The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (12 page)

They’re doing it in easy stages: you can go in either direction for a while
...

“Pint of IPA, Harry,” Rebus said, reaching for his cigarettes.

“Eight months and counting,” Harry muttered, pulling the pump.

“Don’t remind me.”

Harry was counting the days till Scotland’s smoking ban took effect.

“Anything happening out there?” one of the regulars asked. Rebus shook his head, knowing that in the drinker’s sealed-off world, news of a serial killer wouldn’t quite qualify for the category of anything happening.

“Isn’t there some march on?” Harry added.

“Calton Hill,” one of the other drinkers confirmed. “Money this is costing, we could’ve sent every kid in Africa a picnic basket.”

“Putting Scotland on the world stage,” Harry reminded him, nodding in the direction of Charlotte Square, home to the first minister. “A price Jack says is worth every penny.”

“It’s not his money though,” the drinker grumbled. “My wife works at that new shoe shop on Frederick Street, says they might as well have shut down for the week.”

“Royal Bank’s going to be closed all tomorrow,” Harry stated.

“Aye, tomorrow’s going to be the bad one,” the drinker muttered.

“And to think,” Rebus complained, “I came in here to cheer myself up.”

Harry stared at him in mock disbelief. “Should know better than that by now, John. Ready for another?”

Rebus wasn’t sure, but he nodded anyway.

A couple of pints later, and having demolished the last sandwich on display, he decided he might as well head home. He’d read the
Evening News,
watched the Tour de France highlights on TV, and listened to further opposition to the new road layout.

“If they don’t change it back, my wife says they might as well pull down the shutters where she works. Did I tell you? She’s in that new shoe shop on Frederick Street...”

Harry was rolling his eyes as Rebus made for the door. He considered walking home, or calling Gayfield to see if anyone was out in a patrol car and could maybe pick him up. A lot of the taxis were steering clear of the center, but he knew he could take a chance outside the Roxburghe Hotel, try to look like a wealthy tourist.

He heard the doors opening but was slow to turn around. Hands grabbed at his arms, pulling them behind his back.

“Had a bit too much to drink?” a voice barked. “Night in the cells will do you good, pal.”

“Get off me!” Rebus twisted his body, to no effect. He felt the plastic restraints going around his wrists, pulled tight enough to cut off circulation. No way to loosen them once they were on: you had to slice them off.

“Hell’s going on?” Rebus was hissing. “I’m bloody CID.”

“Don’t look like CID,” the voice was telling him. “Stink of beer and cigarettes, clothes like rags...” It was an English accent; London maybe. Rebus saw a uniform, then two more. The faces shadowy—maybe tanned—but chiseled and stern. The van was small and unmarked. Its back doors were open, and they pushed him in.

“I’ve got ID in my pocket,” he said. There was a bench for him to sit on. The windows were blacked out and covered on the outside by a metal grille. There was a faint smell of sick. Another grille separated the back of the van from the front, with a sheet of plywood blocking any access.

“This is a big mistake!” Rebus yelled.

“Tell it to the marines,” a voice called back. The van started moving. Rebus saw headlights through the back window. Stood to reason: three of them couldn’t fit in the front; had to be another vehicle. Didn’t matter where they took him—Gayfield Square, West End, or St. Leonard’s—he’d be a known face. Nothing to worry about, except the swelling of his fingers as the blood failed to circulate. His shoulders were in agony, too, drawn back by the tightness of the cuffs. He had to slide his legs apart to stop himself careering around the enclosure. They were doing maybe fifty, not stopping for lights. He heard two pedestrians squeal at a near miss. No siren, but the roof light was flashing. Car behind seemed to have neither siren nor flasher. Not a patrol car then...and this wasn’t exactly a regulation vehicle either. Rebus thought they were heading east, meaning Gayfield, but then they took a sharp left toward the New Town, barreling downhill so that Rebus’s head thumped the roof as they went.

“Where the hell...?” If he’d been drunk before, he was sober now. Only destination he could think of was Fettes, but that was HQ. You didn’t take drunks there to sleep off their binge. It was where the brass hung out, James Corbyn and his cronies. Sure enough, they took a left into Ferry Road, but didn’t make the turn to Fettes.

