Friday, July 1, 2005
In place of a closing hymn, there was music. The Who, “Love Reign o’er Me.” Rebus recognized it the moment it started, thunderclaps and teeming rain filling the chapel. He was in the front pew; Chrissie had insisted. He’d rather have been further back: his usual place at funerals. Chrissie’s son and daughter sat next to her. Lesley was comforting her mother, an arm around her as the tears fell. Kenny stared straight ahead, storing up emotion for later. Earlier that morning, back at the house, Rebus had asked him his age. He would be thirty next month. Lesley was two years younger. Brother and sister looked like their mother, reminding Rebus that people had said the same about Michael and him: the pair of you, the spitting image of your mum. Michael…Mickey, if you preferred. Rebus’s younger brother, dead in a shiny-handled box at the age of fifty-four, Scotland ’s mortality rate that of a third world nation. Lifestyle, diet, genes-plenty of theories. The full postmortem hadn’t come through yet. Massive stroke was what Chrissie had told Rebus on the phone, assuring him that it was “sudden”-as if that made a difference.
Sudden meant Rebus hadn’t been able to say good-bye. It meant his last words to Michael had been a joke about his beloved Raith Rovers soccer team in a phone call three months back. A Raith scarf, navy and white, had been draped over the coffin alongside the wreaths. Kenny was wearing a tie that had been his dad’s, Raith’s shield on it-some kind of animal holding a belt buckle. Rebus had asked the significance, but Kenny had just shrugged. Looking along the pew, Rebus saw the usher make a gesture. Everyone rose to their feet. Chrissie started walking up the aisle, flanked by her children. The usher looked to Rebus, but he stayed where he was. Sat down again so the others would know they didn’t have to wait for him. The song was only a little more than halfway through. It was the closing track on Quadrophenia. Michael had been the big Who fan, Rebus himself preferring the Stones. Had to admit, though, albums like Tommy and Quadrophenia did things the Stones never could. Daltrey was whooping now that he could use a drink. Rebus had to agree, but there was the drive back to Edinburgh to consider. The function room of a local hotel had been booked. All were welcome, as the minister had reminded them from the pulpit. Whiskey and tea would be poured, sandwiches served. There would be anecdotes and reminiscences, smiles, dabs at the eyes, hushed tones. The staff would move quietly, out of respect. Rebus was trying to form sentences in his head, words that would act as his apology.
I need to get back, Chrissie. Pressure of work.
He could lie and blame the G8. That morning in the house, Lesley had said he must be busy with the buildup. He could have told her, I’m the only cop they don’t seem to need. Officers were being drafted in from all over. Fifteen hundred were coming from London alone. Yet Detective Inspector John Rebus seemed surplus to requirements. Someone had to man the ship-the very words DCI James Macrae had used, with his acolyte smirking by his shoulder. DI Derek Starr reckoned himself the heir apparent to Macrae’s throne. One day, he’d be running Gayfield Square police station. John Rebus posed no threat whatsoever, not much more than a year away from retirement. Starr himself had said as much: Nobody’d blame you for coasting, John. It’s what anyone your age would do. Maybe so, but the Stones were older than Rebus; Daltrey and Townshend were older than him too. Still playing, still touring. The song was ending now, and Rebus rose to his feet again. He was alone in the chapel. Took a final look at the purple velvet screen. Maybe the coffin was still behind it; maybe it had already been moved to another part of the crematorium. He thought back to adolescence, two brothers in their shared bedroom, playing 45s bought down Kirkcaldy High Street. “My Generation” and “Substitute,” Mickey asking about Daltrey’s stutter on the former, Rebus saying he’d read somewhere that it had to do with drugs. The only drug the brothers had indulged in was alcohol, mouthfuls stolen from the bottles in the pantry, a can of sickly stout broken open and shared after lights-out. Standing on Kirkcaldy promenade, staring out to sea, and Mickey singing the words to “I Can See for Miles.” But could that really have happened? The record came out in ’66 or ’67, by which time Rebus was in the army. Must have been on a trip back. Yes, Mickey with his shoulder-length hair, trying to copy Daltrey’s look, and Rebus with his military crew cut, inventing stories to make army life seem exciting, Northern Ireland still ahead of him…
They’d been close back then, Rebus always sending letters and postcards, his father proud of him, proud of both the boys.
The spitting image of your mum.
He stepped outside. The cigarette packet was already open in his hand. There were other smokers around him. They offered nods, shuffling their feet. The various wreaths and cards had been lined up next to the door and were being studied by the mourners. The usual words would crop up: condolence and loss and sorrow. The family would be in our thoughts. Michael wouldn’t be mentioned by name. Death brought its own set of protocols. The younger mourners were checking for text messages on their phones. Rebus dug his own out of his pocket and switched it on. Five missed calls, all from the same number. Rebus knew it from memory, pushed the buttons, and raised the phone to his ear. Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke was quick to answer.
“I’ve been trying you all morning,” she complained.
“I had it switched off.”
“Where are you anyway?”
“Still in Kirkcaldy.”
There was an intake of breath. “Hell, John, I completely forgot.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He watched Kenny open the car door for Chrissie. Lesley was motioning to Rebus, letting him know they were headed for the hotel. The car was a BMW, Kenny doing all right for himself as a mechanical engineer. He wasn’t married; had a girlfriend, but she hadn’t been able to make it to the funeral. Lesley was divorced, her own son and daughter off on holiday with their dad. Rebus nodded at her as she got into the back of the car.
“I thought it was next week,” Siobhan was saying.
“I take it you’re phoning for a gloat?” Rebus started walking toward his Saab. Siobhan had been in Perthshire the past two days, accompanying Macrae on a recon of G8 security. Macrae was old pals with Tayside’s assistant chief constable. All Macrae wanted was a look around, his friend happy to oblige. The G8 leaders would meet at Gleneagles Hotel, on the outskirts of Auchterarder, nothing around them but acres of wilderness and miles of security fence. There had been plenty of scare stories in the media. Reports of three thousand U.S. Marines landing in Scotland to protect their president. Anarchist plots to block roads and bridges with hijacked trucks. Bob Geldof had demanded that a million demonstrators besiege Edinburgh. They would be housed, he said, in people’s spare rooms, garages, and gardens. Boats would be sent to France to pick up protesters. Groups with names like Ya Basta and the Black Bloc would aim for chaos, while the People’s Golfing Association wanted to break the cordon to play a few holes of Gleneagles’s renowned course.
“I’m spending two days with DCI Macrae,” Siobhan was saying. “What’s to gloat about?”
Rebus unlocked his car and leaned in to slide the key into the ignition. He straightened again, took a last drag on his cigarette, and flicked the butt onto the roadway. Siobhan was saying something about a Scene of Crime team.
“Hold on,” Rebus told her. “I didn’t catch that.”
“Look, you’ve got enough on your plate without this.”
“Without what?”
“Remember Cyril Colliar?”
“Despite my advancing years, the memory’s not quite packed in.”
“Something really strange has happened.”
“What?”
“I think I’ve found the missing piece.”
“Of what?”
“The jacket.”
Rebus found that he’d lowered himself onto the driver’s seat. “I don’t understand.”
Siobhan gave a nervous laugh. “Me neither.”
“So where are you now?”
“Auchterarder.”
“And that’s where the jacket’s turned up?”
“Sort of.”
Rebus swung his legs into the car and pulled the door shut. “Then I’m coming to take a look. Is Macrae with you?”
“He went to Glenrothes. That’s where the G8 control center is.” She paused. “Are you sure you should be doing this?”
Rebus had started the engine. “I need to make my apologies first, but I can be there inside the hour. Will I have any trouble getting into Auchterarder?”
“It’s the calm before the storm. When you’re driving through town, look for the sign to the Clootie Well.”
“The what?”
“Easier if you just come and see for yourself.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do. Scene of Crime on their way?”
“Yes.”
“Which means word will get around.”
“Should I tell the DCI?”
“I’ll let you decide.” Rebus had wedged the phone between his shoulder and his cheek so he could steer the maze-like course to the gates of the crematorium.
“You’re breaking up,” Siobhan said.
Not if I can help it, Rebus thought to himself.
Cyril Colliar had been murdered six weeks before. Age twenty, he’d been locked away on a fixed ten-year stretch for a vicious rape. At the end of the sentence, he’d been released, despite the reservations of prison warders, police, and social services. They figured he was as big a threat as ever, having shown no remorse, denying his guilt despite DNA evidence. Colliar had returned to his native Edinburgh. All the bodybuilding he’d done in prison paid off. He worked as a nighttime bouncer and daytime muscle. His employer on both counts was Morris Gerald Cafferty. Big Ger was a villain of long standing. In had been Rebus’s job to confront him about his latest employee.
“What do I care?” had been the retort.
“He’s dangerous.”
“Way you’re hassling him would try the patience of a saint.” Cafferty swinging from side to side on his leather swivel chair, behind his desk at MGC Lettings. Anyone was slow with the weekly rent on one of Cafferty’s flats, Rebus guessed that was where Colliar would take over. Cafferty owned minicabs, too, and at least three raucous bars in the less salubrious parts of town. Plenty of work for Cyril Colliar.
Right up until the night he’d turned up dead. Skull caved in, the blow coming from behind. Pathologist figured he’d have died from that alone, but just to make sure, someone had added a syringe of very pure heroin. No indication that the deceased had been a user. Deceased was the word most of the cops on the case had used-and grudgingly at that. Nobody bothered with the term victim. Nobody could say the words out loud-Bastard got what he deserved-that wasn’t the done thing these days.
Didn’t stop them from thinking it, sharing it through eye contact and slow nods. Rebus and Siobhan had worked the case, but it had been one among many. Few leads and too many suspects. The rape victim had been interviewed, along with her family and her boyfriend from the time. One word kept coming up in discussing Colliar’s fate: “Good.”
His body had been found near his car, down a side street next to the bar where he’d been working. No witnesses, no scene-of-crime evidence. Just the one curiosity: a sharp blade had been used to slice away part of his distinctive jacket, a black nylon bomber emblazoned with the phrase CC Rider on the back. This was what had been removed, so that the white inner lining was revealed. Theories were in short supply. It was either a clumsy attempt to disguise the deceased’s identity, or there had been something hidden in the lining. Tests had proved negative for traces of drugs, leaving the police to shrug and scratch their heads.
To Rebus, it looked like a hit. Either Colliar had made an enemy, or a message was being sent to Cafferty. Not that their several interviews with Colliar’s employer had been enlightening.
“Bad for my reputation” was Cafferty’s main reaction. “Means either you catch whoever did it…”
“Or?”
But Cafferty hadn’t needed to answer. And if Cafferty got to the culprit first, it would be the last that was ever heard of them.
None of which had helped. The inquiry had hit a wall around the same time G8 preparations started focusing minds-most of them driven by images of overtime pay-elsewhere. Other cases had intruded, too, with victims-real victims. The Colliar murder team had been wound down.
Rebus lowered his driver’s-side window, welcoming the cool breeze. He didn’t know the quickest route to Auchterarder; he knew Gleneagles could be reached from Kinross, so had headed that way. A couple of months back, he’d bought a GPS for the car, but he hadn’t got round to reading the instructions yet. It lay on the passenger seat, screen blank. One of these days he’d take it to the garage that installed the car’s CD player. An inspection of the backseat, floors, and trunk had failed to turn up anything by The Who, so Rebus was listening to Elbow instead-Siobhan’s recommendation. He liked the title track, “Leaders of the Free World.” Stuck it on repeat. The singer seemed to think something had gone wrong since the ’60s. Rebus tended to agree, even coming at it from a different direction. He guessed the singer would have liked more change, a world run by Greenpeace and the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, poverty made history. Rebus had been on a few marches himself in the ’60s, before and after joining the army. It was a way to meet girls if nothing else. Usually there was a party somewhere afterward. These days, though, he saw the ’60s as the end of something. A fan had been stabbed to death at a Stones concert in 1969, and the decade had petered out. The 1960s had given youth a taste for revolt. They didn’t trust the old order, certainly didn’t respect it. He wondered about the thousands who would descend on Gleneagles, confrontation a certainty. Hard to imagine it in this landscape of farms and hillsides, rivers and glens. He knew that Gleneagles’s very isolation would have been a factor in its choice as venue. The leaders of the free world would be safe there, safe to sign their names to decisions that had already been made elsewhere. On the stereo, the band was singing about climbing a landslide. The image stuck with Rebus all the way to the outskirts of Auchterarder.
He didn’t think he’d been there before. All the same, he seemed to know the place. Typical small Scottish town: a single, well-defined main street with narrow side roads leading off, built with the notion that people would walk to their local shops. Small, independently owned shops at that; he didn’t see much that would inflame the antiglobalization campaigners. The baker was even selling limited-edition G8 pies.
The good folk of Auchterarder, Rebus seemed to recall, had been vetted under the guise of providing them with ID badges. These would be necessary so they could cross the eventual barricades. Yet as Siobhan had pointed out, there was an eerie tranquillity to the place. Only a few shoppers and one carpenter who seemed to be measuring windows for protective boards. The cars were muddy 4x4s, which had probably spent more time on farm tracks than motorways. One woman driver was even wearing a head scarf, something Rebus hadn’t seen in a while. Within a couple of minutes, he was at the far end of town and heading toward the A9. He did a three-point turn and this time kept his eyes open for signposts. The one he wanted was next to a pub, pointing down a lane. He signaled, following the road past hedges and driveways, then a newer housing estate. The landscape opened before him, showing distant hills. In moments he was out of town again, flanked by neat hedgerows that would leave their mark on his car if he had to make way for a tractor or delivery van. There were some woods to his left, and another sign told him this was home to the Clootie Well. He knew the word from clootie dumpling, a sticky steamed dessert his mother had sometimes made. He remembered the taste and texture as being similar to Christmas pudding, dark and cloying and sugary. His stomach gave a small protest, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in hours. His stop at the hotel had been brief, a few quiet words with Chrissie. She’d hugged him, just as she had back at the house earlier that morning. All the years he’d known her, there hadn’t been many hugs. In the early days, he’d actually fancied her; awkward under the circumstances. She’d seemed to sense this. Then he’d been best man at the wedding, and, during one dance, she’d blown mischievously in his ear. Later, on the few occasions when she and Mickey had been separated, Rebus had taken his brother’s side. He supposed he could have called her, said something, but he hadn’t. And when Mickey had gotten into that spot of bother, ended up in jail, Rebus hadn’t visited Chrissie and the kids. Mind you, he hadn’t visited Mickey that often either, in jail or since.
There was more history: when Rebus and his own wife had separated, Chrissie had blamed him entirely. She’d always gotten on well with Rhona; kept in touch with her after the divorce. That was family for you. Tactics, campaigning, and diplomacy: the politicians had it easy by comparison.
Back at the hotel, Lesley had mimicked her mother, giving him a hug too. Kenny had thought for a second before Rebus put the lad out of his misery by extending a hand to be squeezed. He wondered if there would be any fallings-out; there usually were at funerals. With grief came blame and resentment. Just as well he hadn’t stayed. When it came to the potential for confrontation, John Rebus punched well above his already substantial weight.
There was a parking area just off the road. It looked newly built, trees having been cleared, chippings of tree bark strewn across the ground. Room enough for four cars, but only one was waiting. Siobhan Clarke was leaning against it, arms folded. Rebus pulled on the brake and got out.
“Nice spot,” he said.
“Been here over a hundred years,” she told him.
“Didn’t think I drove that slowly.”
She offered only a twist of the mouth, leading him into the woods, arms still folded. She was dressed more formally than usual: knee-length black skirt and black stockings. Her shoes were smudged from having walked this same trail earlier.
“I saw the sign yesterday,” she was saying. “The one leading off the main drag. Decided I’d take a look.”
“Well, if the choice was that or Glenrothes…”
“There’s a bulletin board back at the clearing, tells you a bit about the place. All sorts of witchy goings-on over the years.” They were ascending a slope, rounding a thick, twisted oak. “The townspeople decided there must be sprites living here; shrieks in the dark, that sort of thing.”
“Local farmhands more like,” Rebus offered.
She nodded agreement. “All the same, they started leaving little offerings. Hence the name clootie.” She glanced around at him. “You’ll know what it means, you being the only native Scot around here?”
He had a sudden image of his mother lifting the pudding out of its pan. The pudding wrapped in…
“Cloth,” he told her.
“And clothing,” she added as they entered another clearing. They stopped and Rebus breathed deeply. Damp cloth…damp, rotting cloth. He’d been smelling it for the past half minute. The smell clothes gave off in his old house, the one he’d grown up in, when they weren’t aired, when the damp and the mildew got to them. The trees around him were strung with rags and remnants. Pieces had fallen to the ground, where they were decomposing to a mulch.
“Tradition has it,” Siobhan said quietly, “they were left here for good luck. Keep the sprites warm, and they’d see no harm came to you. Another theory: when kids died young, their parents left something here, by way of remembrance.” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat.
“I’m not made of glass,” Rebus assured her. “You can use words like remembrance-I’m not going to start blubbing.”
She nodded again. Rebus was walking around the clearing. Leaves and soft moss underfoot, and the sound of a stream, just a thin trickle of water pushing up from the ground. Candles and coins had been left by its edges.
“Not much of a well,” he commented.
She just shrugged. “I was here a few minutes…didn’t really warm to the atmosphere. But then I noticed some of the newer clothing.” Rebus saw it too. Strung from the branches. A shawl, overalls, a red polka-dot handkerchief. A nearly new sneaker, its laces dangling. Even underwear and what looked like children’s stockings.
