, definitely the last. Sat down heavily in his armchair, stared at the rolled-up magazine on the sofa opposite. Almost imperceptibly, it was starting to uncurl. He thought of Lee Herdman, tempted by the diamonds, burying them, then walking out of the woods with a shrug of his shoulders. But maybe feeling guilty afterwards, and fearful, too. Because the suspicion would linger. He’d probably been interviewed, interrogated, maybe even by Whiteread. The years might pass, but the army would never forget. Last thing they liked was a loose end, especially one that could turn as if by magic into a loose cannon. That fear, pressing down on him, so that he kept friends to a minimum . . . kids were all right, kids couldn’t be his pursuers in disguise . . . Doug Brimson was apparently okay, too . . . All those locks, trying to shut out the world. Little wonder he snapped.
But to snap the way he did? Rebus still didn’t get it, couldn’t see it as plain jealousy.
James Bell, photographing Miss Teri on Cockburn Street . . .
Derek Renshaw and Anthony Jarvies, logging on to her website . . .
Teri Cotter, curious about death, ex-soldier for a lover . . .
Renshaw and Jarvies, close friends; different from Teri, different from James Bell. Jazz fans, not metal; dressing in their combat uniforms and parading at school, playing sports. Not like Teri Cotter.
Not at all like James Bell.
And when it came down to it, what, apart from their forces background, did Herdman and Doug Brimson have in common? Well, for a start, both knew Teri Cotter. Teri with Herdman, her mother seeing Brimson. Rebus imagined it as a weird sort of dance, the kind where you kept swapping partners. He rested his face in his hands, blocking out the light, smelling glove leather mixing with the fumes from his whiskey glass as the dancers spun around in his head.
When he blinked his eyes open again, the room was a blur. Wallpaper came into focus first, but he could see bloodstains in his mind, classroom blood.
Two fatal shots, one wounding.
No: three fatal shots . . .
“No.” He realized he’d said the word out loud. Two fatal shots, one wounding. Then another fatal shot.
Blood spraying the walls and floor.
Blood everywhere.
Blood, with its own stories to tell . . .
He’d poured the fourth whiskey without thinking, raised the glass to his lips before he caught himself. Tipped it back carefully into the neck of the bottle, pushed the stopper home. Went so far as to replace the bottle on the mantelpiece.
Blood, with its own stories to tell.
He picked up his phone. Didn’t think there’d be anyone at the forensics lab this time of night, but made the call anyway. You never could tell: some of them had their own little obsessions, their own little puzzles to solve. Not because the case demanded it, or even out of a sense of professional pride, but for their own, more private needs.
Like Rebus, they found it hard to let go. He no longer knew if this was a good or a bad thing; it was just the way it was. The phone was ringing, no one answering.
“Lazy bastards,” he muttered to himself. Then he noticed Bob’s head, peeping around the door.
“Sorry,” the young man said, shuffling into the room. He’d taken his coat off. Baggy gray T-shirt beneath, showing flabby, hairless arms. “Can’t really settle.”
“Sit down if you like.” Rebus nodded towards the sofa. Bob took a seat, but looked awkward. “TV’s there if you want it.”
Bob nodded, but his eyes were wandering. He saw the shelves of books, walked over to take a look. “Maybe I’ll . . .”
“Help yourself, take anything you fancy.”
“That show we saw . . . you said it’s based on a book?”
Rebus’s turn to nod. “I’ve not got a copy, though.” He listened to the ringing tone for another fifteen seconds, then gave up.
“Sorry if I’m interrupting,” Bob said. He still hadn’t touched any of the books, seemed to be regarding them as some rare species, to be stared at but not handled.
“You’re not.” Rebus got to his feet. “Just wait here a minute.” He went into the hall, unlocked a closet door. There were cardboard boxes high up, and he lifted one down. Some of his daughter’s old stuff . . . dolls and paint boxes, postcards and bits of rock picked up
on seaside walks. He thought of Allan Renshaw. Thought of the ties which should have bound the two of them, ties too easily loosed. Allan with his boxes of photographs, his attic store of memories. Rebus put the box back, brought down the one next to it. Some of his daughter’s old books: little Ladybird offerings, some paperbacks with the covers scribbled on or half torn off, and a favored few hardcovers. Yes, here it was: green dust jacket, yellow spine with a drawing of Mr. Toad. Someone had added a speech bubble and in it the words “poop-poop.” He didn’t know if the handwriting was his daughter’s or not. Thought again of his cousin Allan, trying to put names to the long-dead faces in the photos.
Rebus put the box back where he’d found it, locked the cupboard, and took the book into the living room.
“Here you go,” he told Bob, handing it over. “Now you can find out what we missed in the first act.”
Bob seemed pleased but held the book warily, as if unsure how best to treat it. Then he retreated back to his room. Rebus stood by the window, staring out at the night, wondering if he, too, had missed something . . . not in the play, but right back at the start of the case.
DAY SEVEN
Wednesday
23
The sun was shining when Rebus woke up. He checked his watch, then swiveled out of bed and got dressed. Filled the kettle and switched it on, gave his face a wash before treating it to a once-over with the electric razor. Listened at the door to Bob’s bedroom. No sound. He knocked, waited, then shrugged and went into the living room. Called the forensics lab, still no answer.
“Lazy sods.” Speaking of which . . . This time, he banged harder on Bob’s door, then opened it an inch. “Time to face the world.” The curtains were open, the bed empty. Cursing under his breath, Rebus walked in, but there were no feasible hiding places. The copy of The Wind in the Willows was lying on the pillow. Rebus pressed his palm to the mattress, thought he could still feel some warmth there. Back in the hall, he saw that the door wasn’t properly closed.
“Should have locked us in,” he muttered, going to push it shut. He’d get his jacket and shoes on and go out hunting again. Doubtless Bob would head for his car first of all. After which, if he had any sense at all, he’d take the road south. Rebus doubted he’d have a passport. He wished he’d thought to take down Bob’s license plate. It would be traceable, but it would take time . . .