A Question of Blood (2003) (29 page)

DAY FIVE

Monday

17

T
he view was magnificent. Siobhan was in the front, next to the pilot. Rebus was tucked in behind, an empty seat next to him. The noise from the propellers was deafening.

“We could’ve taken the corporate plane,” Doug Brimson was explaining, “but the fuel bill’s massive, and it might’ve been too big for the LZ.”

LZ: landing zone. Not a term Rebus had heard since he’d left the army.

“Corporate?” Siobhan was asking.

“I’ve got a seven-seater. Companies hire me to fly them to meetings—otherwise known as ‘jollies.’ I lay on some chilled champagne, crystal glasses . . .”

“Sounds fun.”

“Sorry, all we’ve got today is a canteen of tea.” He offered a laugh, turning to look at Rebus. “I was in Dublin for the weekend, flew a bunch of bankers there for some rugby match. They paid for me to stay over.”

“Lucky you.”

“A few weekends back, it was Amsterdam: businessman’s stag party . . .”

Rebus was thinking of his own weekend. When Siobhan had picked him up this morning, she’d asked what he’d done.

“Not much,” he’d said. “You?”

“Ditto.”

“Funny, the guys down at Leith said you’d been dropping in.”

“Funny, they told me the same thing about you.”

“Enjoying it so far?” Brimson asked now.

“So far,” Rebus said. In truth, he had no great head for heights. All the same, he’d watched with fascination the aerial view of Edinburgh, amazed at how indistinguishable landmarks like the Castle and Calton Hill were from their surroundings. No mistaking the volcanic heft of Arthur’s Seat, but the buildings suffered from a uniform gray coloring. Still, the elaborate patterning of the New Town’s geometric streets was impressive, and then they were out over the Forth, passing South Queensferry and the road and rail bridges. Rebus sought Port Edgar School, saw Hopetoun House first and then the school building not half a mile distant. He could even make out the Portakabin. They were heading west now, following the M8 towards Glasgow.

Siobhan was asking Brimson if he did a lot of corporate work.

“Depends how the economy’s doing. To be honest, if a company’s sending four or five people to a meeting, it can be cheaper to charter than to fly regular business class.”

“Siobhan tells me you were in the forces, Mr. Brimson,” Rebus said, leaning as far forward as his seat belt would allow.

Brimson smiled. “I was RAF. What about you, Inspector? Forces background?”

Rebus nodded. “Even trained for the SAS,” he admitted. “Didn’t quite make the grade.”

“Few do.”

“And some of those falter down the line.”

Brimson looked at him again. “You mean Lee?”

“And Robert Niles. How did you come to know him?”

“Through Lee. He told me he visited Robert. I asked if I could go with him one day.”

“And after that, you started going on your own?” Rebus was remembering the entries in the visitors’ log.

“Yes. He’s an interesting chap. We seem to get along.” He looked at Siobhan. “Fancy taking over the controls while I chat with your colleague?”

“No fear . . .”

“Another time maybe. I think you’d like it.” He gave her a wink. Then, to Rebus: “The army seems to treat its old boys pretty shabbily, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know. There’s support available when you hit civvy street . . . wasn’t in my day.”

“High rate of marriage failures, breakdowns. More Falklands veterans have taken their own lives than were killed in the actual conflict. A lot of homeless people are ex-forces . . .”

“On the other hand,” Rebus said, “the SAS is big business these days. You can sell your story to a publisher, sell your services as a bodyguard. Way I hear it, all four SAS squadrons are below quota. Too many are leaving. Suicide rate’s lower than the average, too.”

Brimson didn’t appear to be listening. “One guy jumped out of a plane a few years back . . . maybe you heard about that, too. Recipient of the QGM.”

“Queen’s Gallantry Medal,” Rebus explained, for Siobhan’s benefit.

“Tried stabbing his ex-wife, thinking she was trying to kill him. Suffered from depression . . . Couldn’t take it anymore, went into freefall, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

“It happens,” Rebus said. He was remembering the book in Herdman’s flat, the one Teri’s photo had fallen from.

“Oh, it happens all right,” Brimson was continuing. “The SAS chaplain who took part in the Iranian embassy siege, he ended up committing suicide. Another ex-SAS man shot his girlfriend with a gun he’d brought back from the Gulf War.”

“And something similar happened to Lee Herdman?” Siobhan asked.