“Christ, Siobhan,” Rebus muttered, not really knowing what else to say. The smell seemed to be growing stronger. He had another flashback to a ten-day bender many years before, coming out of it to find that a load of laundry had been sitting in the machine, waiting to be hung. When he’d opened the door, this same smell had hit him. He’d washed everything again but still had to throw it all away afterward. “And the jacket?”
All she did was point. Rebus walked slowly toward the tree in question. The piece of nylon had been pierced by a short branch. It swayed just a little in the breeze. Threads straggling from it but no mistaking the logo.
“CC Rider,” Rebus said in confirmation. Siobhan was running her hands through her hair. He knew she had questions, knew she would have been turning them over in her mind all the time she’d been waiting for him. “So what do we do?” he prompted.
“It’s a crime scene,” she began. “A team is on the way from Stirling. We need to secure the site, comb the area for evidence. We need to reassemble the original murder squad, start going door to door locally-”
“Including Gleneagles?” Rebus interrupted. “You’re the expert, so you tell me: how many times has the hotel staff been vetted? And how do we go about knocking on doors in the middle of a weeklong demonstration? Securing the site won’t be a problem, mind you, not with all the secret service teams we’re about to welcome…”
Naturally she had considered all these points. He knew as much and his voice trailed off.
“We keep it quiet till the summit’s over,” she suggested.
“Tempting,” he admitted.
She smiled. “Only because it gives you a head start.”
He admitted as much with a wink.
She sighed. “Macrae needs to be told. Which means he’ll tell Tayside Police.”
“But the SOCOs are coming from Stirling,” Rebus added, “and Stirling belongs to Central Region.”
“So that’s just the three police forces who need to know…Shouldn’t have any trouble keeping it under wraps.”
Rebus was looking around. “If we can at least get the scene checked and photographed…take the cloth back to the lab…”
“Before the fun and games start?”
Rebus puffed out his cheeks. “Kicks off on Wednesday, right?”
“The G8 does, yes. But there’s the Poverty March tomorrow and another planned for Monday.”
“In Edinburgh, though, not Auchterarder.” Then he saw what she was getting at. Even with the evidence at the lab, the whole place could be under siege. Getting from Gayfield Square to the lab at Howdenhall meant crossing the city, always supposing the technicians had managed to force their way into work.
“Why leave it here?” Siobhan asked, studying the patch again. “Some sort of trophy?”
“If so, why here specifically?”
“Could be local. Any family connections with the area?”
“I think Colliar’s solid Edinburgh.”
She looked at him. “I meant the rape victim.”
Rebus formed his mouth into an O.
“Something to consider,” she added. Then she paused. “What’s that sound?”
Rebus patted his stomach. “Been a while since I’ve eaten. Don’t suppose Gleneagles is open for afternoon tea?”
“Depends on your credit card limit. There are places in town. One of us should stay for the SOCOs.”
“Better be you, then; don’t want accusations that I’m hogging the limelight. In fact, you probably deserve a complimentary cup of Aucherarder’s finest tea.” He turned to go, but she stopped him.
“Why me? Why now?” Her arms stretching from her sides.
“Why not?” he answered. “Just call it kismet.”
“That’s not what I mean…”
He turned toward her again.
“What I mean,” she said quietly, “is that I’m not sure I want them caught. If they are, and it’s because of me…”
“If they are, Shiv, it’ll be due to their screwup.” He stabbed a finger in the direction of the patch. “That, and maybe even a bit of teamwork.”
The Scene of Crime Unit hadn’t been thrilled by news that Rebus and Siobhan had entered the crime site. Prints of their shoes had been taken, for purposes of elimination, along with hair samples.
“Go easy,” Rebus had warned. “I can’t afford to be generous.”
The SOCO-Scene of Crime officer-had apologized. “Got to get the root, else we can’t get the DNA.” On the third try with the tweezers, he’d been successful. One of his colleagues had almost finished videoing the scene. Another was taking photographs and yet another was in conversation with Siobhan about how much of the other clothing they should take to the lab.
“Just the most recent,” she told him, her eyes on Rebus. He nodded his agreement, sharing her train of thought. Even if Colliar was a message to Cafferty, it didn’t mean there weren’t other messages here.
“Sports shirt seems to have a company logo on it,” the SOCO commented.
“Your job could hardly be easier,” Siobhan said with a smile.
“My job’s collection. The rest is up to you.”
“Speaking of which,” Rebus interrupted, “any chance this could all go to Edinburgh rather than Stirling?”
The SOCO stiffened his shoulders. Rebus didn’t know him but he knew the type: late forties, half a lifetime’s experience. There was plenty of rivalry between the various police regions as it was. Rebus held up his hands in mock surrender.
“All I mean is, it’s an Edinburgh case. Makes sense if they don’t have to keep traipsing through to Stirling every time there’s something you need to show them.”
Siobhan was smiling again, amused by his use of they and them. But she gave a slight nod, too, recognizing a useful ploy when she saw one.
“Especially now,” Rebus was arguing, “with the demonstrations and everything.” He looked up to where a helicopter was circling. Gleneagles surveillance, it had to be. Someone up there wondering at the sudden appearance of two cars and two unmarked white vans at the Clootie Well. Returning his gaze to the SOCO, Rebus realized the chopper had sealed the deal. A time like this, cooperation was paramount. It had been hammered home in memorandum after memorandum. Macrae himself had said as much at the past dozen or so briefings at Gayfield Square.
Be nice. Work together. Help each other. Because for these few short days, the world would be watching.
Maybe the SOCO had been at similar briefings. He was nodding slowly, turning away to continue his work. Rebus and Siobhan shared another look. Then Rebus reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.
“No traces, please,” one of the other SOCOs warned him, so Rebus moved away, back toward the parking lot. He was just lighting up when another car appeared. The more the merrier, he thought to himself as DCI Macrae leaped out. He was dressed in what looked like a new suit. New tie, too, and a crisp white shirt. His hair was gray and sparse, face saggy, nose bulbous and red veined.
He’s the same age as me, Rebus thought. Why does he seem so much older?
“Afternoon, sir,” Rebus said.
“Thought you were supposed to be at a funeral.” The tone was accusatory, as though Rebus might have fabricated a death in the family to secure a Friday sleep-in.
“DS Clarke interrupted proceedings,” Rebus explained. “Thought I’d show my face.” Making it sound like a sacrifice. The words worked, too; Macrae’s tightened jaw relaxed a little.
I’m on a roll, Rebus thought. First the SOCO, now the boss. Macrae had been pretty good actually, green-lighting a day off for Rebus as soon as news broke of Mickey’s death. He’d told Rebus to go get smashed, and Rebus had obliged-the Scotsman’s way of dealing with death. He’d found himself in a part of town he didn’t know, no idea how he got there. He walked into a drugstore and asked where he was. Answer: Colinton Village Pharmacy. He’d thanked them by making the purchase of some aspirin.
“Sorry, John,” Macrae said now, taking a deep breath. “How did it go?” Trying to sound concerned.
“It went” was all Rebus said. He watched the helicopter bank steeply as it turned for home.
“Hope to Christ that wasn’t TV,” Macrae commented.
“Not much to see, even supposing it was. Shame to tear you away from Glenrothes, sir. How’s Sorbus looking?”
Operation Sorbus: the policing plan for G8 week. To Rebus, it sounded like something a dieter would use in his tea instead of sugar. Siobhan had set him straight, told him it was a kind of tree.
“We’re prepared for any eventuality,” Macrae stated briskly.
“Except maybe one,” Rebus felt it his duty to add.
“Back burner till next week, John,” his boss muttered.
Rebus nodded his agreement. “Always assuming they agree.”
Macrae followed Rebus’s sight line and saw the car approaching. It was a silver Merc with tinted rear windows.
“Probably means the chopper wasn’t TV,” Rebus added for Macrae’s benefit. He reached into his own car’s passenger seat and brought out what remained of a sandwich. Ham salad: the first had slipped down without touching the sides.
“The hell’s this?” Macrae was asking through gritted teeth. The Merc had pulled to an abrupt stop beside one of the Scene of Crime vans. The driver’s door opened and a man got out. He walked around the car and tugged open the rear passenger-side door. It took several moments for the man inside to emerge. He was tall and narrow, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. As he secured all three buttons of his suit coat, he seemed to be studying the two white vans and the three unmarked police cars. Eventually, he peered up at the sky, mouthed something to his driver, and stepped away from the vehicle. Instead of approaching Rebus and Macrae, he walked over to the signpost, the one informing tourists of the Clootie Well’s history. The driver was back behind his steering wheel, eyes on Rebus and Macrae. Rebus blew him a little kiss, content to stand there until the new arrival consented to make introductions. Again, he thought he knew the type: cold and calculating, making a show of being the real power. Had to be security of some kind, following up the chopper’s call.
Macrae took only seconds to crack. Strode over to the man and asked him who he was.
“I’m SO12, who the hell are you?” the man replied in a measured voice. Maybe he’d missed the briefings on friendly cooperation. English accent, Rebus noted. Stood to reason. SO12 was Special Branch, based in London. One step away from the spooks. “I mean,” the man went on, his interest still apparently concentrated on the signpost, “I know what you are. You’re CID. And those are Scene of Crime vans. And in a clearing just ahead of us there are men in white protective overalls making a detailed examination of the trees and ground.” Finally he turned toward Macrae and reached a slow hand to his own face to remove the sunglasses. “How am I doing so far?”
Macrae’s face had reddened in anger. All day he’d been treated with the dignity that was his due. Now this.
“Care to show some ID?” Macrae snapped. The man stared at him then gave a wry smile. Is that all you’ve got? the smile seemed to say. As he reached into his jacket, not bothering to unbutton it, his eyes shifted from Macrae to Rebus. The smile stayed, inviting Rebus to share its message. A small black leather wallet was held open for Macrae’s inspection.
“There,” the man said, snapping it shut again. “Now you know all there is to know about me.”
“You’re Steelforth,” Macrae said, clearing his throat between words. Rebus could see his boss had been thrown. Macrae turned toward him. “Commander Steelforth is in charge of G8 security,” he explained. But Rebus had already guessed as much. Macrae turned back to Steelforth. “I was in Glenrothes this morning, being given a tour courtesy of ACC Finnigan. And Gleneagles yesterday…” Macrae’s voice faltered. Steelforth was already moving away from him, toward Rebus.
“Not interrupting your coronary, am I?” he asked, glancing at the sandwich. Rebus gave the belch he felt the query demanded. Steelforth’s eyes narrowed.
“We can’t all be dining courtesy of the taxpayer,” Rebus said. “How is the food at Gleneagles, by the way?”
“I doubt you’ll get the chance to find out, Detective Sergeant.”
“Not a bad guess, sir, but your eyes deceive you.”
“This is DI Rebus,” Macrae was explaining. “I’m DCI Macrae, Lothian and Borders.”
“Based where?” Steelforth asked.
“ Gayfield Square,” Macrae answered.
“In Edinburgh,” Rebus added.
“You’re a long way from home, gentlemen.” Steelforth was heading down the path.
“A man was murdered in Edinburgh,” Rebus explained. “Some of his clothing has turned up here.”
“Do we know why?”
“I intend keeping a lid on it, Commander,” Macrae stated. “Once the SOCOs are finished, that’s us done and dusted.” Macrae was at Steelforth’s heels, Rebus bringing up the rear.
“No plans for any premiers or presidents to come leave a wee offering?” Rebus asked.
Instead of answering, Steelforth marched into the clearing. The senior SOCO stuck a hand against his chest. “More fucking footprints,” he growled.
Steelforth glared at the hand. “Do you know who I am?”
“Don’t give a bollocks, pal. Fuck up my crime scene, you’ll answer for it.”
The Special Branch man considered for a moment, then relented, retracing his steps to the edge of the clearing, content to watch the operation. His cell sounded, and he answered it, moving farther away to prevent being overheard. Siobhan gave a questioning look. Rebus mouthed the word later and dug into his pocket, bringing out a ten-pound note.
“Here,” he said, offering it to the SOCO.
“What’s that for?”
Rebus just winked, and the man pocketed the money, adding the word “Cheers.”
“I always tip for service beyond the norm,” Rebus told Macrae. Nodding, Macrae dug into his own pocket and found a fiver for Rebus.
“Halfers,” the DCI said.
Steelforth was returning to the clearing. “I need to get back to more important matters. When will you be finished here?”
“Half an hour,” one of the other SOCOs answered.
“Longer if need be,” Steelforth’s nemesis added. “A crime scene’s a crime scene, no matter what other wee sideshows there are.” Like Rebus before him, he hadn’t been slow to work out Steelforth’s role.
The Special Branch man turned to Macrae. “I’ll inform ACC Finnigan, shall I? Let him know we have your full understanding and cooperation?”
“As you wish, sir.”
Steelforth’s face softened a little. His hand made contact with Macrae’s arm. “I’m willing to bet you didn’t see everything there is to see. When you’re finished here, come see me at Gleneagles. I’ll give you the proper tour.”
Macrae melted; a kid on Christmas morning. But he recovered well, stiffening his spine.
“Thank you, Commander.”
“Call me David.”
Crouched as if for evidence gathering some way behind Steelforth’s back, the senior SOCO made a show of sticking a finger down his throat.
Three cars would be making their way separately to Edinburgh. Rebus shuddered to think what the ecologists would say to that. Macrae peeled off first, heading for Gleneagles. Rebus had driven past the hotel earlier. When you approached Auchterarder from Kinross, you saw the hotel and its grounds a long time before you reached the town. Thousands of acres but few signs of security. He had caught just the one glimpse of fencing, alerted by a temporary structure which he took to be a watchtower. Rebus shadowed Macrae on the way back, his boss sounding the horn as he turned into the hotel’s driveway. Siobhan had guessed Perth as the quickest road, Rebus opting to retrace his cross-country route, pick up the M90 eventually. Still plenty of blue in the sky. Scottish summers were a blessing, a reward for the long winter’s twilight. Rebus turned down the music and called Siobhan’s cell.
“Hands-free, I hope…” she told him.
“Don’t be smart.”
“…otherwise you’re setting a bad example.”
“First time for everything. What did you make of our friend from London?”
“Unlike you, I don’t have those hang-ups.”
“What hang-ups?”
“With authority…with the English…with…” She paused. “Want me to go on?”
“Last time I looked, I still outrank you.”
“So?”
“So I could cite you for insubordination.”
“And give the chiefs a good laugh?”
His silence conceded the point. Either she’d gotten lippier down the years, or he was getting rusty. Both, probably. “Think we can talk the lab techs into a Saturday shift?” he asked.
“Depends.”
“What about Ray Duff? One word from you and he’d do it.”
“And all I’d have to do in return is spend a whole day with him, touring in that smelly old car.”
“It’s a design classic.”
“Something he won’t begin to tire of telling me.”
“Rebuilt it from scratch…”
Her sigh was audible. “What is it with forensics? They all have these hobbies.”
“So you’ll ask him?”
“I’ll ask him. Are you carousing this evening?”
“Night shift.”
“Same day as a funeral?”
“Someone’s got to do it.”
“I’m betting you insisted.”
He didn’t answer, instead asked what her own plans were.
“Getting my head down. Want to be up bright and early for the march.”
“What have they got you doing?”
She laughed. “I’m not working, John-I’m going because I want to.”
“Bloody hell.”
“You should come too.”
“Aye, right. That’s going to make all the difference in the world. I’d rather stay at home to make my protest.”
“What protest?”
“Against Bob bloody Geldof.” She was laughing in his ear again. “Because if as many turn up as he wants, it’ll look like it’s all because of him. Can’t have that, Siobhan. Think about it before you sign your name to the cause.”
“I’m going, John. If nothing else, I need to look out for my mum and dad.”
“Your…?”
“They’re up from London -and not because of anything Geldof said.”
“They’re going on the march?”
“Yes.”
“Do I get to meet them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re just the sort of cop they’re afraid I’ll become.”
He was supposed to laugh at this but knew she was only half joking.
“Fair point” was all he said.
“Have you shaken off the boss?” A conscious change of subject.
“Left him at valet parking.”
“Don’t joke-they actually have that at Gleneagles. Did he toot the horn at you?”
“What do you think?”
“I knew he would. This whole trip, it’s shaken years off him.”
“Kept him out of the station, too.”
“So everybody wins.” She paused. “You think you’ve got a crack at this, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Cyril Colliar. The next week or so, nobody’s going to be holding your leash.”
“I didn’t realize I was up there in your estimation.”
“John, you’re a couple of years away from retirement. I know you want one last go at Cafferty.”
“And it seems I’m transparent, too.”
“Look, I’m just trying to-”
“I know, and I’m touched.”
“You really think Cafferty could be responsible?”
“If he’s not, he’ll want whoever was. Look, if it all gets a bit fraught with your parents…” Now who was changing the subject? “Send me a text and we’ll meet for a drink.”
“All right, I will. You can turn the Elbow CD up now.”
“Well spotted. Talk to you later.”
Rebus cut the connection and did as he was told.
The barriers were going up. Down George IV Bridge and all along Princes Street, workmen were busy putting them in place. Road repairs and building projects had been put on hold, scaffolding removed so it couldn’t be taken apart and used as missiles. Mailboxes had been sealed shut and some shops boarded up. Financial institutions had been warned, staff advised not to wear formal clothing-it would make them easy targets. For a Friday evening, the town was quiet. Police vans cruised the central streets, metal grilles fixed to their windshields. More vans were parked out of sight in unlit side roads. The cops on board wore riot gear and laughed among themselves, swapping stories from previous engagements. A few veterans had seen action during the last wave of miners’ strikes. Others tried to match these memories with stories of soccer battles, poll-tax demonstrations, the Newbury Bypass. They exchanged rumors about the expected size of the Italian anarchist contingent.
