The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (15 page)

Grudge against?

Poss. victim?

Access to H...

Auchterarder—local connection?

Who’s next?

He narrowed his eyes at this last line. Interesting wording—it was the title of a Who album, another of Michael’s favorites. Home to “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” which they were using these days as the theme on one of those
CSI
shows...He felt the sudden urge to talk to someone, maybe his daughter or his ex-wife. The tug of family. He thought of Siobhan and her parents. Tried not to feel slighted that she hadn’t wanted him to meet them. She never spoke about them; he didn’t really know how much family she had.

“Because you never ask,” he chided himself. His phone beeped, telling him he had a message. Sender: Shiv. He opened it.

CN U MEET ME @ WGH

WGH meant the Western General Hospital. He hadn’t heard reports of any police injuries...no reason she’d have been in Princes Street or anywhere near.

Let me know how you got on!

He tried her number again on his way out to the lot. Nothing but the busy signal. Jumped into his car, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. It rang before he’d gone fifty yards. He grabbed at it, flipped it open.

“Siobhan?” he asked.

“What?” A female voice.

“Hello?” Gritting his teeth as he tried to steer with one hand.

“Is this...I was looking for...No, never mind.” The phone died in his hand and he threw it toward the seat next to him. It bounced once and hit the floor. He wrapped both fists around the steering wheel and hit the accelerator hard.

10

T
here were lines of cars at the Forth Road Bridge. Neither of them really minded. There was plenty to talk about; plenty of thinking to be done, too. Siobhan had told Rebus all about it. Teddy Clarke would not be budged from his wife’s bedside. Staff had said they could make up a temporary bed for him. They were planning to give Eve a scan first thing in the morning, checking for brain damage. The baton had caught her across the top half of her face: both eyes swollen and bruised, one of them closed altogether. Her nose covered with gauze: not broken. Rebus had asked, Was there any danger she could lose her sight? Maybe in one eye, Siobhan had admitted.

“After the scan, they’ll take her to the eye pavilion. Know what the hardest thing was though, John?”

“Realizing your mum’s only human?” he’d guessed.

Siobhan had shaken her head slowly. “They came and questioned her.”

“Who?”

“Police.”

“Well, that’s something.”

At which she’d laughed harshly. “They weren’t looking to find out who’d hit her. They were asking what
she’d
done.”

Yes, of course, because hadn’t she been one of the rioters? Hadn’t she been in the vanguard?

“Christ,” Rebus had muttered. “Were you there?”

“If I had been, there’d’ve been hell to pay.” And a little later, just above a whisper: “I saw it down there, John.”

“Looked hairy, judging by the TV.”

“Police overreacted.” Staring hard at him, willing him to contradict her.

“You’re angry” was all he’d said, winding down his window for the security check.

By the time they reached Glenrothes, he’d told her about his own evening, warning her that she might get an e-mail from Tornupinside. She hardly seemed to be listening. At the Fife police HQ, they had to show ID three times before they could gain entry to Operation Sorbus. Rebus had decided not to mention his night in the cells—not her problem. His left hand was back to something like normal at last. It had only taken a box of ibuprofen.

It was a control room much like any other: security-camera pictures; civilian staff at computers, headsets on; maps of central Scotland. There was a live feed from the security fence at Gleneagles, cameras posted at each watchtower. Other feeds from Edinburgh, Stirling, the Forth Bridge. And traffic video from the M9, the highway passing alongside Auchterarder.

Night shift had kicked in, which meant voices were lowered, the atmosphere muted. Quiet concentration and a lack of hurry. No brass that Rebus could see, and no Steelforth. Siobhan knew one or two faces from her visit of the week before. She went to ask her favor, leaving Rebus to cross the room at his own pace. Then he, too, spotted someone. Bobby Hogan had been promoted to DCI after a result in a South Queensferry shooting. But with the promotion had come a move to Tayside. Rebus hadn’t seen him for a year or so but recognized the wiry silver hair, the way the head sunk into the shoulders.

“Bobby,” he said, holding out a hand.

Hogan’s eyes widened. “Christ, John, tell me we’re not that desperate.” He returned Rebus’s grip.

“Don’t worry, Bobby, I’m only acting as chauffeur. How’s life treating you?”

“Can’t complain. Is that Siobhan over there?” Rebus nodded. “Why is she talking to one of my officers?”

“She’s after some surveillance footage.”

“That’s one thing we’ve no shortage of. What does she want it for?”

“A case we’re working, Bobby...suspect might have been at that riot today.”

“Needle in a haystack,” Hogan commented, creasing his forehead. He was a couple of years younger than Rebus, but had more lines on his face.

