The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (38 page)

“In Kelso?”

She managed a slow nod. Put a hand to her forehead as though she felt dizzy. “But as long as there’s still light in the sky, he’s usually out in the woods.”

“The woods?”

“Behind the cottage.”

Woods. What had the psychologist said? Woods might be important.

“How long have you known him, Debbie?”

“Three...maybe four years.”

“He’s older than you?”

“Twenty-two,” she confirmed.

“And you’re...what? Sixteen, seventeen?”

“Nineteen next birthday.”

“The two of you are an item?”

Bad choice of question: her color deepened further. Rebus had known paler blackberries. “We’re just friends...I don’t even see him that much these days.”

“What does he do?”

“Wood carvings—bowls and stuff. Sells them in the galleries in Edinburgh.”

“Artistic type, eh? Good with his hands?”

“He’s brilliant.”

“Nice sharp tools?”

She started to answer, but then stopped. “He hasn’t done anything!” she cried.

“Have I said he has?” Rebus tried to sound peeved. “What makes you think that?”

“He doesn’t trust
you!
”

“Me?” Now Rebus sounded confused.

“All of you!”

“Been in trouble before, has he?”

She shook her head slowly. “You don’t understand,” she said quietly. Her eyes were growing moist. “He
said
you wouldn’t...”

“Debbie?”

She burst out crying, and pulled open the hatch, emerging from behind the counter. She had her arms stretched out, and he did the same.

But she darted beneath them. And by the time he’d turned, she was at the door, hauling it open so its chimes rattled a complaint.

“Debbie!” he called. But when he got to the pavement, she was halfway down the street. He cursed under his breath, and realized that a woman toting an empty wicker basket was standing next to him. He reached back behind the door and turned the sign from
OPEN
to
CLOSED
. “Half-day on Saturday,” he told her.

“Since when?” she spluttered in outraged tones.

“Okay,” he conceded, “then let’s say it’s self-serve...just leave your money on the counter.” He pushed past her and headed for his car.

Siobhan felt like the specter at the feast: the crowd jostling her as it bounced on its toes. Off-key sing-alongs. Flags of all nations obscuring her view. Sweary, sweaty neds and nedettes dancing reels with college Henrys and Henriettas, cheap beer and cider spuming from shared cans. Pizza crusts slippery underfoot. And the bands performing on a stage a quarter mile away. Constant lines for the toilets. She allowed herself a small smile as she remembered her backstage pass at the Final Push. She’d dutifully texted her two friends, but so far without reply. Everybody looked so happy and boisterous, and she could feel none of it. All she could think about were:

Cafferty

Gareth Tench

Keith Carberry

Cyril Colliar

Trevor Guest

Edward Isley

She’d been entrusted by her own chief constable with a major case. A result would have been a big step toward promotion. But she’d been sideswiped by the assault on her mother. Finding the attacker had become all-consuming, throwing her too close to Cafferty. She knew she had to focus, had to get involved again. Monday morning, the investigation proper would be up and running—probably under DCI Macrae and DI Derek Starr—a team organized, as much manpower as was necessary.

And she’d been suspended. Only thing she could do was track down Corbyn and apologize...persuade him to let her back in. He would want her to swear she wouldn’t let Rebus anywhere near, all ties severed. The thought gave her pause. Sixty-forty chance she’d agree if asked. A new band had taken the main stage, and someone had turned the volume up. She checked her phone for texts.

One missed call.

She studied the caller’s number: Eric Bain.

“Last bloody thing I need,” she told herself. He’d left a message, but she wasn’t about to listen to it. Stuck the phone back in her pocket and pulled a fresh bottle of water from her bag. Sweet smell of dope wafting over her, but no sign of the dealer from Camp Horizon. The young men on the stage were working hard, but there was too much treble to their sound. Siobhan moved farther away. Couples were lying on the ground, snogging or staring up at the sky with dreamy smiles on their faces. She realized she was still walking—lacked the will to stop herself—heading for the field where she’d parked her car. New Order was hours away, and she knew she wouldn’t be coming back for them. What was waiting for her in Edinburgh? Maybe she would phone Rebus and tell him she was starting to forgive. Maybe she’d just find herself a wine bar and a chilled bottle of chardonnay, sit there with notebook and pen, rehearsing the speech she’d give the chief constable on Monday morning.