“ Genoa toughened them up.”
“Just the way we like it, eh, lads?”
Bravado and nerves and camaraderie. The talk faltering whenever a radio crackled to life.
The uniformed police working the train station wore bright yellow jackets. Here, too, barriers were being erected. They were blocking exits, so there remained a single route in and out. Some officers carried cameras with which to record the faces of arrivals from the London trains. Special cars had been added on for the protesters, which made them easy to identify. Not that such skills were really needed: they sang songs, carried backpacks, wore badges and T-shirts and wristbands. They carried flags and banners, were dressed in baggy pants, camouflage jackets, hiking boots. Intelligence reports said busloads had already left from the south of England. First estimates had stated fifty thousand. The latest guess was north of a hundred thousand. Which, added to the summer tourists, would swell Edinburgh ’s population nicely.
Somewhere in the city there was a rally signaling the start of G8 Alternatives, a weeklong series of marches and meetings. More police would be there. If needed, some of these would be on horseback. Plenty of dog handlers, too, including four on Waverley Station’s concourse. The plan was simple: visible strength. Let any potential troublemakers know what they’d be dealing with. Visors and billly clubs and handcuffs, horses and dogs and patrol vans.
Force of numbers.
Tools of the trade.
Tactics.
Earlier in its history, Edinburgh was prone to invasion. Its inhabitants hid behind walls and gates, and when those were breached they retreated to the warrenlike tunnels below the castle and the High Street, leaving the city empty and the victory hollow. It was a talent the denizens continued to bring to the annual August festival. As the population swelled, the locals became less visible, blending in to the background. It might also explain Edinburgh ’s reliance on invisible industries such as banking and insurance. Until lately, it was said that St. Andrew Square was the richest in Europe, boasting several corporate HQs. But with space at a premium, new building projects had prospered on Lothian Road and farther west toward the airport. The Royal Bank’s HQ at Gogarburn, recently completed, was seen as a target. So, too, buildings owned and staffed by Standard Life and Scottish Widows. Driving through the streets, killing some time, Siobhan figured the city would be tested in the coming days as never before.
A police convoy, sirens blaring, pulled out to pass her. No mistaking the schoolboy grin on the driver’s face; he was loving every minute. Edinburgh provided his own personal racetrack. A purple Nissan filled with local youths was riding the slipstream. Siobhan gave it ten seconds, then signaled to move back out into the flow of traffic. She was on her way to a temporary campsite in Niddrie, one of Edinburgh ’s less genteel areas. Instead of pitching their tents in people’s gardens, marchers were being told to go there.
Niddrie.
The council had chosen the grasslands around the Jack Kane Center. They were planning for ten thousand visitors, maybe even fifteen. Portable toilets and showers had been provided and a private security firm put in charge. Probably, Siobhan couldn’t help thinking, to keep the neighborhood gangs out rather than the marchers in. The local joke was that there’d be a lot of tents and camping gear for sale around the pubs in the next few weeks. Siobhan had offered to let her parents stay at her place. Of course she had: they’d helped her buy it. They could have her bed; she’d crash on the sofa. But they’d been adamant: they would be traveling by bus and camping with the others. They’d been students in the 1960s and had never quite shaken themselves free of the period. Though now nearing sixty-Rebus’s generation-her dad still kept his hair tied back in a sort of ponytail. Her mum still wore dresses that were mostly caftans. She thought of her words to Rebus earlier: You’re just the sort of cop they’re afraid I’ll become. Thing was, part of her felt now that she’d joined the police mostly because she’d thought they wouldn’t approve. After all the care and affection they’d doled out, she’d needed to rebel. Payback for the times their teaching jobs had led to yet another move, another new school. Payback simply because it was in her power. When she’d told them, their looks had almost made her recant. But that would have been weak. They’d been supportive, of course, while hinting that police work might not be the most fulfilling use of her skills. That was enough to make her dig in her heels.
So she’d become a cop. Not in London, where her parents lived, but in Scotland, which she hadn’t really known at all until attending college there. One final heartfelt plea from her mum and dad: “Anywhere but Glasgow.”
Glasgow, with its hard-man image and knife culture, its sectarian divide. Yet, as Siobhan had found, a great place to shop. A place she sometimes went with friends-all-girl parties which led to them staying the night at some boutique hotel or other, sampling the nightlife, steering clear of any bars with bouncers at the door-a point of drinking protocol on which she and John Rebus agreed. While Edinburgh, meantime, had proved more deadly than her parents could ever have imagined.
Not that she would ever tell them that. During Sunday phone calls she tended to brush off her mum’s inquiries, asking her own questions instead. She’d offered to meet them at the bus, but they’d said they would need time to get the tent ready. Stopped at traffic lights, she pictured this, and the image made her smile. Nearly sixty, the pair of them, and messing around with a tent. They’d taken early retirement the previous year from their teaching jobs. Owned a fair-sized house in Forest Hill, the mortgage paid off. Always asking her if she needed money…
“I’ll pay for a hotel room,” she’d told them on the phone, but they’d remained resolute. Pulling away from the lights, she wondered if it might be some form of dementia.
She parked on the Wisp, ignoring the orange traffic cones, and stuck a POLICE BUSINESS notice on her windshield. At the sound of her idling engine, a yellow-jacketed security guard had come for a look. He shook his head and pointed at the notice. Then he drew a hand across his throat and nodded toward the nearest housing development. Siobhan removed the sign but left the car where it was.
“Local gangs,” the guard was saying. “Sign like that’s a red rag to a bull.” He slid his hands into his pockets, puffing up his already substantial chest. “So what brings you here, Officer?”
His head was shaved, but he sported a full, dark beard and a tangle of eyebrows.
“Social call, actually,” Siobhan said, showing him her ID. “A couple by the name of Clarke. Need a word with them.”
“In you come then.” He led her to a gate in the perimeter fence. In miniature, it was a bit like the Gleneagles security. There was even a sort of watchtower. Every ten yards or so along the fence stood another guard. “Here, put this on,” her new friend was saying, handing her a wristband. “Makes you less conspicuous. It’s how we keep tabs on our band of happy campers.”
“Quite literally,” she said, taking it from him. “How’s everything going so far?”
“Local youth don’t like it much. They’ve tried coming in, but that’s about it.” He shrugged. They were walking along a metal walkway, stepping off it for a moment as a young girl roller-skated past, her mother watching cross-legged from the ground next to her tent.
“How many are here?” Siobhan found it hard to judge.
“Maybe a thousand. There’ll be more tomorrow.”
“You’re not keeping count?”
“Not taking names either-so I’m not sure where you’re going to find your friends. Only thing we’re allowed to take from them is the fee for their site.”
Siobhan looked around. The summer had been dry, and the earth underfoot was solid. Beyond the skyline of apartment buildings and houses she could make out other, more ancient shapes: Holyrood Park and Arthur’s Seat. She could hear some low chanting and a few guitars and pennywhistles. Children’s laughter and a baby ready for its next feeding. Hand claps and chatter. Silenced suddenly by a megaphone, carried by a man with his hair crammed into an outsize woolly hat. Patchwork trousers lopped off at the knees and flip-flops on his feet.
“Big white tent, people-that’s where it’s happening. Vegetable curry at four quid, thanks to the local mosque. Only four quid…”
“Maybe that’s where you’ll find them,” Siobhan’s guide said. She thanked him and he headed back to his post. The “big white tent” seemed to serve as a general meeting place. Someone else was calling out that a group would be heading into town for a drink. Meet in five minutes by the red flag. Siobhan had passed a row of portable toilets and some standpipes and showers. All that was left for her to explore now were tents. The line for curry was orderly. Someone tried to hand her a plastic spoon, and she shook her head before remembering that it was a while since she’d eaten. Her Styrofoam plate heaped high, she decided to take a slow walk through the camp. People were cooking their own food on camp stoves. One pointed at her.
“Remember me from Glastonbury?” he called. Siobhan just shook her head. And then she saw her parents and broke into a smile. They were doing the camping thing with style: a big red tent with windows and a covered porch, foldaway table and chairs, and an open bottle of wine with real glasses next to it. They got up when they saw her, exchanged hugs and kisses, apologized that they’d only brought two chairs.
“I can sit on the grass,” Siobhan assured them. There was another young woman already doing just that. She hadn’t moved at Siobhan’s approach.
“We were just telling Santal about you,” Siobhan’s mum said. Eve Clarke looked young for her years, only the laugh lines giving the game away. The same could not be said for Siobhan’s dad, Teddy. He’d grown paunchy, and the skin drooped from his face. His hairline had receded, the ponytail sparser and grayer than ever. He refilled the wineglasses with gusto, his gaze never leaving the bottle.
“I’m sure Santal’s been riveted,” Siobhan said, accepting the glass.
The young woman gave the beginnings of a smile. Her hair was neck length and dirty blond, gelled or mistreated so that it emerged in clumps and braids from her scalp. No makeup, but multiple piercings to her ears and one to the side of her nose. Her dark green sleeveless T-shirt showed Celtic tattoos on either shoulder, and her bare midriff showed another piercing to her navel. Plenty of jewelry strung around her neck, and hanging lower still what looked like a digital video camera.
“You’re Siobhan,” she said with a trace of a lisp.
“Afraid so.” Siobhan toasted the company with her glass. Another had been produced from a picnic basket, along with another bottle of wine.
“Steady on, Teddy,” Eve Clarke said.
“Santal needs a refill,” he explained, though Siobhan couldn’t help noticing that Santal’s glass was actually almost as full as her own.
“Did the three of you travel up together?” she asked.
“Santal hitched from Aylesbury,” Teddy Clarke said. “After the bus ride we’ve just endured, I think next time I’d do the same.” He rolled his eyes and fidgeted in his seat, then unscrewed the wine bottle. “Screw-top wine, Santal. Don’t say the modern world doesn’t have its pluses.”
In fact, she didn’t reply at all. Siobhan couldn’t say why she’d taken such an immediate dislike to this stranger, except that Santal was just that: a stranger. Siobhan had wanted some time with her mum and dad. Just the three of them.
“Santal’s got the campsite next to us,” Eve was explaining. “We needed a bit of help with the tent…”
Her husband laughed suddenly and loudly, filling his own glass. “Been a while since we camped,” he said.
“Tent looks new,” Siobhan commented.
“Borrowed from neighbors,” her mother said quietly.
Santal was rising to her feet. “I should go.”
“Not on our account,” Teddy Clarke protested.
“There’s a bunch of us heading to a pub.”
“I like your camera,” Siobhan said.
Santal looked down at it. “Any of the cops take my picture, I want theirs in return. Fair’s fair, isn’t it?” Her unblinking look demanded agreement.
Siobhan turned toward her father. “You’ve told her what I do,” she stated quietly.
“Not ashamed, are you?” Santal all but spat the words out.
“Just the opposite, to be honest.” Siobhan’s eyes shifted from father to mother. Suddenly both her parents seemed intent on the wine in front of them. When she looked back at Santal, she saw that the young woman was pointing the camera at her.
“One for the family album,” Santal said. “I’ll send you a JPEG.”
“Thanks,” Siobhan replied coldly. “Odd name, isn’t it, Santal?”
“Means ‘sandalwood,’” Eve Clarke answered.
“At least people can spell it,” Santal herself added.
Teddy Clarke laughed. “I was telling Santal about how we burdened you with a name nobody down south could pronounce.”
“Shared any more family history?” Siobhan said, bristling. “Any embarrassing stories I need to be aware of?”
“Touchy, isn’t she?” Santal commented to Siobhan’s mother.
“You know,” Eve Clarke admitted, “we never really wanted her to become-”
“Mum, for Christ’s sake!” Siobhan broke in. But her further complaint was cut short by sounds from the direction of the fence. She saw guards jogging toward the scene. There were kids on the outside, making Nazi salutes. They wore regulation dark hooded tops and wanted the guards to send out “all the hippie scum.”
“The revolution starts here!” one of them yelled. “Up against the wall, wankers!”
“Pathetic,” Siobhan’s mother said.
But now there were objects sailing through the darkening sky.
“Get down,” Siobhan warned, all but pushing her mother into the tent, unsure what protection it would offer from the volley of rocks and bottles. Her father had taken a couple of steps toward the trouble, but she hauled him back, too. Santal was standing her ground, pointing her camera toward the melee.
“You’re just a bunch of tourists!” one of the locals was yelling. “Piss off home on the rickshaws that brought you here!”
Raucous laughter; jeers and gestures. If the campers wouldn’t come outside, they wanted the guards. But the guards weren’t that stupid. Instead, Siobhan’s friend was on his radio for reinforcements. Situation like this, it could die down in moments or flare into all-out war. The guard found her standing by his shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m sure you’re insured…”
It took her a second to get his meaning. “My car!” she shouted, heading for the gate. Had to elbow her way past two more guards. Ran out onto the road. Her hood was dented and scratched, back window fractured, NYT sprayed on one door.
Niddrie Young Team.
They stood there in a line, laughing at her. One of them held up his camera phone to get a picture.
“Take all the photos you want,” she told him. “Makes you even easier to trace.”
“Fuckin’ police!” another of them spat. He was in the center, a lieutenant behind either shoulder.
The leader.
“Police is right,” she said. “Ten minutes in Craigmillar cop-shop and I’ll know more about you than your own mother.” She was pointing for emphasis, but all he did was sneer. Only a third of his face was visible, but she would file it away. A car was drawing up, three men inside. Siobhan recognized the one in the back: local councilman.
“Away you go!” he was yelling as he emerged, waving both arms as if putting sheep back in a pen. The gang’s leader pretended to tremble but could see that his fellow soldiers were wavering. Half a dozen of the security had come from behind the fence, the bearded guard at their head. Sirens in the distance, growing closer.
“Go on, bugger off with you!” the councilman persisted.
“Camp full of lezzies and fags,” the gang’s leader snarled in reply. “And who’s paying for it, eh?”
“I very much doubt you are, son,” the councilman said. The other two men from the car were flanking him now. They were big men, probably hadn’t backed down from a fight in their lives. Just the sort of pollsters a Niddrie politician would need.
The gang leader spat on the ground, then turned and walked off.
“Thanks for that,” Siobhan said, holding out a hand for the councilman to shake.
“Not a problem,” he replied, seeming to dismiss the whole incident, Siobhan included, from his mind. He was shaking the bearded guard’s hand now, the two obviously known to each other.
“Quiet night otherwise?” the councilman asked. The guard chuckled a response.
“Was there something we could do for you, Mr. Tench?”
Councilman Tench looked around him. “Just thought I’d drop by, let all these lovely people know that my district stands firmly behind them in the fight to end poverty and injustice in the world.” He had an audience now, fifty or so campers standing just on the other side of the fence. “We know something about both in this part of Edinburgh,” he bellowed, “but that doesn’t mean we’ve no time for those worse off than us. Bighearted, I like to think we are.” He saw that Siobhan was examining the damage to her car. “Few wild ones in our midst, naturally, but then what community hasn’t?” Smiling, Tench opened his arms again, this time like a brimstone preacher.
“Welcome to Niddrie!” he told his congregation. “Welcome, one and all.”
Rebus was alone in the CID suite. It had taken him half an hour to find the notes for the murder inquiry: four boxes and a series of folders, floppy disks, and a single CD-ROM. He’d left these latter items on their shelf in the storeroom and now had some of the paperwork spread out in front of him. He’d made use of the half dozen desks available, pushing in-boxes and computer keyboards aside. By walking through the room, he could shift between the different stages of the inquiry: crime scene to initial interviews; victim profile to further interviews; prison record; connection with Cafferty; autopsy and toxicology reports…The phone in the DI’s little booth had rung a few times, but Rebus had ignored it. He wasn’t the senior DI here; Derek Starr was. And the smarmy little bastard was out on the town somewhere, it being a Friday night. Rebus knew Starr’s routine because Starr himself shared it with all and sundry each Monday morning: couple of drinks at the Hallion Club, then maybe home for a shower and change of clothes before coming back into town; back to the Hallion if it was lively, but always heading to George Street afterward-Opal Lounge, Candy Bar, Living Room. Nightcap at Indigo Yard if he hadn’t gotten lucky before then. There was a new jazz place opening on Queen Street, owned by Jools Holland. Starr had already made inquiries about membership.
The phone rang again; Rebus ignored it. If it was urgent, they’d try Starr’s cell. If it was being transferred from the front desk…well, they knew Rebus was up here. He’d wait till they tried his extension rather than Starr’s. Could be they were winding him up, hoping he’d answer so they could apologize and say it was DI Starr they were after. Rebus knew his place in the food chain: somewhere down among the plankton, the price for years of insubordination and reckless conduct. Never mind that there’d been results along the way, too: far as the bigwigs were concerned, these days it was all about how you got the result, about efficiency and accountability, public perceptions, strict rules and protocols.
Rebus’s translation: covering your own ass.
He stopped by a folder of photographs. Some he had already removed and spread out across the surface of the desk. But now he sifted through the others. Cyril Colliar’s public history: newspaper clippings, Polaroids offered by family and friends, the official photos from his arrest and trial. Someone had even snapped a grainy shot of him during his time in prison, reclining on his bed, arms behind his head as he watched TV. It had made the front page of the tabloids: “Could Life Be Any Cushier for Rape Beast?”
Not any longer.
Next desk: details of the rape victim’s family. Name kept secret from the public. She was Victoria Jensen, eighteen at the time of the attack. Vicky to those closest to her. Followed from a nightclub…followed as she walked with two pals to the bus stop. Night bus: Colliar had found himself a seat a couple of rows behind the three. Vicky got off the bus alone. Not much more than five hundred yards from home when he’d struck, hand over her mouth, hauling her into an alley…
Surveillance videos showed him leaving the club straight after her. Showed him boarding the bus and taking his seat. DNA from the attack sealed his fate. Some of his associates had attended the trial, made threats toward the victim’s family. No charges brought.
