The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (7 page)

She’d sent Rebus a copy of the book; he’d sent it back by return mail. Then he’d gone out two weeks later and bought himself a copy—half price on Princes Street. Flicked through it but hadn’t had the stomach for the whole thing. Nothing brought the bile up quicker than a penitent...

“Hello?”

“Mairie, it’s John Rebus.”

“Sorry, the only John Rebus I know is dead.”

“Now that’s hardly fair...”

“You sent my book back! After I’d signed it to you and everything!”

“Signed it?”

“You didn’t even read the inscription?”

“What did it say?”

“It said, ‘Whatever it is you’re wanting, get stuffed.’”

“Sorry about that, Mairie. Let me make it up to you.”

“By asking a favor?”

“How did you guess?” He smiled into the receiver. “You going to the march?”

“Thinking about it.”

“I could buy you a tofu burger.”

She gave a snort. “Long time since I was
that
cheap a date.”

“I’ll throw in a mug of decaf...”

“What the hell do you want, John?” The words cold, but the voice thawing a little.

“I want some info on an outfit called Pennen Industries. Used to be Ministry of Defense. I think they’re in town right now.”

“And why am I interested?”

“You’re not, but I am.” He paused to light a cigarette, exhaled smoke as he spoke. “Did you hear about Cafferty’s chum?”

“Which one?” Trying not to sound interested.

“Cyril Colliar. That missing scrap from his jacket has turned up.”

“With Cafferty’s confession written on it? He told me you wouldn’t give up.”

“Just thought I’d let you know—it’s not exactly common knowledge.”

She was silent for a moment. “And Pennen Industries?”

“Something else entirely. You heard about Ben Webster?”

“It was on the news.”

“Pennen was paying for his stay at the Balmoral.”

“So?”

“So I’d like to know a bit more about them.”

“Their managing director’s name is Richard Pennen.” She laughed, sensing his bemusement. “Ever heard of Google?”

“And you just did that while we’re talking?”

“Do you even have a computer at home?”

“I bought a laptop.”

“So you’re on the Internet?”

“In theory,” he confessed. “But, hey, I play a mean game of Minesweeper.”

She laughed again, and he knew it was going to be all right between them. He heard something hissing in the background, the clinking of cups.

“Which café are you in?” he asked.

“Montpelier’s. There are people outside, all dressed in white.”

Montpelier’s was in Bruntsfield; five minutes by car. “I could come buy you that coffee. You can show me how to use my laptop.”

“I’m just leaving. Want to meet later at the Meadows?”

“Not especially. How about a drink?”

“Maybe. I’ll see what I can find about Pennen, call you when I’m finished.”

“You’re a star, Mairie.”

“And a best seller to boot.” She paused. “Cafferty’s share went to charity, you know.”

“He can afford to be generous. Talk to you later.” Rebus finished the call, decided to check for messages. There was only the one. Steelforth’s voice had gotten just a dozen words out before Rebus cut it off. The unfinished threat echoed in his head as he crossed to the stereo and filled the room with the Groundhogs.

Don’t ever try to outsmart me, Rebus, or I’ll
...

“...break most of the major bones,” Professor Gates was saying. He gave a shrug. “Fall like that, what else can you expect?”

He was at work because Ben Webster was news. Rush job: everyone wanted the case closed as soon as possible.

“A nice suicide verdict” was how Gates had put it earlier. He was joined in the autopsy suite by Dr. Curt. In Scots law, two pathologists were needed: corroboration was the result. Kept things tidy in court. Gates was the heavier of the two men, face red veined, nose misshapen by early abuse on the rugby field (his version) or an ill-judged student fight. Curt, his junior by only four or five years, was slightly taller and a good deal thinner. Both men had tenure at the University of Edinburgh. With the term finished, they could have been sunning themselves elsewhere, but Rebus had never known them to take holidays—either would have regarded it as a sign of weakness in the other.

