The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (5 page)

“Thing is, that means it is quite properly under the aegis of the armed forces.”

“I’m not sure what
aegis
means, Commander.”

“It means,” Steelforth hissed, losing patience, “military police will be looking into the whys and wherefores of what occurred here.”

“Good dinner, was it?” Rebus was still walking. The path wound uphill, fierce gusts whipping around both men.

“There are important people here, DI Rebus.”

As if on cue, a car appeared from some sort of tunnel ahead. It was making for the gates, forcing Rebus and Steelforth to stand aside. Rebus caught a glimpse of the face in the back: a glint from metal-rimmed glasses; long, pale, worried-looking face. But then the foreign secretary often seemed to look worried, as Rebus pointed out to Steelforth. The Special Branch man frowned, disappointed at the recognition.

“Hope I don’t need to interview him,” Rebus added.

“Look, Inspector...”

But Rebus was moving again. “Here’s the thing, Commander,” he said over his shoulder. “Victim may have fallen—or jumped, or any other ‘why’ or ‘wherefore’—and I’m not disputing he was on army turf when he did, but he landed a few hundred feet farther south, in Princes Street Gardens”—Rebus proffered a smile—“and that makes him mine.”

Rebus started walking again, trying to remember the last time he’d been inside the castle walls. He’d brought his daughter here, of course, but twenty-odd years ago. The castle dominated the Edinburgh skyline. You could see it from Bruntsfield and Inverleith. On the drive in from the airport, it took on the aspect of a lowering Transylvanian lair, and made you wonder if you’d lost your color vision. From Princes Street, Lothian Road, and Johnston Terrace its volcanic sides seemed sheer and impregnable—and so they had proved over the years. Yet approaching from the Lawnmarket, you climbed a gentle slope to its entrance, with little hint of its enormous presence.

The drive from Gayfield Square had almost stymied Rebus. Uniformed cops hadn’t wanted to let him use Waverley Bridge. A great grinding and clanking of metal as the barriers were dragged into position for tomorrow’s march. He’d sounded his horn, ignoring gestures that he should find another route. When one officer had approached, Rebus had rolled down the window and shown his ID.

“This route’s closed,” the man stated. English accent, maybe Lancashire.

“I’m CID,” Rebus told him. “And behind me there’s going to be maybe an ambulance, a pathologist, and a Scene of Crime van. Want to tell them the same story?”

“What’s happened?”

“Someone’s just landed in the gardens.” Rebus nodded toward the castle.

“Bloody protesters...one got stuck on the rocks earlier. Fire brigade had to winch him down.”

“Well, much as I’d like nothing better than a chat...”

The officer scowled but moved the barrier aside.

Now another barrier had placed itself in front of Rebus: Commander David Steelforth.

“This is a dangerous game, Inspector. Better left to those of us specializing in intelligence.”

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. “You calling me thick?”

A short, barked laugh. “Not at all.”

“Good.” Rebus moved past him again. He saw where he was supposed to go. Military guards peering over the edge of the battlements. A cluster of elderly and distinguished-looking men, dressed for dinner, lurked nearby, smoking cigars.

“This where he fell?” Rebus asked the guards. He had his ID open but had decided not to identify himself as civilian police.

“Must be about the spot,” someone answered.

“Anyone see it?”

There were shakes of the head. “There was an incident earlier,” the same soldier said. “Some idiot got stuck. We were warned more of them might try.”

“And?”

“And Private Andrews thought he saw something round the other side.”

“I said I wasn’t sure,” Andrews said, defending himself.

“So you all skedaddled to the other side of the castle?” Rebus made a show of sucking in breath. “That used to be called deserting your post.”

“Detective Inspector Rebus has no jurisdiction here,” Steelforth was telling the group.

“And
that
would have counted as treason,” Rebus warned him.

“Do we know who’s unaccounted for?” one of the older men was asking.

Rebus heard another car making for the portcullis. Headlights threw wild shadows across the wall ahead. “Hard to say, with everyone running off,” he said quietly.

“No one’s running off,” Steelforth snapped.

“Just a bunch of prior engagements?” Rebus guessed.

“These are hellish busy people, Inspector. Decisions are being made that may change the world.”

