A Question of Blood

“I was a mind-reader in a previous life.”

“I mean it, John: how did you know?”

“See? I knew you were going to ask that.” Rebus decided to put Hogan out of his misery. “Miss Teri is Teri Cotter. She’s a pupil at Port Edgar.”

“And doing porn on the side?”

“Her site’s not porn, Bobby…” Rebus broke off, but too late.

“You’ve seen it?”

“A webcam in her room,” Rebus admitted. “Seems to run twenty-four hours a day.” He winced, realizing again that he’d said too much.

“And how long have you spent watching it, just so you could be sure?”

“I’m not certain it’s got anything to do with -”

Hogan ignored him. “I need to go to Claverhouse with this.”

“No, you don’t.”

“John, if Herdman was obsessed with this girl…”

“If you’re going to interview her, I want to be there.”

“I don’t think you -”

“I gave you this, Bobby!” Rebus looked around, realizing his voice had risen. He was seated at a communal counter beside the window. He caught two young women, office workers on a break, just as they averted their eyes. How long had they been eavesdropping? Rebus lowered his voice. “I need to be there. Promise me that, Bobby.”

Hogan’s voice softened a little. “For what it’s worth, I promise. Doesn’t mean Claverhouse will be so accommodating.”

“Sure you have to go to him with this?”

“What do you mean?”

“The two of us, Bobby, we could talk to her…”

“That’s not how I work, John.” The tone stiffening again.

“I suppose not, Bobby.” Rebus had a thought. “Is Siobhan there?”

“I thought she’d be with you.”

“No matter. You’ll let me know about that interview?”

“Yes.” The word dissolving into a sigh.

“Cheers, Bobby. I owe you.” Rebus ended the call and walked away from what was left of his coffee. Outside, he lit another cigarette. The office girls were in a huddle, cupping hands to their mouths, maybe in case he could lip-read. They tried not to make eye contact with him. He blew smoke at the window and headed back to the library.

Siobhan had got to St. Leonard’s early, done some work in the gym, and then headed to the CID suite. There was a large walk-in closet where old case notes were stored, but when she examined the spines of the brown cardboard document boxes, she realized one was missing. In its place was a slip of paper.

Martin Fairstone. Removed by order. Gill Templer’s signature.

Stood to reason. Fairstone’s death was no accident. A murder investigation was being instigated, linked to an internal inquiry. Templer would have removed the file so it could be passed on to whoever needed it. Siobhan closed the door again and locked it, then went into the corridor and listened at Gill Templer’s door. Nothing but the distant trill of a telephone. She looked up and down the hall. There were bodies in the CID suite: DC Davie Hynds, and “Hi-Ho” Silvers. Hynds was still too new to query anything she might do, but if Silvers spotted her…

She took a deep breath, knocked and waited, then turned the handle and pushed.

The door wasn’t locked. She closed it behind her and tiptoed across her boss’s office. There was nothing on the desk itself, and the drawers weren’t big enough. She stared at the green four-drawer filing cabinet.

“In for a penny,” she told herself, sliding open the top compartment. There was nothing inside. Plenty of paperwork in the other three, but not what she was looking for. She exhaled noisily and took another look around. Who was she kidding? There were no hiding places here. It was as utilitarian a space as was feasible. Once upon a time, Templer had nurtured a couple of plants on the windowsill, but even those had gone, either killed by neglect or thrown away during a sort-out. Templer’s predecessor had lined his desk with framed photos of his extended family, but there was nothing here even to identify the occupant as a woman. Confident that she hadn’t missed anything, Siobhan opened the door, only to find a frowning man standing there.

“The very person I wanted to see,” he said.

“I was just…” Siobhan glanced back into the room as if seeking a believable end to the sentence she’d started.

“DCS Templer’s in a meeting,” the man explained.

“I’d gathered as much,” Siobhan said, regaining control of her voice. She clicked the door shut.

“By the way,” the man was saying, “my name’s -”

“Mullen.” Siobhan straightened her back, bringing her to within a few inches of his height.

“Of course,” Mullen said, displaying the thinnest of smiles. “You were DI Rebus’s driver the day I managed to run him to ground.”

“And now you want to ask me about Martin Fairstone?” Siobhan guessed.

“That’s right.” He paused. “Always supposing you can spare me a few minutes.”

Siobhan shrugged and smiled, as if to say that she could think of nothing more pleasant.

“If you’ll follow me, then,” Mullen said.

As they passed the open door of the CID suite, Siobhan glanced in and saw that Silvers and Hynds were standing side by side. Both were holding their neckties above their heads, necks twisted, as though they were swinging from a noose.

The last they saw of their victim was her raised middle finger as it disappeared from view.

She followed the Complaints officer as he descended the staircase and, just before reaching the reception area, unlocked the door to Interview Room 1.

“I assume you had a good reason to be in DCS Templer’s office,” he said, sliding out of his suit jacket and placing it over the back of one of the room’s two chairs. Siobhan sat down, watching him as he took his seat opposite, the chipped and ink-stained desk between them. Mullen leaned down and lifted a cardboard box from the floor.

“Yes, I had,” she said, watching him prize open the lid. The first thing she saw was a photo of Martin Fairstone, taken shortly after his arrest. Mullen took the picture out and held it in front of her. She couldn’t help noticing that his nails were immaculate.

“Do you think this man deserved to die?”

“I’ve no real opinion,” she said.

“This is just between us, you understand?” Mullen lowered the photo a little so that the top half of his face appeared above it. “No taping, no third parties… all very discreet and informal.”

“Is that why you took your jacket off, trying for informality?”

He chose not to answer. “I’ll ask you again, DS Clarke, did this man deserve his fate?”

“If you’re asking me if I wanted him dead, the answer is ‘no.’ I’ve come across plenty of scumbags worse than Martin Fairstone.”

“You’d class him as what, then: a minor irritation?”

“I wouldn’t bother classifying him at all.”

“He died horribly, you know. Waking up to those flames and the choking smoke, trying to wrestle his way free from the chair… Not the way I’d choose to leave this life.”

“I’d guess not.”

They locked eyes, and Siobhan knew that any moment now he would get to his feet, start walking around, trying to unnerve her. She beat him to it, her chair scraping the floor as she rose. Arms folded, she walked to the farthest wall so that her interrogator had to turn around to see her.

“You look like you might make the grade, DS Clarke,” Mullen said. “Inspector within five years, maybe chief inspector before you’re forty… that gives you a whole ten years to catch up on DCS Templer.” He paused for effect. “All of that waiting for you, if you manage to steer clear of trouble.”