The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (9 page)

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
some
thing 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.

SIDE TWO

Dance with the Devil

Sunday, July 3, 2005

6

S
o how was The Who?” Siobhan asked. It was late morning on Sunday, and she’d invited Rebus over for brunch. His contribution: a packet of sausages and four floury rolls. She’d put them to one side and made scrambled eggs instead, topping each helping with slices of smoked salmon and a few capers.

“The Who was good,” Rebus said, using his fork to maneuver the capers to the side of his plate.

“You should try one,” she admonished him. He wrinkled his nose and ignored the advice.

“Floyd was good, too,” he told her. “No major fallings-out.” They were facing each other across the small foldaway table in her living room. She lived in a tenement just off Broughton Street, five minutes’ walk from Gayfield Square. “What about you?” he asked, looking around the room. “No signs of Saturday-night debauchery.”

“Chance would be a fine thing.” Her smile grew thoughtful, and she told him about Niddrie.

“Lucky to get out in one piece,” Rebus commented.

“Your friend Mairie was there, writing a piece on Councilman Tench. She said something about some notes she’d sent you...”

“Richard Pennen and Ben Webster,” he confirmed.

“So are you getting anywhere?”

“Onward and upward, Shiv. I also tried phoning a few Guests and Keoghs—with nothing to show for it. Might as well have been chasing a few hoods around the houses.” He’d cleared his plate—capers aside—and was leaning back in his chair. Wanted a cigarette but knew he should wait till she’d finished eating. “Oh, and I had an interesting encounter myself, as it happens.”

So he told her about Cafferty, and by the time he was done her plate was empty.

“He’s the last thing we need,” she said, rising to her feet. Rebus made the beginnings of an offer to clear the table, but she nodded toward the window instead. Smiling, he made his way over and eased it open. Cool air wafted in and he crouched down, lighting up. Made sure to direct the smoke through the gap; held the cigarette out of the window between puffs.

Siobhan’s rules.

“More coffee?” she called.

“Keep it coming,” he answered.

She came in from the kitchen carrying a fresh pot. “There’s another march later on,” she said. “Stop the War Coalition.”

“Bit late for all that, I’d have thought.”

“And the G8 Alternatives...George Galloway’s going to be speaking.”

Rebus gave a snort, stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill. Siobhan had wiped clean the table, lifted one of the boxes onto it. The boxes she’d asked Rebus to bring.

The Cyril Colliar case.

The offer of double pay—sanctioned by James Corbyn—had persuaded the Scene of Crime Unit to put a team together. They were on their way to the Clootie Well. Siobhan had warned them to keep a low profile: “Don’t want local CID getting sniffy.” Advised that SOCOs from Stirling had covered the same area two days before, one of the Edinburgh team had given a chuckle.

“Time we let the grown-ups try it then” was all he’d said.

Siobhan wasn’t hopeful. All the same, on Friday all they’d been doing was bagging evidence of one crime. Now, the signs pointed to two more. It was worth a bit of sifting and lifting.

She started unloading files and folders from the boxes. “You’ve been through this lot already?” she asked.

Rebus slid the window closed. “And all I learned was that Colliar was a big bad bastard. Chances are, he had more enemies than friends.”

“And the odds of him falling prey to a random killing?”

“Slim—we both know that.”

“And yet that appears to be what happened.”

Rebus held up a finger. “We’re reading a lot into a couple of items of clothing, owners unknown.”

“I tried Trevor Guest with Missing Persons.”

“And?”

She shook her head. “Not on any local register.” She tossed an emptied box onto the sofa. “It’s a Sunday morning in July, John...not a hell of a lot we can do before tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Guest’s bank card?”

“It’s HSBC. They’ve only one branch in Edinburgh—precious few in Scotland as a whole.”

“Is that good or bad?”

She gave a sigh. “I got through to one of their call centers. They told me to try the branch on Monday morning.”

“Isn’t there some sort of branch code on the card?”

Siobhan nodded. “Not the sort of information they give out over the phone.”

Rebus sat down at the table. “Keogh’s Garage?”

“Information did what they could. No listing on the Web.”

“The name’s Irish.”

“There are a dozen Keoghs in the phone book.”

He looked at her and smiled. “So you checked too?”

“Soon as I’d sent the SOCOs off.”

