A Question of Blood

Siobhan went to the bar for more drinks. The barman had tried asking her about the paperwork, but she’d deflected the conversation and they’d ended up talking about writers instead. She hadn’t known of the Boatman’s connection with the likes of Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson.

“You’re not just drinking in a pub,” the barman had explained. “You’re drinking in history.” A line he’d used a hundred times before. It made her feel like a tourist. Ten miles from the city center, but everything felt different. It wasn’t just the murders-about which, she suddenly realized, her barman hadn’t said anything. Denizens of the city tended to lump the outlying settlements together-Portobello, Musselburgh, Currie, South Queensferry… they were regarded as just “bits” of the city. Yet even Leith, connected to the city center by the ugly umbilical cord of Leith Walk, worked hard to preserve a separate identity. She wondered why anywhere else should be different.

Something had brought Lee Herdman here. He’d been born in Wishaw, joined the army at seventeen. Service in Northern Ireland and farther abroad, then SAS training. Eight years in that regiment before finding himself back, as he would probably have put it, “on civvy street.” He abandoned his wife, leaving her with two kids in Hereford, home of the SAS, and headed north. The background information was patchy. No mention of what happened to the wife and kids, or why he broke with them. He’d moved to South Queensferry six years ago. And he’d died here, age thirty-six.

Siobhan looked across to where Rebus was studying another sheet of paper. He’d been in the army, and she’d often heard rumors that he’d trained for the SAS. What did she know about the SAS? Only what she’d read in the report. Special Air Service, based in Hereford, motto: Who Dares Wins. Selected from the best candidates the army could muster. The regiment had been founded during World War II as a long-range reconnaissance unit but had been made famous by the Iranian embassy siege in 1980 and the 1982 Falklands campaign. A penciled footnote to one sheet stated that Herdman’s previous employers had been contacted and asked to provide what information they could. She’d mentioned this to Rebus, who’d just snorted, indicating that he didn’t think they would be very forthcoming.

Sometime after his arrival in South Queensferry, Herdman had started his boat business, towing water-skiers and such. Siobhan didn’t know how much it cost to buy a speedboat. She’d made a note to this effect, one of dozens listed on the pad back at the table.

“You’re not in a hurry, then,” the barman said. She hadn’t noticed him coming back.

“What?”

He lowered his eyes, directing her to the drinks in front of her.

“Oh, right,” she said, trying for a smile.

“Don’t worry about it. Sometimes a dwam’s the best place to be.”

She nodded, knowing that “dwam” meant dream. She seldom used Scots words; they jarred with her English accent. That she’d never tried altering her accent was testament to its usefulness. It could wind people up, which had proved handy in some interviews. And if people occasionally mistook her for a tourist, well, they sometimes dropped their guard, too.

“I’ve figured out who you are,” the barman was saying now. She studied him. Mid-twenties, tall and broad- shouldered with short black hair and a face that would retain its sculpted cheekbones for a few years yet, booze, diet and cigarettes notwithstanding.

“Impress me,” she said, leaning against the bar.

“At first I took you for a pair of reporters, but you’re not asking any questions.”

“You’ve had a few reporters in, then?” she asked.

He rolled his eyes in reply. “Way you’ve been sifting through that lot,” he said, nodding towards the table, “I’m thinking detectives.”

“Clever lad.”

“He came in here, you know. Lee, I mean.”

“You knew him?”

“Oh, aye, we chatted… just the usual stuff, football and that.”

“Ever go out on his boat?”

The barman nodded. “Brilliant, it was. Scudding underneath both the bridges, craning your neck to look up…” He angled his head now to show her what he meant. “He was a boy for the speed was Lee.” He stopped abruptly. “I don’t mean drugs. He just liked going fast.”

“What’s your name, Mr. Barman?”

“Rod McAllister.” He held out a hand, which she shook. It was damp from washing glasses.

“Pleased to meet you, Rod.” She withdrew her hand and reached into her pocket, bringing out one of her business cards. “If you think of anything that might help us…”

He took the card. “Right,” he said. “Right you are, Seb…”

“It’s pronounced ‘Shi-vawn.’”

“Christ, is that how it’s spelled?”

“But you can call me Detective Sergeant Clarke.”

He nodded and tucked the card into the breast pocket of his shirt. Looked at her with renewed interest. “How long will you be in town?”

“As long as it takes. Why?”

He shrugged. “Lunchtimes we do a mean haggis, neeps and tatties.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” She picked up the glasses. “Cheers, Rod.”

“Cheers.”

Back at the table, she stood Rebus’s pint glass next to the open notebook. “Here you go. Sorry it took a while, turns out the barman knew Herdman, could be he’s got…” By now she was sitting down. Rebus wasn’t paying any attention, wasn’t listening. He was staring at the sheet of paper in front of him.

“What is it?” she asked. Glancing at the sheet, she saw it was one she’d already read. Family details of one of the victims. “John?” she prompted. His eyes rose slowly to meet hers.

“I think I know them,” he said quietly.

“Who?” She took the sheet from him. “The parents, you mean?”

He nodded.

“How do you know them?”

Rebus held his hands up to his face. “They’re family.” He saw that she didn’t understand. “My family, Siobhan. They’re my family…”

3

It was a semi-detached house at the end of a cul-de-sac on a modern development. From this part of South Queensferry there was no view of the bridges, and no inkling of the ancient streets only a quarter of a mile away. Cars sat in their driveways-middle-management models: Rovers and BMWs and Audis. No fences separating the homes, just lawn leading to path leading to more lawn. Siobhan had parked curbside. She stood a couple of feet behind Rebus as he managed to ring the doorbell. A dazed-looking girl answered. Her hair needed washing and brushing, and her eyes were bloodshot.

“Your mum or dad in?”

“They’re not talking,” she said, making to close the door again.

“We’re not reporters.” Rebus fumbled with his ID. “I’m Detective Inspector Rebus.”

She looked at the ID, then stared at him.

“Rebus?” she said.

He nodded. “You know the name?”

“I think so…” Suddenly there was a man behind her. He held out a hand to Rebus.

“John. It’s been a while.”

Rebus nodded at Allan Renshaw. “Probably thirty years, Allan.”

The two men were studying each other, trying to fit faces to their memories. “You took me to the football once,” Renshaw said.

“Raith Rovers, wasn’t it? Can’t remember who they were playing.”