“Seems like,” Brimson said.

“Why pick on that school, though?” Rebus continued. “You went to a few of his parties, didn’t you, Mr. Brimson?”

“He threw a good party.”

“Always used to be plenty of teenagers hanging around.”

Brimson turned again. “Is that a question or a comment?”

“Ever see any drugs?”

Brimson seemed to be concentrating on the control panel in front of him. “Maybe a bit of pot,” he finally conceded.

“Is that as strong as it got?”

“It’s as much as I saw.”

“Not quite the same thing. Did you ever hear a rumor that Lee Herdman might be dealing?”

“No.”

“Or smuggling?”

Brimson looked towards Siobhan. “Shouldn’t I have a solicitor present?”

She gave a reassuring smile. “I think the detective inspector’s just making conversation.” She turned to Rebus. “Isn’t that right?” Her eyes telling Rebus to go easy.

“That’s right,” he said. “Just a bit of chat.” He tried not to think about the hours of lost sleep, his stinging hands, Andy Callis’s death. Concentrated instead on the view from his window, the changing landscape. They’d be over Glasgow soon, and then out into the Firth of Clyde, Bute and Kintyre . . .

“So you never associated Lee Herdman with drugs?” he asked.

“I never saw him with anything stronger than a joint.”

“That’s not exactly answering my question. What would you say if I told you drugs had been found on one of Herdman’s boats?”

“I’d say it’s none of my business. Lee was a friend, Inspector. Don’t expect me to play along with whatever game it is you’re —”

“Some of my colleagues think he was smuggling cocaine and Ecstasy into the country,” Rebus stated.

“It’s not my problem what your colleagues think,” Brimson muttered, sinking into silence.

“I saw your car on Cockburn Street last week,” Siobhan said, trying for a change of subject. “Just after I’d been out to Turnhouse to see you.”

“I’d probably stopped off at the bank.”

“This was past closing time.”

Brimson was thoughtful. “Cockburn Street?” Then he nodded to himself. “Some friends have got a shop there. I think I popped in.”

“Which shop is it?”

He looked at her. “It’s not really a shop as such. One of those tanning places.”

“Owned by Charlotte Cotter?” Brimson looked amazed. “We interviewed the daughter. She’s a pupil at the school.”

“Right.” Brimson nodded. He’d been flying with a headset on, one of the ear protectors pushed away from his ear. But now he fixed it on and angled the mike towards his mouth. “Go ahead, Tower,” he said. Then he listened as the control tower at Glasgow Airport told him which route to take so as to avoid an incoming flight. Rebus was staring at the back of Brimson’s head, thinking to himself that Teri hadn’t mentioned him being a friend of the family . . . hadn’t sounded as if she liked him at all . . .

The Cessna banked steeply, Rebus trying not to grip his armrest too tightly. A minute later, they were passing over Greenock, and then the short stretch of water that separated it from Dunoon. The countryside below was growing wilder: more forests, fewer settlements. They crossed Loch Fyne and were out into the Sound of Jura. The wind seemed to pick up almost immediately, buffeting the plane.

“I’ve not been this way before,” Brimson admitted. “Looked at the charts last night. Just the one road, up the eastern side of the island. Bottom half’s mostly forest and some decent peaks.”

“And the landing strip?” Siobhan asked.

“You’ll see.” He turned to Rebus again. “Ever read any poetry, Inspector?”

“Do I look the type?”

“Frankly, no. I’m a great fan of Yeats. There’s a poem of his I was reading the other night: ‘I know that I shall meet my fate / Somewhere among the clouds above; / Those that I fight I do not hate, / Those that I guard I do not love.’” He looked at Siobhan. “Isn’t that the saddest thing?”

“You think Lee felt that way?” she asked.

He shrugged. “The poor bastard who jumped out of the plane did.” He paused. “Know what the poem’s called? ‘An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.’” Another glance at the instrument panel. “This is us over Jura now.”

Siobhan looked out on to wilderness. The plane made a tight circuit, and she could see the coastline again and a road running alongside it. As the plane made its descent, Brimson seemed to be checking the road for something . . . some marker perhaps.

“I don’t see anywhere to land,” Siobhan said. But she noticed a man, who appeared to be waving both arms at them. Brimson took the plane back up, and made a further circuit.