Which left only Drylaw police station, a lonely outpost in the north of the city—Precinct Thirteen, some called it. A gloomy shed of a place, and they were pulling to a halt at its door. Rebus was hauled out and taken inside, his eyes adjusting to the sudden glare of the strip lighting. There was no one on the desk; place seemed deserted. They marched him into the back where two holding cells waited, both with their doors wide open. He felt the pressure on one hand ease, the blood tingling its way back down the fingers. A push in the back sent him stumbling into one of the cells. The door slammed shut.

“Hey!” Rebus called out. “Is this some sick kind of joke?”

“Do we look like clowns, pal? Think you’ve wandered into an episode of
Jackass
?” There was laughter from behind the door.

“Get a good night’s sleep,” another voice added, “and don’t go giving us any trouble, else we might have to come in there and administer one of our special sedatives, mightn’t we, Jacko?”

Rebus thought he could hear a hiss. Everything went quiet, and he knew why. They’d made a mistake, given him a name.

Jacko.

He tried to remember their faces, the better to exact his eventual revenge. All that came to him was that they’d been either tanned or weather-beaten. But there was no way he was going to forget those voices. Nothing unusual about the uniforms they’d been wearing...except the badges on the epaulets had been removed. No badges meant no easy means to ID them.

Rebus kicked the door a few times, then reached into his pocket for his phone.

And realized it wasn’t there. They’d taken it from him, or he’d dropped it. Still had his wallet and ID, cigarettes and lighter. He sat on the cold concrete shelf which served as a bed and looked at his wrists. The plastic cuff was still encircling his left hand. They’d sliced open the one around his right. He tried to run his free hand up and down the arm, massaging the wrist, the palm and fingers, trying to get some blood going. Maybe the lighter could burn its way through, but not without searing his flesh in the process. He lit a cigarette instead, and tried to slow his heartbeat. Walked over to the door again and banged on it with his fist, turned his back to it and hammered his heel into it.

All the times he’d visited the cells in Gayfield and St. Leonard’s,hearing these selfsame tattoos.
Thum-thum-thum-thum-thum
. Making jokes with the jailer about it.

Thum-thum-thum-thum-thum
.

The sound of hope over experience. Rebus sat down again. There was neither toilet nor basin, just a metal pail in one corner. Ancient feces smeared on the wall next to it. Messages gouged into the plaster:
Big Malky Rules; Wardie Young Team; Hearts Ya Bass
. Hard to believe, but someone with a bit of Latin had even been holed up here:
Nemo Me Impune Lacessit
. In the Scots:
Whau Daur Meddle Wi’ Me?
Modern equivalent: Screw Me and I’ll Screw You Right Back.

Rebus got to his feet again, knew now what was going on, should have realized from the word go.

Steelforth.

Easy for him to get his hands on some spare uniforms and dispatch three of his men on a mission, the same men he’d offered to Rebus earlier. They’d probably been watching as he’d left the hotel. Followed him from pub to pub until they picked their spot. The lane outside the Oxford Bar was perfect.

“Steelforth!” Rebus yelled at the door. “Come in here and talk to me! Are you a coward as well as a bully?” He pressed his ear to the door but heard nothing. The spy hole was closed. The hatch which would be opened at mealtimes was locked shut. He paced the cell, opened his cigarette packet but decided he needed to conserve supplies. Changed his mind and lit one anyway. The lighter spluttered—not much lighter fluid left...a toss-up which would run out first. Ten o’clock, his watch said. A long time till morning.

Monday, July 4, 2005

8

T
he turning of the lock woke him. The door creaked open. First off, he saw a young uniform, mouth agape in amazement. And to his left, Detective Chief Inspector James Macrae, looking irate and with his hair uncombed. Rebus checked his watch: just shy of four, which meant Monday was dawning.

“Got a blade?” he asked, mouth dry. He showed them his wrist. It was swollen, the palm and knuckles discolored. The constable produced a penknife from his pocket. “How did you get in here?” he asked, voice shaking.

“Ten o’clock last night, who was holding the fort?”

