The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (24 page)

“You were then questioned at a police station, Mr. Kamweze. I daresay there’s footage of
that
little expedition, too.”

“What is it you want from me?” he hissed. But he had to compose himself as the tea tray arrived, and with it some shortbread biscuits. Mairie bit into one: no breakfast this morning. The tea smelled like oven-baked seaweed, and she pushed her cup aside after the waitress had poured. The Kenyan did the same with his.

“Not thirsty?” she asked, and couldn’t help smiling.

“The detective told you,” Kamweze realized. “He, too, threatened me like this.”

“Thing is,
he
can’t prosecute. Me, on the other hand...well, unless you give me a good reason to dump a front-page exclusive...” She could see he hadn’t yet taken the bait. “A front page that will be seen around the world...How long till the press in your own country picks up the story and runs with it? How long till your government masters get to hear of it? Your neighbors, friends—”

“Enough,” he growled. His eyes were focused on the table. It was highly polished, throwing his own reflection back at him.

“Enough,” he repeated, and his tone told her he was beaten. She bit into another of the biscuits. “What do you want?”

“Not much, really,” she assured him. “Just everything you can tell me about Mr. Richard Pennen.”

“Am I to be your Deep Throat, Miss Henderson?”

“If the thought excites you,” she offered.

Thinking to herself:
But really, you’re just another dupe who got caught...another flawed civil servant
.

Another informer
...

His second funeral in a week.

He’d crawled out of the city—domino effect from earlier. At the Forth Bridge, Fife constabulary were pulling over trucks and vans, checking their potential as barricades. Once over the bridge, however, traffic was fine. He was early as a result. Drove into the center of Dundee, parked by the waterfront, and smoked a cigarette with the radio tuned to news. Funny, the English stations were on about London’s Olympic bid; hardly a mention of Edinburgh. Tony Blair was jetting back from Singapore. Rebus pondered whether he got frequent-flier miles.

The Scottish news had picked up on Mairie’s story: everyone was calling him the G8 Killer. Chief Constable James Corbyn was making no public statements on the subject; SO12 was stressing that there was no danger to the leaders gathering at Gleneagles.

Two funerals inside a week. He wondered if one reason that he was working so hard was so he wouldn’t have time to think too much about Mickey. He’d brought a CD of
Quadrophenia
with him, played some of it on the drive north, Daltrey rasping the insistent question:
Can you see the real me?
He had the photos on the passenger seat: Edinburgh Castle, dinner jackets and bow ties. Ben Webster with about two hours to live, looking no different from anyone else. But then suicides didn’t wear signs around their necks. Neither did serial killers, gangsters, bent politicians. Beneath all the official portraits was Mungo’s close-up of Santal and her camera. Rebus studied it for a moment before placing it on top. Then he started the car and headed for the funeral home.

Place was packed. Family and friends, plus representatives from all the political parties. Labor MSPs, too. The media kept their distance, huddled at the gates. Probably the office juniors, sour-faced with the knowledge that their elders and betters were busy at the G8, capturing Thursday’s headlines and front pages. Rebus hung back as the real guests were ushered indoors. Some of them had looked at him quizzically, thinking it unlikely he’d been a man with any connection to the MP, taking him for some kind of vulture, preying on the grief of strangers.

Maybe they were right at that.

A hotel in Broughty Ferry was providing refreshments afterward. “The family,” the reverend was telling the assembly, “have asked me to say that you’ll all be most welcome.” But his eyes told another story: close family and bosom friends only, please. Quite right, too: Rebus doubted any hotel in the Ferry could cope with a crowd this size.

He was seated in the back row. The reverend had asked one of Ben Webster’s colleagues to step up and say a few words. Sounded much like the eulogy at Mickey’s funeral: a good man...much missed by those who knew him, and many did...devoted to his family...well liked in the community. Rebus reckoned he’d given it long enough. There was no sign of Stacey. He hadn’t really thought much about her since that meeting outside the morgue. He guessed she’d gone back to London, or else was clearing out her brother’s home, dealing with the banks and insurers and such.

But to miss the funeral...

There had been more than a week between Mickey’s death and his cremation. And Ben Webster? Not even five full days. Could the haste be classed as indecent? Stacey Webster’s decision, or someone else’s? Outside in the parking lot, he lit another cigarette and gave it five more minutes. Then he unlocked the driver’s side and got in.

Can you see the real me
...

“Oh, yes,” he said quietly, turning the ignition.