Vicky’s father was a vet; his wife worked for Standard Life. Rebus himself had delivered the news of Cyril Colliar’s demise to the family home in Leith.
“Thanks for telling us,” the father had said. “I’ll break it to Vicky.”
“You don’t understand, sir,” Rebus had responded, “there are questions I need to ask you…”
Did you do it?
Hire someone to do it for you?
Know anyone who might’ve been compelled?
Vets had access to drugs. Maybe not heroin, but other drugs which could be exchanged for heroin. Dealers sold ketamine to clubbers-Starr himself had made the point. It was used by vets to treat horses. Vicky had been raped in an alley, Colliar killed in one. Thomas Jensen had appeared outraged by the insinuations.
“You mean you’ve really never thought of it, sir? Never planned any sort of revenge?”
Of course he had: images of Colliar rotting in a cell or burning in hell. “But that doesn’t happen, does it, Inspector? Not in this world…”
Vicky’s friends had been questioned too, none of them ready to own up. Rebus moved to the next table. Morris Gerald Cafferty stared back at him from photographs and interview transcripts. Rebus had needed to argue his case before Macrae would let him anywhere near. Feeling was, their shared history ran too deep. Some knew them for enemies; others thought them too similar…and way too familiar with each other. Starr for one had voiced his concerns in front of both Rebus and DCI Macrae. Rebus’s snarled attempt to grab his fellow DI by the shirtfront had been, in Macrae’s later words, “just another goal for the other team, John.”
Cafferty was dexterous: fingers in every imaginable criminal pie. Saunas and protection, muscle and intimidation. Drugs, too, which would give him access to heroin. And if not him personally, Colliar’s fellow bouncers for sure. It wasn’t unknown for clubs to be shut down when it emerged that the so-called doormen were controlling the flow of dope into the premises. Any one of them could have decided to get rid of the Rape Beast. Might even have been personal: a disrespectful remark; a slight against a girlfriend. The many and varied possible motives had been explored at length and in detail. On the surface, then, a by-the-book investigation. Nobody could say otherwise. Except…Rebus could see the team’s heart hadn’t been in it. A few questions missed here and there; avenues left unexplored. Notes typed up sloppily. It was the sort of thing only someone close to the case would spot. Effort had been spared throughout, just enough to show what the officers really thought of their victim.
The autopsy, however, had been scrupulous. Professor Gates had said it before: it didn’t bother him who was lying on his slab. They were human beings, and somebody’s daughter or son.
“Nobody’s born bad, John,” he’d muttered, leaning over his scalpel.
“Well, nobody makes them do bad things either,” Rebus had retorted.
“Ah,” Gates had conceded. “A conundrum pored over by wiser heads than ours through the centuries. What makes us keep doing these terrible things to each other?”
Gates hadn’t offered an answer. But something else he’d pointed out resonated with Rebus now as he moved to Siobhan’s desk and picked up one of the postmortem photographs of Colliar. In death we all return to innocence, John…It was true that Colliar’s face seemed at peace, as though nothing had ever troubled it.
The phone was ringing again in Starr’s office. Rebus let it ring, picked up Siobhan’s extension instead. There was a Post-it note affixed to the side of her hard disk: rows of names and phone numbers. He knew better than to try the lab, punched in the cell number instead.
Picked up almost immediately by Ray Duff.
“Ray? It’s DI Rebus.”
“Inviting me to join him on a Friday-night pub crawl?” Rebus’s silence was answered with a sigh. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I’m surprised at you though, Ray, shirking your duties.”
“I don’t sleep in the lab, you know.”
“Except we both know that’s a lie.”
“Okay, I work the odd night…”
“And that’s what I like about you, Ray. See, we’re both driven by that passion for the job.”
“A passion I’m jeopardizing by showing my face at my local pub’s trivia night?”
“Not my place to judge you, Ray. Just wondering how this new Colliar evidence is shaping up.”
Rebus heard a tired chuckle at the other end of the phone. “You never let up, do you?”
“It’s not for me, Ray. I’m just helping out Siobhan. This could mean a big promotion for her if she nails it. She’s the one who found the patch.”
“The evidence only came in three hours ago.”
“Ever heard of striking while the iron is hot?”
“But the beer in front of me is cold, John.”
“It would mean a lot to Siobhan, Ray. She’s looking forward to you claiming that prize.”
“What prize?”
“The chance to show off that car of yours. A day out in the country, just the two of you on those winding roads…Who knows, maybe even a hotel room at the end of it if you play your cards right.” Rebus paused. “What’s that music?”
“One of the trivia questions.”
“Sounds like Steely Dan, ‘Reelin’ in the Years.’”
“But how did the band get their name?”
“A dildo in a William Burroughs novel. Now tell me you’re heading to the lab straight after.”
Well satisfied with the outcome, Rebus treated himself to a mug of coffee and a stretch of the legs. The building was quiet. The desk sergeant had been replaced by one of his juniors. Rebus didn’t know the face, but nodded anyway.
“Been trying to get CID to take a call,” the young officer said. He ran a finger along his shirt collar. His neck was pitted with acne or some species of rash.
“That’ll be me then,” Rebus told him. “What’s the emergency?”
“Trouble at the castle, sir.”
“Have the protests started early?”
The uniform shook his head. “Reports of a scream and a body landing in the gardens. Looks like someone fell from the ramparts.”
“Castle’s not open this time of night,” Rebus stated, brow creasing.
“Dinner for some of the bigwigs…”
“So who ended up going over the edge?”
The constable just shrugged. “Shall I tell them there’s no one available?”
“Don’t be crazy, son,” Rebus announced, heading off to fetch his jacket.
As well as being a major tourist attraction, Edinburgh Castle acted as a working barracks, something Commander David Steelforth stressed to Rebus when he intercepted him just inside the portcullis.
“You get about a bit,” Rebus said by way of response. The Special Branch man was dressed formally: bow tie and cummerbund, dinner jacket, patent shoes.
“Thing is, that means it is quite properly under the aegis of the armed forces.”
“I’m not sure what aegis means, Commander.”
“It means,” Steelforth hissed, losing patience, “military police will be looking into the whys and wherefores of what occurred here.”
“Good dinner, was it?” Rebus was still walking. The path wound uphill, fierce gusts whipping around both men.
“There are important people here, DI Rebus.”
As if on cue, a car appeared from some sort of tunnel ahead. It was making for the gates, forcing Rebus and Steelforth to stand aside. Rebus caught a glimpse of the face in the back: a glint from metal-rimmed glasses; long, pale, worried-looking face. But then the foreign secretary often seemed to look worried, as Rebus pointed out to Steelforth. The Special Branch man frowned, disappointed at the recognition.
“Hope I don’t need to interview him,” Rebus added.
“Look, Inspector…”
But Rebus was moving again. “Here’s the thing, Commander,” he said over his shoulder. “Victim may have fallen-or jumped, or any other ‘why’ or ‘wherefore’-and I’m not disputing he was on army turf when he did, but he landed a few hundred feet farther south, in Princes Street Gardens”-Rebus proffered a smile-“and that makes him mine.”
Rebus started walking again, trying to remember the last time he’d been inside the castle walls. He’d brought his daughter here, of course, but twenty-odd years ago. The castle dominated the Edinburgh skyline. You could see it from Bruntsfield and Inverleith. On the drive in from the airport, it took on the aspect of a lowering Transylvanian lair, and made you wonder if you’d lost your color vision. From Princes Street, Lothian Road, and Johnston Terrace its volcanic sides seemed sheer and impregnable-and so they had proved over the years. Yet approaching from the Lawnmarket, you climbed a gentle slope to its entrance, with little hint of its enormous presence.
The drive from Gayfield Square had almost stymied Rebus. Uniformed cops hadn’t wanted to let him use Waverley Bridge. A great grinding and clanking of metal as the barriers were dragged into position for tomorrow’s march. He’d sounded his horn, ignoring gestures that he should find another route. When one officer had approached, Rebus had rolled down the window and shown his ID.
“This route’s closed,” the man stated. English accent, maybe Lancashire.
“I’m CID,” Rebus told him. “And behind me there’s going to be maybe an ambulance, a pathologist, and a Scene of Crime van. Want to tell them the same story?”
“What’s happened?”
“Someone’s just landed in the gardens.” Rebus nodded toward the castle.
“Bloody protesters…one got stuck on the rocks earlier. Fire brigade had to winch him down.”
“Well, much as I’d like nothing better than a chat…”
The officer scowled but moved the barrier aside.
Now another barrier had placed itself in front of Rebus: Commander David Steelforth.
“This is a dangerous game, Inspector. Better left to those of us specializing in intelligence.”
Rebus’s eyes narrowed. “You calling me thick?”
A short, barked laugh. “Not at all.”
“Good.” Rebus moved past him again. He saw where he was supposed to go. Military guards peering over the edge of the battlements. A cluster of elderly and distinguished-looking men, dressed for dinner, lurked nearby, smoking cigars.
“This where he fell?” Rebus asked the guards. He had his ID open but had decided not to identify himself as civilian police.
“Must be about the spot,” someone answered.
“Anyone see it?”
There were shakes of the head. “There was an incident earlier,” the same soldier said. “Some idiot got stuck. We were warned more of them might try.”
“And?”
“And Private Andrews thought he saw something round the other side.”
“I said I wasn’t sure,” Andrews said, defending himself.
“So you all skedaddled to the other side of the castle?” Rebus made a show of sucking in breath. “That used to be called deserting your post.”
“Detective Inspector Rebus has no jurisdiction here,” Steelforth was telling the group.
“And that would have counted as treason,” Rebus warned him.
“Do we know who’s unaccounted for?” one of the older men was asking.
Rebus heard another car making for the portcullis. Headlights threw wild shadows across the wall ahead. “Hard to say, with everyone running off,” he said quietly.
“No one’s running off,” Steelforth snapped.
“Just a bunch of prior engagements?” Rebus guessed.
“These are hellish busy people, Inspector. Decisions are being made that may change the world.”
“Won’t change whatever happened to the poor guy down there.” Rebus nodded toward the wall, then turned to face Steelforth. “So what was going on here tonight, Commander?”
“Discussions over dinner. Moves toward ratification.”
“Good news for all rats. What about the guests?”
“G8 representatives-foreign ministers, security personnel, senior civil servants.”
“Probably rules out pizza and a case or two of beer.”
“A lot gets done at these get-togethers.”
Rebus was peering over the edge. He’d never much liked heights and didn’t linger. “Can’t see a damned thing,” he said.
“We heard him,” one of the soldiers said.
“Heard what exactly?” Rebus asked.
“The scream as he fell.” He looked around at his comrades for support. One of them nodded.
“Seemed to scream all the way down,” he added with a shiver.
“Wonder if that rules out suicide,” Rebus speculated. “What do you think, Commander?”
“I think there’s nothing for you to learn here, Inspector. I also think it odd that you seem to pop up like this whenever there’s bad news to find.”
“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing,” Rebus said, eyes boring into Steelforth’s, “about you…”
The search party had comprised yellow-jacketed officers from barricade duty. Outfitted with flashlights, they hadn’t taken long. Paramedics declared the man dead, though anyone could have done the job. Neck twisted at an unnatural angle; one leg folded in half from the impact; blood seeping from the skull. He had lost a shoe on the way down and his shirt had been ripped open, probably by an overhang. Police HQ had spared a single SOCO, who was photographing the body.
“Want to place a small wager on cause of death?” the SOCO asked Rebus.
“Not a chance, Tam.” Tam the SOCO had not lost a bet like that in fifty or sixty cases.
“Did he jump or was he pushed, that’s what you’re asking yourself.”
“You’re a mind reader, Tam. Do you do palms as well?”
“No, but I take photos of them.” And to prove his point, he got close up to one of the victim’s hands. “Nicks and scratches can be very useful, John. Know why?”
“Impress me.”
“If he’s been pushed, he’ll have scrabbled for purchase, clawed at the sides of the rock.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
The SOCO let off another flash. “His name’s Ben Webster.” He turned to gauge Rebus’s reaction, seemed satisfied with the result. “I recognize his face-what’s left of it anyway.”
“You know him?”
“I know who he is. Member of parliament from up Dundee way.”
“The Scottish parliament?”
Tam shook his head. “The one in London. He’s something to do with international development-leastways, he was last time I looked.”
“Tam…” Rebus sounded exasperated. “How the hell do you know all this?”
“Got to keep up with politics, John. It’s what makes the wheels turn. And besides, our young friend here shares a name with my favorite tenor saxophone player.”
Rebus was already tottering back down the grassy slope. The body had come to rest against a shelf of rock fifteen feet above one of the narrow paths that snaked around the base of the ancient volcanic plug. Steelforth was on the path itself, taking a call on his cell. He flipped the phone shut as Rebus neared.
“Remember,” Rebus reminded him, “how we saw the foreign secretary leaving in his chauffeured car? Funny that he’d go without one of his men.”
“Ben Webster,” Steelforth stated. “That was the castle on the phone; seems he’s the only one missing.”
“International development.”
“You’re well informed, Inspector.” Steelforth made a show of looking Rebus up and down. “Maybe I’ve misjudged you. But international development is a separate department from the F.O. Webster was PPS-parliamentary private secretary.”
“Meaning what?”
“The minister’s right-hand man.”
“Excuse my ignorance.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m still impressed.”
“Is this where you make an offer to keep me off your back?”
Steelforth smiled. “That’s usually not necessary.”
“Might be in my case.”
But Steelforth was shaking his head. “I doubt you can be bought in that particular way. Nevertheless, we both know this will be wrenched from your hands in the next few hours, so why waste energy? Battlers like yourself usually know when it’s time to rest and refuel.”
“Are you inviting me to the Great Hall for port and cigars?”
“I’m telling you the truth as I see it.”
Rebus was watching another van arrive on the road below them. It would be from the morgue, here to collect the body. Another job for Professor Gates and his staff.
“You know what I think really bothers you, Inspector?” Steelforth had taken a step closer. His phone was ringing but he chose to ignore it. “You see all this as an incursion. Edinburgh is your town, and you wish we’d all just fuck off and go back home. Does that about sum it up?”
“Just about.” Rebus was prepared to admit it.
“A few days, it’ll all be over, like a bad dream you’ll wake up from. But in the meantime…” His lips were almost touching Rebus’s ear. “Get used to it,” he whispered, and moved away.
“Seems a nice sort,” Tam commented. Rebus turned toward him.
“How long’ve you been there?”
“Not long.”
“Any news for me?”
“Pathologist’s the one with the answers.”
Rebus nodded slowly. “All the same, though…”
“Nothing points to him doing anything but jumping.”
“He screamed all the way down. Think a suicide would do that?”
“I know I would. But then, I’m scared of heights.”
Rebus was rubbing the side of his jaw. He stared up at the castle. “So either he fell or he jumped.”
“Or was given a sudden push,” Tam added. “No time to even think about clawing his way to safety.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Could be there was bagpipe music between courses. Might’ve broken his will to live.”
“You’re a jazz snob, Tam.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“No note tucked away inside his jacket?”
Tam shook his head. “But I did have half a mind to give you this.” He held up a small cardboard folder. “Seems he was staying at the Balmoral.”
“That’s nice.” Rebus opened the folder and saw the plastic key card. He removed it. Closing the folder, he examined Ben Webster’s signature and room number.
“Might be a good-bye-cruel-world waiting for you there,” Tam said.
“Only one way to find out.” Rebus slipped the key into his own pocket. “Thanks, Tam.”
“Just remember: it was you that found it. I don’t want any grief.”
“Understood.” The two men stood in silence for a moment, a pair of old pros who’d seen everything the job could throw at them. The morgue attendants were approaching, one of them carrying a body bag.
“Nice night for it,” he commented. “All done and dusted, Tam?”
“Doctor’s not arrived yet.”
The attendant checked his watch. “Think he’ll be long?”
Tam just shrugged. “Depends who’s drawn the short straw.”
The attendant puffed air out from his cheeks. “Going to be a long night,” he said.
“Long night,” his partner echoed.
“Know they’ve had us move some of the bodies out of the morgue?”
“Why’s that?” Rebus asked.
“In case any of these rallies and marches turns nasty.”
“Courts and cells are empty and waiting, too,” Tam added.
“ERs on standby,” the attendant countered.
“You make it sound like Apocalypse Now,” Rebus said. His cell sounded and he moved away a little. Caller ID: Siobhan.
“What can I do for you?” he said into the phone.
“I need a drink,” her voice explained.
“Trouble with the folks?”
“My car’s been vandalized.”
“Catch them in the act?”
“In a manner of speaking. So how about the Oxford Bar?”
“Tempting, but I’m on something. Tell you what, though…”
“What?”
“We could rendezvous at the Balmoral.”
“Spending your overtime?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
“Twenty minutes?”
“Fine.” He snapped shut the phone.
“Tragedy runs in that family,” Tam was musing.
“Which one?”
The SOCO nodded in the direction of the corpse. “Mum was attacked a few years back, died as a result.” He paused. “Think something could prey on your mind all that time?”
“Just needs the right trigger,” one of the morgue attendants added.
Everyone, Rebus decided, was a bloody psychologist these days.
