The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (31 page)

“Glad someone finds my life such a source of fun,” Rebus muttered.

“So how many anarchists did you thump?”

Rebus shook his head. “I just kept sticking my nose in where it wasn’t wanted.”

“Like I say, John—a man after my own heart. By the way, I haven’t thanked you properly for introducing me to the Nook.”

“Glad to be of service.”

“Did you end up bedding the pole dancer?”

“No.”

“Tell you what, she was the best of a mediocre bunch. I didn’t even bother with the VIP booth...” His eyes glazed over for a moment, lost to memories, then he blinked and shook himself back to the present. “So now that you’ve been red-carded, what do I do? Offer you the info I’ve gleaned, or stick it in the pending pile?”

Rebus took a sip from his glass—fresh orange. Hackman had already seen off half his lager. “We’re just two combatants having a chat,” Rebus told him.

“That we are.” The Englishman nodded thoughtfully. “And sharing a final drink before I’m off.”

“You’re shipping out?”

“Later today,” he confirmed. “I won’t say it hasn’t been fun.”

“Come back another time,” Rebus offered, “I’ll show you the rest of the sights.”

“Well, that just about finalizes the deal.” He slid a little farther forward on his chair. “Remember I told you Trevor Guest spent some time up here? Well, I asked one of the lads back at base to dust off the archives.” He reached into his pocket for a notebook, and opened it at a page of jottings. “Trevor was in the Borders for a bit, but he spent more time right here in Edinburgh.” He jabbed the tabletop with a fingertip. “Had a room in Craigmillar and helped out at a day center—they can’t have been doing background checks back then.”

“A day center for adults?”

“Old people. He wheeled them from shit house to dinner table. At least, that’s what he told us.”

“He had a criminal record by then?”

“Couple of burglaries...class-A possession...roughed up a girlfriend but she wouldn’t take it to court. Means two of your victims have a local connection.”

“Yes,” Rebus agreed. “How far back are we talking?”

“Four, five years.”

“Can you give me a minute, Stan?” He got up and walked into the parking lot, took out his cell, and called Mairie Henderson.

“It’s John,” he told her.

“About bloody time. Why’s everything gone quiet on the Clootie Well case? My editor’s nagging me stupid.”

“I’ve just discovered that the second victim spent some time in Edinburgh. Worked in a day center in Craigmillar. I’m wondering if he got himself into any trouble while he was here.”

“Don’t the police have computers to tell them things like that?”

“I prefer to use good old-fashioned contacts.”

“I can do a search of the database, maybe ask our court guy if he knows anything. Joe Cowrie’s been doing the job for decades—and he remembers every bloody case.”

“Just as well—this may go back five years. Call me with whatever you get.”

“You think the killer could be right here under our noses?”

“I wouldn’t go telling your editor; might have to dash his hopes at a later date.” Rebus ended the call and went back inside. Hackman had settled down with a fresh pint. He nodded toward Rebus’s glass.

“I wouldn’t insult you by offering to buy another of those.”

“I’m fine,” Rebus assured him. “Thanks for taking a bit of trouble with this.” He tapped the open notebook.

“Anything for a fellow officer in his hour of need.” Hackman toasted him with the glass.

“Speaking of which, what’s the mood like at Pollock?”

Hackman’s face hardened. “Last night was grim. Lot of the Met lads were on their phones nonstop. Others had already shipped out. I know we all hate the place, but when I saw those Londoners on the TV, determined to keep going no matter what...”

Rebus nodded agreement.

“Bit like yourself, eh, John?” He laughed again. “I can see it in your face—you’re not about to give up just because they’re out to nail you.”

Rebus took a moment to consider his response, then asked Hackman if he happened to have an address for the day center in Craigmillar.

It wasn’t much more than a five-minute drive from the Crags.

On the way, Rebus took a call from Mairie, who was drawing blanks on Trevor Guest’s time in Edinburgh. If Joe Cowrie didn’t remember him, he hadn’t ended up in court. Rebus thanked her anyway and promised she still had first refusal on anything he dug up. Hackman had gone back to Pollock to begin packing. They’d parted with a handshake and a reminder from Hackman about Rebus’s “promised tour of the fleshpots beyond the Nook.”