“You’ve been busy.” Rebus opened one of the folders; nothing in it he hadn’t seen before.

“Ray Duff’s promised me he’ll go to the lab today.”

“He has his eyes on the prize.”

She gave him a hard look before emptying the final box. The amount of paperwork caused her shoulders to slump.

“Day of rest, eh?” Rebus said. A phone started ringing.

“Yours,” Siobhan said. He went over to the sofa, lifted the cell from his jacket’s inside pocket.

“Rebus,” he announced. Listened for a moment, face darkening. “That’s because I’m not there...” Listening again. “No, I’ll meet you. Where is it you need to be?” Glancing at his watch. “Forty minutes?” Eyes on Siobhan. “I’ll be there.”

He snapped the phone shut.

“Cafferty?” she guessed.

“How did you know?”

“He does something to you...your voice, your face. What does he want?”

“He went to my flat. Says there’s something I need to see. No way I was letting him come here.”

“Much appreciated.”

“He’s got some land deal going on, needs to get to the site.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Rebus knew there was no way to refuse.

Queen Street...Charlotte Square...Lothian Road. Rebus’s Saab, Siobhan the wary passenger, gripping the doorsill with her left hand. They’d been stopped at barriers, made to show ID to various uniforms. Reinforcements were on their way into the city: Sunday was when the big exodus of officers north was due to happen. Siobhan had learned as much during her two days with Macrae, passed the info along to Rebus.

As they waited at lights on Lothian Road, they saw people standing outside the Usher Hall.

“The alternative summit,” Siobhan said. “That’s where Bianca Jagger’s due to speak.”

Rebus just rolled his eyes. In return, she smacked a fist into the side of his thigh.

“Did you
see
the march on TV? Two hundred thousand!”

“Nice day out for all concerned,” Rebus commented. “Doesn’t change the world
I’m
living in.” He looked at her. “What about Niddrie last night? Have the ripples from all those positive vibes managed to stretch that far?”

“There were only a dozen of them, John, against two thousand in the camp.”

“I know which side my money’d be on...”

After which they sat in silence until reaching Fountainbridge.

Once an area of breweries and factories where Sean Connery had spent his early years, Fountainbridge was changing. The old industries had all but vanished. The city’s financial district was encroaching. Style bars were opening. One of Rebus’s favorite old watering holes had already been demolished, and he reckoned the bingo hall next door—the Palais de Danse as was—would soon follow. The canal, not much more than an open sewer at one time, had been cleaned up. Families would go there for bike rides or to feed the swans. Not far from the CineWorld complex stood the locked gates of one mothballed brewery. Rebus stopped the car and sounded his horn. A young man in a suit appeared from behind the wall and released the padlock, swinging one half of the gate open, just enough to squeeze the Saab through.

“You’re Mr. Rebus?” he asked through the driver’s-side window.

“That’s right.”

The young man waited to see if Rebus was about to introduce Siobhan. Then he gave a nervous smile and handed over a brochure. Rebus glanced at it before passing it on.

“You’re a real estate agent?”

“I work for Bishops Solicitors, Mr. Rebus. Commercial property. Let me give you my card...” He was reaching into his jacket.

“Where’s Cafferty?”

The tone of voice made the young man more nervous still. “Parked around the side.”

Rebus didn’t wait to hear more.

“He obviously thinks you’re one of Cafferty’s team,” Siobhan said. “And from the line of sweat on his top lip, I’d say he knows who Cafferty is.”

“Whatever he thinks, it’s good news he’s here.”

“Why?”

Rebus turned to her. “Makes it less likely we’re walking into a trap.”

Cafferty’s car was a dark blue Bentley GT. He was standing over it, pressing a plan of the site against the hood so it wouldn’t blow away.

“Here, take a corner, will you?” he said. Siobhan obliged. Cafferty gave her a smile. “DS Clarke. A pleasure as ever. Promotion can’t be too far off, eh? Especially when the chief constable’s trusting you with something this big.”

Siobhan glanced toward Rebus, who shook his head, letting her know he wasn’t Cafferty’s source.

“CID leaks like a sieve” was Cafferty’s explanation. “Always has, always will.”

“What do you want with this place?” Siobhan couldn’t help asking.

