The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (29 page)

“I left message after message after message,” Rosie was saying, “and then thought maybe you weren’t getting them.”

“No signal,” Anderson growled, tapping his phone. “This is the inspector.”

Rebus had risen to his feet, offering Anderson’s secretary his chair. She shook her head, avoiding eye contact.

“The inspector,” she was telling the MP, “is currently under suspension, pending an inquiry into his conduct.” Now her eyes met Rebus’s. “I made a couple of calls...”

One of Anderson’s substantial eyebrows had lifted.

“I did say I was off-duty,” Rebus reminded him.

“I’m not sure it was
quite
as cut-and-dried as that. Ah...the appetizers.” Two waiters were hovering, one with smoked salmon, the other with a bowl of orange-colored soup. “You’ll be leaving now, Inspector.” It was statement rather than request.

“Ben Webster deserves a bit of consideration, don’t you think?”

The MP ignored this, unfolding his napkin. But his secretary had no such qualms.

“Get out!” she snarled.

Rebus nodded slowly, and half turned before remembering something. “Pavements round my way are in a shocking state,” he told his MP. “Maybe you could spare the time to visit your constituency once in a while.”

“Jump in,” the voice ordered. Rebus turned and saw that Siobhan had parked in front of his tenement.

“Car looks good,” he told her.

“Just as well, the money your friendly mechanic charged.”

“I was just headed upstairs...”

“Change of plan. I need you to come with me.” She paused. “You okay?”

“Had a couple of drinks earlier. Did something I probably shouldn’t.”

“Now there’s a novelty.” But she still managed to look aghast when he told her about his trip to the restaurant.

“Another lecture in store, no doubt” went his closing words.

“You don’t say.” Siobhan closed her own door as Rebus got into the passenger seat.

“What about you?” he asked. So she told him about her parents and the contents of Stacey Webster’s camera. Reached into the backseat and handed him the evidence.

“So now we go talk to the councilman?” Rebus guessed.

“That was the plan. Why are you smiling?”

He pretended to be studying the pictures. “Your mum says she’s not bothered who whacked her...Nobody seems worried about Ben Webster’s death...And yet here we both are.” He lifted his face toward her and gave a tired smile.

“It’s what we do,” she replied quietly.

“My point exactly. No matter what anyone thinks or says. I just worry that you’ve learned all the wrong lessons from me.”

“Credit me with a bit of sense,” she chided him, putting the car into gear.

Councilman Gareth Tench lived in a sizable Victorian villa on Duddingston Park. It was a main road, but its houses were set back far enough to give them some privacy. Not five minutes’ drive from Niddrie, yet it was another world: respectable, middle class, quiet. There was a golf course to the rear of the properties, and Portobello Beach was within striking distance. Siobhan had taken a route along Niddrie’s main road, so they could see that the campsite was disappearing fast.

“Want to drop in on your boyfriend?” Rebus teased.

“Maybe you should stay in the car,” she retorted, “let me talk to Tench.”

“I’m as sober as a judge,” Rebus argued. “Well...getting there anyway.” They’d stopped at a garage on Ratcliffe Terrace so he could buy Irn-Bru and Tylenol.

“Inventor deserves the Nobel Prize,” Rebus had stated, without specifying which product he was referring to.

There were two cars parked in Tench’s forecourt. The whole front garden had been paved to make room for them. Lights blazed in the living room.

“Good cop, bad cop?” Rebus suggested as Siobhan rang the doorbell. She rewarded him with the beginnings of a smile. The door was opened by a woman.

“Mrs. Tench?” Siobhan asked, holding up her ID. “Any chance of a word with your husband?”

Then Tench’s voice from inside the house: “Who is it, Louisa?”

