Herdman thought…
“For personal use perhaps,” Claverhouse offered.
“Except he didn’t use.” Rebus blew smoke down his nostrils in Claverhouse’s direction.
“Maybe he had friends who did. I hear he used to host a few parties…”
“We’ve not spoken to anyone who says he gave them coke or Eckies.”
“As if they’d want to advertise the fact,” Claverhouse snorted. “Fact is, I’m astonished you can find anyone who’ll admit to having known the bastard.” He stared down at the bloodstained floor.
Ormiston ran a hand beneath his nose again, then let out a huge sneeze, further mottling the wall.
“Ormy, you insensitive bastard,” Rebus hissed.
“He’s not the one flicking ash on the floor,” Claverhouse growled.
“The smoke tickles my nose,” Ormiston was saying. Rebus had strode over to stand next to him. “That was somebody from my fucking family!” he snarled, pointing at the pattern of blood.
“I didn’t mean it.”
“What did you just say, John?” Hogan’s voice was a low rumble.
“Nothing,” Rebus said. But it was too late. Hogan was standing right beside him, sliding hands into pockets, expecting an explanation. “Allan Renshaw’s a cousin of mine,” Rebus admitted.
“And you didn’t feel that was information I might need to know?” Hogan’s face was puce with anger.
“Not really, Bobby, no.” Over Hogan’s shoulder, Rebus could see a huge grin spreading across Claverhouse’s narrow face.
Hogan removed his hands from his pockets, tried clenching them behind his back but found the maneuver unsatisfactory. Rebus knew where Bobby really wanted those hands. He wanted them around Rebus’s neck.
“It doesn’t change anything,” he argued. “Like you said, I’m here as an advisor, that’s all. We’re not building a court case, Bobby. No lawyer’s going to be able to use me as a technicality.”
“Bastard was a drug smuggler,” Claverhouse interrupted. “There must be associates out there for us to catch. One of them gets a bright enough lawyer…”
“Claverhouse,” Rebus said wearily. “Do the world a favor and”-his voice a sudden howl-“
Claverhouse started forwards, Rebus ready to meet him, Hogan stepping between them, though in the certain knowledge of being as useful as chocolate handcuffs. Ormiston’s role was spectator; no way he’d interrupt unless his partner was getting the worst of it.
“Phone call for DI Rebus!” A sudden shout from the open doorway, Siobhan standing there, holding out a mobile phone. “I think it’s urgent: the Complaints.”
Claverhouse stepped back, allowing Rebus clear passage. He even made a mocking motion with his arm, signaling “after you.” And the grin was back on his face. Rebus looked down to where Bobby Hogan still had a handful of the front of his suit jacket. Hogan let go, and Rebus walked to the doorway.
“Want to take it outside?” Siobhan suggested. Rebus nodded, held out his hand for the phone. But she was keeping it, walking with him all the way out of the building. She looked around, saw that they were at a safe distance, and held the phone out to him.
“Better make it look like you’re talking,” she warned. Rebus held the phone to his ear. Nothing there at all.
“No call?” he asked. She shook her head.
“Just thought you needed rescuing.”
He managed a smile, keeping the phone to his ear. “Bobby knows about the Renshaws.”
“I know. I heard.”
“Spying on me again?”
“Not much going on in the geography class.” They were heading towards the Portakabin. “So what do we do now?”
“Whatever it is, it better be away from here… give Bobby time to cool off.” Rebus looked back towards the school. Three figures were watching from the doorway.
“And Claverhouse and Ormiston time to crawl back under their rock?”
“You’re reading my mind.” He paused. “So what am I thinking now?”
“You’re thinking we could go for a drink.”
“This is uncanny.”
“And you’re also thinking of paying, as a way of saying thanks for saving your arse.”
“That is the incorrect answer. Still, as Meat Loaf used to say…” They’d reached her car. He handed back her phone. “Two out of three ain’t bad.”
15
So if no money turned up in Herdman’s bank,” Siobhan said, “we can scratch him as a hired killer.”
“Unless he turned the money into drugs,” Rebus replied, for the sake of argument. They were in the Boatman’s, drinking with the late-afternoon crowd. Suits and laborers who’d finished work for the day. Rod McAllister was behind the bar yet again. Rebus had asked jokingly if he was a permanent feature.
“Day shift,” McAllister had replied unsmilingly.
“You’re a real asset to the place,” Rebus had added, accepting his change.
Now he sat with a half-pint of beer and the remains of a glass of whiskey. Siobhan was drinking a garishly colored mixture of lime juice and soda.
“You really think Whiteread and Simms might have planted those drugs?”
Rebus shrugged. “There isn’t much I wouldn’t put past the likes of Whiteread.”
“Based on…?” He looked at her. “I mean,” she went on, “you’ve always stayed pretty tight-lipped about your army years.”
“Not the happiest of my life,” he admitted. “I saw guys broken by the system. Fact of the matter is, I only just about held on to my own sanity. When I left, I had a nervous breakdown.” Rebus swallowed back the memories. He thought of all the comfortable cliches: what’s done is done… you can’t go living in the past… “One guy-a guy I was close to-he went to pieces during the training. They turfed him out, but forgot to switch him off…” His voice trailed away.
“What happened?”
“He blamed me, came looking for revenge. Way before your time, Siobhan.”
“So you can understand why Herdman might lose it?”
“Maybe.”
“But you’re not sure he did, are you?”
“There are usually warning signs. Herdman wasn’t the archetypal loner. No arsenal in his home, just that one gun…” Rebus paused. “We could do with knowing when he got hold of it.”
“The gun?”
Rebus nodded. “Then we’d know whether he bought it with that one specific purpose.”
“Chances are, if he was smuggling drugs, he’d feel the need for some kind of protection. Might explain the Mac- 10 in the boathouse.” Siobhan was following the progress of a young blond woman who’d just entered the bar. The barman seemed to know her. He was pouring out her drink before she got to him. Bacardi and Coke, it looked like. No ice.
“Nothing came of all those interviews?” Rebus was asking.
Siobhan shook her head. He meant all the lowlifes and firearm merchants. “The Brocock wasn’t the most recent model. Thinking seems to be, he brought it north with him when he moved here. As for the machine gun, who knows?”
Rebus was thoughtful, Siobhan watching as Rod McAllister leaned on the bartop, resting his forearms there. Deep in conversation with the blonde… the blonde Siobhan knew from somewhere. He looked as contented as Siobhan had ever seen him, head tilted to one side. The woman was smoking, blowing ash-gray plumes ceilingwards.
“Do me a favor, will you?” Rebus asked suddenly. “Get on the phone to Bobby Hogan.”
