The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (16 page)

“But it isn’t always like that, is it?” she went on. “Sometimes the line blurs.” She turned her gaze on him. “
You
should know that better than most, number of corners I’ve seen you cut.”

“I make a lousy role model, Ellen.”

“Maybe so, but you’re planning to find him, aren’t you?”

“Him or her. That’s why I need to get a statement from you.” She opened her mouth to complain, but he held up a hand. “You’re the only person I know who used the site. The Jensens have closed it down, so I can’t be sure what might have been on there.”

“You want me to help?”

“By answering a few questions.”

She gave a harsh, quiet laugh. “You know I’ve got court later today?”

Rebus was lighting another cigarette. “Why Cramond?” he asked. She seemed surprised by the change of subject.

“It’s a village,” she explained. “A village inside a city—best of both worlds.” She paused. “Has the interview already started? Is this you getting me to drop my guard?”

Rebus shook his head. “Just wondered whose idea it was.”

“It’s my house, John. Denise came to live with me after she...” She cleared her throat. “Think I swallowed a bug,” she apologized. “I was going to say, after her divorce.”

Rebus nodded at the explanation. “Well, it’s a peaceful spot, I’ll give you that. Easy out here to forget all about the job.”

The light from the kitchen caught her smile. “I get the feeling it wouldn’t work for you. I’m not sure anything short of a sledgehammer would.”

“Or a few of those,” Rebus countered, nodding toward the row of empty wine bottles lined up beneath the kitchen window.

He took it slow, driving back into town. Loved the city at night, the taxicabs and lolling pedestrians, warm sodium glare from the streetlamps, darkened shops, curtained tenements. There were places he could go—a bakery, a night watchman’s desk, a casino—places where he was known and where tea would be brewed, gossip exchanged. Years back, he could have stopped for a chat with the working girls on Coburg Street, but most of them had either moved on or died. And after he, too, was gone, Edinburgh would remain. These same scenes would be enacted, a play whose run was never ending. Killers would be caught and punished; others would remain at large. The world and the underworld, coexisting down the generations. By week’s end, the G8 circus would have trundled elsewhere. Geldof and Bono would have found new causes. Richard Pennen would be in his boardroom, David Steelforth back at Scotland Yard. Sometimes it felt to Rebus that he was close to seeing the mechanism that connected everything.

Close...but never quite close enough.

The Meadows seemed deserted as he turned up Marchmont Road. Parked at the top of Arden Street and walked back downhill to his tenement. Two or three times a week he got flyers through his mailbox, firms eager to sell his apartment for him. The one upstairs had gone for two hundred K. Add that sort of money to his CID pension and he was, as Siobhan herself had said, “on Easy Street.” Problem was, it wasn’t a destination that appealed. He stooped to pick up the mail from inside the door. There was a menu from a new Indian take-out. He’d pin it up in the kitchen, next to the others. Meantime, he made himself a ham sandwich, ate it standing in the kitchen, staring at the array of empty cans on the work surface. How many bottles had there been in Ellen Wylie’s garden? Fifteen, maybe twenty. A lot of wine. He’d seen an empty Tesco’s bag in the kitchen. She probably did a regular recycling run, same time she did the shopping. Say every two weeks. Twenty bottles in two weeks; ten a week—
Denise came to stay with me after she
...
after her divorce
. Rebus hadn’t seen any nighttime insects illuminated against the kitchen window. Ellen had looked washed out. Easy to blame it on the day’s events, but Rebus knew it went deeper. The lines under her bloodshot eyes had taken weeks to accumulate. Her figure had been thickening for some time. He knew that Siobhan had once seen Ellen as a rival—two DSes who’d have to fight tooth and nail for promotion. But lately, Siobhan had stopped saying as much. Maybe because Ellen didn’t look quite so dangerous to her these days...

He poured a glass of water and took it into the living room, gulped it down until only half an inch was left, then added a slug of malt to the remainder. Tipped it back and felt the heat work its way down his throat. Topped it up and settled into his chair. Too late now to put any music on. He rested the glass against his forehead, closed his eyes.

Slept.

Tuesday, July 5, 2005

11

T
he best Glenrothes could offer was a lift to the railway station at Markinch.