“Police, Gareth,” she bellowed back, retreating a little by way of invitation. They didn’t need asking twice, and were in the living room by the time Tench trudged downstairs. The fittings weren’t to Rebus’s taste: sashed velvet drapes; brass lamps fixed to the walls on either side of the fireplace; two oversize sofas taking up much of the floor space. Oversize and brassy seemed to describe Louisa Tench, too. She wore dangling earrings and a clatter of bracelets. The tan had come from a bottle or salon, as had the piled auburn hair. A little too much blue eye shadow and pink lipstick. He counted five carriage clocks in the room and decided that nothing here had been chosen by the councilman.

“Evening, sir,” Siobhan said as Tench walked into the room. He rolled his eyes heavenward in reply.

“Don’t they ever let up, Lord? Should I sue for harassment?”

“Before you do that, Mr. Tench,” Siobhan went on calmly, “maybe you could look at this photo.” She handed it to him. “You recognize your constituent, of course?”

“He’s the same one you hooked up with outside the court,” Rebus added helpfully. “And by the way...Denise says hello.”

Tench glanced fearfully toward his wife. She was back in her chair, staring at the TV with its sound muted. “What about these photos then?” he said, louder than was strictly necessary.

“You’ll notice that he’s attacking that woman with a wooden stick,” Siobhan continued. Rebus was watching carefully—and listening, too. “In this next photo, he’s trying to melt back into the crowd. But you’ll agree that he’d just attacked an innocent bystander.”

Tench looked skeptical, eyes flitting between one photo and the other. “Digital, aren’t they?” he pointed out. “Easy enough to manipulate.”

“It’s not the photos that are being manipulated here, Mr. Tench,” Rebus thought it his duty to state.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We want his name,” Siobhan said. “We can get it tomorrow morning from the court, but we’d prefer to get it from you.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why’s that then?”

“Because we’d—” Siobhan paused. “Because
I’d
like to know what the connection is. Twice at the campsite, you just happened along to save the day”—she stabbed a finger at one photo—“from
him
. Next thing you’re waiting for him when he comes out of police custody. And now this.”

“He’s just another kid from the wrong part of town,” Tench said, keeping his voice down but emphasizing each word. “Wrong parents, wrong school, wrong choices at every fork in the road. But he lives on
my
turf and that means I look out for him, same as I would do for any other poor bloody kid in his position. If that’s a crime, DS Clarke, then I’m ready to go into the dock and argue my case.” A fleck of saliva escaped his mouth and hit Siobhan on the cheek. She brushed it away with the tip of a finger.

“His name,” she repeated.

“He’s already
been
charged...”

Louisa Tench was back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, her eyes on the muted television.

“Gareth,” she said,
“Emmerdale.”

“Don’t want your wife missing her soap, do you, Mr. Tench?” Rebus added. The opening titles were already on-screen. She had the remote in her hand, finger poised above the volume button. Three pairs of eyes boring into Gareth Tench, and Rebus mouthing the name
Denise
again...

“Carberry,” Tench said. “Keith Carberry.”

Music burst suddenly from the TV. Tench slid his hands into his pockets, stalked out of the room. Rebus and Siobhan waited a few moments, then said their good-byes to the woman who was tucking her legs beneath her on the chair. She ignored them, lost in a world of her own. The front door was ajar, Tench waiting for them outside, arms folded, feet apart.

“A smear campaign’s not going to do anyone any good,” he told them.

“Just doing our job, sir.”

“I grew up near a farm, DS Clarke,” he said. “I know bullshit when I smell it.”

Siobhan looked him up and down. “And I know a clown when I see one, even out of costume.” She walked toward the pavement, Rebus pausing in front of Tench, leaning forward toward his ear.

“The woman your boy smacked is her mother. That means this never ends, understood? Not until we get a result we’re happy with.” Leaned back again and nodded, reinforcing the message. “Wife doesn’t know about Denise then?” he added.

“That’s how you connected me to Ozyman,” Tench guessed. “Ellen Wylie told you.”

