The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (13 page)

“Is there any paperwork, Mrs. Jensen?” Siobhan asked quietly.

“Some,” Jensen admitted. “Not very much.”

“What about e-mails? You must have corresponded with the site’s users?”

Jensen nodded slowly. “The families of victims, yes. Are they all suspects too?”

“How soon can you get everything to me?”

“Do I need to talk to my lawyer?”

“Might be an idea. Meantime, I’d like to send someone to your home. He knows about computers. If he comes to you, it saves us having to take your hard drive elsewhere.”

“All right.”

“His name’s Bain.”
Eric Bain of the pneumatic girlfriend
...Siobhan shifted in her chair and cleared her throat. “He’s a detective sergeant, like me. What time this evening would suit?”

“You look rough,” Mairie Henderson said as Rebus tried to squeeze himself into the passenger seat of her sports car.

“Restless night,” he told her. What he didn’t add was that her 10 a.m. call had woken him. “Does this thing go back any farther?”

She bent down and tugged at a lever, sending Rebus’s seat flying backward. Rebus turned to examine what space was left behind him. “Thanks for the invite, by the way.”

“In that case, you can pay for the drinks.”

“What drinks are those?”

“Our excuse for being there in the first place.” She was heading for the top of Arden Street. Left, right, and left would put her on Grange Road and only five minutes away from Prestonfield House.

Prestonfield House Hotel was one of the city’s better-kept secrets. Surrounded by 1930s bungalows and with views across to the projects of Craigmillar and Niddrie, it seemed an unpromising location for a grand house in the baronial style. Its substantial grounds—including an adjacent golf course—gave plenty of privacy. The only time the place had been in the news, to Rebus’s knowledge, was when a member of the Scottish parliament had tried setting fire to the curtains after a party.

“I meant to ask on the phone...” Rebus said to Mairie.

“What?”

“How do you know about this?”

“Contacts, John. No journalist should ever leave home without them.”

“Tell you something you’ve left at home though...the brakes on this bloody death trap.”

“It’s a road racer,” she told him. “Doesn’t sound right when you dawdle.” But she eased her foot back a little.

“Thanks,” he said. “So what’s the occasion exactly?”

“Morning coffee, then he gives his pitch, and then lunch.”

“Where exactly?”

She shrugged. “A meeting room, I suppose. Maybe the restaurant for the actual lunch.” She signaled left into the hotel driveway.

“And we are...?”

“Looking for some peace and quiet amid the madness. Plus a pot of tea for two.”

Staff were awaiting them at the front door. Mairie explained the situation. There was a room off to the left where their needs could be met, or another to the right, just past a closed door.

“Something on in there?” Mairie asked, pointing.

“Business meeting,” the employee revealed.

“Well, just so long as they’re not kicking up a fuss, we’ll be fine in here.” She entered the adjoining room. Rebus heard peacocks squawking outside on the lawn.

“Is it tea you’re wanting?” the young man asked.

“Coffee for me,” Rebus told him.

“Tea—peppermint if you’ve got it; otherwise chamomile.” The employee disappeared, and Mairie pressed her ear to the wall.

“I thought eavesdropping had gone electronic,” Rebus commented.

“If you can afford it,” Mairie whispered. She lifted her ear away. “All I can hear is muttering.”

“Stop the presses.”

She ignored him, pulled a chair over toward the doorway, making sure she’d have a view of anyone entering or leaving the meeting.

“Lunch sharpish at twelve, that’s my guess. Get them feeling good about their host.” She checked her watch.

“I brought a woman here for dinner once,” Rebus mused. “Had coffee in the library after. It’s upstairs. Walls a sort of curdled red. I think someone told me they were leather.”

“Leather wallpaper? Kinky,” Mairie said with a smile.

“By the way, I never did thank you for going straight to Cafferty with news of Cyril Colliar...” His eyes drilled into hers, and she had the good grace to allow some red to creep up her neck.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

“Nice to know that when I come to you with confidential information, you’ll feed it to the city’s biggest villain.”

“Just that once, John.”

“Once too often.”

“The Colliar killing has been gnawing away at him.”

“Just the way I like it.”

She gave a tired smile. “Just the once,” she repeated. “And please bear in mind the huge favor I’m currently doing you.”