Mayhem in Auchterarder.

The rumor had gone around that Bush’s helicopter was on its way. Siobhan had checked her watch, knowing he wasn’t due to arrive at Prestwick till midafternoon. Every chopper that came over, the crowd booed and bayed. They’d streamed down lanes and through fields, clambered over walls into people’s gardens. One aim in mind: get to the cordon. Get
past
the cordon. That would be the real victory; no matter if they were still half a mile from the actual hotel. They would be on the Gleneagles estate. They would have beaten the police. She saw a few members of the Clown Army, and two protesters dressed in plus fours and carrying golf bags: the People’s Golfing Association, whose mission was to play a hole on the hallowed championship course. She had heard American accents, Spanish voices, Germans. She had watched a huddle of black-clad, face-muffled anarchists planning their next move. An airship droning overhead, gathering surveillance...

But no Santal.

Back on Auchterarder’s main street, news had arrived that the Edinburgh contingent was being prevented from leaving the city.

“So they’re marching there instead,” someone explained gleefully. “Bullyboys are going to be stretched to breaking.”

Siobhan doubted it. All the same, she tried her parents’ cell. Her father answered, said they’d been sitting on the bus for hours and were still there.

“Promise me you won’t join any march,” Siobhan implored.

“Promise,” her father said. Then he put his wife on so Siobhan could hear the same pledge from her. As she ended the call, Siobhan suddenly felt like an utter idiot. What was she doing here when she could be with her parents? Another march meant more riot cops; could be her mother would recognize her attacker, or something might nudge a nugget of remembrance to the surface.

She cursed herself quietly, then turned and was face to face with her quarry.

“Santal,” she said. The young woman lowered her camera.

“What are you doing here?” Santal asked.

“Surprised?”

“Just a little, yes. Are your parents...?”

“They’re stranded in Edinburgh. I see your lisp’s improved.”

“What?”

“Monday in the gardens,” Siobhan went on, “you were busy with your little camera. Only thing is, you weren’t zeroing in on the cops. Why is that?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at.” But Santal glanced to the left and right, as if afraid they would be overheard.

“Reason you didn’t want to show me any of your photos is that they would tell me something.”

“Like what?” She sounded neither scared nor wary, but genuinely curious.

“They’d tell me you were interested in your fellow rabble-rousers rather than the forces of law and order.”

“So?”

“So I got to wondering why that might be. It should have come to me earlier. Everyone said so, after all—at the Niddrie camp and then again in Stirling.” Siobhan had taken a step closer, the two women nose to nose. She leaned in toward Santal’s ear. “You’re undercover,” she whispered. Then she stood back, as if admiring the young woman’s getup. “The earrings and piercings...mostly fake?” she guessed. “Temporary tattoos, and”—staring at the coils of hair—“a nicely made wig. Why you bothered with the lisp, I’ve no idea—maybe to help you retain a sense of your own identity.” She paused. “How am I doing?”

Santal just rolled her eyes. A phone was ringing, and she searched her pockets, bringing out two. The screen on one was lit up. She studied it, then stared over Siobhan’s right shoulder. “Gang’s all here,” she said. Siobhan wasn’t sure what she meant. Oldest trick in the book, but she turned and looked anyway.

John Rebus, standing there with a phone in one hand and what looked like a business card in the other.

“I’m not sure of the etiquette,” he commented, coming closer. “If I light up something that’s a hundred percent tobacco, does that make me a slave to the evil empire?” He shrugged and brought out the pack of cigarettes anyway.

“Santal here is a plant,” Siobhan explained to him.

“This just might not be the safest place to announce that fact,” Santal hissed.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Siobhan snorted.

“I think I can oblige,” Rebus said. But his eyes were on Santal. “Beyond the call of duty,” he told her, “skipping your own brother’s funeral.”

She glared at him. “You were there?”

He nodded. “I have to admit, though, I stared and stared at the photo of Santal, and it still took an age to dawn on me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

“I wanted to be there, you know.”

“What sort of excuse did you give?”

Only at this point did Siobhan butt in. “You’re Ben Webster’s sister?”

“The penny drops,” Rebus commented. “DS Clarke, meet Stacey Webster.” Rebus’s eyes were still on Stacey. “But I’m guessing we should keep calling you Santal?”

“Bit late for that now,” Stacey replied. As if on cue, a young man with a red bandanna around his forehead started toward them.

“Everything cool here?”

“Just catching up with an old friend,” Rebus warned him.