Siobhan sat on the train—too early yet for the commuter rush—and looked out at the passing countryside. Not that she saw any of it: her mind was replaying footage of the riot, the same hours of footage she had just walked away from. Sound and fury, swearing and swinging, the clatter of hurled objects and the grunts of exertion. Her thumb was numb from pressure on the remote control. Pause...slow back...slow forward...play. Fast forward...rewind...pause...play. In some of the still photographs, faces had been circled—people the force would want to question. The eyes burned with hatred. Of course, some of them weren’t demonstrators at all—just local troublemakers ready to rumble, smothered in Burberry scarves and baseball caps. In the U.S., they’d probably be called juvenile delinquents, but up here they were neds. One of the team, bringing her coffee and a chocolate bar, had said as much as he stood behind her shoulder.

“Neddy the Ned from Nedtown.”

The woman across from Siobhan on the train had the morning paper open. The riot had made the front page. But so, too, had Tony Blair. He was in Singapore, pitching for London to win the Olympic bid. The year 2012 seemed a long way off; so did Singapore. Siobhan couldn’t believe he was going to make it back to Gleneagles in time to shake all those hands—Bush and Putin, Schröder and Chirac. The paper also said there was little sign of Saturday’s Hyde Park crowd heading north.

“Sorry, is this seat taken?”

Siobhan shook her head and the man squeezed in beside her.

“Wasn’t yesterday terrible?” he said. Siobhan grunted a reply, but the woman across the table said she’d been shopping in Rose Street and had only just escaped being caught up in it. The two then started trading war stories, while Siobhan stared out the window again. The skirmishes had been just that. Police tactics had been unchanged: go in hard; let them know the city’s ours, not theirs. From the footage, there’d been obvious provocation. But they’d been forewarned—no point in joining a demonstration if it didn’t make the news. Anarchists couldn’t afford ad campaigns. Baton charges were their equivalent of free publicity. The photos in the paper proved it: cops with gritted teeth swinging their clubs; rioters defenseless on the ground, being dragged away by faceless uniforms. All very George Orwell. None of it got Siobhan any closer to finding out who had attacked her mother, or why.

But she wasn’t about to give up.

Her eyes stung when she blinked, and every few blinks the world seemed to swim out of focus. She needed sleep but was wired on caffeine and sugar.

“Sorry, but are you all right?”

It was her neighbor again. His hand was brushing her arm. When she blinked her eyes open, she could feel the single tear running down her cheek. She wiped it away.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just a bit tired.”

“Thought maybe we’d upset you,” the woman across the table was saying, “going on about yesterday...”

Siobhan shook her head, saw that the woman had finished with her paper. “Mind if I...?”

“No, pet, you go ahead.”

Siobhan managed a smile and opened the tabloid, studying the pictures, looking for the photographer’s name...

At Haymarket she lined up for a cab. Got out at the Western General and went straight to the ward. Her father was slurping tea in the reception area. He’d slept in his clothes and hadn’t managed a shave, the bristles gray on his cheeks and chin. He looked old to her, old and suddenly mortal.

“How is she?” Siobhan asked.

“Not too bad. Due to get the scan just before lunch. How about you?”

“Still haven’t found the bastard.”

“I meant, how are you feeling?”

“I’m all right.”

“You were up half the night, weren’t you?”

“Maybe a bit more than half,” she conceded with a smile. Her phone beeped: not a message, just warning her its battery was low. She switched it off. “Can I see her?”

“They’re getting her ready. Said they’d tell me when they’d finished. How’s the outside world?”

“Ready to face another day.”

“Can I buy you a coffee?”

She shook her head. “I’m swimming in the stuff.”

“I think you should get some rest, love. Come see her this afternoon, after the tests.”

“I’ll just say hello first.” She nodded toward the ward doors.

“Then you’ll go home?”

“Promise.”

The morning news: yesterday’s arrests were being sent to the sheriff court on Chambers Street. The court itself would be closed to the public. A protest was taking place outside the Dungavel Immigration Center. Forewarned, the immigration service had already moved the waiting deportees elsewhere. The demonstration would go ahead anyway, organizers said.

