The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (40 page)

“There’s no way he’s going to let us go public,” Siobhan argued. “One of his officers turns out to be a killer and might even have done away with her own brother. Not exactly the PR he’s looking for.”

“Which is why he might be willing to do a deal.”

“And what exactly have we got to offer?”

“Control,” Rebus stated. “We step back and let him do it his way. If he turns us down, we go to Mairie Henderson.”

Siobhan spent the best part of a minute considering the options. Then she saw Rebus’s eyes widen.

“And we don’t even have to go to London,” he told her.

“Why not?”

“Because Steelforth’s not in London.”

“Then where is he?”

“Under our bloody noses,” Rebus explained, starting to wipe the board clean.

By which he meant: an hour’s rapid drive to the west.

They spent the whole trip going through Rebus’s theory. Trevor Guest hightailing it out of Newcastle—maybe owing money on some deal. Quick route to the handily anonymous border country. Scratches around, but can’t find a fix and hasn’t any money. His one area of expertise: burglary. But Mrs. Webster is home, and he ends up killing her. Panics and flees to Edinburgh, where he assuages his guilt by working with the elderly, with people like the woman he murdered. Not sexually assaulted—he liked them a lot younger.

Meanwhile—Stacey Webster is destroyed by her mother’s murder, heartbroken when the death destroys her father too. Using her detective’s skills to track down the likely culprit, only he’s already behind bars. But due out soon. Giving her time to plan her revenge. She’s found Guest on BeastWatch, alongside others like him. She picks her targets geographically—easy reach of her Midlands base. Her counter culture existence gives her access to heroin. Does she get Guest to confess before she murders him? It doesn’t really matter: by then she’s already killed Eddie Isley. Adds one more, to reinforce the notion that a serial killer is at large, then stops. Sated and at peace. Far as she’s concerned, she’s been cleaning scum off the streets. SO12’s G8 planning has led her to the Clootie Well, and she knows it’s the perfect spot.
Some
one will happen upon it. And they’ll spot the clues. To be certain, she ensures they have one name straightaway...the only name that matters.

No way she’s going to be found.

The perfect crime.

Nearly...

“I have to admit,” Siobhan said, “it sounds plausible.”

“That’s because it’s what happened. Thing about the truth, Siobhan: it almost always makes sense.”

They made good time along the M8, and got onto the A82. The village of Luss was just off the main road on the western shore of Loch Lomond.

“They used to film
Take the High Road
here,” Rebus informed his passenger.

“One of the few soaps I’ve never watched.”

Cars were crawling past them on the other side of the road.

“Looks like play’s finished for today,” Siobhan commented. “Might have to come back tomorrow.”

But Rebus wasn’t about to concede defeat. Loch Lomond Golf Club was a members-only facility, and the arrival of the Open had brought with it extra security. There were guards on the main gate, and they checked both Rebus’s and Siobhan’s ID carefully before phoning on ahead, during which time a mirror on a long stick was played along the length of the car’s undercarriage.

“After Thursday, we’re taking no chances,” the guard explained, handing back their badges. “Ask at the clubhouse for Commander Steelforth.”

“Thanks,” Rebus said. “By the way...who’s winning?”

“It’s a tie—Tim Clark and Maarten Lafeber, fifteen under. Tim shot six under today. Monty’s nicely placed though—ten under. Be a great game tomorrow.”

Rebus thanked the guard again and put the Saab into gear. “Did you catch any of that?” he asked Siobhan.

“I know Monty means Colin Montgomerie.”

“Then you’re every bit as well informed about the royal and ancient game as I am.”

“You’ve never tried?”

He shook his head. “It’s those pastel sweaters...I could never see myself wearing one.”

As they parked and climbed out, half a dozen spectators walked past, discussing the day’s events. One wore a pink V-neck, the others yellow or pale orange or sky blue.

“See what I mean?” Rebus said. Siobhan nodded her agreement. The clubhouse was Scots baronial and called Rossdhu. There was a silver Mercedes parked up alongside, the chauffeur snoozing in the front seat. Rebus remembered him from Gleneagles—Steelforth’s designated driver.

“Cheers, Big Man,” he said, raising his eyes to the heavens.

