A Question of Blood

Mollison was the rescue team’s “local guide.” When Siobhan had asked her favor of Brimson-a plane ride to Jura-he’d asked if she knew anywhere they could land. Rebus had passed along Mollison’s name…

Siobhan waved at the woman, who waved back with no real enthusiasm.

“My wife, Mary,” Mollison said. “And our little one, Seona. Are you coming in for some tea?”

Rebus made a show of looking at his watch. “Best if we get started, actually.” He turned to Brimson. “You’ll be all right here till we get back?”

“What do you mean?”

“We should only be a few hours…”

“Hang on, I’m coming, too. I don’t suppose Mrs. Mollison wants me moping around here. And after flying you here, I don’t see how you can turn me down.”

Rebus looked to Siobhan, then conceded with a shrug.

“You’ll want to come in and get changed,” Mollison was saying. Siobhan lifted her backpack and nodded.

“Changed?” Rebus echoed.

“Climbing gear.” Mollison looked him up and down. “Is that all you’ve brought?”

Rebus shrugged. Siobhan had opened her own pack to show hiking boots, cagoule, and canteen. “A regular Mary Poppins,” Rebus commented.

“You can borrow from me,” Mollison assured him, leading the three visitors towards the house.

“You’re not a professional guide, then?” Siobhan asked. Mollison shook his head.

“But I know this island like the back of my hand. I must have traversed every square inch of it these past twenty years.” They had taken Mollison’s Land Rover as far as they could along muddy logging tracks, bumpy enough to shake the fillings from their teeth. Mollison was a skilled driver; either that or a madman. There were times when there seemed to be no track at all, and they were pitching wildly across the moss-covered forest floor, dropping down a gear to pass over rocky outcrops or through streams. But eventually even he had to concede defeat. It was time for them to walk.

Rebus was wearing a venerable pair of climbing boots whose leather had turned implacably hard, making it difficult for him to bend his feet at the toes. He had on waterproof trousers, splattered with old mud, and an oily Barbour jacket. With the car engine turned off, silence had returned to the woods.

“Ever see the first Rambo film?” Siobhan asked in a whisper. Rebus didn’t think she was expecting an answer. He turned to Brimson instead.

“What made you leave the RAF?”

“I just got tired of it, I suppose. Tired of taking orders from people I didn’t respect.”

“What about Lee? Did he ever say why he left the SAS?”

Brimson shrugged. His eyes were on the ground, watching for roots and puddles. “Much the same thing, I’d guess.”

“But he never spelled it out?”

“No.”

“So what did the two of you find to talk about?”

Brimson glanced up at him. “Plenty of things.”

“He was easy to get along with? No fallings-out?”

“We might have argued about politics once or twice… the way the world was headed. Nothing to make me think he was about to go off the rails. I’d have helped him if he’d hinted.”

Rails: Rebus thought of that word, saw Andy Callis’s body being hauled up from the railway tracks. He wondered if his visits had helped, or had they merely been painful reminders of everything the man had lost? Then he remembered how Siobhan had been about to say something in the car last night. Maybe to do with why he felt he had to get involved in all these other lives… not always for the best.

“How far are we going?” Brimson was asking Mollison.

“Maybe an hour’s hike, the same back.” Mollison had a knapsack slung over one shoulder. He looked at his companions, eyes lingering on Rebus. “Actually,” he corrected himself, “maybe an hour and a half.”

Rebus had already told Brimson part of the story back at the house, asking if Herdman had ever mentioned the mission to him. Brimson had shaken his head.

“I remember it from the papers, though. People thought the IRA had blown the chopper out of the skies.”

Now, as they commenced the climb, Mollison was talking. “That’s what they told me we were looking for: evidence of a missile attack.”

“So they weren’t interested in finding the bodies?” Siobhan asked. She had changed into thick socks, tucking her trouser bottoms into them. The boots looked new, or if not new, then seldom worn.

“Oh, I think there was that, too. But they were more interested in why the crash happened.”

“How many of them were there?” Rebus asked.

“Half a dozen.”

“And they came straight to you.”

“I daresay they spoke to someone from Mountain Rescue, who told them I was as good a guide as they were going to get.” He paused. “Not that there’s much in the way of competition.” He paused again. “They made me sign the Official Secrets Act.”

Rebus stared at him. “Before or after?”

Mollison scratched behind one ear. “Right at the start. They said it was standard procedure.” He looked at Rebus. “Does that mean I shouldn’t be talking to you?”

“I don’t know… Did you find anything you think needs to be kept secret?”

Mollison considered his answer, then shook his head.

“Then it’s all right,” Rebus told him. “Probably just procedure after all.” Mollison set off again, Rebus keen to keep by his side, though the boots seemed to have other ideas. “Has anyone been here since?” Rebus asked.

“We get plenty of walkers in the summer.”

“I meant from the army.”

Mollison’s hand went to his ear again. “There was one woman, middle of last year, I think it was… maybe more than that. She was trying to look like a tourist.”

“But not quite pulling it off?” Rebus suggested, going on to describe Whiteread.

“You’ve got her to a T,” Mollison admitted. Rebus and Siobhan shared a look.

“It may just be me,” Brimson said, pausing to catch his breath, “but what has any of this got to do with what Lee did?”

“Maybe nothing,” Rebus conceded. “But the exercise will do us good, all the same.”

As the walk continued, all of it uphill now, they fell quiet, saving energy. Eventually they emerged from the forest. The steep slope directly in front of them boasted only a few stunted trees. Grass, heather and bracken were broken by jagged stumps of rock. No more walking: if they wanted to go any farther, it would be by climbing. Rebus craned his neck, seeking the distant summit.

“Don’t worry,” Mollison said, “we’re not going up there.” He pointed upwards. “Helicopter hit the rock face about halfway to the top, came tumbling down here.” He waved an arm in the direction of the area around them. “It was a big helicopter. Looked to me like it had too many propellers.”

“It was a Chinook,” Rebus explained. “Two sets of rotor blades, one lot at the front, one at the back.” He looked at Mollison. “There must’ve been a lot of debris.”

“There was that. And the bodies… well, they were all over. One stuck on a ledge a hundred meters up. Myself and another fellow brought him down. They brought in a salvage team to take away what wreckage there was. But they had someone here to examine it. He didn’t find anything.”

“Meaning it wasn’t a missile?”

Mollison shook his head in agreement. He pointed back towards the tree line. “A lot of papers had been blown about. Mostly they were scouring the woods for them. Some of the sheets were stuck up trees. Would you believe they shinnied up to fetch them?”

“Did anyone say why?”

Mollison shook his head again. “Not officially, but when the guys stopped to boil a brew-they were always doing that-I’d hear what they were saying. The helicopter was on its way to Ulster, majors and colonels onboard. Had to be carrying documents they didn’t want the terrorists to see. Might explain why they were carrying guns.”