Trouble at the Peace Camp in Stirling. People were starting to head for Gleneagles, the police determined to stop them, using Section 60 powers to stop and search without suspicion. In Edinburgh, the cleanup was well advanced. A vehicle loaded with ninety gallons of cooking oil had been detained—the oil would have formed a road slick, causing traffic chaos. Wednesday’s Final Push concert at Murrayfield was coming together. The stage had been built, lighting installed. Midge Ure was hoping for some “decent Scottish summer weather.” Performers and celebrities had started arriving in the city. Richard Branson had flown one of his jets to Edinburgh. Prestwick Airport was gearing up for the next day’s arrivals. An advance guard of diplomats had already arrived. President Bush would be bringing his own sniffer dog, plus a mountain bike so he could maintain his daily exercise regime. Back in the newsroom, the TV presenter read out an e-mail from a viewer, suggesting the summit could have been held on one of the North Sea’s many decommissioned oil platforms, “saving a small fortune in security, and making protest marches an interesting proposition.”

Rebus finished his coffee and turned down the sound. Vans were arriving in the police station lot, ready to transport prisoners to the court. Ellen Wylie was due in around ninety minutes to make her statement. He’d tried Siobhan’s cell a couple of times but it went straight to messaging, meaning she’d switched it off. He’d called Sorbus HQ, only to be told she’d left for Edinburgh. Tried the Western General, but learned only that “Mrs. Clarke has had a comfortable night.” Number of times he’d heard that in his life...A comfortable night: meaning “She’s still alive, if that’s what’s worrying you.” He looked up and saw that a man had entered the CID room.

“Help you?” Rebus asked. Then he recognized the uniform. “Sorry, sir.”

“We’ve not met,” the chief constable said, holding out his hand. “I’m James Corbyn.”

Rebus returned the handshake, noting that Corbyn wasn’t a Freemason. “DI Rebus,” he said.

“Are you working with DS Clarke on the Auchterarder case?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“I’ve been trying to reach her. She owes me an update.”

“Some interesting developments, sir. There’s a Web site set up by a local couple. Might be how the killer chose his victims.”

“You’ve got names for all three?”

“Yes, sir. Same MO each time.”

“Could there be others?”

“No way of knowing.”

“Will he stop at three?”

“Again, sir, hard to tell.”

The chief constable was patrolling the room, inspecting wall charts, desks, computer monitors. “I told Clarke she had until tomorrow. After that, we shut the case down till the G8 is done and dusted.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Media haven’t got hold of it yet. No reason we can’t sit on it for a few days.”

“Trails have a way of going cold, sir. If we give suspects that bit of extra time to get their stories straight...”

“You’ve got suspects?” Corbyn had turned toward Rebus.

“Not as such, sir, but there are people we’re talking to.”

“G8 has to take priority, Rebus.”

“Mind if I ask why, sir?”

Corbyn glared at him. “Because the world’s eight most powerful men are going to be in Scotland, staying at the country’s best hotel. That’s the story everyone wants. The fact that a serial killer is stalking the central belt might just get in the way, don’t you think?”

“Actually, sir, only one of the victims is from Scotland.”

The chief constable walked to within a few inches of Rebus. “Don’t try to be smart, DI Rebus. And don’t think I haven’t dealt with your kind before.”

“What kind is that, sir?”

“The kind that thinks because he’s been around awhile, he knows better than anyone else. You know what they say about cars—more miles on the clock, closer they are to being scrapped.”

“Thing is, sir, I prefer vintage cars to the stuff they’re churning out today. Shall I pass your message along to DS Clarke? I expect you’ve got better things to be doing with your time. Off to Gleneagles yourself at any point?”

“None of your bloody business.”

“Message received.” Rebus gave the chief constable something that could have been construed as a salute.

“You’ll shut this thing down.” Corbyn slapped a hand against some of the paperwork on Rebus’s desk. “And remember—DS Clarke is in charge, not you, Inspector.” His eyes narrowed a little. Then, seeing that Rebus wasn’t about to reply, he stalked out of the room. Rebus waited the best part of a minute before exhaling, then made a phone call.

“Mairie? Any news for me?” He listened to her apology. “Well, never mind. I’ve got a wee bonus here for you, if you can manage the price of a cup of coffee...”

