by Ian Rankin
“So what the hell is he doing now?”
“Scaring her maybe. I hope to hell that’s all it is . . .” He thought of Lee Herdman, lifting a gun to his temple, and the ex-SAS man who jumped to his death from an airplane . . .
“Will they have parachutes?” Hogan was asking. “Could she get out?”
Rebus didn’t answer. His jaw was locked tight.
The plane was looping the loop now, but still far too close to the bridge. One wing clipped a suspension cable, sending the plane into a spiraling dive.
Rebus took an involuntary step forwards, yelled out the word “no!” stretching it for the length of time it took the machine to hit the water.
“Hell’s fucking bells,” Hogan cried. Rebus was staring at the spot . . . the plane already reduced to wreckage, wisps of smoke rising from it as the pieces began to disappear beneath the surface.
“We’ve got to get down there!” Rebus shouted.
“How?”
“I don’t know . . . get a boat! Port Edgar . . . they’ve got boats!” They got back into the car and did a squealing U-turn, drove to the boatyard, where a siren was sounding, regular sailors already heading for the scene. Rebus parked, and they ran down to the jetty, past Herdman’s boathouse, Rebus aware of movement at the corner of his eye, a flash of color. Dismissing it in the urgency to reach the water’s edge. Rebus and Hogan showed their ID to a man who was untying his speedboat.
“We need a lift.”
The man was in his late fifties, bald-headed with a silver beard. He looked them up and down. “You need life jackets,” he protested.
“No, we don’t. Now just get us out there.” Rebus paused. “Please.”
The man took another look at him, and nodded agreement. Rebus and Hogan clambered aboard, holding on as the owner raced out of the harbor. Other small boats had already congregated around the slick of oil, and the lifeboat from South Queensferry was approaching. Rebus scanned the surface of the water, knowing it was futile.
“Maybe it wasn’t them,” Hogan said. “Maybe she didn’t go.”
Rebus nodded in the hope that his friend might shut up. What debris there was, was already spreading out, the tide and the swell from the various craft dispersing it. “We need divers, Bobby. Frogmen . . . whatever it takes.”
“It’ll be taken care of, John. Somebody else’s job, not ours.” Rebus realized that Hogan’s hand was squeezing his arm. “Christ, and I made that stupid crack about the coast guard . . .”
“Not your fault, Bobby.”
Hogan was thoughtful. “Nothing we can do here, eh?”
Rebus was forced to admit defeat: there was nothing they could do. They asked the skipper to take them back, which he did.
“Terrible accident,” he yelled above the noise of the outboard engine.
“Yes, terrible,” Hogan agreed. Rebus just stared at the choppy surface of the water. “We still going to the airfield?” Hogan asked as they climbed back onto dry land. Rebus nodded, started striding towards the Passat. But then he paused outside Herdman’s boathouse, and turned his head to look at the much smaller shed next door, the one with the car parked in front. The car was an old 7-series BMW, tarnished black. He didn’t recognize it. Where had the flash of color come from? He looked at the shed. Its door was closed. Had it been open when they’d arrived? Had the flash of color flitted across the doorway? Rebus walked up to the door, gave it a push. It bounced back: someone behind it, holding it closed. Rebus stood back and gave the door an almighty kick, then shouldered it. It flew open, sending the man behind it sprawling.
Red short-sleeved shirt with palm trees on it.
Face turning to meet Rebus’s.
“Holy shit,” Bobby Hogan was muttering, studying the blanket on the ground, the array of weapons laid out on it. Two lockers stood gaping, emptied of their secrets. Pistols, revolvers, submachine guns . . .
“Thinking of starting a war, Peacock?” Rebus said. And when Peacock Johnson scrambled forwards, making towards the nearest gun, Rebus took a single step, swung back a foot, and kicked him straight in the middle of his face, throwing him back onto the floor again.
Johnson lay unconscious, spread-eagled. Hogan was shaking his head.
“How the hell did we miss this lot?” he was asking himself.
“Maybe because it was right under our noses, Bobby, same as everything else in this damned case.”
“But what does it mean?”
“I suggest you ask our friend here,” Rebus said, “just as soon as he wakes up.” He turned to walk away.
“Where are you going?”
“The airfield. You stay here with him, call it in.”
“John . . . what’s the point?”
Rebus stopped. He knew what Hogan meant: what’s the point of going to the airfield? But then he started walking again, couldn’t think of anything else to do. He punched Siobhan’s number into his mobile, but a recording told him the number wasn’t available and he should try again later. He punched it in again, same response. Dropped the tiny silver box onto the ground and stamped on it, hard as he could, with the heel of his shoe.
It was dusk by the time Rebus arrived at the locked gates.
He got out of the car and tried the entry phone, but no one was answering. He could see Siobhan’s car through the fence, parked next to the office. The office door was standing open, as though someone had been in a hurry.
Or maybe struggling . . . not bothering to close it after them.