If I let you back on the team, there’s no room for your partner in crime—understood, DS Clarke?

Understood, sir. And I really do appreciate this
.

And you agree to my terms? Well, DS Clarke? A simple yes will suffice
.

Except that there was nothing simple about it.

Back onto the M90, heading south this time. Twenty minutes and she was at the Forth Road Bridge. No more vehicle searches; everything the way it had been before the G8. On the outskirts of Edinburgh, Siobhan realized she was near Cramond. She decided she would drop in on Ellen Wylie, thank her in person for listening to the previous night’s rant. She turned left down Whitehouse Road, parked outside the house. There was no answer. Called Ellen’s cell.

“It’s Shiv,” she said when Ellen answered. “I was going to bum a coffee off you.”

“We’re out walking.”

“I can hear the stream...are you just behind the house?”

There was silence on the line. Then: “Later would be better.”

“Well, I’m right here.”

“I thought maybe a drink in town...just you and me.”

“Sounds good.” But a frown had crept across Siobhan’s face. Wylie seemed almost to sense this.

“Look,” she said, “maybe a quick cup of coffee then...see you in five.”

Rather than wait, Siobhan walked to the end of the terrace and down a short path to the River Almond. Ellen and Denise had been as far as the ruined mill but were heading back. Ellen waved, but Denise didn’t seem so keen. She was gripping her sister’s arm.
Just you and me
...

Denise Wylie was shorter and thinner than her sister. Teenage fears about her weight had left her with a starved look. Her skin was gray, the hair mousy brown and lifeless. She refused to meet Siobhan’s eyes.

“Hiya, Denise,” Siobhan said anyway, receiving a grunt in reply. Ellen, on the other hand, seemed almost unnaturally buoyed, talking twenty to the dozen as they made their way back to the house.

“Go through to the garden,” Ellen insisted, “and I’ll stick the kettle on—or a glass of beer if you’d prefer—but you’re driving, aren’t you? Show wasn’t up to much then? Or did you not go in the end? I’m way past the age of going to watch pop groups—though I’d change my mind for Coldplay—even then I’d want to be sitting. Standing all day in a field? Isn’t that what scarecrows and potato pickers do? Are you upstairs, Denise? Shall I bring you a cup up?” Wylie emerged from the kitchen to place a plate of shortbread on the table. “You all right there, Shiv? Water’s boiling, can’t remember what you take in it.”

“Just milk.” Siobhan peered up at the bedroom window. “Is Denise all right?” At that moment, Wylie’s sister appeared behind the glass, eyes widening as she caught Siobhan staring at her. She yanked the curtains shut. Despite the clammy day, the window itself was closed, too.

“She’ll be fine,” Wylie said, dismissing the question with a flick of her hand.

“And what about you?”

Wylie gave a fluttering laugh. “What about me?”

“Pair of you look like you’ve raided the medicine cabinet but found different bottles.”

Another short, sharp laugh and Wylie retreated to the kitchen. Siobhan rose slowly from the hardwood chair and followed her, pausing at the threshold.

“Have you told her?” she asked quietly.

“About what?” Wylie opened the fridge and found the milk, but then started searching for a jug.

“Gareth Tench—does she know he’s dead?” The words almost caught in Siobhan’s throat.

Tench plays away from home
...

There’s a colleague of mine, Ellen Wylie...her sister’s
...

Skin’s more fragile than most
...

“Oh, Christ, Ellen,” she said now, reaching out a hand to grip the doorjamb.

“What’s the matter?”

“You know, don’t you?” Siobhan’s voice was hardly above a whisper.

“You’re not making sense,” Wylie stated, fretting now with the tray, lifting saucers on and then off again.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re—”

“I asked you to look me in the eye.”

