The Naming of the Dead

Sunday, July 3, 2005

6

So how was The Who?” Siobhan asked. It was late morning on Sunday, and she’d invited Rebus over for brunch. His contribution: a packet of sausages and four floury rolls. She’d put them to one side and made scrambled eggs instead, topping each helping with slices of smoked salmon and a few capers.

“The Who was good,” Rebus said, using his fork to maneuver the capers to the side of his plate.

“You should try one,” she admonished him. He wrinkled his nose and ignored the advice.

“Floyd was good, too,” he told her. “No major fallings-out.” They were facing each other across the small foldaway table in her living room. She lived in a tenement just off Broughton Street, five minutes’ walk from Gayfield Square. “What about you?” he asked, looking around the room. “No signs of Saturday-night debauchery.”

“Chance would be a fine thing.” Her smile grew thoughtful, and she told him about Niddrie.

“Lucky to get out in one piece,” Rebus commented.

“Your friend Mairie was there, writing a piece on Councilman Tench. She said something about some notes she’d sent you…”

“Richard Pennen and Ben Webster,” he confirmed.

“So are you getting anywhere?”

“Onward and upward, Shiv. I also tried phoning a few Guests and Keoghs-with nothing to show for it. Might as well have been chasing a few hoods around the houses.” He’d cleared his plate-capers aside-and was leaning back in his chair. Wanted a cigarette but knew he should wait till she’d finished eating. “Oh, and I had an interesting encounter myself, as it happens.”

So he told her about Cafferty, and by the time he was done her plate was empty.

“He’s the last thing we need,” she said, rising to her feet. Rebus made the beginnings of an offer to clear the table, but she nodded toward the window instead. Smiling, he made his way over and eased it open. Cool air wafted in and he crouched down, lighting up. Made sure to direct the smoke through the gap; held the cigarette out of the window between puffs.

Siobhan’s rules.

“More coffee?” she called.

“Keep it coming,” he answered.

She came in from the kitchen carrying a fresh pot. “There’s another march later on,” she said. “Stop the War Coalition.”

“Bit late for all that, I’d have thought.”

“And the G8 Alternatives…George Galloway’s going to be speaking.”

Rebus gave a snort, stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill. Siobhan had wiped clean the table, lifted one of the boxes onto it. The boxes she’d asked Rebus to bring.

The Cyril Colliar case.

The offer of double pay-sanctioned by James Corbyn-had persuaded the Scene of Crime Unit to put a team together. They were on their way to the Clootie Well. Siobhan had warned them to keep a low profile: “Don’t want local CID getting sniffy.” Advised that SOCOs from Stirling had covered the same area two days before, one of the Edinburgh team had given a chuckle.

“Time we let the grown-ups try it then” was all he’d said.

Siobhan wasn’t hopeful. All the same, on Friday all they’d been doing was bagging evidence of one crime. Now, the signs pointed to two more. It was worth a bit of sifting and lifting.

She started unloading files and folders from the boxes. “You’ve been through this lot already?” she asked.

Rebus slid the window closed. “And all I learned was that Colliar was a big bad bastard. Chances are, he had more enemies than friends.”

“And the odds of him falling prey to a random killing?”

“Slim-we both know that.”

“And yet that appears to be what happened.”

Rebus held up a finger. “We’re reading a lot into a couple of items of clothing, owners unknown.”

“I tried Trevor Guest with Missing Persons.”

“And?”

She shook her head. “Not on any local register.” She tossed an emptied box onto the sofa. “It’s a Sunday morning in July, John…not a hell of a lot we can do before tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Guest’s bank card?”

“It’s HSBC. They’ve only one branch in Edinburgh -precious few in Scotland as a whole.”

“Is that good or bad?”

She gave a sigh. “I got through to one of their call centers. They told me to try the branch on Monday morning.”

“Isn’t there some sort of branch code on the card?”

Siobhan nodded. “Not the sort of information they give out over the phone.”

Rebus sat down at the table. “Keogh’s Garage?”

“Information did what they could. No listing on the Web.”

“The name’s Irish.”

“There are a dozen Keoghs in the phone book.”

He looked at her and smiled. “So you checked too?”

“Soon as I’d sent the SOCOs off.”

“You’ve been busy.” Rebus opened one of the folders; nothing in it he hadn’t seen before.

“Ray Duff’s promised me he’ll go to the lab today.”

“He has his eyes on the prize.”

She gave him a hard look before emptying the final box. The amount of paperwork caused her shoulders to slump.

“Day of rest, eh?” Rebus said. A phone started ringing.

“Yours,” Siobhan said. He went over to the sofa, lifted the cell from his jacket’s inside pocket.

“Rebus,” he announced. Listened for a moment, face darkening. “That’s because I’m not there…” Listening again. “No, I’ll meet you. Where is it you need to be?” Glancing at his watch. “Forty minutes?” Eyes on Siobhan. “I’ll be there.”

He snapped the phone shut.

“Cafferty?” she guessed.

“How did you know?”

“He does something to you…your voice, your face. What does he want?”

“He went to my flat. Says there’s something I need to see. No way I was letting him come here.”

“Much appreciated.”

“He’s got some land deal going on, needs to get to the site.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Rebus knew there was no way to refuse.

Queen Street… Charlotte Square… Lothian Road. Rebus’s Saab, Siobhan the wary passenger, gripping the doorsill with her left hand. They’d been stopped at barriers, made to show ID to various uniforms. Reinforcements were on their way into the city: Sunday was when the big exodus of officers north was due to happen. Siobhan had learned as much during her two days with Macrae, passed the info along to Rebus.

As they waited at lights on Lothian Road, they saw people standing outside the Usher Hall.

“The alternative summit,” Siobhan said. “That’s where Bianca Jagger’s due to speak.”

Rebus just rolled his eyes. In return, she smacked a fist into the side of his thigh.

“Did you see the march on TV? Two hundred thousand!”

“Nice day out for all concerned,” Rebus commented. “Doesn’t change the world I’m living in.” He looked at her. “What about Niddrie last night? Have the ripples from all those positive vibes managed to stretch that far?”

“There were only a dozen of them, John, against two thousand in the camp.”

“I know which side my money’d be on…”

After which they sat in silence until reaching Fountainbridge.

Once an area of breweries and factories where Sean Connery had spent his early years, Fountainbridge was changing. The old industries had all but vanished. The city’s financial district was encroaching. Style bars were opening. One of Rebus’s favorite old watering holes had already been demolished, and he reckoned the bingo hall next door-the Palais de Danse as was-would soon follow. The canal, not much more than an open sewer at one time, had been cleaned up. Families would go there for bike rides or to feed the swans. Not far from the CineWorld complex stood the locked gates of one mothballed brewery. Rebus stopped the car and sounded his horn. A young man in a suit appeared from behind the wall and released the padlock, swinging one half of the gate open, just enough to squeeze the Saab through.

“You’re Mr. Rebus?” he asked through the driver’s-side window.

“That’s right.”

The young man waited to see if Rebus was about to introduce Siobhan. Then he gave a nervous smile and handed over a brochure. Rebus glanced at it before passing it on.

“You’re a real estate agent?”

“I work for Bishops Solicitors, Mr. Rebus. Commercial property. Let me give you my card…” He was reaching into his jacket.

“Where’s Cafferty?”

The tone of voice made the young man more nervous still. “Parked around the side.”

Rebus didn’t wait to hear more.

“He obviously thinks you’re one of Cafferty’s team,” Siobhan said. “And from the line of sweat on his top lip, I’d say he knows who Cafferty is.”

“Whatever he thinks, it’s good news he’s here.”

“Why?”

Rebus turned to her. “Makes it less likely we’re walking into a trap.”

Cafferty’s car was a dark blue Bentley GT. He was standing over it, pressing a plan of the site against the hood so it wouldn’t blow away.

“Here, take a corner, will you?” he said. Siobhan obliged. Cafferty gave her a smile. “DS Clarke. A pleasure as ever. Promotion can’t be too far off, eh? Especially when the chief constable’s trusting you with something this big.”

Siobhan glanced toward Rebus, who shook his head, letting her know he wasn’t Cafferty’s source.

“CID leaks like a sieve” was Cafferty’s explanation. “Always has, always will.”

“What do you want with this place?” Siobhan couldn’t help asking.

Cafferty slapped a hand against the unruly sheet of paper. “Land, DS Clarke. We don’t always realize how precious it is in Edinburgh. You’ve got the Firth of Forth to the north, North Sea to the east, and the Pentland Hills to the south. Developers are scrabbling about for projects, putting pressure on the council to free up the Green Belt. And here’s a twenty-acre plot only five minutes’ walk from the financial district.”

“So what would you do with it?”

“Apart,” Rebus interrupted, “from burying a few bodies in the foundations.”

Cafferty decided to laugh at this. “That book made me a bit of money. Need to invest it somehow.”

“Mairie Henderson thinks your share went to charity,” Rebus said.

Cafferty ignored him. “Did you read it, DS Clarke?”

She hesitated, giving Cafferty his answer. “Like it?” he asked.

“Don’t really remember.”

“They’re thinking of turning it into a film. The early chapters, at any rate.” He lifted the plan and folded it, tossed it onto the Bentley’s backseat. “I’m not sure about this place.” He turned his attention to Rebus. “You mentioned bodies, and that’s what I get a sense of. All the people who used to work here, all of them gone, and Scottish industry along with them. A lot of my family were miners-I’ll bet you didn’t know that.” He paused. “You’re from Fife, Rebus. I’m betting you grew up surrounded by coal.” He paused. “I was sorry to hear about your brother.”

“Sympathy from the devil,” Rebus said. “That’s all I need.”

“A killer with a social conscience,” Siobhan added in an undertone.

“I wouldn’t be the first…” Cafferty’s voice drifted off. He rubbed a finger along the underside of his nose. “In fact, maybe that’s what’s landed on your plate.” He reached into the car again, opening the glove box this time. Drew out some rolled-up sheets of paper and made to hand them to Siobhan.

“Tell me what they are,” she asked, hands on hips.

“They’re your case, DS Clarke. Proof that we’re dealing with a bad bastard. A bad bastard who likes other bad bastards.”

She took the papers but didn’t look at them. “We’re dealing with?” Quoting his own words back at him.

Cafferty’s attention turned to Rebus. “Doesn’t she know that’s the deal?”

“There was never a deal,” Rebus stated.

“Like it or not, I’m on your side in this one.” Cafferty’s eyes were on Siobhan again. “These papers cost me some substantial favors. If they help you catch him, I’ll accept that. But I’ll be hunting him, too…with you or without you.”

“Then why help us?”

Cafferty’s mouth twitched. “Makes the race that bit more exciting.” He held open the back door of the Bentley. “Bags of space in the rear…make yourselves at home.”

Rebus joined Siobhan on the backseat, while Cafferty sat in the front. Both detectives were aware of Cafferty’s gaze. He wanted them to be impressed.

Rebus, for one, was finding it hard not to give anything away. He wasn’t just impressed; he was amazed.

Keogh’s Garage was in Carlisle. One of the mechanics, Edward Isley, had been found murdered three months back, his body dumped on waste ground just outside the city. A blow to the head and a toxic injection of heroin. The body had been naked from the waist up. No witnesses, no clues, no suspects.

Siobhan met Rebus’s eyes.

“Does he have a brother?” Rebus asked.

“Some obscure musical reference?” she guessed.

“Read on, Macduff,” Cafferty said.

The notes were just that, culled from police records. Those same police records went on to report that Isley had been in employment only a little over a month, having been released from a six-year prison stretch for rape and sexual assault. Both Isley’s victims had been prostitutes: one picked up in Penrith and the other farther south in Lancaster. They worked the M6 motorway, catering to truck drivers. It was believed there might be other victims out there, scared either of testifying or of being identified.

“How did you get these?” The question burst from Rebus. It caused Cafferty to chuckle. “Networks are wonderful things, Rebus-you should know that.”

“Plenty of palms greased along the way, no doubt.”

“Christ, John,” Siobhan was hissing, “look at this.”

Rebus started reading again. Trevor Guest. The notes started with bank details and a home address-in Newcastle. Guest had been unemployed ever since being released from a three-year term for aggravated burglary and an assault on a man outside a pub. During one break-in, he’d attempted to sexually assault a teenage babysitter.

“Another piece of work,” Rebus muttered.

“Who went the same way as the others.” Siobhan traced the relevant words with her index finger. Body found dumped by the shore at Tynemouth, just east of Newcastle. Head smashed in, lethal dose of heroin. The killing had happened two months back.

“He’d only been out of jail for two weeks.”

Edward Isley: three months past.

Trevor Guest: two.

Cyril Colliar: six weeks.

“Looks like maybe Guest put up a fight,” Siobhan commented.

Yes: four broken fingers, lacerations to the face and chest. Body pummeled.

“So we’ve got a killer who’s only after scumbags,” Rebus summed up.

“And you’re thinking, More power to him?” Cafferty guessed.

“A vigilante,” Siobhan said. “Tidying up all the rapists.”

“Our burglar friend didn’t rape anyone,” Rebus felt it necessary to point out.

“But he tried to,” Cafferty said. “Tell me, does all of this make your job easier or harder?”

Siobhan just shrugged. “He’s working at pretty regular intervals,” she said to Rebus.

“Twelve weeks, eight, and six,” he agreed. “Means we should have had another one by now.”

“Maybe we just haven’t looked.”

“Why Auchterarder?” Cafferty asked. It was a good question.

“Sometimes they take trophies.”

“And hang them on public display?” Cafferty’s brow furrowed.

“The Clootie Well doesn’t get that many visitors.” Siobhan grew thoughtful, turned back to the top of the first sheet and started reading again. Rebus got out of the car. The leather smell was beginning to get to him. He tried to light a cigarette, but the breeze kept extinguishing the flame. Heard the door of the Bentley open and close.

“Here,” Cafferty said, handing him the car’s chrome-plated lighter. Rebus took it, got the cigarette going, gave it back with the briefest of nods.

“It was always business with me, Rebus, back in the old days…”

“That’s a myth all you butchers use. You forget, Cafferty, I’ve seen what you did to people.”

Cafferty gave a slow shrug. “A different world…”

Rebus exhaled smoke. “Anyway, looks like you can rest easy. Your man was picked out all right, but not because of any connection to you.”

“Whoever did it, he carries a grudge.”

“A big one,” Rebus conceded.

“And he knows about convicts, knows release dates and what happens to them after.”

Rebus nodded, scraping the heel of one shoe over the rutted tarmac.

“And you’ll go on trying to catch him?” Cafferty guessed.

“It’s what I’m paid for.”

“But it’s never been about the money to you, Rebus, never just been a job.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Actually I do.” Cafferty was nodding now. “Otherwise I’d have tempted you onto my payroll, like dozens of your colleagues over the years.”

Rebus flicked the remains of his cigarette onto the ground. Flecks of ash blew back, dotting Cafferty’s coat. “You really going to buy this shit hole?” Rebus asked.

“Probably not. But I could if I wanted to.”

“And that gives you a buzz?”

“Most things are within reach, Rebus. We’re just scared what we’ll find when we get there.”

Siobhan was out of the car, finger stabbing the bottom of the final sheet. “What’s this?” she was asking as she walked around the Bentley toward them. Cafferty narrowed his eyes in concentration.

“I’m guessing a Web site,” he said.

“Of course it’s a Web site,” she snapped. “That’s where half this stuff comes from.” She shook the sheets in his face.

“You mean it’s a clue?” he asked archly.

She’d turned her back, making for Rebus’s Saab, signaling to him with her arm that it was time to go.

“She’s really shaping up, isn’t she?” Cafferty told Rebus in an undertone. It didn’t just sound like praise either: to Rebus’s mind, it was as if the gangster was taking at least a portion of the credit.

On the way back into town, Rebus found a local news station. An alternative children’s summit was being held in Dunblane.

“I can’t hear the name of that place without shivering,” Siobhan admitted.

“I’ll let you in on a secret: Professor Gates was one of the pathologists.”

“He’s never said.”

“Won’t talk about it,” Rebus told her. He turned up the radio volume a little. Bianca Jagger was speaking to the audience at the Usher Hall.

“They have been brilliant at hijacking our campaign to make poverty history…”

“She means Bono and company,” Siobhan said. Rebus nodded agreement.

“Bob Geldof has not just danced with the devil, but slept with the enemy…”

As applause broke out, Rebus turned the volume down again. The reporter was saying that there was little evidence the Hyde Park audience was making its way north. Indeed, many of Saturday’s marchers had already returned home from Edinburgh.

“‘Dance with the Devil,’” Rebus mused. “Cozy Powell song, I seem to remember.” He broke off, slamming his feet on brake and clutch. A convoy of white vans was racing toward the Saab on the wrong side of the road. Headlights flashing, but no sirens. The windshield of each van was covered with a mesh grille. They’d streamed into the Saab’s lane to get past a couple of other vehicles. Cops in riot gear could be seen through the side windows. The first van careered back into its own lane, missing the Saab’s front wing by an inch. The others followed.

“Bloody hell,” Siobhan gasped.

“Welcome to the police state,” Rebus added. The engine had stalled, so he turned the ignition again. “Not a bad emergency stop though.”

“Were they some of our lot?” Siobhan had turned in her seat to examine the disappearing convoy.

“No markings that I could see.”

“Think there’s been trouble somewhere?” She was thinking of Niddrie.

Rebus shook his head. “If you ask me, they’re scooting back to Pollock Halls for tea and biscuits. And they pulled that little stunt just because they could.”

“You say they as if we’re not on the same side.”

“Remains to be seen, Siobhan. Want a coffee? I need something to get the old heart pumping.”

There was a Starbucks on the corner of Lothian Road and Bread Street. Hard to find a parking space. Rebus speculated that they were too close to the Usher Hall. He opted for a double yellow line, stuck a POLICE notice on the dashboard. Inside the café, Siobhan asked the teenager behind the register if he wasn’t scared of protesters. He just shrugged.

“We’ve got our orders.”

Siobhan dropped a pound coin into the tips box. She’d brought her shoulder bag with her. At the table, she slid her laptop out and switched it on.

“This me getting my tutorial?” Rebus asked, blowing across the surface of his coffee. He’d gone for regular, complaining that he could buy a whole jar for the price of one of the costlier options. Siobhan scooped whipped cream from her hot chocolate with a finger.

“Can you see the screen all right?” she asked. Rebus nodded. “Then watch this.” Within seconds, she was online and typing names into a search engine:

Edward Isley.

Trevor Guest.

Cyril Colliar.

“Plenty of hits,” she commented, scrolling down a page. “But only one with all three.” Her cursor ran back up to the first entry. She tapped the touch pad twice and waited.

“We’d have checked this, of course,” she said.

“Of course.”

“Well…some of us would. But first we’d have needed Isley’s name.” Her eyes met Rebus’s. “Cafferty has saved us a long day’s slog.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m about to join his fan club.”

The welcome screen from a Web site had appeared. Siobhan studied it. Rebus moved a little closer for a better view. The site seemed to be called BeastWatch. There were grainy head-and-shoulder shots of half a dozen men, with chunks of text to the right.

“Listen to this,” Siobhan said, tracing the words on the screen with her finger. “‘As the parents of a rape victim, we feel it is our right to know the whereabouts of her attacker after his release from prison. The aim of this site is to allow families and friends-and victims themselves-to post details of release dates, along with photos and descriptions, the better to prepare society for the beasts in our midst…’” Her voice died away, lips moving silently as she read the rest to herself. There were links to a photo gallery called Beast in View and a discussion group, as well as an online petition. Siobhan moved the cursor to Edward Isley’s photo and tapped the pad. A page of details came up, showing Isley’s expected release date from prison, nickname-Fast Eddie-and areas he would most likely frequent.

“It says ‘expected release date,’” Siobhan pointed out.

Rebus nodded. “And nothing more up to date…no sign they knew where he was working.”

“But it does say he was trained as a car mechanic…mentions Carlisle, too. Posted by…” Siobhan sought out the relevant details. “It just says Concerned.”

She tried Trevor Guest next.

“Same set-up,” Rebus commented.

“And posted anonymously.”

She returned to the home page and clicked on Cyril Colliar. “That same photo’s in our files,” she said.

“It’s from one of the tabloids,” Rebus explained, watching more photos of Colliar pop up. Siobhan swore under her breath. “What is it?”

“Listen: ‘This is the animal who put our beloved daughter through hell, and who has blighted our lives ever since. He’s up for release soon, having shown no remorse, or even admitting his guilt despite all the evidence. We were so shocked that he will soon be back in our midst that we had to do something, and this site is the result. We want to thank all of you for your support. We believe this may be the first site of its kind in Britain, though others like it exist elsewhere, and our friends in the USA in particular have given us such help in getting started.’”

“Vicky Jensen’s parents did all this?” Rebus said.

“Looks like.”

“How come we didn’t know?”

Siobhan shrugged, concentrated on finishing the page.

“He’s picking them off,” Rebus went on. “That’s what he’s doing, right?”

“He or she,” Siobhan corrected him.

“So we need to know who’s been accessing this site.”

“Eric Bain at Fettes might help.”

Rebus looked at her. “You mean Brains? Is he still talking to you?”

“I haven’t seen him in a while…”

“Not since you gave him the brush-off?”

She glowered at Rebus, who held up his hands in surrender. “Got to be worth a try, all the same,” he admitted. “I can do the asking, if you like.”

She sat back in her chair, folded her arms. “Bugs you, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“I’m the DS, you’re the DI, yet Corbyn’s put me in charge.”

“No skin off my nose…” He tried to sound slighted by the accusation.

“Sure about that? Because if we’re going to work together on this…”

“I only asked if you wanted me to speak to Brains.” His irritation showed now.

Siobhan unfolded her arms, bowed her head. “Sorry, John.”

“Just as well you didn’t have espresso” was all he said in reply.

“A day off would have been nice,” Siobhan stated with a smile.

“Well, you could always go home and put your feet up.”

“Or?”

“Or we could go talk to Mr. and Mrs. Jensen.” He wafted a hand toward the laptop. “See what they can tell us about their little contribution to the World Wide Web.”

Siobhan nodded slowly, dipped her finger back into the whipped cream. “Then that’s what we should probably do,” she said.

The Jensens lived in a rambling four-story house overlooking Leith Links. The basement level was daughter Vicky’s domain. It had its own separate entrance, reached by a short flight of stone steps. The gate at the top of the steps boasted a lock, and there were bars on the windows on either side of the door, plus a sticker warning potential intruders of an alarm system.

None of this had been deemed necessary before Cyril Colliar’s attack. Back then, Vicky had been a bright eighteen-year-old studying at Napier College. Now, ten years later, she still lived at home, as far as Rebus was aware. He stood on the doorstep, hesitated a moment.

“Diplomacy’s never been my strong point,” he advised Siobhan.

