The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (18 page)

“Used to do a bit yourself, didn’t you?”

Tench turned to Siobhan. “The inspector means my little Sunday-morning sermons at the foot of the Mound. Doubtless he paused a moment on his way to Communion.”

“Don’t seem to see you there anymore,” Rebus added. “Did you lose your faith?”

“Far from it, Inspector. But there are ways of getting a point across besides preaching.” His face composed itself into a more serious professionalism. “I’m here because a couple of my constituents got caught up in all that trouble yesterday.”

“Innocent bystanders, I don’t doubt,” Rebus commented.

Tench’s eyes flitted to him, then back to Siobhan. “The inspector must be a joy to work with.”

“Nonstop laughs,” Siobhan agreed.

“Ah! And the Fourth Estate, too!” Tench exclaimed, holding out a hand toward Mairie, who’d finally decided to join them. “When is our article running? I’ll assume you know these two guardians of truth.” He gestured toward Rebus and Siobhan. “You did promise me a wee peek at the contents before publishing,” he reminded Mairie.

“Did I?” She was trying to look surprised. Tench wasn’t falling for it. He turned to the two detectives.

“I think I need to have a word in private...”

“Don’t mind us,” Rebus told him. “Siobhan and I need a minute too.”

“We do?” But Rebus had already turned away, leaving her little option but to follow.

“Sandy Bell’s will be open,” he told her, once they were out of earshot. But she was checking the crowd.

“Someone I need to see,” she explained. “Photographer I know...apparently he’s here somewhere.” She stood on tiptoe. “Ahh...” Pushed her way into the scrum of journalists. The photographers were checking the backs of each other’s cameras, examining the digital screens to see what they’d got. Rebus waited impatiently while Siobhan talked to a wiry figure with cropped salt-and-pepper hair. At least he had an explanation now: she’d gone to the
Scotsman
only to be told that the person she needed to see was right here. The photographer took a bit of persuading, but eventually followed her back to where Rebus was standing with arms folded.

“This is Mungo,” Siobhan said.

“Would Mungo like a drink?” Rebus asked.

“I’d like that very much,” the photographer decided, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead. The gray in his hair was premature—probably wasn’t much older than Siobhan herself. He had a chiseled, weather-beaten face and an accent to match.

“Western Isles?” Rebus guessed.

“Lewis,” Mungo confirmed, as Rebus led the way to Sandy Bell’s. There was another cheer from behind them, and they turned to see a young man exiting the gates of the sheriff court.

“I think I know him,” Siobhan said quietly. “He’s the one who’s been tormenting the campsite.”

“Bit of respite last night then,” Rebus stated. “He’ll have been in the cells.” As he spoke, he realized he was rubbing his left hand with his right. When the young man gave a salute to the spectators, it was returned by several of the crowd.

Including, as a bemused Mairie Henderson watched, Councilman Gareth Tench.

12

S
andy Bell’s had only been open ten minutes, but a couple of regulars had already settled themselves at the bar.

“Just a half of Best,” Mungo said when asked what he was drinking. Siobhan wanted orange juice. Rebus decided he could tackle a pint. They sat around a table. The bar’s narrow and shadowy interior smelled of brass polish and bleach. Siobhan explained to Mungo what she wanted, and he opened his camera bag, lifting out a small white box.

“An iPod?” Siobhan guessed.

“Useful for storing pictures,” Mungo explained. He showed her how to work it, and then apologized that he hadn’t captured the whole day.

“So how many photos are on there?” Rebus asked as Siobhan demonstrated the small color screen to him, using the flywheel to flip to and fro among stills.

“A couple of hundred,” Mungo said. “I’ve weeded out the no-hopers.”

“Is it all right if I look at them now?” Siobhan asked. Mungo just shrugged. Rebus offered him the pack of cigarettes.