Ellen Wylie made the effort, her mouth a thin, determined line.

“You sounded so weird on the phone,” Siobhan told her. “And now all this jabbering while Denise shoots upstairs.”

“I think you should go.”

“You might want to reconsider, Ellen. But before you do, I want to apologize.”

“Apologize?”

Siobhan nodded, keeping her eyes on Wylie. “It was me who told Cafferty. Wouldn’t have been hard for him to get an address. Were you here?” She watched Wylie bow her head.

“He came here, didn’t he?” Siobhan persisted. “Came here and told Denise about Tench still being married. She was still seeing him?”

Wylie was shaking her head slowly. Tears splashed from her cheeks onto the tiled floor.

“Ellen...I’m so sorry.” There it was on the work surface near the sink—a wooden rack of knives, one slot empty. Kitchen spotless, no sign of washing-up anywhere.

“You can’t have her,” Ellen Wylie sobbed, still shaking her head.

“Did you find out this morning? After she got up? It’s bound to come out, Ellen,” Siobhan argued. “Keep denying it, it’ll destroy both of you.” Siobhan remembered Tench’s own words:
Passion’s a snarling beast in some men
. Yes, and in some women, too.

“You can’t have her,” Ellen Wylie repeated. But the words had taken on a resigned, lifeless sound.

“She’ll get help.” Siobhan had taken a couple of steps into the small, boxy room. She pressed her hand to Ellen Wylie’s arm. “Talk to her, tell her it’ll be all right. You’ll be there for her.”

Wylie rubbed the back of her forearm across her face, smearing the tears. “You’ve no evidence,” she mumbled; lines she’d walked herself through. A scripted denial, prepared for the eventuality.

“Do we need any?” Siobhan asked. “Maybe I should ask Denise—”

“No, please.” Another shake of the head, and eyes that burned into Siobhan’s.

“What are the chances no one saw her, Ellen? Think she won’t pop up somewhere on security tapes? Think the clothes she wore won’t turn up? The knife she ditched? If it were my case, I’d send a couple of frogmen to the riverbank. Maybe that’s why you went there—looking to retrieve it and make a better job of disposal—”

“Oh, God,” Wylie said, voice cracking. Siobhan gave her a hug, feeling the body beginning to tremble—delayed shock.

“You need to be strong for her, Ellen. Just for a little while longer, you need to hang on...” Siobhan’s thoughts churned as she rubbed a hand across Wylie’s back. If Denise was capable of killing Gareth Tench, what else might she have done? She felt Ellen Wylie tense and pull away from her. The two women’s eyes met.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Wylie said quietly.

“Do you?”

“But Denise never so much as looked at BeastWatch.
I
was the one who was interested, not her.”

“You’re also the one trying to hide Gareth Tench’s killer, Ellen. Maybe it’s
you
we should be looking at, eh?” Siobhan’s voice had hardened; so, too, had Wylie’s face, but after a moment it cracked into a sour smile.

“Is that the best you can do, Siobhan? Maybe you’re not as hot as people think. Chief constable might have put you in charge, but we both know it’s John Rebus’s show...though I don’t suppose that’ll stop you taking the credit—always supposing you get a result. So go ahead and charge me if you want.” She held out her wrists as if awaiting handcuffs; then, when Siobhan did nothing, began a slow, humorless laugh. “Not as hot as people think,” she repeated.

Not as hot as people think
...

26

R
ebus lost no time on the road to Kelso. It was only eight miles away. No sign of Debbie in any of the cars he saw. Didn’t mean she hadn’t contacted Barclay already by phone. The countryside would have been impressive if he’d given it any heed. He sped past the sign welcoming safe drivers to the town, and braked hard when he spotted his first pedestrian. She was dressed head to foot in tweed and walking a small, bug-eyed dog. Looked like she was on her way into the Lidl supermarket.

