The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (17 page)

There was a single-decker bus idling next to the pavement, its driver busy with his newspaper. A few campers passed Siobhan on their way out to it, knapsacks bulging. They gave sleepy smiles. Bobby Greig was watching them leave. Siobhan looked around and saw that others were busy dismantling their tents.

“Saturday was our busiest night,” Greig explained. “Each day since has been a bit quieter.”

“You didn’t have to turn people away then?”

His mouth twitched. “Facilities for fifteen thousand, and only two could be bothered to show.” He paused. “Your ‘friends’ didn’t come home last night.” The way he said it let her know he’d worked something out.

“My parents,” she confirmed.

“And why didn’t you want me to know that?”

“I’m not sure, Bobby. Maybe I didn’t think a cop’s mum and dad would be safe here.”

“So they’re staying with you?”

She shook her head. “One of the riot police cracked my mum across her face. She spent the night in a hospital bed.”

“Sorry to hear that. Anything I can do?”

She shook her head again. “Any more trouble with the locals?”

“Another standoff last night.”

“Persistent little jerks, aren’t they?”

“Councilman happened by again and made the truce.”

“Tench?”

Greig nodded. “He was showing a bigwig around. Some urban regeneration thing.”

“Area could use it. What sort of bigwig?”

Greig shrugged. “Government.” He ran his fingers over his shaved head. “This place’ll be dead soon. Good riddance to it.”

Siobhan didn’t ask if he meant the camp or Niddrie itself. She turned and made for her parents’ tent. Unzipped the flap and looked inside. Everything was intact, but with a few additions. It looked as if those who were moving out had decided to leave gifts of leftover food, candles, and water.

“Where are they?”

Siobhan recognized Santal’s voice. She backed out of the tent and straightened up. Santal, too, was toting a knapsack and holding a bottle of water.

“Heading out?” Siobhan asked.

“Bus to Stirling. I wanted to say good-bye.”

“You’re off to the Peace Camp?” Siobhan watched Santal’s braids flex as she nodded. “Were you at Princes Street yesterday?”

“Last time I saw your parents. What’s happened to them?”

“Someone belted my mum. She’s in the hospital.”

“Christ, that’s hellish...Was it...” She paused. “One of your lot?”

“One of my lot,” Siobhan echoed. “And I want him caught. Lucky you’re still here.”

“Why?”

“Did you get any film? I thought maybe I could look at it.”

But Santal was shaking her head.

“Don’t worry,” Siobhan assured her, “I’m not looking to...It’s the uniforms I’m interested in, not the demonstration itself.” But Santal kept shaking her head.

“I didn’t have my camera.” A bald lie.

“Come on, Santal. Surely you want to help.”

“Plenty of others taking photos.” She gestured around the camp with an outstretched arm. “Ask them.”

“I’m asking you.”

“The bus is leaving...” She pushed her way past Siobhan.

“Any message for my mum?” Siobhan called after her. “Shall I bring them to see you at the Peace Camp?” But the figure kept moving. Siobhan cursed under her breath. Should have known better: to Santal she was still a pig, the filth, the cops. Still the enemy. She found herself standing beside Bobby Greig as the bus filled, its door closing with a hiss of air. The sound of communal singing came from inside. A few of the passengers waved out at Greig. He waved back.

“Not a bad bunch,” he observed to Siobhan, offering her a piece of gum, “for hippies, I mean.” Then he slid his hands into his pockets. “Got a ticket for tomorrow night?”

“Failed in the attempt,” she admitted.

“My firm’s doing security...”

She stared at him. “You’ve got a spare?”

“Not exactly, but I’ll be there, meaning you could be ‘plus one.’”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Not a date or anything...offer’s there if you want it.”

“It’s very generous, Bobby.”

“Up to you.” He was looking everywhere but at her.

“Can I take your number, let you know tomorrow?”

“Thinking something better might come up?”

She shook her head. “
Work
might come up,” she corrected him.

“Everyone’s allowed a night off, DS Clarke.”

“Call me Siobhan,” she insisted.

“Where are you?” Rebus asked into the cell.

“On my way to the
Scotsman
.”

“What’s at the
Scotsman
?”

“More photos.”

“Your phone’s been switched off.”