“Not very clever of you, Councilman, playing away from home. This is more a village than a city, bound to come out sooner or—”

“Christ, Rebus, it wasn’t like that!” Tench hissed.

“Not for me to say, sir.”

“And now I suppose you’ll go tell your employer? Well, let him do what he likes—I’m not about to bow down to his kind...or yours.” Tench gave a look of defiance. Rebus stood his ground a moment longer, then gave a smile and followed Siobhan back to the car.

“Special dispensation?” he asked, once he’d fastened his seat belt. She looked across, saw that he was waving a cigarette pack.

“Keep the window open,” she ordered. Rebus lit the cigarette and blew smoke into the evening sky. They’d only gone forty yards when a car pulled out in front of them, then braked, blocking half the road.

“Hell’s this?” Rebus hissed.

“Bentley,” Siobhan told him. Sure enough, as the brake lights dimmed, Cafferty emerged from the driver’s side, walking purposefully toward them, leaning down so his head was framed by Rebus’s open window.

“You’re a ways from home,” Rebus advised him.

“So are you. A wee visit to Gareth Tench, eh? I hope he’s not trying to buy you off.”

“He thinks you’re paying us five hundred a week,” Rebus drawled. “Made a counteroffer of two grand.” He blew smoke into Cafferty’s face.

“I’ve just bought a pub in Portobello,” Cafferty said, wafting his hands in front of him. “Come and have a drink.”

“Last thing I need,” Rebus told him.

“A soft drink then.”

“What is it you want?” Siobhan said. Her hands still gripped the steering wheel.

“Is it just me,” Cafferty asked Rebus, “or is she toughening up?” Suddenly, he reached a hand through the window, snatching one of the photos from Rebus’s lap. Took a couple of steps back into the road, holding it close to his face. Siobhan was out of the car in an instant, marching toward him.

“I’m not in the mood for this, Cafferty.”

“Ah,” he was saying, “I
did
hear something about your mother...And I recognize
this
little bastard.”

Siobhan stopped dead, hand caught in midgrab for the photo.

“Name’s Kevin or Keith,” Cafferty went on.

“Keith Carberry,” she told him. Rebus was getting out of the car, too, by now. He could see that Cafferty had snared her.

“Nothing to do with you,” Rebus warned him.

“Of course not,” Cafferty agreed. “I can understand it’s personal. Just wondered if I could help, that’s all.”

“Help how?” Siobhan asked.

“Don’t listen to him,” Rebus warned. But Cafferty’s gaze had her transfixed.

“Any way I can,” he said quietly. “Keith works for Tench, doesn’t he? Wouldn’t it be better to bring down both of them, rather than just the messenger?”

“Tench wasn’t in Princes Street Gardens.”

“And young Keith doesn’t have the sense he was born with,” Cafferty countered. “Tends to make lads like him
suggestible
.”

“Christ, Siobhan,” Rebus pleaded, gripping her by the arm. “He wants Tench taken down. Doesn’t matter to him how it happens.” He wagged a finger at Cafferty. “She’s not part of this.”

“I was only offering...” Cafferty held up his hands in surrender.

“What’s with the stakeout anyway? Got a baseball bat and a shovel in the Bentley?”

Cafferty ignored him, gave Siobhan back the photograph. “Pound to a penny, Keith’s playing pool at that place in Restalrig. Only one way to find out...”

Her eyes were on the photo. When he said her name, she blinked a couple of times and focused on him instead. Then she shook her head.

“Later,” she said.

He gave a shrug. “Whenever you like.”

“You won’t be there,” she declared.

He tried to look hurt. “Hardly fair after everything I’ve told you.”

“You won’t
be
there,” she repeated. Cafferty turned his attention to Rebus.

“Did I say she was toughening up? Might have been an understatement.”

“Might have been,” Rebus agreed.

21

H
e’d been steeping in a bath for twenty minutes when the intercom buzzed. Decided to ignore it, then heard his cell ringing. Whoever it was left a message—the phone beeped afterward to let him know. When Siobhan had dropped him, he’d warned her to go straight home, get some rest.