He decided to leave the car and walk; quicker than trying to negotiate the barriers again. He was at Waverley in minutes; had to clamber over a couple of obstacles. Some unlucky tourists had just arrived by train. No taxis to be had, so they stood behind the railings, bemused and abandoned. He gave them a body swerve, turned the corner into Princes Street, and was outside the Balmoral Hotel. Some locals still called it the North British, though it had changed its name years back. Its large, illuminated clock tower still ran a few minutes fast, so passengers would be sure to catch their train. A uniformed doorman ushered Rebus inside, where a keen-eyed concierge immediately marked him as trouble of some kind.
“How can I be of assistance this evening, sir?”
Rebus held out his ID in one hand, key card in the other. “I need to take a look at this room.”
“And why’s that, Inspector?”
“Seems the guest checked out early.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“I daresay someone else is picking up his tab. Actually, that’s something you could look into for me.”
“I’ll need to clear it with the manager.”
“Fine. Meantime, I’ll be upstairs.” He waved the key card.
“I need to clear that, too, I’m afraid.”
Rebus took a step back, the better to size up his opponent. “How long will it take?”
“Just need to track down the manager…couple of minutes is all.” Rebus followed him to the reception desk. “Sara, is Angela about?”
“Think she went upstairs. I’ll page her.”
“And I’ll check the office,” the concierge told Rebus, moving off again. Rebus waited and watched as the receptionist punched numbers into her phone before putting down the receiver. She looked up at him and smiled. She knew something was up, and wanted to know more.
“Guest just dropped dead,” Rebus obliged.
Her eyes widened. “That’s terrible.”
“Mr. Webster, room two fourteen. Was he here on his own?”
Her fingers busied themselves on her keyboard. “Double room, but just the one key issued. I don’t think I remember him…”
“Is there a home address?”
“ London,” she stated.
Rebus guessed this would be a weekday pied-à-terre. He was leaning across the reception desk, trying to seem casual, unsure how many questions he’d get away with. “Was he paying by credit card, Sara?”
She studied her screen. “All charges to-” She broke off, aware that the concierge was approaching.
“All charges to…?” Rebus nudged.
“Inspector,” the concierge was calling, sensing something was going on.
Sara’s phone was ringing. She lifted the receiver. “Reception,” she trilled. “Oh, hello, Angela. There’s another policeman here…”
Another?
“Will you come down, or shall I send him up?”
The concierge was behind Rebus now. “I’ll take the inspector up,” he told Sara.
Another policeman…Up…Rebus was getting a bad feeling. When the elevator doors signaled that they were opening, he turned toward the sound. Watched David Steelforth step out. The Special Branch man gave the beginnings of a smile as he shook his head slowly. His meaning couldn’t have been clearer: Buddy, you’re not getting anywhere near room 214. Rebus turned round and grabbed the computer monitor, swiveling it toward him. The concierge locked on to his arm. Sara gave a little shriek into the telephone, probably deafening the manager. Steelforth bounded forward to join the fray.
“That’s definitely out of order,” the concierge hissed. His grip was vise-like. Rebus decided the man had seen some action in his time; decided not to make an issue of it. He lifted his hand from the monitor. Sara swung it back toward her.
“You can let go now,” Rebus said. The concierge released his grip. Sara was staring at him in shock, the phone still held in one hand. Rebus turned to Steelforth.
“You’re going to tell me I can’t see room two fourteen.”
“Not at all.” Steelforth’s smile broadened. “But the manager is. That’s her prerogative, after all.”
As if on command, Sara put the phone to her ear. “She’s on her way,” she said.
“I’ll bet she is.” Rebus’s eyes were still on Steelforth, but there was another figure a little way behind him: Siobhan. “Bar still open, is it?” Rebus asked the concierge. The man desperately wanted to say no, but the lie would have been blatant. He gave a little nod instead. “I won’t ask you to join me,” Rebus said to Steelforth. He brushed past both men and climbed the steps to the Palm Court. Stood at the bar and waited for Siobhan to catch up. He took a deep breath and reached into his jacket for a cigarette.
“Little problem with the management?” Siobhan asked.
“You saw our friend from SO12?”
“Nice perks they get in Special Branch.”
“I don’t know if he’s staying here, but a guy called Ben Webster was.”
“The Labor MP?”
“That’s the one.”
“I feel there’s a story behind this.” Her shoulders seemed to slump a little, and Rebus remembered that she, too, had had adventures this evening.
“You go first,” he insisted. The barman had placed bowls of nibbles in front of them. “ Highland Park for me,” Rebus told him. “Vodka tonic for the lady.” Siobhan nodded her agreement. As the barman turned away, Rebus reached for one of the paper napkins. Took a pen from his pocket and jotted something down. Siobhan angled her head to get a better look.
“Who or what is Pennen Industries?”
“Whoever they are, they’ve got deep pockets and a London postal code.” From the corner of his eye, Rebus could see Steelforth watching from the doorway. He made a show of waving the napkin at him before folding and pocketing it.
“So who was it that attacked your car-CND, Greenpeace, Stop the War?”
“Niddrie,” Siobhan stated. “More specifically, the Niddrie Young Team.”
“Think we can persuade the G8 to list them as a terror cell?”
“Few thousand marines would sort things nicely.”
“Sadly, however, Niddrie has yet to strike oil.” Rebus reached a hand out toward the tumbler of whiskey. Slightest of tremors, that was all. Toasted his drinking partner, the G8, and the marines…and would have toasted Steelforth, too.
Had the doorway not been empty.
Saturday, July 2, 2005
Rebus awoke to daylight and realized he hadn’t closed the curtains the previous night. The TV was showing early-morning news. Seemed mostly to be about the concert in Hyde Park. They were talking to the organizers. No mention of Edinburgh. He switched it off and went into the bedroom. Changed out of the previous day’s clothes and into a short-sleeved shirt and chinos. Splashed some water on his face, studied the results, and knew he needed something more. Grabbed his keys and phone-he’d left it charging overnight; couldn’t have been that drunk-and left his apartment. Down two flights of stairs to the tenement’s main door. His area of town, Marchmont, was a student enclave, the upside of which was that it was quiet during the summer. He’d watched them pour out at the end of June, loading cars belonging to them or their parents, stuffing duvets into the chinks of spare space. There had been parties to celebrate the end of exams, meaning Rebus had twice had to remove traffic cones from the roof of his car. He stood now on the pavement and sucked in what was left of the overnight chill, then headed for Marchmont Road, where the local market was just opening. A couple of single-decker buses trundled past. Rebus thought they must be lost, until he remembered. And now he could hear it: workmen’s hammers, a PA system being tested. He paid the shopkeeper and unscrewed the top from the Irn-Bru bottle. Downed it in one, which was fine; he’d added a backup of the soda to his purchases. Unpeeled and ate the banana as he walked-not straight back home, but down to the bottom of Marchmont Road, where it connected with the Meadows. The Meadows had been just that, several centuries back: meadowland on the outskirts of the city, Marchmont itself not much more than a farm with surrounding fields. Nowadays the Meadows was used for games of soccer and cricket, for jogging or picnics.
But not today.
Melville Drive had already been cordoned off, turning an important traffic artery into a bus lot. There were dozens of them, stretching to the curve of the road and beyond, three abreast in some places. They were from Derby and Macclesfield and Hull, Swansea and Ripon, Carlisle and Epping. People dressed in white were getting off. White: Rebus remembered that everyone had been asked to wear the same color. It meant that when they marched around the city, they would create a vast and visible ribbon. He checked his own clothes: the chinos were fawn, the shirt pale blue.
Thank Christ for that.
A lot of the bus people looked elderly, some quite frail. But they all sported their wristbands and their sloganed shirts. Some carried homemade banners. They looked delighted to be there. Farther along, marquees had been constructed. Vans were arriving, ready to sell fries and meat-free burgers to the hungry masses. Stages had been erected, and there was a display of huge wooden jigsaw pieces laid out next to a series of cranes. It took Rebus only a matter of seconds to spell out the words MAKE POVERTY HISTORY. There were uniformed cops in the vicinity, but nobody Rebus knew; probably not even local. He looked at his watch. It was just after nine, another three hours till kickoff. Hardly a cloud in the sky. A police van had decided that its quickest route would entail mounting the curb, forcing Rebus to backtrack onto the grass. He scowled at the driver, who returned the look. The side window opened.
“What’s your problem, granddad?”
Rebus made a rude gesture, willing the driver to stop. The pair of them could have a nice little chat. But the van had other ideas; it kept moving. Rebus finished his banana, thought about dropping the skin but figured he’d be pounced on by the Recycling Police. Headed over to a trash can instead.
“Here you go,” a young woman said, smiling and holding out a plastic bag. Rebus looked inside: a couple of stickers and a Help the Aged T-shirt.
“Hell do I want this for?” he growled. She took it back, trying hard to retain the traces of her original smile.
He moved away, opening the reserve bottle of Irn-Bru. His head felt less gummy, but there was sweat on his back. A memory had been trying to force its way through, and now he grasped it: Mickey and himself, church outings to Burntisland links. Buses took them there, trailing streamers from their windows. Lines of buses waiting to take them home after the picnic and the organized races across the grass-Mickey always able to beat him from a standing start, so that Rebus had stopped trying eventually-his only weapon against his kid brother’s sinewy determination. White cardboard boxes containing their lunch: jam sandwich, iced cake, maybe a hard-boiled egg.
They always left the egg.
Summer weekends, appearing endless and unchangeable. Nowadays, Rebus hated them. Hated that so little would happen to him. Monday mornings were his true release, a break from the sofa and the bar stool, the supermarket and curry house. His colleagues returned to work with stories of shopping exploits, soccer games, bike rides with the family. Siobhan would have been to Glasgow or Dundee, seeing friends, catching up. Cinema trips and walks by the Water of Leith. Nobody asked Rebus anymore how he spent the weekend. They knew he’d just shrug.
Nobody’d blame you for coasting…
Except that coasting was the one thing he had no time for. Without the job, he almost ceased to exist. Which was why he punched a number into his phone and waited. Listened to the voice-mail message.
“Good morning, Ray,” he said when prompted, “this is your wake-up call. Every hour on the hour till I start to get some answers. Speak to you soon.” He ended the call, immediately make another, leaving the same message on Ray Duff’s home machine. Cell and landline taken care of, there wasn’t much he could do but wait. The Live 8 concert started around two, but he didn’t think either The Who or Pink Floyd would appear until evening. Plenty of time for him to go over the Colliar case notes. Plenty of time for follow-up on Ben Webster. Pushing Saturday along until it turned into Sunday.
Rebus figured he would survive.
The only things Information could give him on Pennen Industries were a phone number and an address in central London. Rebus called, but got a message telling him the switchboard would open again on Monday morning. He knew he could do better than that, so he placed a call to Operation Sorbus HQ in Glenrothes.
“It’s CID here, B Division in Edinburgh.” He crossed the floor of his living room and peered out the window. A family, kids with their faces painted, was making its way down the street toward the Meadows. “We’ve been hearing rumors about the Clown Army. Seems they might have their sights trained on something called”-he paused for effect, as though consulting a document-“Pennen Industries. We’re in the dark, wondered if your techs could shed some light.”
“Pennen?”
Rebus spelled it.
“And you are…?”
“DI Starr…Derek Starr,” Rebus lied blithely. No way of knowing what would get back to Steelforth.
“Give me ten minutes.”
Rebus was about to offer thanks, but the line was dead. It had been a male voice, noises off: the sounds of a busy hub. He realized the officer hadn’t needed to ask for his phone number…must’ve come up on some sort of display, making it a matter of record.
And traceable.
“Oops,” he said quietly, heading for the kitchen and some coffee. He recalled that Siobhan had left the Balmoral after two drinks. Rebus had added a third, before crossing the road to the Café Royal for a nightcap. Vinegar on his fingers this morning, which meant he’d eaten fries on the way home. Yes: taxi driver dropping him at the end of the Meadows, Rebus saying he’d walk from there. He thought of calling Siobhan, make sure she got home all right. But it always annoyed her when he did that. She’d probably be out already: meeting her parents at the march. She was looking forward to seeing Eddie Izzard and Gael García Bernal. Others were making speeches too: Bianca Jagger, Sharleen Spiteri…She’d made it sound like a carnival. He hoped she was right.
Had to get her car to the garage, too, see about fixing the damage. Rebus knew Councilman Tench; knew of him, at least. Some sort of lay preacher, used to have a spot at the foot of the Mound, calling out for the weekend shoppers to repent. Rebus used to see him when he was on his way to the Ox for a lunchtime session. Had a good rep in Niddrie, harvesting development grants from local government, charities, even the EU. Rebus had told Siobhan as much, then given her a number for a mechanic off Buccleuch Street. Guy specialized in VWs but owed Rebus a favor.
His phone was ringing. He took the coffee through to the living room and picked up.
“You’re not at the station,” the same voice in Glenrothes said warily.
“I’m at home.” He could hear a helicopter somewhere overhead, outside his window. Maybe surveillance; maybe news. Or could it be Bono parachuting in with a sermon?
“Pennen doesn’t have any offices in Scotland,” the voice was saying.
“Then we don’t have a problem,” Rebus replied, trying to sound casual. “Time like this, the rumor mill’s on overtime, same as the rest of us.” He laughed and was about to add a fresh question, but the voice made it unnecessary.
“They’re a defense contractor, so the rumors might still have force.”
“Defense?”
“Used to belong to the MoD; sold off a few years back.”
“I think I remember,” Rebus made a show of saying. “London-based, right?”
“Right. Thing is, though…their managing director is up here just now.”
Rebus whistled. “Potential target.”
“We had him red-flagged anyway. He’s secure.” The words didn’t sound right in the young officer’s mouth. Rebus figured he’d learned the phrases only recently.
Maybe from Steelforth.
“He’s not based at the Balmoral, is he?” Rebus asked.
“How do you know that?”
“Rumors again. But he’s got protection?”
“Yes.”
“His own or ours?”
The caller paused. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just looking out for the taxpayer.” Rebus laughed again. “Think we should talk to him?” Asking advice…as if the caller were the boss.
“I can pass the message along.”
“Longer he’s in town, tougher it is…” Rebus stopped. “I don’t even know his name,” he admitted.
Suddenly another voice broke into the call. “DI Starr? Is that Detective Inspector Starr speaking?”
Steelforth…
Rebus sucked in air.
“Hello?” Steelforth was saying. “Gone shy all of a sudden?”
Rebus cut off the call. Cursed under his breath. Punched in more numbers and was connected to the switchboard at the local news paper.
“Features, please,” he said.
“I’m not sure anyone’s in,” the operator told him.
“What about the news desk?”
“Bit of a ghost ship, for obvious reasons.” She sounded as if she, too, would rather be elsewhere, but put him through anyway. It took a while for someone to pick up.
“My name’s DI Rebus, Gayfield CID.”
“Always happy to talk to an officer of the law,” the reporter said brightly. “Both on and off the record…”
“I’m not giving you business, son. I just need to speak to Mairie Henderson.”
“She’s gone freelance. And she’s features, not news.”
“Didn’t stop you putting her and Big Ger Cafferty on the front page, did it?”
“I thought about it years back, you know…” The reporter sounded as if he was getting comfortable, ready for a chat. “Not just Cafferty though-interviews with all the gangsters, east coast and west. How they got started, codes they live by…”
“Well, thanks for that, but have I tuned in to a talk show here or what?”
The reporter snorted. “Just making conversation.”
“Don’t tell me: it’s a ghost ship there, am I right? They’re all out with their laptops, trying to transform the march into elegant prose? Here’s the thing, though…a guy fell from the castle ramparts last night, and I didn’t see anything about it in your paper this morning.”
“We didn’t get wind of it till too late.” The reporter paused. “Straight suicide though, right?”
“What do you think?”
“I asked you first.”
“Actually, it was me that asked first-for Mairie Henderson’s number.”
“Why?”
“Give me her number, and I’ll tell you something I’m not going to tell her.”
The reporter thought for a moment, then asked Rebus to hang on. He was back half a minute later. Meantime, the receiver had been making a noise, letting him know someone else was trying to reach him. He ignored it, jotted down the number the reporter gave him.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Now do I get my little treat?”
“Ask yourself this: straight suicide, why is a Special Branch slimeball called Steelforth clamping down on it?”
“Steelforth? How do you spell-”
But Rebus had cut off the connection. His phone began ringing immediately. He didn’t answer; he had more than half an idea who it would be-Operation Sorbus had his number, would have taken about a minute for Steelforth to work out whose home address it belonged to. Another minute to call Derek Starr and ascertain he didn’t know anything about anything.
Brreeep-brreeep-brreeeppp.
Rebus put the TV on again; pressed the mute button on the remote. No news, just kids’ programs and pop videos. The chopper was circling again. He made sure it wasn’t his tenement.
“Just because you’re paranoid, John…” he muttered to himself. His phone had stopped ringing; he made the call to Mairie Henderson. They’d been close friends a few years back; traded info for stories, stories for info. Then she’d gone and written a book about Cafferty-written it with the gangster’s full cooperation. Asked Rebus for an interview, but he’d refused. Asked again later.
“Way Big Ger talks about you,” she’d cajoled, “I really think you need to give your side.”
Rebus hadn’t felt that need at all.
Which hadn’t stopped the book being a roaring success, not just in Scotland but farther afield. U.S., Canada, Australia. Translations into sixteen languages. For a time, he couldn’t pick up the paper without reading about it. Couple of prizes, TV talk shows for journalist and subject. Wasn’t enough that Cafferty had spent his life ruining people and their communities, terrorizing them; now he was a full-scale celebrity.
She’d sent Rebus a copy of the book; he’d sent it back by return mail. Then he’d gone out two weeks later and bought himself a copy-half price on Princes Street. Flicked through it but hadn’t had the stomach for the whole thing. Nothing brought the bile up quicker than a penitent…
“Hello?”