“Actually, I’m allergic,” the photographer warned. So Rebus took his addiction to the other end of the bar, next to the window. As he stood there, staring out onto Forrest Road, he saw Councilman Tench walking toward the Meadows, busy talking with the young man from the court. Tench was giving his constituent’s back a pat of reassurance; no sign of Mairie. Rebus finished his cigarette and returned to the table. Siobhan turned the iPod around so he could see its screen.

“My mum,” she said. Rebus took the device from her and peered at it.

“Second row back?” he said. Siobhan nodded excitedly. “Looks like she’s trying to get out.”

“Exactly.”

“Before she was hit?” Rebus was studying the faces behind the riot shields, cops with their visors down, teeth bared.

“It seems I failed to capture that particular moment,” Mungo admitted.

“She’s definitely trying to push her way back through the crowd,” Siobhan stressed. “She wanted to get away.”

“So why give her a whack across the face?” Rebus asked.

“The way it worked,” Mungo offered, enunciating each syllable, “the leaders would lash out at the police line, then retreat. Chances are, anyone left at the front would suffer the consequences. Picture desks then have to choose what to publish.”

“And it’s usually the riot cops retaliating?” Rebus guessed. He held the screen a little farther from his face. “Can’t really identify any of the police.”

“No ID on their epaulets either,” Siobhan pointed out. “All nice and anonymous. Can’t even tell which force they’re from. Some of them have letters stenciled above their visors—
XS,
for example. Could that be a code?”

Rebus shrugged. He was remembering Jacko and his pals...no insignia on display there either. Siobhan seemed to remember something and gave her watch a quick check. “I need to call the hospital.” She rose from her seat and headed outdoors.

“Another?” Rebus asked, pointing at Mungo’s glass. The photographer shook his head. “Tell me, what else are you covering this week?”

Mungo puffed out his cheeks. “Bits and pieces.”

“The VIPs?”

“Given the chance.”

“Don’t suppose you were working Friday night?”

“As a matter of fact I was.”

“That big dinner at the castle?”

Mungo nodded. “Editor fancied a pic of the foreign secretary. The ones I got were pretty feeble—that’s what happens when you aim a flash at a windshield.”

“What about Ben Webster?”

Mungo shook his head. “Didn’t even know who he was, more’s the pity—it would have been the last-ever photo of him.”

“We took a few at the morgue, if that makes you feel any better,” Rebus said. Then, as Mungo smiled a soulful smile: “I wouldn’t mind a look at the ones you did get.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“They’re not on your little machine then?”

The photographer shook his head. “That lot are on my laptop. It’s mostly just cars whizzing up Castle Hill—we weren’t allowed as far as the Esplanade.” He had a thought. “You know, they’ll have taken an official portrait at the dinner itself. You could always ask to see that, if you’re really interested.”

“I doubt they’d just hand it over.”

Mungo gave a wink. “Leave it to me,” he said. Then, as he watched Rebus drain his glass: “Funny to think it’ll be back to old clothes and porridge next week.”

Rebus smiled and wiped his thumb across his mouth. “My dad used to say that when we came back from vacation.”

“Don’t suppose Edinburgh will ever see anything like this again.”

“Not in my lifetime,” Rebus conceded.

“Think any of it will make a difference?” Rebus just shook his head. “My girlfriend gave me this book, all about 1968—the Prague spring and the Paris riots.”

Think we dropped the baton,
Rebus thought to himself. “I lived through 1968, son. Didn’t mean anything at the time.” He paused. “Or since, come to that.”

“You didn’t tune in and drop out?”

“I was in the army—short hair and an attitude.” Siobhan was returning to the table. “Any news?” he asked her.

“They’ve not found anything. She’s off to the eye pavilion for some tests, and that’s that.”

“Western’s discharged her?” Rebus watched Siobhan nod. She picked up the iPod again. “Something else I wanted to show you.” Rebus heard the wheel click. She turned the screen toward him. “See the woman at the far right? The one with the braids?”