“Enjoying being DCI?” Rebus asked, trying to deflect his friend’s attention.

“You should try it sometime.”

Rebus shook his head. “Too late for me, Bobby. How’s Dundee treating you?”

“I’ve got quite the bachelor pad.”

“I thought you and Cora were getting back together?”

Hogan’s face creased further. He shook his head vigorously, letting Rebus know it was a subject best avoided.

“This is quite an ops room,” he said instead.

“Command post,” Hogan said, puffing out his chest. “We’re in contact with Edinburgh, Stirling, Gleneagles.”

“And if the shit really does hit the fan?”

“The G8 moves to our old stomping ground—Tulliallan.”

Meaning the Scottish Police College. Rebus nodded to show he was impressed.

“Direct line to Special Branch, Bobby?”

Hogan just shrugged. “End of the day, John, it’s
us
in charge, not them.”

Rebus nodded again, this time feigning agreement. “Bumped into some of them, all the same.”

“Steelforth?”

“He’s strutting around Edinburgh like he owns the place.”

“He’s a piece of work,” Hogan admitted.

“I could put it another way,” Rebus confided, “but I better not...you two might be bestest pals.”

Hogan hooted. “Fat chance.”

“See, it’s not just him.” Rebus lowered his voice. “I had a run-in with some of his men. They’re in uniform, but no badges. Unmarked car, plus a van with lights but no siren.”

“What happened?”

“I was trying to be nice, Bobby...”

“And?”

“Let’s just say I hit a wall.”

Hogan looked at him. “Literally?”

“As good as.”

Hogan nodded his understanding. “You’d like a few names to go with their faces?”

“I can’t offer much of a description,” Rebus said apologetically. “They’d been in the sun, and one of them’s called Jacko. I think they’re from the southeast.”

Hogan thought for a moment. “Let me see what I can do.”

“Only if it means
you
staying under the radar, Bobby.”

“Relax, John. I told you, this is
my
show.” He placed a hand on Rebus’s arm, as if by way of reassurance.

Rebus nodded his thanks; decided it wasn’t his job to pierce his friend’s bubble...

Siobhan had narrowed her search. She was only interested in footage from the gardens, after all, and only within a thirty-minute period. Even so, there would be over a thousand photographs to look at, and film from a dozen different viewpoints. Which still left any security-camera evidence, plus video and stills shot by protesters and onlookers.

“Then there’s the media,” she’d been told. BBC News, ITV, Channels 4 and 5, plus Sky and CNN. Not to mention photographers working for the main Scottish newspapers...

“Let’s start with what we’ve got,” she’d said.

“There’s a booth you can use.”

She’d thanked Rebus for the lift and told him he’d best get home. She’d find a ride back to Edinburgh somehow.

“You’re staying here all night?”

“Maybe it won’t come to that.” Both knowing it might. “Cafeteria’s open twenty-four/seven.”

“And your parents?”

“I’ll head there first thing.” She’d paused. “If you can spare me...”

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

“Thanks.” And she’d hugged him, not exactly sure why. Maybe just to feel human, the night stretching in front of her.

“Siobhan...Always supposing you find him, what then? He’ll say he was doing his job.”

“I’ll have proof that he wasn’t.”

“If you push it too hard...”

She’d nodded, given him a wink and a smile. Gestures she’d learned from him, used whenever he was planning on crossing the line.

A wink and a smile, and then she was gone.

Someone had painted a large anarchy symbol on the doors of the C Division police HQ in Torphichen Place. It was an old, crumbling building, with twice the atmosphere of Gayfield Square. Street sweepers were gathering debris and overtime outside. Broken glass, bricks and stones, fast-food cartons.

The desk sergeant buzzed Rebus in. Some of the Canning Street protesters had been brought here for processing. They’d spent the night in cells cleared for the purpose. Rebus didn’t like to think how many junkies and muggers were roaming the Edinburgh streets, having been ejected from their rightful lockups. The CID room was long and narrow and always had about it the faint musk of human odor, something Rebus put down to the regular presence of DC Ray “Rat-Ass” Reynolds. He was slouched there now with his feet crossed on the desk in front of him, tie undone and a can of beer in his fist. At another desk sat his boss, DI Shug Davidson. Davidson’s tie was all the way off, but he appeared to be still working, pounding with two fingers at his computer keyboard. The can of beer next to him had yet to be opened.

Reynolds didn’t bother to stifle a belch as Rebus walked into the room. “It’s the specter at the feast!” he called out in recognition. “I hear you’re about as welcome near the G8 as the Rebel Clown Army.” But he raised his can in a toast anyway.

“That cuts to the quick, Ray. Been hectic, has it?”