“Not on the march, John?” Curt asked. The three men were gathered around a steel slab in the morgue on Cowgate. Just behind them, an assistant was moving pans and instruments with a series of metallic scrapes and clatterings.

“Too tame for me,” Rebus answered. “Monday, that’s when I’ll be out.”

“With all the other anarchists,” Gates added, slicing into the body. There was an area for spectators, and Rebus would usually have stayed there, shielded by Plexiglas, distanced from this ritual. But this being the weekend, Gates had said they could “rise to a certain informality.” Rebus had seen the insides of a human before, but he averted his gaze nonetheless.

“What was he—thirty-four, thirty-five?” Gates asked.

“Thirty-four,” the assistant confirmed.

“In pretty good shape...considering.”

“Sister says he kept fit: jogging, swimming, gym.”

“Is that who did the formal ID?” Rebus asked, happy to turn his head in the assistant’s direction.

“Parents are dead.”

“It was in the papers, wasn’t it?” Curt drawled, keeping a beady eye on his colleague’s work. “Scalpel sharp enough, Sandy?”

Gates ignored this. “Mother was killed during a break-in. Tragic, really; father couldn’t go on without her.”

“Just wasted away, didn’t he?” Curt added. “Want me to take over, Sandy? Can’t blame you for feeling tired, the week we’ve had...”

“Stop fussing.”

Curt offered a sigh and a shrug, both for Rebus’s benefit.

“Did the sister come down from Dundee?” Rebus asked the assistant.

“Works in London. She’s a cop, nicer-looking than most.”

“No valentine for you next year,” Rebus retorted.

“Present company excepted, obviously.”

“Poor girl,” Curt commented. “To lose your family...”

“Were they close?” Rebus couldn’t help asking. Gates thought it an odd question; he glanced up from his work. Rebus ignored him.

“Don’t think she’d seen much of him lately,” the assistant was saying.

Like me and Michael
...

“Pretty cut up about it all the same.”

“She didn’t travel up on her own, did she?” Rebus asked.

“Wasn’t anyone with her at the ID,” the assistant said matter-of-factly. “I left her in the waiting area after, gave her a mug of tea.”

“She’s not still there, is she?” Gates snapped.

The assistant looked around him, unsure what rule he’d broken. “I had to get the cutters ready...”

“Place is deserted apart from us,” Gates barked. “Go see she’s all right.”

“I’ll do it,” Rebus stated.

Gates turned toward him, hands cradling a pile of glistening innards. “What’s the matter, John? Lost the stomach...?”

There was no one in the waiting area. An empty mug, decorated with the logo of a soccer team, the Glasgow Rangers, sat on the floor beside a chair. Rebus touched it: still warm. He walked toward the main door. Members of the public entered the building from an alley off the Cowgate. Rebus looked up and down the road but saw no one. Walked around the corner into Cowgate itself and saw the figure seated on the low wall that fronted the morgue. She was staring at the children’s nursery across the street. Rebus stopped in front of her.

“Got a cigarette?” she asked.

“You want one?”

“Seems as good a time as any.”

“Meaning you don’t smoke.”

“So?”

“So I’m not about to corrupt you.”

She looked at him for the first time. She had short fair hair and a round face with prominent chin. Her skirt was knee length, an inch of leg showing above brown boots with fur edging. On the wall next to her sat an oversize bag, probably everything shepacked—hurriedly, haphazardly—before rushing north.

“I’m DI Rebus,” he told her. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

She nodded slowly, eyes returning to the nursery school. “Is that working?” she asked, gesturing in its direction.

“As far as I know. It’s not open today, of course...”

“But it
is
a nursery.” She turned to examine the building behind her. “And right across the road from
this
. Short journey, isn’t it, DI Rebus?”

“I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you ID’d the body.”

“Why? Did you know Ben?”

“No...I just thought...how come nobody’s with you?”

“Such as?”