“You look like pigs to me.” His eyes shifted between Rebus and Siobhan.

“Hey, I can handle it.” Santal was back in character: the strong woman, able to fight her own battles. She stared the young man down.

“If you’re sure...” He was already retreating. As she turned back toward Rebus and Siobhan, she became Stacey again.

“You can’t stay here,” she stated. “I’m due to be relieved in an hour—we can talk then.”

“Where?”

She considered for a moment. “Inside the security fence. There’s a field behind the hotel, that’s where the drivers hang out. Wait for me there.”

Siobhan looked at the crowds surrounding them. “And how exactly do we
get
there?”

Stacey offered a sour smile. “Show some initiative.”

“I think,” Rebus explained, “she’s telling us to get ourselves arrested.”

17

I
t took Rebus a good ten minutes to push his way to the front of the throng, Siobhan tucking herself in behind him. With his body pressed to a scratched and scrawled riot shield, Rebus palmed his ID against the see-through reinforced plastic, level with the cop’s eye line.

“Get us out of here,” he mouthed. The cop wasn’t falling for it. Called out instead for his boss to decide. The red-faced officer appeared over the cop’s shoulder, recognized Siobhan straight off. She was trying to look suitably chastened.

The officer gave a sniff, then an order. The cordon of shields opened a fraction, and hands hauled at Rebus and Siobhan. The noise level rose perceptibly on the other side of the line.

“Show them your ID,” the officer ordered. Rebus and Siobhan were happy to oblige. The officer held a megaphone in front of him and let the crowd know no arrests had been made. When he identified Rebus and Siobhan as police detectives, a huge jeer went up. All the same, the situation seemed to be easing.

“I should put you on report for that little escapade,” he told Siobhan.

“We’re murder squad,” Rebus lied fluently. “There was someone we needed to talk to—what else could we do?”

The officer stared at him, but suddenly found himself with more pressing concerns. One of his men had fallen over, and the protesters were aiming to exploit this breach in the barricade. He barked out orders on his megaphone, and Rebus gestured to Siobhan that maybe they should make themselves scarce.

Van doors were opening, more cops spilling out to provide backup on the front line. A medic asked Siobhan if she was okay.

“I’m not injured,” she told him. A small helicopter was sitting on the road, rotor blades turning. Rebus got into a crouch and went to talk to the pilot, then waved Siobhan across.

“He can take us to the field.”

The pilot was nodding from behind mirrored sunglasses. “Not a problem,” he called out in an American accent. Thirty seconds later they were installed, and the machine was rising into the air, whipping up dust and litter below it. Rebus whistled a bit of Wagner—a nod to
Apocalypse Now
—but Siobhan ignored him. Hard to hear anything, which didn’t stop her asking Rebus what he’d told the pilot. She read his lips as he replied:

Murder squad.

The hotel was a mile to the south. From the sky, it was easy to make out the security fence and the watchtowers. Thousands of acres of deserted hillside, and pockets of demonstrators being corralled by black uniforms.

“I’m not allowed to go near the hotel itself,” the pilot was yelling. “A missile would have us down if I did.”

He sounded serious, and he took a wide arc around the hotel’s security fence. There were lots of temporary structures, probably to shelter the world’s media. Satellite dishes on the tops of anonymous-looking vans. Television, or maybe the secret service. Rebus could make out a track that led from a large white canopy toward the security fence. The field had been reduced to stubble, and someone had spray-painted a giant letter
H
to let the chopper know where to land. Their flight had taken only a couple of minutes. Rebus shook the pilot’s hand and jumped out, Siobhan following.

“My day for traveling in style,” she mused. “A motorbike brought me up the A9.”

“Siege mentality,” Rebus explained. “This week, it’s us and them as far as this lot are concerned.”

There was a soldier approaching, dressed in combat fatigues and toting a submachine gun. He looked far from pleased at their arrival. Both showed their ID, but this was not enough for the soldier. Rebus noted that there was no insignia on his uniform, nothing to identify his nationality, or which branch of the armed services he belonged to. He insisted on taking their badges from them.

“Wait right there,” he ordered, pointing to where they were standing. As he turned away, Rebus did a little soft-shoe shuffle and gave Siobhan a wink. The soldier had disappeared into a huge trailer. Another armed soldier guarded its door.

“I get the feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Rebus offered.

“Does that make me Toto?”