“Carlingnose Lane,” Rebus told her. “Know where it is?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” She was still apologizing as Rebus drove off. He tried again in the town center. Received half a dozen different possibilities from the first three locals he asked. Near Floors Castle...up by the rugby ground...the golf course...the Edinburgh road.

Eventually, he found that Floors Castle was on the road marked Edinburgh. Its high perimeter wall seemed to stretch for hundreds of yards. Rebus saw signs to the golf course, then spotted a park with sets of rugby posts. But the housing all around him looked too new, until a couple of schoolgirls walking a dog put him right.

Behind the new houses.

The Saab complained as he slammed it back into first. Engine was making a funny sound; he’d only just noticed it. Carlingnose Lane comprised a single row of tumbledown cottages. The first couple had been modernized and given a lick of paint. The track ended at the final cottage, its whitewashed walls turning yellow. A homemade sign proclaimed
LOCAL CRAFTS FOR SALE
. Bits of discarded tree lay strewn across the small front garden. Rebus stopped the car at a five-bar gate, beyond which a trail led across a meadow and into some woods. He tried Barclay’s door and peered in through the small window. Living room with kitchenette off it, and untidy at that. Part of the back wall had been removed and French doors fitted, meaning Rebus could see that the back garden was every bit as deserted and unkempt as the front. He looked up and saw that a pylon fed an electricity cable to the house. No antenna though, and no sign of a TV inside.

And no phone line. Next door had one—arcing toward it from a wooden telegraph pole in the meadow.

“Doesn’t mean he’s not got a cell,” Rebus muttered to himself—in fact, probably made it more likely. Barclay had to keep in touch with those Edinburgh galleries somehow. To the side of the cottage sat a venerable Land Rover. Didn’t look like it was used much, hood cool to the touch. But the key dangled from the ignition, meaning one of two things—no fear of car thieves, or ready for a quick getaway. Rebus opened the driver’s-side door and removed the key, tucking it into his top pocket. He stood by the meadow and lit a cigarette. If Debbie had managed to warn Barclay, he’d either hoofed it on foot, or had access to another vehicle...or he was on his way back.

He took out his own phone. Signal strength of a single bar. Angling the phone, the words
NO SIGNAL
came up. He climbed the gate and tried again.

NO SIGNAL
.

Decided that what was left of the afternoon merited a walk into the woods. The air was warm; birdsong and distant traffic. A plane high overhead, its undercarriage glinting.
I’m on my way,
Rebus thought,
to meeting a man, in the middle of nowhere, with no phone worth the name. A man who once got into a fight. A man who knows the police are coming and doesn’t like them
...

“Just great, John,” he said out loud, his breathing a little ragged as he climbed toward the tree line. Couldn’t even say what kinds of trees they were. Brown ones with leaves—which ruled out conifers but not much else. He hoped to hear sounds of an ax or maybe a chain saw. No...scrub that—didn’t want Barclay holding any form of sharpened tool. Wondered if maybe he should call out. Cleared his throat but didn’t get any further. Now he was higher up, maybe his phone would...

NO SIGNAL
.

Lovely views though. Pausing to catch his breath, he just hoped he would live to remember them. Why was Duncan Barclay nervous about seeing the police? Rebus would be sure to ask, if he ever found him. He’d entered the forest now, the ground yielding underfoot, a thick mulchy carpet. He had the feeling he was on a path of some kind, invisible to the untutored eye but there all the same—a route between saplings and shorn trunks, avoiding the low scrub. The place reminded him a lot of the Clootie Well. He kept glancing to left and right, stopping every few steps for another listen.

All alone.

And then another track appeared—this one wide enough for a vehicle. Rebus crouched down. The pattern of tires looked crusted—a few days old at the very least. He gave a little snort.

“Not exactly Tonto,” he muttered, straightening up and brushing dried mud from his fingers.

“Not exactly,” a man’s voice echoed. Rebus looked around and spotted its owner eventually. He was seated on a fallen tree, one leg crossed over the other. A few yards off the track, and dressed in olive green outerwear.

“Good camouflage,” Rebus said. “Are you Duncan?”