“We should be on bonuses.” Reynolds held up a fresh beer, but Rebus shook his head.

“Come to see where the action is?” Davidson added.

“Just need a word with Ellen,” Rebus explained, nodding in the direction of the room’s only other occupant. DS Ellen Wylie looked up from the report she was hiding behind. Her blond hair was cut short, with a center parting. She’d put on some weight since the days when Rebus had worked a couple of cases with her. Her cheeks had filled out, and were now flushed, something Reynolds could not resist referring to by rubbing his hands together and then holding them out in her direction, as though warming them at an open fire.

She was rising to her feet, but without making eye contact with the intruder. Davidson asked if it was anything he should know about. Rebus just shrugged. Wylie had lifted her jacket from the back of her chair, picked up her shoulder bag.

“I was calling it a night anyway,” she announced to the room. Reynolds gave a whistle and nudged the air with his elbow.

“What do you reckon, Shug? Nice when love blossoms between colleagues.” Laughter followed her out of the room. In the corridor, she leaned against the wall and let her head drop.

“Long day?” Rebus guessed.

“You ever tried questioning a German anarcho-syndicalist?”

“Not recently.”

“All had to be processed tonight so the courts could have them tomorrow.”

“Today,” Rebus corrected her, tapping his watch. She checked her own.

“Is that really the time?” She sounded exhausted. “I’ll be back here in six hours.”

“I’d offer to buy you a drink if the pubs were still open.”

“I don’t need a drink.”

“A lift home?”

“My car’s outside.” She thought for a moment. “No, it’s not—didn’t bring it in today.”

“Good move, considering.”

“We were warned not to.”

“Foresight is a wonderful thing. And it means I can give you that lift home after all.” Rebus waited until her eyes met his. He was smiling. “You still haven’t asked what I want.”

“I
know
what you want.” She bristled slightly, and he raised his hands in surrender.

“Easy now,” he told her. “Don’t want you getting all...”

“All what?”

Walking straight into his punch line. “Torn up inside,” he obliged.

Ellen Wylie shared a house with her divorced sister.

It was a terrace in Cramond. The back garden ended in a sheer drop to the River Almond. The night being mild, and Rebus needing to smoke, they sat at a table outside. Wylie kept her voice low—didn’t want the neighbors complaining, and besides, her sister’s bedroom window was open. She brought out mugs of milky tea.

“Nice spot,” Rebus told her. “I like that you can hear the water.”

“There’s a stream just over there.” She pointed into the darkness. “Masks the noise of the planes.”

Rebus nodded his understanding: they were directly under the flight path into Turnhouse Airport. This time of night, it had only taken them fifteen minutes from Torphichen Place. On the way, she’d told him her story.

“So I wrote something for the Web site...not against the law, is it? I was just so pissed off at the system. We bust a gut to get these animals to court, and then the lawyers do their damnedest to get their sentences whittled away to nothing.”

“Is that all it was?”

She’d shifted in the passenger seat. “What else?”

“Tornupinside—sounds like it was more personal.”

She’d stared through the windshield. “No, John, just angry...Too many hours spent on rape cases, sexual assault, domestic abuse—maybe it takes a woman to understand.”

“Which is why you phoned Siobhan back? I recognized your voice straight off.”

“Yes, that was particularly devious of you.”

“My middle name...”

Now, seated in her garden with a cold breeze blowing, Rebus buttoned his jacket and asked about the Web site. How did she find it? Did she know the Jensens? Had she ever met with them...?

“I remember the case” was all she said.

“Vicky Jensen?” She nodded slowly. “Did you work on it?”

A shake of the head. “But I’m glad he’s dead. Show me where he’s buried and I’ll dance a little jig.”

“Edward Isley and Trevor Guest are dead, too.”

“Look, John, all I did was write a bit of a blog...I was letting off steam.”

“And now three of the men listed on the site are dead. A blow to the head and a smack overdose. You’ve worked murders, Ellen...what does that MO tell you?”

“Someone with access to hard drugs.”

“Anything else?”

She thought for a moment. “You tell me.”

“Killer didn’t want a face-to-face with the victims. Maybe because they were bigger and stronger. Didn’t really want them to suffer either—a straight KO and then the injection. Doesn’t that sound like a woman to you?”

“How’s your tea, John?”

“Ellen...”

She slapped a palm against the tabletop. “If they were listed on BeastWatch, they were grade-A scumbags...don’t expect me to feel sorry for them.”

“What about catching the killer?”

“What about it?”

“You want them to get away with it?”

She was staring into the darkness again. The wind was rustling the trees nearby. “Know what we had today, John? We had a war, cut-and-dried—good guys and bad...”

Rebus’s thought:
Tell that to Siobhan
.