“You have my word,” Rebus had told him, neither man really believing it would ever happen.

The day center was next door to an industrial factory. Rebus could smell diesel fumes and something like burning rubber. Gulls were on the scrounge, cackling overhead. The center itself was an extended bungalow with a sun trap added. Through the windows, he could see old people listening to accordion music.

“Ten years from now, John,” he muttered to himself. “And that’s if you’re lucky.”

The very efficient secretary was called Mrs. Eadie—no first name offered. But although Trevor had only worked a couple of hours a week, and then only for a month or so, she still had his paperwork in the filing cabinet. No, she couldn’t show it to him—right to privacy and so on. If he applied for permission, well, that might be another story.

Rebus nodded his understanding. The building’s thermostat was set to death ray, and sweat was pouring down his back. The office was tiny and airless, with a sickly background aroma of talcum powder.

“This guy,” he told Mrs. Eadie, “he’d had some trouble with the police. How come you didn’t know that when you hired him?”

“We knew he’d had problems, Inspector. Gareth told us as much.”

Rebus stared at her. “Councilman Tench? Tench brought Trevor Guest here?”

“Never easy to get strong young men to work in a place like this,” Mrs. Eadie explained. “The councilman’s always been a good friend to us.”

“Finding you volunteers, you mean?”

She nodded. “We owe him a debt of gratitude.”

“I’m sure he’ll be round to collect it one of these days.”

Five minutes later, as Rebus emerged into the fresh air, he could hear that the accordion had been replaced by a recording of Moira Anderson. There and then he made a vow to off himself rather than sit with a shawl across his lap being spoon-fed boiled eggs to the strains of “Charlie Is My Darling.”

Siobhan sat in her car outside Rebus’s tenement. She’d already been upstairs: he wasn’t home. Probably just as well—she was still shaking. Felt jittery inside and didn’t think she could blame the caffeine. When she checked herself in the rearview mirror, her face was paler than usual. She gave her cheeks a few pats, trying to cheat some of the color back. She had the radio on, but had given up on the news stations: all the voices sounded either too brittle and urgent, or syrupy and colluding. She’d settled instead for classic FM. Recognized the tune but couldn’t name it. Couldn’t even be bothered trying.

Keith Carberry had walked out of Lonnie’s Pool Academy like a man whose lawyers had just secured his release from death row. If there was a world outside, he wanted a taste of it. The manager had had to remind him to pick up his cue on the way out. Siobhan had watched the whole thing on surveillance cameras. The screen had been greasy, blurring the figures. Cafferty had wired the place for sound, too, voices crackling from a battered-looking speaker some feet away from the monitor.

“Where’s the fire, Keith?”

“Get lost, Jim-Bob.”

“What about your light saber?”

Carberry pausing just long enough to replace the cue in its case.

“I think,” Cafferty had said quietly, “we can safely say we’ve got him.”

“For what it’s worth,” Siobhan had added.

“Got to be patient,” Cafferty advised. “A lesson well worth the learning, DS Clarke.”

Now, in her car, she pondered her options. The simplest would be to hand the evidence over to the public prosecutor, get Keith Carberry in court again on the more serious charge. That way, Tench would go untouched, but so what? Even supposing the councilman had set up those attacks on the Niddrie campsite, he really had come to her rescue in the gardens behind the flats—Carberry hadn’t been toying with her. His blood was up, adrenaline pumping...

The threat had been for real.

He’d wanted to taste her fear, see her panic.

Not always controllable. Tench just managing to rescue the situation.

She owed him that much...

On the other hand, Carberry in exchange for her mother didn’t sound like a fair deal. Didn’t taste like justice. She wanted
more
. Beyond an apology or a show of remorse, beyond a custodial sentence of weeks or months.

When her phone rang she had to ease her fingers from around the steering wheel. The screen said it was Eric Bain. She whispered an oath before answering.

“What can I do for you, Eric?” she asked, just a little too brightly.

“How’s it all going, Siobhan?”

“Slowly,” she admitted with a laugh, pinching the bridge of her nose.
No hysterics, girl
, she warned herself.

“Well, I’m not sure about this, but I might have someone you should talk to.”

“Oh, yes?”

“She works at the university. I helped her out months back with a computer simulation.”