Rebus pushed at the gate, put his shoulder to it. The chain rattled but wasn’t going to yield. He stood back and kicked it. Kicked it again and again. Shouldered it, smashed his fists against it. Pressed his head to it, eyes squeezed shut.
“Siobhan . . .” His voice breaking.
He knew what he needed: bolt cutters. A patrol car could bring some, if Rebus had any way of calling one.
Brimson . . . he knew it now. Knew Brimson was running drugs, had planted them on his dead friend’s boat. He didn’t know why, but he’d find out. Siobhan had discovered the truth somehow, and had died as a result. Perhaps she’d wrestled with him, explaining the erratic flight path. He opened his eyes wide, blinking back tears.
Staring through the gate.
Blinking his vision back into focus.
Because someone was there . . . A figure in the doorway, one hand to its head, another to its stomach. Rebus blinked again, making sure.
“Siobhan!” he yelled. She raised a hand, waved it. Rebus grabbed the fence and hauled himself onto it, shouted her name again. She disappeared back into the building.
His voice cracked. Was he seeing things now? No: she was out of the building again, getting into her car, driving the short distance to the gate. As she neared, Rebus saw that it really was her. And she was fine.
She stopped the car and got out. “Brimson,” she was saying. “He’s the one with the drugs . . . in cahoots with Johnson and Teri’s mother . . .” She’d brought Brimson’s keys, was finding the right one to use on the padlock.
“We know,” Rebus told her, but she wasn’t listening.
“Must’ve made a run for it . . . laid me out cold. I only came to when the phone started buzzing.” She yanked the padlock free, the chain coming with it. Pulled open the gate.
And was picked off the ground by Rebus, his hug enveloping her.
“Ow, ow, ow,” she said, causing him to ease off. “Bit bruised,” she explained, her eyes meeting his. He couldn’t help himself, planted his lips on hers. The kiss lingered, his eyes tight shut, hers wide open. She broke away, took a step back, tried to catch her breath.
“Not that I’m not overwhelmed or anything, but what’s this all about?”
27
It was Rebus’s turn to visit Siobhan in the hospital. She’d been admitted for a concussion, was due to stay the night.“This is ridiculous,” she protested. “I’m fine, really I am.”
“You’ll stay where you are, young lady.”
“Oh, yes? Like you did, you mean?”
As if to emphasize her point, the same nurse who had changed Rebus’s dressings walked past, pushing an empty cart.
Rebus pulled a chair across and sat down.
“You didn’t bring anything, then?” she asked.
Rebus shrugged. “Been a bit rushed; you know how it is.”
“What’s the story with Peacock?”
“He’s doing a good impression of a clam. Not that it’ll do him any good. Way Gill Templer sees it, Herdman wouldn’t want the guns lying around in his own boathouse, so Peacock rented the one next door. That’s where Herdman worked on them, reconditioning them, and they were stored in the shed. When he put a bullet to his head, things got too hot, no way Peacock could shift them . . .”
“But then he panicked?”
“Either that or he just wanted to tool himself up for what was to come.”
Siobhan closed her eyes. “Thank God that didn’t happen.”
They stayed quiet for a couple of minutes. Then: “And Brimson?” she asked.
“What about him?”
“The way he decided to end it all . . .”
“I think he chickened out, right at the last.”
She opened her eyes again. “Or came to his senses, couldn’t bring himself to involve anyone apart from himself.”
Rebus shrugged. “Whatever . . . he’s another statistic for the armed forces to work on.”
“Maybe they’ll try to say it was an accident.”
“Maybe it was at that. Could be he was planning to loop the loop and then smash onto the highway, go out in a blaze of mayhem.”
“I prefer my version.”
“Then you stick to it.”
“And what about James Bell?”
“What about him?”
“Reckon we’ll ever understand how he could do it?”
Rebus shrugged again. “All I know is, the papers are going to have a field day with his dad.”
“And that’s good enough for you?”
“It’ll do to be going on with.”
“James and Lee Herdman . . . I don’t really get it.”
Rebus thought for a moment. “Maybe James reckoned he’d found himself a hero, someone different from his dad, someone whose respect he’d give his eyeteeth for.”
“Or kill for?” Siobhan guessed.
Rebus smiled and stood up, patted her arm.
“You going already?”
He shrugged. “Lots to be getting on with; we’re an officer short at the station.”
“Nothing that can’t wait till tomorrow?”
“Justice never sleeps, Siobhan. Which doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. Anything I can get you before I go?”
“A sense of having achieved something, maybe?”
“I’m not sure the vending machines are up to it, but I’ll see what I can do.”
He’d done it again.
Ended up drinking too much . . . slumped on the toilet seat back in his flat, jacket discarded on the hall floor. Leaning forwards, head in hands.
Last time . . . Last time had been the night Martin Fairstone had died. Rebus had spent too long in too many pubs, tracking down his prey. A few more whiskies back at Fairstone’s place, and a taxi home. Driver had had to wake him up when they reached Arden Street. Rebus reeking of cigarettes, wanting to slough it all off. Running a bath, just the hot tap, thinking he’d add cold later. Sitting on the lavatory, half-undressed, head in hands, eyes closed.