“Then let me do the talking.” She reached past him and pushed the bell.

Thomas Jensen was removing his reading glasses as he opened the door. He recognized Rebus and his eyes widened.

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing to worry about, Mr. Jensen,” Siobhan assured him, showing her ID. “Just need to ask a few questions.”

“You’re still trying to find his killer?” Jensen guessed. He was medium height and in his early fifties, hair graying at the temples. The red V-neck sweater looked new and expensive. Cashmere, maybe. “Why the hell do you think I’d want to help you?”

“We’re interested in your Web site.”

Jensen frowned. “Pretty standard practice these days if you’re a vet.”

“Not your clinic, sir,” Rebus explained.

“BeastWatch,” Siobhan added.

“Oh, that…” Jensen looked down at the floor, gave a sigh. “Dolly’s pet project.”

“Dolly being your wife?”

“Dorothy, yes.”

“Is she at home, Mr. Jensen?”

He shook his head. Looked past them as if scanning the outside world for a sign of her. “She was going to Usher Hall.”

Rebus nodded as if this explained everything. “Thing is, sir, we’ve got a bit of a problem…”

“Oh?”

“It’s to do with the Web site.” Rebus gestured in the direction of the hallway. “If we could come in and tell you about it…?”

Jensen seemed reluctant, but good manners prevailed. He led them into the living room. There was a dining room off, its table spread with newspapers. “Seem to spend all of Sunday reading them,” Jensen explained, tucking his spectacles into his pocket. He motioned for them to sit down. Siobhan settled herself on the sofa, while Jensen himself took an armchair. Rebus, however, stayed standing by the glass doors to the dining room, peering through them toward the array of newsprint. Nothing out of the ordinary, no particular stories or paragraphs marked…

“The problem is this, Mr. Jensen,” Siobhan was saying in mea sured tones. “Cyril Colliar is dead, and so are two other men.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And we think we’re looking at a single culprit.”

“But…”

“A culprit who may have plucked the names of all three victims from your Web site.”

“All three?”

“Edward Isley and Trevor Guest,” Rebus recited. “Plenty more names in your hall of shame…I wonder who’ll be next.”

“There must be some mistake.” The blood had drained from Jensen’s face.

“Do you know Auchterarder at all, sir?” Rebus asked.

“No, not really.”

“Gleneagles?”

“We did go there once, a veterinarians’ conference.”

“Was there maybe a bus trip to the Clootie Well?”

Jensen shook his head. “Just some seminars and a dinner dance…” He sounded befuddled. “Look, I don’t think I can help you.”

“The Web site was your wife’s idea?” Siobhan asked quietly.

“It was a way of dealing with…She’d gone online looking for help.”

“Help?”

“Victims’ families. She wanted to know how to help Vicky. Along the way, the idea came to her.”

“She had help to construct the site?”

“We paid a firm of designers.”

“And the other sites in America…?”

“Oh, yes, they helped with layout. Once it was up and running…” Jensen shrugged. “I think it almost manages itself.”

“Do people subscribe?”

Jensen nodded. “If they want the newsletter. It’s supposed to be every quarter, but again, I’m not sure Dolly’s kept it up.”

“So you have a list of subscribers?” Rebus asked.

Siobhan looked at him. “Not that you need to be a subscriber to look at the site.”

“There’ll be a list somewhere,” Jensen was saying.

“How long has the site been active?” Siobhan asked.

“Eight or nine months. It was when his release date started to come closer…Dolly was getting more and more anxious.” He paused, glanced at his watch. “For Vicky, I mean.”

As if on cue, the front door opened and closed. An excited, breathless voice came from the hallway.

“I did it, Dad! The shore and back!” The woman who filled the door frame was red-faced and overweight. She shrieked when she saw that her father was not alone.

“It’s all right, Vicky.”

But she’d turned on her heels and fled. Another door opened and slammed shut. They heard her footsteps as she padded down to her basement refuge. Thomas Jensen’s shoulders slumped.

“That’s as far as she’s managed on her own,” he explained.

Rebus nodded. The shore was barely half a mile away. He knew now why Jensen had been so anxious at their arrival, and why he had scanned the world outside.

“We pay someone to stay with her weekdays,” Jensen went on, hands in his lap. “Means we can both keep working.”

“You told her Colliar’s dead?” Rebus asked.

“Yes,” Jensen confirmed.

“She was interviewed about it?”

Now Jensen shook his head. “The officer who came to ask us questions…he was very understanding when we explained about Vicky.” Rebus and Siobhan shared a look: Going through the motions…not trying too hard…‘We didn’t kill him, you know. Even if he’d been standing there in front of me…” Jensen’s eyes grew unfocused. “I’m not sure I could bring myself to do it.”

“They all died of injections, Mr. Jensen,” Siobhan stated.

The vet blinked a couple of times, raised a hand slowly and squeezed the skin either side of his nose, just below the eyes. “If you’re going to accuse me of anything, I’d like my lawyer to hear it.”

“We just need your help, sir.”

He stared at her. “And that’s the one thing I’m determined not to give you.”

“We’ll need to talk to your wife and daughter,” Siobhan said, but Jensen was on his feet.

“I want you to leave now. I have to look after Vicky.”

“Of course, sir,” Rebus said.

“But we’ll be back,” Siobhan added. “Lawyer or no lawyer. And remember, Mr. Jensen, tampering with evidence can get you locked up.” She strode toward the door, Rebus following in her wake. Outside, he lit a cigarette, staring toward a makeshift game of soccer on the links.

“See, when I said diplomacy wasn’t my strong point…?”

“What?”

“Five more minutes in there, you’d’ve been roughing him up.”

“Don’t be stupid.” But the blood had risen to her face. She puffed out her cheeks and made an exasperated sound.

“What did you mean about evidence?” Rebus asked.

“Web sites can be wound down,” she explained. “Subscriber lists can be lost.”

“Which means the sooner we speak to Brains, the better.”

Eric Bain was watching the Live 8 concert on his computer-at least, that was what it looked like to Rebus, but Bain soon corrected him.

“Editing it, actually.”

“A download?” Siobhan guessed, but Bain shook his head.

“Burned it onto DVD-ROM; now I’m taking out anything I don’t need.”

“That would take some time in my case,” Rebus said.

“It easy enough once you get the hang of the tools.”

“I think,” Siobhan broke in, “DI Rebus means he’d be deleting a lot of stuff.”

Bain smiled at this. He hadn’t gotten up since they’d arrived, hadn’t so much as glanced up from the screen. It was his girlfriend, Molly, who’d opened the door for them; Molly who’d asked if they’d like a cup of tea. She was in the kitchen now, boiling the kettle, while Bain stuck to his task in the living room.

It was a top-floor apartment in a warehouse conversion off Slateford Road. The brochure had probably referred to it as the “penthouse.” There were expansive views from the small windows, mostly of chimneys and abandoned factories. The top of Corstorphine Hill was just visible in the distance. The room was neater than Rebus had expected. No lengths of wiring, cardboard boxes, soldering irons, or game consoles. Hardly the typical residence of a self-confessed gadget geek.

“How long you been here, Eric?” Rebus asked.

“Couple of months.”

“Pair of you decided to move in together?”

“That’s about the size of it. I’ll be finished here in a minute…”

Rebus nodded, went over to the sofa and made himself comfortable. Molly shuffled in with the tea tray, fizzing with energy. She was wearing mules on her feet. Tight blue jeans that only reached as far as her calves. A red T-shirt with Che Guevara on it. Great figure, and long blond hair-dyed that color, but still suiting her. Rebus had to admit he was impressed. He’d risked several glances toward Siobhan, who on each occasion had been studying Molly the way a scientist would a lab rat. Clearly she too thought Bain had done well for himself.

And Molly had made her mark on Brains: the boy had been housebroken. What was that Elton John line? You nearly had me roped and tied…Bernie Taupin actually. The original Brown Dirt Cowboy to Reg’s Captain Fantastic.

“Place looks great,” Rebus said to Molly as she handed him a mug. His reward: her pink lips and perfect white teeth breaking into a smile. “Didn’t catch your last name…?”

“ Clark,” she said.

“Same as Siobhan here,” Rebus informed her. Molly looked to Siobhan for confirmation.

“I’ve an e at the end,” Siobhan offered.

“Not me,” Molly replied. She’d settled on the sofa next to Rebus but kept moving her bottom, as if unable to get comfortable.

“Still, it gives you something else in common,” Rebus added teasingly, receiving a scowl from Siobhan for his effort. “How long have you two been an item then?”

“Fifteen weeks,” she said breathlessly. “Doesn’t seem long, does it? But sometimes you just know.”

Rebus nodded agreement. “I’m always saying, Siobhan here should settle down. It can be the making of you, can’t it, Molly?”

Molly didn’t look convinced, but still looked at Siobhan with something like sympathy. “It really can,” she stressed. Siobhan gave Rebus a hard stare and accepted her own mug.

“Actually,” Rebus went on, “for a wee while back there, Siobhan and Eric looked like becoming an item.”

“We were just friends,” Siobhan said, forcing out a laugh. Bain seemed frozen in front of the computer screen, hand unmoving on the mouse.

“Is that right, Eric?” Rebus called to him.

“John’s just teasing,” Siobhan was assuring Molly. “Take no notice of him.”

Rebus offered Molly a wink. “Lovely spot of tea,” he said. She was still fidgeting.

“And we’re really sorry to disturb your Sunday,” Siobhan added. “If it wasn’t an emergency…”

Bain’s chair creaked as he rose from it. Rebus noticed he had lost a good bit of weight, maybe as much as fifteen pounds. His pale face was still fleshy, but the gut had shrunk.

“Still based at the Forensic computer branch?” Siobhan asked him.

“That’s right.” He accepted some tea and sat down next to Molly. She slid an arm protectively around him, stretching the material of her T-shirt, further accentuating her breasts. Rebus concentrated all the harder on Bain. “Been busy with G8,” he was saying, “sifting intelligence reports.”

“What sort of stuff?” Rebus asked, getting up as if to stretch his legs. With Bain on the sofa, it was getting crowded there. He began sauntering toward the computer.

“The secret sort,” Bain replied.

“Come across anyone called Steelforth?”

“Should I have?”

“He’s SO12…seems to be running the show.”

But Bain just shook his head slowly and asked them what they wanted. Siobhan handed him the sheet of paper.

“It’s a Web site,” she explained. “Might suddenly disappear. We need everything you can get: subscription lists, anyone who’s been looking at it, maybe downloading stuff…”

“That’s a big ask…”

“I know it is, Eric.” The way she said his name seemed to hit a nerve. He got up and walked to the window, perhaps to hide from Molly the flush of color that had risen up his neck.

Rebus had picked up a piece of paper from beside the computer. It was a letter, headed Axios Systems, signed by someone called Tasos Symeonides. “Sounds Greek,” he said. Eric Bain seemed relieved to be changing the subject.

“Based right here,” he said. “An IT outfit.”

Rebus wafted the letter in front of him. “Sorry to be nosy, Eric…”

“It’s a job offer,” Molly explained. “Eric gets them all the time.” She had risen to her feet and crossed to the window, sliding an arm around Bain. “I have to keep persuading him that his police work is crucial.”

Rebus put the letter back and returned to the sofa. “Any chance of a refill?” he asked. Molly was happy to pour. Bain seized the moment, fixed Siobhan with a stare, dozens of unspoken words transmitted in a few seconds.

“Lovely,” Rebus said, accepting a bit of milk. Molly was seated next to him again.

“How soon could it be shut down?” Bain asked.

“I don’t know,” Siobhan admitted.

“Tonight?”

“More likely tomorrow.”

Bain studied the piece of paper. “All right,” he said.

“Isn’t this nice?” Rebus seemed to be asking the question of the whole room, but Molly wasn’t listening. She’d slapped both of her hands to her face, mouth falling open.

“I forgot the biscuits!” She jumped back to her feet. “How could I have done that? And nobody said…” She turned to Bain. “You could have said!” Color was flushing her cheeks as she flew from the room.

And for the first time Rebus realized that the place wasn’t just tidy.

It was neurotically so.

7

Siobhan had watched the procession, with its anti-war chants and banners. The route was lined with police waiting for trouble. Siobhan caught the sweet smell of cannabis in her nostrils, but doubted anyone would be arrested for it: the Sorbus briefings had said as much.

If they’re shooting up as they pass you, take them in; otherwise, let it go…

Whoever was targeting the BeastWatch Web site had access to high-grade heroin. She thought again of the mild-seeming Thomas Jensen. Vets might not have access to H, but they could always trade for something.

Access to heroin, and a grudge. Vicky’s two pals, the ones who’d been with her at the club and on the bus…maybe they needed to be questioned.

The blow to the head, always from behind. Someone less physically strong than those being attacked. Wanting them down before the injection. Lashing out at Trevor Guest because he’d not been KO’d? Or did it show the killer becoming more unhinged, more brazen, starting to enjoy the process?

But Guest had been the second victim. The third, Cyril Colliar, hadn’t been dealt with so harshly. Meaning someone had stumbled on the scene perhaps, the killer fleeing before he’d had a chance to get his jollies?

Had he killed again? If so…Siobhan gave a little cluck. “He or she,” she reminded herself.

“Bush, Blair, CIA, how many kids did you kill today?”

The chant was taken up by the crowd. They were streaming up Calton Hill, Siobhan following. A few thousand of them, heading for their rally. The wind was biting, the hilltop exposed to the elements. Views toward Fife and across the city to the west. Views south to Holyrood and the parliament, cordoned day and night by police. Calton Hill, Siobhan seemed to recall, was another of Edinburgh ’s extinct volcanoes. The castle sat on one; Arthur’s Seat was another. There was an observatory at the top, and a series of public monuments. Best of all was the Folly: a single side of what had been meant as a full-scale replica of the Parthenon in Athens. The mad donor had died, leaving the thing unfinished. Some marchers were clambering onto it. Others were gathering around to hear the speeches. One young woman, in a world of her own, danced around the periphery, singing to herself.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, dear.”

“No, but I thought I might see you.” Siobhan gave her parents a hug. “Couldn’t find you at the Meadows yesterday.”

“Wasn’t it fantastic?”

Siobhan’s father gave a laugh. “Your mum was in tears throughout.”

“So emotional,” his wife agreed.

“I came looking for you last night.”

“We went out for a drink.”

“With Santal?” Siobhan tried to make the question sound casual. She ran a hand over her head, as if trying to erase the voice within: I’m your bloody daughter, not her!

“She was there for a little while…didn’t seem to appeal to her.” The crowd was clapping and cheering the first speaker.

“Billy Bragg’s on later,” Teddy Clarke said.

“I thought we could get something to eat,” Siobhan was saying. “There’s a restaurant on Waterloo Place…”

“Are you hungry, dear?” Eve Clarke asked her husband.

“Not really.”

“Me neither.”

Siobhan shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe later, eh?”

Her father put a finger to his lips. “They’re starting,” he whispered.

“Starting what?” Siobhan asked.

“The naming of the dead…”

And so they were: reading out the names of a thousand victims of the warfare in Iraq, people from all sides of the conflict. A thousand names, the speakers taking it in turn, their audience silent. Even the young woman stopped dancing. She stood staring into space instead. Siobhan retreated a little at one point, realizing her cell was still on. Didn’t want Eric Bain calling with news. She took it from her pocket and switched it to vibrate. Drifted a little farther away, still in earshot of the roll call. She could see the Hibernian stadium below, empty now that the season was over. The North Sea looked calm. Berwick Law to the east, looking like yet another extinct volcano. And still the names continued, forcing a secret, rueful smile from her.

Because this was what she did, her whole working life. She named the dead. She recorded their last details, and tried to find out who they’d been, why they’d died. She gave a voice to the forgotten and the missing. A world filled with victims, waiting for her and other detectives like her. Detectives like Rebus, too, who gnawed away at every case, or let it gnaw at them. Never letting go, because that would have been the final insult to those names. Her phone was buzzing. She lifted it to her ear.

“They were quick,” Eric Bain told her.

“The site’s gone?”

“Yep.”

She cursed under her breath. “Did you get anything?”

“Bits and pieces. I couldn’t burrow far enough in, not with the gear at home.”

“No subscriber list?”

“Afraid not.”

Another speaker had taken over at the microphone. The names kept coming.

“Anything else you can try?” she asked.

“From the office, yes, maybe one or two little tricks.”

“Tomorrow then?”

“If our G8 masters can spare me.” He paused. “It was good to see you, Siobhan. Sorry you had to meet…”

“Eric,” she warned, “don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“All of it…none of it. Let’s just not, okay?”

There was a long silence on the line. “Still friends?” he eventually asked.

“Absolutely. Call me again tomorrow.” She ended the call. Had to, otherwise she’d have been telling him, Stick to your nervous, pouting, bosomy girlfriend…you might end up having a future…

Stranger things had happened.

She studied her parents from behind. They were holding hands, her mother leaning her head against her father’s shoulder. Tears threatened to well up in Siobhan’s eyes, but she forced them back down. She remembered Vicky Jensen, running from the room, and Molly, doing the same thing. Both of them scared of life itself. In her teens, Siobhan had run from plenty of rooms, rooms her parents had been in. Tantrums, bust-ups, battles of wits, power plays. And all she wanted now was to be standing right there between them. Wanted it, but couldn’t do it. Instead, she stood fifty feet behind them, willing them to turn their heads.

Instead of which, they listened to the names…the names of people they’d never known.

“I appreciate this,” Steelforth said, rising to shake Rebus’s hand. He’d been waiting in the lobby of the Balmoral Hotel, sitting with one leg crossed over the other. Rebus had kept him waiting quarter of an hour, using that time to walk past the doors of the Balmoral several times, glancing inside to see what traps might await. The Stop the War march had been and gone, but he’d spotted its rump, moving slowly up Waterloo Place. Siobhan had told him she was headed there, thought she might catch up with her parents.

“You’ve not had much time for them,” Rebus had sympathized.

“And vice versa,” she’d muttered.

There was security at the door of the hotel: not just the liveried doorman and concierge-a different one from Saturday night-but what Rebus assumed were plainclothes officers, probably under Steelforth’s control. The Special Branch man was looking more dapper than ever in a double-breasted pinstripe. Having shaken hands, he was gesturing toward the Palm Court.

“A small whiskey perhaps?”

“Depends who’s paying.”

“Allow me.”

“In which case,” Rebus advised, “I might manage a large one.”

Steelforth’s laugh was loud enough but empty at its core. They found a corner table. A cocktail waitress appeared as if conjured into being by their very arrival.

“Carla,” Steelforth informed her, “we’d like a couple of whiskeys. Doubles.” He turned his attention to Rebus.

“Laphroaig,” Rebus obliged. “The older the better.”

Carla bowed her head and moved off. Steelforth was adjusting the line of his jacket, waiting for her to leave before he spoke. Rebus decided not to give him the chance.

“Managing to hush up our dead MP?” he inquired loudly.

“What’s to hush up?”

“You tell me.”

“As far as I can establish, DI Rebus, your own investigation so far has consisted of one unofficial interview with the deceased’s sister.” Having finished toying with his jacket, Steelforth clasped his hands in front of him. “An interview conducted, moreover, lamentably soon after she had made formal identification.” He paused theatrically. “No offense intended, Inspector.”

“None taken, Commander.”

“Of course, it may be that you’ve been busy in other ways. I’ve had no fewer than two local journalists raking over the coals.”

Rebus tried to look surprised. Mairie Henderson, plus whoever it was he’d spoken to on the Scotsman news desk. Favors now owed to both…

“Well,” Rebus said, “since there’s nothing to hush up, I don’t suppose the press will get very far.” He paused. “You said at the time that the investigation would be taken out of my hands…that doesn’t seem to have happened.”

Steelforth shrugged. “Because there’s nothing to investigate. Verdict: accidental death.” He unclasped his hands as the drinks arrived, and with them a small jug of water and a bowl brimming with ice cubes.

“Do you want to leave the bill open?” Carla asked. Steelforth looked at Rebus, then shook his head.

“We’ll just be having the one.” He signed for the drinks with his room number.

“Is it the taxpayer picking up the tab,” Rebus inquired, “or do we have Mr Pennen to thank?”

“Richard Pennen is a credit to this country,” Steelforth stated, adding too much water to his drink. “The Scottish economy in particular would be the poorer without him.”

“I didn’t realize the Balmoral was so expensive.”

Steelforth’s eyes narrowed. “I mean defense jobs, as you well know.”

“And if I interview him about Ben Webster’s demise, he’ll suddenly send the work elsewhere?”

Steelforth leaned forward. “We need to keep him happy. Surely you can see that?”

Rebus savored the aroma of the malt, then lifted it to his mouth.

“Cheers,” Steelforth said grudgingly.

“Slainte,” Rebus replied.

“I’ve heard you enjoy a drop of the hard stuff,” Steelforth added. “Maybe even more than a drop.”

“You’ve been talking to the right people.”

“I don’t mind a man who drinks…just so long as it doesn’t interfere with his work. But then I also hear it’s been known to affect your judgment.”

“Not my judgment of character,” Rebus said, putting the glass down. “Sober or drunk, I’d know you for a prick of the first order.”

Steelforth made a mock toast with his glass. “I was going to offer you something,” he said, “to make up for your disappointment.”

“Do I look disappointed?”

“You’re not going to get anywhere with Ben Webster, suicide or not.”

“Suddenly you’re ruling in suicide again? Does that mean there’s a note?”

Steelforth lost patience. “There’s no bloody note!” he spat. “There’s nothing at all.”

“Makes it an odd suicide, wouldn’t you say?”

“Accidental death.”

“The official line.” Rebus lifted his glass again. “What were you going to offer me?”

Steelforth studied him for a moment before answering. “My own men,” he said. “This murder case you’ve got…I hear tell the count is now three victims. I’d imagine you’re stretched. Right now it’s just you and DS Clarke, isn’t it?”

“More or less.”

“I’ve plenty of men up here, Rebus-very good men. All sorts of skills and specialties among them.”

“And you’d let us borrow them?”

“That was the intention.”

“So we’d be able to focus on the murders and give up on the MP?” Rebus made a show of thinking the proposal over; went so far as to press his hands together and rest his chin on his fingertips. “Sentries at the castle said there was an intruder,” he said quietly, as if thinking aloud.

“No evidence of that,” Steelforth was quick to reply.

“Why was Webster on the ramparts…that’s never really been answered.”

“A breath of air.”

“He excused himself from the dinner?”

“It was winding down…port and cigars.”

“He said he was going outside?” Rebus’s eyes were on Steelforth now.

“Not as such. People were getting up to stretch their legs…”

“You’ve interviewed all of them?” Rebus guessed.

“Most of them,” the Special Branch man qualified.

“The foreign secretary?” Rebus waited for a response, which didn’t come. “No, I didn’t think so. The foreign delegations then?”