“Shit,” he said, realizing that she might be in trouble. Got out of the bath and wrapped a towel around himself, leaving wet footprints as he padded into the living room. But the message wasn’t from Siobhan. It was Ellen Wylie. She was outside in her car.

“Never been so popular with the ladies,” he muttered, punching the call-back button. “Give me five minutes,” he told her. Then he went and changed back into his clothes. The intercom sounded again. He let her in and waited at the door, listening to the sand paper sound of her shoes as she climbed the two flights of stone steps.

“Ellen, always a pleasure,” he said.

“I’m sorry, John. We were all down at the pub, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“The bombings?”

She shook her head. “Your case,” she clarified. They were in the living room by now. She walked across to where the paperwork lay; saw the wall and moved toward it, scanning the pictures pinned there. “I’ve spent half the day reading about all these monsters...reading what their victims’ families think of them, and then having to alert those same bastards that there might be someone out for revenge.”

“It was still the right thing to do, Ellen. Time like this, we need to feel we’re doing
some
thing.”

“Say they were bombers instead of rapists...”

“What’s the point in that?” he asked, waiting until she’d given an answering shrug. Then: “Anything to drink?”

“Maybe some tea.” She half turned toward him. “This is okay, isn’t it? Me barging in like this?”

“Glad of the company,” he lied, heading for the kitchen.

When he came back with the two mugs, she was seated at the dining table, poring over the first pile of paperwork. “How’s Denise?” he asked.

“She’s fine.”

“Tell me, Ellen—” He paused until he was sure she was giving him her attention. “Did you know Tench is married?”

“Separated,” she corrected him.

Rebus pursed his lips. “Not by much,” he added. “They live in the same house.”

She didn’t blink. “Why are all men bastards, John? Present company excepted, naturally.”

“Makes me wonder about him,” Rebus went on. “Why is he so interested in Denise?”

“She’s not
that
bad a catch.”

Rebus conceded the point with a twitch of the mouth. “All the same, I suspect the councilman is attracted to victims. Some men are, aren’t they?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I’m not sure, really...just trying to work out what makes him tick.”

“Why?”

Rebus snorted. “Another bloody good question.”

“You think he’s a suspect?”

“How many do we have?”

She offered a shrug. “Eric Bain has managed to pull some names and details from the subscription list. My guess is, they’ll turn out to be the families of victims, or professionals working in the field.”

“Which camp does Tench fall into?”

“Neither. Does
that
make him a suspect?”

Rebus was standing next to her, staring down at the case notes. “We need a profile of the killer. All we know so far is that he doesn’t confront the victims.”

“Yet he left Trevor Guest in a hell of a state—cuts, scratches, bruises. Also left us Guest’s cash card, meaning we had his name straightaway.”

“You’re calling that an anomaly?”

She nodded. “But then you could just as easily say Cyril Colliar is the anomaly, being the only Scot.”

Rebus stared at a photograph of Trevor Guest’s face. “Guest spent time up here,” he said. “Hackman told me as much.”

“Do we know where?”

Rebus shook his head slowly. “Must be in the files somewhere.”

“Any chance that the third victim had some Scottish connection?”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“Maybe that’s the key. Instead of concentrating on BeastWatch, we should be thinking more about the three victims.”

“You sound ready to get started.”

She looked at him. “I’m too wired to sleep. How about you? I could always take some stuff away with me...?”

Rebus shook his head again. “You’re fine where you are.” He picked up a handful of reports and headed over to his chair, switching on a floor lamp behind him before settling down. “Won’t Denise worry where you are?”

“I’ll text her, say I’m working late.”

“Best not to mention where...don’t want any gossip.”

She smiled. “No,” she agreed, “we certainly wouldn’t want that. Speaking of which, should we let Siobhan know?”

“Know what?”