Rebus saw. Mungo’s camera was focused on the line of riot shields, but at the top of the picture he’d caught some onlookers, most holding camera phones in front of their faces. The woman with the braids, however, was toting some sort of video.

“That’s Santal,” Siobhan stated.

“And who’s Santal when she’s at home?”

“Didn’t I tell you? She was camping next door to my mum and dad.”

“Funny sort of name...reckon she was born with it?”

“Means ‘sandalwood,’” Siobhan told him.

“Lovely-smelling soap,” Mungo added. Siobhan ignored him.

“See what she’s doing?” she asked Rebus, holding the iPod close to him.

“Same as everyone else.”

“Not exactly.” Siobhan turned the machine toward Mungo.

“They’re all pointing their phones toward the police,” he answered, nodding.

“All except Santal.” Siobhan angled the screen toward Rebus again, and rubbed the flywheel with her thumb, accessing the next photo. “See?”

Rebus saw but wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Mostly,” Mungo obliged, “they want photos of the police—useful propaganda.”

“But Santal’s photographing the protesters.”

“Meaning she might have caught your mum,” Rebus offered.

“I asked her at the campsite, she wouldn’t show me. What’s more, I saw her at that demonstration on Saturday—she was taking pictures then, too.”

“I’m not sure I get it,” Rebus admitted.

“Me neither, but it could mean a trip to Stirling.” She looked at Rebus.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because that’s where she was headed this morning.” She paused. “Think my absence will be noted?”

“Chief constable wants the Clootie Well put on ice anyway.” He reached into his pocket. “I meant to say...” Handing her the scrolled sheets. “We’ve another Clootie Well on the Black Isle.”

“It’s not really an island, you know,” Mungo piped up. “The Black Isle, I mean.”

“You’ll be telling us next it’s not black either,” Rebus scolded him.

“The soil’s supposed to be black,” Mungo conceded, “but not so you’d notice. I know the spot you’re talking about, though—we had a vacation up there last summer. Bits of rags hanging from the trees.” He screwed up his face in distaste. Siobhan had finished reading.

“You want to take a look?” she asked. Rebus shook his head.

“But someone should.”

“Even when the case is supposed to be on ice?”

“Not until tomorrow,” Rebus said. “That’s what the chief constable specified. But you’re the one he put in charge...up to you how we play it.” He leaned back in his seat, the wood creaking in protest.

“Eye pavilion’s five minutes’ walk,” Siobhan mused. “I was thinking I might head over there.”

“And a wee drive to Stirling thereafter?”

“Think I’ll pass for a hippie chick?”

“Might be problematic,” Mungo chipped in.

“I’ve got a pair of combats in the wardrobe,” Siobhan argued. Her eyes fixed on Rebus. “Means I’m leaving
you
in charge, John. Any disturbance you cause, I’ll be the one with the bruises.”

“Understood, boss,” Rebus said. “Now, whose round is it?”

But Mungo had to get to his next job, and Siobhan was heading for the hospital, leaving Rebus alone in the pub.

“One for the road,” he muttered to himself. Standing at the bar, waiting for his drink to be poured, staring at the optics, he thought again of that photo...the woman with the braids...Siobhan called her Santal, but she reminded Rebus of someone. Screen had been too small for him really to get a good look. Should have asked Mungo for a print...

“Day off?” the barman asked as he placed the pint in front of Rebus.

“Man of leisure, that’s me,” Rebus confirmed, lifting the glass to his mouth.

“Thanks for coming back in,” Rebus said. “How was court?”

“I wasn’t needed.” Ellen Wylie placed her shoulder bag and attaché case on the floor of the CID room.

“Can I fix you a coffee?”

“Got an espresso machine?”

“In here, we call it by its proper Italian name.”

“And what’s that?”

“A kettle.”

“That joke’s as weak as I suspect the coffee will be. How can I help you, John?” She eased her jacket off. Rebus was already in shirt sleeves. Summer, and the station’s heating was on. No apparent means of adjusting the radiators. Come October, they’d be lukewarm. Wylie was looking at the case notes spread across three desks.