“Some of them, yes. I’ve done pretty much everything you’d have done, Inspector.”

“You don’t know what I’d have done.”

Steelforth accepted this with a slight bow of the head. He had yet to touch his drink.

“You’ve no qualms?” Rebus added. “No questions?”

“None.”

“And yet you don’t know why it happened.” Rebus shook his head slowly. “You’re not much of a cop, are you, Steelforth? You might be a whiz at the handshakes and the briefings, but when it comes to policing, I’d say you haven’t a fucking clue. You’re window dressing, that’s all.” Rebus rose to his feet.

“And what are you exactly, DI Rebus?”

“Me?” Rebus considered for a moment. “I’m the janitor, I suppose…the one who sweeps up after you.” He paused, found his punch line. “After you and around you, if it comes to that.”

Exit stage right.

Before leaving the Balmoral, he’d wandered downstairs to the restaurant, breezing through the anteroom despite the best efforts of the staff. The place was busy, but there was no sign of Richard Pennen. Rebus climbed the steps to Princes Street and decided he might as well drop into the Café Royal. The pub was surprisingly quiet.

“Trade’s been lousy,” the manager confided. “ Lot of locals keeping their heads down the next few days.”

After two drinks, Rebus headed along George Street. The workmen had stopped digging the roads-council orders. A new one-way system was being introduced, and with it confusion for motorists. Even the traffic cops thought it ham-fisted, and weren’t going out of their way to enforce the new NO ENTRY signs. Again, the street was quiet. No sign of Geldof’s army. The bouncers outside the Dome told him the place was three quarters empty. On Young Street, the narrow lane’s one-way routing had been switched from one direction to the other. Rebus pushed open the door to the Oxford Bar, smiling at something he’d been told about the new system.

They’re doing it in easy stages: you can go in either direction for a while…

“Pint of IPA, Harry,” Rebus said, reaching for his cigarettes.

“Eight months and counting,” Harry muttered, pulling the pump.

“Don’t remind me.”

Harry was counting the days till Scotland ’s smoking ban took effect.

“Anything happening out there?” one of the regulars asked. Rebus shook his head, knowing that in the drinker’s sealed-off world, news of a serial killer wouldn’t quite qualify for the category of anything happening.

“Isn’t there some march on?” Harry added.

“Calton Hill,” one of the other drinkers confirmed. “Money this is costing, we could’ve sent every kid in Africa a picnic basket.”

“Putting Scotland on the world stage,” Harry reminded him, nodding in the direction of Charlotte Square, home to the first minister. “A price Jack says is worth every penny.”

“It’s not his money though,” the drinker grumbled. “My wife works at that new shoe shop on Frederick Street, says they might as well have shut down for the week.”

“Royal Bank’s going to be closed all tomorrow,” Harry stated.

“Aye, tomorrow’s going to be the bad one,” the drinker muttered.

“And to think,” Rebus complained, “I came in here to cheer myself up.”

Harry stared at him in mock disbelief. “Should know better than that by now, John. Ready for another?”

Rebus wasn’t sure, but he nodded anyway.

A couple of pints later, and having demolished the last sandwich on display, he decided he might as well head home. He’d read the Evening News, watched the Tour de France highlights on TV, and listened to further opposition to the new road layout.

“If they don’t change it back, my wife says they might as well pull down the shutters where she works. Did I tell you? She’s in that new shoe shop on Frederick Street…”

Harry was rolling his eyes as Rebus made for the door. He considered walking home, or calling Gayfield to see if anyone was out in a patrol car and could maybe pick him up. A lot of the taxis were steering clear of the center, but he knew he could take a chance outside the Roxburghe Hotel, try to look like a wealthy tourist.

He heard the doors opening but was slow to turn around. Hands grabbed at his arms, pulling them behind his back.

“Had a bit too much to drink?” a voice barked. “Night in the cells will do you good, pal.”

“Get off me!” Rebus twisted his body, to no effect. He felt the plastic restraints going around his wrists, pulled tight enough to cut off circulation. No way to loosen them once they were on: you had to slice them off.

“Hell’s going on?” Rebus was hissing. “I’m bloody CID.”

“Don’t look like CID,” the voice was telling him. “Stink of beer and cigarettes, clothes like rags…” It was an English accent; London maybe. Rebus saw a uniform, then two more. The faces shadowy-maybe tanned-but chiseled and stern. The van was small and unmarked. Its back doors were open, and they pushed him in.

“I’ve got ID in my pocket,” he said. There was a bench for him to sit on. The windows were blacked out and covered on the outside by a metal grille. There was a faint smell of sick. Another grille separated the back of the van from the front, with a sheet of plywood blocking any access.

“This is a big mistake!” Rebus yelled.

“Tell it to the marines,” a voice called back. The van started moving. Rebus saw headlights through the back window. Stood to reason: three of them couldn’t fit in the front; had to be another vehicle. Didn’t matter where they took him- Gayfield Square, West End, or St. Leonard ’s-he’d be a known face. Nothing to worry about, except the swelling of his fingers as the blood failed to circulate. His shoulders were in agony, too, drawn back by the tightness of the cuffs. He had to slide his legs apart to stop himself careering around the enclosure. They were doing maybe fifty, not stopping for lights. He heard two pedestrians squeal at a near miss. No siren, but the roof light was flashing. Car behind seemed to have neither siren nor flasher. Not a patrol car then…and this wasn’t exactly a regulation vehicle either. Rebus thought they were heading east, meaning Gayfield, but then they took a sharp left toward the New Town, barreling downhill so that Rebus’s head thumped the roof as they went.

“Where the hell…?” If he’d been drunk before, he was sober now. Only destination he could think of was Fettes, but that was HQ. You didn’t take drunks there to sleep off their binge. It was where the brass hung out, James Corbyn and his cronies. Sure enough, they took a left into Ferry Road, but didn’t make the turn to Fettes.

Which left only Drylaw police station, a lonely outpost in the north of the city-Precinct Thirteen, some called it. A gloomy shed of a place, and they were pulling to a halt at its door. Rebus was hauled out and taken inside, his eyes adjusting to the sudden glare of the strip lighting. There was no one on the desk; place seemed deserted. They marched him into the back where two holding cells waited, both with their doors wide open. He felt the pressure on one hand ease, the blood tingling its way back down the fingers. A push in the back sent him stumbling into one of the cells. The door slammed shut.

“Hey!” Rebus called out. “Is this some sick kind of joke?”

“Do we look like clowns, pal? Think you’ve wandered into an episode of Jackass?” There was laughter from behind the door.

“Get a good night’s sleep,” another voice added, “and don’t go giving us any trouble, else we might have to come in there and administer one of our special sedatives, mightn’t we, Jacko?”

Rebus thought he could hear a hiss. Everything went quiet, and he knew why. They’d made a mistake, given him a name.

Jacko.

He tried to remember their faces, the better to exact his eventual revenge. All that came to him was that they’d been either tanned or weather-beaten. But there was no way he was going to forget those voices. Nothing unusual about the uniforms they’d been wearing…except the badges on the epaulets had been removed. No badges meant no easy means to ID them.

Rebus kicked the door a few times, then reached into his pocket for his phone.

And realized it wasn’t there. They’d taken it from him, or he’d dropped it. Still had his wallet and ID, cigarettes and lighter. He sat on the cold concrete shelf which served as a bed and looked at his wrists. The plastic cuff was still encircling his left hand. They’d sliced open the one around his right. He tried to run his free hand up and down the arm, massaging the wrist, the palm and fingers, trying to get some blood going. Maybe the lighter could burn its way through, but not without searing his flesh in the process. He lit a cigarette instead, and tried to slow his heartbeat. Walked over to the door again and banged on it with his fist, turned his back to it and hammered his heel into it.

All the times he’d visited the cells in Gayfield and St. Leonard ’s,hearing these selfsame tattoos. Thum-thum-thum-thum-thum. Making jokes with the jailer about it.

Thum-thum-thum-thum-thum.

The sound of hope over experience. Rebus sat down again. There was neither toilet nor basin, just a metal pail in one corner. Ancient feces smeared on the wall next to it. Messages gouged into the plaster: Big Malky Rules; Wardie Young Team; Hearts Ya Bass. Hard to believe, but someone with a bit of Latin had even been holed up here: Nemo Me Impune Lacessit. In the Scots: Whau Daur Meddle Wi’ Me? Modern equivalent: Screw Me and I’ll Screw You Right Back.

Rebus got to his feet again, knew now what was going on, should have realized from the word go.

Steelforth.

Easy for him to get his hands on some spare uniforms and dispatch three of his men on a mission, the same men he’d offered to Rebus earlier. They’d probably been watching as he’d left the hotel. Followed him from pub to pub until they picked their spot. The lane outside the Oxford Bar was perfect.

“Steelforth!” Rebus yelled at the door. “Come in here and talk to me! Are you a coward as well as a bully?” He pressed his ear to the door but heard nothing. The spy hole was closed. The hatch which would be opened at mealtimes was locked shut. He paced the cell, opened his cigarette packet but decided he needed to conserve supplies. Changed his mind and lit one anyway. The lighter spluttered-not much lighter fluid left…a toss-up which would run out first. Ten o’clock, his watch said. A long time till morning.

Monday, July 4, 2005

8

The turning of the lock woke him. The door creaked open. First off, he saw a young uniform, mouth agape in amazement. And to his left, Detective Chief Inspector James Macrae, looking irate and with his hair uncombed. Rebus checked his watch: just shy of four, which meant Monday was dawning.

“Got a blade?” he asked, mouth dry. He showed them his wrist. It was swollen, the palm and knuckles discolored. The constable produced a penknife from his pocket. “How did you get in here?” he asked, voice shaking.

“Ten o’clock last night, who was holding the fort?”

“We had a call-out,” the constable said, “locked the place before we left.”

Rebus had no reason to disbelieve the story. “How did the call-out go?”

“False alarm. I’m really sorry…why didn’t you shout or something?”

“I assume there’s nothing in the log?” The cuffs fell to the floor. Rebus started rubbing life back into his fingers.

“Nothing. And we don’t check the cells when they’re empty.”

“You knew they were empty?”

“Kept that way so we can stick any rioters in them.”

Macrae was studying Rebus’s left hand. “Need to get that seen to?”

“I’ll be fine.” Rebus grimaced. “How did you find me?”

“Text message. I’d left the phone to charge in my study. The beeping woke my wife.”

“Can I see it?”

Macrae handed over the phone. At the top of the screen was the caller’s number, and below it a capitalized message: REBUS IN DRYLAW CELLS. Rebus punched the Return Call option, but when connected all he got was a machine telling him the number was not in use. He handed the phone back to Macrae.

“Screen says the call was sent at midnight.”

Macrae failed to meet Rebus’s gaze. “It was a while before we heard it,” he said quietly. But then he remembered who he was, and stiffened his spine. “Care to tell me what happened here?”

“Some of the lads having a laugh,” Rebus improvised. He kept flexing his left wrist, trying not to show how much it was flaring with pain.

“Names?” asked Macrae.

“No names, no one gets in trouble, sir,” said Rebus.

“So if I were to return their little text message?”

“Number’s already been canceled, sir.”

Macrae studied Rebus. “Few drinks last night, eh?”

“A few.” He turned his attention back to the uniform. “Nobody’s left a cell at the front desk, by any chance?”

The young officer shook his head. Rebus leaned in toward him. “Something like this gets out…well, there’ll be a few laughs at my expense, but you’ll be the ones the joke’s really on. Cells unchecked, station left unmanned, front door unlocked…”

“The door was locked,” the constable argued.

“Still doesn’t look good for you, does it?”

Macrae patted the officer’s shoulder. “So let’s keep this to ourselves, eh? Now come on, DI Rebus, I’ll drop you home before the barricades go up again.”

Outside, Macrae paused before unlocking his Rover. “I can see why you’d want this kept quiet, but rest assured-if I find the culprits, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Yes, sir,” Rebus agreed. “Sorry to have been the cause.”

“Not your fault, John. Now hop in.”

They drove southward in silence through the city, dawn breaking to the east. A few delivery vans and bleary pedestrians, but little clue as to what the day might bring. Monday meant the Carnival of Full Enjoyment. The police knew it was a euphemism for trouble. This was when the Clown Army, the Wombles, and the Black Bloc were expected to make their move. They would try to shut the city down. Macrae had switched the radio to a local station, just in time to catch a news flash-an attempt to padlock the pumps at a gas station on Queensferry Road.

“The weekend was just for starters,” Macrae commented as he drew to a halt on Arden Street. “So I hope you enjoyed it.”

“Nice and relaxing, sir,” Rebus said, opening his door. “Thanks for the lift.” He patted the roof of the car and watched it drive off, then climbed the two flights, searching his pockets for his keys.

No keys.

Of course not: they were hanging from the lock on his door. He swore and opened up, withdrew the keys, and held them in a bunch in his right fist. Walked into the hall on tiptoe. No noises or lights. Padded past the kitchen and bedroom doorways. Into the living room. The Colliar case notes weren’t there, of course: he’d taken them to Siobhan’s. But the stuff Mairie Henderson had found for him-about Pennen Industries and Ben Webster, MP-was strewn about the place. He picked his cell phone up from the table. Nice of them to bring it back. He wondered how thoroughly they had scoured it for calls in and out, messages and texts. Didn’t really bother him: he deleted stuff at the end of each day. Didn’t mean it wasn’t still hidden on the chip somewhere…And they’d have the authority to ask his phone company for records. When you were SO12, you could do most things. He went into the bathroom and ran the tap. It always took a while for the water to run hot. He was going to spend a good fifteen or twenty minutes under the shower. He checked the kitchen and both bedrooms: nothing seemed out of place, which in itself also meant nothing. Filled the kettle and switched it on. Might the place be bugged? He’d no way of telling; didn’t think it was as easy these days as unscrewing the base from the telephone to find out. The paperwork on Pennen had been tossed about but not taken. Why? Because they knew it would be easy for him to get the same information again. It was all in the public domain, after all, only a mouse click or two away.

They’d left it because it was meaningless.

Because Rebus wasn’t anywhere near getting to whatever it was Steelforth was trying to protect.

And they’d left his keys in the lock, his phone in plain view, to add insult to injury. He flexed his left hand again, wondering how you could tell if you had a blood clot or thrombosis. He took the tea through to the bathroom, turned off the tap at the sink, shed his clothes, and climbed into the shower. He tried to empty his mind of the previous seventy-two hours. Started listing his desert island disks instead. Couldn’t decide which track off Argus to choose. He was still busy debating with himself as he got out and toweled himself dry; found himself humming “Throw Down the Sword.”

“Not on your life,” he declared to the mirror.

He was determined to get some sleep. Five restless hours curled up on a slab hardly counted. But first he had to charge his phone. Plugged it in and decided to see what messages there were. One text-same anonymous caller as Macrae.

LET’S CALL A TRUCE.

Sent barely half an hour before. Which meant two things: They knew he was home. And the out-of-service number was somehow back in play. Rebus could think of a dozen replies, but decided to switch the phone off again instead. Another mug of tea and he made for the bedroom.

Panic on the streets of Edinburgh.

Siobhan had never known the place so tense. Not during the local soccer championship, not even during Republican and Orange marches. The air was somehow heightened, as if an electric current ran through it. Not just Edinburgh either: a peace camp had been established in Stirling. There had been short, sharp outbursts of violence. Still two days to go before the G8 opened, but the protesters knew that a number of delegations had already arrived. A lot of the Americans were based at Dunblane Hydro, a short drive from Gleneagles. Some foreign journalists had found themselves much farther away in hotels in Glasgow. Japanese officials had taken over many of the rooms in the Edinburgh Sheraton, just across the road from the financial district. Siobhan’s instinct had been to use the hotel’s lot, but there was a chain across its entrance. A uniformed officer approached as she wound down her window. She showed him her ID.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he apologized in a polite English voice. “No can do. Orders from on high. Your best bet is to do a U-turn.” He pointed farther down the Western Approach Road. “There’s some idiots on the road…we’re trying to herd most of them into Canning Street. Bunch of clowns, by all accounts.”

She did as instructed, finally finding a space on a yellow line outside the Lyceum Theater. Crossed at the lights, but instead of going into the Standard Life HQ, decided to walk past it, down the concrete lanes which ran mazily through the whole area. Turned a corner into Canning Street and found herself stopped by a cordon of police, on the other side of which black-clad demonstrators mixed with figures from the big top. A bunch of clowns, quite literally. This was Siobhan’s first real sighting of the Rebel Clown Army. They wore red and purple wigs, faces painted white. Some brandished feather dusters, others waved carnations. A smiley face had been drawn on one of the riot shields. The cops were in black, too, protected by knee and elbow pads, stab-proof vests, visored helmets. One of the demonstrators had somehow scrambled up a high wall and was shaking his bared buttocks at the police below. There were windows all around, office workers peering out. Plenty of noise, but no real fury as yet. As more officers jogged into view, Siobhan retreated as far as the pedestrian bridge which crossed over the Western Approach Road. Again, the protesters were heavily outnumbered. One of them was in a wheelchair, a lion rampant attached to the back, fluttering in the breeze. Traffic heading into town was at a standstill. Whistles were being blown, but the police horses looked unfazed. As a line of officers marched beneath the footbridge, they held their shields above their heads to protect themselves.

The situation seemed under control and unlikely to change, so Siobhan headed for her final destination.

The revolving door which led to the Standard Life reception area was locked. A guard stared out at her before buzzing her in.

“Can I see your pass, miss?”

“I don’t work here.” Siobhan showed her ID instead.

He took it from her to study it. Handed it back and nodded toward the reception desk.

“Any problems?” she asked.

“Couple of goons tried to get in. One’s scaled the west side of the building. Seems to be stuck three floors up.”

“Fun for all concerned.”

“It pays the bills, miss.” He gestured once more toward the desk. “Gina there will sort you out.”

Gina did indeed sort Siobhan out. First, a visitor’s pass-“to be kept in view at all times, please”-and then a call upstairs. The waiting area was plush, with sofas and magazines, coffee, and a flat-screen TV showing some midmorning design show. A woman came striding toward Siobhan.

“Detective Sergeant Clarke? I’ll take you upstairs.”

“Mrs. Jensen?”

But the woman shook her head. “Sorry to’ve kept you waiting. As you can imagine, things are a bit fraught…”

“That’s okay. I’ve been learning which floor lamp to buy.”

The woman smiled without really comprehending and led Siobhan to the elevator. As they waited, she studied her own clothes. “We’re all in civilian clothes today,” she said, explaining the slacks and blouse.

“Good idea.”

“It’s funny seeing some of the men in jeans and T-shirts. Hardly recognizable, some of them.” She paused. “Is it the riots you’re here about?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Jensen seemed in the dark…”

“Up to me to shed some light then, isn’t it?” Siobhan replied with a smile as the elevator doors opened.

The nameplate on Dolly Jensen’s office stated that she was Dorothy Jensen but gave no indication of her job title. Had to be quite high-powered, Siobhan figured. Jensen’s assistant had knocked on the door, then retreated to her own desk. The main floor was open plan, plenty of faces peering up from their computers to study the new arrival. A few stood by the available windows, coffee mugs in hand, watching the outside world.

“Come in,” a voice called. Siobhan opened the door and closed it behind her, shook Dorothy Jensen’s hand, and was invited to take a seat.

“You know why I’m here?” Siobhan asked.

Jensen leaned back in her chair. “Tom told me all about it.”

“You’ve been busy since, haven’t you?”

Jensen scanned her desk. She was the same age as her husband. Broad-shouldered and with a masculine face. Thick black hair-the gray dyed out of it, Siobhan guessed-fell in immaculate waves to her shoulders. Around her neck hung a simple pearl necklace.

“I don’t mean here, Mrs. Jensen,” Siobhan explained, allowing the irritation to show. “I mean at home, wiping all trace of your Web site.”

“Is that a crime?”

“It’s called impeding an investigation. I’ve seen people go to court for it. Sometimes we can up the ante to criminal conspiracy, if we’re of a mind…”

Jensen took hold of a pen from her desk, twisted its barrel, opening and closing it. Siobhan was satisfied that she had breached the woman’s defenses.

“I need everything you’ve got, Mrs. Jensen-any paperwork, e-mail addresses, names. We need to clear all those people-you and your husband included-if we’re going to catch this killer.” She paused. “I know what you’re thinking-your husband told us pretty much the same-and I can appreciate you’d feel that way. But you’ve got to understand…whoever did this, they’re not going to stop. They could have downloaded everyone listed on your site, and that turns those men into victims-not so very different from Vicky.”

At mention of her daughter’s name, Jensen’s eyes burned into Siobhan’s. But they soon grew liquid. She dropped the pen and opened a drawer, bringing out a handkerchief and blowing her nose.

“I tried, you know…tried to forgive. It’s supposed to make us divine after all, isn’t it?” She forced a nervous laugh. “These men, they go to jail to be punished, but we hope they’ll change, too. The ones who don’t…what use are they? They come back to us and do the same things over and over again.”

Siobhan knew the argument well and had found herself many times on both sides of it. But she stayed silent.

“He showed no remorse, no sense of guilt, no sympathy…What kind of creature is that? Is it even human? At the trial, the defense kept on about the broken home he came from, the drugs he took. They called it a chaotic lifestyle. But it was his choice to destroy Vicky, his little power trip. Nothing chaotic about that, let me tell you.” Jensen’s voice had grown tremulous. She took a deep breath, adjusting her posture, calming by degrees. “I work in insurance. We deal with choice and risk. I do know a little of what I’m talking about.”

“Is there any paperwork, Mrs. Jensen?” Siobhan asked quietly.

“Some,” Jensen admitted. “Not very much.”

“What about e-mails? You must have corresponded with the site’s users?”

Jensen nodded slowly. “The families of victims, yes. Are they all suspects too?”

“How soon can you get everything to me?”

“Do I need to talk to my lawyer?”

“Might be an idea. Meantime, I’d like to send someone to your home. He knows about computers. If he comes to you, it saves us having to take your hard drive elsewhere.”

“All right.”

“His name’s Bain.” Eric Bain of the pneumatic girlfriend…Siobhan shifted in her chair and cleared her throat. “He’s a detective sergeant, like me. What time this evening would suit?”

“You look rough,” Mairie Henderson said as Rebus tried to squeeze himself into the passenger seat of her sports car.

“Restless night,” he told her. What he didn’t add was that her 10 a.m. call had woken him. “Does this thing go back any farther?”

She bent down and tugged at a lever, sending Rebus’s seat flying backward. Rebus turned to examine what space was left behind him. “Thanks for the invite, by the way.”

“In that case, you can pay for the drinks.”

“What drinks are those?”

“Our excuse for being there in the first place.” She was heading for the top of Arden Street. Left, right, and left would put her on Grange Road and only five minutes away from Prestonfield House.