“Let’s see what’s over there,” Rebus suggested, heading for the canopy. Its roof was a fixed structure of plastic sections, held up by a series of poles. Beneath it sat rows of limousines. Liveried drivers shared cigarettes and stories. Strangest of all, a chef, dressed in white jacket and checkered trousers, and with a toque perched on his head, was cooking what appeared to be omelets. He stood behind a sort of platform, a large red bottle of cooking gas by his side. The food was being dished out on proper plates, with silver cutlery. Tables had been set up for the drivers’ use.

“I heard about this when I was up here with the DCI,” Siobhan said. “Hotel staff are using a back route into the compound, leaving their vehicles in the next field over.”

“I’m assuming they’ve all been vetted,” Rebus said, “which is what’s happening to us right now.” He glanced toward the trailer, then nodded a greeting to one group of drivers. “Omelets all right, lads?” he asked, receiving replies in the affirmative. The chef was awaiting fresh orders.

“One with everything,” Rebus told him, turning toward Siobhan.

“Same,” she said.

The chef got busy with his little plastic containers of cubed ham, sliced mushrooms, chopped peppers. Rebus picked up a knife and fork while he was waiting.

“Bit of a change for you,” he said to the chef. The man just smiled. “All modern conveniences though,” Rebus went on, sounding impressed. “Chemical toilets, hot food, a bit of shelter for when it rains...”

“Half the cars have got TVs,” one of the drivers informed him. “Signal’s not up to much, mind...”

“It’s a hard life,” Rebus commiserated. “Ever allowed inside the trailers?”

The drivers shook their heads. “They’re chock-full of gizmos,” one man offered. “I caught a glimpse. Computers and stuff.”

“That aerial on the roof probably isn’t for
Coronation Street
then,” Rebus said, pointing. The drivers laughed just as a door opened and the soldier reappeared. He seemed nonplussed that Rebus and Siobhan were no longer where he’d left them. As he marched toward them, Rebus accepted his omelet from the chef and scooped up a mouthful. He was praising the food as the soldier halted in front of him.

“Want some?” Rebus offered, holding out his fork.

“It’s an earful you’ll be getting,” the soldier countered. Rebus turned toward Siobhan.

“Pretty good comeback,” she told him, taking her own plate from the chef.

“DS Clarke is an expert,” Rebus informed the soldier. “We’ll just finish our grub, then hop into one of the Mercedes to watch
Columbo
...”

“I’m keeping hold of your badges,” the soldier said. “For verification purposes.”

“Looks like we’re stuck here then.”

“Which channel’s
Columbo
on?” one of the drivers asked. “I like that program.”

“It’ll be in the TV pages,” a colleague offered.

The soldier’s head jerked upward, chin jutting as he watched a heli copter approaching. It was low and deafening. The soldier stepped out from under the canopy to get a better view.

“You have got to be kidding,” Rebus said as the man stiffly saluted the underside of the machine.

“Does it every time,” one of the drivers yelled. Another asked if it might be Bush arriving. Watches were checked. The chef was covering his ingredients, in case flying debris from the downdraft landed in them.

“He’s due around now,” someone surmised.

“I brought Boki in from Prestwick,” another added, going on to explain that this was the name of the president’s dog.

The helicopter had disappeared over a line of trees. They could hear it coming in to land.

“What do the wives do,” Siobhan asked, “while the menfolk are arm wrestling?”

“We can take them on a scenic tour.”

“Or shopping.”

“Or museums and galleries.”

“Whatever they want, that’s what they get. Even if it means shutting roads or clearing the public out of a shop. But they’re also ferrying in some arty types from Edinburgh—writers and painters—to pass the time.”

“And Bono, of course,” another driver added. “Him and Geldof are doing their glad-handing bit later today.”

“Speaking of which...” Siobhan glanced at the time on her cell. “I’ve got the offer of a Final Push ticket.”

“Who from?” Rebus asked, knowing she’d had no luck in the public draw.

“One of the guards in Niddrie. Think we’ll be home in time?”

He just shrugged. “Oh,” he said, “something I meant to tell you.”

“What?”

“I’ve co-opted Ellen Wylie onto the team.”

Siobhan’s look became a glare.

“She knows more about BeastWatch than we do,” Rebus plowed on, failing to make eye contact.

“Yes,” Siobhan said, “a damned sight
too
much.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning she’s too close to it, John. Think what a defense lawyer would do to her in court!” Siobhan was failing to keep her voice down. “You didn’t think to ask me? I’m the one whose head’s on the block if this all falls apart!”

