The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (11 page)

“But...”

“A culprit who may have plucked the names of all three victims from your Web site.”

“All three?”

“Edward Isley and Trevor Guest,” Rebus recited. “Plenty more names in your hall of shame...I wonder who’ll be next.”

“There must be some mistake.” The blood had drained from Jensen’s face.

“Do you know Auchterarder at all, sir?” Rebus asked.

“No, not really.”

“Gleneagles?”

“We did go there once, a veterinarians’ conference.”

“Was there maybe a bus trip to the Clootie Well?”

Jensen shook his head. “Just some seminars and a dinner dance...” He sounded befuddled. “Look, I don’t think I can help you.”

“The Web site was your wife’s idea?” Siobhan asked quietly.

“It was a way of dealing with...She’d gone online looking for help.”

“Help?”

“Victims’ families. She wanted to know how to help Vicky. Along the way, the idea came to her.”

“She had help to construct the site?”

“We paid a firm of designers.”

“And the other sites in America...?”

“Oh, yes, they helped with layout. Once it was up and running...” Jensen shrugged. “I think it almost manages itself.”

“Do people subscribe?”

Jensen nodded. “If they want the newsletter. It’s supposed to be every quarter, but again, I’m not sure Dolly’s kept it up.”

“So you have a list of subscribers?” Rebus asked.

Siobhan looked at him. “Not that you need to be a subscriber to look at the site.”

“There’ll be a list somewhere,” Jensen was saying.

“How long has the site been active?” Siobhan asked.

“Eight or nine months. It was when his release date started to come closer...Dolly was getting more and more anxious.” He paused, glanced at his watch. “For Vicky, I mean.”

As if on cue, the front door opened and closed. An excited, breathless voice came from the hallway.

“I did it, Dad! The shore and back!” The woman who filled the door frame was red-faced and overweight. She shrieked when she saw that her father was not alone.

“It’s all right, Vicky.”

But she’d turned on her heels and fled. Another door opened and slammed shut. They heard her footsteps as she padded down to her basement refuge. Thomas Jensen’s shoulders slumped.

“That’s as far as she’s managed on her own,” he explained.

Rebus nodded. The shore was barely half a mile away. He knew now why Jensen had been so anxious at their arrival, and why he had scanned the world outside.

“We pay someone to stay with her weekdays,” Jensen went on, hands in his lap. “Means we can both keep working.”

“You told her Colliar’s dead?” Rebus asked.

“Yes,” Jensen confirmed.

“She was interviewed about it?”

Now Jensen shook his head. “The officer who came to ask us questions...he was very understanding when we explained about Vicky.” Rebus and Siobhan shared a look:
Going through the motions
...
not trying too hard
...‘We didn’t kill him, you know. Even if he’d been standing there in front of me...” Jensen’s eyes grew unfocused. “I’m not sure I could bring myself to do it.”

“They all died of injections, Mr. Jensen,” Siobhan stated.

The vet blinked a couple of times, raised a hand slowly and squeezed the skin either side of his nose, just below the eyes. “If you’re going to accuse me of anything, I’d like my lawyer to hear it.”

“We just need your help, sir.”

He stared at her. “And that’s the one thing I’m determined not to give you.”

“We’ll need to talk to your wife and daughter,” Siobhan said, but Jensen was on his feet.

“I want you to leave now. I have to look after Vicky.”

“Of course, sir,” Rebus said.

“But we’ll be back,” Siobhan added. “Lawyer or no lawyer. And remember, Mr. Jensen, tampering with evidence can get you locked up.” She strode toward the door, Rebus following in her wake. Outside, he lit a cigarette, staring toward a makeshift game of soccer on the links.

“See, when I said diplomacy wasn’t my strong point...?”

“What?”

“Five more minutes in there, you’d’ve been roughing him up.”

“Don’t be stupid.” But the blood had risen to her face. She puffed out her cheeks and made an exasperated sound.