Prestonfield House Hotel was one of the city’s better-kept secrets. Surrounded by 1930s bungalows and with views across to the projects of Craigmillar and Niddrie, it seemed an unpromising location for a grand house in the baronial style. Its substantial grounds-including an adjacent golf course-gave plenty of privacy. The only time the place had been in the news, to Rebus’s knowledge, was when a member of the Scottish parliament had tried setting fire to the curtains after a party.

“I meant to ask on the phone…” Rebus said to Mairie.

“What?”

“How do you know about this?”

“Contacts, John. No journalist should ever leave home without them.”

“Tell you something you’ve left at home though…the brakes on this bloody death trap.”

“It’s a road racer,” she told him. “Doesn’t sound right when you dawdle.” But she eased her foot back a little.

“Thanks,” he said. “So what’s the occasion exactly?”

“Morning coffee, then he gives his pitch, and then lunch.”

“Where exactly?”

She shrugged. “A meeting room, I suppose. Maybe the restaurant for the actual lunch.” She signaled left into the hotel driveway.

“And we are…?”

“Looking for some peace and quiet amid the madness. Plus a pot of tea for two.”

Staff were awaiting them at the front door. Mairie explained the situation. There was a room off to the left where their needs could be met, or another to the right, just past a closed door.

“Something on in there?” Mairie asked, pointing.

“Business meeting,” the employee revealed.

“Well, just so long as they’re not kicking up a fuss, we’ll be fine in here.” She entered the adjoining room. Rebus heard peacocks squawking outside on the lawn.

“Is it tea you’re wanting?” the young man asked.

“Coffee for me,” Rebus told him.

“Tea-peppermint if you’ve got it; otherwise chamomile.” The employee disappeared, and Mairie pressed her ear to the wall.

“I thought eavesdropping had gone electronic,” Rebus commented.

“If you can afford it,” Mairie whispered. She lifted her ear away. “All I can hear is muttering.”

“Stop the presses.”

She ignored him, pulled a chair over toward the doorway, making sure she’d have a view of anyone entering or leaving the meeting.

“Lunch sharpish at twelve, that’s my guess. Get them feeling good about their host.” She checked her watch.

“I brought a woman here for dinner once,” Rebus mused. “Had coffee in the library after. It’s upstairs. Walls a sort of curdled red. I think someone told me they were leather.”

“Leather wallpaper? Kinky,” Mairie said with a smile.

“By the way, I never did thank you for going straight to Cafferty with news of Cyril Colliar…” His eyes drilled into hers, and she had the good grace to allow some red to creep up her neck.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

“Nice to know that when I come to you with confidential information, you’ll feed it to the city’s biggest villain.”

“Just that once, John.”

“Once too often.”

“The Colliar killing has been gnawing away at him.”

“Just the way I like it.”

She gave a tired smile. “Just the once,” she repeated. “And please bear in mind the huge favor I’m currently doing you.”

Rebus decided not to answer, walked back out into the hall instead. The reception desk was at the far end, past the restaurant. It had changed a bit in the years since Rebus had spent half his paycheck on that meal. The drapes were heavy, the furniture exotic, tassels everywhere. A dark-skinned man in a blue silk suit tried to pass Rebus, giving a little bow.

“Morning,” Rebus said.

“Good morning,” he said crisply, coming to a stop. “Is the meeting already closing?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

The man bowed his head again. “My apologies. I thought perhaps…” But he left the sentence unfinished and walked the rest of the way to the door, tapping once before disappearing inside. Mairie had come out for a look.

“Not much of a secret knock,” Rebus informed her.

“It’s not the Masons.”

Rebus wasn’t so sure about that. What was the G8, after all, if not a very private club?

The door was opening again, two more men stepping out. They made for the driveway, stopping to light their cigarettes.

“Breaking up for lunch?” Rebus guessed. He followed Mairie back to the doorway of their own little room and watched the men filter out. Maybe twenty of them. Some looked African, others Asian and Middle Eastern. A few wore what Rebus took to be their national dress.

“Maybe Kenya, Sierra Leone, Niger…” Mairie was whispering.

“Meaning that really you’ve got no idea whatsoever?” Rebus whispered back.

“Geography was never my strong point-” She broke off and clutched his arm. A tall imposing figure was now mingling with the others, shaking hands and exchanging some words. Rebus recognized him from Mairie’s press pack. His elongated face was tanned and lined, and some brown had been added to his hair. Pinstripe suit with an inch of crisp, white shirt cuff. He had a smile for everyone, seemed to know them personally. Mairie had retreated a few steps farther into the room, but Rebus stayed in the doorway. Richard Pennen took a good photograph. In the flesh, the face was slightly scrawnier, the eyes heavy-lidded. But he did look disgustingly healthy, as though he had spent the previous weekend on a tropical beach. Assistants stood on either side of him, whispering information into his ear, making sure this part of the day, like those before and after, was without a hitch of any kind.

Suddenly, a member of the staff was blocking Rebus’s view. He bore a tray with the tea and coffee. As Rebus moved to let him pass, he saw that he’d come to Pennen’s notice.

“Your treat, I believe,” Mairie was saying. Rebus turned into the room and paid for the drinks.

“Would it be Detective Inspector Rebus?” The deep voice came from Richard Pennen. He was standing just a few feet away, still flanked by his assistants.

Mairie took a couple of steps toward him and held out her hand.

“Mairie Henderson, Mr. Pennen. Terrible tragedy at the castle the other night.”

“Terrible,” Pennen agreed.

“I believe you were there.”

“I was.”

“She’s a journalist, sir,” one of the assistants said.

“I’d never have guessed,” Pennen answered with a smile.

“Just wondering,” Mairie plowed on, “why you were paying for Mr. Webster’s hotel room.”

“I wasn’t-my company was.”

“What’s your interest in debt relief, sir?”

But Pennen’s focus was on Rebus. “I was told I might be seeing you.”

“Nice to have Commander Steelforth on your team…”

Pennen looked Rebus up and down. “His description didn’t do you justice, Inspector.”

“Still, it’s nice that he took the trouble.” Rebus could have added because it means I’ve got him rattled.

“You’re aware, of course, of how much flak you might get if I were to report this intrusion?”

“We’re just enjoying a cup of tea, sir,” Rebus said. “Far as I’m aware, you’re the one doing the intruding.”

Pennen smiled again. “Nicely put.” He turned to Mairie. “Ben Webster was a fine MP and PPS, Miss Henderson, and scrupulous with it. As you know, any gifts in kind received from my company would be listed in members’ interests.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

Pennen’s jawline twitched. He took a deep breath. “Pennen Industries does most of its business overseas-get your economics editor to fill you in. You’ll see what a major exporter we’ve become.”

“Of arms,” Mairie stated.

“Of technology,” Pennen countered. “What’s more, we put money back into some of the poorest nations. That’s why Ben Webster was involved.” He turned his gaze back to Rebus. “No cover-up, Inspector. Just David Steelforth doing his job. A lot of contracts could get signed during these next few days…huge projects green-lighted. Contacts made, and jobs saved as a result. Not the sort of feel-good story our media seem to be interested in. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He turned away, and Rebus was gratified to see that there was a blob of something on the heel of one black leather brogue. No expert, Rebus would still have bet heavily on it being peacock shit.

Mairie slumped onto a sofa, which creaked beneath her, as if unused to such mistreatment.

“Bloody hell,” she said, pouring out some tea. Rebus could smell the peppermint. He poured himself some coffee from the small carafe.

“Remind me,” he said, “how much is this whole thing costing?”

“The G8?” She waited till he’d nodded, puffed out her cheeks as she tried to remember. “A hundred and fifty?”

“As in millions?”

“As in millions.”

“And all so businessmen like Mr. Pennen can keep plying their trade.”

“There might be a bit more to it than that.” Mairie was smiling. “But you’re right in a sense: the decisions have already been made.”

“So what’s Gleneagles all about but a few nice dinners and some handshakes for the cameras.”

“Putting Scotland on the map?” she offered.

“Aye, right.” Rebus finished his coffee. “Maybe we should stay for lunch, see if we can rile Pennen more than we already have.”

“Sure you can afford it?”

Rebus looked around him. “Which reminds me, that flunky’s not come back with my change.”

“Change?” Mairie gave a laugh. Rebus caught her meaning and decided he was going to drain the carafe to its last drop.

According to the TV news, central Edinburgh was a war zone.

Half past two on a Monday afternoon. Normally, there would have been shoppers in Princes Street, laden with purchases; people in the adjacent gardens, enjoying a promenade or resting on one of the commemorative benches.

But not today.

The newsroom cut to protests at the Faslane Naval Base, home to Britain ’s four Trident-class submarines. The place was under siege from about two thousand demonstrators. Police in Fife had been handed control of the Forth Road Bridge for the first time in its history. Cars heading north were being stopped and searched. Roads out of the capital had been blocked by sit-down protests. There had been scuffles near the Peace Camp in Stirling.

And a riot was kicking off in Princes Street. Baton-wielding police making their presence felt. They carried circular shields of a kind Siobhan hadn’t seen before. The area around Canning Street was still causing trouble, marchers still bringing traffic to a halt on the Western Approach. The studio cut back to Princes Street. The protesters seemed to be outnumbered not only by police but by cameras, too. A lot of pushing on both sides.

“They’re trying to start a fight,” Eric Bain said. He’d come to Gayfield to show her what little he’d been able to find so far.

“It could have waited till after you’d seen Mrs. Jensen,” she’d told him, to which all he’d done was shrug.

They were alone in the CID office. “See what they’re doing?” Bain asked, pointing at the screen. “A rioter wades in, then backs off. The nearest cop raises his billy club, and the papers get a photo of him striking out at some poor guy who’s first in line. Meantime, the real troublemaker is tucked away somewhere behind, ready to do the same thing again.”

Siobhan nodded. “Makes it look like we’re being heavy-handed.”

“Which is what the rioters want.” He folded his arms. “They’ve learned a few tricks since Genoa.”

“But so have we,” Siobhan said. “Containment, for one thing. That’s four hours now the group in Canning Street have been corralled.”

Back in the studio, one of the presenters had a live feed to Midge Ure. He was telling the troublemakers to go home.

“Shame none of them are watching,” Bain commented.

“Are you going to speak with Mrs. Jensen?” Siobhan hinted.

“Yes, boss. How hard should I push her?”

“I’ve already warned we could set her for obstruction. Remind her of that.” Siobhan wrote the Jensens’ address on a sheet of her notebook, ripped it out, and handed it over. Bain’s attention was back on the TV screen. More live pictures from Princes Street. Some protesters had climbed onto the Scott Monument. Others scrambled over the railings into the gardens. Kicks were aimed at shields. Divots of earth were being thrown. Benches and trash cans were next.

“This is getting bad,” Bain muttered. The screen flickered. A new location: Torphichen Street, site of the city’s West End police station. Sticks and bottles were being hurled. “Glad we’re not stuck there” was all Bain said.

“No, we’re stuck here instead.”

He looked at her. “You’d rather be in the thick of things?”

She shrugged, stared at the screen. Someone was calling into the studio by cell phone, a shopper, trapped like so many others in the branch of British Home Stores on Princes Street.

“We’re just bystanders,” the woman was shrieking. “All we want to do is get out, but the police are treating us all the same, mothers with babies, old folk…”

“You’re saying the police are overreacting?” the journalist in the studio asked. Siobhan used the remote to change channels: Columbo on one side, Diagnosis: Murder on another, and a film on Channel 4.

“That’s Kidnapped,” Bain said. “Brilliant.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, finding another of the news channels. Same riots; different angles. The same protester she’d seen in Canning Street was still on top of his wall. He sat swinging his feet, only his eyes showing through the gap in his ski mask. He was holding a cell phone to his ear.

“That reminds me,” Bain said, “I had Rebus on the phone, asking how an out-of-service number could still be active.”

Siobhan looked at him. “Did he say why?” Bain shook his head. “So what did you tell him?”

“You can clone the SIM card, or specify outgoing calls only.” He gave a shrug. “All kinds of ways to do it.”

Siobhan nodded, eyes back on the TV screen. Bain ran a hand across the back of his neck.

“So what did you think of Molly?” he asked.

“You’re a lucky man, Eric.”

He gave a huge grin. “Pretty much my thinking.”

“But tell me,” Siobhan asked, hating herself for being led down this route, “does she always twitch so much?”

Bain’s grin melted away.

“Sorry, Eric, that was out of order.”

“She said she likes you,” he confided. “She’s not got a bad bone in her body.”

“She’s great,” Siobhan agreed. Even to her own ears, the sentiment sounded hollow. “So how did you two meet?”

Bain froze for a moment. “A club,” he said, recovering.

“Never took you for a dancer, Eric.” Siobhan glanced in his direction.

“Molly’s a great dancer.”

“She’s got the body for it…” Relief washed over her as her own cell sounded. She hoped to hell it would offer the excuse to be anywhere but here. It was her parents’ number.

“Hello?”

At first she mistook the noise on the line for static, then she realized: yells and catcalls and whistles. Same noises she’d just been hearing on the report from Princes Street.

“Mum?” she said. “Dad?”

And now a voice, her father’s. “Siobhan? Can you hear me?”

“Dad? What the hell are you doing down there?”

“Your mum…”

“What? Dad, put her on, will you?”

“Your mum’s…”

“Has something-”

“She was bleeding…ambulance…”

“Dad, you’re breaking up! Where are you exactly?”

“Kiosk…gardens.”

The line went dead. She looked at its small rectangular screen. Connection lost.

“Connection lost,” she echoed.

“What’s going on?” Bain asked.

“My mum and dad…that’s where they are.” She nodded toward the TV. “Can you give me a lift?”

“Where?”

“There.” She stabbed a finger at the screen.

“There?”

“There.”

9

They didn’t get any farther than George Street. Siobhan got out of the car and told Bain not to forget the Jensens. He was telling her to be careful as she slammed shut the door.

There were protesters here, too, spilling down Frederick Street. Staff watched in fascinated horror from behind the doors and windows of their shops. Bystanders pressed themselves to walls in the hope of blending in. There was debris underfoot. The protesters were being pushed back down into Princes Street. Nobody tried to stop Siobhan crossing the police line in that direction. Easy enough to get in; getting out was the problem.

There was only one kiosk she knew of-just down from the Scott Monument. The gates to the gardens had been closed, so she made for the fence. The skirmishes had moved from the street into the gardens themselves. Trash flew through the air, along with stones and other missiles. A hand grabbed at her jacket.

“No, you don’t.”

She turned to face a policeman. Just above his visor were the letters XS. For a brief moment she read it as excess-just perfect. She had her ID ready.

“I’m CID,” she yelled.

“Then you must be crazy.” He released his grip.

“It has been said,” she told him, clambering over the spikes. Looking around, she saw that the rioters had been reinforced by what looked like local hooligans: any excuse for a fight. Wasn’t every day they could lash out at the cops and have a good chance of getting away with it. They were disguising their identities with scarves around their mouths, jackets zipped all the way to the chin. At least these days they all wore sneakers rather than Doc Martens boots.

The kiosk: it sold ice cream and cold drinks. Shards of glass lay strewn around it, and it was closed. She circled it in a crouch: no sign of her father. Spots of blood on the ground, and she followed them with her eyes. They stopped short of the gates. Circled the kiosk again. Banged on the serving hatch. Tried again. Heard a muffled voice from inside.

“Siobhan?”

“Dad? You in there?”

The door to the side was yanked open. Her father was standing inside, and next to him the kiosk’s terrified owner.

“Where’s Mum?” Siobhan asked, voice shaking.

“They took her in the ambulance. I couldn’t…they wouldn’t let me past the cordon.”

Siobhan couldn’t remember ever seeing her father in tears, but he was crying now. Crying, and obviously in shock.

“We need to get you out.”

“Not me,” his companion said with a shake of her head. “I’m guarding the fort. But I saw what happened…bloody police. She was only standing there.”

“It was one of their sticks,” Siobhan’s father added. “Right across her head.”

“Blood was gushing out…”

Siobhan silenced the woman with a look. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Frances…Frances Neagley.”

“Well, Frances Neagley, my advice is to get out.” Then, to her shivering father: “Come on, let’s get going.”

“What?”

“We need to go see Mum.”

“But what about…?”

“It’ll be all right. Now come on.” She tugged at his arm, felt she would have hauled him out of there bodily if need be. Frances Neagley closed the door on them and locked it.

Another divot flew past. Siobhan knew that tomorrow, this being Edinburgh, the major complaint would be of destruction to the famed flower beds. The gates had been forced open by the demonstrators from Frederick Street. A man dressed as a Pictish warrior was being dragged by his arms behind the police lines. Directly in front of the cordon, a young mother was calmly changing the diaper on her pink-clad baby. A placard was being waved: NO GODS, NO MASTERS. The letters X and S…the baby in pink…the message on the placard…they all seemed incredibly vivid to her, snapshots bright with a significance she couldn’t quite determine.

There’s a pattern here, some meaning of sorts…

Something to ask Dad later…

Fifteen years ago, he’d tried explaining semiotics to her, supposedly helping with a school essay, but just getting her more confused. Then, in class, she’d called it semenotics, and her teacher laughed out loud.

Siobhan sought out faces she might know. She saw none. But one officer’s vest bore the words POLICE MEDIC. She pulled her father toward him, ID held open in front of her.

“CID,” she explained. “This man’s wife’s been taken to hospital. I need to get him there.”

The officer nodded and guided them through the police line.

“Which hospital?” the medic asked.

“What’s your guess?”

He looked at her. “Dunno,” he admitted. “I’m down here from Aberdeen.”

“Western General’s closest,” Siobhan said. “Any transport available?”

He pointed up Frederick Street. “The road that crosses at the top.”

“ George Street?”

He shook his head. “Next one.”

“ Queen Street?” She watched him nod. “Thanks,” she said. “You better get back there.”

“Suppose so,” he said, with no real enthusiasm. “Some of them are going in a bit strong…Not our lot-the ones from the Met.”

Siobhan turned to face her father. “Any chance you can ID him?”

“Who?”

“The one who hit Mum.”

He rubbed a hand across his eyes. “I don’t think so.”

She made a small, angry sound and led him up the hill toward Queen Street.

There was a line of parked patrol cars. Unbelievably, there was also traffic: all the cars and trucks diverted from the main drag, crawling past as if it were just another day, another commute. Siobhan explained to one police driver what she wanted. He seemed relieved at the thought of being elsewhere. She got into the back with her dad.

“Blues and twos,” she ordered the driver. Cue flashing lights and siren. They pulled past the line of traffic and got going.

“Is this the right way?” the driver shouted.

“Where are you from?”

“ Peterborough.”

“Straight ahead, I’ll tell you when to turn.” She squeezed her father’s hand. “You’re not hurt?”

He shook his head, fixed her with his eyes. “How about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’re amazing.” Teddy Clarke gave a tired smile. “Way you acted back there, taking control…”

“Not just a pretty face, eh?”

“I never realized…” There were tears in his eyes again. He bit his bottom lip, blinked them back. She gave his hand a tighter squeeze.

“I never really appreciated,” he said, “how good you might be at this.”

“Just be thankful I’m not in uniform, or it might’ve been me wielding one of those batons.”

“You wouldn’t have hit an innocent woman,” her father stated.

“Straight across at the lights,” she told the driver, before turning her attention back to her father. “Hard to say, isn’t it? We don’t know what we’ll do till we’re there.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said determinedly.

“Probably not,” she conceded. “What the hell were you doing there anyway? Did Santal take you?”

He shook his head. “I suppose we were…we thought we’d be spectators. The police didn’t see it that way.”

“If I find whoever…”

“I didn’t really see his face.”

“Plenty of cameras there-hard to hide under that sort of coverage.”

“Photographs?”

She nodded. “Plus security, the media, and us, of course.” She looked at him. “The police will have filmed everything.”

“But surely…”

“What?”

“You can’t sift through the whole lot?”

“Want to bet on it?”

He studied her for a moment. “No, I’m not sure I do.”

Almost a hundred arrests. The courts would be busy on Tuesday. By evening, the standoff had moved from Princes Street Gardens to Rose Street. Cobbles were torn from the road surface, becoming missiles instead. There were skirmishes on Waverley Bridge, Cockburn Street, and Infirmary Street. By nine thirty, things were calming. The final bit of trouble had been outside McDonald’s on South St. Andrew Street. The uniforms were back at Gayfield Square now and had brought burgers with them, the aroma making its way into the CID suite. Rebus had the TV playing-a documentary about an abattoir. Eric Bain had just forwarded a list of e-mail addresses, regular users of BeastWatch. His e-mail had ended with the words Shiv, let me know how you got on! Rebus had tried calling her cell, but no one was answering. Bain’s e-mail had stipulated that the Jensens had given him no grief but had been only “grudgingly cooperative.”

Rebus had the Evening News open beside him. On its cover, a picture of Saturday’s march and the headline “Voting with Their Feet.” They’d be able to use the headline again tomorrow, with a photo of a rioter kicking at a police shield. The TV page gave him the title of the abattoir film-Slaughterhouse: The Task of Blood. Rebus stood up and walked to one of the free desks. The Colliar notes stared up at him. Siobhan had been busy. They’d been joined by police and prison reports on Fast Eddie Isley and Trevor Guest.

Guest: burglar, thug, sexual predator.

Isley: rapist.

Colliar: rapist.

Rebus turned to the BeastWatch notes. Details of twenty-eight further rapists and child molesters had been posted. There was a long and angry article from someone calling herself Tornupinside-felt to Rebus as if the author was female. She railed against the court system and its iron-clad ruling on rape versus sexual assault. Hard enough to get a conviction for rape anyway-but sexual assault could be every bit as ugly, violent, and degrading, yet with lesser penalties attached. She seemed to know her law: hard to tell if she was from north or south of the border. He skimmed through the text again, looking for burglar or burglary-the term in Scotland was housebreaking. But all she’d used were assault and assailant. Still, Rebus decided a reply was merited. He logged on to Siobhan’s terminal and accessed her Hotmail account-she used the same password for everything: Hibsgirl. Ran a finger down Eric Bain’s list until he found an address for Tornupinside. Started typing:

I’ve just finished reading your piece at BeastWatch. It really interested me, and I would like to talk to you about it. I have some information that you may find interesting. Please call me on…

He thought for a moment. No way of knowing how long Siobhan’s cell would be out of commission. So he typed in his own number instead, but signed off as Siobhan Clarke. More chance, he felt, of the writer replying to another woman. He read the message through, decided it looked as if it had been written by a cop. Gave it another go:

I saw what you said on BeastWatch. Did you know they’ve shut the site down? I’d like to talk to you, maybe by phone.

Added his number and Siobhan’s name-just her first name this time; less formal. Clicked on Send. When his phone started trilling only a few minutes later, he knew it was too good to be true-and so it proved.

“Strawman,” the voice drawled: Cafferty.

