A Question of Blood

taxi ride.

He walked down the dark vennel, pushing open the main door. There was no police guard anymore, no one checking the comings and goings at Lee Herdman’s address. Rebus climbed the stairs, listening for noise from the other two flats. He thought he could hear a TV set. Certainly he could smell the aftermath of an evening meal. A growl from his stomach reminded him that he maybe should have tried to eat more of the pork, and hang the pain. He took out the key to Herdman’s flat, the one he’d picked up at the station in Leith. It was a shiny, brand-new copy of the original and took a bit of maneuvering before it would meet with the tumblers, opening the door for him. Once inside, he closed the door behind him and switched on the hall light. The place was cold. Electricity hadn’t been disconnected yet, but someone had thought to turn off the central heating. Herdman’s widow had been asked if she would come north to empty the flat of its contents, but she had declined. What could that bastard have that I’d possibly want?

A good question, and one Rebus was here to consider. Lee Herdman assuredly had had something. Something people had wanted. He studied the back of the door. Bolts top and bottom, and two mortise locks as well as the Yale. The mortises would deter housebreakers, but the bolts were for when Herdman was at home. What had he been so afraid of? Rebus folded his arms and took a few steps back. There was one obvious answer to his question. The drug-dealing Herdman had been afraid of a bust. Rebus had encountered plenty of dealers over the course of his career. Usually they lived in high-rise public housing apartments, and their doors were steel-plated, offering considerably more resistance than Herdman’s. It seemed to Rebus that Herdman’s security measures were there to buy him a certain amount of time, and nothing more. Time, perhaps, to flush the evidence, but Rebus didn’t think so. There was nothing about the flat to suggest that it had been used at any time as a drug factory. Besides, Herdman could boast so many other hiding places: the boathouse, the boats themselves. He had no need to use his flat for storage. What then? Rebus turned and walked into the living room, seeking and finding the light switch.

What then?

He tried to think of himself as Herdman, then realized he didn’t need to. Hadn’t Siobhan hinted as much? I think you’re a lot like Lee Herdman. He closed his eyes, saw the room he was standing in as his own. This was his domain. He was in charge here. But say someone wanted in… some uninvited guest. He would hear them. Maybe they would try picking the locks, but the bolts would do them in. So then they’d have to shoulder the door. And he’d have time… time to fetch the gun from wherever it was hidden. The Mac-10 was kept in the boathouse, in case anyone came there. The Brocock was kept right here, in the wardrobe, surrounded by pictures of guns. Herdman’s little gun shrine. The pistol would give him the upper hand, because he didn’t expect the visitors to be armed. They might have questions, might want to take him away, but the Brocock would deter them.

Rebus knew who Herdman had been expecting: maybe not Simms and Whiteread exactly, but people like them. People who might want to take him away for questioning… questions about Jura, the helicopter crash, the papers fluttering from the trees. Something Herdman had taken from the crash site, could one of the kids have stolen it from him? Maybe at one of his parties? But the dead boys hadn’t known him, hadn’t come to his parties. Only James Bell, the sole survivor. Rebus sat down in Herdman’s armchair, his palms resting against its arms. Shooting the other two in order to scare James? So that James would tell all? No, no, no, because then why would Herdman turn the gun on himself? James Bell… so self-contained and apparently unperturbable… flicking through gun magazines to study the model that had wounded him. He, too, was an interesting specimen.

Rebus rubbed his forehead softly with one gloved hand. He felt close to an answer, so close he could taste it. He stood up again, walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge. There was food in there: an unopened packet of cheese, some slices of bacon and a box of eggs. Dead man’s food, he thought, I can’t eat it. He went to the bedroom instead. Not bothering this time with the light: enough was spilling through the open doorway.

Who was Lee Herdman? A man who’d abandoned career and family to head north. Starting a one-man enterprise, living in a one-bedroom flat. Settling by the coast, his boats providing a means of escape whenever necessary. No close relationships. Brimson was about the only friend he seemed to have who was near his own age. He coveted teenagers instead: because they wouldn’t be hiding anything from him; because he knew he could deal with them; because they’d be impressed by him. But not just any kids: they had to be outsiders, had to be cut from similar cloth… It struck Rebus that Brimson seemed to run a one-man show, too, and had few ties, if any at all. Spent as much time as he liked at one remove from the world. Ex-services, too.

Suddenly, Rebus heard a tapping. He froze, trying to place it. Coming from downstairs? No: the front door. Someone was knocking at the door. Rebus padded back down the hall and put his eye to the peephole. Recognized the face and opened up.

“Evening, James,” he said. “Nice to see you back on your feet.”

It took James Bell a moment to place Rebus. He slowly nodded a greeting, looking past his shoulder and down the hall.

“I saw lights on, wondered if anyone was here.”

Rebus pulled the door open a little wider. “Coming in?”

“Is it all right…?”

“There’s nobody else here.”

“I just thought… maybe you’re doing a search or something.”

“Nothing like that.” Rebus gestured with his head, and James Bell walked in. His left arm was in its sling, his right hand cradling it. A long black woolen Crombie-style coat was draped around his shoulders, flapping to show its crimson lining. “What brings you here?”

“I was just walking…”

“You’re a ways from home, though.”

James looked at him. “You’ve been to my house… maybe you can understand.”

Rebus nodded, closing the door again. “Putting a bit of distance between your mum and yourself?”

“Yes.” James was looking around the hall, as if seeing it for the first time. “And my dad.”

“Keeping busy, is he?”

“God knows.”

“I don’t think I ever got round to asking…” Rebus said.

“What?”

“How many times you’ve been here.”

James shrugged with his right shoulder. “Not that many.” Rebus was leading the way to the living room.

“You still haven’t said why you’re here.”

“I thought I had.”

“Not in so many words.”

“I suppose South Queensferry seemed as good a place as any for a walk.”

“You didn’t walk here from Barnton though.”

James shook his head. “I was hopping buses, just for the hell of it. One of them ended up bringing me here. When I saw the lights…”

“You wondered who was here? Who were you expecting to find?”

“Police, I suppose. Who else would be here?” He was studying the room. “Actually, there was one thing…”

“Yes?”

“A book of mine. Lee borrowed it, and I thought I might retrieve it before everything gets… well, before the place is emptied.”

“Good thinking.”

James’s hand went to his injured shoulder. “Bloody thing itches, if you can believe that.”

“I can believe it.”

James smiled suddenly. “I’m at a bit of a disadvantage here… I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

“It’s Rebus. Detective Inspector.”

The young man nodded. “My dad’s mentioned you.”

“Casting me in a flattering light, no doubt.” It was hard to meet the son’s eyes without being tricked into seeing the father peering from behind them.

“I’m afraid he sees incompetence wherever he looks… kith and kin not excluded.”