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“Man’s got to have a little fun, Siobhan.” Rebus stared down the empty corridor. “You think Bobby’s going to be okay?”
“He looked knackered, if I’m being honest. By the way… you don’t think he needs to be told?”
“Told what?”
“That the Renshaws are your family.”
Rebus fixed her with his eyes. “Might lead to complications. I don’t think Bobby needs any more of those right now.”
“It’s your decision.”
“That’s right, it is. And we both know I’m never wrong.”
“I’d forgotten that,” Siobhan said.
“Happy to remind you, DS Clarke. Always happy to oblige…”
5
The South Queensferry police station was a squat box, most of it single-story, sited across the road from an Episcopal church. A notice outside stated that the station was open for public inquiries between nine and five on weekdays, ma
“Cozy, isn’t it?” Siobhan said, pulling open the front door. There was a short, narrow waiting area, its only inhabitant a constable, who put down his bike magazine and lifted himself from his seat.
“At ease,” Rebus told him while Siobhan showed her ID. “We need to listen to the Bell tapes.”
The officer nodded and unlocked an interior door, leading them into a dispiriting, windowless room. The desk and chairs had seen better days. Last year’s calendar-promoting the merits of a local shop-curled on one wall. There was a tape player on top of a filing cabinet. The uniform lifted it down and plugged it in, placing it on the desk. Then he unlocked the cabinet and found the correct tape, sealed in a clear plastic bag.
“This is the first of six,” he explained. “You’ll need to sign for it.” Siobhan did the necessary.
“Any ashtrays around here?” Rebus asked.
“No, sir. Smoking’s not allowed.”
“That was more information than I needed.”
“Yes, sir.” The constable was trying not to stare at Rebus’s gloves.
“Is there so much as a kettle?”
“No, sir.” The constable paused. “Neighbors sometimes drop off a flask or a bit of cake.”
“Any chance of that happening in the next ten minutes?”
“Unlikely, I’d say.”
“Off you go and do some foraging, then. See what marks you can get for initiative.”
The constable hesitated. “I’m supposed to stay here.”
“We’ll guard the fort, son,” Rebus said, sliding off his jacket and hanging it over the back of a chair.
The constable looked skeptical.
“I’ll take mine white,” Rebus said.
“Me too, no sugar,” Siobhan added.
The constable stood there a moment or two longer, watching them get as comfortable as the room would allow. Then he backed out and closed the door slowly after him.
Rebus and Siobhan looked at each other and shared a complicit smile. Siobhan had brought the notes relevant to James Bell, and Rebus reread them while she took the tape out and slotted it home.
Eighteen… son of the MSP Jack Bell and his wife, Felicity, who worked as an administrator at the Traverse Theatre. The family lived in Barnton. James intended going to university to study politics and economics… a “competent pupil,” according to the school: “James goes his own way, not always outgoing, but can turn on the charm when necessary.” He preferred chess to sports.
“Probably not CCF material,” Rebus mused. A moment later, he was listening to James Bell’s voice.
The interviewing officers identified themselves: DI Hogan, DC Hood. A shrewd move, involving Grant Hood: being press liaison officer on the case, he would need to know the survivor’s story. Some of it might provide morsels that he could offer the journos in return for favors. It was important to have the media on your side; important, too, to maintain as much control over them as possible. They wouldn’t be getting near James Bell yet. They’d have to go through Grant Hood.
Bobby Hogan’s voice identified the date and time-Monday evening-and the scene of the interview-A amp;E at the Royal Infirmary. Bell had been wounded in the left shoulder. A clean shot, ripping through flesh, missing bones, exiting again, the bullet lodged in the wall of the common room.
“Are you up to talking, James?”
“I think so… hurts like buggery.”
“I’m sure it does. For the tape, then, you are James Elliot Bell, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Elliot?” Siobhan asked.
“Mother’s maiden name,” Rebus explained, checking the notes again.
Very little background noise: had to be a private room at the hospital. A clearing of the throat from Grant Hood. The squall of a squeaky chair. Hood probably holding the mike, his chair closest to the bed. Turning the mike between Hogan and the boy, not always timing it right, so that a voice was sometimes muffled.
“Can you tell me what happened, Jamie?”
“Please, my name’s James. Could I have some water?”
The sound of the mike being laid down on top of bedclothes, water poured.
“Thank you.” A pause until the cup was replaced on the bedside table. Rebus thought of his own cup falling, Siobhan catching it. Like James Bell, on Monday night he, too, had been in the hospital… “It was mid-morning break. We get twenty minutes. I was in the common room.”
“Was that your usual hangout?”
“Better there than the grounds.”
“It wasn’t a bad day, though: warm enough.”
“I prefer to be inside. Do you think I’ll be able to play the guitar when I get out of here?”
“I don’t know,” Hogan said. “Could you play before you came in?”
“You spoiled the patient’s punch line. Shame on you.”
“Sorry about that, James. So how many of you were in the common room?”
“Three. Tony Jarvies, Derek Renshaw and me.”
“And what were you doing there?”
“There was some music on the hi-fi… I think Jarvies was doing homework, Renshaw was reading the paper.”
“Is that how you talk to one another? Using surnames?”
“Most of the time.”
“The three of you were friends?”
“Not especially.”
“But you often spent time together in the common room?”
“More than a dozen of us use that room.” A pause. “Are you trying to ask me if I think he targeted us deliberately?”
“It’s one thing we’re wondering about.”
“Why?”
“Because it was break time, lots of pupils outdoors…”
“But he walked into the school, into the common room, before he started shooting?”
“You’d make a good detective, James.”
“It’s not high on my list of career options.”
“Did you know the gunman?”
“Yes.”
“You knew him?”
“Lee Herdman, yes. Quite a lot of us knew him. Some of us took waterskiing lessons. And he was an interesting guy.”
“Interesting?”
“His background. The man was a trained killer, after all.”
“He told you that?”
“Yes. He was in Special Forces.”
“Did he know Anthony and Derek?”
“Quite possibly.”
“But he knew you?”
“We’d met socially.”
“Then you’ve maybe been asking yourself the same question we have.”
“You mean, why did he do it?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard that people with his sort of background… they don’t always fit into society, do they? Something happens, and it tips them over the edge.”
“Any idea what tipped Lee Herdman over the edge?”
“No.” A long pause followed, the mike muffled against the sheets as the two detectives seemed to confer. Then Hogan’s voice again.