Multrees Walk took him less than ten minutes on foot. It was a new development adjacent to the Harvey Nichols department store, and some of the shops were still unrented. But the Vin Caffe was open for snacks and Italian coffee, and Rebus ordered a double espresso.

“And she’s paying,” he added as Mairie Henderson arrived.

“Guess who’s covering the sheriff court this afternoon?” She slid into her seat.

“And that’s your excuse for treading water on Richard Pennen?”

She glared at him. “John, what does it matter if Pennen paid for an MP’s hotel room? There’s nothing to prove it was cash-for-contracts. If Webster’s area was arms procurement, I might have the beginnings of a story.” She made an exasperated sound and gave a theatrical shrug of the shoulders. “Anyway, I’m not giving up yet. Let me talk to a few more people about Richard Pennen.”

Rebus ran a hand across his face. “It’s just the way they’re going about protecting him. Not just Pennen, actually—everyone who was there that night. No way we’re going to get near them.”

“You really think Webster was given a shove over that wall?”

“It’s a possibility. One of the guards thought there was an intruder.”

“Well, if it was an intruder, reason dictates it wasn’t anyone at the actual dinner.” She angled her face, seeking his agreement. When he failed to concede, she straightened again. “Know what I think? I think all of this is because there’s a bit of the anarchist in you. You’re on
their
side, and it annoys you that you’ve somehow ended up working for The Man.”

Rebus snorted a laugh. “Where did you get that from?”

She laughed with him. “I’m right though, aren’t I? You’ve always seen yourself as being on the outside—” She broke off as their coffees arrived, dug her spoon into her cappuccino and scooped foam into her mouth.

“I do my best work on the margins,” Rebus said thoughtfully.

She nodded. “That’s why we used to get along so well.”

“Until you chose Cafferty instead.”

She gave another shrug. “He’s more like you than you care to admit.”

“And I was just about to do you this huge favor.”

“Okay.” She narrowed her eyes. “The pair of you are like apples and oranges.”

“That’s better.” He handed her an envelope. “Typed by my own fair hands, so the spelling might not be up to your own high journalistic standard.”

“What is it?” She was unfolding the single sheet of paper.

“Something we were keeping the lid on: two more victims, same killer as Cyril Colliar. I can’t give you everything we’ve got, but this’ll get you started.”

“Christ, John—” She looked up at him.

“What?”

“Why are you giving me this?”

“My latent anarchic streak?” he pretended to guess.

“It might not even make the front page, not this week.”

“So?”

“Any week of the year except this...”

“Are you checking my gift horse’s mouth?”

“This stuff about the Web site...” She was scanning the sheet for a second time.

“It’s all kosher, Mairie. If you don’t have a use for it...” He held out his hand to take it back.

“What’s a ‘serial kilter’? Is that someone who can’t stop making kilts?”

“Give it back.”

“Who is it that’s pissed you off?” she asked with a smile. “You wouldn’t be doing this otherwise.”

“Just hand it over and we’ll say no more.”

But she slid the page back into the envelope and folded it into her pocket. “If things stay calm for the rest of the day, maybe my editor can be persuaded.”

“Stress the link with the Web site,” Rebus advised. “Might help the others on the list be a bit more cautious.”

“They’ve not been told?”

“Haven’t got around to it. And if the chief constable gets his way, they won’t find out till next week.”

“By which time the killer could strike again?”

Rebus nodded.

“So really you’re doing this to save these scuzzballs’ lives?”

“To protect and serve,” Rebus said, trying another salute.

“And not because you’ve had a falling-out with the chief constable?”

Rebus shook his head slowly, as if disappointed in her. “And I thought I was the one with the cynical streak....You’ll really keep looking at Richard Pennen?”

“For a little while longer.” She waved the sheet of paper at him. “Got to retype all of this first though. Didn’t realize English wasn’t your first language.”

Siobhan had headed home and run a bath, closing her eyes after getting in, then waking with a jolt, chin touching the surface of the tepid water. She’d gotten out and changed her clothes, ordered a taxi, and headed for the garage where her car was ready. She’d driven to Niddrie, trusting that lightning wouldn’t strike twice...actually, three times, though she’d managed to get the St. Leonard’s loaner back to its berth without anyone spotting her. If anyone came asking, she could always say the damage must have been done in the car lot.