“She’s in charge of the case, isn’t she?”

“I keep forgetting,” Rebus replied casually, going back to his reading.

It was almost midnight when he woke up. Ellen was tiptoeing back from the kitchen with a fresh mug of tea.

“Sorry,” she apologized.

“I dozed off,” he said.

“Well over an hour ago.” She was blowing across the surface of the liquid.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Nothing to report. Why don’t you go to bed?”

“Leaving you plugging away on your own?” He stretched his arms out, feeling his spine crackle. “I’ll be fine.”

“You look exhausted.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.” He’d risen to his feet and was walking toward the table. “How far have you got?”

“Can’t find any connection between Edward Isley and Scotland—no family, no jobs, and no vacations. I began to wonder if we were going at it from the wrong end.”

“How do you mean?”

“Maybe it was Colliar who had connections with the north of England.”

“Good point.”

“But that doesn’t seem to be panning out either.”

“Maybe you need to take a break.”

She hoisted the mug. “What does this look like?”

“I meant something more substantial.”

She was rolling her shoulders. “Haven’t got a Jacuzzi or a masseur on the premises by any chance?” She saw the look on his face. “I’m joking,” she reassured him. “Something tells me you’re not an expert at back rubs. Besides—” But she broke off, lifting the mug to her face.

“Besides what?” he asked.

She lowered the mug again. “Well, you and Siobhan...”

“...are colleagues,” he stated. “Colleagues
and
friends. Nothing more than that, despite the rumor mill.”

“Stories
have
gone around,” she admitted.

“And that’s what they are—stories. Meaning fiction.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time though, would it? I mean, you and DCS Templer.”

“Gill Templer was years back, Ellen.”

“I’m not saying she wasn’t.” She stared into space. “This job we do...how many do you know manage to keep a relationship together?”

“There are a few. Shug Davidson’s been married twenty years.”

She conceded the point. “But you, me, Siobhan...dozens more I could name.”

“Comes with the territory, Ellen.”

“All these other lives we get to know...” She wafted a hand over the case files. “And we’re useless at finding one for ourselves.” She looked at him. “There’s really nothing between you and Siobhan?”

He shook his head. “So don’t go thinking you can somehow drive a wedge between us.”

She tried to look outraged by the suggestion but struggled for words.

“You’re flirting,” he told her. “Only reason I can think of for that is so you can wind Siobhan up.”

“Jesus Christ...” She slammed the mug down on the table, splashing the paperwork spread out there. “Of all the arrogant, misguided, thickheaded—” She was rising from her chair.

“Look, if I’m wrong I apologize. It’s the middle of the night—maybe we both need some shut-eye.”

“A thank-you would be nice,” she demanded.

“For what?”

“For slogging while you were snoring! For helping you out when it could cost me a tongue-lashing! For
everything!
”

Rebus stood, seemingly dazed, for another moment before opening his mouth and uttering the two words she wanted to hear.

“Thank you.”

“And fuck you, too, John,” she retorted, picking up her coat and bag. He stood back to give her room as she walked out, listened to the door slam behind her. Took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the tea-stained paperwork.

“No real damage,” he said to himself. “No real damage...”

“Thanks for this,” Morris Gerald Cafferty said, holding open the passenger-side door. Siobhan paused for a moment, then decided to get in.

“We’re just talking,” she warned him.

“Absolutely.” He closed her door gently and walked around to the driver’s side. “It’s been a hell of a day, hasn’t it?” he said. “There was a bomb scare on Princes Street.”

“We don’t move from here,” she decreed, ignoring him.

He closed his own door and half turned toward her. “We could have talked upstairs.”

She shook her head. “No way you’re crossing
that
threshold.”

Cafferty accepted the slur on his character. He peered out at her tenement. “Thought you’d be living somewhere better by now.”

“Suits me fine,” she snapped back. “Though I wouldn’t mind knowing how you found me.”