“She’s just doing admin,” Rebus said, knowing himself how pathetic this sounded. He was saved by the soldier, striding back toward them.

“I need you to state your business,” the man announced crisply.

“Well, I’m in the CID business,” Rebus replied, “as is my colleague here. We’ve been told to meet someone, and this is where it’s hap pening.”

“Which person? Whose orders?”

Rebus tapped the side of his nose. “Hush-hush,” he said in an under tone. The drivers had returned to their own conversation, debating which stars they might be chauffeuring to the Scottish Open on Saturday.

“Not me,” one of them boasted. “I’m doing the run between Glasgow and T in the Park.”

“You’re based in Edinburgh, Inspector,” the soldier was saying. “This is way out of your jurisdiction.”

“We’re investigating a murder,” Rebus hit back.

“Three murders, actually,” Siobhan corrected him.

“And that means no boundaries,” Rebus concluded.

“Except,” the soldier countered, rising onto his toes, “you’ve been ordered to put your inquiry on ice.” He seemed to like the effect his words had on Siobhan in particular.

“Okay, so you made a phone call,” Rebus told him, not about to be impressed.

“Your chief constable wasn’t very happy.” The soldier was smiling with his eyes. “And neither was he...” Rebus followed the line of his eyes. A Land Rover was bumping its way toward them. The passenger-side window was wide open, Steelforth’s head leaning out from it as though he was straining at some leash.

“Oh, crap,” Siobhan muttered.

“Chin up,” Rebus advised her, “shoulders back.” He was rewarded with another withering look.

The car had screeched to a halt, Steelforth spilling out. “Do you know,” he was yelling, “how many months of training and preparation, weeks of deep cover surveillance...do you know how much of that you’ve just blown to smithereens?”

“Not sure I follow you,” Rebus answered blithely, handing his empty plate back to the chef.

“I think he means Santal,” Siobhan said.

Steelforth glared at her. “Of course I do!”

“She’s one of yours?” Rebus asked, then he nodded to himself. “Stands to reason. Send her to the campsite at Niddrie, get her taking photos of all those protesters. Compiling a nice little portfolio for future use...So valuable to you, in fact, that you couldn’t even spare her for her own brother’s funeral.”

“
Her
decision, Rebus,” Steelforth snapped.

“Two o’clock,
Columbo
started,” one of the drivers said.

Steelforth was not to be deflected. “A surveillance operation like that, oftentimes they hardly get off the ground before the cover’s blown.
Months
she’d been in place.”

Rebus picked up on that use of the past tense, and Steelforth confirmed it with a nod.

“How many people,” he asked, “do you think saw you with her today? How many clocked you as CID? Either they’ll start to mistrust her, or they’ll feed her garbage in the hope that we’ll bite.”

“If she’d trusted us in the first place—” Siobhan was cut off by a harsh burst of laughter from Steelforth.

“
Trusted
you?” He laughed again, leaning forward with the effort. “My God, that’s a good one.”

“Should have been here earlier,” Siobhan told him. “Our soldier friend’s comeback was better.”

“And by the way,” Rebus said, “I wanted to thank you for putting me in a cell overnight.”

“I can’t help it if officers decide to use their own initiative, or if your own boss won’t answer a phone call.”

“They were real cops then?” Rebus asked. Steelforth rested his hands on his waist, elbows jutting. He stared at the ground, then back up at Rebus and Siobhan.

“You’ll be put on suspension, of course.”

“We don’t work for you.”

“This week,
everyone
works for me.” He turned his attention to Siobhan. “And you won’t be seeing DS Webster again.”

“She has evidence—”

“Evidence of what? That your mother got hit by a baton during a riot? It’s up to
her
if she wants to make a complaint—have you even asked her?”

“I...” Siobhan hesitated.

“No, you just tore off on this little crusade. DS Webster’s being sent back home—your fault, not mine.”

“Speaking of evidence,” Rebus said, “whatever happened to those security-camera tapes?”

Steelforth frowned. “Tapes?” he echoed.

“The operations room at Edinburgh Castle...cameras trained on the ramparts...”

“We’ve been through this a dozen times,” Steelforth growled. “Nobody saw
anything
.”

“So it’s okay for me to watch the tapes?”

“If you can find any, be my guest.”

“They’ve been wiped?” Rebus guessed. Steelforth didn’t bother replying. “This suspension of ours,” Rebus went on, “you forgot to add ‘pending an inquiry.’ I’m guessing that’s because there won’t be one.”