Duncan Barclay gave a little bow of his head. Rebus got closer and noted the sandy hair and freckled face. Maybe six feet tall, but wiry. The eyes were the same pale color as their owner’s jacket.

“You’re a policeman,” Barclay stated. Rebus wasn’t about to deny it.

“Did Debbie warn you?”

Barclay stretched out his arms. “No means...I’m a Luddite in that regard, as in several others.”

Rebus nodded. “I noticed at the cottage—no TV or phone line.”

“And no cottages either, soon enough—developer’s got his eye on them. Then it’ll be the field, and after that the woods...I thought you’d be coming.” He paused at Rebus’s look. “Not you personally, but someone like you.”

“Because...?”

“Trevor Guest,” the young man stated. “I didn’t know he was dead till I read it in the paper. But when they said the case was being handled in Edinburgh—well, I thought there might still be something about me in the files.”

Rebus nodded and lifted out his cigarettes. “Mind if I...?”

“I’d rather you didn’t—and so would the trees.”

“They’re your friends?” Rebus asked, putting the pack away. Then: “So you only found out about Trevor Guest...?”

“When it was in the papers.” Barclay paused to consider. “Was it Wednesday? I didn’t actually buy a paper, you understand—I’ve no time for them. But I saw the headline on the front of the
Scotsman
. Went and got himself done in by some sort of serial killer.”

“Some sort of killer, yes.” Rebus took a step back as Barclay suddenly bounded to his feet, but all the young man did was gesture with a crooked finger and then start walking.

“Follow me and I’ll show you,” he said.

“Show me what?”

“The whole reason you’re here.”

Rebus held back, but eventually relented, catching up with Barclay. “Is it far, Duncan?” he asked.

Barclay shook his head. He walked with large, purposeful strides.

“You spend a lot of time in the woods?”

“As much as I can.”

“Other woods, too? Not just these ones, I mean.”

“I find bits and pieces all over.”

“Bits and...?”

“Branches, uprooted trunks...”

“And the Clootie Well?”

Barclay turned his head toward Rebus. “What about it?”

“Ever been there?”

“Don’t think so.” Barclay stopped so suddenly, Rebus almost went past him. The young man’s eyes had widened. He slapped a hand to his forehead. Rebus could see the bruised fingernails and traces of scar tissue—evidence of an artisan’s life.

“Holy Christ!” Barclay gasped. “I can
see
what you’re thinking!”

“And what’s that, Duncan?”

“You think maybe I did it!
Me!
”

“Really?”

“Holy Mother of Christ.” Barclay gave a shake of the head and started walking again, almost faster than before so that Rebus struggled to keep up.

“Just wondering why you and Trevor Guest had that fight,” he asked between lungfuls of oxygen. “Background info, that’s all I’m here for.”

“But you
do
think I did it!”

“Well, did you?”

“No.”

“Nothing to worry about then.” Rebus looked around, not really sure of his bearings. He could retrace the vehicle track, but would he know where to branch off to reach the meadow and civilization?

“I can’t believe you think that.” Barclay gave another shake of his head. “I conjure new life from dead wood. The living world means
everything
to me.”

“Trevor Guest isn’t coming back as a fruit bowl anytime soon.”

“Trevor Guest was an animal.” As abruptly as before, Barclay stopped again.

“Aren’t animals part of the living world?” Rebus asked breathlessly.

“You
know
I don’t mean it like that.” He was sweeping the area with his eyes. “They said as much in the
Scotsman
...he was locked up for burglary, rape...”

“Sexual assault actually.”

Barclay continued regardless. “He was locked away because they’d finally caught up with him—the truth had come out. But he’d been an animal long before that.” He was heading into the woods again, Rebus trailing after him, trying to get images of
Blair Witch
out of his head. The landscape was sloping down a gradient, growing steeper. Rebus realized they were now on the
other
side of the track from civilization. He started looking around for a weapon of some kind; bent down and picked up a tree branch, gave it a shake, and it crumbled in his hand, its innards rotted away.

“What is it you’re going to show me?” he asked.