Rebus decided not to answer, walked back out into the hall instead. The reception desk was at the far end, past the restaurant. It had changed a bit in the years since Rebus had spent half his paycheck on that meal. The drapes were heavy, the furniture exotic, tassels everywhere. A dark-skinned man in a blue silk suit tried to pass Rebus, giving a little bow.

“Morning,” Rebus said.

“Good morning,” he said crisply, coming to a stop. “Is the meeting already closing?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

The man bowed his head again. “My apologies. I thought perhaps...” But he left the sentence unfinished and walked the rest of the way to the door, tapping once before disappearing inside. Mairie had come out for a look.

“Not much of a secret knock,” Rebus informed her.

“It’s not the Masons.”

Rebus wasn’t so sure about that. What was the G8, after all, if not a very private club?

The door was opening again, two more men stepping out. They made for the driveway, stopping to light their cigarettes.

“Breaking up for lunch?” Rebus guessed. He followed Mairie back to the doorway of their own little room and watched the men filter out. Maybe twenty of them. Some looked African, others Asian and Middle Eastern. A few wore what Rebus took to be their national dress.

“Maybe Kenya, Sierra Leone, Niger...” Mairie was whispering.

“Meaning that really you’ve got no idea whatsoever?” Rebus whispered back.

“Geography was never my strong point—” She broke off and clutched his arm. A tall imposing figure was now mingling with the others, shaking hands and exchanging some words. Rebus recognized him from Mairie’s press pack. His elongated face was tanned and lined, and some brown had been added to his hair. Pinstripe suit with an inch of crisp, white shirt cuff. He had a smile for everyone, seemed to know them personally. Mairie had retreated a few steps farther into the room, but Rebus stayed in the doorway. Richard Pennen took a good photograph. In the flesh, the face was slightly scrawnier, the eyes heavy-lidded. But he did look disgustingly healthy, as though he had spent the previous weekend on a tropical beach. Assistants stood on either side of him, whispering information into his ear, making sure this part of the day, like those before and after, was without a hitch of any kind.

Suddenly, a member of the staff was blocking Rebus’s view. He bore a tray with the tea and coffee. As Rebus moved to let him pass, he saw that he’d come to Pennen’s notice.

“Your treat, I believe,” Mairie was saying. Rebus turned into the room and paid for the drinks.

“Would it be Detective Inspector Rebus?” The deep voice came from Richard Pennen. He was standing just a few feet away, still flanked by his assistants.

Mairie took a couple of steps toward him and held out her hand.

“Mairie Henderson, Mr. Pennen. Terrible tragedy at the castle the other night.”

“Terrible,” Pennen agreed.

“I believe you were there.”

“I was.”

“She’s a journalist, sir,” one of the assistants said.

“I’d never have guessed,” Pennen answered with a smile.

“Just wondering,” Mairie plowed on, “why you were paying for Mr. Webster’s hotel room.”

“I wasn’t—my company was.”

“What’s your interest in debt relief, sir?”

But Pennen’s focus was on Rebus. “I was told I might be seeing you.”

“Nice to have Commander Steelforth on your team...”

Pennen looked Rebus up and down. “His description didn’t do you justice, Inspector.”

“Still, it’s nice that he took the trouble.” Rebus could have added
because it means I’ve got him rattled
.

“You’re aware, of course, of how much flak you might get if I were to report this intrusion?”

“We’re just enjoying a cup of tea, sir,” Rebus said. “Far as I’m aware,
you’re
the one doing the intruding.”

Pennen smiled again. “Nicely put.” He turned to Mairie. “Ben Webster was a fine MP and PPS, Miss Henderson, and scrupulous with it. As you know, any gifts in kind received from my company would be listed in members’ interests.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

Pennen’s jawline twitched. He took a deep breath. “Pennen Industries does most of its business overseas—get your economics editor to fill you in. You’ll see what a major exporter we’ve become.”

“Of arms,” Mairie stated.

“Of
technology
,” Pennen countered. “What’s more, we put money back into some of the poorest nations. That’s why Ben Webster was involved.” He turned his gaze back to Rebus. “No cover-up, Inspector. Just David Steelforth doing his job. A lot of contracts could get signed during these next few days...huge projects green-lighted. Contacts made, and jobs saved as a result. Not the sort of feel-good story our media seem to be interested in. Now, if you’ll excuse me...” He turned away, and Rebus was gratified to see that there was a blob of something on the heel of one black leather brogue. No expert, Rebus would still have bet heavily on it being peacock shit.

