A Question of Blood

the knees so he was looking up into it. “Think again.” He paused. “But as it happens…” He straightened. “All I want is for the pair of us to go somewhere.”

“I’ve no’ done nothing,” the young man repeated.

“No need to fret… the cells are jam-packed at St. Leonard’s as it is.”

“So where are we going?”

“My treat.” Rebus nodded towards his Saab. “I’m going to park curbside. You pull in behind and wait for me. Got that? And I don’t want to see you with your mobile in your hand.”

“I’ve no’ -”

“Understood,” Rebus interrupted. “But you’re about to do something… and you’ll like it, I promise you.” He held up a finger, then retreated to his car. Evil Bob parked behind him, good as gold, and waited while Rebus got into the passenger seat, telling him he could drive.

“Drive where, though?”

“Toad Hall,” Rebus said, pointing towards the road ahead.

22

They’d missed the first half of the show, but their tickets for the second half were waiting at the Traverse box office. The audience comprised families, a busload of pensioners, and what looked like at least one school trip, the children wearing identical pale-blue jumpers. Rebus and Bob took their seats at the back of the auditorium.

“It’s not a panto,” Rebus told him, “but it’s the next best thing.” The lights were just going down for the second half. Rebus knew he’d read The Wind in the Willows as a kid, but couldn’t remember the story. Not that Bob seemed to mind. His caginess soon melted away as the lights illuminated the scenery and the actors bounded onstage. Toad was in jail as proceedings opened.

“Framed, no doubt,” Rebus whispered, but Bob wasn’t listening. He clapped and booed with the kids and by the climax-weasels put to flight by Toad and his allies-was on his feet, bellowing his support. He looked down at the still-seated Rebus and a huge grin spread across his face.

“Like I say,” Rebus offered as the houselights went up and kids began pouring out of the auditorium, “not quite pantomime, but you get the idea.”

“And this is all because of what I said that day?” With the play over, some of Bob’s mistrust was returning.

Rebus shrugged. “Maybe I just don’t see you as a natural-born weasel.”

Out in the foyer, Bob stopped, looking all around him, as though reluctant to leave.

“You can always come back,” Rebus told him. “Doesn’t have to be a special occasion.”

Bob nodded slowly, and allowed Rebus to lead him into the busy street. He already had his car keys out, but Rebus was rubbing his gloved hands together.

“A bag of chips?” he suggested. “Just to round the evening off…”

“I’m buying,” Bob was quick to stress. “You stumped up for the seats.”

“Well, in that case,” Rebus said, “I’m bumping my order to a fish supper.”

The chip shop was quiet: pubs hadn’t started emptying yet. They carried the warm, wrapped packages back to the car and got in, windows steaming up as they sat and ate. Bob gave a sudden, open-mouthed chuckle.

“Toad was an arse, wasn’t he?”

“Reminded me of your pal Peacock actually,” Rebus said. He’d removed his gloves so they wouldn’t get greasy, knew Bob wouldn’t see his hands in the dark. They’d bought cans of juice. Bob slurped from his, not saying anything. So Rebus tried again.

“I saw you earlier with Rab Fisher. What do you make of him?”

Bob chewed thoughtfully. “Rab’s okay.”

Rebus nodded. “Peacock thinks so, too, doesn’t he?”

“How would I know?”

“You mean he hasn’t said?”

Bob concentrated on his food, and Rebus knew he’d found the chink he was looking for. “Oh, aye,” he went on, “Rab’s rising in Peacock’s estimation all the time. Ask me, he’s just been lucky. See that time we busted him for the replica gun? Case got tossed, and that makes it look like Rab outwitted us.” Rebus shook his head, trying not to let thoughts of Andy Callis cloud his concentration. “But he didn’t, he just got lucky. When you’re lucky like that, though, people start to look up to you… They reckon you’re more sussed than others.” Rebus paused to let this sink in. “But I’ll tell you something, Bob, whether the guns are real or not isn’t the issue. The replicas look too good, no way for us to tell they’re not real. And that means sooner or later a kid’s going to get himself killed. And his blood’ll be on your hands.”

Bob had been licking ketchup from his fingers. He froze at the thought. Rebus took a deep breath and gave a sigh, leaning back against the headrest. “Way things are headed,” he added lightly, “Rab and Peacock are just going to get closer and closer…”

“Rab’s okay,” Bob repeated, but the words had a new hollowness to them.

“Good as gold, Rab is,” Rebus conceded. “He buy whatever you were selling?”

Bob gave him a look, and Rebus relented. “Okay, okay, none of my business. Let’s pretend you don’t have a gun or something wrapped in a blanket in your trunk.”

Bob’s face tightened.

“I mean it, son.” Rebus laying some stress on the son, wondering what sort of father Bob had known. “No good reason why you should open up to me.” He picked out another chip, dropped it into his mouth. Gave a satisfied grin. “Is there anything better than a good fish supper?”

“Cracking chips.”

“Almost like homemade.”

Bob nodded. “Peacock makes the best chips I know, crispy at the edges.”

“Peacock does a bit of cooking, eh?”

“Last time, we had to go before he’d finished…”

Rebus stared ahead as the young man crammed home more chips. He picked up his can and held it, just for something to do. His heart was pounding, felt like it was squeezing itself into his windpipe. He cleared his throat. “Marty’s kitchen, was it?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level. Bob nodded, scouring the corners of the carton for crumbs of batter. “I thought they’d fallen out over Rachel?”

“Yeah, but when Peacock got the phone call -” Bob stopped chewing, horror filling his eyes, realizing suddenly that this wasn’t just another chat with a pal.

“What phone call?” Rebus asked, allowing the chill to creep into his voice.

Bob was shaking his head. Rebus pushed open his door, snatched the keys from the ignition. Out of the car, scattering chips on the road, around to the back, opening the trunk.

Bob was next to him. “You can’t! You said…! You bloody said…!”

Rebus pushing aside the spare tire, revealing the gun, not wrapped in anything. A Walther PPK.

“It’s a replica,” Bob stuttered. Rebus felt its heft, gave it a good look.

“No, it’s not,” he hissed. “You know it and I know it, and that means you’re going to jail, Bob. Next night at the theater for you will be in five years’ time. Hope you enjoy it.” He kept one hand on the gun, placed the other on Bob’s shoulder. “What phone call?” he repeated.

“I don’t know.” Bob sniffing and trembling. “Just some guy in a pub… next thing, we’re in the car.”

“Some guy in a pub saying what?”

Shaking his head violently. “Peacock never said.”

“No?”

The head going from side to side, eyes suddenly tearful. Rebus gnawed at his bottom lip, looked around. Nobody was paying much attention: buses and taxis on Lothian Road, a bouncer in the doorway of a nightclub nine or ten doors up. Rebus wasn’t really seeing any of it, mind spinning.

Could have been any of the drinkers in the pub that night, spotting him having a long talk with Fairstone, the two men seeming too pally… thinking Peacock Johnson might be interested. Peacock, who’d once known Fairstone