“One more minute.” Barclay held up a single digit for effect. “Hey, I don’t even know who you are.”

“Name’s Rebus. I’m a detective inspector.”

“I talked to you guys, you know...back when it happened. Tried to get you to look at Trevor Guest, but I don’t think you did. I was in my teens—already marked out as the weird kid. Coldstream’s like one big tribe, Inspector. When you don’t fit in, it’s not easy to pretend you do.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” A comment rather than the question Rebus really wanted to ask—
What the hell are you talking about?

“It’s better now. People see the things I make, they can appreciate that there’s a glimmer of talent there.”

“When did you move to Kelso?”

“This is my third year.”

“Must like it then.”

Barclay looked at Rebus, then gave a quick smile. “Making conversation, eh? Because you’re nervous?”

“I don’t like games,” Rebus stated.

“I’ll tell you who does though—whoever left those trophies at the Clootie Well.”

“That’s something we agree on.” Rebus almost lost his footing, felt something tear in his ankle as he went over on it.

“Careful,” Barclay said, without stopping.

“Thanks,” Rebus replied, hobbling after him. But the young man stopped again almost immediately. There was a chain-link fence in front of them, and farther down the hill a modern bungalow.

“Great views,” Barclay offered. “Nice and quiet. You have to drive all the way down there”—he traced the route with a finger—“to reach the main road.” He turned his whole body toward Rebus. “This is where she died. I’d seen her in town, chatted with her. We were all in shock when it happened.” His look intensified as he saw Rebus was still in the dark.
“Mr. and Mrs. Webster,”
he hissed. “I mean,
he
died later, but that’s where his wife was murdered.” He stabbed a finger at the bungalow. “In
there
.”

Rebus’s mouth felt dry. “Ben Webster’s mother?” Yes, of course—vacation home in the Borders. He remembered the photos from the file Mairie had compiled. “You’re saying Trevor Guest killed her?”

“He’d moved here only a few months before; moved out again quick afterward. A few of his drinking pals said it was because he already had a history with the police in Newcastle. He used to hassle me in the street, tell me I was a teenager with long hair, so I had to know where he could get drugs...” He paused for a moment. “Then I was up in Edinburgh that night, drinking with a pal, and I saw him. I’d already told the cops I thought he did it. Seemed to me the whole case was shoddy.” He stared hard at Rebus. “You never followed it up!”

“You saw him in the pub?” Rebus’s head was reeling, the blood pounding in his ears.

“I lashed out, I admit it. Felt bloody wonderful. And then when I saw that he’d been killed...well, I felt better still—and vindicated, too. Said as much in the paper—he’d been in jail for burglary and rape.”

“Sexual assault,” Rebus said weakly. The anomaly...one of several.

“And that’s what he’d done here—broken in, killed Mrs. Webster, and ransacked the place.”

Then fled to Edinburgh, suddenly penitent and of a mind to help those older and weaker than himself. Gareth Tench had been right—something
had
happened to Trevor Guest. Something life-changing...

If Rebus were to believe Duncan Barclay’s story.

“He didn’t assault her,” Rebus argued.

“Say again?”

Rebus cleared his throat, spat out some gluey saliva. “Mrs. Webster wasn’t raped or assaulted.”

“No, because she was too old—the kid he did in Newcastle was in her teens.” Yes, and hadn’t Hackman confirmed it—
liked them a bit on the young side
.

“You’ve given it a lot of thought,” Rebus seemed to concede.

“But you wouldn’t
believe
me!”

“Well, I’m sorry about that.” Rebus leaned against a tree and ran a hand through his hair. His fingers came away coated in sweat.

“And I can’t be a suspect,” Barclay went on, “because I didn’t know the other two men.
Three
killings,” he stressed, “not just one.”

“That’s right...not just one.” A killer who likes games. Rebus thought back to Dr. Gilreagh—
rurality and anomalies
.

“I could tell he was trouble,” Barclay was saying, “from the first time I clapped eyes on him in Coldstream.”