“I needed to charge it.”

“Well, I’ve just been taking a statement from Tornupinside.”

“Who?”

“I told you yesterday...” But then he remembered that she’d had other things on her mind. So he explained again about the blog and how he’d sent a message, and Ellen Wylie had called back...

“Whoa, back up,” Siobhan said. “
Our
Ellen Wylie?”

“Wrote a long and angry piece for BeastWatch.”

“But why?”

“Because the system’s letting the sisterhood down,” Rebus answered.

“Are those her exact words?”

“I’ve got them on tape. Of course, the one thing I don’t have is corroboration, since there was no one around to assist with the interview.”

“Sorry about that. So is Ellen a suspect?”

“Listen to the tape, then you can tell me.” Rebus looked around the CID room. The windows needed a clean, but what was the point when all they looked down on was the rear parking lot? A lick of paint would cheer up the walls, but soon be covered by scene-of-crime photos and victim details.

“Maybe it’s because of her sister,” Siobhan was saying.

“What?”

“Ellen’s sister Denise.”

“What about her?”

“She moved in with Ellen a year or so back...maybe a bit less actually. Left her partner.”

“So?”

“Her
abusive
partner. That was the story I heard. They lived in Glasgow. Police were called in a few times but never got a charge to stick. Had to get a restraint order on him, I think.”

Came to live with me after she...after the divorce
. Suddenly, the “bug” Ellen had swallowed made sense.

“I didn’t know,” Rebus said quietly.

“No, well...”

“Well what?”

“It’s the sort of thing women talk to other women about.”

“But not to men, is that what you’re saying? And
we’re
the ones who’re supposed to be sexist.” Rebus rubbed his free hand over the back of his neck. The skin felt tight. “So Denise goes to live with Ellen, and next thing Ellen’s on the Net, looking for sites like BeastWatch...”

And staying in at night with her sister, overeating, drinking too much...

“Maybe I could talk to them,” Siobhan suggested.

“Haven’t you enough on your plate? How is your mum anyway?”

“She’s having a scan. I was planning to go see her next.”

“Then do it. I’m assuming you didn’t get anything from Glenrothes?”

“Nothing but a sore back.”

“There’s another call coming in. I better go. Can we meet up later?”

“Sure thing.”

“Because the chief constable stopped by.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“But it can wait.” Rebus pushed the button to pick up the next caller. “DI Rebus,” he stated.

“I’m at the courts,” Mairie Henderson said. “Come see what I’ve got for you.” There were hoots and cheers in the background. “Got to go,” she said.

Rebus headed downstairs and hitched a lift in a patrol car. Neither uniform had been involved in yesterday’s running battles.

“Backup,” they explained gloomily. “Sat on a bus for four hours listening to it on the radio. You giving evidence, Inspector?”

Rebus said nothing until the car turned into Chambers Street. “Drop me here,” he ordered.

“You’re welcome,” the driver informed him in a growl, but only after Rebus had climbed out.

The patrol car did a screeching U-turn, drawing the attention of the media positioned outside the sheriff court. Rebus stood across the street, lighting a cigarette next to the steps of the Royal Scottish Museum. Another protester was leaving the court building to cheers and whoops from his comrades. His fist punched the air as they slapped him on the back, press photographers capturing the moment.

“How many?” Rebus asked, aware that Mairie Henderson was standing next to him, notebook and tape recorder in hand.

“About twenty so far. Some of them have been farmed out to other courts.”

“Any quotes I should be looking out for tomorrow?”

“How about ‘Smash the system’?” She glanced at her notes. “Or ‘Show me a capitalist and I’ll show you a bloodsucker’?”

“Seems like a fair swap.”

“It’s Malcolm X, apparently.” She flipped her notebook shut. “They’re all being issued restraining orders. Can’t go anywhere near Gleneagles, Auchterarder, Stirling, central Edinburgh—” She paused. “Nice touch though: one guy said he had a ticket for T in the Park this weekend, so the judge said he could go to Kinross.”

“Siobhan’s going to that,” Rebus said. “Be nice to have the Colliar inquiry wrapped up in time.”

“In which case this may not be good news.”

“What is it, Mairie?”

“The Clootie Well. I got a friend at the paper to do some background.”