“Any traffic?” he said, as they flew low over the road once more. Siobhan thought he must be talking to someone on the mike, some tower somewhere. But then she realized he was talking to her. And by “traffic” he meant on the road beneath.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said, turning to see if Rebus shared her disbelief, but he seemed to be concentrating on guiding the plane down by willpower alone. The wheels rumbled as they hit the tarmac, the plane bouncing once as if straining to be airborne again. Brimson had his teeth clenched but was smiling, too. He turned to Siobhan as if in triumph, and taxied along the highway towards the waiting man, the man who was still waving his arms, and now guiding the small plane through an open gateway, leading to a field of stubble. They bumped over the ruts. Brimson cut the engines and slid off his headphones.

There was a house next to the field, and a woman standing there watching them, nursing a baby. Siobhan opened her door, undid her selt belt and leapt out. The ground felt as if it were vibrating, but she realized it was her body, still shaken up from the flight.

“I’ve never landed on a road before,” a grinning Brimson was telling the man.

“It was that or the field,” the man said, in a thick accent. He was tall and muscular, with curly brown hair and bright pink cheeks. “I’m Rory Mollison.” He shook Brimson’s hand, then was introduced to Siobhan. Rebus, who was lighting a cigarette, nodded but didn’t offer his own hand. “You found the place all right, then,” Mollison said, as if they’d arrived by car.

“As you can see,” Siobhan said.

“Thought it would work,” Mollison said. “The SAS guys landed by helicopter. It was their pilot who told me the road would make a good landing strip. No potholes, you see.”

“He was right,” Brimson said.

Mollison was the rescue team’s “local guide.” When Siobhan had asked her favor of Brimson—a plane ride to Jura—he’d asked if she knew anywhere they could land. Rebus had passed along Mollison’s name . . .

Siobhan waved at the woman, who waved back with no real enthusiasm.

“My wife, Mary,” Mollison said. “And our little one, Seona. Are you coming in for some tea?”

Rebus made a show of looking at his watch. “Best if we get started, actually.” He turned to Brimson. “You’ll be all right here till we get back?”

“What do you mean?”

“We should only be a few hours . . .”

“Hang on, I’m coming, too. I don’t suppose Mrs. Mollison wants me moping around here. And after flying you here, I don’t see how you can turn me down.”

Rebus looked to Siobhan, then conceded with a shrug.

“You’ll want to come in and get changed,” Mollison was saying. Siobhan lifted her backpack and nodded.

“Changed?” Rebus echoed.

“Climbing gear.” Mollison looked him up and down. “Is that all you’ve brought?”

Rebus shrugged. Siobhan had opened her own pack to show hiking boots, cagoule, and canteen. “A regular Mary Poppins,” Rebus commented.

“You can borrow from me,” Mollison assured him, leading the three visitors towards the house.

“You’re not a professional guide, then?” Siobhan asked. Mollison shook his head.

“But I know this island like the back of my hand. I must have traversed every square inch of it these past twenty years.” They had taken Mollison’s Land Rover as far as they could along muddy logging tracks, bumpy enough to shake the fillings from their teeth. Mollison was a skilled driver; either that or a madman. There were times when there seemed to be no track at all, and they were pitching wildly across the moss-covered forest floor, dropping down a gear to pass over rocky outcrops or through streams. But eventually even he had to concede defeat. It was time for them to walk.

Rebus was wearing a venerable pair of climbing boots whose leather had turned implacably hard, making it difficult for him to bend his feet at the toes. He had on waterproof trousers, splattered with old mud, and an oily Barbour jacket. With the car engine turned off, silence had returned to the woods.

“Ever see the first Rambo film?” Siobhan asked in a whisper. Rebus didn’t think she was expecting an answer. He turned to Brimson instead.

“What made you leave the RAF?”

“I just got tired of it, I suppose. Tired of taking orders from people I didn’t respect.”

“What about Lee? Did he ever say why he left the SAS?”

Brimson shrugged. His eyes were on the ground, watching for roots and puddles. “Much the same thing, I’d guess.”

“But he never spelled it out?”

“No.”

“So what did the two of you find to talk about?”

Brimson glanced up at him. “Plenty of things.”

“He was easy to get along with? No fallings-out?”

“We might have argued about politics once or twice . . . the way the world was headed. Nothing to make me think he was about to go off the rails. I’d have helped him if he’d hinted.”