“What did you mean about evidence?” Rebus asked.

“Web sites can be wound down,” she explained. “Subscriber lists can be lost.”

“Which means the sooner we speak to Brains, the better.”

Eric Bain was watching the Live 8 concert on his computer—at least, that was what it looked like to Rebus, but Bain soon corrected him.

“Editing it, actually.”

“A download?” Siobhan guessed, but Bain shook his head.

“Burned it onto DVD-ROM; now I’m taking out anything I don’t need.”

“That would take some time in my case,” Rebus said.

“It easy enough once you get the hang of the tools.”

“I think,” Siobhan broke in, “DI Rebus means he’d be deleting a lot of stuff.”

Bain smiled at this. He hadn’t gotten up since they’d arrived, hadn’t so much as glanced up from the screen. It was his girlfriend, Molly, who’d opened the door for them; Molly who’d asked if they’d like a cup of tea. She was in the kitchen now, boiling the kettle, while Bain stuck to his task in the living room.

It was a top-floor apartment in a warehouse conversion off Slateford Road. The brochure had probably referred to it as the “penthouse.” There were expansive views from the small windows, mostly of chimneys and abandoned factories. The top of Corstorphine Hill was just visible in the distance. The room was neater than Rebus had expected. No lengths of wiring, cardboard boxes, soldering irons, or game consoles. Hardly the typical residence of a self-confessed gadget geek.

“How long you been here, Eric?” Rebus asked.

“Couple of months.”

“Pair of you decided to move in together?”

“That’s about the size of it. I’ll be finished here in a minute...”

Rebus nodded, went over to the sofa and made himself comfortable. Molly shuffled in with the tea tray, fizzing with energy. She was wearing mules on her feet. Tight blue jeans that only reached as far as her calves. A red T-shirt with Che Guevara on it. Great figure, and long blond hair—dyed that color, but still suiting her. Rebus had to admit he was impressed. He’d risked several glances toward Siobhan, who on each occasion had been studying Molly the way a scientist would a lab rat. Clearly she too thought Bain had done well for himself.

And Molly had made her mark on Brains: the boy had been housebroken. What was that Elton John line?
You nearly had me roped and tied
...Bernie Taupin actually. The original Brown Dirt Cowboy to Reg’s Captain Fantastic.

“Place looks great,” Rebus said to Molly as she handed him a mug. His reward: her pink lips and perfect white teeth breaking into a smile. “Didn’t catch your last name...?”

“Clark,” she said.

“Same as Siobhan here,” Rebus informed her. Molly looked to Siobhan for confirmation.

“I’ve an
e
at the end,” Siobhan offered.

“Not me,” Molly replied. She’d settled on the sofa next to Rebus but kept moving her bottom, as if unable to get comfortable.

“Still, it gives you something else in common,” Rebus added teasingly, receiving a scowl from Siobhan for his effort. “How long have you two been an item then?”

“Fifteen weeks,” she said breathlessly. “Doesn’t seem long, does it? But sometimes you just
know
.”

Rebus nodded agreement. “I’m always saying, Siobhan here should settle down. It can be the making of you, can’t it, Molly?”

Molly didn’t look convinced, but still looked at Siobhan with something like sympathy. “It really can,” she stressed. Siobhan gave Rebus a hard stare and accepted her own mug.

“Actually,” Rebus went on, “for a wee while back there, Siobhan and Eric looked like becoming an item.”

“We were just friends,” Siobhan said, forcing out a laugh. Bain seemed frozen in front of the computer screen, hand unmoving on the mouse.

“Is that right, Eric?” Rebus called to him.

“John’s just teasing,” Siobhan was assuring Molly. “Take no notice of him.”

Rebus offered Molly a wink. “Lovely spot of tea,” he said. She was still fidgeting.

“And we’re really sorry to disturb your Sunday,” Siobhan added. “If it wasn’t an emergency...”