“From his constituency...the party.”

“Think Labor gives two hoots about him now?” She gave a short laugh. “They’ll all be lining up at the head of that bloody march, ready for the photo op. Ben kept saying how close he was getting to what he called ‘the power.’ Little good it did him.”

“Careful there,” Rebus warned her, “you sound like you’d fit right in with the marchers.” She gave a snort, but didn’t say anything. “Any idea why he would—?” Rebus broke off. “You know I need to ask?”

“I’m a cop, same as you.” She watched him bring out the packet. “Just one,” she begged. How could he refuse? He lit both their cigarettes and leaned against the wall next to her.

“No cars,” she stated.

“Town’s locked down,” he explained. “You’ll have trouble getting a taxi, but my car’s parked—”

“I can walk,” she told him. “He didn’t leave a note, if that’s what you wanted to know. Seemed fine last night, very relaxed, etcetera. Colleagues can’t explain...no problems at work.” She paused, raising her eyes skyward. “Except he
always
had problems at work.”

“Sounds like the two of you were close.”

“He was in London most weekdays. We hadn’t seen each other for maybe a month—actually, probably more like two—but there were texts, e-mails...” She took a drag on the cigarette.

“He had problems at work?” Rebus prompted.

“Ben worked on foreign aid, deciding which decrepit African dictatorships deserved our help.”

“Explains what he was doing here,” Rebus said, almost to himself.

She gave a slow, sad nod. “Getting closer to the power—a bang-up dinner at Edinburgh Castle while you discuss the world’s poor and hungry.”

“He’d be aware of the irony?” Rebus guessed.

“Oh, yes.”

“And the futility?”

She fixed her eyes on his. “Never,” she said quietly. “Wasn’t in Ben’s nature.” She blinked back tears, sniffed and sighed, and flipped most of the cigarette onto the road. “I need to go.” She brought a wallet from her shoulder bag, handed Rebus a business card. Nothing on it but her name—Stacey Webster—and a cell number.

“How long have you been in the police, Stacey?”

“Eight years. The last three at Scotland Yard.” Her eyes fixed on his. “You’ll have questions for me: did Ben have any enemies? Money problems? Relationships gone bad? Maybe later, eh? A day or so, give me a call.”

“Okay.”

“Nothing in the...?” She had trouble getting the next word out; sucked in some air and tried again. “Nothing to suggest he didn’t just fall?”

“He’d had a glass or two of wine—might’ve made him woozy.”

“Nobody saw anything?”

Rebus offered a shrug. “Sure I can’t give you a lift?”

She shook her head. “I need to walk.”

“Word of advice: steer clear of the parade route. Maybe I’ll see you again...and I really am sorry about Ben.”

Her eyes bored into his. “You actually sound as if you mean that.”

He almost opened up to her—
I left my own brother in a box only yesterday
—but gave a twitch of the mouth instead. She might have started asking questions:
Were you close? Are you okay?
Questions he didn’t really know the answers to. He watched her start her long and lonely walk along Cowgate, then went back inside for the autopsy’s closing act.

4

B
y the time Siobhan arrived at the Meadows, the line of waiting marchers stretched all the way down the side of the old infirmary and across the playing fields to where the rows of buses sat. Someone with a megaphone was warning that it might be two hours before those at the back of the line actually started moving.

“It’s the pigs,” someone explained. “Only letting us go in batches of forty or fifty.”

Siobhan had been about to defend the tactic but knew it would give her away. She moved down the patient line, wondering how she was expected to meet her parents. There had to be a hundred thousand people here, maybe even double that. She’d never known a crowd like it; T in the Park only got sixty thousand. The local soccer derby might attract eighteen on a good day. New Year’s Eve in and around Princes Street, you could get close to a hundred.

This was bigger.

And everyone was smiling.