“We had a call-out,” the constable said, “locked the place before we left.”

Rebus had no reason to disbelieve the story. “How did the call-out go?”

“False alarm. I’m really sorry...why didn’t you shout or something?”

“I assume there’s nothing in the log?” The cuffs fell to the floor. Rebus started rubbing life back into his fingers.

“Nothing. And we don’t check the cells when they’re empty.”

“You knew they were empty?”

“Kept that way so we can stick any rioters in them.”

Macrae was studying Rebus’s left hand. “Need to get that seen to?”

“I’ll be fine.” Rebus grimaced. “How did you find me?”

“Text message. I’d left the phone to charge in my study. The beeping woke my wife.”

“Can I see it?”

Macrae handed over the phone. At the top of the screen was the caller’s number, and below it a capitalized message:
REBUS IN DRYLAW CELLS
. Rebus punched the Return Call option, but when connected all he got was a machine telling him the number was not in use. He handed the phone back to Macrae.

“Screen says the call was sent at midnight.”

Macrae failed to meet Rebus’s gaze. “It was a while before we heard it,” he said quietly. But then he remembered who he was, and stiffened his spine. “Care to tell me what happened here?”

“Some of the lads having a laugh,” Rebus improvised. He kept flexing his left wrist, trying not to show how much it was flaring with pain.

“Names?” asked Macrae.

“No names, no one gets in trouble, sir,” said Rebus.

“So if I were to return their little text message?”

“Number’s already been canceled, sir.”

Macrae studied Rebus. “Few drinks last night, eh?”

“A few.” He turned his attention back to the uniform. “Nobody’s left a cell at the front desk, by any chance?”

The young officer shook his head. Rebus leaned in toward him. “Something like this gets out...well, there’ll be a few laughs at my expense, but
you’ll
be the ones the joke’s really on. Cells unchecked, station left unmanned, front door unlocked...”

“The door was locked,” the constable argued.

“Still doesn’t look good for you, does it?”

Macrae patted the officer’s shoulder. “So let’s keep this to ourselves, eh? Now come on, DI Rebus, I’ll drop you home before the barricades go up again.”

Outside, Macrae paused before unlocking his Rover. “I can see why you’d want this kept quiet, but rest assured—if
I
find the culprits, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Yes, sir,” Rebus agreed. “Sorry to have been the cause.”

“Not your fault, John. Now hop in.”

They drove southward in silence through the city, dawn breaking to the east. A few delivery vans and bleary pedestrians, but little clue as to what the day might bring. Monday meant the Carnival of Full Enjoyment. The police knew it was a euphemism for trouble. This was when the Clown Army, the Wombles, and the Black Bloc were expected to make their move. They would try to shut the city down. Macrae had switched the radio to a local station, just in time to catch a news flash—an attempt to padlock the pumps at a gas station on Queensferry Road.

“The weekend was just for starters,” Macrae commented as he drew to a halt on Arden Street. “So I hope you enjoyed it.”

“Nice and relaxing, sir,” Rebus said, opening his door. “Thanks for the lift.” He patted the roof of the car and watched it drive off, then climbed the two flights, searching his pockets for his keys.

No keys.

Of course not: they were hanging from the lock on his door. He swore and opened up, withdrew the keys, and held them in a bunch in his right fist. Walked into the hall on tiptoe. No noises or lights. Padded past the kitchen and bedroom doorways. Into the living room. The Colliar case notes weren’t there, of course: he’d taken them to Siobhan’s. But the stuff Mairie Henderson had found for him—about Pennen Industries and Ben Webster, MP—was strewn about the place. He picked his cell phone up from the table. Nice of them to bring it back. He wondered how thoroughly they had scoured it for calls in and out, messages and texts. Didn’t really bother him: he deleted stuff at the end of each day. Didn’t mean it wasn’t still hidden on the chip somewhere...And they’d have the authority to ask his phone company for records. When you were SO12, you could do most things. He went into the bathroom and ran the tap. It always took a while for the water to run hot. He was going to spend a good fifteen or twenty minutes under the shower. He checked the kitchen and both bedrooms: nothing seemed out of place, which in itself also meant nothing. Filled the kettle and switched it on. Might the place be bugged? He’d no way of telling; didn’t think it was as easy these days as unscrewing the base from the telephone to find out. The paperwork on Pennen had been tossed about but not taken. Why? Because they knew it would be easy for him to get the same information again. It was all in the public domain, after all, only a mouse click or two away.

