The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (37 page)

Rebus nodded. “Hare rather than fox.”

“Along those lines, yes. Makes me wonder if there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I’d still have him down as a suspect.”

“Agreed.” McManus rose from his chair, fixed Rebus with a look. “But is he the only one we should be speaking to?”

“Councilmen make enemies,” Rebus stated.

“According to the widow, Tench counted you among them.”

“She’s mistaken.”

McManus ignored this and concentrated on folding his arms instead. “She also thinks the family home was being watched—not by Keith Carberry though. Description she gave was a silver-haired man in a big, posh car. Does that sound to you like Big Ger Cafferty?”

Rebus shrugged a reply.

“Another little story I hear...” McManus was approaching Rebus. “Concerns you and a man answering that same description at a meeting in a church hall, just a few days back. The councilman had a few words with this third man. Care to enlighten me?”

He was close enough for Rebus to feel his breath on his cheek. “Case like this,” he speculated, “you’ll always get stories.”

McManus just smiled. “I’ve never
had
a case like this, Rebus. Gareth Tench was loved and admired—plenty of friends of his out there, angry at their loss and wanting answers. Some of them packing all sorts of clout...clout they’ve promised to share with me.”

“That’s nice for you.”

“An offer I’d find it very hard to refuse,” McManus went on. “Meaning this might be the only chance I’ll be able to give.” He took a step back. “So, DI Rebus, having apprised you of the situation...is there anything at all you want to tell me?”

There was no way to land Cafferty in it without embroiling Siobhan. Before he could do anything, he had to be sure she’d be safe.

“Don’t think so,” he said, folding his own arms. McManus nodded toward the gesture.

“Sure sign you’ve got something to hide.”

“Really?” Rebus slid his hands into his pockets. “How about you then?” He turned and headed for the door, leaving McManus to wonder just when it was exactly that he’d decided to fold his own arms.

Nice day for a drive, even if he spent half the journey behind a truck. South to Dalkeith and from there to Coldstream. At Dun Law, he passed a wind farm, turbines on either side of the road—it was as close as he’d ever come to them. Sheep and cattle grazing, and plenty of roadkill: pheasants and hares. Birds of prey hovering overhead, or peering intently from fence posts. Fifty miles and he hit Coldstream, passed through the town and over a bridge, finding himself suddenly in England. A road sign told him he was only sixty miles north of Newcastle. He turned at a hotel parking lot and headed back across the border, parking curbside. There was a police station, cleverly disguised as just another gabled house with a blue wooden door. The sign told him it was only open weekdays, nine till twelve. Coldstream’s main drag was dominated by bars and small shops. Day-trippers took up most of the space on the narrow pavements. A single-decker bus from Lesmahagow was pouring out its chatty cargo at the Ram’s Head. Rebus beat them inside and demanded a half of Best. Looking around, he saw that the tables had been reserved for lunch. There were sandwiches behind the bar, and he asked for cheese and pickle.

“We’ve soup, too,” the barmaid informed him. “Cock-a-leekie.”

“Canned?”

She gave a tut. “Would I poison you with that muck?”

“Go on then,” he said with a smile. She called his order out to the kitchen and he gave his spine a stretch, rolling his shoulders and neck.

“Where are you off to?” she asked on her return.

“I’m already there,” he replied, but before he could get a conversation going the tour-bus party started swarming in. She called out again to the kitchen and a waitress emerged, notepad in hand. The chef himself, ruddy-faced and wide of girth, delivered Rebus’s soup. He rolled his eyes as he calculated the average age of the new arrivals.

“Guess how many will want steak pie,” he said.

“All of them,” Rebus decided.

“And the goat cheese and filo starter?”

“Not a hope,” Rebus confirmed, unwrapping his spoon from its paper napkin. There was golf on TV. Looked breezy up at Loch Lomond. Rebus searched in vain for salt and pepper, then found that the soup needed neither. A man in a short-sleeved white shirt came and stood next to him. He was mopping his face with a vast handkerchief. What hair he possessed was slicked back from his forehead.

“Warm one,” he announced.

“Are those your lot?” Rebus said, indicating the throng at the tables.

