“Until now?” Rebus guessed. The scientist nodded.
“We’ve got a lot of data on firearms, what sort of damage they do to the human body and to anything else they come in contact with…”
“And James Bell is proving a puzzle?”
Duff nodded. “A bit of a puzzle, yes.”
Hogan looked from Duff to Rebus and back again. “How so?”
“In Bell’s statement he says he was hit while in movement. Basically, he was diving for the floor. He seemed to think this might explain why he wasn’t killed. He also said that Herdman was about three and a half meters away when he fired.” He crossed to the computer again, and brought a 3-D simulation onto the screen, showing the classroom and pointing to the positions of gunman and schoolboy. “Again, the victim is of similar height to Herdman. But this time, the angle of the shot appears to be upwards.” Duff paused to let this sink in. “As if the person doing the firing was the one crouching down.” He bent low at the knees and pointed an imaginary pistol, then straightened and crossed to another of the benches. There was a light box sitting on it, and he switched it on, illuminating a set of X-rays showing the route the bullet had taken in ripping through James Bell’s shoulder. “Entry wound at the front, exit at the back. You can see the trajectory quite clearly.” He traced it for them with his finger.
“So Herdman was crouching down,” Bobby Hogan said, with a shrug of the shoulders.
“I get the feeling Ray’s just warming up,” Rebus said quietly, thinking that he wouldn’t have too many questions for the scientist after all.
Duff returned Rebus’s look and went back to the photographs. “No blood spatter pattern,” he said, circling the area of the wall. Then he held up a hand. “Actually, that’s not strictly true. There’s blood present, but it’s such a fine diffusion you can’t really make it out.”
“Meaning what?” Hogan asked, not bothering to hide his impatience.
“Meaning James Bell wasn’t standing where he said he was at the time he was shot. He was much farther into the room, which means closer to Herdman.”
“Yet there’s still that upward trajectory to the shot?” Rebus noted.
Duff nodded, then pulled open a drawer and brought out a bag. It was clear polyethylene, edged with brown paper. An evidence bag. Folded up inside lay a bloodstained white shirt, the bullet hole at the shoulder clearly visible.
“James Bell’s shirt,” Duff stated. “And here we find something else…”
“Powder burns,” Rebus said quietly. Hogan turned to him.
“How come you already know all this?” he hissed.
Rebus shrugged. “I’ve got no social life, Bobby. Nothing to do with myself but sit and think about things.” Hogan glowered, letting Rebus know this was well short of an acceptable answer.
“DI Rebus is spot on,” Duff said, gaining their attention again. “You wouldn’t expect powder burns on the bodies of the first two victims. They were shot from a distance. You only get powder burns when the gun is close to the skin or, say, the victim’s clothes…”
“Did Herdman himself have powder burns?” Rebus asked.
Duff nodded. “Consistent with placing the pistol to his temple and firing.”
Rebus went back along the display of photos, taking his time. They weren’t really telling him anything, which in a way was the whole point. You had to peer beneath their surface to begin to glimpse the truth. Hogan was scratching the nape of his neck.
“I’m not really getting this,” he said.
“It’s a puzzle,” Duff agreed. “Hard to square the witness’s account with the evidence.”
“Depends which way you look at it, though, Ray, am I right?”
Duff fixed eyes with Rebus and nodded. “There’s always a way to explain things.”
“Take your time, then.” Hogan slapped his hands down on the workbench. “I had nothing better to do with myself today anyway.”
“Just got to look at it a different way, Bobby,” Rebus told him. “James Bell was shot at point-blank range…”
“By someone the approximate size of a garden gnome,” Hogan said dismissively.
Rebus shook his head. “It’s just that Herdman couldn’t have done it.”
Hogan’s eyes widened. “Wait a second…”
“Isn’t that right, Ray?”
“It’s one conclusion, certainly.” Duff was rubbing the underside of his jaw.
“Couldn’t have done it?” Hogan echoed. “You’re saying there was someone else in there? An accomplice?”
Rebus shook his head. “I’m saying it’s possible-maybe even probable-that Lee Herdman only killed one person in that room.”
Hogan’s eyes narrowed. “And who would that be?”
Rebus turned his attention to Ray Duff, who supplied the answer.
“Himself,” Duff stated, as though it were the simplest explanation in the world.
24
Rebus and Hogan sat in Hogan’s idling car. They’d been silent for a few minutes. The passenger-side window was open, and Rebus was smoking, while Hogan’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel.
“How do we play this?” Hogan asked. This time around, Rebus had an answer.
“You know my preferred technique, Bobby,” he said.
“Bull in a china shop?” Hogan guessed.
Rebus nodded slowly, finishing his cigarette and flicking the butt onto the roadway. “It’s served me well enough in the past.”
“But this is different, John. Jack Bell’s an MSP.”
“Jack Bell’s a clown.”
“Don’t underestimate him.”
Rebus turned to face his colleague. “Having second thoughts, Bobby?”
“I just wonder if we shouldn’t…”
“Cover our arses?”
“Unlike you, John, I’ve never been an aficionado of china shops.”
Rebus stared out through the windshield. “I’m going in there anyway, Bobby. You know that. Whether you’re with me or not is up to you. You can always call Claverhouse and Ormiston, let them know the score. But I need to hear it for myself.” He turned again to stare at Hogan, eyes shining. “Sure I can’t tempt you?”
Bobby Hogan ran his tongue around his lips, clockwise, then counterclockwise. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
“Hell with it,” he said. “What’s a bit of broken crockery between friends?”
The door to the Barnton house was opened by Kate Renshaw.
“Hiya, Kate,” Rebus said, face stony, “how’s your dad?”
“He’s all right.”
“Not think you’d be better off spending a bit more time with him?”
She’d opened the door wide to let them in, Hogan having phoned ahead to say they were coming.
“I’m doing something useful here,” Kate argued.
“Bolstering a curb crawler’s career?”
Her eyes flashed fire, but Rebus ignored them. Through glass doors to the right, he could see the dining room, its table spread with the paperwork from Jack Bell’s campaign. Bell himself was descending the staircase, rubbing his hands together as though he’d just washed them.
“Officers,” he said, not bothering to sound welcoming. “I hope this won’t take long.”
“Same here,” Hogan countered.
Rebus looked around. “Is Mrs. Bell in the house?”
“She’s out visiting. Was there something in particular…?”
“Just wanted to tell her I saw Wind in the Willows last night. Cracking good show.”
The MSP raised an eyebrow. “I’ll pass on the message.”
“You told your son to expect us?” Hogan asked.
Bell nodded. “He’s watching TV.” He gestured towards the living room. Without waiting to be asked, Hogan walked over to the door and opened it. James Bell was lying along the cream leather sofa, shoes off, head resting on the hand of his good arm.