“Good for you.”

There was a moment’s silence on the line. “Sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine, Eric. How’s everything with you? How’s Molly?”

“Molly’s great...I, uh, was telling you about this lecturer?”

“Of course you were. You think I should go see her.”

“Well, maybe just call her up first. I mean, it might turn out to be a dead end.”

“It usually does, Eric.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

Siobhan closed her eyes and sighed loudly into the phone. “Sorry, Eric, sorry. Shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

“Taking what out on me?”

“A week’s worth of crap.”

He laughed. “Apology accepted. I’ll call again later, when you’ve had a chance to—”

“Just hang on a sec, will you?” She reached across to the passenger seat, extracting her notebook from her bag. “Give me her number and I’ll talk to her.”

He recited the number and she jotted it down, adding the name as best she could, neither of them being totally sure how it was spelled.

“So what is it you think she might have for me?” Siobhan asked.

“A few crackpot theories.”

“Sounds great.”

“Can’t do any harm to listen,” Bain advised.

But by now, Siobhan knew differently. Knew that listening could have repercussions.

Bad ones at that...

Rebus hadn’t been to the city chambers in a while. The building was situated on the High Street, opposite St. Giles Cathedral. Cars were supposedly banned from the road between the two, but like most locals Rebus ignored the signs and parked curbside. He seemed to remember hearing that the council’s HQ had been built as some sort of merchants’ meeting place, but the local traders had shunned it and carried on as before. Rather than concede defeat, the politicians had moved in and made it their own. Soon, however, they’d be on the move—a parking lot next to Waverley Station had been earmarked for development. No way of telling as yet how far over budget it would run. If it turned out anything like the parliament, the bars of Edinburgh would soon have a fresh topic to inflame the drinkers’ indignation.

The city chambers had been built on top of a plague street called Mary King’s Close. Years back, Rebus had investigated a murder in the dank underground labyrinth—Cafferty’s own son the victim. The place had been tidied up now and was a tourist haunt in the summer. One of the staff was busy on the pavement, handing out flyers. She wore a housemaid’s cap and layered petticoats and tried to offer Rebus a discount coupon. He shook his head. The papers said local attractions were feeling the bite of the G8week tourists had been steering clear of the city.

“Hi-ho, silver lining,” Rebus muttered, starting to whistle the song’s first verse. The receptionist at the front desk asked him if it was Madonna, then smiled to let him know she was teasing.

“Gareth Tench, please,” Rebus said.

“I doubt he’ll be here,” she warned. “Friday, you know...A lot of our councilmen do district business on a Friday.”

“Giving them an excuse to knock off early?” Rebus guessed.

“I don’t know
what
you’re implying.” But her smile was back, meaning she knew damned well. Rebus liked her. Checked for a wedding ring and found one. Changed his whistling to “Another One Bites the Dust.”

She was looking down a list on the clipboard in front of her. “Seems you’re in luck,” she announced. “Urban regeneration committee subgroup...” She glanced at the clock behind her. “Meeting’s due to break up in five minutes. I’ll tell the secretary you’re here, Mr....?”

“Detective Inspector Rebus.” He offered a smile of his own. “John, if you prefer.”

“Take a seat, John.”

He gave a little bow of his head in thanks. The other receptionist was having a lot less luck, trying to fend off an elderly couple who wanted to talk to someone about the trash bins in their street.

“Through wi’ they lazy bastards.”

“We’ve got the car numbers an’ ev’thing, but naebody’s been near...”

Rebus took a seat, and decided against any of the reading material: council propaganda disguised as newsletters. They appeared regularly in Rebus’s mailbox, helping him contribute to the recycling effort. His cell sounded, and he flipped it open. Mairie Henderson’s number.

“What can I do for you, Mairie?” he asked.

“I forgot to tell you this morning...I’m getting somewhere with Richard Pennen.”

“Tell me more.” He moved outside into the quadrangle again. The lord provost’s Rover was parked by the glass-paneled doors. He stopped next to it and lit a cigarette.

“Business correspondent on one of the London broadsheets put me on to a freelancer who sells stuff to the likes of
Private Eye
. He in turn set me up with a TV producer who’s been keeping an eye on Pennen ever since the company split off from the MoD.”