neck… throat tight when he swallowed the whiskey.
“Has Steve Holly been back in touch?” Rebus asked into the silence. “See, anything happens to me, all of this goes to him.”
“You think that’s enough to protect you?”
“Shut up, Gavin!” Whiteread snapped. Slowly, she folded her arms. “What are you going to do?” she asked Rebus.
He shrugged. “It’s none of my business, far as I can see. No reason I should do anything, provided you can keep monkey boy here on his chain.”
Simms had risen to his feet, a hand reaching inside his jacket. Whiteread spun around and slapped his arm away. The move was so fast, if Rebus had blinked he’d have missed it.
“What I want,” he said quietly, “is for the pair of you to be gone by morning. Otherwise, I have to start thinking about talking to my friend from the fourth estate.”
“How do we know we can trust you?”
Rebus gave another shrug. “I don’t think either of us wants it in writing.” He put down his glass. “Now, if we’re all through, I’ve got a guest I need to see to.”
Whiteread looked towards the door. “Who is he?”
“Don’t worry, he’s not the talkative kind.”
She nodded slowly, then made as if to leave.
“One thing, Whiteread?” She paused, turned her head to face him. “Why do you think Herdman did it?”
“Because he was greedy.”
“I meant, why did he walk into that classroom?”
Her eyes seemed to gleam. “Why should I care?” And with that she walked from the room. Simms was still staring at Rebus, who gave him a cheeky wave before turning to face the window again. Simms drew the automatic pistol from his jacket and took aim at the back of Rebus’s head. Made a soft whistling sound between his teeth and then put the gun back in its holster.
“One day,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You won’t know when or where, but I’ll be the last face you see.”
“Great,” Rebus exhaled, not bothering to turn around. “I get to spend my last moments on earth staring at a complete arsehole.”
He listened to the footsteps retreat down the hall, the slamming shut of the door. Went to the doorway to check they’d really gone. Bob was standing just outside the kitchen.
“Made myself a mug of tea. You’re out of milk, by the way.”
“The servants are on their day off. Try to get some shut-eye. Long day ahead.” Bob nodded and went to his room, closing the door after him. Rebus poured himself a third drink, definitely the last. Sat down heavily in his armchair, stared at the rolled-up magazine on the sofa opposite. Almost imperceptibly, it was starting to uncurl. He thought of Lee Herdman, tempted by the diamonds, burying them, then walking out of the woods with a shrug of his shoulders. But maybe feeling guilty afterwards, and fearful, too. Because the suspicion would linger. He’d probably been interviewed, interrogated, maybe even by Whiteread. The years might pass, but the army would never forget. Last thing they liked was a loose end, especially one that could turn as if by magic into a loose cannon. That fear, pressing down on him, so that he kept friends to a minimum… kids were all right, kids couldn’t be his pursuers in disguise… Doug Brimson was apparently okay, too… All those locks, trying to shut out the world. Little wonder he snapped.
But to snap the way he did? Rebus still didn’t get it, couldn’t see it as plain jealousy.
James Bell, photographing Miss Teri on Cockburn Street…
Derek Renshaw and Anthony Jarvies, logging on to her website…
Teri Cotter, curious about death, ex-soldier for a lover…
Renshaw and Jarvies, close friends; different from Teri, different from James Bell. Jazz fans, not metal; dressing in their combat uniforms and parading at school, playing sports. Not like Teri Cotter.
Not at all like James Bell.
And when it came down to it, what, apart from their forces background, did Herdman and Doug Brimson have in common? Well, for a start, both knew Teri Cotter. Teri with Herdman, her mother seeing Brimson. Rebus imagined it as a weird sort of dance, the kind where you kept swapping partners. He rested his face in his hands, blocking out the light, smelling glove leather mixing with the fumes from his whiskey glass as the dancers spun around in his head.
When he blinked his eyes open again, the room was a blur. Wallpaper came into focus first, but he could see bloodstains in his mind, classroom blood.
Two fatal shots, one wounding.
No:
“No.” He realized he’d said the word out loud. Two fatal shots, one wounding. Then another fatal shot.
Blood spraying the walls and floor.
Blood everywhere.
Blood, with its own stories to tell…
He’d poured the fourth whiskey without thinking, raised the glass to his lips before he caught himself. Tipped it back carefully into the neck of the bottle, pushed the stopper home. Went so far as to replace the bottle on the mantelpiece.
Blood, with its own stories to tell.
He picked up his phone. Didn’t think there’d be anyone at the forensics lab this time of night, but made the call anyway. You never could tell: some of them had their own little obsessions, their own little puzzles to solve. Not because the case demanded it, or even out of a sense of professional pride, but for their own, more private needs.
Like Rebus, they found it hard to let go. He no longer knew if this was a good or a bad thing; it was just the way it was. The phone was ringing, no one answering.
“Lazy bastards,” he muttered to himself. Then he noticed Bob’s head, peeping around the door.
“Sorry,” the young man said, shuffling into the room. He’d taken his coat off. Baggy gray T-shirt beneath, showing flabby, hairless arms. “Can’t really settle.”
“Sit down if you like.” Rebus nodded towards the sofa. Bob took a seat, but looked awkward. “TV’s there if you want it.”
Bob nodded, but his eyes were wandering. He saw the shelves of books, walked over to take a look. “Maybe I’ll…”
“Help yourself, take anything you fancy.”
“That show we saw… you said it’s based on a book?”
Rebus’s turn to nod. “I’ve not got a copy, though.” He listened to the ringing tone for another fifteen seconds, then gave up.
“Sorry if I’m interrupting,” Bob said. He still hadn’t touched any of the books, seemed to be regarding them as some rare species, to be stared at but not handled.
“You’re not.” Rebus got to his feet. “Just wait here a minute.” He went into the hall, unlocked a closet door. There were cardboard boxes high up, and he lifted one down. Some of his daughter’s old stuff… dolls and paint boxes, postcards and bits of rock picked up on seaside walks. He thought of Allan Renshaw. Thought of the ties which should have bound the two of them, ties too easily loosed. Allan with his boxes of photographs, his attic store of memories. Rebus put the box back, brought down the one next to it. Some of his daughter’s old books: little Ladybird offerings, some paperbacks with the covers scribbled on or half torn off, and a favored few hardcovers. Yes, here it was: green dust jacket, yellow spine with a drawing of Mr. Toad. Someone had added a speech bubble and in it the words “poop-poop.” He didn’t know if the handwriting was his daughter’s or not. Thought again of his cousin Allan, trying to put names to the long-dead faces in the photos.
Rebus put the box back where he’d found it, locked the cupboard, and took the book into the living room.
“Here you go,” he told Bob, handing it over. “Now you can find out what we missed in the first act.”
Bob seemed pleased but held the book warily, as if unsure how best to treat it. Then he retreated back to his room. Rebus stood by the window, staring out at the night, wondering if he, too, had missed something… not in the play, but right back at the start of the case.