Bain’s chair creaked as he rose from it. Rebus noticed he had lost a good bit of weight, maybe as much as fifteen pounds. His pale face was still fleshy, but the gut had shrunk.

“Still based at the Forensic computer branch?” Siobhan asked him.

“That’s right.” He accepted some tea and sat down next to Molly. She slid an arm protectively around him, stretching the material of her T-shirt, further accentuating her breasts. Rebus concentrated all the harder on Bain. “Been busy with G8,” he was saying, “sifting intelligence reports.”

“What sort of stuff?” Rebus asked, getting up as if to stretch his legs. With Bain on the sofa, it was getting crowded there. He began sauntering toward the computer.

“The secret sort,” Bain replied.

“Come across anyone called Steelforth?”

“Should I have?”

“He’s SO12...seems to be running the show.”

But Bain just shook his head slowly and asked them what they wanted. Siobhan handed him the sheet of paper.

“It’s a Web site,” she explained. “Might suddenly disappear. We need everything you can get: subscription lists, anyone who’s been looking at it, maybe downloading stuff...”

“That’s a big ask...”

“I know it is, Eric.” The way she said his name seemed to hit a nerve. He got up and walked to the window, perhaps to hide from Molly the flush of color that had risen up his neck.

Rebus had picked up a piece of paper from beside the computer. It was a letter, headed Axios Systems, signed by someone called Tasos Symeonides. “Sounds Greek,” he said. Eric Bain seemed relieved to be changing the subject.

“Based right here,” he said. “An IT outfit.”

Rebus wafted the letter in front of him. “Sorry to be nosy, Eric...”

“It’s a job offer,” Molly explained. “Eric gets them all the time.” She had risen to her feet and crossed to the window, sliding an arm around Bain. “I have to keep persuading him that his police work is crucial.”

Rebus put the letter back and returned to the sofa. “Any chance of a refill?” he asked. Molly was happy to pour. Bain seized the moment, fixed Siobhan with a stare, dozens of unspoken words transmitted in a few seconds.

“Lovely,” Rebus said, accepting a bit of milk. Molly was seated next to him again.

“How soon could it be shut down?” Bain asked.

“I don’t know,” Siobhan admitted.

“Tonight?”

“More likely tomorrow.”

Bain studied the piece of paper. “All right,” he said.

“Isn’t this nice?” Rebus seemed to be asking the question of the whole room, but Molly wasn’t listening. She’d slapped both of her hands to her face, mouth falling open.

“I forgot the biscuits!” She jumped back to her feet. “How could I have done that? And nobody said...” She turned to Bain. “You could have
said!
” Color was flushing her cheeks as she flew from the room.

And for the first time Rebus realized that the place wasn’t just tidy.

It was neurotically so.

7

S
iobhan had watched the procession, with its anti-war chants and banners. The route was lined with police waiting for trouble. Siobhan caught the sweet smell of cannabis in her nostrils, but doubted anyone would be arrested for it: the Sorbus briefings had said as much.

If they’re shooting up as they pass you, take them in; otherwise, let it go
...

Whoever was targeting the BeastWatch Web site had access to high-grade heroin. She thought again of the mild-seeming Thomas Jensen. Vets might not have access to H, but they could always trade for something.

Access to heroin, and a grudge. Vicky’s two pals, the ones who’d been with her at the club and on the bus...maybe they needed to be questioned.

The blow to the head, always from behind. Someone less physically strong than those being attacked. Wanting them down before the injection. Lashing out at Trevor Guest because he’d not been KO’d? Or did it show the killer becoming more unhinged, more brazen, starting to enjoy the process?

But Guest had been the second victim. The third, Cyril Colliar, hadn’t been dealt with so harshly. Meaning someone had stumbled on the scene perhaps, the killer fleeing before he’d had a chance to get his jollies?

Had he killed again? If so...Siobhan gave a little cluck. “He
or
she,” she reminded herself.

“Bush, Blair, CIA, how many kids did you kill today?”