“I’m theirs, more like,” the man stated. “Never seen so many backseat drivers.” He shook his head and begged the barmaid for a pint of orange and lemonade with plenty of ice. She winked as she placed it in front of him—no payment necessary. Rebus knew the score: by bringing his bus parties here, the driver was on freebies for life. The man seemed to read his mind.

“Way the world turns,” he confessed.

Rebus just nodded. Who was to say the G8 didn’t operate in much the same way? He asked the driver what Lesmahagow was like.

“Sort of place that makes a day out to Coldstream an attractive proposition.” He risked a glance toward his party. There was some sort of dispute over the seating plan. “I swear to God, the UN would have trouble with this crowd.” He gulped his drink. “You weren’t in Edinburgh last week, were you?”

“I work there.”

The driver feigned a wince. “I had twenty-seven Chinese tourists. Arrived by train from London on Saturday morning. Could I get anywhere near the station to pick them up? Could I buggery. And guess where they were staying? The Sheraton on Lothian Road. More security there than Barlinnie. On the Tuesday, we were halfway to Rosslyn Chapel when I realized we’d taken one of the Japanese delegates with us by mistake.” The driver started chuckling, and Rebus joined him. Christ, it felt good...

“So you’re just down for the day?” the man asked. Rebus nodded. “Some nice walks, if the fancy takes you...but you don’t seem the type.”

“You’re a good judge of character.”

“Comes with the job.” He gave a slight jerk of his head. “See that group back there? I could tell you right now which ones will tip at day’s end, and even how much they’ll give.”

Rebus tried to look impressed. “Buy you another?” The man’s pint glass was empty.

“Better not. I’ll just need a pit stop halfway through the afternoon, and that means most of them will follow suit. Might take half an hour to get them on board again.” The driver offered his hand for Rebus to shake. “Nice talking to you though.”

“You, too,” Rebus said, returning the firm grip. He watched the driver head for the door. A couple of elderly women cooed and waved, but he pretended not to have noticed. Rebus decided another half of Best was in order. The chance encounter had cheered him, because it was a taste of another life, a world running almost parallel to the one he inhabited.

The ordinary. The everyday. Conversation for its own sake. No search for motives or secrets.

Normality.

The barmaid was placing a fresh glass in front of him. “You look a bit better,” she stated. “When you came in, I wasn’t sure what to make of you. Looked as likely to throw a punch as blow a kiss.”

“Therapy,” he explained, lifting the glass. The waitress had finally worked out what each customer wanted, and was fleeing to the kitchen before minds could be changed again.

“So what brings you to Coldstream?” the barmaid continued to probe.

“I’m CID, Lothian and Borders. Doing background on a murder victim, name of Trevor Guest. He was from Newcastle, but lived round here a few years back.”

“I can’t say I know the name.”

“Might have been using another one.” Rebus held up a photo of Guest, taken around the time of his trial. She peered at it—needed spectacles but didn’t like the thought of them. Then she shook her head.

“Sorry, dear,” she apologized.

“Anyone else I could show it to? Maybe the chef?” So she took the photograph from him and disappeared behind the partition, toward the clanking sound of pots and bowls being moved. She was back less than a minute later, handed the photo back to him.

“To be fair,” she said, “Rab’s only been in town since last autumn. You say this guy was from Newcastle? Why would he come here?”

“Newcastle might’ve been getting too hot for him,” Rebus explained. “He didn’t always stay on the right side of the law.” Seemed glaringly obvious to him now—much more likely that whatever had changed Guest, it had happened in Newcastle itself. If fleeing, you might want to dodge the A1—too obvious. You could branch off at Morpeth onto a road that led you straight here. “I suppose,” he said, “it’s too much to ask you to cast your mind back four or five years. No spate of housebreakings locally?”

She shook her head. Some of the bus party had made it as far as the bar. They carried with them a jotted order list.

“Three halfs of lager, one lager and lime—Arthur, go check if that’s a half or a whole—a ginger ale, Advocaat and lemonade—ask if she wants ice in the Advocaat, Arthur! No, hang on, it’s two halfs of lager and a beer and lemonade...”

Rebus drained his drink and mouthed to the barmaid that he’d be back. He meant it, too—if not this trip, then some other time. Trevor Guest might have dragged him here, but it would be the Ram’s Head that brought him back. It was only when he was outside that he remembered he’d not asked about Duncan Barclay. He walked past a couple of shops and stopped at the newsdealer’s, went inside, and showed the photo of Trevor Guest. A shake of his head from the proprietor, who went on to say that he’d lived in the town all his life. Rebus then tried him with the name Duncan Barclay. This time he got a nod.