“Mairie, it’s John Rebus.”
“Sorry, the only John Rebus I know is dead.”
“Now that’s hardly fair…”
“You sent my book back! After I’d signed it to you and everything!”
“Signed it?”
“You didn’t even read the inscription?”
“What did it say?”
“It said, ‘Whatever it is you’re wanting, get stuffed.’”
“Sorry about that, Mairie. Let me make it up to you.”
“By asking a favor?”
“How did you guess?” He smiled into the receiver. “You going to the march?”
“Thinking about it.”
“I could buy you a tofu burger.”
She gave a snort. “Long time since I was that cheap a date.”
“I’ll throw in a mug of decaf…”
“What the hell do you want, John?” The words cold, but the voice thawing a little.
“I want some info on an outfit called Pennen Industries. Used to be Ministry of Defense. I think they’re in town right now.”
“And why am I interested?”
“You’re not, but I am.” He paused to light a cigarette, exhaled smoke as he spoke. “Did you hear about Cafferty’s chum?”
“Which one?” Trying not to sound interested.
“Cyril Colliar. That missing scrap from his jacket has turned up.”
“With Cafferty’s confession written on it? He told me you wouldn’t give up.”
“Just thought I’d let you know-it’s not exactly common knowledge.”
She was silent for a moment. “And Pennen Industries?”
“Something else entirely. You heard about Ben Webster?”
“It was on the news.”
“Pennen was paying for his stay at the Balmoral.”
“So?”
“So I’d like to know a bit more about them.”
“Their managing director’s name is Richard Pennen.” She laughed, sensing his bemusement. “Ever heard of Google?”
“And you just did that while we’re talking?”
“Do you even have a computer at home?”
“I bought a laptop.”
“So you’re on the Internet?”
“In theory,” he confessed. “But, hey, I play a mean game of Minesweeper.”
She laughed again, and he knew it was going to be all right between them. He heard something hissing in the background, the clinking of cups.
“Which café are you in?” he asked.
“ Montpelier ’s. There are people outside, all dressed in white.”
Montpelier ’s was in Bruntsfield; five minutes by car. “I could come buy you that coffee. You can show me how to use my laptop.”
“I’m just leaving. Want to meet later at the Meadows?”
“Not especially. How about a drink?”
“Maybe. I’ll see what I can find about Pennen, call you when I’m finished.”
“You’re a star, Mairie.”
“And a best seller to boot.” She paused. “Cafferty’s share went to charity, you know.”
“He can afford to be generous. Talk to you later.” Rebus finished the call, decided to check for messages. There was only the one. Steelforth’s voice had gotten just a dozen words out before Rebus cut it off. The unfinished threat echoed in his head as he crossed to the stereo and filled the room with the Groundhogs.
Don’t ever try to outsmart me, Rebus, or I’ll…
“…break most of the major bones,” Professor Gates was saying. He gave a shrug. “Fall like that, what else can you expect?”
He was at work because Ben Webster was news. Rush job: everyone wanted the case closed as soon as possible.
“A nice suicide verdict” was how Gates had put it earlier. He was joined in the autopsy suite by Dr. Curt. In Scots law, two pathologists were needed: corroboration was the result. Kept things tidy in court. Gates was the heavier of the two men, face red veined, nose misshapen by early abuse on the rugby field (his version) or an ill-judged student fight. Curt, his junior by only four or five years, was slightly taller and a good deal thinner. Both men had tenure at the University of Edinburgh. With the term finished, they could have been sunning themselves elsewhere, but Rebus had never known them to take holidays-either would have regarded it as a sign of weakness in the other.
“Not on the march, John?” Curt asked. The three men were gathered around a steel slab in the morgue on Cowgate. Just behind them, an assistant was moving pans and instruments with a series of metallic scrapes and clatterings.
“Too tame for me,” Rebus answered. “Monday, that’s when I’ll be out.”
“With all the other anarchists,” Gates added, slicing into the body. There was an area for spectators, and Rebus would usually have stayed there, shielded by Plexiglas, distanced from this ritual. But this being the weekend, Gates had said they could “rise to a certain informality.” Rebus had seen the insides of a human before, but he averted his gaze nonetheless.
“What was he-thirty-four, thirty-five?” Gates asked.
“Thirty-four,” the assistant confirmed.
“In pretty good shape…considering.”
“Sister says he kept fit: jogging, swimming, gym.”
“Is that who did the formal ID?” Rebus asked, happy to turn his head in the assistant’s direction.
“Parents are dead.”
“It was in the papers, wasn’t it?” Curt drawled, keeping a beady eye on his colleague’s work. “Scalpel sharp enough, Sandy?”
Gates ignored this. “Mother was killed during a break-in. Tragic, really; father couldn’t go on without her.”
“Just wasted away, didn’t he?” Curt added. “Want me to take over, Sandy? Can’t blame you for feeling tired, the week we’ve had…”
“Stop fussing.”
Curt offered a sigh and a shrug, both for Rebus’s benefit.
“Did the sister come down from Dundee?” Rebus asked the assistant.
“Works in London. She’s a cop, nicer-looking than most.”
“No valentine for you next year,” Rebus retorted.
“Present company excepted, obviously.”
“Poor girl,” Curt commented. “To lose your family…”
“Were they close?” Rebus couldn’t help asking. Gates thought it an odd question; he glanced up from his work. Rebus ignored him.
“Don’t think she’d seen much of him lately,” the assistant was saying.
Like me and Michael…
“Pretty cut up about it all the same.”
“She didn’t travel up on her own, did she?” Rebus asked.
“Wasn’t anyone with her at the ID,” the assistant said matter-of-factly. “I left her in the waiting area after, gave her a mug of tea.”
“She’s not still there, is she?” Gates snapped.
The assistant looked around him, unsure what rule he’d broken. “I had to get the cutters ready…”
“Place is deserted apart from us,” Gates barked. “Go see she’s all right.”
“I’ll do it,” Rebus stated.
Gates turned toward him, hands cradling a pile of glistening innards. “What’s the matter, John? Lost the stomach…?”
There was no one in the waiting area. An empty mug, decorated with the logo of a soccer team, the Glasgow Rangers, sat on the floor beside a chair. Rebus touched it: still warm. He walked toward the main door. Members of the public entered the building from an alley off the Cowgate. Rebus looked up and down the road but saw no one. Walked around the corner into Cowgate itself and saw the figure seated on the low wall that fronted the morgue. She was staring at the children’s nursery across the street. Rebus stopped in front of her.
“Got a cigarette?” she asked.
“You want one?”
“Seems as good a time as any.”
“Meaning you don’t smoke.”
“So?”
“So I’m not about to corrupt you.”
She looked at him for the first time. She had short fair hair and a round face with prominent chin. Her skirt was knee length, an inch of leg showing above brown boots with fur edging. On the wall next to her sat an oversize bag, probably everything shepacked-hurriedly, haphazardly-before rushing north.
“I’m DI Rebus,” he told her. “I’m sorry about your brother.”
She nodded slowly, eyes returning to the nursery school. “Is that working?” she asked, gesturing in its direction.
“As far as I know. It’s not open today, of course…”
“But it is a nursery.” She turned to examine the building behind her. “And right across the road from this. Short journey, isn’t it, DI Rebus?”
“I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you ID’d the body.”
“Why? Did you know Ben?”
“No…I just thought…how come nobody’s with you?”
“Such as?”
“From his constituency…the party.”
“Think Labor gives two hoots about him now?” She gave a short laugh. “They’ll all be lining up at the head of that bloody march, ready for the photo op. Ben kept saying how close he was getting to what he called ‘the power.’ Little good it did him.”
“Careful there,” Rebus warned her, “you sound like you’d fit right in with the marchers.” She gave a snort, but didn’t say anything. “Any idea why he would-?” Rebus broke off. “You know I need to ask?”
“I’m a cop, same as you.” She watched him bring out the packet. “Just one,” she begged. How could he refuse? He lit both their cigarettes and leaned against the wall next to her.
“No cars,” she stated.
“Town’s locked down,” he explained. “You’ll have trouble getting a taxi, but my car’s parked-”
“I can walk,” she told him. “He didn’t leave a note, if that’s what you wanted to know. Seemed fine last night, very relaxed, etcetera. Colleagues can’t explain…no problems at work.” She paused, raising her eyes skyward. “Except he always had problems at work.”
“Sounds like the two of you were close.”
“He was in London most weekdays. We hadn’t seen each other for maybe a month-actually, probably more like two-but there were texts, e-mails…” She took a drag on the cigarette.
“He had problems at work?” Rebus prompted.
“Ben worked on foreign aid, deciding which decrepit African dictatorships deserved our help.”
“Explains what he was doing here,” Rebus said, almost to himself.
She gave a slow, sad nod. “Getting closer to the power-a bang-up dinner at Edinburgh Castle while you discuss the world’s poor and hungry.”
“He’d be aware of the irony?” Rebus guessed.
“Oh, yes.”
“And the futility?”
She fixed her eyes on his. “Never,” she said quietly. “Wasn’t in Ben’s nature.” She blinked back tears, sniffed and sighed, and flipped most of the cigarette onto the road. “I need to go.” She brought a wallet from her shoulder bag, handed Rebus a business card. Nothing on it but her name-Stacey Webster-and a cell number.
“How long have you been in the police, Stacey?”
“Eight years. The last three at Scotland Yard.” Her eyes fixed on his. “You’ll have questions for me: did Ben have any enemies? Money problems? Relationships gone bad? Maybe later, eh? A day or so, give me a call.”
“Okay.”
“Nothing in the…?” She had trouble getting the next word out; sucked in some air and tried again. “Nothing to suggest he didn’t just fall?”
“He’d had a glass or two of wine-might’ve made him woozy.”
“Nobody saw anything?”
Rebus offered a shrug. “Sure I can’t give you a lift?”
She shook her head. “I need to walk.”
“Word of advice: steer clear of the parade route. Maybe I’ll see you again…and I really am sorry about Ben.”
Her eyes bored into his. “You actually sound as if you mean that.”
He almost opened up to her-I left my own brother in a box only yesterday-but gave a twitch of the mouth instead. She might have started asking questions: Were you close? Are you okay? Questions he didn’t really know the answers to. He watched her start her long and lonely walk along Cowgate, then went back inside for the autopsy’s closing act.
By the time Siobhan arrived at the Meadows, the line of waiting marchers stretched all the way down the side of the old infirmary and across the playing fields to where the rows of buses sat. Someone with a megaphone was warning that it might be two hours before those at the back of the line actually started moving.
“It’s the pigs,” someone explained. “Only letting us go in batches of forty or fifty.”
Siobhan had been about to defend the tactic but knew it would give her away. She moved down the patient line, wondering how she was expected to meet her parents. There had to be a hundred thousand people here, maybe even double that. She’d never known a crowd like it; T in the Park only got sixty thousand. The local soccer derby might attract eighteen on a good day. New Year’s Eve in and around Princes Street, you could get close to a hundred.
This was bigger.
And everyone was smiling.
Hardly a uniform to be seen; not many security guys either. Families streaming down from Morningside and Tollcross and Newington. She’d bumped into half a dozen acquaintances and neighbors. The lord provost was leading the procession. Some said Gordon Brown was there, too. Later, he’d be addressing a rally, the police protection squad in attendance, though Operation Sorbus had graded him low risk due to his active pronouncements on aid and fair trade. She’d been shown a list of celebrities who were expected to hit the city: Geldof and Bono, of course; maybe Ewan McGregor (who was due at an event in Dunblane anyway); Julie Christie; Claudia Schiffer; George Clooney; Susan Sarandon…Having worked her way down the line, Siobhan headed for the main stage. A band was playing, a few people were dancing enthusiastically. Most just sat on the grass and watched. The small tented village nearby offered activities for children, first aid, petitions, and exhibits. Crafts were being sold, flyers handed out. One of the tabloids seemed to have been distributing MAKE POVERTY HISTORY placards. Recipients were now tearing off the top section of each placard, removing the tabloid’s masthead. Helium-filled balloons rose into the sky. A makeshift brass band was circumnavigating the field, followed by an African steel band. More dancing; more smiles. She knew then, knew that it was going to be all right. There’d be no riots today, not on this march.
She looked at her cell. No messages. She’d tried her parents twice, but they weren’t answering. So she commenced another tour of the site. A smaller stage had been erected in front of a stationary open-topped bus. There were TV cameras here, and people were being interviewed. She recognized Pete Postlethwaite and Billy Boyd; caught a glimpse of Billy Bragg. The actor she really wanted to see was Gael García Bernal, just in case he really did look as good in the flesh…
The lines at the vegetarian food vans were longer than the one for burgers. She’d been vegetarian herself at one time but had lapsed several years back, blaming Rebus and the bacon rolls he’d kept wafting in her face. She thought of texting him, dragging him down here. What else would he be doing? Either slumped on the sofa or resting on a stool at the Oxford Bar. But she sent a text to her parents instead, then headed toward the waiting lines again. Banners had been hoisted high, whistles were being blown, drums beaten. All that energy in the air…Rebus would say it was being wasted. He’d say the political deals had already been done. And he’d be right: the guys at Sorbus HQ had told her as much. Gleneagles was for private confabs and public photo ops. The real business had been thrashed out in advance by lesser mortals, chief among them the chancellor of the exchequer. All of it done on the quiet and ratified by eight signatures on the final day of the G8.
“And how much is it all costing?” Siobhan had wondered.
“A hundred and fifty mil, give or take.”
The answer had produced a sharp intake of breath from DCI Macrae. Siobhan had pursed her lips, saying nothing.
“I know what you’re thinking,” her informant had continued. “Same sort of money buys a lot of vaccine…”
Every path across the Meadows was now four-deep with waiting marchers. A new line had formed, stretching back to the tennis courts and Buccleuch Street. As Siobhan squeezed her way past, still no sign of her parents, she caught a blur of color at the edge of her vision. Bright yellow jackets hurrying down Meadow Lane. She followed them, rounding the corner into Buccleuch Place.
And was stopped dead.
Sixty or so black-clad demonstrators had been encircled by double that number of police. The protesters had air horns, which rasped a deafening complaint. They wore sunglasses, black scarves muffling their faces. Some wore hooded tops. Black combat pants and boots, a few bandannas. They didn’t carry signs, and none of them were smiling. Riot shields were all that separated them from the police lines. Someone had spray-painted the anarchist symbol on at least one translucent shield. The mass of demonstrators pressed forward, demanding access to the Meadows. But police tactics said different: containment above all else. A demonstration contained was a demonstration controlled. Siobhan was impressed; her colleagues had to have known the protesters were on their way. They’d taken up position fast and weren’t about to let the situation develop any further than here and now. There were a few other bystanders, torn between this spectacle and a need to join the march. Some of them had their camera phones out. Siobhan looked around, making sure no fresh intake of riot officers tried corralling her. The voices from within the cordon seemed foreign, maybe Spanish or Italian. She knew some of the names: Ya Basta, Black Bloc. No sign of anything as outlandish as the Wombles or Rebel Clown Army. Her hand went into her pocket, clutching her ID. Wanted to be ready to show it if things got heated. Helicopter hovering overhead, and a uniformed officer videotaping proceedings from the steps of one of the university buildings. He scanned the street with his camera, pausing on her for a moment before moving on to the other bystanders. But Siobhan was suddenly aware of another camera, focused on him. Santal was inside the cordon, recording everything with her own digital video. She was dressed like the others, backpack slung over one shoulder, concentrating on her task rather than joining in with the chants and slogans. The demonstrators wanted their own record: to watch later and enjoy; so they could learn police tactics and how to counter them; and just in case of-maybe even in the hope of-heavy-handedness. They were media savvy, counted lawyers among their activist friends. Film from Genoa had been beamed around the world. No reason fresh film of violent policing wouldn’t be just as efficacious.
Siobhan realized Santal had seen her. The camera was pointed her way, and the mouth below the viewfinder broke into a scowl. Siobhan didn’t think it the right time to wander over and ask for her parents’ whereabouts. Her phone started to vibrate, telling her she had an incoming call. She checked the number but didn’t recognize it.
“Siobhan Clarke,” she said, holding the slim little box to her ear.
“Shiv? It’s Ray Duff. I’m bloody well earning that day out-”
“What day out?”
“The one you owe me…” He paused. “Except that’s not the deal you made with Rebus, is it?”
Siobhan smiled. “All depends. Are you at the lab?”
“Working my ass off on your behalf.”
“The stuff from Clootie Well?”
“Might have something for you, though I’m not sure you’re going to like it. How soon can you get here?”
“Half an hour.” She turned away from the sudden blare of the air horn.
“No prizes for guessing where you are,” Duff’s voice said. “I’ve got it on the news channel here.”
“The march or the demonstration?”
“Demo, naturally. Happy, law-abiding marchers hardly make for a story, even when they number quarter of a million.”
“Quarter of a million?”
“That’s what they’re saying. See you in half an hour.”
“Bye, Ray.” She ended the call. A figure like that…more than half the population of Edinburgh. It was like three million on the streets of London. And sixty black-clad figures hogging the news cycle for the next hour or two…
Because after that, all eyes would turn to the Live 8 concert in London.
No, no, no, she thought, too cynical, Siobhan; you’re thinking like John bloody Rebus. Nobody could ignore a human chain encircling the city, a ribbon of white, all that passion and hope…
Minus one.
Had she ever planned to stick around, add her own small self to the statistics? No chance of that now. She could apologize later to her parents. For now, she was on the move, walking away from the Meadows. Her best bet: St. Leonard ’s, the nearest police station. Hitch a lift in a patrol car; hijack one if need be. Her own car was sitting in the garage Rebus had recommended. Mechanic had said to call him on Monday. She remembered how one owner of a 4x4 had apparently moved her car out of town for the duration, lest rioters should target it. Just one more scare story, or so she’d thought at the time…
Santal didn’t appear to notice her leave.