He gave a warm smile. “I have friends,” he told her. “One phone call, job done.”

“Yet you can’t manage the same trick with Gareth Tench? One call to a professional and he’s never heard of again...”

“I don’t want him dead.” He sought the right phrase. “Just brought low.”

“As in humiliated? Cowed? Scared?”

“I think it’s time people saw him for what he is.” He leaned over a little closer. “
You
know what he is now. But in focusing on Keith Carberry, you’ll be missing a clear shot at the goal.” He gave another smile. “I speak as one soccer fan to another, even if we’re on opposite sides in our choices.”

“We’re on opposite sides in
everything
, Cafferty—never think otherwise.”

He bowed his head slightly. “You even sound like him, you know.”

“Who?”

“Rebus, of course. You both share the same hostile attitude—think you know better than anyone, think you
are
better than anyone.”

“Wow, a counseling session.”

“See? There you go again. It’s almost as if Rebus is working the strings.” He chuckled. “Time you became your own woman, Siobhan. And it has to happen before Rebus gets the gold watch...meaning soon.” He paused. “No time like the present.”

“Advice from you is the last thing I need.”

“I’m not offering advice—I’m offering to
help
. Between us we can bring Tench down.”

“You made John the same offer, didn’t you? That night at the church hall? I’m betting he said no.”

“He wanted to say yes.”

“But he didn’t.”

“Rebus and me have been enemies too long, Siobhan. We’ve almost forgotten what started it. But you and me, we’ve not got that history.”

“You’re a gangster, Mr. Cafferty. Any help from you, I
become
like you.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “what you do is, you put away the people responsible for that attack on your mother. If all you’ve got to work from is that photo, you’re not going to get further than Keith Carberry.”

“And you’re offering so much more?” she guessed. “Like one of those shysters on the shopping channels?”

“Now that’s cruel,” he chided her.

“Cruel but fair,” she corrected him. She was staring out through the windshield. A taxi was dropping a drunk-looking couple at their door. As it moved away, they hugged and kissed, almost losing their balance on the pavement. “What about a scandal?” she suggested. “Something that would put the councilman on the front of the tabloids?”

“Anything in mind?”

“Tench plays away from home,” she told him. “Wife sitting in front of the TV while he visits his girlfriends.”

“How do you know this?”

“There’s a colleague of mine, Ellen Wylie...her sister’s—”
But if news broke, it wouldn’t just be Tench on the front pages...it would be Denise, too
. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Forget that.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid
...

“Why?”

“Because we’d be hurting a woman whose skin’s more fragile than most.”

“Then consider it forgotten.”

She turned to face him. “So tell me, what
would
you do if you were me? How would you get to Gareth Tench?”

“Through young Keith, of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the starlit world.

Mairie was relishing the chase.

This wasn’t features; wasn’t some puff piece for a pal of the editor, or interview-as-marketing-tool for an overhyped film or book. It was an investigation. It was why she’d gone into journalism in the first place.

Even the dead ends were thrilling, and so far she’d taken plenty of wrong turns. But now she’d been put in touch with a journalist down in London—another freelancer. The two of them had danced around each other during their first telephone conversation. Her London connection was attached to a TV project, a documentary about Iraq.
My Baghdad Laundrette,
it was going to be called. At first, he wouldn’t tell her why. But then she’d mentioned her Kenyan contact, and the man in London had melted a little.

And she’d allowed herself a smile: if there was any dancing to be done,
she’d
be the one doing the leading.

Baghdad Laundrette
because of all the money washing around Iraq in general, and its capital in particular. Billions—maybe tens of billions of U.S.-backed dollars—had gone into reconstruction. And much of it could not be accounted for. Suitcases of cash used for the bribing of local officials. Palms greased to ensure that elections would go ahead no matter what. American companies moving into the emerging market “with extreme prejudice,” according to her new friend. Money sloshing around, the various sides in the conflict needing to feel safe in these uncertain times...