A Question of Blood (2003) by Ian Rankin Page A

“I do what a man’s got to do.”
    “Something tells me that’s as much as I need to know.” She handed back the bottle. “I’ll check the water’s not too hot this time round . . .”
 
    Afterwards, wrapped in a toweling robe, he watched as she emerged at street level, looking up and down the sidewalk before making for her car. Looking up and down the sidewalk: checking her back, even though the bogeyman had gone.
    Rebus knew there were more of them out there. Plenty of men like Martin Fairstone. Teased at school, becoming the “runt,” tagging along with gangs who would make jokes about him. But growing stronger for it, graduating to violence and petty theft, the only life he would ever know. He had told his story, and Rebus had listened.
    “Reckon I need to see a head doctor, get myself checked out, like? See, what’s on the inside of your head isn’t always the same as what you do on the outside. Does that sound like pish? Maybe it’s because I’m pished. There’s more whiskey when you need a top-up. Just say the word, I’m not used to doing the whole host bit, know what I’m saying? Just chantering away here, don’t pay any heed . . .”
    And more . . . so much more, with Rebus listening, taking small sips of whiskey, knowing he was feeling it. Four pubs he’d been to before tracking Fairstone down. And when the monologue had finally dried up, Rebus had leaned forwards. They were seated in squishy armchairs, coffee table between them with a cardboard box beneath in place of the missing leg. Two glasses, a bottle, and an overflowing ashtray, and Rebus leaning forwards now to say his first words in nearly half an hour.
    “Marty, let’s put all this shit with DS Clarke on the back burner, eh? Fact is, I couldn’t give a monkey’s. But there is a question I’ve been meaning to ask . . .”
    “What’s that?” Fairstone, heavy-lidded in his chair, cigarette held between thumb and forefinger.
    “I heard a story that you know Peacock Johnson. Anything you can tell me about him?”
    Rebus at the window, thinking about how many painkillers were left in the bottle. Thinking about nipping out for a proper drink. Turning from the window and making for his bedroom. Opening the top drawer and pulling out ties and socks, finally finding what he’d been looking for.
    Winter gloves. Black leather, nylon-lined. Never worn, until now.

4
    T here were times when Rebus could swear he smelled his wife’s perfume on the cold pillow. Impossible: two decades of separation, not even a pillow she’d slept on or pressed her head against. Other perfumes, too—other women. He knew they were an illusion, knew he wasn’t really smelling them. Rather, he was smelling their absence.
    “Penny for them,” Siobhan said, switching lanes in a halfhearted attempt to speed their progress through the morning rush hour.
    “I was thinking about pillows,” Rebus stated. She’d brought coffee for both of them. He was cradling his.
    “Nice gloves, by the way,” she said now, by no means for the first time. “Just the thing this time of year.”
    “I can get another driver, you know.”
    “But would they provide breakfast?” She floored the accelerator as the amber traffic light ahead turned red. Rebus worked hard to keep his coffee from spilling.
    “What’s the music?” he asked, looking at the in-car CD player.
    “Fatboy Slim. Thought it might wake you up.”
    “Why’s he telling Jimmy Boyle not to leave the States?”
    Siobhan smiled. “You might just be mis-hearing that particular lyric. I can put on something more laid-back . . . what about Tempus?”
    “Fugit, why not?” Rebus said.
 
    Lee Herdman had lived in a one-bedroom flat above a bar on South Queensferry’s High Street. The entrance was down a narrow, sunless vennel with an arched stone roof. A police constable stood guard by the main door, checking the names of visitors against a list of residents fixed to his clipboard. It was Brendan