They’d left it because it was meaningless.

Because Rebus wasn’t anywhere near getting to whatever it was Steelforth was trying to protect.

And they’d left his keys in the lock, his phone in plain view, to add insult to injury. He flexed his left hand again, wondering how you could tell if you had a blood clot or thrombosis. He took the tea through to the bathroom, turned off the tap at the sink, shed his clothes, and climbed into the shower. He tried to empty his mind of the previous seventy-two hours. Started listing his desert island disks instead. Couldn’t decide which track off
Argus
to choose. He was still busy debating with himself as he got out and toweled himself dry; found himself humming “Throw Down the Sword.”

“Not on your life,” he declared to the mirror.

He was determined to get some sleep. Five restless hours curled up on a slab hardly counted. But first he had to charge his phone. Plugged it in and decided to see what messages there were. One text—same anonymous caller as Macrae.

LET’S CALL A TRUCE.

Sent barely half an hour before. Which meant two things: They knew he was home. And the out-of-service number was somehow back in play. Rebus could think of a dozen replies, but decided to switch the phone off again instead. Another mug of tea and he made for the bedroom.

Panic on the streets of Edinburgh.

Siobhan had never known the place so tense. Not during the local soccer championship, not even during Republican and Orange marches. The air was somehow heightened, as if an electric current ran through it. Not just Edinburgh either: a peace camp had been established in Stirling. There had been short, sharp outbursts of violence. Still two days to go before the G8 opened, but the protesters knew that a number of delegations had already arrived. A lot of the Americans were based at Dunblane Hydro, a short drive from Gleneagles. Some foreign journalists had found themselves much farther away in hotels in Glasgow. Japanese officials had taken over many of the rooms in the Edinburgh Sheraton, just across the road from the financial district. Siobhan’s instinct had been to use the hotel’s lot, but there was a chain across its entrance. A uniformed officer approached as she wound down her window. She showed him her ID.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he apologized in a polite English voice. “No can do. Orders from on high. Your best bet is to do a U-turn.” He pointed farther down the Western Approach Road. “There’s some idiots on the road...we’re trying to herd most of them into Canning Street. Bunch of clowns, by all accounts.”

She did as instructed, finally finding a space on a yellow line outside the Lyceum Theater. Crossed at the lights, but instead of going into the Standard Life HQ, decided to walk past it, down the concrete lanes which ran mazily through the whole area. Turned a corner into Canning Street and found herself stopped by a cordon of police, on the other side of which black-clad demonstrators mixed with figures from the big top. A bunch of clowns, quite literally. This was Siobhan’s first real sighting of the Rebel Clown Army. They wore red and purple wigs, faces painted white. Some brandished feather dusters, others waved carnations. A smiley face had been drawn on one of the riot shields. The cops were in black, too, protected by knee and elbow pads, stab-proof vests, visored helmets. One of the demonstrators had somehow scrambled up a high wall and was shaking his bared buttocks at the police below. There were windows all around, office workers peering out. Plenty of noise, but no real fury as yet. As more officers jogged into view, Siobhan retreated as far as the pedestrian bridge which crossed over the Western Approach Road. Again, the protesters were heavily outnumbered. One of them was in a wheelchair, a lion rampant attached to the back, fluttering in the breeze. Traffic heading into town was at a standstill. Whistles were being blown, but the police horses looked unfazed. As a line of officers marched beneath the footbridge, they held their shields above their heads to protect themselves.

The situation seemed under control and unlikely to change, so Siobhan headed for her final destination.

The revolving door which led to the Standard Life reception area was locked. A guard stared out at her before buzzing her in.

“Can I see your pass, miss?”

“I don’t work here.” Siobhan showed her ID instead.

He took it from her to study it. Handed it back and nodded toward the reception desk.