Hardly a uniform to be seen; not many security guys either. Families streaming down from Morningside and Tollcross and Newington. She’d bumped into half a dozen acquaintances and neighbors. The lord provost was leading the procession. Some said Gordon Brown was there, too. Later, he’d be addressing a rally, the police protection squad in attendance, though Operation Sorbus had graded him low risk due to his active pronouncements on aid and fair trade. She’d been shown a list of celebrities who were expected to hit the city: Geldof and Bono, of course; maybe Ewan McGregor (who was due at an event in Dunblane anyway); Julie Christie; Claudia Schiffer; George Clooney; Susan Sarandon...Having worked her way down the line, Siobhan headed for the main stage. A band was playing, a few people were dancing enthusiastically. Most just sat on the grass and watched. The small tented village nearby offered activities for children, first aid, petitions, and exhibits. Crafts were being sold, flyers handed out. One of the tabloids seemed to have been distributing
MAKE POVERTY HISTORY
placards. Recipients were now tearing off the top section of each placard, removing the tabloid’s masthead. Helium-filled balloons rose into the sky. A makeshift brass band was circumnavigating the field, followed by an African steel band. More dancing; more smiles. She knew then, knew that it was going to be all right. There’d be no riots today, not on this march.

She looked at her cell. No messages. She’d tried her parents twice, but they weren’t answering. So she commenced another tour of the site. A smaller stage had been erected in front of a stationary open-topped bus. There were TV cameras here, and people were being interviewed. She recognized Pete Postlethwaite and Billy Boyd; caught a glimpse of Billy Bragg. The actor she really wanted to see was Gael García Bernal, just in case he really did look as good in the flesh...

The lines at the vegetarian food vans were longer than the one for burgers. She’d been vegetarian herself at one time but had lapsed several years back, blaming Rebus and the bacon rolls he’d kept wafting in her face. She thought of texting him, dragging him down here. What else would he be doing? Either slumped on the sofa or resting on a stool at the Oxford Bar. But she sent a text to her parents instead, then headed toward the waiting lines again. Banners had been hoisted high, whistles were being blown, drums beaten. All that energy in the air...Rebus would say it was being wasted. He’d say the political deals had already been done. And he’d be right: the guys at Sorbus HQ had told her as much. Gleneagles was for private confabs and public photo ops. The real business had been thrashed out in advance by lesser mortals, chief among them the chancellor of the exchequer. All of it done on the quiet and ratified by eight signatures on the final day of the G8.

“And how much is it all costing?” Siobhan had wondered.

“A hundred and fifty mil, give or take.”

The answer had produced a sharp intake of breath from DCI Macrae. Siobhan had pursed her lips, saying nothing.

“I know what you’re thinking,” her informant had continued. “Same sort of money buys a lot of vaccine...”

Every path across the Meadows was now four-deep with waiting marchers. A new line had formed, stretching back to the tennis courts and Buccleuch Street. As Siobhan squeezed her way past, still no sign of her parents, she caught a blur of color at the edge of her vision. Bright yellow jackets hurrying down Meadow Lane. She followed them, rounding the corner into Buccleuch Place.

And was stopped dead.