A short, bespectacled gent with a highly developed mustache and sense of his own importance was striding out of the building toward them. All manner of laminated passes and ID cards were strung around his neck, clacking together as he moved. He barked out a word that sounded like
Sekty
but Rebus chose to translate as
Secretary
. The bony hand that shook Rebus’s was trying too hard. But at least he
got
a handshake; Siobhan might as well have been a shrub.

“We need to speak to Commander David Steelforth,” Rebus explained. “I doubt he’s the type to rub shoulders with the unwashed masses.”

“Steelforth?” The secretary took off his glasses and rubbed them against the sleeve of his crimson sweater. “Could he be corporate?”

“That’s his driver,” Rebus said, nodding toward the Merc.

Siobhan chipped in: “Pennen Industries?”

The secretary slipped his glasses back on, and directed his reply at Rebus. “Oh, yes, Mr. Pennen has a hospitality tent.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Probably winding down by now.”

“Mind if we check?”

The secretary’s face twitched and he told them to wait, before disappearing back into the building. Rebus looked at Siobhan, awaiting some comment.

“Officious twerp,” she obliged.

“You won’t be wanting an application form?”

“Have you
seen
any women since we got here?”

Rebus looked around before admitting she had a point. He turned at the sound of an electric motor. It was a golf cart, emerging from behind Rossdhu House and driven by the secretary.

“Hop on,” he told them.

“Can’t we walk?” Rebus asked.

The secretary shook his head and repeated the instruction. There were two rear-facing cushioned seats at the back of the cart.

“Lucky you’re small-boned,” Rebus told Siobhan. The secretary was ordering them to hold on tight. The machine clunked into action at a rate just above walking speed.

“Whee,”
Siobhan said, managing to look underwhelmed.

“Reckon the chief constable’s a golf fan?” Rebus asked.

“Probably.”

“The luck we’ve had this week, we’ll be passing him any moment...”

But they didn’t. The course itself was home to only a few last stragglers. The stands were vacant, and the sun was setting.

“Amazing,” Siobhan was forced to admit as she stared across Loch Lomond to the mountains beyond.

“Takes me back to my youth,” Rebus told her.

“Did you come here on vacation?”

He shook his head. “But the neighbors did, and they always sent a postcard.” Swiveling round as best he could, he saw they were approaching a village of tents with its own cordon and security. White tents, piped music, and the sounds of loud conversation. The secretary slowed the cart to a stop and nodded toward one of the larger tents. It had clear plastic windows and liveried serving staff. Cham-pagne was being poured, oysters offered from silver salvers.

“Thanks for the lift,” Rebus said.

“Shall I wait...?”

Rebus shook his head. “We’ll find our own way, sir. Thanks again.”

“Lothian and Borders,” Rebus stated to the guards, opening his ID.

“Your chief constable’s in the champagne tent,” one of the guards replied helpfully. Rebus gave Siobhan a look.
That kind of week...
He picked up a glass of fizz and worked his way through the throng. Thought he recognized some of the faces from Prestonfield—G8 delegates; people Richard Pennen wanted to do business with. The Kenyan diplomat, Joseph Kamweze, met Rebus’s gaze but turned away quickly, pushing deeper into the crowd.

“Quite the United Nations,” Siobhan commented. Eyes were appraising her: not too many women on display. But the ones who were—well,
on display
summed it up: cascading hair, short, tight dresses, and fixed smiles. They would describe themselves as models rather than escorts, hired by the day to add glamour and sun-bed tan to proceedings.

“Should have smartened yourself up,” Rebus scolded Siobhan. “Bit of makeup never goes amiss.”

“Listen to Karl Lagerfeld,” she retorted. Rebus tapped her shoulder. “Our host.” He gave a nod in the direction of Richard Pennen. Same immaculate hair, glinting cuff links, heavy gold wristwatch. But something had changed. The face seemed less bronzed, the posture less confident. When Pennen laughed at something his companion was saying, he threw his head back a little too far, mouth open too wide. Faking it, obviously. His companion seemed to think so, too, and studied Pennen, wondering what to make of him. Pennen’s flunkies—one per shoulder as at Prestonfield—also looked nervous at their boss’s inability to play the game as before. Rebus thought for a moment of walking right up to Pennen and asking how things were, just for the pleasure of getting a reaction. But Siobhan had placed a hand on his arm, directing his attention elsewhere:

David Steelforth, emerging from the champagne tent, deep in conversation with Chief Constable James Corbyn.