“Won’t change whatever happened to the poor guy down there.” Rebus nodded toward the wall, then turned to face Steelforth. “So what was going on here tonight, Commander?”

“Discussions over dinner. Moves toward ratification.”

“Good news for all rats. What about the guests?”

“G8 representatives—foreign ministers, security personnel, senior civil servants.”

“Probably rules out pizza and a case or two of beer.”

“A lot gets done at these get-togethers.”

Rebus was peering over the edge. He’d never much liked heights and didn’t linger. “Can’t see a damned thing,” he said.

“We heard him,” one of the soldiers said.

“Heard what exactly?” Rebus asked.

“The scream as he fell.” He looked around at his comrades for support. One of them nodded.

“Seemed to scream all the way down,” he added with a shiver.

“Wonder if that rules out suicide,” Rebus speculated. “What do you think, Commander?”

“I think there’s nothing for you to learn here, Inspector. I also think it odd that you seem to pop up like this whenever there’s bad news to find.”

“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing,” Rebus said, eyes boring into Steelforth’s, “about you...”

The search party had comprised yellow-jacketed officers from barricade duty. Outfitted with flashlights, they hadn’t taken long. Paramedics declared the man dead, though anyone could have done the job. Neck twisted at an unnatural angle; one leg folded in half from the impact; blood seeping from the skull. He had lost a shoe on the way down and his shirt had been ripped open, probably by an overhang. Police HQ had spared a single SOCO, who was photographing the body.

“Want to place a small wager on cause of death?” the SOCO asked Rebus.

“Not a chance, Tam.” Tam the SOCO had not lost a bet like that in fifty or sixty cases.

“Did he jump or was he pushed, that’s what you’re asking yourself.”

“You’re a mind reader, Tam. Do you do palms as well?”

“No, but I take photos of them.” And to prove his point, he got close up to one of the victim’s hands. “Nicks and scratches can be very useful, John. Know why?”

“Impress me.”

“If he’s been pushed, he’ll have scrabbled for purchase, clawed at the sides of the rock.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

The SOCO let off another flash. “His name’s Ben Webster.” He turned to gauge Rebus’s reaction, seemed satisfied with the result. “I recognize his face—what’s left of it anyway.”

“You know him?”

“I know who he is. Member of parliament from up Dundee way.”

“The Scottish parliament?”

Tam shook his head. “The one in London. He’s something to do with international development—leastways, he was last time I looked.”

“Tam...” Rebus sounded exasperated. “How the hell do you know all this?”

“Got to keep up with politics, John. It’s what makes the wheels turn. And besides, our young friend here shares a name with my favorite tenor saxophone player.”

Rebus was already tottering back down the grassy slope. The body had come to rest against a shelf of rock fifteen feet above one of the narrow paths that snaked around the base of the ancient volcanic plug. Steelforth was on the path itself, taking a call on his cell. He flipped the phone shut as Rebus neared.

“Remember,” Rebus reminded him, “how we saw the foreign secretary leaving in his chauffeured car? Funny that he’d go without one of his men.”

“Ben Webster,” Steelforth stated. “That was the castle on the phone; seems he’s the only one missing.”

“International development.”

“You’re well informed, Inspector.” Steelforth made a show of looking Rebus up and down. “Maybe I’ve misjudged you. But international development is a separate department from the F.O. Webster was PPS—parliamentary private secretary.”

“Meaning what?”

“The minister’s right-hand man.”

“Excuse my ignorance.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m still impressed.”

“Is this where you make an offer to keep me off your back?”

Steelforth smiled. “That’s usually not necessary.”

“Might be in my case.”

But Steelforth was shaking his head. “I doubt you can be bought in that particular way. Nevertheless, we both know this will be wrenched from your hands in the next few hours, so why waste energy? Battlers like yourself usually know when it’s time to rest and refuel.”

“Are you inviting me to the Great Hall for port and cigars?”

“I’m telling you the truth as I see it.”

Rebus was watching another van arrive on the road below them. It would be from the morgue, here to collect the body. Another job for Professor Gates and his staff.