Cafferty slapped a hand against the unruly sheet of paper. “Land, DS Clarke. We don’t always realize how precious it is in Edinburgh. You’ve got the Firth of Forth to the north, North Sea to the east, and the Pentland Hills to the south. Developers are scrabbling about for projects, putting pressure on the council to free up the Green Belt. And here’s a twenty-acre plot only five minutes’ walk from the financial district.”

“So what would you do with it?”

“Apart,” Rebus interrupted, “from burying a few bodies in the foundations.”

Cafferty decided to laugh at this. “That book made me a bit of money. Need to invest it somehow.”

“Mairie Henderson thinks your share went to charity,” Rebus said.

Cafferty ignored him. “Did you read it, DS Clarke?”

She hesitated, giving Cafferty his answer. “Like it?” he asked.

“Don’t really remember.”

“They’re thinking of turning it into a film. The early chapters, at any rate.” He lifted the plan and folded it, tossed it onto the Bentley’s backseat. “I’m not sure about this place.” He turned his attention to Rebus. “You mentioned bodies, and that’s what I get a sense of. All the people who used to work here, all of them gone, and Scottish industry along with them. A lot of my family were miners—I’ll bet you didn’t know that.” He paused. “You’re from Fife, Rebus. I’m betting you grew up surrounded by coal.” He paused. “I was sorry to hear about your brother.”

“Sympathy from the devil,” Rebus said. “That’s all I need.”

“A killer with a social conscience,” Siobhan added in an undertone.

“I wouldn’t be the first...” Cafferty’s voice drifted off. He rubbed a finger along the underside of his nose. “In fact, maybe that’s what’s landed on your plate.” He reached into the car again, opening the glove box this time. Drew out some rolled-up sheets of paper and made to hand them to Siobhan.

“Tell me what they are,” she asked, hands on hips.

“They’re your case, DS Clarke. Proof that we’re dealing with a bad bastard. A bad bastard who likes other bad bastards.”

She took the papers but didn’t look at them. “
We’re
dealing with?” Quoting his own words back at him.

Cafferty’s attention turned to Rebus. “Doesn’t she know that’s the deal?”

“There was never a deal,” Rebus stated.

“Like it or not, I’m on your side in this one.” Cafferty’s eyes were on Siobhan again. “These papers cost me some substantial favors. If they help you catch him, I’ll accept that. But I’ll be hunting him, too...with you or without you.”

“Then why help us?”

Cafferty’s mouth twitched. “Makes the race that bit more exciting.” He held open the back door of the Bentley. “Bags of space in the rear...make yourselves at home.”

Rebus joined Siobhan on the backseat, while Cafferty sat in the front. Both detectives were aware of Cafferty’s gaze. He wanted them to be impressed.

Rebus, for one, was finding it hard not to give anything away. He wasn’t just impressed; he was amazed.

Keogh’s Garage was in Carlisle. One of the mechanics, Edward Isley, had been found murdered three months back, his body dumped on waste ground just outside the city. A blow to the head and a toxic injection of heroin. The body had been naked from the waist up. No witnesses, no clues, no suspects.

Siobhan met Rebus’s eyes.

“Does he have a brother?” Rebus asked.

“Some obscure musical reference?” she guessed.

“Read on, Macduff,” Cafferty said.

The notes were just that, culled from police records. Those same police records went on to report that Isley had been in employment only a little over a month, having been released from a six-year prison stretch for rape and sexual assault. Both Isley’s victims had been prostitutes: one picked up in Penrith and the other farther south in Lancaster. They worked the M6 motorway, catering to truck drivers. It was believed there might be other victims out there, scared either of testifying or of being identified.

“How did you get these?” The question burst from Rebus. It caused Cafferty to chuckle. “Networks are wonderful things, Rebus—you should know that.”

“Plenty of palms greased along the way, no doubt.”

“Christ, John,” Siobhan was hissing, “look at this.”

Rebus started reading again. Trevor Guest. The notes started with bank details and a home address—in Newcastle. Guest had been unemployed ever since being released from a three-year term for aggravated burglary and an assault on a man outside a pub. During one break-in, he’d attempted to sexually assault a teenage babysitter.

“Another piece of work,” Rebus muttered.

“Who went the same way as the others.” Siobhan traced the relevant words with her index finger. Body found dumped by the shore at Tynemouth, just east of Newcastle. Head smashed in, lethal dose of heroin. The killing had happened two months back.