“Any problems?” she asked.

“Couple of goons tried to get in. One’s scaled the west side of the building. Seems to be stuck three floors up.”

“Fun for all concerned.”

“It pays the bills, miss.” He gestured once more toward the desk. “Gina there will sort you out.”

Gina did indeed sort Siobhan out. First, a visitor’s pass—“to be kept in view at all times, please”—and then a call upstairs. The waiting area was plush, with sofas and magazines, coffee, and a flat-screen TV showing some midmorning design show. A woman came striding toward Siobhan.

“Detective Sergeant Clarke? I’ll take you upstairs.”

“Mrs. Jensen?”

But the woman shook her head. “Sorry to’ve kept you waiting. As you can imagine, things are a bit fraught...”

“That’s okay. I’ve been learning which floor lamp to buy.”

The woman smiled without really comprehending and led Siobhan to the elevator. As they waited, she studied her own clothes. “We’re all in civilian clothes today,” she said, explaining the slacks and blouse.

“Good idea.”

“It’s funny seeing some of the men in jeans and T-shirts. Hardly recognizable, some of them.” She paused. “Is it the riots you’re here about?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Jensen seemed in the dark...”

“Up to me to shed some light then, isn’t it?” Siobhan replied with a smile as the elevator doors opened.

The nameplate on Dolly Jensen’s office stated that she was Dorothy Jensen but gave no indication of her job title. Had to be quite high-powered, Siobhan figured. Jensen’s assistant had knocked on the door, then retreated to her own desk. The main floor was open plan, plenty of faces peering up from their computers to study the new arrival. A few stood by the available windows, coffee mugs in hand, watching the outside world.

“Come in,” a voice called. Siobhan opened the door and closed it behind her, shook Dorothy Jensen’s hand, and was invited to take a seat.

“You know why I’m here?” Siobhan asked.

Jensen leaned back in her chair. “Tom told me all about it.”

“You’ve been busy since, haven’t you?”

Jensen scanned her desk. She was the same age as her husband. Broad-shouldered and with a masculine face. Thick black hair—the gray dyed out of it, Siobhan guessed—fell in immaculate waves to her shoulders. Around her neck hung a simple pearl necklace.

“I don’t mean here, Mrs. Jensen,” Siobhan explained, allowing the irritation to show. “I mean at home, wiping all trace of your Web site.”

“Is that a crime?”

“It’s called impeding an investigation. I’ve seen people go to court for it. Sometimes we can up the ante to criminal conspiracy, if we’re of a mind...”

Jensen took hold of a pen from her desk, twisted its barrel, opening and closing it. Siobhan was satisfied that she had breached the woman’s defenses.

“I need everything you’ve got, Mrs. Jensen—any paperwork, e-mail addresses, names. We need to clear all those people—you and your husband included—if we’re going to catch this killer.” She paused. “I know what you’re thinking—your husband told us pretty much the same—and I can appreciate you’d feel that way. But you’ve got to understand...whoever did this, they’re not going to stop. They could have downloaded everyone listed on your site, and that turns those men into victims—not so very different from Vicky.”

At mention of her daughter’s name, Jensen’s eyes burned into Siobhan’s. But they soon grew liquid. She dropped the pen and opened a drawer, bringing out a handkerchief and blowing her nose.

“I tried, you know...tried to forgive. It’s supposed to make us divine after all, isn’t it?” She forced a nervous laugh. “These men, they go to jail to be punished, but we hope they’ll change, too. The ones who don’t...what use are they? They come back to us and do the same things over and over again.”

Siobhan knew the argument well and had found herself many times on both sides of it. But she stayed silent.

“He showed no remorse, no sense of guilt, no sympathy...What kind of creature is that? Is it even human? At the trial, the defense kept on about the broken home he came from, the drugs he took. They called it a chaotic lifestyle. But it was
his
choice to destroy Vicky,
his
little power trip. Nothing chaotic about that, let me tell you.” Jensen’s voice had grown tremulous. She took a deep breath, adjusting her posture, calming by degrees. “I work in insurance. We deal with choice and risk. I do know a
little
of what I’m talking about.”