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“I’ll have a word,” Rebus promised, reaching into his pocket for the painkillers.
Siobhan handed around the mugs and sat down. “You okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” Rebus lied.
“What happened to your hands, John?” Renshaw asked. Rebus shook his head.
“Nothing, Allan. How’s the tea?”
“It’s fine.” But Renshaw made no move to drink. Rebus stared at his cousin, thinking of the tape, of James Bell’s calm narrative.
“Derek didn’t suffer,” Rebus said quietly. “Probably didn’t know anything about it.”
Renshaw nodded.
“If you don’t believe me… well, one day soon you’ll be able to ask James Bell. He’ll tell you.”
Another nod. “I don’t think I know him.”
“James?”
“Derek had a lot of friends, but I don’t think he was one of them.”
“He was friends with Anthony Jarvies, though?” Siobhan asked.
“Oh, aye, Tony was round here a lot. They’d help each other with homework, listen to music…”
“What sort?” Rebus asked.
“Jazz mostly. Miles Davis, Coleman something… I forget the names. Derek said he was going to buy a tenor sax, learn to play it when he went to university.”
“Kate was saying Derek didn’t know the man who shot him. Did you know him, Allan?”
“I’d seen him in the pub. Bit of a… loner’s not the right word. But he wasn’t always in company. Used to disappear for days at a time. Hill walking or something. Or maybe away on that boat of his.”
“Allan… if this is out of order, you’ve every right to say so.”
Renshaw looked at him. “What?”
“I was wondering if I could maybe take a look at Derek’s room…”
Renshaw climbed the stairs in front of Rebus, Siobhan at the rear. He opened the door for them but stood aside to let them enter.
“Haven’t really had a chance to…” he apologized. “Not that the place is…”
The bedroom was small, dark with the curtains closed.
“Mind if I open them?” Rebus asked. Renshaw just shrugged, unwilling to cross the threshold. Rebus pulled the curtains apart. The window looked down onto the back garden, where the dishcloth still hung from the whirligig, the mower still stood on the lawn. There were prints on the walls: moody black-and-white shots of jazz players. Photos torn from magazines showing elegant young women in repose. Bookshelves, a hi-fi, a fourteen-inch combination TV/VCR. A desk with a laptop computer co
“Derek was into sports?” Rebus remarked.
“Did a lot of jogging and cross-country.”
“Who did he play te
“Tony… a few others. Didn’t get any of it from me, I’ll tell you that.” Renshaw looked down at himself, as if assessing his girth. Siobhan gave him the smile she felt was expected. She knew, though, that there was nothing natural about anything he said. It was coming from a small part of his brain while the rest still reeled in horror.
“He liked dressing up, too,” Rebus said, holding up a framed photo of Derek with Anthony Jarvies, both in their CCF uniforms and caps. Renshaw stared at it from the safety of the doorway.
“Derek only joined because of Tony,” he said. Rebus remembered Eric Fogg saying much the same thing.
“Did they ever go out sailing together?” Siobhan asked.
“Might have done. Kate tried waterskiing…” Renshaw’s voice died. His eyes widened slightly. “That bastard Herdman took her out in his boat… her and some friends. If I ever see him…”
“He’s dead, Allan,” Rebus said, reaching out to touch his cousin’s arm. Football… down in the park in Bowhill… young Allan grazing his knee on the pavement, Rebus rubbing a dock leaf over the broken skin…
I had a family, but I let them get away… His wife estranged, daughter in England, brother God knew where.
“See when they bury him,” Renshaw was saying, “I’ve a good mind to dig him up and kill him again.”
Rebus squeezed the arm, watching the man’s eyes brim with fresh tears. “Let’s go down,” he said, guiding Renshaw back to the top of the stairs. There was just enough room for them to stand side by side in the passageway. Two grown men, hanging on.
“Allan,” Rebus said, “any chance we could borrow Derek’s laptop?”
“His laptop?” Rebus stayed silent. “What’s the point of…? I don’t know, John.”
“Just for a day or two. I’ll bring it back.”
Renshaw seemed to be having difficulty making sense of the request. “I suppose… if you think…”
“Thanks, Allan.” Rebus turned his head, nodding to Siobhan, who retreated back up the staircase.
Rebus took Renshaw into the living room, seating him on the sofa. Renshaw immediately picked up a handful of photographs.
“I need to get these sorted,” he said.
“What about work? How long are you off for?”
“They said I could go back after the funeral. It’s a quiet time of year.”
“Maybe I’ll come and see you,” Rebus said. “It’s time I traded my junk heap in.”
“I’ll look after you,” Renshaw promised, looking up at Rebus. “You see if I don’t.”
Siobhan appeared in the doorway, laptop tucked beneath her arm, trailing cables.
“We better be going,” Rebus said to Renshaw. “I’ll look in again, Allan.”
“You’ll always be welcome, John.” Renshaw made the effort to stand up, reaching out a hand. Then he pulled Rebus to him in a sudden embrace, slapping his hands against Rebus’s back. Rebus returned the gesture, wondering if he looked as awkward as he felt. But Siobhan had averted her eyes, studying the tips of her shoes as if to assess their need for a polish. When they walked out to the car, Rebus realized he was sweating, his shirt sticking to him.
“Was it hot in there?”
“Not especially,” Siobhan said. “You still ru
“Looks like it.” He mopped his brow with the back of one glove.
“Why the laptop?”
“No reason really.” Rebus met her look. “Maybe to see if there’s anything about the car crash. How Derek felt, whether anyone blamed him.”
“Apart from the parents, you mean?”
Rebus nodded. “Maybe… I don’t know.” He sighed.
“What?”
“Maybe I just want to go through it to get a sense of the lad.” He was thinking of Allan, perhaps even now switching the TV back on and settling down with the video remote, bringing his son back to life in color and sound and movement. But only a facsimile, contained by the tight confines of the box.
Siobhan nodded and bent down to slide the laptop onto the backseat of the car. “I can understand that,” she said.
But Rebus wasn’t so sure that she could.
“You keep up with your family?” he asked her.
“A phone call every other weekend.” He knew both her parents were alive, lived down south. Rebus’s mother had died young; he’d been in his mid-thirties when his father had joined her.
“Did you ever want a sister or brother?” he asked.
“Sometimes, I suppose.” She paused. “Something happened to you, didn’t it?”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know exactly.” She thought about it. “I think at some point you decided that a family was a liability, because it could make you weak.”
“As you’ve already surmised, I was never one for hugs and kisses.”
“Maybe so, but you hugged your cousin back there…”
He got into the passenger seat and closed his door. The painkillers were coating his brain in bubble wrap. “Just drive,” he said.
She put the key in the ignition. “Where?”
Rebus remembered something. “Get your mobile out and call the Portakabin.” She pushed the numbers and relinquished the phone to his outstretched hand. When it was answered, Rebus asked to speak to Grant Hood.
“Grant, it’s John Rebus. Listen, I need a number for Steve Holly.”