A Question of Blood

“Have you ever sailed?” he asked Siobhan.

“I’ve been on a few ferries.”

“I meant on a yacht. You know, hoisting the spi

She looked at him. “Is that what you do with a spi

“Buggered if I know.” Rebus looked up. They were passing beneath the Forth Road Bridge, the marina down a narrow road just past the huge concrete stanchions that seemed to lift the bridge skywards. This was the sort of thing that impressed Rebus: not nature, but ingenuity. He thought sometimes that all man’s greatest achievements had come from a battle with nature. Nature provided the problems, humans found the solutions.

“This is it,” Siobhan said, turning the car through an open gateway. The marina was made up of a series of buildings-some more ramshackle than others-and two long jetties jutting out into the Firth of Forth. At one of these, a few dozen boats had been moored. They passed the marina office and something called the Bosun’s Locker, and parked next to the cafeteria.

“According to the notes, there’s a sailing club, a sailmaker’s, and somewhere that’ll fix your radar,” Siobhan said, getting out. She started around to the passenger side, but Rebus was able to open his own door.

“See?” he said. “I’m not quite at the knacker’s yard yet.” But through the material of the gloves, his fingers stung. He straightened and looked around. The bridge was high overhead, the rush of cars quieter than he’d expected and almost drowned out by the clanging of whatever it was on boats that made that clanging sound. Maybe it was the spi

“Who owns this place?” he asked.

“Sign at the gate said something about Edinburgh Leisure.”

“Meaning the city council? Which means that technically speaking, you and me own it.”

“Technically speaking,” Siobhan agreed. She was busy studying a hand-drawn plan. “Herdman’s boat shed is on the right, past the toilets.” She pointed. “Down there, I think.”

“Good, you can catch me up,” Rebus told her. Then he nodded towards the cafeteria. “Coffee to go, and not too hot.”

“Not scalding, you mean?” She made for the cafeteria steps. “Sure you can manage on your own?”

Rebus stayed by the car as she disappeared, the door rattling behind her. He took his time lifting cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. Opened the packet and nipped a cigarette out with his teeth, sucking it into his mouth. The lighter was a lot easier than matches, once he’d found a bit of shelter from the wind. He was leaning against the car, relishing the smoke, when Siobhan reappeared.

“Here you go,” she said, handing him a half-filled cup. “Lots of milk.”

He stared at the pale gray surface. “Thanks.”

Together, they headed off, turning a couple of corners and finding no one around, despite the half-dozen cars parked alongside Siobhan’s. “Down here,” she said, leading them ever closer to the bridge. Rebus had noted that one of the long jetties was actually a wooden pontoon, providing tie-ups for visiting boats.

“This must be it,” Siobhan said, tossing her half-empty cup into a nearby bin. Rebus did the same, though he’d taken only a couple of sips of the warmish, milkyish concoction. If there was caffeine in there, he’d failed to find it. Bless the Lord for nicotine.

The shed was just that: a shed, albeit a well-fed example of the species. About twenty feet wide, knocked together from a mixture of wooden slats and corrugated metal. Half its width was a sliding door, which stood closed. Two sets of chains lay on the ground, evidence that police had forced their way in with bolt cutters. A length of blue and white tape had replaced the chains, and someone had fixed an official notice to the door, warning that entry was prohibited under pain of prosecution. A handmade sign above a

“Catchy title,” Rebus mused as Siobhan untied the tape and pushed the door open.

“Does exactly what it says on the tin,” she responded in kind. This was where Herdman ran his business, teaching fledgling sailors and scaring the wits out of his water-skiing clientele. Inside, Rebus could see a dinghy, maybe a twenty-footer. It sat on a trailer whose tires needed some air. There were a couple of powerboats, too, again on trailers, their outboard motors gleaming, as was a new-looking Jet Ski. The place was almost too tidy, as though swept and polished by an obsessive. Against one wall stood a workbench, the tools neatly arrayed on the wall above. A single oily rag gave the clue that mechanical work might actually go on here, lest the unwary visitor suspect they’d stepped into the marina’s exhibit space.

“Where was the gun found?” Rebus asked, walking in.

“Cabinet under the workbench.”

Rebus looked: a neatly severed padlock lay on the concrete floor. The cabinet door was open, showing only a selection of ratchets and wrenches.

“Don’t suppose there’s much left for us to find,” Siobhan stated.

“Probably not.” But Rebus was still interested, curious as to what the space could tell him about Lee Herdman. So far it told him Herdman had been a conscientious worker, tidying up after himself. His flat had indicated a man who wasn’t nearly as fussy in his personal life. But professionally… professionally, Herdman gave a hundred percent. This chimed with his background. In the army, it didn’t matter how messy your personal life might be, you didn’t let it interfere with your work. Rebus had known soldiers whose marriages were collapsing but still kept their kit immaculate, perhaps because, as one RSM had put it, the army’s the best fucking shag you’ll ever have…

“What do you think?” Siobhan asked.

“It’s almost as if he was waiting for a visit from Health and Safety.”

“Looks to me like his boats are worth more than his flat.”

“Agreed.”

“Signs of a split personality…”

“How so?”

“Chaotic home life, quite the opposite at his place of work. Cheap flat and furnishings, expensive boats…”

“Quite the little psychoanalyst,” a voice boomed from behind them. The speaker was a stocky woman of about fifty, hair pulled back so tightly into a bun that it seemed to push her face forwards. She was wearing a black two-piece suit and plain black shoes, olive-colored blouse with a string of pearls at the neck. A black leather backpack was slung over one shoulder. Next to her stood a tall, broad-shouldered man maybe half her age, black hair cropped short, hands pressed together in front of him. He wore a dark suit, white shirt and navy tie.

“You’ll be Detective Inspector Rebus,” the woman said, stepping forwards briskly as if to shake hands, unfazed when Rebus didn’t reciprocate. Her voice had dropped a single decibel. “I’m Whiteread, this is Simms.” Her small, beady eyes fixed on Rebus. “You’ve been to the flat, I take it? DI Hogan said you might…” Her voice drifted off as she moved just as briskly away from Rebus, into the interior of the shed. She circled the dinghy, inspecting it with a buyer’s eye. English accent, Rebus was thinking.

“I’m DS Clarke,” Siobhan piped up. Whiteread stared at her and gave the briefest of smiles.

“Of course you are,” she said.

Simms had walked forwards in the meantime, repeating his name by way of introduction and then turning to Siobhan to go through the exact same procedure, but this time with a handshake. His accent was English, too, voice emotionless, the pleasantries a formality.

“Where was the gun found?” Whiteread asked. Then she noticed the broken padlock and answered her own question with a nod, walking over to the cabinet and squatting down sharply in front of it, her skirt rising to just above the knees.

“Mac- 10,” she stated. “Notorious for jamming.” She stood up again, patted her skirt back down.

“Better than some kit,” Simms responded. Introductions over, he was standing between Rebus and Siobhan, legs slightly apart, back straight, hands again clasped in front of him.