Mairie slumped onto a sofa, which creaked beneath her, as if unused to such mistreatment.

“Bloody hell,” she said, pouring out some tea. Rebus could smell the peppermint. He poured himself some coffee from the small carafe.

“Remind me,” he said, “how much is this whole thing costing?”

“The G8?” She waited till he’d nodded, puffed out her cheeks as she tried to remember. “A hundred and fifty?”

“As in millions?”

“As in millions.”

“And all so businessmen like Mr. Pennen can keep plying their trade.”

“There might be a
bit
more to it than that.” Mairie was smiling. “But you’re right in a sense: the decisions have already been made.”

“So what’s Gleneagles all about but a few nice dinners and some handshakes for the cameras.”

“Putting Scotland on the map?” she offered.

“Aye, right.” Rebus finished his coffee. “Maybe we should stay for lunch, see if we can rile Pennen more than we already have.”

“Sure you can afford it?”

Rebus looked around him. “Which reminds me, that flunky’s not come back with my change.”

“Change?” Mairie gave a laugh. Rebus caught her meaning and decided he was going to drain the carafe to its last drop.

According to the TV news, central Edinburgh was a war zone.

Half past two on a Monday afternoon. Normally, there would have been shoppers in Princes Street, laden with purchases; people in the adjacent gardens, enjoying a promenade or resting on one of the commemorative benches.

But not today.

The newsroom cut to protests at the Faslane Naval Base, home to Britain’s four Trident-class submarines. The place was under siege from about two thousand demonstrators. Police in Fife had been handed control of the Forth Road Bridge for the first time in its history. Cars heading north were being stopped and searched. Roads out of the capital had been blocked by sit-down protests. There had been scuffles near the Peace Camp in Stirling.

And a riot was kicking off in Princes Street. Baton-wielding police making their presence felt. They carried circular shields of a kind Siobhan hadn’t seen before. The area around Canning Street was still causing trouble, marchers still bringing traffic to a halt on the Western Approach. The studio cut back to Princes Street. The protesters seemed to be outnumbered not only by police but by cameras, too. A lot of pushing on both sides.

“They’re trying to start a fight,” Eric Bain said. He’d come to Gayfield to show her what little he’d been able to find so far.

“It could have waited till after you’d seen Mrs. Jensen,” she’d told him, to which all he’d done was shrug.

They were alone in the CID office. “See what they’re doing?” Bain asked, pointing at the screen. “A rioter wades in, then backs off. The nearest cop raises his billy club, and the papers get a photo of him striking out at some poor guy who’s first in line. Meantime, the real troublemaker is tucked away somewhere behind, ready to do the same thing again.”

Siobhan nodded. “Makes it look like we’re being heavy-handed.”

“Which is what the rioters want.” He folded his arms. “They’ve learned a few tricks since Genoa.”

“But so have we,” Siobhan said. “Containment, for one thing. That’s four hours now the group in Canning Street have been corralled.”

Back in the studio, one of the presenters had a live feed to Midge Ure. He was telling the troublemakers to go home.

“Shame none of them are watching,” Bain commented.

“Are you going to speak with Mrs. Jensen?” Siobhan hinted.

“Yes, boss. How hard should I push her?”

“I’ve already warned we could set her for obstruction. Remind her of that.” Siobhan wrote the Jensens’ address on a sheet of her notebook, ripped it out, and handed it over. Bain’s attention was back on the TV screen. More live pictures from Princes Street. Some protesters had climbed onto the Scott Monument. Others scrambled over the railings into the gardens. Kicks were aimed at shields. Divots of earth were being thrown. Benches and trash cans were next.

“This is getting bad,” Bain muttered. The screen flickered. A new location: Torphichen Street, site of the city’s West End police station. Sticks and bottles were being hurled. “Glad we’re not stuck there” was all Bain said.

“No, we’re stuck here instead.”

He looked at her. “You’d rather be in the thick of things?”

She shrugged, stared at the screen. Someone was calling into the studio by cell phone, a shopper, trapped like so many others in the branch of British Home Stores on Princes Street.