The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (6 page)

“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

3

R
ebus 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.