“Bugger,” Rebus said. Then, after a deep breath: “In for a pound...”

He could feel Siobhan hesitate, and turned toward her. “Maybe you should go walk around for a few minutes.”

But she’d come to her decision, and actually led the way toward the two men.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she was saying as Rebus caught up.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” Corbyn spluttered.

“Never one to miss free bubbly,” Rebus explained, raising his glass. “Expect that’s your reasoning, too, sir.”

Corbyn’s face had reddened mightily. “I was
invited
.”

“Us, too, sir,” Siobhan said, “in a manner of speaking.”

“How’s that?” Steelforth asked, looking amused.

“Murder inquiry, sir,” Rebus said. “Tends to act as a VIP pass.”

“VVIP,” Siobhan corrected him.

“You’re saying Ben Webster was murdered?” Steelforth asked, eyes on Rebus.

“Not quite,” Rebus answered. “But we’ve an inkling
why
he died. And it seems to connect to the Clootie Well.” He shifted his gaze to Corbyn. “We can fill you in later, sir, but right now it’s Commander Steelforth we need to talk to.”

“I’m sure it can wait,” Corbyn snapped.

Rebus turned back to Steelforth, who offered another smile, this time for Corbyn’s benefit.

“I think I’d better listen to what the inspector and his colleague have to say.”

“Very well,” the chief constable relented. “Fire away.”

Rebus paused, exchanging a glance with Siobhan. Steelforth was quick to catch on. He made a show of handing his untouched glass to Corbyn.

“I’ll be right back, Chief Constable. I’m sure your officers will explain everything to you in due course...”

“They’d better,” Corbyn stressed, eyes boring into Siobhan. Steelforth patted his arm reassuringly and walked away, Rebus and Siobhan close behind. When all three reached the low white picket fence, they stopped. Steelforth faced away from the crowd, toward the course, where groundsmen were hard at work replacing divots and raking sand traps. He slid his hands into his pockets.

“What is it you think you know?” he asked nonchalantly.

“I think
you
know,” Rebus answered. “When I mentioned the link between Webster and the Clootie Well, you didn’t blink. Makes me think you already suspected something. Stacey Webster’s your officer, after all. You probably like to keep tabs on her...maybe started wondering why she was making sorties north to places like Newcastle and Carlisle. Also makes me wonder what you saw on the security film that night at the castle.”

“Spit it out,” Steelforth hissed.

Siobhan took over. “We think Stacey Webster is our serial killer. She wanted Trevor Guest, but was prepared to kill two more men to hide the fact.”

“And when she went to tell her brother the news,” Rebus continued, “well, he didn’t take it well. Maybe he jumped; maybe he was appalled and threatened to go public...she decided he had to be silenced.” He gave a shrug.

“Fanciful stuff,” Steelforth commented, still not looking at either of them. “Being good detectives, you’ll have put together a watertight case?”

“Should be easy enough, now we know what we’re looking for,” Rebus told him. “Of course, it’ll be damaging for SO12...”

Steelforth gave a twitch of the mouth, turned 180 degrees to watch the feasting. “Until about an hour ago,” he drawled, “I’d have told the pair of you to go fuck yourselves. Know why?”

“Pennen offered you a job,” Rebus said. Steelforth raised an eyebrow. “Educated guess,” Rebus explained. “It’s
him
you’ve been protecting throughout. Must’ve been a reason for it.”

Steelforth nodded slowly. “It so happens, you’re right.”

“But you’ve changed your mind?” Siobhan added.

“You just need to look at him. It’s all crumbling to dust, isn’t it?”

“Like a statue in the desert,” Siobhan commented, eyes on Rebus.

“Monday, I was tendering my resignation,” Steelforth said ruefully. “Special Branch could have gone to hell.”

“Some might say it already has,” Rebus stated, “when one of its operatives is allowed to slaughter left and right...”

Steelforth was still staring at Richard Pennen. “Funny the way it sometimes works—it’s the tiniest flaws that bring a structure down.”

“Like Al Capone,” Siobhan added helpfully. “They only got him for tax evasion, didn’t they?”

Steelforth ignored her, and turned his attention to Rebus instead. “The security video wasn’t conclusive,” he admitted.

“It showed Ben Webster meeting someone?”