A Question of Blood

“I’d better see you out,” Siobhan added.

“What does a CID office look like?” Whiteread asked. “I’ve often wondered…”

“I’ll give you the tour sometime,” Siobhan answered. “When we’re not up to our eyes.”

It was an answer Whiteread was forced to accept, but Siobhan could see she liked it about as much as she would a Mogwai concert.

10

Lord Jarvies was in his late fifties. Bobby Hogan had filled Rebus in on family history during the drive back to Edinburgh. Divorced from his first wife, remarried, Anthony the only child from this second relationship. The family lived in Murrayfield.

“Plenty of good schools around there,” Rebus had commented, wondering at the distance between Murrayfield and South Queensferry. But Roland Jarvies was a former pupil of Port Edgar. In his twenties, he’d even played for the Port Edgar FP rugby team.

“What position?” Rebus had asked.

“John,” Hogan had replied, “what I know about rugby could be written on the leftovers of one of your cigarettes.”

Hogan had expected that they would find the judge at home, in shock and in mourning. But a couple of calls revealed that Jarvies was back at work, and therefore to be found in the Sheriff Court on Chambers Street, opposite the museum where Jean Burchill worked. Rebus considered calling her-there might be time for a quick coffee-but decided against it. She was bound to notice his hands, wasn’t she? Best to hang fire till they’d mended. He could still feel the handshake Robert Niles had pressed on him.

“You ever come up against Jarvies?” Hogan asked as he parked on a single yellow line, outside what had been the city’s dental hospital, now transformed into a nightclub and bar.

“A few times. You?”

“Once or twice.”

“Give him any cause to remember you?”

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Hogan said, placing a notice on the inside of the windshield identifying the car as being “on police business.”

“Might be cheaper to risk a ticket,” Rebus advised.

“How so?”

“Think about it.”

Hogan frowned in thought, then nodded. Not everyone who walked out of the courthouse would have reason to be enamored of the police. A ticket might cost thirty quid (and could always be canceled after a quiet word); scratched bodywork came in a little more expensive. Hogan removed the notice.

The Sheriff Court was a modern building, but its visitors were taking their toll. Dried spittle on the windows, graffiti on the walls. The judge was in the robing room, and that was where Rebus and Hogan were taken to meet with him. The attendant bowed slightly before he left.

Jarvies had just about finished changing out of his robes of office and back into a pinstripe suit, complete with watch chain. His burgundy tie sported a perfect knot, and his shoes were highly polished black brogues. His face looked polished, too, highlighting a network of tiny red veins in either cheek. On a long table sat other judges’ workday clothes: black gowns, white collars, gray wigs. Each set bore its owner’s name.

“Take a seat, if you can find one,” Jarvies said. “I won’t be long.” He looked up, mouth hanging slightly open, as it often did when he was in the courtroom. The first time Rebus had given evidence in front of Jarvies, the ma

“Quite all right, sir,” Hogan said.

“To be honest,” Rebus added, “with everything you’ve been through, we’re surprised to see you here at all.”

“Can’t let the bastards beat us, can we?” the judge replied. It didn’t sound like the first time he’d had to offer the explanation. “So, what is it I can do for you?”

Rebus and Hogan shared a look, both finding it hard to believe the man in front of them had just lost a son.

“It’s about Lee Herdman,” Hogan stated. “Seems he was friends with Robert Niles.”

“Niles?” The judge looked up. “I remember him… stabbed his wife, didn’t he?”

“Slit her throat,” Rebus corrected. “He went to jail, but right now he’s in Carbrae.”

“What we’re wondering,” Hogan added, “is whether you’ve ever had cause to fear a reprisal.”

Jarvies stood up slowly, took out his watch and flipped it open, checking the time. “I think I see,” he said. “You’re seeking a motive. Isn’t it enough to say that Herdman merely lost the balance of his mind?”

“That may end up as our conclusion,” Hogan conceded.

The judge was examining himself in the room’s full-length mirror. There was a faint aroma in Rebus’s nostrils, and at last he was able to place it. It was the smell of gentlemen’s outfitters, shops he’d been taken to as a child on those occasions when his father was being measured for a suit. Jarvies patted down a single stray hair. There were touches of gray at the temples, but otherwise his hair was chestnut-brown. Almost too brown, Rebus thought, wondering if some coloring had gone into it. The judge’s haircut with its precise left part gave the impression that no other style had been attempted since his schooldays.

“Sir?” Hogan prompted. “Robert Niles…?”

“I’ve never received any kind of threat from that direction, Detective Inspector Hogan. Nor had I heard the name Herdman until after the shootings.” He turned his head from the mirror. “Does that answer your questions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If Herdman had set out to target Anthony, why turn the gun on the other boys? Why wait so long after sentencing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Motive isn’t always the issue…”

Rebus’s phone trilled suddenly, sounding out of place, a modern distraction. He smiled an apology and stepped into the red-carpeted hallway.

“Rebus,” he said.

“I’ve just had a couple of interesting meetings,” Gill Templer said, straining to keep her temper in check.

“Oh, aye?”

“The forensics from Fairstone’s kitchen show that he was probably bound and gagged. That makes it murder.”

“Or someone trying to give him a bloody good scare.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“Nothing much surprises me these days.”

“You already know, don’t you?” Rebus stayed silent; no point getting Dr. Curt into trouble. “Well, you can probably guess who the second meeting was with.”

“Carswell,” Rebus said. Colin Carswell: assistant chief constable.

“That’s right.”

“And I’m now to consider myself under suspension, pending investigation?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

“You’ll be required to attend an initial interview at HQ.”

“With the Complaints?”

“Something like this, it could even be the PSU.” Meaning the Professional Standards Unit.

“Ah, the Complaints’ paramilitary wing.”

“John…” Her tone was a mixture of warning and exasperation.

“I’ll look forward to talking to them,” Rebus said, ending the call. Hogan was stepping out of the robing room, thanking the judge for his time. He closed the door after him, spoke in an undertone.

“He’s taking it well.”

“Bottling it up, more like,” Rebus said, falling into step. “I’ve got a bit of news, by the way.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been suspended from duty. I daresay Carswell’s trying to find you right now to let you know.”

Hogan stopped walking, turned to face Rebus. “As predicted by you at Carbrae.”

“I went back to a guy’s house. Same night he died in a fire.” Hogan’s gaze dropped to Rebus’s gloves. “Nothing to do with it, Bobby. Just a coincidence.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“This guy had been hassling Siobhan.”

“And?”

“And it looks like he was tied to a chair when the fire started.”

Hogan puffed out his cheeks. “Witnesses?”

“I was seen going into the house with him, apparently.”

Hogan’s phone went off, different tone from Rebus’s. Caller ID brought a twitch to Hogan’s mouth.