Sixty or so black-clad demonstrators had been encircled by double that number of police. The protesters had air horns, which rasped a deafening complaint. They wore sunglasses, black scarves muffling their faces. Some wore hooded tops. Black combat pants and boots, a few bandannas. They didn’t carry signs, and none of them were smiling. Riot shields were all that separated them from the police lines. Someone had spray-painted the anarchist symbol on at least one translucent shield. The mass of demonstrators pressed forward, demanding access to the Meadows. But police tactics said different: containment above all else. A demonstration contained was a demonstration controlled. Siobhan was impressed; her colleagues had to have known the protesters were on their way. They’d taken up position fast and weren’t about to let the situation develop any further than here and now. There were a few other bystanders, torn between this spectacle and a need to join the march. Some of them had their camera phones out. Siobhan looked around, making sure no fresh intake of riot officers tried corralling
her
. The voices from within the cordon seemed foreign, maybe Spanish or Italian. She knew some of the names: Ya Basta, Black Bloc. No sign of anything as outlandish as the Wombles or Rebel Clown Army. Her hand went into her pocket, clutching her ID. Wanted to be ready to show it if things got heated. Helicopter hovering overhead, and a uniformed officer videotaping proceedings from the steps of one of the university buildings. He scanned the street with his camera, pausing on her for a moment before moving on to the other bystanders. But Siobhan was suddenly aware of another camera, focused on
him
. Santal was inside the cordon, recording everything with her own digital video. She was dressed like the others, backpack slung over one shoulder, concentrating on her task rather than joining in with the chants and slogans. The demonstrators wanted their own record: to watch later and enjoy; so they could learn police tactics and how to counter them; and just in case of—maybe even in the hope of—heavy-handedness. They were media savvy, counted lawyers among their activist friends. Film from Genoa had been beamed around the world. No reason fresh film of violent policing wouldn’t be just as efficacious.

Siobhan realized Santal had seen her. The camera was pointed her way, and the mouth below the viewfinder broke into a scowl. Siobhan didn’t think it the right time to wander over and ask for her parents’ whereabouts. Her phone started to vibrate, telling her she had an incoming call. She checked the number but didn’t recognize it.

“Siobhan Clarke,” she said, holding the slim little box to her ear.

“Shiv? It’s Ray Duff. I’m bloody well earning that day out—”

“What day out?”

“The one you owe me...” He paused. “Except that’s not the deal you made with Rebus, is it?”

Siobhan smiled. “All depends. Are you at the lab?”

“Working my ass off on your behalf.”

“The stuff from Clootie Well?”

“Might have something for you, though I’m not sure you’re going to like it. How soon can you get here?”

“Half an hour.” She turned away from the sudden blare of the air horn.

“No prizes for guessing where you are,” Duff’s voice said. “I’ve got it on the news channel here.”

“The march or the demonstration?”

“Demo, naturally. Happy, law-abiding marchers hardly make for a story, even when they number quarter of a million.”

“Quarter of a million?”

“That’s what they’re saying. See you in half an hour.”

“Bye, Ray.” She ended the call. A figure like that...more than half the population of Edinburgh. It was like three million on the streets of London. And sixty black-clad figures hogging the news cycle for the next hour or two...

Because after that, all eyes would turn to the Live 8 concert in London.

No, no, no,
she thought,
too cynical, Siobhan; you’re thinking like John bloody Rebus.
Nobody could ignore a human chain encircling the city, a ribbon of white, all that passion and hope...

Minus one.

Had she ever planned to stick around, add her own small self to the statistics? No chance of that now. She could apologize later to her parents. For now, she was on the move, walking away from the Meadows. Her best bet: St. Leonard’s, the nearest police station. Hitch a lift in a patrol car; hijack one if need be. Her own car was sitting in the garage Rebus had recommended. Mechanic had said to call him on Monday. She remembered how one owner of a 4x4 had apparently moved her car out of town for the duration, lest rioters should target it. Just one more scare story, or so she’d thought at the time...

Santal didn’t appear to notice her leave.

“...can’t even mail a letter,” Ray Duff was saying. “They’ve locked up all the mailboxes in case someone decides to put a bomb in one.”

“Some of the shop fronts on Princes Street are boarded up,” Siobhan added. “What do you reckon it is Ann Summers is afraid of?”

“Basque separatists?” Rebus guessed. “Any chance of us getting to the point?”

Duff snorted. “He’s afraid he’ll miss the big reunion.”

“Reunion?” Siobhan looked at Rebus.

“Pink Floyd,” Rebus answered. “But if it’s anything like McCartney and U2, I’m well shut of it.”