The chant was taken up by the crowd. They were streaming up Calton Hill, Siobhan following. A few thousand of them, heading for their rally. The wind was biting, the hilltop exposed to the elements. Views toward Fife and across the city to the west. Views south to Holyrood and the parliament, cordoned day and night by police. Calton Hill, Siobhan seemed to recall, was another of Edinburgh’s extinct volcanoes. The castle sat on one; Arthur’s Seat was another. There was an observatory at the top, and a series of public monuments. Best of all was the Folly: a single side of what had been meant as a full-scale replica of the Parthenon in Athens. The mad donor had died, leaving the thing unfinished. Some marchers were clambering onto it. Others were gathering around to hear the speeches. One young woman, in a world of her own, danced around the periphery, singing to herself.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, dear.”

“No, but I thought I might see you.” Siobhan gave her parents a hug. “Couldn’t find you at the Meadows yesterday.”

“Wasn’t it fantastic?”

Siobhan’s father gave a laugh. “Your mum was in tears throughout.”

“
So
emotional,” his wife agreed.

“I came looking for you last night.”

“We went out for a drink.”

“With Santal?” Siobhan tried to make the question sound casual. She ran a hand over her head, as if trying to erase the voice within:
I’m
your bloody daughter, not her!

“She was there for a little while...didn’t seem to appeal to her.” The crowd was clapping and cheering the first speaker.

“Billy Bragg’s on later,” Teddy Clarke said.

“I thought we could get something to eat,” Siobhan was saying. “There’s a restaurant on Waterloo Place...”

“Are you hungry, dear?” Eve Clarke asked her husband.

“Not really.”

“Me neither.”

Siobhan shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe later, eh?”

Her father put a finger to his lips. “They’re starting,” he whispered.

“Starting what?” Siobhan asked.

“The naming of the dead...”

And so they were: reading out the names of a thousand victims of the warfare in Iraq, people from all sides of the conflict. A thousand names, the speakers taking it in turn, their audience silent. Even the young woman stopped dancing. She stood staring into space instead. Siobhan retreated a little at one point, realizing her cell was still on. Didn’t want Eric Bain calling with news. She took it from her pocket and switched it to vibrate. Drifted a little farther away, still in earshot of the roll call. She could see the Hibernian stadium below, empty now that the season was over. The North Sea looked calm. Berwick Law to the east, looking like yet another extinct volcano. And still the names continued, forcing a secret, rueful smile from her.

Because this was what she did, her whole working life. She named the dead. She recorded their last details, and tried to find out who they’d been, why they’d died. She gave a voice to the forgotten and the missing. A world filled with victims, waiting for her and other detectives like her. Detectives like Rebus, too, who gnawed away at every case, or let it gnaw at them. Never letting go, because that would have been the final insult to those names. Her phone was buzzing. She lifted it to her ear.

“They were quick,” Eric Bain told her.

“The site’s gone?”

“Yep.”

She cursed under her breath. “Did you get anything?”

“Bits and pieces. I couldn’t burrow far enough in, not with the gear at home.”

“No subscriber list?”

“Afraid not.”

Another speaker had taken over at the microphone. The names kept coming.

“Anything else you can try?” she asked.

“From the office, yes, maybe one or two little tricks.”

“Tomorrow then?”

“If our G8 masters can spare me.” He paused. “It was good to see you, Siobhan. Sorry you had to meet...”

“Eric,” she warned, “don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“All of it...none of it. Let’s just not, okay?”

There was a long silence on the line. “Still friends?” he eventually asked.

“Absolutely. Call me again tomorrow.” She ended the call. Had to, otherwise she’d have been telling him, Stick to your nervous, pouting, bosomy girlfriend...you might end up having a future...

Stranger things had happened.