“Think you’ll ever get fed up of that nickname?”

Cafferty chuckled coldly. “How long has it been?”

Maybe sixteen years…Rebus giving evidence, Cafferty in the dock, one of the lawyers confusing Rebus for a previous witness called Stroman…

“Anything to report?” Cafferty was asking.

“Why should I tell you?”

Another chuckle, even colder than the first. “Say you catch him and it goes to court…how would it look if I suddenly piped up that I’d helped you out? Lot of explaining to do…could even lead to a mistrial.”

“I thought you wanted him caught.” Cafferty stayed silent. Rebus weighed up what to say. “We’re making progress.”

“How much progress?”

“It’s slow.”

“Only natural, with the city in chaos.” That chuckle again; Rebus wondered if Cafferty had been drinking. “I could have pulled off any size heist today, and you lot would have been too stretched to notice.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Changed man, Rebus. On your side now, remember? So, if there’s anything I can do to help…”

“Not right now.”

“But if you needed me, you’d ask?”

“You said it yourself, Cafferty-more you’re involved, harder it might be to get a conviction.”

“I know how the game’s played, Rebus.”

“Then you’ll know when it’s best to miss a turn.” Rebus turned away from the TV. A machine was flaying the skin from a carcass.

“Keep in touch, Rebus.”

“Actually…”

“Yes?”

“There are some cops I could do with talking to. They’re English, but they’re here for the G8.”

“So talk to them.”

“Not so easy. They don’t wear any insignia, run around town in an unmarked car and van.”

“Why do you want them?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Descriptions?”

“I think they might be the Met. Work in a team of three. Tanned faces…”

“Meaning they’ll stand out from the crowd up here,” Cafferty interrupted.

“…leader’s called Jacko. Could be working for a Special Branch guy called David Steelforth.”

“I know Steelforth.”

Rebus leaned back against one of the desks. “How?”

“He’s put away a number of my acquaintances over the years.” Rebus remembered: Cafferty had links to the old-school London mob. “Is he here, too?”

“Staying at the Balmoral.” Rebus paused. “I wouldn’t mind knowing who’s picking up his room tab.”

“Just when you think you’ve seen it all,” Cafferty said, “John Rebus comes asking you to go sniffing around Special Branch…I get the feeling this has got nothing to do with Cyril Colliar.”

“Like I said, I’ll tell you later.”

“So what are you up to just now?”

“Working.”

“Want to meet for a drink?”

“I’m not that desperate.”

“Me neither, just thought I’d offer.”

Rebus considered for a moment, almost tempted. But the line had gone dead. He sat down and drew a pad of paper toward him. The sum total of his evening’s efforts was listed there:

Grudge against?

Poss. victim?

Access to H…

Auchterarder-local connection?

Who’s next?

He narrowed his eyes at this last line. Interesting wording-it was the title of a Who album, another of Michael’s favorites. Home to “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” which they were using these days as the theme on one of those CSI shows…He felt the sudden urge to talk to someone, maybe his daughter or his ex-wife. The tug of family. He thought of Siobhan and her parents. Tried not to feel slighted that she hadn’t wanted him to meet them. She never spoke about them; he didn’t really know how much family she had.

“Because you never ask,” he chided himself. His phone beeped, telling him he had a message. Sender: Shiv. He opened it.

CN U MEET ME @ WGH

WGH meant the Western General Hospital. He hadn’t heard reports of any police injuries…no reason she’d have been in Princes Street or anywhere near.

Let me know how you got on!

He tried her number again on his way out to the lot. Nothing but the busy signal. Jumped into his car, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. It rang before he’d gone fifty yards. He grabbed at it, flipped it open.

“Siobhan?” he asked.

“What?” A female voice.

“Hello?” Gritting his teeth as he tried to steer with one hand.

“Is this…I was looking for…No, never mind.” The phone died in his hand and he threw it toward the seat next to him. It bounced once and hit the floor. He wrapped both fists around the steering wheel and hit the accelerator hard.

10

There were lines of cars at the Forth Road Bridge. Neither of them really minded. There was plenty to talk about; plenty of thinking to be done, too. Siobhan had told Rebus all about it. Teddy Clarke would not be budged from his wife’s bedside. Staff had said they could make up a temporary bed for him. They were planning to give Eve a scan first thing in the morning, checking for brain damage. The baton had caught her across the top half of her face: both eyes swollen and bruised, one of them closed altogether. Her nose covered with gauze: not broken. Rebus had asked, Was there any danger she could lose her sight? Maybe in one eye, Siobhan had admitted.

“After the scan, they’ll take her to the eye pavilion. Know what the hardest thing was though, John?”

“Realizing your mum’s only human?” he’d guessed.

Siobhan had shaken her head slowly. “They came and questioned her.”

“Who?”

“Police.”

“Well, that’s something.”

At which she’d laughed harshly. “They weren’t looking to find out who’d hit her. They were asking what she’d done.”

Yes, of course, because hadn’t she been one of the rioters? Hadn’t she been in the vanguard?

“Christ,” Rebus had muttered. “Were you there?”

“If I had been, there’d’ve been hell to pay.” And a little later, just above a whisper: “I saw it down there, John.”

“Looked hairy, judging by the TV.”

“Police overreacted.” Staring hard at him, willing him to contradict her.

“You’re angry” was all he’d said, winding down his window for the security check.

By the time they reached Glenrothes, he’d told her about his own evening, warning her that she might get an e-mail from Tornupinside. She hardly seemed to be listening. At the Fife police HQ, they had to show ID three times before they could gain entry to Operation Sorbus. Rebus had decided not to mention his night in the cells-not her problem. His left hand was back to something like normal at last. It had only taken a box of ibuprofen.

It was a control room much like any other: security-camera pictures; civilian staff at computers, headsets on; maps of central Scotland. There was a live feed from the security fence at Gleneagles, cameras posted at each watchtower. Other feeds from Edinburgh, Stirling, the Forth Bridge. And traffic video from the M9, the highway passing alongside Auchterarder.

Night shift had kicked in, which meant voices were lowered, the atmosphere muted. Quiet concentration and a lack of hurry. No brass that Rebus could see, and no Steelforth. Siobhan knew one or two faces from her visit of the week before. She went to ask her favor, leaving Rebus to cross the room at his own pace. Then he, too, spotted someone. Bobby Hogan had been promoted to DCI after a result in a South Queensferry shooting. But with the promotion had come a move to Tayside. Rebus hadn’t seen him for a year or so but recognized the wiry silver hair, the way the head sunk into the shoulders.

“Bobby,” he said, holding out a hand.

Hogan’s eyes widened. “Christ, John, tell me we’re not that desperate.” He returned Rebus’s grip.

“Don’t worry, Bobby, I’m only acting as chauffeur. How’s life treating you?”

“Can’t complain. Is that Siobhan over there?” Rebus nodded. “Why is she talking to one of my officers?”

“She’s after some surveillance footage.”

“That’s one thing we’ve no shortage of. What does she want it for?”

“A case we’re working, Bobby…suspect might have been at that riot today.”

“Needle in a haystack,” Hogan commented, creasing his forehead. He was a couple of years younger than Rebus, but had more lines on his face.

“Enjoying being DCI?” Rebus asked, trying to deflect his friend’s attention.

“You should try it sometime.”

Rebus shook his head. “Too late for me, Bobby. How’s Dundee treating you?”

“I’ve got quite the bachelor pad.”

“I thought you and Cora were getting back together?”

Hogan’s face creased further. He shook his head vigorously, letting Rebus know it was a subject best avoided.

“This is quite an ops room,” he said instead.

“Command post,” Hogan said, puffing out his chest. “We’re in contact with Edinburgh, Stirling, Gleneagles.”

“And if the shit really does hit the fan?”

“The G8 moves to our old stomping ground-Tulliallan.”

Meaning the Scottish Police College. Rebus nodded to show he was impressed.

“Direct line to Special Branch, Bobby?”

Hogan just shrugged. “End of the day, John, it’s us in charge, not them.”

Rebus nodded again, this time feigning agreement. “Bumped into some of them, all the same.”

“Steelforth?”

“He’s strutting around Edinburgh like he owns the place.”

“He’s a piece of work,” Hogan admitted.

“I could put it another way,” Rebus confided, “but I better not…you two might be bestest pals.”

Hogan hooted. “Fat chance.”

“See, it’s not just him.” Rebus lowered his voice. “I had a run-in with some of his men. They’re in uniform, but no badges. Unmarked car, plus a van with lights but no siren.”

“What happened?”

“I was trying to be nice, Bobby…”

“And?”

“Let’s just say I hit a wall.”

Hogan looked at him. “Literally?”

“As good as.”

Hogan nodded his understanding. “You’d like a few names to go with their faces?”

“I can’t offer much of a description,” Rebus said apologetically. “They’d been in the sun, and one of them’s called Jacko. I think they’re from the southeast.”

Hogan thought for a moment. “Let me see what I can do.”

“Only if it means you staying under the radar, Bobby.”

“Relax, John. I told you, this is my show.” He placed a hand on Rebus’s arm, as if by way of reassurance.

Rebus nodded his thanks; decided it wasn’t his job to pierce his friend’s bubble…

Siobhan had narrowed her search. She was only interested in footage from the gardens, after all, and only within a thirty-minute period. Even so, there would be over a thousand photographs to look at, and film from a dozen different viewpoints. Which still left any security-camera evidence, plus video and stills shot by protesters and onlookers.

“Then there’s the media,” she’d been told. BBC News, ITV, Channels 4 and 5, plus Sky and CNN. Not to mention photographers working for the main Scottish newspapers…

“Let’s start with what we’ve got,” she’d said.

“There’s a booth you can use.”

She’d thanked Rebus for the lift and told him he’d best get home. She’d find a ride back to Edinburgh somehow.

“You’re staying here all night?”

“Maybe it won’t come to that.” Both knowing it might. “Cafeteria’s open twenty-four/seven.”

“And your parents?”

“I’ll head there first thing.” She’d paused. “If you can spare me…”

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

“Thanks.” And she’d hugged him, not exactly sure why. Maybe just to feel human, the night stretching in front of her.

“Siobhan…Always supposing you find him, what then? He’ll say he was doing his job.”

“I’ll have proof that he wasn’t.”

“If you push it too hard…”

She’d nodded, given him a wink and a smile. Gestures she’d learned from him, used whenever he was planning on crossing the line.

A wink and a smile, and then she was gone.

Someone had painted a large anarchy symbol on the doors of the C Division police HQ in Torphichen Place. It was an old, crumbling building, with twice the atmosphere of Gayfield Square. Street sweepers were gathering debris and overtime outside. Broken glass, bricks and stones, fast-food cartons.

The desk sergeant buzzed Rebus in. Some of the Canning Street protesters had been brought here for processing. They’d spent the night in cells cleared for the purpose. Rebus didn’t like to think how many junkies and muggers were roaming the Edinburgh streets, having been ejected from their rightful lockups. The CID room was long and narrow and always had about it the faint musk of human odor, something Rebus put down to the regular presence of DC Ray “Rat-Ass” Reynolds. He was slouched there now with his feet crossed on the desk in front of him, tie undone and a can of beer in his fist. At another desk sat his boss, DI Shug Davidson. Davidson’s tie was all the way off, but he appeared to be still working, pounding with two fingers at his computer keyboard. The can of beer next to him had yet to be opened.

Reynolds didn’t bother to stifle a belch as Rebus walked into the room. “It’s the specter at the feast!” he called out in recognition. “I hear you’re about as welcome near the G8 as the Rebel Clown Army.” But he raised his can in a toast anyway.

“That cuts to the quick, Ray. Been hectic, has it?”

“We should be on bonuses.” Reynolds held up a fresh beer, but Rebus shook his head.

“Come to see where the action is?” Davidson added.

“Just need a word with Ellen,” Rebus explained, nodding in the direction of the room’s only other occupant. DS Ellen Wylie looked up from the report she was hiding behind. Her blond hair was cut short, with a center parting. She’d put on some weight since the days when Rebus had worked a couple of cases with her. Her cheeks had filled out, and were now flushed, something Reynolds could not resist referring to by rubbing his hands together and then holding them out in her direction, as though warming them at an open fire.

She was rising to her feet, but without making eye contact with the intruder. Davidson asked if it was anything he should know about. Rebus just shrugged. Wylie had lifted her jacket from the back of her chair, picked up her shoulder bag.

“I was calling it a night anyway,” she announced to the room. Reynolds gave a whistle and nudged the air with his elbow.

“What do you reckon, Shug? Nice when love blossoms between colleagues.” Laughter followed her out of the room. In the corridor, she leaned against the wall and let her head drop.

“Long day?” Rebus guessed.

“You ever tried questioning a German anarcho-syndicalist?”

“Not recently.”

“All had to be processed tonight so the courts could have them tomorrow.”

“Today,” Rebus corrected her, tapping his watch. She checked her own.

“Is that really the time?” She sounded exhausted. “I’ll be back here in six hours.”

“I’d offer to buy you a drink if the pubs were still open.”

“I don’t need a drink.”

“A lift home?”

“My car’s outside.” She thought for a moment. “No, it’s not-didn’t bring it in today.”

“Good move, considering.”

“We were warned not to.”

“Foresight is a wonderful thing. And it means I can give you that lift home after all.” Rebus waited until her eyes met his. He was smiling. “You still haven’t asked what I want.”

“I know what you want.” She bristled slightly, and he raised his hands in surrender.

“Easy now,” he told her. “Don’t want you getting all…”

“All what?”

Walking straight into his punch line. “Torn up inside,” he obliged.

Ellen Wylie shared a house with her divorced sister.

It was a terrace in Cramond. The back garden ended in a sheer drop to the River Almond. The night being mild, and Rebus needing to smoke, they sat at a table outside. Wylie kept her voice low-didn’t want the neighbors complaining, and besides, her sister’s bedroom window was open. She brought out mugs of milky tea.

“Nice spot,” Rebus told her. “I like that you can hear the water.”

“There’s a stream just over there.” She pointed into the darkness. “Masks the noise of the planes.”

Rebus nodded his understanding: they were directly under the flight path into Turnhouse Airport. This time of night, it had only taken them fifteen minutes from Torphichen Place. On the way, she’d told him her story.

“So I wrote something for the Web site…not against the law, is it? I was just so pissed off at the system. We bust a gut to get these animals to court, and then the lawyers do their damnedest to get their sentences whittled away to nothing.”

“Is that all it was?”

She’d shifted in the passenger seat. “What else?”

“Tornupinside-sounds like it was more personal.”

She’d stared through the windshield. “No, John, just angry…Too many hours spent on rape cases, sexual assault, domestic abuse-maybe it takes a woman to understand.”

“Which is why you phoned Siobhan back? I recognized your voice straight off.”

“Yes, that was particularly devious of you.”

“My middle name…”

Now, seated in her garden with a cold breeze blowing, Rebus buttoned his jacket and asked about the Web site. How did she find it? Did she know the Jensens? Had she ever met with them…?

“I remember the case” was all she said.

“Vicky Jensen?” She nodded slowly. “Did you work on it?”

A shake of the head. “But I’m glad he’s dead. Show me where he’s buried and I’ll dance a little jig.”

“Edward Isley and Trevor Guest are dead, too.”

“Look, John, all I did was write a bit of a blog…I was letting off steam.”

“And now three of the men listed on the site are dead. A blow to the head and a smack overdose. You’ve worked murders, Ellen…what does that MO tell you?”

“Someone with access to hard drugs.”

“Anything else?”

She thought for a moment. “You tell me.”

“Killer didn’t want a face-to-face with the victims. Maybe because they were bigger and stronger. Didn’t really want them to suffer either-a straight KO and then the injection. Doesn’t that sound like a woman to you?”

“How’s your tea, John?”

“Ellen…”

She slapped a palm against the tabletop. “If they were listed on BeastWatch, they were grade-A scumbags…don’t expect me to feel sorry for them.”

“What about catching the killer?”

“What about it?”

“You want them to get away with it?”

She was staring into the darkness again. The wind was rustling the trees nearby. “Know what we had today, John? We had a war, cut-and-dried-good guys and bad…”

Rebus’s thought: Tell that to Siobhan.

“But it isn’t always like that, is it?” she went on. “Sometimes the line blurs.” She turned her gaze on him. “You should know that better than most, number of corners I’ve seen you cut.”

“I make a lousy role model, Ellen.”

“Maybe so, but you’re planning to find him, aren’t you?”

“Him or her. That’s why I need to get a statement from you.” She opened her mouth to complain, but he held up a hand. “You’re the only person I know who used the site. The Jensens have closed it down, so I can’t be sure what might have been on there.”

“You want me to help?”

“By answering a few questions.”

She gave a harsh, quiet laugh. “You know I’ve got court later today?”

Rebus was lighting another cigarette. “Why Cramond?” he asked. She seemed surprised by the change of subject.

“It’s a village,” she explained. “A village inside a city-best of both worlds.” She paused. “Has the interview already started? Is this you getting me to drop my guard?”

Rebus shook his head. “Just wondered whose idea it was.”

“It’s my house, John. Denise came to live with me after she…” She cleared her throat. “Think I swallowed a bug,” she apologized. “I was going to say, after her divorce.”

Rebus nodded at the explanation. “Well, it’s a peaceful spot, I’ll give you that. Easy out here to forget all about the job.”

The light from the kitchen caught her smile. “I get the feeling it wouldn’t work for you. I’m not sure anything short of a sledgehammer would.”

“Or a few of those,” Rebus countered, nodding toward the row of empty wine bottles lined up beneath the kitchen window.

He took it slow, driving back into town. Loved the city at night, the taxicabs and lolling pedestrians, warm sodium glare from the streetlamps, darkened shops, curtained tenements. There were places he could go-a bakery, a night watchman’s desk, a casino-places where he was known and where tea would be brewed, gossip exchanged. Years back, he could have stopped for a chat with the working girls on Coburg Street, but most of them had either moved on or died. And after he, too, was gone, Edinburgh would remain. These same scenes would be enacted, a play whose run was never ending. Killers would be caught and punished; others would remain at large. The world and the underworld, coexisting down the generations. By week’s end, the G8 circus would have trundled elsewhere. Geldof and Bono would have found new causes. Richard Pennen would be in his boardroom, David Steelforth back at Scotland Yard. Sometimes it felt to Rebus that he was close to seeing the mechanism that connected everything.

Close…but never quite close enough.

The Meadows seemed deserted as he turned up Marchmont Road. Parked at the top of Arden Street and walked back downhill to his tenement. Two or three times a week he got flyers through his mailbox, firms eager to sell his apartment for him. The one upstairs had gone for two hundred K. Add that sort of money to his CID pension and he was, as Siobhan herself had said, “on Easy Street.” Problem was, it wasn’t a destination that appealed. He stooped to pick up the mail from inside the door. There was a menu from a new Indian take-out. He’d pin it up in the kitchen, next to the others. Meantime, he made himself a ham sandwich, ate it standing in the kitchen, staring at the array of empty cans on the work surface. How many bottles had there been in Ellen Wylie’s garden? Fifteen, maybe twenty. A lot of wine. He’d seen an empty Tesco’s bag in the kitchen. She probably did a regular recycling run, same time she did the shopping. Say every two weeks. Twenty bottles in two weeks; ten a week-Denise came to stay with me after she…after her divorce. Rebus hadn’t seen any nighttime insects illuminated against the kitchen window. Ellen had looked washed out. Easy to blame it on the day’s events, but Rebus knew it went deeper. The lines under her bloodshot eyes had taken weeks to accumulate. Her figure had been thickening for some time. He knew that Siobhan had once seen Ellen as a rival-two DSes who’d have to fight tooth and nail for promotion. But lately, Siobhan had stopped saying as much. Maybe because Ellen didn’t look quite so dangerous to her these days…

He poured a glass of water and took it into the living room, gulped it down until only half an inch was left, then added a slug of malt to the remainder. Tipped it back and felt the heat work its way down his throat. Topped it up and settled into his chair. Too late now to put any music on. He rested the glass against his forehead, closed his eyes.

Slept.

Tuesday, July 5, 2005

11

The best Glenrothes could offer was a lift to the railway station at Markinch.

Siobhan sat on the train-too early yet for the commuter rush-and looked out at the passing countryside. Not that she saw any of it: her mind was replaying footage of the riot, the same hours of footage she had just walked away from. Sound and fury, swearing and swinging, the clatter of hurled objects and the grunts of exertion. Her thumb was numb from pressure on the remote control. Pause…slow back…slow forward…play. Fast forward…rewind…pause…play. In some of the still photographs, faces had been circled-people the force would want to question. The eyes burned with hatred. Of course, some of them weren’t demonstrators at all-just local troublemakers ready to rumble, smothered in Burberry scarves and baseball caps. In the U.S., they’d probably be called juvenile delinquents, but up here they were neds. One of the team, bringing her coffee and a chocolate bar, had said as much as he stood behind her shoulder.

“Neddy the Ned from Nedtown.”

The woman across from Siobhan on the train had the morning paper open. The riot had made the front page. But so, too, had Tony Blair. He was in Singapore, pitching for London to win the Olympic bid. The year 2012 seemed a long way off; so did Singapore. Siobhan couldn’t believe he was going to make it back to Gleneagles in time to shake all those hands-Bush and Putin, Schröder and Chirac. The paper also said there was little sign of Saturday’s Hyde Park crowd heading north.

“Sorry, is this seat taken?”

Siobhan shook her head and the man squeezed in beside her.

“Wasn’t yesterday terrible?” he said. Siobhan grunted a reply, but the woman across the table said she’d been shopping in Rose Street and had only just escaped being caught up in it. The two then started trading war stories, while Siobhan stared out the window again. The skirmishes had been just that. Police tactics had been unchanged: go in hard; let them know the city’s ours, not theirs. From the footage, there’d been obvious provocation. But they’d been forewarned-no point in joining a demonstration if it didn’t make the news. Anarchists couldn’t afford ad campaigns. Baton charges were their equivalent of free publicity. The photos in the paper proved it: cops with gritted teeth swinging their clubs; rioters defenseless on the ground, being dragged away by faceless uniforms. All very George Orwell. None of it got Siobhan any closer to finding out who had attacked her mother, or why.

But she wasn’t about to give up.

Her eyes stung when she blinked, and every few blinks the world seemed to swim out of focus. She needed sleep but was wired on caffeine and sugar.

“Sorry, but are you all right?”

It was her neighbor again. His hand was brushing her arm. When she blinked her eyes open, she could feel the single tear running down her cheek. She wiped it away.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just a bit tired.”

“Thought maybe we’d upset you,” the woman across the table was saying, “going on about yesterday…”

Siobhan shook her head, saw that the woman had finished with her paper. “Mind if I…?”

“No, pet, you go ahead.”