“Am I in there?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“But I will be.” She picked up one of the Cyril Colliar mug shots, held it by its corner, as if fearing contamination of some kind.

“You didn’t tell me about Denise,” Rebus commented.

“I don’t remember you asking.”

“She had an abusive partner?”

Wylie’s face twisted. “He was a piece of work.”

“Was?”

She stared at him. “All I mean is, he’s out of our lives. You’re not going to find bits of him at Clootie Well.” A photo of the site was pinned to the wall; she studied it, angling her head. Then she turned and cast her gaze around the room. “Got your work cut out, John,” she stated.

“Some help wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Where’s Siobhan?”

“Other business.” He was looking at her meaningfully.

“Why the hell should I help you?”

Rebus shrugged. “Only one reason I can think of—you’re curious.”

“Just like you, you mean?”

He nodded. “Two killings in England, one in Scotland. I’m finding it hard to work out how he’s choosing them. They weren’t listed together on the site...didn’t know each other...crimes they committed are similar but not identical. They chose all sorts of victims...”

“All three served time, right?”

“Different jails though.”

“All the same, word travels. Ex-cons might talk to other ex-cons, pass along the name of a particular sleazeball. Sex offenders aren’t liked by other inmates.”

“It’s a point.” Rebus pretended to consider it. Really, he didn’t see it, but he wanted her thinking.

“You’ve spoken to the other police forces?” she asked.

“Not yet. I think Siobhan sent written requests.”

“Don’t you need the personal touch? See what they can tell you about Isley and Guest?”

“I’m a bit swamped, Ellen.”

Their eyes met. He could see she was hooked—for the moment.

“You really want me helping?” she asked.

“You’re not a suspect, Ellen,” he said, trying for sincerity. “And you know more about all of this than Siobhan and me.”

“How’s she going to feel about me coming on board?”

“She’ll be fine.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” She thought for a moment, then gave a sigh. “I posted one message on the site, John. I never met the Jensens...”

Rebus merely shrugged. She took a minute to make the decision. “They arrested him, you know—Denise’s—” Swallowed back the next word, couldn’t bring herself to say
partner, lover, man
. “Nothing ever came of it.”

“What you mean is, he was never jailed.”

“She’s still terrified of him,” she said quietly, “and he’s still out there.” She unbuttoned the sleeves of her blouse and started rolling them up. “Okay, tell me who I should be calling.”

He gave her numbers for Tyneside and Lancashire, then got on the phone himself. Inverness sounded disbelieving at first. “You want us to what?” Rebus could hear a hand unsuccessfully smothering the mouthpiece at the other end. “Edinburgh want us taking snaps o’ the Clootie Well. We used to go there for picnics when I was a lad...” The receiver changed hands.

“This is DS Johnson. Who am I speaking to?”

“DI Rebus, B Division in Edinburgh.”

“Thought you lot had your hands full with all the Trots and Chairman Maos.” There was laughter in the background.

“That may be so, but we also have three murders. Evidence from all three was found in Auchterarder, at a local spot known as the Clootie Well.”

“There’s only one Clootie Well, Inspector.”

“Apparently not. Might be that the one you’ve got up there also has bits of evidence draped over its branches.”

Bait the detective sergeant could not refuse. Few enough moments of excitement in the Northern Constabulary.

“Let’s start with photos of the scene,” Rebus went on. “Plenty of close-ups, and check for anything intact—jeans, jackets. We found a cash card in a pocket. Best if you can send me the photos as an e-mail. If I can’t open it, somebody here will be able to.” He looked across to Ellen Wylie. She sat on the corner of a desk, skirt straining at the thigh. She was playing with a pen as she talked into her receiver.

“Your name again?” DS Johnson was asking.

“DI Rebus. I’m based at Gayfield Square.” Rebus gave a contact number and his e-mail. He could hear Johnson writing the information down.