Whiteread hadn’t moved. Simms had seated himself on an arm of the sofa, picking up a discarded Sunday supplement, rolling it into a tube. Rebus pointed at him.
“Going to crush my windpipe, Simms? There’s a witness next door, remember.”
“Maybe just wishful thinking,” Simms answered, eyes burning, voice cold. Rebus turned his attention back to Whiteread, who was over by the table, one hand resting on Herdman’s personnel file. “Reckon you can curb your monkey’s zeal?”
“You were spinning us a story about diamonds,” she said, not about to have her attention deflected.
“I never saw Herdman as a drug smuggler,” Rebus continued. “Did you plant that stuff on his boat?” She shook her head slowly. “Well, someone did.” He thought for a moment, took another sip. “But all those trips across the North Sea… Rotterdam’s a good place to trade diamonds. Way I see it, Herdman found the diamonds but wasn’t about to own up to it. Either lifted them at the time or hid them and came back later, sometime after his sudden decision not to re-enlist. Now, the army’s wondering what did happen to that stash, and Herdman’s suddenly flagged himself up. He’s got some money, buys himself a boat business… but you can’t prove anything.” Paused to take another sip. “Reckon by now there’s much left, or has he spent it?” Rebus thought of the boats: paid for with cash… dollars, the currency of the diamond exchange. And of the diamond around Teri Cotter’s neck, which had proved the catalyst he’d been looking for. He’d given Whiteread time to answer, but she was staying quiet. “In which case,” he said, “your business here was damage control, make sure there’s nothing anyone’s going to find that would lift the lid on the whole thing. Every government says it: we don’t negotiate with terrorists. Maybe not, but we did once try buying them out… and wouldn’t that make a juicy story in the papers.” He stared at Whiteread above the rim of his glass. “That’s about it, isn’t it?”
“And the diamond?” she asked.
“Borrowed from a friend.”
She was silent for the best part of a minute, Rebus content to bide his time, thinking that if he hadn’t brought Bob home… well, things might not have gone nearly as well for him. He could still feel Simms’s fingers around his neck… throat tight when he swallowed the whiskey.
“Has Steve Holly been back in touch?” Rebus asked into the silence. “See, anything happens to me, all of this goes to him.”
“You think that’s enough to protect you?”
“Shut up, Gavin!” Whiteread snapped. Slowly, she folded her arms. “What are you going to do?” she asked Rebus.
He shrugged. “It’s none of my business, far as I can see. No reason I should do anything, provided you can keep monkey boy here on his chain.”
Simms had risen to his feet, a hand reaching inside his jacket. Whiteread spun around and slapped his arm away. The move was so fast, if Rebus had blinked he’d have missed it.
“What I want,” he said quietly, “is for the pair of you to be gone by morning. Otherwise, I have to start thinking about talking to my friend from the fourth estate.”
“How do we know we can trust you?”
Rebus gave another shrug. “I don’t think either of us wants it in writing.” He put down his glass. “Now, if we’re all through, I’ve got a guest I need to see to.”
Whiteread looked towards the door. “Who is he?”
“Don’t worry, he’s not the talkative kind.”
She nodded slowly, then made as if to leave.
“One thing, Whiteread?” She paused, turned her head to face him. “Why do you think Herdman did it?”
“Because he was greedy.”
“I meant, why did he walk into that classroom?”
Her eyes seemed to gleam. “Why should I care?” And with that she walked from the room. Simms was still staring at Rebus, who gave him a cheeky wave before turning to face the window again. Simms drew the automatic pistol from his jacket and took aim at the back of Rebus’s head. Made a soft whistling sound between his teeth and then put the gun back in its holster.
“One day,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You won’t know when or where, but I’ll be the last face you see.”
“Great,” Rebus exhaled, not bothering to turn around. “I get to spend my last moments on earth staring at a complete arsehole.”
He listened to the footsteps retreat down the hall, the slamming shut of the door. Went to the doorway to check they’d really gone. Bob was standing just outside the kitchen.
“Made myself a mug of tea. You’re out of milk, by the way.”
“The servants are on their day off. Try to get some shut-eye. Long day ahead.” Bob nodded and went to his room, closing the door after him. Rebus poured himself a third drink, definitely the last. Sat down heavily in his armchair, stared at the rolled-up magazine on the sofa opposite. Almost imperceptibly, it was starting to uncurl. He thought of Lee Herdman, tempted by the diamonds, burying them, then walking out of the woods with a shrug of his shoulders. But maybe feeling guilty afterwards, and fearful, too. Because the suspicion would linger. He’d probably been interviewed, interrogated, maybe even by Whiteread. The years might pass, but the army would never forget. Last thing they liked was a loose end, especially one that could turn as if by magic into a loose cannon. That fear, pressing down on him, so that he kept friends to a minimum… kids were all right, kids couldn’t be his pursuers in disguise… Doug Brimson was apparently okay, too… All those locks, trying to shut out the world. Little wonder he snapped.
But to snap the way he did? Rebus still didn’t get it, couldn’t see it as plain jealousy.
James Bell, photographing Miss Teri on Cockburn Street…
Derek Renshaw and Anthony Jarvies, logging on to her website…
Teri Cotter, curious about death, ex-soldier for a lover…
Renshaw and Jarvies, close friends; different from Teri, different from James Bell. Jazz fans, not metal; dressing in their combat uniforms and parading at school, playing sports. Not like Teri Cotter.
Not at all like James Bell.
And when it came down to it, what, apart from their forces background, did Herdman and Doug Brimson have in common? Well, for a start, both knew Teri Cotter. Teri with Herdman, her mother seeing Brimson. Rebus imagined it as a weird sort of dance, the kind where you kept swapping partners. He rested his face in his hands, blocking out the light, smelling glove leather mixing with the fumes from his whiskey glass as the dancers spun around in his head.
When he blinked his eyes open again, the room was a blur. Wallpaper came into focus first, but he could see bloodstains in his mind, classroom blood.
Two fatal shots, one wounding.
No: three fatal shots…
“No.” He realized he’d said the word out loud. Two fatal shots, one wounding. Then another fatal shot.
Blood spraying the walls and floor.
Blood everywhere.
Blood, with its own stories to tell…
He’d poured the fourth whiskey without thinking, raised the glass to his lips before he caught himself. Tipped it back carefully into the neck of the bottle, pushed the stopper home. Went so far as to replace the bottle on the mantelpiece.
Blood, with its own stories to tell.
He picked up his phone. Didn’t think there’d be anyone at the forensics lab this time of night, but made the call anyway. You never could telclass="underline" some of them had their own little obsessions, their own little puzzles to solve. Not because the case demanded it, or even out of a sense of professional pride, but for their own, more private needs.
Like Rebus, they found it hard to let go. He no longer knew if this was a good or a bad thing; it was just the way it was. The phone was ringing, no one answering.
“Lazy bastards,” he muttered to himself. Then he noticed Bob’s head, peeping around the door.
“Sorry,” the young man said, shuffling into the room. He’d taken his coat off. Baggy gray T-shirt beneath, showing flabby, hairless arms. “Can’t really settle.”