Siobhan managed a smile and opened the tabloid, studying the pictures, looking for the photographer’s name…

At Haymarket she lined up for a cab. Got out at the Western General and went straight to the ward. Her father was slurping tea in the reception area. He’d slept in his clothes and hadn’t managed a shave, the bristles gray on his cheeks and chin. He looked old to her, old and suddenly mortal.

“How is she?” Siobhan asked.

“Not too bad. Due to get the scan just before lunch. How about you?”

“Still haven’t found the bastard.”

“I meant, how are you feeling?”

“I’m all right.”

“You were up half the night, weren’t you?”

“Maybe a bit more than half,” she conceded with a smile. Her phone beeped: not a message, just warning her its battery was low. She switched it off. “Can I see her?”

“They’re getting her ready. Said they’d tell me when they’d finished. How’s the outside world?”

“Ready to face another day.”

“Can I buy you a coffee?”

She shook her head. “I’m swimming in the stuff.”

“I think you should get some rest, love. Come see her this afternoon, after the tests.”

“I’ll just say hello first.” She nodded toward the ward doors.

“Then you’ll go home?”

“Promise.”

The morning news: yesterday’s arrests were being sent to the sheriff court on Chambers Street. The court itself would be closed to the public. A protest was taking place outside the Dungavel Immigration Center. Forewarned, the immigration service had already moved the waiting deportees elsewhere. The demonstration would go ahead anyway, organizers said.

Trouble at the Peace Camp in Stirling. People were starting to head for Gleneagles, the police determined to stop them, using Section 60 powers to stop and search without suspicion. In Edinburgh, the cleanup was well advanced. A vehicle loaded with ninety gallons of cooking oil had been detained-the oil would have formed a road slick, causing traffic chaos. Wednesday’s Final Push concert at Murrayfield was coming together. The stage had been built, lighting installed. Midge Ure was hoping for some “decent Scottish summer weather.” Performers and celebrities had started arriving in the city. Richard Branson had flown one of his jets to Edinburgh. Prestwick Airport was gearing up for the next day’s arrivals. An advance guard of diplomats had already arrived. President Bush would be bringing his own sniffer dog, plus a mountain bike so he could maintain his daily exercise regime. Back in the newsroom, the TV presenter read out an e-mail from a viewer, suggesting the summit could have been held on one of the North Sea’s many decommissioned oil platforms, “saving a small fortune in security, and making protest marches an interesting proposition.”

Rebus finished his coffee and turned down the sound. Vans were arriving in the police station lot, ready to transport prisoners to the court. Ellen Wylie was due in around ninety minutes to make her statement. He’d tried Siobhan’s cell a couple of times but it went straight to messaging, meaning she’d switched it off. He’d called Sorbus HQ, only to be told she’d left for Edinburgh. Tried the Western General, but learned only that “Mrs. Clarke has had a comfortable night.” Number of times he’d heard that in his life…A comfortable night: meaning “She’s still alive, if that’s what’s worrying you.” He looked up and saw that a man had entered the CID room.

“Help you?” Rebus asked. Then he recognized the uniform. “Sorry, sir.”

“We’ve not met,” the chief constable said, holding out his hand. “I’m James Corbyn.”

Rebus returned the handshake, noting that Corbyn wasn’t a Freemason. “DI Rebus,” he said.

“Are you working with DS Clarke on the Auchterarder case?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“I’ve been trying to reach her. She owes me an update.”

“Some interesting developments, sir. There’s a Web site set up by a local couple. Might be how the killer chose his victims.”

“You’ve got names for all three?”

“Yes, sir. Same MO each time.”

“Could there be others?”

“No way of knowing.”

“Will he stop at three?”

“Again, sir, hard to tell.”

The chief constable was patrolling the room, inspecting wall charts, desks, computer monitors. “I told Clarke she had until tomorrow. After that, we shut the case down till the G8 is done and dusted.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Media haven’t got hold of it yet. No reason we can’t sit on it for a few days.”

“Trails have a way of going cold, sir. If we give suspects that bit of extra time to get their stories straight…”

“You’ve got suspects?” Corbyn had turned toward Rebus.

“Not as such, sir, but there are people we’re talking to.”

“G8 has to take priority, Rebus.”

“Mind if I ask why, sir?”

Corbyn glared at him. “Because the world’s eight most powerful men are going to be in Scotland, staying at the country’s best hotel. That’s the story everyone wants. The fact that a serial killer is stalking the central belt might just get in the way, don’t you think?”

“Actually, sir, only one of the victims is from Scotland.”

The chief constable walked to within a few inches of Rebus. “Don’t try to be smart, DI Rebus. And don’t think I haven’t dealt with your kind before.”

“What kind is that, sir?”

“The kind that thinks because he’s been around awhile, he knows better than anyone else. You know what they say about cars-more miles on the clock, closer they are to being scrapped.”

“Thing is, sir, I prefer vintage cars to the stuff they’re churning out today. Shall I pass your message along to DS Clarke? I expect you’ve got better things to be doing with your time. Off to Gleneagles yourself at any point?”

“None of your bloody business.”

“Message received.” Rebus gave the chief constable something that could have been construed as a salute.

“You’ll shut this thing down.” Corbyn slapped a hand against some of the paperwork on Rebus’s desk. “And remember-DS Clarke is in charge, not you, Inspector.” His eyes narrowed a little. Then, seeing that Rebus wasn’t about to reply, he stalked out of the room. Rebus waited the best part of a minute before exhaling, then made a phone call.

“Mairie? Any news for me?” He listened to her apology. “Well, never mind. I’ve got a wee bonus here for you, if you can manage the price of a cup of coffee…”

Multrees Walk took him less than ten minutes on foot. It was a new development adjacent to the Harvey Nichols department store, and some of the shops were still unrented. But the Vin Caffe was open for snacks and Italian coffee, and Rebus ordered a double espresso.

“And she’s paying,” he added as Mairie Henderson arrived.

“Guess who’s covering the sheriff court this afternoon?” She slid into her seat.

“And that’s your excuse for treading water on Richard Pennen?”

She glared at him. “John, what does it matter if Pennen paid for an MP’s hotel room? There’s nothing to prove it was cash-for-contracts. If Webster’s area was arms procurement, I might have the beginnings of a story.” She made an exasperated sound and gave a theatrical shrug of the shoulders. “Anyway, I’m not giving up yet. Let me talk to a few more people about Richard Pennen.”

Rebus ran a hand across his face. “It’s just the way they’re going about protecting him. Not just Pennen, actually-everyone who was there that night. No way we’re going to get near them.”

“You really think Webster was given a shove over that wall?”

“It’s a possibility. One of the guards thought there was an intruder.”

“Well, if it was an intruder, reason dictates it wasn’t anyone at the actual dinner.” She angled her face, seeking his agreement. When he failed to concede, she straightened again. “Know what I think? I think all of this is because there’s a bit of the anarchist in you. You’re on their side, and it annoys you that you’ve somehow ended up working for The Man.”

Rebus snorted a laugh. “Where did you get that from?”

She laughed with him. “I’m right though, aren’t I? You’ve always seen yourself as being on the outside-” She broke off as their coffees arrived, dug her spoon into her cappuccino and scooped foam into her mouth.

“I do my best work on the margins,” Rebus said thoughtfully.

She nodded. “That’s why we used to get along so well.”

“Until you chose Cafferty instead.”

She gave another shrug. “He’s more like you than you care to admit.”

“And I was just about to do you this huge favor.”

“Okay.” She narrowed her eyes. “The pair of you are like apples and oranges.”

“That’s better.” He handed her an envelope. “Typed by my own fair hands, so the spelling might not be up to your own high journalistic standard.”

“What is it?” She was unfolding the single sheet of paper.

“Something we were keeping the lid on: two more victims, same killer as Cyril Colliar. I can’t give you everything we’ve got, but this’ll get you started.”

“Christ, John-” She looked up at him.

“What?”

“Why are you giving me this?”

“My latent anarchic streak?” he pretended to guess.

“It might not even make the front page, not this week.”

“So?”

“Any week of the year except this…”

“Are you checking my gift horse’s mouth?”

“This stuff about the Web site…” She was scanning the sheet for a second time.

“It’s all kosher, Mairie. If you don’t have a use for it…” He held out his hand to take it back.

“What’s a ‘serial kilter’? Is that someone who can’t stop making kilts?”

“Give it back.”

“Who is it that’s pissed you off?” she asked with a smile. “You wouldn’t be doing this otherwise.”

“Just hand it over and we’ll say no more.”

But she slid the page back into the envelope and folded it into her pocket. “If things stay calm for the rest of the day, maybe my editor can be persuaded.”

“Stress the link with the Web site,” Rebus advised. “Might help the others on the list be a bit more cautious.”

“They’ve not been told?”

“Haven’t got around to it. And if the chief constable gets his way, they won’t find out till next week.”

“By which time the killer could strike again?”

Rebus nodded.

“So really you’re doing this to save these scuzzballs’ lives?”

“To protect and serve,” Rebus said, trying another salute.

“And not because you’ve had a falling-out with the chief constable?”

Rebus shook his head slowly, as if disappointed in her. “And I thought I was the one with the cynical streak…You’ll really keep looking at Richard Pennen?”

“For a little while longer.” She waved the sheet of paper at him. “Got to retype all of this first though. Didn’t realize English wasn’t your first language.”

Siobhan had headed home and run a bath, closing her eyes after getting in, then waking with a jolt, chin touching the surface of the tepid water. She’d gotten out and changed her clothes, ordered a taxi, and headed for the garage where her car was ready. She’d driven to Niddrie, trusting that lightning wouldn’t strike twice…actually, three times, though she’d managed to get the St. Leonard’s loaner back to its berth without anyone spotting her. If anyone came asking, she could always say the damage must have been done in the car lot.

There was a single-decker bus idling next to the pavement, its driver busy with his newspaper. A few campers passed Siobhan on their way out to it, knapsacks bulging. They gave sleepy smiles. Bobby Greig was watching them leave. Siobhan looked around and saw that others were busy dismantling their tents.

“Saturday was our busiest night,” Greig explained. “Each day since has been a bit quieter.”

“You didn’t have to turn people away then?”

His mouth twitched. “Facilities for fifteen thousand, and only two could be bothered to show.” He paused. “Your ‘friends’ didn’t come home last night.” The way he said it let her know he’d worked something out.

“My parents,” she confirmed.

“And why didn’t you want me to know that?”

“I’m not sure, Bobby. Maybe I didn’t think a cop’s mum and dad would be safe here.”

“So they’re staying with you?”

She shook her head. “One of the riot police cracked my mum across her face. She spent the night in a hospital bed.”

“Sorry to hear that. Anything I can do?”

She shook her head again. “Any more trouble with the locals?”

“Another standoff last night.”

“Persistent little jerks, aren’t they?”

“Councilman happened by again and made the truce.”

“Tench?”

Greig nodded. “He was showing a bigwig around. Some urban regeneration thing.”

“Area could use it. What sort of bigwig?”

Greig shrugged. “Government.” He ran his fingers over his shaved head. “This place’ll be dead soon. Good riddance to it.”

Siobhan didn’t ask if he meant the camp or Niddrie itself. She turned and made for her parents’ tent. Unzipped the flap and looked inside. Everything was intact, but with a few additions. It looked as if those who were moving out had decided to leave gifts of leftover food, candles, and water.

“Where are they?”

Siobhan recognized Santal’s voice. She backed out of the tent and straightened up. Santal, too, was toting a knapsack and holding a bottle of water.

“Heading out?” Siobhan asked.

“Bus to Stirling. I wanted to say good-bye.”

“You’re off to the Peace Camp?” Siobhan watched Santal’s braids flex as she nodded. “Were you at Princes Street yesterday?”

“Last time I saw your parents. What’s happened to them?”

“Someone belted my mum. She’s in the hospital.”

“Christ, that’s hellish…Was it…” She paused. “One of your lot?”

“One of my lot,” Siobhan echoed. “And I want him caught. Lucky you’re still here.”

“Why?”

“Did you get any film? I thought maybe I could look at it.”

But Santal was shaking her head.

“Don’t worry,” Siobhan assured her, “I’m not looking to…It’s the uniforms I’m interested in, not the demonstration itself.” But Santal kept shaking her head.

“I didn’t have my camera.” A bald lie.

“Come on, Santal. Surely you want to help.”

“Plenty of others taking photos.” She gestured around the camp with an outstretched arm. “Ask them.”

“I’m asking you.”

“The bus is leaving…” She pushed her way past Siobhan.

“Any message for my mum?” Siobhan called after her. “Shall I bring them to see you at the Peace Camp?” But the figure kept moving. Siobhan cursed under her breath. Should have known better: to Santal she was still a pig, the filth, the cops. Still the enemy. She found herself standing beside Bobby Greig as the bus filled, its door closing with a hiss of air. The sound of communal singing came from inside. A few of the passengers waved out at Greig. He waved back.

“Not a bad bunch,” he observed to Siobhan, offering her a piece of gum, “for hippies, I mean.” Then he slid his hands into his pockets. “Got a ticket for tomorrow night?”

“Failed in the attempt,” she admitted.

“My firm’s doing security…”

She stared at him. “You’ve got a spare?”

“Not exactly, but I’ll be there, meaning you could be ‘plus one.’”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Not a date or anything…offer’s there if you want it.”

“It’s very generous, Bobby.”

“Up to you.” He was looking everywhere but at her.

“Can I take your number, let you know tomorrow?”

“Thinking something better might come up?”

She shook her head. “Work might come up,” she corrected him.

“Everyone’s allowed a night off, DS Clarke.”

“Call me Siobhan,” she insisted.

“Where are you?” Rebus asked into the cell.

“On my way to the Scotsman.”

“What’s at the Scotsman?”

“More photos.”

“Your phone’s been switched off.”

“I needed to charge it.”

“Well, I’ve just been taking a statement from Tornupinside.”

“Who?”

“I told you yesterday…” But then he remembered that she’d had other things on her mind. So he explained again about the blog and how he’d sent a message, and Ellen Wylie had called back…

“Whoa, back up,” Siobhan said. “Our Ellen Wylie?”

“Wrote a long and angry piece for BeastWatch.”

“But why?”

“Because the system’s letting the sisterhood down,” Rebus answered.

“Are those her exact words?”

“I’ve got them on tape. Of course, the one thing I don’t have is corroboration, since there was no one around to assist with the interview.”

“Sorry about that. So is Ellen a suspect?”

“Listen to the tape, then you can tell me.” Rebus looked around the CID room. The windows needed a clean, but what was the point when all they looked down on was the rear parking lot? A lick of paint would cheer up the walls, but soon be covered by scene-of-crime photos and victim details.

“Maybe it’s because of her sister,” Siobhan was saying.

“What?”

“Ellen’s sister Denise.”

“What about her?”

“She moved in with Ellen a year or so back…maybe a bit less actually. Left her partner.”

“So?”

“Her abusive partner. That was the story I heard. They lived in Glasgow. Police were called in a few times but never got a charge to stick. Had to get a restraint order on him, I think.”

Came to live with me after she…after the divorce. Suddenly, the “bug” Ellen had swallowed made sense.

“I didn’t know,” Rebus said quietly.

“No, well…”

“Well what?”

“It’s the sort of thing women talk to other women about.”

“But not to men, is that what you’re saying? And we’re the ones who’re supposed to be sexist.” Rebus rubbed his free hand over the back of his neck. The skin felt tight. “So Denise goes to live with Ellen, and next thing Ellen’s on the Net, looking for sites like BeastWatch…”

And staying in at night with her sister, overeating, drinking too much…

“Maybe I could talk to them,” Siobhan suggested.

“Haven’t you enough on your plate? How is your mum anyway?”

“She’s having a scan. I was planning to go see her next.”

“Then do it. I’m assuming you didn’t get anything from Glenrothes?”

“Nothing but a sore back.”

“There’s another call coming in. I better go. Can we meet up later?”

“Sure thing.”

“Because the chief constable stopped by.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“But it can wait.” Rebus pushed the button to pick up the next caller. “DI Rebus,” he stated.

“I’m at the courts,” Mairie Henderson said. “Come see what I’ve got for you.” There were hoots and cheers in the background. “Got to go,” she said.

Rebus headed downstairs and hitched a lift in a patrol car. Neither uniform had been involved in yesterday’s running battles.

“Backup,” they explained gloomily. “Sat on a bus for four hours listening to it on the radio. You giving evidence, Inspector?”

Rebus said nothing until the car turned into Chambers Street. “Drop me here,” he ordered.

“You’re welcome,” the driver informed him in a growl, but only after Rebus had climbed out.

The patrol car did a screeching U-turn, drawing the attention of the media positioned outside the sheriff court. Rebus stood across the street, lighting a cigarette next to the steps of the Royal Scottish Museum. Another protester was leaving the court building to cheers and whoops from his comrades. His fist punched the air as they slapped him on the back, press photographers capturing the moment.

“How many?” Rebus asked, aware that Mairie Henderson was standing next to him, notebook and tape recorder in hand.

“About twenty so far. Some of them have been farmed out to other courts.”

“Any quotes I should be looking out for tomorrow?”

“How about ‘Smash the system’?” She glanced at her notes. “Or ‘Show me a capitalist and I’ll show you a bloodsucker’?”

“Seems like a fair swap.”

“It’s Malcolm X, apparently.” She flipped her notebook shut. “They’re all being issued restraining orders. Can’t go anywhere near Gleneagles, Auchterarder, Stirling, central Edinburgh-” She paused. “Nice touch though: one guy said he had a ticket for T in the Park this weekend, so the judge said he could go to Kinross.”

“Siobhan’s going to that,” Rebus said. “Be nice to have the Colliar inquiry wrapped up in time.”

“In which case this may not be good news.”

“What is it, Mairie?”

“The Clootie Well. I got a friend at the paper to do some background.”

“And?”

“And there are others.”

“How many?”

“At least one in Scotland. It’s on the Black Isle.”

“North of Inverness?”

She nodded. “Follow me,” she said, turning and heading for the museum’s main door. Inside she took a right, into the Museum of Scotland. The place was busy with families-school holidays, kids with too much energy. The smaller ones were squealing and bouncing on their toes.

“What are we doing here?” Rebus asked. But Mairie was already at the elevators. They got off and climbed some stairs. Through the windows, Rebus had a great view down onto the sheriff court. But Mairie was leading him into the farthest corner of the building. “I’ve been here before,” Rebus told her.

“The section on death and belief,” she explained.

“There are some wee coffins with dolls inside…”

This was the very display she stopped at, and Rebus realized there was an old black-and-white photograph behind the glass.

A photo of the Black Isle’s Clootie Well.

“Locals have been hanging bits of cloth there for centuries. I’ve got my friend widening the search to England and Wales, on the off-chance. Think it’s worth a look?”

“Black Isle’s got to be a two-hour drive,” Rebus mused, eyes still on the photo. The scraps of material looked almost batlike, clinging to thin, bare branches. Next to the photo sat witches’ casting sticks, bits of bone protruding from hollowed pebbles. Death and belief…

“More like three, this time of year,” Mairie was telling him. “All those RVs to get past.”

Rebus nodded. The A9 north of Perth was notoriously slow. “Might just get the locals to take a look. Thanks, Mairie.”

“I got these from the Net.” She handed over a few sheets, detailing the history of the Clootie Well near Fortrose. There were grainy photographs-including a copy of the one on display-which showed it to be almost identical to its namesake in Auchterarder.

“Thanks again.” He rolled the sheets up and put them in his jacket pocket. “Did your editor take the bait?” They started retracing their steps to the elevator.

“Depends. A riot tonight might see us relegated to page five.”

“A gamble worth taking.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me, John?”

“I’ve given you a scoop-what else do you want?”

“I want to know you’re not just using me.” She pushed the elevator button.

“Would I do a thing like that?”

“Of course you bloody well would.” They were quiet all the way back out to the steps. Mairie watched the action across the street. Another protester, another clenched-fist salute. “You’ve kept the lid on this since Friday. Aren’t you scared the killer will go deep cover once he sees it in the paper?”

“Can’t get any deeper than he is right now.” He looked at her. “Besides, all we had on Friday was Cyril Colliar. It was Cafferty gave us the rest.”

Her face hardened. “Cafferty?”

“You told him the patch from Colliar’s jacket had turned up. He paid me a visit. Went away with the other two names and came back with the news they were dead.”

“You’ve been using Cafferty?” She sounded incredulous.

“Without him telling you, Mairie-that’s what I’m getting at. Try trading with him, you’ll find it’s all one-way traffic. Everything I’ve given you on the killings, he had it first. But he wasn’t going to tell you.”

“You seem to be under some sort of misapprehension that the two of us are close.”

“Close enough for you to go straight to him with the news about Colliar.”

“That was a promise of long standing-any new developments, he wanted to know. Don’t think I’m about to apologize.” Her eyes narrowed and she pointed across the street. “What’s Gareth Tench doing here?”

“The councilman, you mean?” Rebus followed the path of her finger. “Preaching to the heathen, maybe,” he offered, watching as Tench shuffled along crablike behind the line of photographers. “Maybe he wants you to do another interview.”

“How did you know about…? I suppose Siobhan told you.”

“No secrets between Siobhan and me.” Rebus gave a wink.

“So where is she now?”

“She’s down at the Scotsman.”

“My eyes must be deceiving me then.” Mairie was pointing again. Sure enough, it was Siobhan, and Tench had stopped right in front of her, the two of them exchanging a handshake. “No secrets between you two, eh?”

But Rebus was already on his way. This end of the street had been closed to traffic, easy enough to cross.

“Hiya,” he said. “Sudden change of mind?”

Siobhan gave a little smile and introduced him to Tench.

“Inspector,” the councilman said with a bow of his head.

“You’re a fan of street theater, Councilman Tench?”

“I don’t mind it at festival time,” Tench said with a chuckle.

“Used to do a bit yourself, didn’t you?”

Tench turned to Siobhan. “The inspector means my little Sunday-morning sermons at the foot of the Mound. Doubtless he paused a moment on his way to Communion.”

“Don’t seem to see you there anymore,” Rebus added. “Did you lose your faith?”

“Far from it, Inspector. But there are ways of getting a point across besides preaching.” His face composed itself into a more serious professionalism. “I’m here because a couple of my constituents got caught up in all that trouble yesterday.”

“Innocent bystanders, I don’t doubt,” Rebus commented.

Tench’s eyes flitted to him, then back to Siobhan. “The inspector must be a joy to work with.”

“Nonstop laughs,” Siobhan agreed.

“Ah! And the Fourth Estate, too!” Tench exclaimed, holding out a hand toward Mairie, who’d finally decided to join them. “When is our article running? I’ll assume you know these two guardians of truth.” He gestured toward Rebus and Siobhan. “You did promise me a wee peek at the contents before publishing,” he reminded Mairie.

“Did I?” She was trying to look surprised. Tench wasn’t falling for it. He turned to the two detectives.