The three were standing in one of the labs belonging to the Lothian and Borders Forensic Science Unit on Howdenhall Road. Duff, midthirties with short brown hair and a pronounced widow’s peak, was polishing his glasses on a corner of his white lab coat. The rise of television’s
CSI
franchise had had, to Rebus’s mind, a detrimental effect on all the Howdenhall techs. Despite their lack of resources, glamour, and pounding sound track, they all seemed to think they were actors. Moreover, some of the CID had started to agree and would ask them to replicate the TV shows’ most far-fetched forensic techniques. Duff had apparently decided that his own role would be that of eccentric genius. As a result, he had dispensed with his contact lenses and reverted to NHS-style specs with thick black frames, the better to complement the row of multicolored pens in his top pocket. Additionally, a line of alligator clips was attached to one lapel. As Rebus had pointed out on arrival, he looked like he’d walked out of a Devo video.

And now he was stringing them along.

“In your own time,” Rebus encouraged him. They were standing in front of a workbench on which various pieces of cloth had been laid out. Duff had placed numbered squares beside each one, and smaller squares—apparently color-coded—next to any stains or blemishes on each article. “Sooner we’re done, sooner you can get back to polishing the chrome on your MG.”

“That reminds me,” Siobhan said. “Thanks for offering me to Ray.”

“You should have seen first prize,” Rebus muttered. “What are we looking at, Prof?”

“Mud and bird shit mostly.” Duff rested his hands on his hips. “Brown for the former, gray for the latter.” He nodded at the colored squares.

“Leaving blue and pink...”

“Blue is for stuff that needs further analysis.”

“Tell me pink is for lipstick,” Siobhan said quietly.

“Blood, actually.” Duff spoke with a flourish.

“Oh, good,” Rebus responded, eyes fixing on Siobhan. “How many?”

“Two so far. Numbered one and two. One is a pair of brown cord trousers. Blood can be a bugger to make out against a brown background—resembles rust. Two belongs to a sports shirt, pale yellow, as you can see.”

“Not really,” Rebus said, leaning over for a closer look. The shirt was caked with dirt. “What’s that on the left breast? Badge of some kind?”

“What it actually says is Keogh’s Garage. The blood spatter is on the back.”

“Spatter?”

Duff nodded. “Consistent with a blow to the head. Something like a hammer, you make contact, break the skin, and when you draw the hammer away, the blood flies off in all directions.”

“Keogh’s Garage?” Siobhan’s question was directed at Rebus, who merely shrugged. Duff, however, cleared his throat.

“Nothing in the Perthshire phone book. Or Edinburgh, come to that.”

“Fast work, Ray,” Siobhan said approvingly.

“Another brownie point there, Ray,” Rebus added with a wink. “How about contestant number one?”

Duff nodded. “Not spatter this time—dollops on the right leg, around the level of the knee. Whack someone on the head, you’ll get some drips like that.”

“You’re saying we’ve got three victims, one attacker?”

Duff shrugged. “No way to prove it, of course. But ask yourself: what are the chances of
three
victims having three different attackers, all ending up in the same obscure location?”

“You’ve got a point, Ray,” Rebus conceded.

“And
we’ve
got a serial killer,” Siobhan said into the silence. “Different blood types, I take it?” She watched Duff nod. “Any idea which order they might have died in?”

“CC Rider is the freshest. I’d guess the sports shirt is the oldest.”

“And no other clues from the cords?”

Duff shook his head slowly, then dug into his lab-coat pocket and produced a clear plastic envelope. “Unless you count this, of course.”

“What is that?” Siobhan asked.

“Cash-machine card,” Duff told her, relishing the moment. “Name of Trevor Guest. So never let me hear you say I don’t earn my little rewards...”

Back in the fresh air, Rebus lit a cigarette. Siobhan paced the length of a parking bay, arms folded.

“One killer,” she stated.

“Yep.”

“Two named victims, the other a mechanic...”

“Or a car salesman,” Rebus mused. “Or just someone who had access to a shirt advertising a garage.”