“And?”

“And there are others.”

“How many?”

“At least one in Scotland. It’s on the Black Isle.”

“North of Inverness?”

She nodded. “Follow me,” she said, turning and heading for the museum’s main door. Inside she took a right, into the Museum of Scotland. The place was busy with families—school holidays, kids with too much energy. The smaller ones were squealing and bouncing on their toes.

“What are we doing here?” Rebus asked. But Mairie was already at the elevators. They got off and climbed some stairs. Through the windows, Rebus had a great view down onto the sheriff court. But Mairie was leading him into the farthest corner of the building. “I’ve been here before,” Rebus told her.

“The section on death and belief,” she explained.

“There are some wee coffins with dolls inside...”

This was the very display she stopped at, and Rebus realized there was an old black-and-white photograph behind the glass.

A photo of the Black Isle’s Clootie Well.

“Locals have been hanging bits of cloth there for centuries. I’ve got my friend widening the search to England and Wales, on the off-chance. Think it’s worth a look?”

“Black Isle’s got to be a two-hour drive,” Rebus mused, eyes still on the photo. The scraps of material looked almost batlike, clinging to thin, bare branches. Next to the photo sat witches’ casting sticks, bits of bone protruding from hollowed pebbles. Death and belief...

“More like three, this time of year,” Mairie was telling him. “All those RVs to get past.”

Rebus nodded. The A9 north of Perth was notoriously slow. “Might just get the locals to take a look. Thanks, Mairie.”

“I got these from the Net.” She handed over a few sheets, detailing the history of the Clootie Well near Fortrose. There were grainy photographs—including a copy of the one on display—which showed it to be almost identical to its namesake in Auchterarder.

“Thanks again.” He rolled the sheets up and put them in his jacket pocket. “Did your editor take the bait?” They started retracing their steps to the elevator.

“Depends. A riot tonight might see us relegated to page five.”

“A gamble worth taking.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me, John?”

“I’ve given you a scoop—what else do you want?”

“I want to know you’re not just using me.” She pushed the elevator button.

“Would I do a thing like that?”

“Of course you bloody well would.” They were quiet all the way back out to the steps. Mairie watched the action across the street. Another protester, another clenched-fist salute. “You’ve kept the lid on this since Friday. Aren’t you scared the killer will go deep cover once he sees it in the paper?”

“Can’t get any deeper than he is right now.” He looked at her. “Besides, all we had on Friday was Cyril Colliar. It was Cafferty gave us the rest.”

Her face hardened. “Cafferty?”

“You told him the patch from Colliar’s jacket had turned up. He paid me a visit. Went away with the other two names and came back with the news they were dead.”

“You’ve been using Cafferty?” She sounded incredulous.

“Without him telling
you,
Mairie—that’s what I’m getting at. Try trading with him, you’ll find it’s all one-way traffic. Everything I’ve given you on the killings, he had it first. But he wasn’t going to tell you.”

“You seem to be under some sort of misapprehension that the two of us are close.”

“Close enough for you to go straight to him with the news about Colliar.”

“That was a promise of long standing—any new developments, he wanted to know. Don’t think I’m about to apologize.” Her eyes narrowed and she pointed across the street. “What’s Gareth Tench doing here?”

“The councilman, you mean?” Rebus followed the path of her finger. “Preaching to the heathen, maybe,” he offered, watching as Tench shuffled along crablike behind the line of photographers. “Maybe he wants you to do another interview.”

“How did you know about...? I suppose Siobhan told you.”

“No secrets between Siobhan and me.” Rebus gave a wink.

“So where is she now?”

“She’s down at the
Scotsman
.”

“My eyes must be deceiving me then.” Mairie was pointing again. Sure enough, it was Siobhan, and Tench had stopped right in front of her, the two of them exchanging a handshake. “No secrets between you two, eh?”

But Rebus was already on his way. This end of the street had been closed to traffic, easy enough to cross.

“Hiya,” he said. “Sudden change of mind?”

Siobhan gave a little smile and introduced him to Tench.

“Inspector,” the councilman said with a bow of his head.

“You’re a fan of street theater, Councilman Tench?”

“I don’t mind it at festival time,” Tench said with a chuckle.