“I think I need to have a word in private…”

“Don’t mind us,” Rebus told him. “Siobhan and I need a minute too.”

“We do?” But Rebus had already turned away, leaving her little option but to follow.

“Sandy Bell’s will be open,” he told her, once they were out of earshot. But she was checking the crowd.

“Someone I need to see,” she explained. “Photographer I know…apparently he’s here somewhere.” She stood on tiptoe. “Ahh…” Pushed her way into the scrum of journalists. The photographers were checking the backs of each other’s cameras, examining the digital screens to see what they’d got. Rebus waited impatiently while Siobhan talked to a wiry figure with cropped salt-and-pepper hair. At least he had an explanation now: she’d gone to the Scotsman only to be told that the person she needed to see was right here. The photographer took a bit of persuading, but eventually followed her back to where Rebus was standing with arms folded.

“This is Mungo,” Siobhan said.

“Would Mungo like a drink?” Rebus asked.

“I’d like that very much,” the photographer decided, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead. The gray in his hair was premature-probably wasn’t much older than Siobhan herself. He had a chiseled, weather-beaten face and an accent to match.

“Western Isles?” Rebus guessed.

“Lewis,” Mungo confirmed, as Rebus led the way to Sandy Bell’s. There was another cheer from behind them, and they turned to see a young man exiting the gates of the sheriff court.

“I think I know him,” Siobhan said quietly. “He’s the one who’s been tormenting the campsite.”

“Bit of respite last night then,” Rebus stated. “He’ll have been in the cells.” As he spoke, he realized he was rubbing his left hand with his right. When the young man gave a salute to the spectators, it was returned by several of the crowd.

Including, as a bemused Mairie Henderson watched, Councilman Gareth Tench.

12

Sandy Bell’s had only been open ten minutes, but a couple of regulars had already settled themselves at the bar.

“Just a half of Best,” Mungo said when asked what he was drinking. Siobhan wanted orange juice. Rebus decided he could tackle a pint. They sat around a table. The bar’s narrow and shadowy interior smelled of brass polish and bleach. Siobhan explained to Mungo what she wanted, and he opened his camera bag, lifting out a small white box.

“An iPod?” Siobhan guessed.

“Useful for storing pictures,” Mungo explained. He showed her how to work it, and then apologized that he hadn’t captured the whole day.

“So how many photos are on there?” Rebus asked as Siobhan demonstrated the small color screen to him, using the flywheel to flip to and fro among stills.

“A couple of hundred,” Mungo said. “I’ve weeded out the no-hopers.”

“Is it all right if I look at them now?” Siobhan asked. Mungo just shrugged. Rebus offered him the pack of cigarettes.

“Actually, I’m allergic,” the photographer warned. So Rebus took his addiction to the other end of the bar, next to the window. As he stood there, staring out onto Forrest Road, he saw Councilman Tench walking toward the Meadows, busy talking with the young man from the court. Tench was giving his constituent’s back a pat of reassurance; no sign of Mairie. Rebus finished his cigarette and returned to the table. Siobhan turned the iPod around so he could see its screen.

“My mum,” she said. Rebus took the device from her and peered at it.

“Second row back?” he said. Siobhan nodded excitedly. “Looks like she’s trying to get out.”

“Exactly.”

“Before she was hit?” Rebus was studying the faces behind the riot shields, cops with their visors down, teeth bared.

“It seems I failed to capture that particular moment,” Mungo admitted.

“She’s definitely trying to push her way back through the crowd,” Siobhan stressed. “She wanted to get away.”

“So why give her a whack across the face?” Rebus asked.

“The way it worked,” Mungo offered, enunciating each syllable, “the leaders would lash out at the police line, then retreat. Chances are, anyone left at the front would suffer the consequences. Picture desks then have to choose what to publish.”

“And it’s usually the riot cops retaliating?” Rebus guessed. He held the screen a little farther from his face. “Can’t really identify any of the police.”

“No ID on their epaulets either,” Siobhan pointed out. “All nice and anonymous. Can’t even tell which force they’re from. Some of them have letters stenciled above their visors-XS, for example. Could that be a code?”

Rebus shrugged. He was remembering Jacko and his pals…no insignia on display there either. Siobhan seemed to remember something and gave her watch a quick check. “I need to call the hospital.” She rose from her seat and headed outdoors.

“Another?” Rebus asked, pointing at Mungo’s glass. The photographer shook his head. “Tell me, what else are you covering this week?”

Mungo puffed out his cheeks. “Bits and pieces.”

“The VIPs?”

“Given the chance.”

“Don’t suppose you were working Friday night?”

“As a matter of fact I was.”

“That big dinner at the castle?”

Mungo nodded. “Editor fancied a pic of the foreign secretary. The ones I got were pretty feeble-that’s what happens when you aim a flash at a windshield.”

“What about Ben Webster?”

Mungo shook his head. “Didn’t even know who he was, more’s the pity-it would have been the last-ever photo of him.”

“We took a few at the morgue, if that makes you feel any better,” Rebus said. Then, as Mungo smiled a soulful smile: “I wouldn’t mind a look at the ones you did get.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“They’re not on your little machine then?”

The photographer shook his head. “That lot are on my laptop. It’s mostly just cars whizzing up Castle Hill-we weren’t allowed as far as the Esplanade.” He had a thought. “You know, they’ll have taken an official portrait at the dinner itself. You could always ask to see that, if you’re really interested.”

“I doubt they’d just hand it over.”

Mungo gave a wink. “Leave it to me,” he said. Then, as he watched Rebus drain his glass: “Funny to think it’ll be back to old clothes and porridge next week.”

Rebus smiled and wiped his thumb across his mouth. “My dad used to say that when we came back from vacation.”

“Don’t suppose Edinburgh will ever see anything like this again.”

“Not in my lifetime,” Rebus conceded.

“Think any of it will make a difference?” Rebus just shook his head. “My girlfriend gave me this book, all about 1968-the Prague spring and the Paris riots.”

Think we dropped the baton, Rebus thought to himself. “I lived through 1968, son. Didn’t mean anything at the time.” He paused. “Or since, come to that.”

“You didn’t tune in and drop out?”

“I was in the army-short hair and an attitude.” Siobhan was returning to the table. “Any news?” he asked her.

“They’ve not found anything. She’s off to the eye pavilion for some tests, and that’s that.”

“Western’s discharged her?” Rebus watched Siobhan nod. She picked up the iPod again. “Something else I wanted to show you.” Rebus heard the wheel click. She turned the screen toward him. “See the woman at the far right? The one with the braids?”

Rebus saw. Mungo’s camera was focused on the line of riot shields, but at the top of the picture he’d caught some onlookers, most holding camera phones in front of their faces. The woman with the braids, however, was toting some sort of video.

“That’s Santal,” Siobhan stated.

“And who’s Santal when she’s at home?”

“Didn’t I tell you? She was camping next door to my mum and dad.”

“Funny sort of name…reckon she was born with it?”

“Means ‘sandalwood,’” Siobhan told him.

“Lovely-smelling soap,” Mungo added. Siobhan ignored him.

“See what she’s doing?” she asked Rebus, holding the iPod close to him.

“Same as everyone else.”

“Not exactly.” Siobhan turned the machine toward Mungo.

“They’re all pointing their phones toward the police,” he answered, nodding.

“All except Santal.” Siobhan angled the screen toward Rebus again, and rubbed the flywheel with her thumb, accessing the next photo. “See?”

Rebus saw but wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Mostly,” Mungo obliged, “they want photos of the police-useful propaganda.”

“But Santal’s photographing the protesters.”

“Meaning she might have caught your mum,” Rebus offered.

“I asked her at the campsite, she wouldn’t show me. What’s more, I saw her at that demonstration on Saturday-she was taking pictures then, too.”

“I’m not sure I get it,” Rebus admitted.

“Me neither, but it could mean a trip to Stirling.” She looked at Rebus.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because that’s where she was headed this morning.” She paused. “Think my absence will be noted?”

“Chief constable wants the Clootie Well put on ice anyway.” He reached into his pocket. “I meant to say…” Handing her the scrolled sheets. “We’ve another Clootie Well on the Black Isle.”

“It’s not really an island, you know,” Mungo piped up. “The Black Isle, I mean.”

“You’ll be telling us next it’s not black either,” Rebus scolded him.

“The soil’s supposed to be black,” Mungo conceded, “but not so you’d notice. I know the spot you’re talking about, though-we had a vacation up there last summer. Bits of rags hanging from the trees.” He screwed up his face in distaste. Siobhan had finished reading.

“You want to take a look?” she asked. Rebus shook his head.

“But someone should.”

“Even when the case is supposed to be on ice?”

“Not until tomorrow,” Rebus said. “That’s what the chief constable specified. But you’re the one he put in charge…up to you how we play it.” He leaned back in his seat, the wood creaking in protest.

“Eye pavilion’s five minutes’ walk,” Siobhan mused. “I was thinking I might head over there.”

“And a wee drive to Stirling thereafter?”

“Think I’ll pass for a hippie chick?”

“Might be problematic,” Mungo chipped in.

“I’ve got a pair of combats in the wardrobe,” Siobhan argued. Her eyes fixed on Rebus. “Means I’m leaving you in charge, John. Any disturbance you cause, I’ll be the one with the bruises.”

“Understood, boss,” Rebus said. “Now, whose round is it?”

But Mungo had to get to his next job, and Siobhan was heading for the hospital, leaving Rebus alone in the pub.

“One for the road,” he muttered to himself. Standing at the bar, waiting for his drink to be poured, staring at the optics, he thought again of that photo…the woman with the braids…Siobhan called her Santal, but she reminded Rebus of someone. Screen had been too small for him really to get a good look. Should have asked Mungo for a print…

“Day off?” the barman asked as he placed the pint in front of Rebus.

“Man of leisure, that’s me,” Rebus confirmed, lifting the glass to his mouth.

“Thanks for coming back in,” Rebus said. “How was court?”

“I wasn’t needed.” Ellen Wylie placed her shoulder bag and attaché case on the floor of the CID room.

“Can I fix you a coffee?”

“Got an espresso machine?”

“In here, we call it by its proper Italian name.”

“And what’s that?”

“A kettle.”

“That joke’s as weak as I suspect the coffee will be. How can I help you, John?” She eased her jacket off. Rebus was already in shirt sleeves. Summer, and the station’s heating was on. No apparent means of adjusting the radiators. Come October, they’d be lukewarm. Wylie was looking at the case notes spread across three desks.

“Am I in there?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“But I will be.” She picked up one of the Cyril Colliar mug shots, held it by its corner, as if fearing contamination of some kind.

“You didn’t tell me about Denise,” Rebus commented.

“I don’t remember you asking.”

“She had an abusive partner?”

Wylie’s face twisted. “He was a piece of work.”

“Was?”

She stared at him. “All I mean is, he’s out of our lives. You’re not going to find bits of him at Clootie Well.” A photo of the site was pinned to the wall; she studied it, angling her head. Then she turned and cast her gaze around the room. “Got your work cut out, John,” she stated.

“Some help wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Where’s Siobhan?”

“Other business.” He was looking at her meaningfully.

“Why the hell should I help you?”

Rebus shrugged. “Only one reason I can think of-you’re curious.”

“Just like you, you mean?”

He nodded. “Two killings in England, one in Scotland. I’m finding it hard to work out how he’s choosing them. They weren’t listed together on the site…didn’t know each other…crimes they committed are similar but not identical. They chose all sorts of victims…”

“All three served time, right?”

“Different jails though.”

“All the same, word travels. Ex-cons might talk to other ex-cons, pass along the name of a particular sleazeball. Sex offenders aren’t liked by other inmates.”

“It’s a point.” Rebus pretended to consider it. Really, he didn’t see it, but he wanted her thinking.

“You’ve spoken to the other police forces?” she asked.

“Not yet. I think Siobhan sent written requests.”

“Don’t you need the personal touch? See what they can tell you about Isley and Guest?”

“I’m a bit swamped, Ellen.”

Their eyes met. He could see she was hooked-for the moment.

“You really want me helping?” she asked.

“You’re not a suspect, Ellen,” he said, trying for sincerity. “And you know more about all of this than Siobhan and me.”

“How’s she going to feel about me coming on board?”

“She’ll be fine.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” She thought for a moment, then gave a sigh. “I posted one message on the site, John. I never met the Jensens…”

Rebus merely shrugged. She took a minute to make the decision. “They arrested him, you know-Denise’s-” Swallowed back the next word, couldn’t bring herself to say partner, lover, man. “Nothing ever came of it.”

“What you mean is, he was never jailed.”

“She’s still terrified of him,” she said quietly, “and he’s still out there.” She unbuttoned the sleeves of her blouse and started rolling them up. “Okay, tell me who I should be calling.”

He gave her numbers for Tyneside and Lancashire, then got on the phone himself. Inverness sounded disbelieving at first. “You want us to what?” Rebus could hear a hand unsuccessfully smothering the mouthpiece at the other end. “Edinburgh want us taking snaps o’ the Clootie Well. We used to go there for picnics when I was a lad…” The receiver changed hands.

“This is DS Johnson. Who am I speaking to?”

“DI Rebus, B Division in Edinburgh.”

“Thought you lot had your hands full with all the Trots and Chairman Maos.” There was laughter in the background.

“That may be so, but we also have three murders. Evidence from all three was found in Auchterarder, at a local spot known as the Clootie Well.”

“There’s only one Clootie Well, Inspector.”

“Apparently not. Might be that the one you’ve got up there also has bits of evidence draped over its branches.”

Bait the detective sergeant could not refuse. Few enough moments of excitement in the Northern Constabulary.

“Let’s start with photos of the scene,” Rebus went on. “Plenty of close-ups, and check for anything intact-jeans, jackets. We found a cash card in a pocket. Best if you can send me the photos as an e-mail. If I can’t open it, somebody here will be able to.” He looked across to Ellen Wylie. She sat on the corner of a desk, skirt straining at the thigh. She was playing with a pen as she talked into her receiver.

“Your name again?” DS Johnson was asking.

“DI Rebus. I’m based at Gayfield Square.” Rebus gave a contact number and his e-mail. He could hear Johnson writing the information down.

“And if we do have anything up here?”

“Means our guy has been busy.”

“All right with you if I call this in? Just want to be sure you’re not winding me up.”

“Be my guest. My chief constable’s called James Corbyn-he knows all about it. But don’t waste more time than you have to.”

“There’s a constable here, his dad does portraits and graduations.”

“Doesn’t mean to say the constable knows one end of a camera from the other.”

“I wasn’t thinking of him-I was thinking of his dad.”

“Whatever works,” Rebus said, putting down the phone just as Ellen Wylie was doing the same.

“Any luck?” she asked.

“They’re going to send a photographer, if he’s not too busy at a wedding or kid’s birthday. How about you?”

“The officer in charge of the Guest investigation, I couldn’t speak to him personally but one of his colleagues filled me in. There’s some additional paperwork on its way to us. Reading between the lines, they weren’t busting a gut on the case.”

“It’s what they always tell you in training-the perfect murder is where nobody’s looking for the victim.”

Wylie nodded. “Or in this case, where no one’s grieving. They thought maybe it was a drug deal gone wrong.”

“Now that’s original. Any evidence that Mr. Guest was a user?”

“Apparently so. Could have been dealing, too, owed money for goods and couldn’t…” She saw the look on Rebus’s face.

“Lazy thinking, Ellen. Same thing might explain why no one thought to connect the three killings.”

“Because nobody was trying very hard?” she guessed.

Rebus nodded slowly.

“Well,” she said, “you can ask him yourself.”

“Ask who?”

“Reason I couldn’t talk to the boss is that he’s right here.”

“Here?”

“Sent to Lothian and Borders CID.” She glanced down at her notes. “He’s a detective sergeant, name of Stan Hackman.”

“So where can I find him?”

“His pal suggested the student residences.”

“Pollock Halls?”

She shrugged, picked up the notepad and turned it toward him. “I’ve got his cell, if that helps.” As Rebus stalked toward her, she tore off the sheet and held it out to him. He snatched at it.

“Get on to whoever led the Isley inquiry,” he said, “see what you can get from them. I’ll go have a word with Hackman.”

“You forgot to say thank you.” Then, watching him shrug his arms back into the sleeves of his jacket: “Remember Brian Holmes?”

“I used to work with him.”

She nodded. “He told me once you had a nickname for him. Used to call him Shoeleather because he did all the donkey work.”

“Donkeys don’t wear shoes, do they?”

“You know what I mean, John. You’re swanning off and leaving me here-it’s not even my office! What does that make me?” She had picked up the telephone receiver and was waving it as she spoke.

“Switchboard, maybe?” he pretended to guess, heading for the exit.

13

Siobhan wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“I think,” Teddy Clarke said to his wife, “maybe we should listen to her this time.”

Siobhan’s mother wore a gauze patch over one eye. Her other eye was bruised, and there was a cut to the side of her nose. The painkillers seemed to have dulled her resolve; she just nodded when her husband spoke.

“What about clothes?” Mr. Clarke said as they got into the taxi.

“You can go to the camp later,” Siobhan told him, “bring back what you need.”

“We’d booked places on the bus for tomorrow,” he mused as Siobhan gave the driver directions to her place. She knew he meant one of the protest buses: a convoy heading to the G8. His wife said something he didn’t quite catch. He leaned closer, squeezing her hand, and she repeated it for him.

“We’re still going.” Her husband looked hesitant. “Doctor doesn’t see a problem,” Eve Clarke went on, clearly enough for Siobhan to hear.

“You can decide in the morning,” Siobhan said. “Let’s concentrate on today first, eh?”

Teddy Clarke smiled at his wife. “Told you she’d changed,” he reminded her.

When they reached the apartment, Siobhan paid for the taxi, waving aside her father’s offer of money, then headed upstairs ahead of her parents, checking the living room and bedroom. No underwear on the floor or empty Smirnoff bottles lying around.

“In you come,” she told them. “I’ll get the kettle on. Make yourselves at home.”

“Must be ten years since we’ve been here,” her father commented, making a little tour of the living room.

“I couldn’t have bought the place without your help,” Siobhan called from the kitchen. She knew what her mother would be looking for: signs of male occupation. Whole point of giving her money toward the deposit had been to help her “get settled,” that great euphemism. Steady boyfriend, then marriage, then kids. Not a route Siobhan had ever managed to start on. She took in the teapot and mugs, her father rising to help.

“You can pour,” she told him. “I just need to sort some things in the bedroom.”

She opened the wardrobe and hauled out her overnight bag. Tugged open drawers as she considered what she would need. With a bit of luck, she might not need any of it, but it was best to be safe. Change of clothes, toothbrush, shampoo…She delved to the bottom of a couple of drawers, finding the scruffiest, least-ironed items. Overalls she’d painted the hall in, one shoulder strap held on with a safety pin; a gauzy cotton shirt that had been left behind by a three-night stand.

“We’re driving you out,” her father said. He was in the doorway, holding a mug of tea toward her.

“There’s a trip I have to make, nothing to do with the two of you being here. I might not be back till tomorrow.”

“We could be gone to Gleneagles by then.”

“Might see you there,” she answered with a wink. “The pair of you will be all right tonight? Plenty of shops and places to eat. I’ll leave you a key.”

“We’ll be fine.” He paused. “This trip, is it to do with what happened to your mother?”

“Might be.”

“Because I’ve been thinking…”

“What?” She looked up from her packing.

“You’re a cop, too, Siobhan. If you keep on with this, chances are you’ll just make enemies.”

“It’s not a popularity contest, Dad.”

“All the same…”

She zipped the bag shut, left it on the bed, and took the mug from him. “I just want to hear him say he was wrong.” She took a sip of the lukewarm tea.

“Is that likely to happen?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

Her father had settled himself on a corner of the bed. “She’s determined to go to Gleneagles, you know.”

Siobhan nodded. “I’ll drive you to the camp, bring your things back here before I leave.” She crouched down in front of him, pressing her free hand to his knee. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

“We’ll be fine. What about you?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Dad. I’ve got a force field around me, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I think I might have caught a glimpse of it in Princes Street.” He placed his own hand over hers. “All the same, take care, eh?”

She smiled and stood up, saw that her mother was watching from the hallway, and shared the smile with her, too.

Rebus had been to the cafeteria before. In term time it was crowded with students, many of them just starting at the university, looking wary and even downright scared. A few years back, a second-year undergraduate had been dealing drugs; Rebus arrested him over breakfast.

The students who used the cafeteria brought laptops and iPods with them, so that even when busy the place was never noisy, except for the trilling of cell phones.

But today, the cafeteria rang with the sounds of harsh, raised voices. Rebus could sense the crackle of testosterone in the air. Two tables had been put together to form a temporary bar, from which small bottles of French lager were being sold. The No Smoking signs were being disregarded as uniformed officers slapped each other on the back and shared awkward approximations of the American high five. Stab vests had been removed, lined up against one wall, and the busy female staff were dishing out plates of fried food, red-faced either from exertion or the exaggerated compliments of the visitors.

Rebus was on the hunt for visual clues, for some sort of Newcastle insignia. At the gatehouse, he’d been directed to an old baronial-style building behind it, where a civilian assistant had found a room number for Hackman. But Rebus had knocked on the door without answer, so he had come here-the assistant’s next suggestion.

“Of course, he could still be in the field,” she’d cautioned, relishing the chance to use the phrase.

“Message received and understood,” Rebus had replied, helping to make her day even more satisfying.

There wasn’t a single Scottish accent in the cafeteria. Rebus saw uniforms from the Met and the London Transport Police, South Wales and Yorkshire…He decided to buy a mug of tea, only to be told there was no charge, having heard which he added a sausage roll and Mars Bar to his purchases. Asked a table if he could sit with them. They shifted to make some room.

“CID?” one of them guessed. Sweat had matted the man’s hair, and his face was flushed.

Rebus nodded, realizing he was the only bloke in the place not wearing a white shirt open at the neck. There was a smattering of female uniforms, too, but they were seated together, ignoring the various remarks launched in their direction.

“Looking for one of my number,” Rebus remarked casually. “A DS called Hackman.”

“You from round here then?” one of the other uniforms asked, placing Rebus’s accent. “Bloody beautiful city you’ve got. Shame we had to mess it up a bit.” His laughter was shared by his colleagues. “Don’t know any Hackman though.”

“He’s from Newcastle,” Rebus added.

“That lot over there are from Newcastle.” The officer was pointing to a table farther toward the window.

“They’re from Liverpool,” his neighbor corrected him.

“All look the bloody same to me.” There was more laughter at this.

“Where are you from then?” Rebus asked.

“Nottingham,” the first officer replied. “Guess that makes us the sheriffs. Food’s shit though, isn’t it?” He was nodding toward Rebus’s half-eaten sausage roll.

“I’ve had worse-at least it’s free.”

“That’s a proper Jock talking and no mistake.” The man laughed again. “Sorry we can’t help you find your friend.”

