killed in the actual conflict. A lot of homeless people are ex-forces…”
“On the other hand,” Rebus said, “the SAS is big business these days. You can sell your story to a publisher, sell your services as a bodyguard. Way I hear it, all four SAS squadrons are below quota. Too many are leaving. Suicide rate’s lower than the average, too.”
Brimson didn’t appear to be listening. “One guy jumped out of a plane a few years back… maybe you heard about that, too. Recipient of the QGM.”
“Queen’s Gallantry Medal,” Rebus explained, for Siobhan’s benefit.
“Tried stabbing his ex-wife, thinking she was trying to kill him. Suffered from depression… Couldn’t take it anymore, went into freefall, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
“It happens,” Rebus said. He was remembering the book in Herdman’s flat, the one Teri’s photo had fallen from.
“Oh, it happens all right,” Brimson was continuing. “The SAS chaplain who took part in the Iranian embassy siege, he ended up committing suicide. Another ex-SAS man shot his girlfriend with a gun he’d brought back from the Gulf War.”
“And something similar happened to Lee Herdman?” Siobhan asked.
“Seems like,” Brimson said.
“Why pick on that school, though?” Rebus continued. “You went to a few of his parties, didn’t you, Mr. Brimson?”
“He threw a good party.”
“Always used to be plenty of teenagers hanging around.”
Brimson turned again. “Is that a question or a comment?”
“Ever see any drugs?”
Brimson seemed to be concentrating on the control panel in front of him. “Maybe a bit of pot,” he finally conceded.
“Is that as strong as it got?”
“It’s as much as I saw.”
“Not quite the same thing. Did you ever hear a rumor that Lee Herdman might be dealing?”
“No.”
“Or smuggling?”
Brimson looked towards Siobhan. “Shouldn’t I have a solicitor present?”
She gave a reassuring smile. “I think the detective inspector’s just making conversation.” She turned to Rebus. “Isn’t that right?” Her eyes telling Rebus to go easy.
“That’s right,” he said. “Just a bit of chat.” He tried not to think about the hours of lost sleep, his stinging hands, Andy Callis’s death. Concentrated instead on the view from his window, the changing landscape. They’d be over Glasgow soon, and then out into the Firth of Clyde, Bute and Kintyre…
“So you never associated Lee Herdman with drugs?” he asked.
“I never saw him with anything stronger than a joint.”
“That’s not exactly answering my question. What would you say if I told you drugs had been found on one of Herdman’s boats?”
“I’d say it’s none of my business. Lee was a friend, Inspector. Don’t expect me to play along with whatever game it is you’re -”
“Some of my colleagues think he was smuggling cocaine and Ecstasy into the country,” Rebus stated.
“It’s not my problem what your colleagues think,” Brimson muttered, sinking into silence.
“I saw your car on Cockburn Street last week,” Siobhan said, trying for a change of subject. “Just after I’d been out to Turnhouse to see you.”
“I’d probably stopped off at the bank.”
“This was past closing time.”
Brimson was thoughtful. “Cockburn Street?” Then he nodded to himself. “Some friends have got a shop there. I think I popped in.”
“Which shop is it?”
He looked at her. “It’s not really a shop as such. One of those tanning places.”
“Owned by Charlotte Cotter?” Brimson looked amazed. “We interviewed the daughter. She’s a pupil at the school.”
“Right.” Brimson nodded. He’d been flying with a headset on, one of the ear protectors pushed away from his ear. But now he fixed it on and angled the mike towards his mouth. “Go ahead, Tower,” he said. Then he listened as the control tower at Glasgow Airport told him which route to take so as to avoid an incoming flight. Rebus was staring at the back of Brimson’s head, thinking to himself that Teri hadn’t mentioned him being a friend of the family… hadn’t sounded as if she liked him at all…
The Cessna banked steeply, Rebus trying not to grip his armrest too tightly. A minute later, they were passing over Greenock, and then the short stretch of water that separated it from Dunoon. The countryside below was growing wilder: more forests, fewer settlements. They crossed Loch Fyne and were out into the Sound of Jura. The wind seemed to pick up almost immediately, buffeting the plane.
“I’ve not been this way before,” Brimson admitted. “Looked at the charts last night. Just the one road, up the eastern side of the island. Bottom half’s mostly forest and some decent peaks.”
“And the landing strip?” Siobhan asked.
“You’ll see.” He turned to Rebus again. “Ever read any poetry, Inspector?”
“Do I look the type?”
“Frankly, no. I’m a great fan of Yeats. There’s a poem of his I was reading the other night: ‘I know that I shall meet my fate / Somewhere among the clouds above; / Those that I fight I do not hate, / Those that I guard I do not love.’” He looked at Siobhan. “Isn’t that the saddest thing?”
“You think Lee felt that way?” she asked.
He shrugged. “The poor bastard who jumped out of the plane did.” He paused. “Know what the poem’s called? ‘An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.’” Another glance at the instrument panel. “This is us over Jura now.”
Siobhan looked out on to wilderness. The plane made a tight circuit, and she could see the coastline again and a road running alongside it. As the plane made its descent, Brimson seemed to be checking the road for something… some marker perhaps.
“I don’t see anywhere to land,” Siobhan said. But she noticed a man, who appeared to be waving both arms at them. Brimson took the plane back up, and made a further circuit.
“Any traffic?” he said, as they flew low over the road once more. Siobhan thought he must be talking to someone on the mike, some tower somewhere. But then she realized he was talking to her. And by “traffic” he meant on the road beneath.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said, turning to see if Rebus shared her disbelief, but he seemed to be concentrating on guiding the plane down by willpower alone. The wheels rumbled as they hit the tarmac, the plane bouncing once as if straining to be airborne again. Brimson had his teeth clenched but was smiling, too. He turned to Siobhan as if in triumph, and taxied along the highway towards the waiting man, the man who was still waving his arms, and now guiding the small plane through an open gateway, leading to a field of stubble. They bumped over the ruts. Brimson cut the engines and slid off his headphones.
There was a house next to the field, and a woman standing there watching them, nursing a baby. Siobhan opened her door, undid her selt belt and leapt out. The ground felt as if it were vibrating, but she realized it was her body, still shaken up from the flight.
“I’ve never landed on a road before,” a grinning Brimson was telling the man.
“It was that or the field,” the man said, in a thick accent. He was tall and muscular, with curly brown hair and bright pink cheeks. “I’m Rory Mollison.” He shook Brimson’s hand, then was introduced to Siobhan. Rebus, who was lighting a cigarette, nodded but didn’t offer his own hand. “You found the place all right, then,” Mollison said, as if they’d arrived by car.
“As you can see,” Siobhan said.
“Thought it would work,” Mollison said. “The SAS guys landed by helicopter. It was their pilot who told me the road would make a good landing strip. No potholes, you see.”
“He was right,” Brimson said.
