others had to die. Do you see?”
James was thoughtful. “Does it really matter, in the end?”
“We think it does.” Rebus straightened up. “Who else did you see at these parties, James?”
“You’re asking for names?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“It wasn’t always the same people.”
“Teri Cotter?” Rebus hinted.
“Yes, she was there sometimes. Always brought a few Goths with her.”
“You’re not a Goth yourself, James?” Siobhan asked.
He gave a short laugh. “Do I look like one?”
She shrugged. “The music you listen to…”
“It’s just rock music, that’s all.”
She lifted the small machine attached to his headphones. “MP3 player,” she commented, sounding impressed. “What about Douglas Brimson, ever see him at the parties?”
“Is he the guy who flies planes?” Siobhan nodded. “I spoke to him one time, yes.” He paused. “Look, these weren’t really ‘parties,’ not like the organized sort. It was just people dropping in, having a drink…”
“Doing drugs?” Rebus asked casually.
“Sometimes, yes,” James admitted.
“Speed? Coke? A bit of E?”
The teenager snorted. “A couple of joints passed round if you were lucky.”
“Nothing harder?”
“No.”
There was a knock at the door. It was Mrs. Bell. She looked at the two visitors as though she’d forgotten all about them. “Oh,” she said, confused for a moment. Then: “I’ve made some sandwiches, James. What would you like to drink?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“But it’s lunchtime.”
“Do you want me puking up, Mum?”
“No… of course not.”
“I’ll tell you when I’m hungry.” His voice had hardened: not because he was angry, Rebus thought, but because he was embarrassed. “But I’ll have a mug of coffee, not too much milk in it.”
“Right,” his mother said. Then, to Rebus: “Would you like a…?”
“We’re just on our way, thanks all the same, Mrs. Bell.” She nodded, stood for a moment as though forgetting what she’d been about to do, then turned and left, her feet making no sound on the carpet.
“Your mother’s all right, is she?” Rebus asked.
“Are you blind?” James shifted position. “A lifetime with my dad… it’s no wonder.”
“You don’t get on with your father?”
“Not particularly.”
“You know he’s started a petition?”
James screwed up his face. “Fat lot of good it’ll do.” He was silent for a moment. “Was it Teri Cotter?”
“What?”
“Was she the one who told you I went to Lee’s flat?” The detectives stayed silent. “Wouldn’t put it past her.” He shifted again, as if trying to get comfortable.
“Want me to help you?” Siobhan offered.
James shook his head. “I think I need some more painkillers.” Siobhan found them by the other side of the bed, sitting in their silver strip of foil on a readied chess board. She gave him two tablets, which he washed down with water.
“One more question, James,” Rebus said, “then we’ll leave you to it.”
“What?”
Rebus nodded towards the foil. “Mind if I nick a couple of tabs? I’ve run out…”
Siobhan had half a bottle of flat Irn-Bru in her car. Rebus took a mouthful after each tablet.
“Careful they don’t turn into a habit,” Siobhan said.
“What did you reckon to back there?” Rebus asked, changing the subject.
“He could be on to something. Combined Cadet Force… kids running around in uniforms.”
“He also said Herdman was kicked out of the army. Not true, according to his file.”
“So?”
“So either Herdman lied to him or young James made it up.”
“Active fantasy life?”
“You’d need one in a room like that.”
“It was certainly… tidy.” Siobhan started the engine. “You know what he was saying about Miss Teri?”
“He was right: it
“Yes, but more than that…”
“What?”
She put the car in gear and started off. “Just the way he spoke… You know that old thing about someone protesting too much?”
“Making out he doesn’t like her because he really likes her?” Siobhan nodded. “Reckon he knows about her little website?”
“I don’t know.” Siobhan finished her three-point turn.
“Should have asked him.”
“What’s this?” Siobhan asked, peering through the windshield. A patrol car, its blue light flashing, was blocking the entrance to the driveway. As Siobhan put the brakes on, the back door of the patrol car opened and a man in a gray suit got out. He was tall, with a shiny bald dome of a head and large, heavy-lidded eyes. He held his hands together in front of him, feet apart.
“Don’t worry,” Rebus told Siobhan. “It’s just my twelve o’clock appointment.”
“What appointment?”
“The one I never got round to making,” Rebus told her, opening his door and stepping out. Then he leaned back in. “With my own personal executioner…”
14
The bald man was named Mullen. He was from the Professional Standards Unit of the Complaints. Up close, his skin had a slightly scaly quality, not, Rebus thought, unlike that of his own blistered hands. His elongated earlobes had probably brought him a few Dumbo-sourced nicknames at school, yet it was his fingernails that fascinated Rebus. They were almost too perfect: pink and shiny and unridged, with just enough white cuticle. During the hourlong interview, Rebus was tempted more than once to add a question of his own and ask if Mullen ever visited a manicurist.
But in fact all he’d done was ask if he could get a drink. The aftertaste of James Bell’s painkillers lingered in his mouth. The tablets themselves had done their job-certainly better than the scabby wee pills he himself had been prescribed. Rebus was feeling at one with his world. He didn’t even mind that Assistant Chief Constable Colin Carswell, all haircut and eau de cologne, was sitting in on the interview. Carswell might hate his guts, but Rebus couldn’t find it in himself to blame him for it. Too much history between them for that. They were in an office at Police HQ on Fettes Avenue, and it was Carswell’s turn to have a go at him.
“What the hell did you think you were doing last night?”
“Last night, sir?”
“Jack Bell and that TV director. They’re both demanding an apology.” He wagged a finger at Rebus. “And you’re going to do it in person.”