World tilting in the darkness, shifting on its axis, pitching him forwards so his head thumped against the rim of the bath . . . waking on his knees, hands burning.
Hands hanging over the side of the bath, scalded by the rising water . . .
Scalded.
No mystery about it.
The sort of thing that could happen to anyone.
Couldn’t it?
But not tonight. He got back to his feet, steadied himself, managed to make it through to the living room and into his chair, pushing it over to the window with his feet. The night was still and calm, lights on in the tenement windows across the way. Couples relaxing, checking on the kids. Singles awaiting pizza deliveries, or sitting down to the videos they’d rented. Students debating another night out at the pub, unstarted essays troubling them.
Few if any of them harboring mysteries. Fears, yes; doubts, most certainly. Maybe even guilt about tiny mistakes and misdemeanors.
But nothing to trouble the likes of Rebus. Not tonight. His fingers patted the floor, feeling for the telephone. He sat with it in his lap, thinking of giving Allan Renshaw a call. There were things he had to tell him.
He’d been thinking about families: not just his own, but all those connected to the case. Lee Herdman, walking away from his family; James and Jack Bell, seemingly with nothing to connect them but blood; Teri Cotter and her mother . . . And Rebus himself, replacing his own family with colleagues like Siobhan and Andy Callis, producing ties that oftentimes seemed stronger than blood.
He stared at the phone in his lap, reckoned it was a bit late now to call his cousin. Shrugged and mouthed the word “tomorrow.” Smiled at the memory of lifting Siobhan off her feet.
Decided to see if he could make it to his bed. The laptop was in “sleep” mode. He didn’t bother waking it; unplugged it instead. It could go back to the station tomorrow.
He came to a stop in the hallway and walked into the guest room, lifted the copy of The Wind in the Willows. He’d keep it near him so he wouldn’t forget. Tomorrow he’d make a gift of it to Bob.
Tomorrow, God and the devil willing.
EPILOGUE
Jack Bell had spared no expense during the preliminary organization of his son’s defense. Not that James had seemed to notice. He’d remained adamant that he wasn’t going to fight anything. He was guilty, and that was what he’d say in court.
Nevertheless, the solicitor engaged by Jack Bell was reckoned to be the best Scotland had to offer. He was based in Glasgow, and charged traveling time to Edinburgh at his standard rate. Immaculately dressed in chalk-stripe suit and burgundy bow tie, he smoked a pipe whenever such was permitted, and held the pipe in his left hand at what seemed all other times.
As he sat opposite Jack Bell now, one leg crossed over the other at the knee, staring at a patch of wall just above the MSP’s head. Bell had become used to his ways, and knew this was by no means an indication that the lawyer was distracted—rather, that he was focused on the matter at hand.
“We’ve got a case,” the lawyer said. “A pretty good one, I’d say.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes.” The lawyer examined the stem of his pipe, as if for flaws. “It all boils down to this, you see—Detective Inspector Rebus belongs to Derek Renshaw’s family . . . a cousin, to be precise. As a result of which, he should never have been let near the case.”
“Conflict of interest?” Jack Bell guessed.
“Self-evidently. You can’t have a relation of one of the victims going in and questioning possible suspects. Then there’s the matter of his suspension. You may not know this, but DI Rebus was being investigated by his own force at the time of the events at Port Edgar.” The lawyer’s attention had shifted to the pipe’s bowl, scrutinizing its interior. “A question of possible proceedings being taken against him in a murder case . . .”
“Better and better.”
“Nothing came of it, but all the same, one does have to wonder at the Lothian and Borders Police. I’m not sure that I’ve ever heard of an officer on suspension being able to move so freely around another ongoing inquiry.”
“It’s irregular, then?”
“Unheard-of, I’d suggest. Which leads to very serious questions about the validity of much of the Crown’s case.” The lawyer paused, tested the pipe between his teeth, his mouth forming a shape that might have been taken for a grin. “There are so many possible objections and technicalities, the Crown might even be forced to concede without the need of anyth
ing other than a preliminary hearing.”
“In other words, the case would be tossed out?”
“It’s entirely feasible. I’d say we’ve got a very strong case.” The lawyer paused for effect. “But only if James were to plead not guilty.”
Jack Bell nodded, and the two men’s eyes met for the first time, then both heads turned to face James, who was seated across the table.
“Well, James?” the lawyer said. “What do you think?”
The teenager seemed to be considering the offer. He returned his father’s stare as if it were all the nourishment he needed and he had a hunger that would never be stilled.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ian Rankin is the #1 bestselling mystery writer in the United Kingdom, with sixteen Inspector Rebus novels under his belt and legions of devoted fans all over the globe. He is the recipient of the prestigious Gold Dagger Award and the Chandler-Fulbright Award. He lives in Edinburgh with his wife and their two sons.