“You know what I think really bothers you, Inspector?” Steelforth had taken a step closer. His phone was ringing but he chose to ignore it. “You see all this as an incursion. Edinburgh is
your
town, and you wish we’d all just fuck off and go back home. Does that about sum it up?”

“Just about.” Rebus was prepared to admit it.

“A few days, it’ll all be over, like a bad dream you’ll wake up from. But in the meantime...” His lips were almost touching Rebus’s ear.
“Get used to it,”
he whispered, and moved away.

“Seems a nice sort,” Tam commented. Rebus turned toward him.

“How long’ve you been there?”

“Not long.”

“Any news for me?”

“Pathologist’s the one with the answers.”

Rebus nodded slowly. “All the same, though...”

“Nothing points to him doing anything but jumping.”

“He screamed all the way down. Think a suicide would do that?”

“I know I would. But then, I’m scared of heights.”

Rebus was rubbing the side of his jaw. He stared up at the castle. “So either he fell or he jumped.”

“Or was given a sudden push,” Tam added. “No time to even think about clawing his way to safety.”

“Thanks for that.”

“Could be there was bagpipe music between courses. Might’ve broken his will to live.”

“You’re a jazz snob, Tam.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“No note tucked away inside his jacket?”

Tam shook his head. “But I did have half a mind to give you this.” He held up a small cardboard folder. “Seems he was staying at the Balmoral.”

“That’s nice.” Rebus opened the folder and saw the plastic key card. He removed it. Closing the folder, he examined Ben Webster’s signature and room number.

“Might be a good-bye-cruel-world waiting for you there,” Tam said.

“Only one way to find out.” Rebus slipped the key into his own pocket. “Thanks, Tam.”

“Just remember: it was
you
that found it. I don’t want any grief.”

“Understood.” The two men stood in silence for a moment, a pair of old pros who’d seen everything the job could throw at them. The morgue attendants were approaching, one of them carrying a body bag.

“Nice night for it,” he commented. “All done and dusted, Tam?”

“Doctor’s not arrived yet.”

The attendant checked his watch. “Think he’ll be long?”

Tam just shrugged. “Depends who’s drawn the short straw.”

The attendant puffed air out from his cheeks. “Going to be a long night,” he said.

“Long night,” his partner echoed.

“Know they’ve had us move some of the bodies out of the morgue?”

“Why’s that?” Rebus asked.

“In case any of these rallies and marches turns nasty.”

“Courts and cells are empty and waiting, too,” Tam added.

“ERs on standby,” the attendant countered.

“You make it sound like
Apocalypse Now,
” Rebus said. His cell sounded and he moved away a little. Caller ID: Siobhan.

“What can I do for you?” he said into the phone.

“I need a drink,” her voice explained.

“Trouble with the folks?”

“My car’s been vandalized.”

“Catch them in the act?”

“In a manner of speaking. So how about the Oxford Bar?”

“Tempting, but I’m on something. Tell you what, though...”

“What?”

“We could rendezvous at the Balmoral.”

“Spending your overtime?”

“I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

“Twenty minutes?”

“Fine.” He snapped shut the phone.

“Tragedy runs in that family,” Tam was musing.

“Which one?”

The SOCO nodded in the direction of the corpse. “Mum was attacked a few years back, died as a result.” He paused. “Think something could prey on your mind all that time?”

“Just needs the right trigger,” one of the morgue attendants added.

Everyone, Rebus decided, was a bloody psychologist these days.

He decided to leave the car and walk; quicker than trying to negotiate the barriers again. He was at Waverley in minutes; had to clamber over a couple of obstacles. Some unlucky tourists had just arrived by train. No taxis to be had, so they stood behind the railings, bemused and abandoned. He gave them a body swerve, turned the corner into Princes Street, and was outside the Balmoral Hotel. Some locals still called it the North British, though it had changed its name years back. Its large, illuminated clock tower still ran a few minutes fast, so passengers would be sure to catch their train. A uniformed doorman ushered Rebus inside, where a keen-eyed concierge immediately marked him as trouble of some kind.

“How can I be of assistance this evening, sir?”

Rebus held out his ID in one hand, key card in the other. “I need to take a look at this room.”

“And why’s that, Inspector?”