“…can’t even mail a letter,” Ray Duff was saying. “They’ve locked up all the mailboxes in case someone decides to put a bomb in one.”
“Some of the shop fronts on Princes Street are boarded up,” Siobhan added. “What do you reckon it is Ann Summers is afraid of?”
“Basque separatists?” Rebus guessed. “Any chance of us getting to the point?”
Duff snorted. “He’s afraid he’ll miss the big reunion.”
“ Reunion?” Siobhan looked at Rebus.
“Pink Floyd,” Rebus answered. “But if it’s anything like McCartney and U2, I’m well shut of it.”
The three were standing in one of the labs belonging to the Lothian and Borders Forensic Science Unit on Howdenhall Road. Duff, midthirties with short brown hair and a pronounced widow’s peak, was polishing his glasses on a corner of his white lab coat. The rise of television’s CSI franchise had had, to Rebus’s mind, a detrimental effect on all the Howdenhall techs. Despite their lack of resources, glamour, and pounding sound track, they all seemed to think they were actors. Moreover, some of the CID had started to agree and would ask them to replicate the TV shows’ most far-fetched forensic techniques. Duff had apparently decided that his own role would be that of eccentric genius. As a result, he had dispensed with his contact lenses and reverted to NHS-style specs with thick black frames, the better to complement the row of multicolored pens in his top pocket. Additionally, a line of alligator clips was attached to one lapel. As Rebus had pointed out on arrival, he looked like he’d walked out of a Devo video.
And now he was stringing them along.
“In your own time,” Rebus encouraged him. They were standing in front of a workbench on which various pieces of cloth had been laid out. Duff had placed numbered squares beside each one, and smaller squares-apparently color-coded-next to any stains or blemishes on each article. “Sooner we’re done, sooner you can get back to polishing the chrome on your MG.”
“That reminds me,” Siobhan said. “Thanks for offering me to Ray.”
“You should have seen first prize,” Rebus muttered. “What are we looking at, Prof?”
“Mud and bird shit mostly.” Duff rested his hands on his hips. “Brown for the former, gray for the latter.” He nodded at the colored squares.
“Leaving blue and pink…”
“Blue is for stuff that needs further analysis.”
“Tell me pink is for lipstick,” Siobhan said quietly.
“Blood, actually.” Duff spoke with a flourish.
“Oh, good,” Rebus responded, eyes fixing on Siobhan. “How many?”
“Two so far. Numbered one and two. One is a pair of brown cord trousers. Blood can be a bugger to make out against a brown background-resembles rust. Two belongs to a sports shirt, pale yellow, as you can see.”
“Not really,” Rebus said, leaning over for a closer look. The shirt was caked with dirt. “What’s that on the left breast? Badge of some kind?”
“What it actually says is Keogh’s Garage. The blood spatter is on the back.”
“Spatter?”
Duff nodded. “Consistent with a blow to the head. Something like a hammer, you make contact, break the skin, and when you draw the hammer away, the blood flies off in all directions.”
“Keogh’s Garage?” Siobhan’s question was directed at Rebus, who merely shrugged. Duff, however, cleared his throat.
“Nothing in the Perthshire phone book. Or Edinburgh, come to that.”
“Fast work, Ray,” Siobhan said approvingly.
“Another brownie point there, Ray,” Rebus added with a wink. “How about contestant number one?”
Duff nodded. “Not spatter this time-dollops on the right leg, around the level of the knee. Whack someone on the head, you’ll get some drips like that.”
“You’re saying we’ve got three victims, one attacker?”
Duff shrugged. “No way to prove it, of course. But ask yourself: what are the chances of three victims having three different attackers, all ending up in the same obscure location?”
“You’ve got a point, Ray,” Rebus conceded.
“And we’ve got a serial killer,” Siobhan said into the silence. “Different blood types, I take it?” She watched Duff nod. “Any idea which order they might have died in?”
“CC Rider is the freshest. I’d guess the sports shirt is the oldest.”
“And no other clues from the cords?”
Duff shook his head slowly, then dug into his lab-coat pocket and produced a clear plastic envelope. “Unless you count this, of course.”
“What is that?” Siobhan asked.
“Cash-machine card,” Duff told her, relishing the moment. “Name of Trevor Guest. So never let me hear you say I don’t earn my little rewards…”
Back in the fresh air, Rebus lit a cigarette. Siobhan paced the length of a parking bay, arms folded.
“One killer,” she stated.
“Yep.”
“Two named victims, the other a mechanic…”
“Or a car salesman,” Rebus mused. “Or just someone who had access to a shirt advertising a garage.”
“Thanks for refusing to narrow the search.”
He shrugged. “If we’d found a scarf with a soccer team’s logo on it, would we be homing in on the team?”
“All right, point taken.” She stopped in her tracks. “Do you need to get back to the autopsy?”
He shook his head. “One of us is going to have to break the news to Macrae.”
She nodded. “I’ll do it.”
“Not a hell of a lot more to be done today.”
“Back to Live 8 then?”
He gave another shrug. “And the Meadows for yourself?” he guessed.
She nodded, her mind elsewhere. “Can you think of a worse week for this to happen?”
“Why they pay us the big bucks,” Rebus told her, drawing the nicotine deep.
A fat parcel was waiting for Rebus at the door of his apartment. Siobhan was heading back down to the Meadows. Rebus had told her to drop by later for a drink. He realized his living room was stuffy so forced open the window. He could hear sounds from the march: echoey, amplified voices; drums and whistles. Live 8 was on TV, but not a band he recognized. He kept the sound down, opened the parcel. There was a note inside from Mairie-You don’t deserve it-followed by pages and pages of printout. News stories about Pennen Industries, dating right back to its separation from the MoD. Snippets from the business pages, detailing rising profits. Profiles praising Richard Pennen, accompanied by photos of him. Every inch the successful businessman: well-groomed, pin-striped, coiffed. Salt-and-pepper hair, even though he was still in his midforties. Steel-rimmed glasses and a square-set jaw below perfect-looking teeth.
Richard Pennen had been an MoD employee, something of a whiz with microchips and software programs. He stressed that his company didn’t sell arms as such, just the components to make them as efficient as possible. “Which has to be better than the alternative, for all concerned,” he was quoted as saying. Rebus flicked quickly though interviews and background features. Nothing to link Pennen to Ben Webster, except that both dealt with aspects of trade. No reason why the company wouldn’t treat MPs to five-star hotel rooms. Rebus turned to the next set of stapled sheets and gave a silent thank-you to Mairie. She’d added a list of stuff about Ben Webster himself. Not that there was much about his career as an MP. But five years back the media had shown sudden interest in the family, following the shocking attack on Webster’s mother. She and her husband had been vacationing in the Borders, renting a cottage in the countryside outside Kelso. He’d gone into town one afternoon for supplies and had returned to find the cottage ransacked and his wife dead, strangled with a cord from the window blinds. She had been beaten but not sexually assaulted. Money was missing from her bag, as was her cell phone. Nothing else had been taken.
Just some loose cash and a phone.
And a woman’s life.
The inquiry had dragged on for weeks. Rebus looked at photos of the isolated cottage, the victim, her grieving husband, the two children-Ben and Stacey. He lifted from his pocket the card Stacey had given him, rubbed its edges with his fingers as he continued to read. Ben the MP for Dundee North; Stacey the cop from the Met, whom colleagues described as “diligent and well liked.” The cottage was placed on the edge of woodland, amid rolling hills, no other habitation visible. Husband and wife had liked to take long walks and were regularly seen in Kelso’s bars and eateries. The region had been their destination of choice for many holidays. Councillors for the area were quick to point out that the Borders “remains largely crime-free and a haven of peace.” Didn’t want the tourists scared off…
The killer was never caught. The story drifted to the inside pages, then deeper into the paper, reappearing sporadically as a paragraph or two when Ben Webster was being profiled. There was one in-depth interview with him, dating back to when he’d been made PPS. He hadn’t wanted to talk about the tragedy.
Tragedies-plural, actually. The father hadn’t lasted long after his wife’s murder. His death came from natural causes. “The will to live just left him” was how one neighbor in Broughty Ferry had put it. “And now he’s at peace with the love of his life.”
Rebus looked again at the photograph of Stacey, taken on the day of her mother’s funeral. She’d gone on TV, apparently, appealing for information. Stronger than her brother, who’d decided not to join her at the press conference. Rebus really hoped she would stay strong…
Suicide seemed the obvious conclusion, grief finally catching up with the orphaned son. Except that Ben Webster had screamed as he fell. And the guards had been alerted to an intruder. Besides, why that particular night? That location? The world’s media hitting town…
A very public gesture.
And Steelforth…well, Steelforth wanted it all swept away. Nothing must deflect attention from the G8. Nothing must be allowed to perturb the various delegations. Rebus had to admit, the reason he was holding on to the case was simply to piss off the Special Branch man. He got up from the table and went into the kitchen, made himself another mug of coffee, and brought it back through to the living room. He changed channels on the TV but couldn’t find any feeds from the march. The Hyde Park crowd looked to be enjoying themselves, though there was some sort of enclosure directly in front of the stage, sparsely filled. Security maybe; either that or media. Geldof wasn’t asking for money this time around; what Live 8 wanted was to focus hearts and minds. Rebus wondered how many concert-goers would afterward heed the call and trek the four hundred miles north to Scotland. He lit a cigarette to go with his coffee, sat down in an armchair, and stared at the screen. He thought again of the Clootie Well, of the ritual played out there. If Ray Duff was right, they had at least three victims, and a killer who had made a shrine of sorts. Did that mean someone local? How well known was the Clootie Well outside Auchterarder? Did it appear in travel books, tourist brochures? Had it been chosen for its proximity to the G8 summit, the killer guessing that all those extra police patrols were bound to mean his grim little offering was found? In which case, was his spree now finished?
Three victims…no way they were going to keep that away from the media. CC Rider…Keogh’s Garage…a cash card…The killer was making it easy for them; he wanted them to know he was out there. World’s press gathered in Scotland as never before, giving him an international stage. And Macrae would relish the opportunity. He’d be out there in front of them, chest puffed up as he answered their questions, Derek Starr right beside him.
Siobhan had said she would call Macrae from the march, let him know the lab’s findings. Ray Duff meantime would be doing more tests, trying for DNA fingerprints from the blood, seeing if any hairs or fibers could be isolated and identified. Rebus thought about Cyril Colliar again. Hardly a typical victim. Serial killers tended to prey on the weak and the marginalized. A case of wrong place, wrong time? Killed in Edinburgh, but the scrap from his jacket ends up in the woods in Auchterarder, just as Operation Sorbus is getting started. Sorbus: a kind of tree…the CC Rider’s patch left in a wooded glade…If there was any hint of a connection with the G8, Rebus knew the spooks would wrench the case out of Siobhan’s hands and out of his. Steelforth wouldn’t have it any other way. The killer taunting them.
Leaving calling cards.
There was a knock at his door. Had to be Siobhan. He stubbed out the cigarette, stood up, and took a look around the room. It wasn’t too bad: no empty beer cans or pizza boxes. Whiskey bottle by the chair; he picked it up, put it on the mantelpiece. Switched the TV to a news channel and headed for the door. Swung it open and recognized the face, felt his stomach clench.
“That’s your conscience salved then, is it?” he asked, feigning indifference.
“Pure as the driven fuckin’ snow, Rebus. But can you say the same?”
Not Siobhan. Morris Gerald Cafferty. Dressed in a white T-shirt bearing the slogan MAKE POVERTY HISTORY. Hands in trouser pockets. Slid them out slowly and held them up to show Rebus they were empty. A head the size of a bowling ball, shiny and all but hairless. Small, deep-set eyes. Glistening lips. No neck. Rebus made to shut the door on him, but Cafferty pressed a hand to it.
“That any way to treat an old pal?”
“Go to hell.”
“You look like you’ve beat me to it-did that shirt come off a scarecrow?”
“And who dresses you-the girls from What Not to Wear?”
Cafferty snorted. “I did meet them on breakfast TV, actually. See, isn’t this better? We’re having a nice wee chat.”
Rebus had stopped trying to close the door. “Hell are you doing here, Cafferty?”
Cafferty was examining his palms, brushing imaginary grime from them. “How long have you been living here, Rebus? Got to be thirty years.”
“So?”
“Ever hear of moving up in the world?”
“Christ, now it’s Location, Location, Location…”
“You’ve never tried to improve your situation, that’s what I can’t understand.”
“Maybe I should write a book about it.”
Cafferty grinned. “I’m thinking of a follow-up, charting a few more of our little disagreements.”
“Is that why you’re here? Memory needs refreshing, does it?”
Cafferty’s face darkened. “I’m here about my boy Cyril.”
“What about him?”
“I hear there’s been some progress. I want to know how much.”
“Who told you?”
“It’s true then?”
“Think I’d tell you even if it was?”
Cafferty gave a snarl, hands shooting forward, propelling Rebus backward into the hall, where he collided with the wall. Cafferty grabbed at him again, teeth bared, but Rebus was ready, managed to get a handful of the T-shirt. The two men wrestled, twisting and turning, moving farther down the hall until they were in the doorway to the living room. Neither had said a word, eyes and limbs doing their talking. But Cafferty glanced into the room and seemed to freeze. Rebus was able to free himself from his grasp.
“Jesus Christ.” Cafferty was staring at the two boxes on the sofa-part of the Colliar case notes, brought home from Gayfield the previous night. Lying on the top was one of the autopsy photos, and, just visible beneath, an older photograph of Cafferty himself. “What’s all this stuff doing here?” Cafferty asked, breathing heavily.
“None of your damned business.”
“You’re still trying to pin this on me.”
“Not as much as I was,” Rebus admitted. He walked over to the mantelpiece and grabbed the whiskey. Lifted his glass from the floor and poured. “It’ll be public knowledge soon enough,” he said, pausing to drink. “We think Colliar’s not the only victim.”
Cafferty’s eyes narrowed as he tried to take this in. “Who else?”
Rebus shook his head slowly. “Now get the hell out.”
“I can help,” Cafferty said. “I know people.”
“Oh yeah? Trevor Guest ring a bell?”
Cafferty thought for a moment before conceding defeat.
“What about a garage called Keogh’s?”
Cafferty stiffened his shoulders. “I can find things out, Rebus. I’ve got contacts in places that would frighten you.”
“Everything about you frightens me, Cafferty; fear of contamination, I suppose. How come you’re so het up about Colliar?”
Cafferty’s eyes strayed to the whiskey bottle. “Got a spare glass?” he asked.
Rebus fetched one from the kitchen. When he returned, Cafferty was reading Mairie’s covering note.
“I see Ms. Henderson’s been lending a hand.” Cafferty gave a cold smile. “I recognize her handwriting.”
Rebus said nothing; poured a small measure into the glass.
“I prefer malt,” Cafferty complained, wafting the contents under his nose. “What’s your interest in Pennen Industries?”
Rebus ignored this. “You were going to tell me about Cyril Colliar.” Cafferty made to sit down. “Stay on your feet,” Rebus commanded. “You’re not going to be here that long.”
Cafferty knocked back the drink and placed the empty glass on the table. “It’s not Cyril I’m interested in as such,” he admitted. “But when something like that happens…well, rumors get started. Rumors that someone’s out there with a grudge. Never very good for business. As you well know, Rebus, I’ve had enemies in the past.”
“Funny how I never see them anymore.”
“Plenty of jackals out there who’d like a share of the spoils…my spoils.” He stabbed a finger into his own chest.
“You’re getting old, Cafferty.”
“Same as you. But there’s no retirement package in my line of business.”
“And meantime the jackals get younger and hungrier?” Rebus guessed. “And you need to keep proving yourself.”
“I’ve never backed down, Rebus. Never will.”
“It’ll come out soon enough, Cafferty. If there’s no connection between you and the other victims, then there’s no reason for anyone to see it as a vendetta.”
“But meantime…”
“Meantime what?”
Cafferty gave a wink. “Keogh’s Garage and Trevor Guest.”
“Leave them to us, Cafferty.”
“Who knows, Rebus, maybe I’ll see what I can turn up about Pennen Industries, too.” Cafferty started to walk out of the room. “Thanks for the drink and the wee bit of exercise. Think I’ll go join the tail end of the march. Poverty’s always been a great concern of mine.” He paused in the hall, taking in his surroundings. “Never seen it as bad as this though,” he added, heading for the stairwell.
The Right Honorable Gordon Brown, MP, chancellor of the exchequer, had already started to speak when Siobhan entered the room. An audience of nine hundred had gathered in the Assembly Hall at the top of the Mound. The last time Siobhan had been there, the place was acting as temporary home to the Scottish parliament, but the parliament now had lavish premises of its own opposite the queen’s residence at Holyrood, leaving the Assembly Hall once again the exclusive property of the Church of Scotland who, along with Christian Aid, had organized the evening’s event.
Siobhan was there for a meeting with Edinburgh ’s chief constable, James Corbyn. Corbyn had been in charge just over a year, having replaced Sir David Strathern. There had been mutters of dissent over the appointment. Corbyn was English, a “bean counter,”and “too bloody young.” But Corbyn had proved himself a hands-on copper who made regular visits to the front line. He was seated a few rows back, in full dress uniform, cap resting on his lap. Siobhan knew she was expected so found a space by the doors, content to listen to the chancellor’s vows and pledges. When he announced that Africa ’s poorest thirty-eight countries would see a debt write-off, there was spontaneous applause. But when the clapping died down, Siobhan was aware of a voice of dissent. A lone protester had stood up. He was wearing a kilt, and he lifted it to reveal a cut-out picture of Tony Blair’s face on the front of his underpants. Security moved in quickly, and those around the man helped with the process. As he was dragged to the doors, the fresh applause was for security. The chancellor, who had busied himself tidying his notes, continued where he’d left off.