She studied her parents from behind. They were holding hands, her mother leaning her head against her father’s shoulder. Tears threatened to well up in Siobhan’s eyes, but she forced them back down. She remembered Vicky Jensen, running from the room, and Molly, doing the same thing. Both of them scared of life itself. In her teens, Siobhan had run from plenty of rooms, rooms her parents had been in. Tantrums, bust-ups, battles of wits, power plays. And all she wanted now was to be standing right there between them. Wanted it, but couldn’t do it. Instead, she stood fifty feet behind them, willing them to turn their heads.

Instead of which, they listened to the names...the names of people they’d never known.

“I appreciate this,” Steelforth said, rising to shake Rebus’s hand. He’d been waiting in the lobby of the Balmoral Hotel, sitting with one leg crossed over the other. Rebus had kept him waiting quarter of an hour, using that time to walk past the doors of the Balmoral several times, glancing inside to see what traps might await. The Stop the War march had been and gone, but he’d spotted its rump, moving slowly up Waterloo Place. Siobhan had told him she was headed there, thought she might catch up with her parents.

“You’ve not had much time for them,” Rebus had sympathized.

“And vice versa,” she’d muttered.

There was security at the door of the hotel: not just the liveried doorman and concierge—a different one from Saturday night—but what Rebus assumed were plainclothes officers, probably under Steelforth’s control. The Special Branch man was looking more dapper than ever in a double-breasted pinstripe. Having shaken hands, he was gesturing toward the Palm Court.

“A small whiskey perhaps?”

“Depends who’s paying.”

“Allow me.”

“In which case,” Rebus advised, “I might manage a large one.”

Steelforth’s laugh was loud enough but empty at its core. They found a corner table. A cocktail waitress appeared as if conjured into being by their very arrival.

“Carla,” Steelforth informed her, “we’d like a couple of whiskeys. Doubles.” He turned his attention to Rebus.

“Laphroaig,” Rebus obliged. “The older the better.”

Carla bowed her head and moved off. Steelforth was adjusting the line of his jacket, waiting for her to leave before he spoke. Rebus decided not to give him the chance.

“Managing to hush up our dead MP?” he inquired loudly.

“What’s to hush up?”

“You tell me.”

“As far as I can establish, DI Rebus, your own investigation so far has consisted of one unofficial interview with the deceased’s sister.” Having finished toying with his jacket, Steelforth clasped his hands in front of him. “An interview conducted, moreover, lamentably soon after she had made formal identification.” He paused theatrically. “No offense intended, Inspector.”

“None taken, Commander.”

“Of course, it may be that you’ve been busy in other ways. I’ve had no fewer than two local journalists raking over the coals.”

Rebus tried to look surprised. Mairie Henderson, plus whoever it was he’d spoken to on the
Scotsman
news desk. Favors now owed to both...

“Well,” Rebus said, “since there’s nothing to hush up, I don’t suppose the press will get very far.” He paused. “You said at the time that the investigation would be taken out of my hands...that doesn’t seem to have happened.”

Steelforth shrugged. “Because there’s nothing to investigate. Verdict: accidental death.” He unclasped his hands as the drinks arrived, and with them a small jug of water and a bowl brimming with ice cubes.

“Do you want to leave the bill open?” Carla asked. Steelforth looked at Rebus, then shook his head.

“We’ll just be having the one.” He signed for the drinks with his room number.

“Is it the taxpayer picking up the tab,” Rebus inquired, “or do we have Mr Pennen to thank?”

“Richard Pennen is a credit to this country,” Steelforth stated, adding too much water to his drink. “The Scottish economy in particular would be the poorer without him.”

“I didn’t realize the Balmoral was so expensive.”

Steelforth’s eyes narrowed. “I mean defense jobs, as you well know.”

“And if I interview him about Ben Webster’s demise, he’ll suddenly send the work elsewhere?”

Steelforth leaned forward. “We need to keep him happy. Surely you can see that?”

Rebus savored the aroma of the malt, then lifted it to his mouth.

“Cheers,” Steelforth said grudgingly.

“Slainte,”
Rebus replied.

