Johnson lay unconscious, spread-eagled. Hogan was shaking his head.
“How the hell did we miss this lot?” he was asking himself.
“Maybe because it was right under our noses, Bobby, same as everything else in this damned case.”
“But what does it mean?”
“I suggest you ask our friend here,” Rebus said, “just as soon as he wakes up.” He turned to walk away.
“Where are you going?”
“The airfield. You stay here with him, call it in.”
“John… what’s the point?”
Rebus stopped. He knew what Hogan meant: what’s the point of going to the airfield? But then he started walking again, couldn’t think of anything else to do. He punched Siobhan’s number into his mobile, but a recording told him the number wasn’t available and he should try again later. He punched it in again, same response. Dropped the tiny silver box onto the ground and stamped on it, hard as he could, with the heel of his shoe.
It was dusk by the time Rebus arrived at the locked gates.
He got out of the car and tried the entry phone, but no one was answering. He could see Siobhan’s car through the fence, parked next to the office. The office door was standing open, as though someone had been in a hurry.
Or maybe struggling… not bothering to close it after them.
Rebus pushed at the gate, put his shoulder to it. The chain rattled but wasn’t going to yield. He stood back and kicked it. Kicked it again and again. Shouldered it, smashed his fists against it. Pressed his head to it, eyes squeezed shut.
“Siobhan…” His voice breaking.
He knew what he needed: bolt cutters. A patrol car could bring some, if Rebus had any way of calling one.
Brimson… he knew it now. Knew Brimson was running drugs, had planted them on his dead friend’s boat. He didn’t know why, but he’d find out. Siobhan had discovered the truth somehow, and had died as a result. Perhaps she’d wrestled with him, explaining the erratic flight path. He opened his eyes wide, blinking back tears.
Staring through the gate.
Blinking his vision back into focus.
Because someone was there… A figure in the doorway, one hand to its head, another to its stomach. Rebus blinked again, making sure.
“Siobhan!” he yelled. She raised a hand, waved it. Rebus grabbed the fence and hauled himself onto it, shouted her name again. She disappeared back into the building.
His voice cracked. Was he seeing things now? No: she was out of the building again, getting into her car, driving the short distance to the gate. As she neared, Rebus saw that it really was her. And she was fine.
She stopped the car and got out. “Brimson,” she was saying. “He’s the one with the drugs… in cahoots with Johnson and Teri’s mother…” She’d brought Brimson’s keys, was finding the right one to use on the padlock.
“We know,” Rebus told her, but she wasn’t listening.
“Must’ve made a run for it… laid me out cold. I only came to when the phone started buzzing.” She yanked the padlock free, the chain coming with it. Pulled open the gate.
And was picked off the ground by Rebus, his hug enveloping her.
“Ow, ow, ow,” she said, causing him to ease off. “Bit bruised,” she explained, her eyes meeting his. He couldn’t help himself, planted his lips on hers. The kiss lingered, his eyes tight shut, hers wide open. She broke away, took a step back, tried to catch her breath.
“Not that I’m not overwhelmed or anything, but what’s this all about?”
27
It was Rebus’s turn to visit Siobhan in the hospital. She’d been admitted for a concussion, was due to stay the night.
“This is ridiculous,” she protested. “I’m fine, really I am.”
“You’ll stay where you are, young lady.”
“Oh, yes? Like you did, you mean?”
As if to emphasize her point, the same nurse who had changed Rebus’s dressings walked past, pushing an empty cart.
Rebus pulled a chair across and sat down.
“You didn’t bring anything, then?” she asked.
Rebus shrugged. “Been a bit rushed; you know how it is.”
“What’s the story with Peacock?”
“He’s doing a good impression of a clam. Not that it’ll do him any good. Way Gill Templer sees it, Herdman wouldn’t want the guns lying around in his own boathouse, so Peacock rented the one next door. That’s where Herdman worked on them, reconditioning them, and they were stored in the shed. When he put a bullet to his head, things got too hot, no way Peacock could shift them…”
“But then he panicked?”
“Either that or he just wanted to tool himself up for what was to come.”
Siobhan closed her eyes. “Thank God that didn’t happen.”
They stayed quiet for a couple of minutes. Then: “And Brimson?” she asked.
“What about him?”
“The way he decided to end it all…”
“I think he chickened out, right at the last.”
She opened her eyes again. “Or came to his senses, couldn’t bring himself to involve anyone apart from himself.”
Rebus shrugged. “Whatever… he’s another statistic for the armed forces to work on.”
“Maybe they’ll try to say it was an accident.”
“Maybe it was at that. Could be he was planning to loop the loop and then smash onto the highway, go out in a blaze of mayhem.”
“I prefer my version.”
“Then you stick to it.”
“And what about James Bell?”
“What about him?”
“Reckon we’ll ever understand how he could do it?”
Rebus shrugged again. “All I know is, the papers are going to have a field day with his dad.”
“And that’s good enough for you?”
“It’ll do to be going on with.”
“James and Lee Herdman… I don’t really get it.”
Rebus thought for a moment. “Maybe James reckoned he’d found himself a hero, someone different from his dad, someone whose respect he’d give his eyeteeth for.”
“Or kill for?” Siobhan guessed.
Rebus smiled and stood up, patted her arm.
“You going already?”
He shrugged. “Lots to be getting on with; we’re an officer short at the station.”
“Nothing that can’t wait till tomorrow?”
“Justice never sleeps, Siobhan. Which doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. Anything I can get you before I go?”
“A sense of having achieved something, maybe?”
“I’m not sure the vending machines are up to it, but I’ll see what I can do.”
He’d done it again.
Ended up drinking too much… slumped on the toilet seat back in his flat, jacket discarded on the hall floor. Leaning forwards, head in hands.
Last time… Last time had been the night Martin Fairstone had died. Rebus had spent too long in too many pubs, tracking down his prey. A few more whiskies back at Fairstone’s place, and a taxi home. Driver had had to wake him up when they reached Arden Street. Rebus reeking of cigarettes, wanting to slough it all off. Running a bath, just the hot tap, thinking he’d add cold later. Sitting on the lavatory, half-undressed, head in hands, eyes closed.
World tilting in the darkness, shifting on its axis, pitching him forwards so his head thumped against the rim of the bath… waking on his knees, hands burning.
Hands hanging over the side of the bath, scalded by the rising water…
Scalded.
No mystery about it.
The sort of thing that could happen to anyone.
Couldn’t it?
But not tonight. He got back to his feet, steadied himself, managed to make it through to the living room and into his chair, pushing it over to the window with his feet. The night was still and calm, lights on in the tenement windows across the way. Couples relaxing, checking on the kids. Singles awaiting pizza deliveries, or sitting down to the videos they’d rented. Students debating another night out at the pub, unstarted essays troubling them.
Few if any of them harboring mysteries. Fears, yes; doubts, most certainly. Maybe even guilt about tiny mistakes and misdemeanors.