The commotion, however, provided useful cover for James Corbyn to make his move. Siobhan followed him out of the hall and introduced herself. There was no sign of the protester or his captors, just a few civil servants pacing the floor, waiting for their master to finish. They carried document files and cell phones and seemed exhausted by the day’s events.
“DCI Macrae says we have a problem,” Corbyn stated. No niceties; straight to the heart of the matter. He was in his early forties, with black hair parted to the right. Solidly built, just over six feet in height. There was a large mole on his right cheek, which Siobhan had been warned not to stare at.
“Bloody hard to keep eye contact,” Macrae had told her, “with that thing in your sight line…”
“We may have three victims,” she said now.
“And a murder site on the G8’s doorstep?” Corbyn snapped.
“Not exactly, sir. I don’t think we’ll find bodies there, just trace evidence.”
“They’ll be out of Gleneagles by Friday. We can stall the investigation till then.”
“On the other hand,” Siobhan offered, “the leaders don’t start arriving till Wednesday. Three full days away…”
“What are you proposing?”
“We keep things low-key but do as much as we can. Forensics can make a full sweep by then. The one definite victim we have is an Edinburgh guy, no need to go disturbing the bigwigs.”
Corbyn studied her. “You’re a DS, am I right?”
Siobhan nodded.
“Bit junior to be heading something like this.” It didn’t sound like criticism; he was simply stating a fact.
“A DI from my station was with me, sir. We both worked the original inquiry.”
“How much help will you need?”
“I’m not sure much can be spared.”
Corbyn smiled. “It’s a sensitive time, DS Clarke.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I’m sure you do. And this DI of yours…he’s reliable?”
Siobhan nodded, maintaining eye contact, not blinking. Thinking: Maybe he’s too new to have heard of John Rebus…
“Happy to work a Sunday?” he asked.
“Absolutely. Not so sure about the SOCOs.”
“A word from me should help.” He grew thoughtful. “The march passed off without incident…perhaps we’ll have it easier than we feared.”
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes regained their focus. “Your accent’s English,” he remarked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Ever given you problems?”
“A few gibes along the way.”
He nodded slowly. “All right.” Straightening his back. “See what you can get done before Wednesday. Any problems, let me know. But do try not to step on any toes.” He glanced in the direction of the civil servants.
“There’s an SO12 officer called Steelforth, sir. He may raise a few objections.”
Corbyn looked at his watch. “Direct him to my office.” He fixed his braided cap to his head. “Time I was elsewhere…You do realize the enormous responsibility…?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make sure your colleague gets the message.”
“He’ll understand, sir.”
He held out his hand. “Very well. Let’s shake on it, DS Clarke.”
They shook.
On the radio news, there was a report from the march and, in a postscript, mention that the death of international development minister Ben Webster was “being treated as a tragic accident.” The chief story, however, was the Hyde Park concert. Siobhan had heard plenty of complaints from the hordes gathered at the Meadows. They felt the pop stars would upstage them.
“Limelight and album sales, that’s what they’re after,” one man said. “Ego-tripping bastards…”
The latest estimate of numbers on the march was 225,000. Siobhan didn’t know how many were at the London concert, but she doubted it was even half that. The nighttime streets were busy with cars and pedestrians. Plenty of buses, too, heading south out of the city. Some of the shops and restaurants she passed had put signs in their windows: WE SUPPORT MAKE POVERTY HISTORY. WE ONLY USE FAIR TRADE PRODUCE. SMALL LOCAL RETAILER. MARCHERS WELCOME. There was graffiti, too: anarchy symbols and messages exhorting the passersby, Activ8, Agit8, Demonstr8. Another statement stated simply, Rome Wasn’t Sacked in One Day. She hoped the chief constable would be proved right, but there was a long way to go.
Buses were parked outside the Niddrie campsite. The tented village had grown. The same guard as the previous night was in charge. She asked him his name.
“Bobby Greig.”
“Bobby, I’m Siobhan. Looks busy tonight.”
He shrugged. “Maybe a couple of thousand. I guess that’s as busy as it’ll get.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Council’s spent a million on this place-could have given them all a hotel room for that, never mind a spot in the wilderness.” He nodded toward the car she’d just locked. “I see you’ve got a replacement.”
“Borrowed from the garage at St. Leonard ’s. Had any more trouble from the natives?”
“Nice and quiet,” he told her. “Dark now, mind…that’s when they come out to play. Know what it feels like in here?” He scanned the compound. “One of those zombie films.”
Siobhan offered a smile. “That makes you mankind’s last great hope, Bobby. You should be flattered.”
“My shift ends at midnight!” he called after her as she made her way to her parents’ tent. There was no one home. She unzipped the opening and looked in. The table and stools had been folded away, sleeping bags rolled tight. She tore a sheet of paper from her notebook and left a message. No sign of life in the surrounding tents either. Siobhan began to wonder if her mum and dad had maybe gone out drinking with Santal.
Santal: last seen at the demonstration in Buccleuch Place. Which meant she might be trouble…might get into trouble.
Listen to yourself, girl! Afraid your trendy leftist parents will be led astray!
She tutted to herself and decided to kill some time walking around the camp. It was little changed from the previous night: a strummed guitar, a cross-legged circle of singers, kids playing barefoot on the grass, cheap food doled out at the big tent. New arrivals, weary after the march, were being handed their wristbands and shown where to pitch camp. There was still some light left in the sky, making a startling silhouette of Arthur’s Seat. She thought maybe she would climb it tomorrow, take an hour to herself. The view from the top was a thrill. Always supposing she could afford an hour to herself. She knew she should call Rebus, let him know the score. He was probably still at home in front of the box. Time enough yet to give him the news.
“Saturday night, eh?” Bobby Greig said. He was standing just behind her, holding a flashlight and his two-way. “You should be out enjoying yourself.”
“Seems to be what my friends are up to.” She nodded in the direction of her parents’ tent.
“I’ll be having a drink myself when I finish,” he hinted.
“I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“Hope you’re on overtime.”
“Thanks for the offer, though…maybe another night.”
He gave a huge shrug. “I’m trying not to feel rejected here.” His radio burst into life with a jolt of static. He raised it to his mouth. “Say again, tower.”
“Here they come again,” came the distorted voice.
Siobhan looked toward the fence, couldn’t make anything out. She followed Bobby Greig toward the gate. Yes: a dozen of them, hooded tops drawn tight around their heads, eyes shaded by baseball caps. No sign of weapons, other than a quart of cheap booze being passed among them. Half a dozen guards had gathered inside the gate, waiting for Greig to give the word. The gang outside was gesturing: Come and have a go. Greig stared back, seeming bored with the performance.
“Should we call it in?” one of the other security men asked.
“No sign of missiles,” Greig replied. “Nothing we can’t handle.”
The gang had steadily been approaching the fence. Siobhan recognized the one in the middle as the leader from Friday night. The mechanic at Rebus’s recommended workshop had said it might end up costing six hundred to fix her car.
“Insurance might do some of it” had been his only crumb of comfort. In reply she’d asked him if he’d ever heard of Keogh’s Garage, but he’d shaken his head.
“Can you ask around?”
He’d said he would do that, then had asked for a deposit. A hundred gone from her bank account, just like that. Five hundred still to go, and here were the culprits, not twenty feet from her. She wished she had Santal’s camera…fire off a few shots and see if anyone at Craigmillar CID could put names to faces. Had to be security cameras around here somewhere…maybe she could…
Sure she could. But she knew she wouldn’t.
“Off you go now,” Bobby Greig was calling out in a firm voice.
“Niddrie’s ours,” the leader spat. “It’s youse should fuck off!”
“Point taken, but we can’t do that.”
“Makes you feel big, eh? Playing babysitter to a bunch of scum.”
“Happy-clappy hippie shit,” one of his followers concurred.
“Thanks for sharing” was all Bobby Greig said.
The leader barked out a laugh; one of the gang spat at the fence. Another joined him.
“We can take them, Bobby,” one of the security men said softly.
“No need to.”
“Fat bastard,” the gang’s leader goaded.
“Fat-ass bastard,” one of his lieutenants added.
“Alky.”
“Pop-eyed baldy ass-licking…”
Greig’s eyes were on Siobhan. He seemed to be making up his mind. She shook her head slowly. Don’t let them win.
“Thieving bastard.”
“Asshole.”
“Bloated schmuck.”
Bobby Greig turned his head toward the guard next to him, gave a brief nod. “Count of three,” he said in an undertone.
“Save your breath, Bobby.” The guard leaped for the gate, his comrades right behind him. The gang scattered but regrouped at the other side of the road.
“Come on then!”
“Any time you like!”
“You want us? Here we are!”
Siobhan knew what they wanted. They wanted the security men to chase them into the labyrinth of streets. Jungle warfare, where local knowledge could defeat firepower. Weapons-ready-made or improvised-could be waiting there. A larger army could be hidden behind hedges and down shadowy alleys. And meantime, the camp was left unguarded.
She didn’t hesitate; called it in on her cell. “Officer requiring assistance.” Brief details of where she was. Two, three minutes, they’d start arriving. Craigmillar cop-shop wasn’t farther away than that. The gang’s leader was bending over, making a show of offering his backside to Bobby Greig. One of Greig’s men accepted the insult on his behalf and ran at the leader, who did what Siobhan had feared: appeared to retreat farther down the walkway.
Into the heart of the housing project.
“Careful!” she warned, but no one was listening. Turning, she saw that some of the campers were watching the action. “Police will be here in a minute,” she assured them.
“Pigs,” one of the campers said in evident disgust.
Siobhan jogged out into the road. The gang really had scattered now; at least, that was what it looked like. She traced Bobby Greig’s route, down the path and into a cul-de-sac. Low-rise blocks all around, some of the last and worst of the old streets. The skeleton of a bike lay on the pavement. A supermarket cart’s carcass sat curbside. Shadows and scuffles and yells. The sound of breaking glass. If there was fighting, she couldn’t see it. Back gardens were the battleground. Stairwells, too. Faces at some of the windows, but they withdrew quickly, leaving only the cold blue glare of TV sets. Siobhan kept walking, checking to left and right. She was wondering how Greig would have acted had she not been there to witness the taunts. Bloody men and their bloody machismo…
End of the street: still nothing. She took a left, then a right. In one front garden, a car sat on bricks. A lamppost had had its cover removed, its wiring ripped out. The place was a bloody maze, and how come she couldn’t hear sirens? She couldn’t hear any yells now either, apart from an argument in one of the houses. A kid on a skateboard came toward her, maybe ten or eleven at most, staring hard at her until he was past. She reckoned she could take a left and be back at the main road. But she entered another cul-de-sac and cursed under her breath-not even a footpath to be seen. Knew the quickest route might be to skirt around the end terrace and climb the fence. Next block over and she’d be back where she started.
Maybe.
“In for a pound,” she said, heading down the cracked paving slabs. There wasn’t much of anything behind the row of houses: weeds and ankle-high grass and the twisted remains of a rotary clothesline. The fence was broken-backed, easy to cross into the next set of back gardens.
“That’s my flower bed,” a voice called in mock complaint. Siobhan looked around. Stared into the milky blue eyes of the gang’s leader.
“Tasty,” he said, eyeing her from top to toe.
“Don’t you think you’re in enough trouble?” she asked.
“What trouble’s that then?”
“It was my car you got at last night.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’d taken a step closer. Two shapes behind him to the left and right.
“Your best bet right now’s to start walking,” she warned them. The response: low laughter.
“I’m CID,” she said, hoping her voice would hold up. “Anything happens here, we’re talking a lifetime’s payback.”
“So how come you’re quaking in your boots?”
Siobhan hadn’t moved, hadn’t retreated an inch. He was nose to nose with her now. Knee-in-the-groin close. She felt some of her confidence return.
“Walk away,” she said quietly.
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
“Then again,” came a deep, booming voice, “maybe you do.”
Siobhan looked behind her. It was Councilman Tench. He had his hands clasped in front of him, legs slightly apart. He seemed to fill Siobhan’s vision.
“Nothing to do with you,” the gang leader complained, stabbing a finger in Tench’s direction.
“Everything around here’s got something to do with me. Those that know me know that. Now scamper back to your rabbit holes and we’ll say no more.”
“Thinks he’s the big man,” one of the gang sneered.
“Only one big man in my universe, son, and He’s up there.” Tench gestured skyward.
“Dream on, preacher,” the leader said. But he turned and walked into the encroaching darkness, his men following.
Tench unclasped his hands and let his shoulders relax. “Could have turned nasty,” he said.
“Could have,” Siobhan agreed. She introduced herself, and he nodded.
“Thought to myself last night-that lassie looks like a copper.”
“Seems you’re on regular peacekeeping duties,” she told him.
He made a face, as if to play down his role. “Quiet around here most nights. You just picked a bad week for a visit.” His ears picked out a single siren, growing closer. “Your idea of the cavalry?” Tench offered, leading the way back to the camp.
The car-her loaner from St. Leonard ’s-had been sprayed with the letters NYT.
“Beyond a damned joke,” Siobhan told herself through gritted teeth. She asked Tench if he had names for her.
“No names,” he stated.
“But you know who they are.”
“What difference does that make?”
She turned instead to the uniforms from Craigmillar, gave them her description of the leader’s build, clothes, eyes. They shook their heads slowly.
“Camp’s in one piece,” one of them said. “That’s what matters.” His tone said it all-she was the one who’d summoned them here, and there was nothing for them to see or do. Some name-calling and a few (alleged) thrown punches. None of the security men had any injuries to report. They looked exhilarated, brothers in arms. No real threat against the camp, and no damage to report-other than Siobhan’s car.
In other words: a wild-goose chase.
Tench was moving among the tents, introducing himself all over again and shaking hands, rubbing the kids’ heads and accepting a cup of herbal tea. Bobby Greig was nursing bruised knuckles, though all he’d connected with, according to one of his team, was a wall.
“Livens things up, eh?” he said to Siobhan.
She didn’t reply. Walked to the big tent and someone poured her a cup of chamomile. She was outside again, blowing on it, when she saw that Tench had been joined by someone with a handheld tape machine. She recognized the journalist, used to be pals with Rebus…Mairie Henderson, that was the name. Siobhan moved closer and heard Tench talking about the area.
“G8’s all fine and well, but the executive should be looking a damn sight closer to home. Kids here, they can’t see any sort of a future. Investment, infrastructure, industry-what we need here is the rebuilding of a shattered community. Blight’s destroyed this place, but blight is reversible. An injection of aid, and these kids will have something to be proud of, something to keep them busy and productive. Like the slogan says, it’s fine and dandy to think global…but we shouldn’t forget to act local. Thank you very much.”
And he was moving again, shaking another hand, rubbing another child’s head. The reporter had spotted Siobhan and came bounding over to her, holding out the tape machine.
“Care to add a police perspective, DS Clarke?”
“No.”
“I hear that’s two nights running you’ve been here. What’s the attraction?”
“I’m not in the mood, Mairie.” Siobhan paused. “You’re really going to write a story about this?”
“Eyes of the world are on us.” She shut off the machine. “Tell John I hope he got the package.”
“What package?”
“The stuff about Pennen Industries and Ben Webster. Still not sure what he thinks he can make of it.”
“He’ll come up with something.”
Mairie nodded. “Just hope he remembers me when he does.” She was studying Siobhan’s cup. “Is that tea? I’m gasping.”
“From the tent,” Siobhan said, nodding in that direction. “It’s a bit weak though. Tell them you want it strong.”
“Thanks,” the reporter said, moving away.
“Don’t mention it,” Siobhan said quietly, pouring the contents of her cup onto the ground.
The Live 8 concert was on the late-night news. Not just London, but Philadelphia and the Eden Project and elsewhere. Viewing figures in the hundreds of millions, and worries that with the concert running over, the crowds would be forced to sleep outside for a night.
“Tut-tut,” Rebus said, draining the dregs from a last can of beer. The Make Poverty History march was on the screen now, a noisy celeb stating that he just felt the need to be “here on this day, making history by helping make poverty a thing of the past.” Rebus flipped to Channel 5-Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. He didn’t understand the title: wasn’t every victim special? But then he thought of Cyril Colliar and realized the answer was no.
Cyril Colliar, muscle for Big Ger Cafferty. Looking like a targeted hit at first, but now almost certainly not. Wrong place, wrong time.
Trevor Guest…so far only a piece of plastic, but all those coded numbers would yield an identity. Rebus had been through the phone book for Guests, found almost twenty. Called half of those, with only four answering-and none of them knew a Trevor.
Keogh’s Garage…There were a dozen Keoghs in the Edinburgh phone book, but by then Rebus had given up on the notion that all three victims would be from the city. Draw a wide enough circumference around Auchterarder and you would take in Dundee and Stirling as easily as Edinburgh – Glasgow and Aberdeen, too, at a push. The victims could have come from anywhere. Nothing to be done about it till Monday.
Nothing except sit and brood, drinking beers and making a sortie to the corner shop for an oven-ready dinner of Lincolnshire sausage with onion gravy and Parmesan mash. Plus four more beers. The people lining up at the register had smiled at him. They were still dressed in their white T-shirts. They were talking about the “whole amazing afternoon.”
Rebus had nodded his agreement.
One autopsy on a member of parliament. Three victims of some anonymous killer.
Somehow, amazing didn’t quite do it justice.