A Question of Blood

as a friend. Then the falling-out over Rachel Fox. And… And what? Peacock worried that Martin Fairstone had turned rat? Because Fairstone knew something Rebus might be interested in.

The question was, what?

“Bob.” Rebus’s voice all balm now, trying to soothe and calm. “It’s all right, Bob. Don’t worry about it. Nothing to worry about. I just need to know what Peacock wanted with Marty.”

Another shake of the head, not as violent now, resignation taking hold. “He’ll kill me,” he stated quietly. “That’s what he’ll do.” Staring at Rebus, eyes an accusation.

“Then you need me to help you, Bob. You need me to start being your friend. Because if you’ll let that happen, it’ll be Peacock in jail, not you. You’ll be right as rain.”

The young man paused, as though taking this in. Rebus wondered what a halfway decent defense counsel would do to him in court. They’d question his ability and his wits, argue that he didn’t make a competent witness.

But he was all Rebus had.

They drove the route back to Rebus’s car in silence. Bob parked his own car on a side road, then got into Rebus’s.

“Best if you kip at my place tonight,” Rebus explained. “That way we both know you’re safe.” Safe: a nice euphemism. “Tomorrow, we’ll have a chat, okay?” Chat: another euphemism. Bob nodded, not saying anything. Rebus found a parking space at the top of Arden Street, then led Bob down the sidewalk towards the tenement’s main door. Pushed the door open, and noticed the light in the stairwell wasn’t working. Realizing too late what it might mean… hands grabbing him by the lapels, hurling him against the wall. A knee sought his groin, but Rebus was wise to the move, twisted his lower half so the blow connected with his thigh. He thudded his own forehead into his attacker’s face, connecting with a cheekbone. One of the hands was at his throat, seeking the carotid artery. Pressure there, and Rebus would start to lose consciousness. He clenched his fists, went for kidney blows, but the attacker’s leather jacket took most of the brunt.

“There’s someone else,” a woman’s voice hissed.

“What?” The attacker was male, English.

“Someone’s with him!”

The pressure on Rebus’s throat eased, the attacker backing off. Sudden flashlight illuminated the half-open door, Bob standing there, mouth gaping.

“Shit!” Simms said.

Whiteread was carrying the flashlight. She shone it in Rebus’s face. “Sorry about that… Gavin can get a bit too zealous at times.”

“Apology accepted,” Rebus said, getting his breathing back under control. Then he swung a punch. But Simms was quick, dodged out of its way and held his own fists up.

“Boys, boys,” Whiteread chided them. “We’re not in the playground now.”

“Bob,” Rebus ordered, “up here!” He started climbing the stairs.

“We need to talk.” Whiteread spoke calmly, as though nothing had just happened. Bob was moving past her, making to follow Rebus.

“We really do need to talk!” she called, angling her head upwards, able to make out Rebus’s silhouette as he reached the first landing.

“Fine,” he said eventually. “But put the lights back on first.”

He unlocked his door, motioned Bob down the hall, showing him the kitchen and the bathroom, then the spare bedroom, single bed prepared for visitors who seldom came. He touched the radiator. It was cold. Crouched down and turned the thermostat.

“It’ll warm up soon enough.”

“What was going on back there?” Bob sounded curious, but not altogether concerned. A lifetime’s experience of keeping out of other people’s business.

“Nothing for you to worry about.” When Rebus stood again, blood rushed into his ears. He steadied himself. “Best if you wait in here while I talk to them. D’you want a book or something?”

“A book?”

“To read.”

“I’ve never been a great one for reading.” Bob sat down on the edge of the bed. Rebus could hear his front door closing, which meant Whiteread and Simms were in the hall.

“Just wait here, then, okay?” he told Bob. The young man nodded, studying the room as if it were a cell. Punishment rather than refuge.

“No TV?” he asked.

Rebus left the room without answering. Motioned with his head for Whiteread and Simms to follow him into the living room. The photocopy of Herdman’s file was on the dining table, but Rebus didn’t mind them seeing it. He poured himself a glass of malt, not bothering to share. Downed it as he stood by the window, where he could watch their reflections.

“Where did you get the diamond?” Whiteread began, holding her hands in front of her.

“That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” Rebus smiled to himself. “The reason Herdman took so many precautions… he knew you’d come back someday.”

“You found it on Jura?” Simms guessed. He looked calm, unruffled.

Rebus shook his head. “I just worked it out, that’s all. Knew if I waved a diamond at you, you’d start jumping to conclusions.” He raised his empty glass towards Simms. “Which you’ve just done… cheers for that.”

Whiteread narrowed her eyes. “We’ve confirmed nothing.”

“You came running here… confirmation enough in my book. Plus you were in Jura last year, failing to pass yourself off as a tourist.” Rebus poured himself another drink, took a sip. This one was going to last him. “Army brass, negotiating an end to hostilities in Northern Ireland… stood to reason there’d be a price attached. Paying off the paramilitaries. Those guys are greedy, weren’t about to go broke. The government was buying them off with diamonds. Only the stash went down with that helicopter, SAS sent on a mission to retrieve them. Armed to the teeth in case the terrorists came looking for them, too.” Rebus paused. “How am I doing so far?”

Whiteread hadn’t moved. Simms had seated himself on an arm of the sofa, picking up a discarded Sunday supplement, rolling it into a tube. Rebus pointed at him.

“Going to crush my windpipe, Simms? There’s a witness next door, remember.”

“Maybe just wishful thinking,” Simms answered, eyes burning, voice cold. Rebus turned his attention back to Whiteread, who was over by the table, one hand resting on Herdman’s personnel file. “Reckon you can curb your monkey’s zeal?”

“You were spinning us a story about diamonds,” she said, not about to have her attention deflected.

“I never saw Herdman as a drug smuggler,” Rebus continued. “Did you plant that stuff on his boat?” She shook her head slowly. “Well, someone did.” He thought for a moment, took another sip. “But all those trips across the North Sea… Rotterdam’s a good place to trade diamonds. Way I see it, Herdman found the diamonds but wasn’t about to own up to it. Either lifted them at the time or hid them and came back later, sometime after his sudden decision not to re-enlist. Now, the army’s wondering what did happen to that stash, and Herdman’s suddenly flagged himself up. He’s got some money, buys himself a boat business… but you can’t prove anything.” Paused to take another sip. “Reckon by now there’s much left, or has he spent it?” Rebus thought of the boats: paid for with cash… dollars, the currency of the diamond exchange. And of the diamond around Teri Cotter’s neck, which had proved the catalyst he’d been looking for. He’d given Whiteread time to answer, but she was staying quiet. “In which case,” he said, “your business here was damage control, make sure there’s nothing anyone’s going to find that would lift the lid on the whole thing. Every government says it: we don’t negotiate with terrorists. Maybe not, but we did once try buying them out… and wouldn’t that make a juicy story in the papers.” He stared at Whiteread above the rim of his glass. “That’s about it, isn’t it?”

“And the diamond?” she asked.

“Borrowed from a friend.”

She was silent for the best part of a minute, Rebus content to bide his time, thinking that if he hadn’t brought Bob home… well, things might not have gone nearly as well for him. He could still feel Simms’s fingers around his