“I’ve heard you enjoy a drop of the hard stuff,” Steelforth added. “Maybe even more than a drop.”

“You’ve been talking to the right people.”

“I don’t mind a man who drinks...just so long as it doesn’t interfere with his work. But then I also hear it’s been known to affect your judgment.”

“Not my judgment of character,” Rebus said, putting the glass down. “Sober or drunk, I’d know you for a prick of the first order.”

Steelforth made a mock toast with his glass. “I was going to offer you something,” he said, “to make up for your disappointment.”

“Do I look disappointed?”

“You’re not going to get anywhere with Ben Webster, suicide or not.”

“Suddenly you’re ruling in suicide again? Does that mean there’s a note?”

Steelforth lost patience. “There’s no bloody note!” he spat. “There’s nothing at all.”

“Makes it an odd suicide, wouldn’t you say?”

“Accidental death.”

“The official line.” Rebus lifted his glass again. “What were you going to offer me?”

Steelforth studied him for a moment before answering. “My own men,” he said. “This murder case you’ve got...I hear tell the count is now three victims. I’d imagine you’re stretched. Right now it’s just you and DS Clarke, isn’t it?”

“More or less.”

“I’ve plenty of men up here, Rebus—very good men. All sorts of skills and specialties among them.”

“And you’d let us borrow them?”

“That was the intention.”

“So we’d be able to focus on the murders and give up on the MP?” Rebus made a show of thinking the proposal over; went so far as to press his hands together and rest his chin on his fingertips. “Sentries at the castle said there was an intruder,” he said quietly, as if thinking aloud.

“No evidence of that,” Steelforth was quick to reply.

“Why was Webster on the ramparts...that’s never really been answered.”

“A breath of air.”

“He excused himself from the dinner?”

“It was winding down...port and cigars.”

“He said he was going outside?” Rebus’s eyes were on Steelforth now.

“Not as such. People were getting up to stretch their legs...”

“You’ve interviewed all of them?” Rebus guessed.

“Most of them,” the Special Branch man qualified.

“The foreign secretary?” Rebus waited for a response, which didn’t come. “No, I didn’t think so. The foreign delegations then?”

“Some of them, yes. I’ve done pretty much everything
you’d
have done, Inspector.”

“You don’t know
what
I’d have done.”

Steelforth accepted this with a slight bow of the head. He had yet to touch his drink.

“You’ve no qualms?” Rebus added. “No questions?”

“None.”

“And yet you don’t know why it happened.” Rebus shook his head slowly. “You’re not much of a cop, are you, Steelforth? You might be a whiz at the handshakes and the briefings, but when it comes to policing, I’d say you haven’t a fucking clue. You’re window dressing, that’s all.” Rebus rose to his feet.

“And what are you exactly, DI Rebus?”

“Me?” Rebus considered for a moment. “I’m the janitor, I suppose...the one who sweeps up after you.” He paused, found his punch line. “After you
and
around you, if it comes to that.”

Exit stage right.

Before leaving the Balmoral, he’d wandered downstairs to the restaurant, breezing through the anteroom despite the best efforts of the staff. The place was busy, but there was no sign of Richard Pennen. Rebus climbed the steps to Princes Street and decided he might as well drop into the Café Royal. The pub was surprisingly quiet.

“Trade’s been lousy,” the manager confided. “Lot of locals keeping their heads down the next few days.”

After two drinks, Rebus headed along George Street. The workmen had stopped digging the roads—council orders. A new one-way system was being introduced, and with it confusion for motorists. Even the traffic cops thought it ham-fisted, and weren’t going out of their way to enforce the new
NO ENTRY
signs. Again, the street was quiet. No sign of Geldof’s army. The bouncers outside the Dome told him the place was three quarters empty. On Young Street, the narrow lane’s one-way routing had been switched from one direction to the other. Rebus pushed open the door to the Oxford Bar, smiling at something he’d been told about the new system.