“Moved away a few years back though. A lot of the young folk do.”

“Any idea where?”

Another shake of the head. Rebus thanked him and moved on. There was a grocer’s, but he drew a blank there—the young female assistant only worked Saturdays, told him he might have more luck on Monday morning. Same story down the rest of that side of the street. Antique shop, hairdresser’s, tearoom, charity shop...Only one other person knew of Duncan Barclay.

“Still see him around.”

“He’s not moved far then?” Rebus asked.

“Kelso, I think.”

Next town along. Rebus paused for a moment in the afternoon sunshine and wondered why his blood was coursing. Answer: he was working. Old-fashioned, dogged police work—almost as good as a vacation. But then he noticed that his final destination was another pub, and this one didn’t look half as welcoming.

It was a far more basic affair than the Ram’s Head. A floor of faded red linoleum, pocked with cigarette burns. A frayed dartboard frequented by two equally frayed-looking drinkers. Three senior citizens hammering out a game of dominoes at a corner table. All of it shrouded in a cigarette haze. The color on the TV seemed to be bleeding, and even at this distance Rebus could tell that beyond the door to the men’s room the urinal needed cleaning. He felt his spirits dip, but realized this was probably more Trevor Guest’s sort of place. Problem was, that very fact meant his queries were less likely to yield a helpful smile. The barman had a nose like a chewed tomato—a real boozer’s face, etched with scars and nicks, each one hinting at a story for late at night. Rebus knew his own face contained a few explicit chapters of its own. He hardened his whole demeanor as he approached the bar.

“Pint of heavy.” No way he could ask for a half in a place like this. He already had his cigarettes out. “Ever see Duncan these days?” he asked the barman.

“Who?”

“Duncan Barclay.”

“Don’t seem to know the name. In trouble, is he?”

“Not especially.” One question in and already he’d been exposed. “I’m a detective inspector,” he declared.

“You don’t say?”

“Couple of questions I need to ask Duncan.”

“Doesn’t live here.”

“Moved to Kelso, right?” The barman just shrugged. “So which boozer does he now call home?” The barman had yet to make eye contact. “Look at me,” Rebus persisted, “and tell me I’m in the mood for this shit. Go on, do it!”

The sound of chairs scraping against floor as the old-timers got to their feet. Rebus half turned toward them.

“Still game, eh?” he said with a grin. “But I’m looking into three murders.” The grin vanished as he held up three fingers. “Any of you want to become part of that investigation, just keep standing.” He paused long enough for them to lower themselves back into their seats. “Clever boys,” he said. Then, to the barman: “Whereabouts in Kelso will I find him?”

“You could ask Debbie,” the barman muttered. “She always had a wee crush on him.”

“And where would I find Debbie?”

“Saturdays, she works in the grocery.”

Rebus pretended this was fine. He took out the creased and print-smeared photograph of Trevor Guest.

“Years back,” the barman admitted. “Buggered off back south, I heard.”

“You heard wrong—he headed for Edinburgh. Got a name for him?”

“Wanted to be called Clever Trevor—never quite saw why.”

Probably after the Ian Dury song, Rebus mused. “He drank in here?”

“Not for long—barred him for taking a swing.”

“He lived in the town though?”

The barman shook his head slowly. “Kelso, I think,” he said. Then he started nodding. “Definitely Kelso.”

Meaning Guest had lied to the cops in Newcastle. Rebus was starting to get a bad feeling. He left the pub without bothering to pay. Thought he’d played it just about right. Took him a few minutes outside to let the tension ebb. Tracked back to the grocer’s, and the Saturday girl—Debbie. She could see straightaway that he knew. Opened her mouth and began another version, but he waved a hand in front of her and she stuttered to a halt. Then he leaned across the counter, knuckles pressed down on it.

“So what can you tell me about Duncan Barclay?” he asked. “We can either do it here, or in a cop-shop in Edinburgh—your decision.”

She had the good grace to start blushing. In fact, her color became so heightened, he thought maybe she would burst like a balloon.

“He lives in a cottage down Carlingnose Lane.”