Rebus just shrugged. “Were you in Princes Street yesterday?” he asked, as if making conversation.

“Half the bloody day.”

“Nice bit of overtime,” his neighbor added.

“We had the same thing a few years back,” Rebus added. “Commonwealth heads of government meeting. Choggum, we called it. Few of the lads chipped a lump off their mortgages that week.”

“Mine’s going toward a vacation,” the uniform said. “Wife fancies Barcelona.”

“And while she’s there,” his neighbor said, “where will you be taking the girlfriend?” More laughter, elbows digging into ribs.

“You earned it yesterday though,” Rebus stated, getting them back on track.

“Some did,” came the reply. “Most of us sat on the bus, waiting for things to really kick off.”

His neighbor nodded. “Compared to what we’d been warned might happen, it was a walk in the park.”

“Photos in the paper this morning, at least some of you drew a bit of blood.”

“The Met boys probably. They train against Millwall fans, so yesterday was nothing special.”

“Can I try another name on you?” Rebus asked. “Guy called Jacko, might be with the Met.”

They shook their heads. Rebus decided he wasn’t going to get much more, so tucked his Mars Bar into his pocket and rose to his feet. Told them to take care and went for a wander. There were plenty of other uniforms milling about outside. If rain hadn’t been threatening, he suspected they’d be lying on the lawns. He overheard nothing approximating a Newcastle accent, and nothing about giving innocent protesters a good beating. He tried Hackman’s cell, but it was still switched off. On the verge of giving up, he decided to try Hackman’s room one last time.

And the door was opened from within.

“DS Hackman?”

“Who the hell wants to know?”

“DI Rebus.” Rebus showed his ID. “Can I have a word?”

“Not in here, there’s barely room to swing a cat. Place could do with a bit of fumigating, too. Hang on a sec…” As Hackman retreated into his room, Rebus made a quick examination: clothes strewn everywhere; empty cigarette packs; girlie mags; a personal stereo; can of cider sitting on the floor by the bed. Sound of horse racing from the TV. Hackman had picked up a phone and lighter. Patted his pockets till he found his key. Back out into the hall again. “Outside, yeah?” he suggested, leading the way whether Rebus liked it or not.

He was stocky: huge neck and close-cropped fair hair. Maybe early thirties, the face pitted and pockmarked, nose squashed to one side by a brawl too many. His white T-shirt had suffered too many washes. It rode up at the back, revealing the top of its owner’s underpants. He wore jeans and sneakers.

“Been working?” Rebus asked.

“Just back.”

“Undercover?”

Hackman nodded. “Ordinary man in the street.”

“Any trouble getting in character?”

Hackman’s mouth twitched. “Local cop?”

“That’s right.”

“I could do with a few tips.” Hackman glanced around at Rebus. “Lap bars are on Lothian Road, right?”

“There and thereabouts.”

“Which one should I grace with my hard-earned cash?”

“I’m not an expert.”

Hackman looked him up and down. “Sure about that?” he asked. They were outside now. Hackman offered Rebus a cigarette-readily received-and flicked his lighter open.

“Leith’s got its share of whorehouses, too, right?”

“Right.”

“And it’s legalized here?”

“We tend to turn a blind eye, so long as it’s kept indoors.” Rebus paused to inhale. “I’m glad to see it’s not all work and no play…”

Hackman gave a rasping laugh. “We’ve got better-looking women at home, and that’s the truth of it.”

“Your accent’s not Newcastle though.”

“Grew up near Brighton. Been in the northeast eight years.”

“See any action yesterday?” Rebus was making a show of studying the view before them-Arthur’s Seat rising skyward.

“Is this my debriefing?”

“Just wondering.”

Hackman narrowed his eyes. “What can I do for you, DI Rebus?”

“You worked the Trevor Guest murder.”

“That was two months back; plenty more in my in-box since.”

“It’s Guest I’m interested in. His trousers have turned up near Gleneagles, cash card in the pocket.”

Hackman stared at him. “He wasn’t wearing any when we found him.”

“Now you know why: killer’s been taking trophies.”

Hackman wasn’t slow. “How many?”

“Three victims so far. Two weeks after Guest, he struck again. Identical MO, and a little souvenir left at the same location.”

“Bloody hell…” Hackman drew hard on his cigarette. “We had it down as…well, lowlife like Guest makes plenty enemies. He was a druggie, too, hence the heroin-sending a message.”

“It went to the bottom of your in-box?” Rebus watched the big man shrug. “Any leads at all?”

“Interviewed those who owned up to knowing him. Traced his last night on earth, but didn’t come up with any startling conclusions. I can have all the paperwork sent-”

“Already in hand.”

“Guest was two months back. You say he struck again a couple of weeks later?” Hackman watched Rebus nod agreement. “And the other vic?”

“Three months ago.”

Hackman thought it through. “Twelve weeks, eight, then six. What you expect of killers once they get a taste for it-they speed up. Each new fix satisfies them that bit less than the one before. So what’s happened between then and now? Six weeks without another killing?”

“Sounds unlikely,” Rebus agreed.

“Unless we’ve caught him for something else; or he’s moved his business elsewhere.”

“I like the way you think,” Rebus admitted.

Hackman looked at him. “You’ve already figured out everything I’ve just said, haven’t you?”

“That’s why I like your thinking.”

Hackman gave a scratch to his crotch. “All I’ve been thinking about the past few days is pussy-now you go and do this to me.”

“Sorry about that.” Rebus stubbed the remains of his cigarette. “I wanted to ask if there was anything you could tell me about Trevor Guest-anything that sticks in your mind.”

“For the price of a cold beer, my head is your oyster.”

Problem with oysters, Rebus considered as they walked to the cafeteria, was that you were more likely to get a load of old grit than a pearl.

The place had quieted a little, and they found a table to themselves-though not before Hackman had made an effort to introduce himself to the female officers, formally taking each one by the hand.

“Lovely,” he announced as he returned to Rebus’s table. He clapped his palms together and was rubbing them as he sat down. “Bottoms up,” he said, raising his bottle. Then he gave a little chuckle. “Should be the name of a lap-dancing club.”

Rebus refrained from revealing that it already was. Instead, he repeated Trevor Guest’s name.

Hackman drank half his lager straight off. “Like I said, lowlife. In and out of jail-burglaries, selling the stuff he’d stolen, some other petty stuff and a bit of grievous bodily. He was up here for a time, few years back. Kept his nose clean, far as we could tell.”

“By here you mean Edinburgh?”

Hackman stifled a belch. “Jockland generally…no offense.”

“None taken,” Rebus lied. “I wonder if there’s any way he could have met the third victim-club bouncer called Cyril Colliar, got out of jail three months back.”

“Name doesn’t register. Want another of these?”

“I’ll get them.” Rebus was halfway out of his chair, but Hackman waved him back. Rebus watched as he first approached the women’s table, asking if they were all right for drinks. He made one of them laugh, which probably counted as a result in his book. He carried four bottles back to the table.

“Pissy little things,” he explained, sliding two across toward Rebus. “Besides, got to spend the loot somehow, eh?”

“I notice no one’s paying for bed and board.”

“No one except the local taxpayer.” Hackman’s eyes widened. “I suppose that’s you. So thanks very much.” He toasted Rebus with a fresh bottle. “Don’t suppose you’re free tonight to act as the tour guide?”

“Sorry.” Rebus shook his head.

“I’d be buying…hard offer for a Jock to turn down.”

“I’m turning it down anyway.”

“Suit yourself,” Hackman said with a shrug. “This killer you’re looking for…got any leads?”

“He targets scum; maybe gets them from a victim-support Web site.”

“Vigilante, eh? Meaning someone with a grudge.”

“That’s the theory.”

“Clever money would say the connection’s to the first victim. Should have been the beginning and end, but he caught the bug.”

Rebus nodded slowly, having considered the same conclusion. Fast Eddie Isley, attacker of prostitutes. Isley’s killer maybe a pimp or boyfriend…tracked Isley using BeastWatch, then asked himself a question-why stop with just one?

“How hard do you really want to find this guy?” Hackman asked. “That’s what I’d be wrestling with…sounds like he’s on our side.”

“You don’t believe people can change? All three victims had served their sentences, no sign of reoffending.”

“You’re talking about redemption.” Hackman mimed the act of spitting. “Could never stand that goody-good bullshit.” He paused. “What are you smiling at?”

“It’s a line from a Pink Floyd song.”

“Is it? I could never stand them either. A bit of Tamla or Stax, songs to seduce the chicks by. Our Trev was a bit of a ladies’ man.”

“Trevor Guest?”

“Liked them a bit on the young side, judging by the girlfriends we dug up.” Hackman snorted. “Believe me, if they’d been any younger, we’d’ve been using a nursery school and not an interview room.” He enjoyed this joke so much, he found it hard to take his next slug of lager. “I like my meat a bit more mature,” he said finally, smacking his lips, seeming lost in thought. “A lot of the escorts in the back of your local paper, they call themselves mature, too. How old do you figure that makes them? I mean, I’m not one for geriatrics…”

“Guest attacked a babysitter, didn’t he?” Rebus asked.

“Broke into a house, happened to find her there on the couch. Far as I remember, all he wanted was a blow job. She hollered and he scampered.” He offered a shrug.

Rebus’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood up. “I need to be going,” he said.

“Finish your drink.”

“I’m driving.”

“Something tells me you might get away with a misdemeanor or two this week. Still, waste not, want not.” Hackman slid the untouched bottle toward himself. “What about a pint later on? I need a sherpa to show me the way.” Rebus ignored him, kept walking. Back in the fresh air, he risked a glance through the window, saw Hackman doing a little improvised shuffle as he headed toward the women.

14

The so-called Camp Horizon on the edge of Stirling, sandwiched between a soccer field and a trading estate, reminded Siobhan of some of the temporary encampments she’d seen around the Greenham Common Air Base in the 1980s, when she’d hitched there as a teenager to protest about nuclear missiles. There weren’t just tents here, but elaborate wigwams and structures made of osiers, resembling willow igloos. Canvases had been strung between the trees, daubed with rainbows and peace signs. Smoke was rising from campfires, and there was the pungent scent of cannabis in the air. Solar panels and a small wind turbine seemed to be providing electricity for strings of multicolored lightbulbs. A trailer was supplying legal advice and free condoms, while discarded leaflets provided additional information on everything from HIV to third world debt.

She had been stopped at five separate checkpoints on the route from Edinburgh. Despite her showing ID, one security man had even insisted she open the trunk of her car.

“These people have all kinds of sympathizers,” he’d explained.

“They’re well on their way to getting another,” Siobhan had muttered in response.

The inhabitants of the camp seemed to have split into distinct tribes, with the anti-poverty contingent remaining separate from the hard-core anarchists. Red flags seemed to be acting as a border between the two. Old-time hippies formed another subgroup, one of the wigwams their epicenter. Beans were cooking on a stove, while a makeshift sign announced reiki and holistic healing between the hours of five and eight with “special rates for unwaged/students.”

Siobhan had asked one of the guards at the entrance about Santal. He’d shaken his head.

“No names, no problems.” He’d looked her up and down. “Mind a word of warning?”

“What?”

“You look like a cop working undercover.”

She’d followed his eyes. “Is it the overalls?”

He’d shaken his head again. “The clean hair.”

So she’d ruffled it a bit, without seeming to convince him. “Anyone else in there undercover?”

“Bound to be,” he’d said with a smile. “But I’m not going to spot the good ones, am I?”

Her car was parked in the city center. If worse came to the worst, she’d sleep in the car rather than under the stars. The site was a lot bigger than the one in Edinburgh, the tents more densely grouped. As dusk encroached, she had to watch out for tent pegs and guy ropes. Twice she passed a young man with a straggly beard who was trying to interest people in “herbal relaxation.” Third time, their eyes met.

“Lost somebody?” he asked.

“Friend of mine called Santal.”

He shook his head. “Not a great one for names.” So she gave a brief description. He shook his head again. “If you just sit and chill, maybe she’ll come to you.” He held out a ready-rolled joint. “On the house.”

“Only available to new customers?” she guessed.

“Even the forces of law and order need to relax at day’s end.”

She stared at him for a moment. “I’m impressed. Is it the hair?”

“The bag doesn’t help,” he commented. “What you really want is a muddy backpack. That thing”-indicating the guilty item-“makes you look like you’re off to the gym.”

“Thanks for the advice. You weren’t scared I might want to bust you?”

He shrugged. “You want a riot, go right ahead.”

She gave a brief smile. “Maybe another time.”

“This ‘friend’ of yours, any chance she might have been part of the advance guard?”

“Depends what you mean.”

He had paused to light the joint, inhaling deeply, then exhaling and speaking at the same time. “Stands to reason there’ll be blockades from first light, your lot trying to stop us getting near the hotel.” He offered her a hit, but she shook her head. “You’ll never know till you try,” he teased.

“Believe it or not, I was a teenager once…So the advance guard headed out of here earlier?”

“Ordnance survey maps in hand. Only the Ochil Hills between us and victory.”

“Cross-country in the dark? Isn’t that a bit risky?”

He offered a shrug, then drew on the joint again. A young woman was hovering nearby. “Get you anything?” he asked her. The transaction took half a minute: a tiny shrink-wrapped package for three ten-pound notes.

“Cheers,” the woman said. Then, to Siobhan: “Evening, Officer.” She was giggling as she left them. The dealer was looking at Siobhan’s overalls.

“I know when I’m beaten,” she admitted.

“So take my advice: sit and chill for a while. You might find something you didn’t know you were looking for.” He stroked his beard as he spoke.

“That’s…deep,” Siobhan told him, her tone letting him know she was thinking the exact opposite.

“You’ll see,” he retorted, moving past her into the gloom. She walked back to the fence and decided to phone Rebus. He didn’t pick up, so she left a message.

“Hi, it’s me. I’m in Stirling, no sign of Santal. I’ll see you tomorrow, but if you need me in the meantime, feel free to call.”

An exhausted but excited-looking group was entering the compound. Siobhan snapped shut her phone and moved to within earshot of them as they were met by some of their comrades.

“Heat-seeking radar…dogs…”

“Armed to the teeth, man…”

“American accents…marines, if you ask me…no ID…”

“Choppers…searchlights…”

“Had us for dead…”

“Tracked us halfway back to base camp…”

Then the questions started. How close did they get? Any weak points in the security? Did they reach the fence? Was anyone still out there?

“We split up…”

“Submachine guns, I figure…”

“Weren’t messing…”

“Split into ten groups of three…easier to lie low…”

“State of the art…”

More questions flew at them. Siobhan started counting heads, stopped at fifteen. Meaning a further fifteen were still out on the Ochils somewhere. In the hubbub, she launched her own question.

“Where’s Santal?”

A shake of the head. “Didn’t see her after we split up.”

One of them had unfolded a map, to show how far they’d gotten. He had a flashlight strapped to his forehead and was tracing the route with a muddied finger. Siobhan squeezed closer.

“It’s a total-exclusion zone…”

“Has to be a weak spot…”

“Force of numbers, that’s all we’ve got…”

“We’ll be ten thousand strong by morning.”

“Herbal cigarettes for all our brave soldiers!” As the dealer started handing them out, there were bursts of laughter from the crowd-a release of tension. Siobhan retreated to the back of the throng. A hand grasped her arm. It was the young woman who’d bought from the dealer earlier.

“Pigs better get wings,” she hissed.

Siobhan glared at her. “Or what?”

The young woman offered a malevolent smile. “Or I might have to squeal.”

Siobhan said nothing, just hoisted her bag and backed away. The young woman waved her off. The same guard was on duty at the gate.

“Did the disguise hold?” he asked with something just shy of a smirk.

All the way back to her car, Siobhan tried to think of a comeback…

Rebus had acted the gentleman: returned to Gayfield Square bearing cup noodles and chicken tikka wraps.

“You’re spoiling me,” Ellen Wylie said as he switched on the kettle.

“You also get first choice-chicken and mushroom or beef curry?”

“Chicken.” She watched him peel open the plastic containers. “So how did it go?”

“I found Hackman.”

“And?”

“He wanted a tour of the fleshpots.”

“Yuck.”

“I told him I couldn’t oblige, and in return he told me very little we don’t already know.”

“Or couldn’t have guessed?” She’d come over to join Rebus at the kettle. Picked up one of the wraps and examined its sell-by date: July 5. “Half-price,” she commented.

“I knew you’d be impressed. But there’s even more.” He produced the Mars Bar from his pocket and handed it over. “So what news of Edward Isley?”

“Again, there’s more paperwork coming north,” she said, “but the DI that I spoke to was one of the brighter lights on the tree. Recited most of it from memory.”

“Let me guess: no shortage of enemies…someone with a grudge…keeping an open mind…no progress to report?”

“Just about sums it up,” Wylie admitted. “I got the impression a few stops had been left unpulled.”

“Nothing to connect Fast Eddie to Mr. Guest?”

She shook her head. “Different prisons, no sign of shared associates. Isley didn’t know Newcastle, and Guest hadn’t been hanging around Carlisle or the M6.”

“And Cyril Colliar probably knew neither of them.”

“Bringing us back to their shared appearance on BeastWatch.” Wylie watched Rebus pour water onto the noodles. He offered her a spoon and they stirred their individual pots.

“Have you spoken to anyone at Torphichen?” he asked.

“Told them you were short-handed.”

“Rat-ass probably hinted we were involved in a bunk-up.”

“How well you know DC Reynolds,” she said with a smile. “By the way, some JPEGS arrived from Inverness.”

“That was quick.” He watched as she logged on at the computer. The photos appeared as thumbnails, but Wylie enlarged each one.

“It looks just like Auchterarder,” Rebus commented.

“Photographer got some close-ups,” Wylie said, bringing them up on screen. Tattered remnants of cloth, but none of it looking recent. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I don’t see anything for us, do you?”

“No,” she agreed. One of the phones started ringing. She picked up and listened.

“Send him up,” she said, replacing the receiver. “Guy called Mungo,” she explained. “Says he has an appointment.”

“More of an open invitation,” Rebus said, sniffing the contents of the wrap he’d just opened. “Wonder if he likes chicken tikka…”

Mungo did indeed, and demolished the gift in two huge bites while Rebus and Wylie examined the photographs.

“You work fast,” Rebus said by way of thanks.

“What are we looking at?” Ellen Wylie asked.

“Friday night,” Rebus explained, “a dinner at the castle.”

“Ben Webster’s suicide?”

Rebus nodded. “That’s him there,” he said, tapping one of the faces. Mungo had been as good as his word: not just his own snatched shots of the motorcade and its passengers, but copies of the official portraits. Lots of well-dressed smiling men shaking hands with other well-dressed smiling men. Rebus recognized only a few: the foreign secretary, defense secretary, Ben Webster, Richard Pennen…

“How did you get these?” Rebus asked.

“Openly available to the media-just the sort of PR opportunity the politicos like.”

“Got any names to put to the faces?”

“That’s a job for a sub-editor,” the photographer said, swallowing the last of the wrap. “But I dug out what I could.” He reached into his bag and pulled out sheets of paper.

“Thanks,” Rebus said. “I’ve probably already seen them…”

“But I haven’t,” Wylie said, taking them from Mungo. Rebus was more interested in the photos from the dinner.

“I didn’t realize Corbyn was there,” he mused.

“Who’s he when he’s at home?” Mungo asked.

“Our esteemed chief constable.”

Mungo looked to where Rebus was pointing. “Didn’t stay long,” he said, sifting through his own prints. “Here he is leaving again. I was just packing up…”

“So how long was that after it all kicked off?”

“Not even half an hour. I’d been biding my time in case of latecomers.”

Richard Pennen hadn’t made it into any of the official portraits, but Mungo had snapped his car as it entered the compound, Pennen caught unawares, mouth agape…

“It says here,” Ellen Wylie piped up, “Ben Webster helped try to negotiate a truce in Sierra Leone. Also visited Iraq, Afghanistan, and East Timor.”

“Racked up a few air miles,” Mungo commented.

“And liked a bit of adventure,” she added, turning a page. “I didn’t realize his sister was a cop.”

Rebus nodded. “Met her a few days back.” He paused for a moment. “Funeral’s tomorrow, I think. I was supposed to be calling her…” Then he went back to studying the official photographs. They’d all been posed, leaving little for him to glean: no tête-à-têtes caught in the background; nothing these powerful men didn’t want the world to see. Just like Mungo said: a PR exercise. Rebus picked up the phone and called Mairie on her cell.

“Any chance you could drop in to Gayfield?” he asked her. He could hear the clacking of her keyboard.

“Need to polish this off first.”

“Half an hour?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“There’s a Mars Bar riding on it.” Wylie’s face showed her displea sure. Rebus ended the call and watched Wylie unwrap the chocolate and bite into it.

“Bang goes my bribe,” Rebus told her.

“I’ll leave these with you,” Mungo was saying, brushing flour from his fingers. “They’re yours to keep anyway-but not for publication.”

“Our eyes only,” Rebus agreed. He spread out the photos of the various backseat passengers. Most were blurred, the result of vehicles refusing to slow for the photographer. A few of the foreign dignitaries were smiling, however, perhaps pleased to be noticed.

“And can you give these to Siobhan?” Mungo added, handing over a large envelope. Rebus nodded and asked what they were. “The Princes Street demonstration. She was interested in the woman on the edge of the crowd. I’ve managed to zoom in a little.”

Rebus opened the envelope. The young woman with braided hair held her own camera to her face. Santal, was that what she was called? Meaning sandalwood. Rebus wondered if Siobhan had run the name past Operation Sorbus. The face seemed focused on its job, the mouth a thin line of concentration. Dedicated; maybe a professional. In other snaps, she was holding the camera away from her, looking to left and right. As if on the lookout for something. Totally uninterested in the array of riot shields. Not scared of the flying debris. Not excited or in awe.

Just doing her job.

“I’ll see she gets them,” Rebus told Mungo as the photographer strapped his bag shut. “And thanks for these. I owe you.”

Mungo nodded slowly. “Maybe a tip-off, next time you’re first at a scene?”

“Seldom happens, son,” Rebus warned him. “But I’ll keep it in mind.”

Mungo shook both officers’ hands. Wylie watched him leave. “You’ll keep him in mind?” she echoed.

“Bugger is, Ellen, at my time of life the memory’s not what it was.” Rebus reached for the noodles, only to find they’d gone cold.

Good as her word, Mairie Henderson turned up within the half hour, her look turning sour as she saw the Mars Bar wrapper on the desk.

“Don’t blame me,” Rebus apologized, holding up his hands.

“Thought you might like to see this,” she said, unfolding a printout of the next morning’s front page. “We got lucky: no big stories.”

“Police Probe G8 Murder Mystery.” Plus photos of the Clootie Well and Gleneagles Hotel. Rebus didn’t bother reading the text.

“What was it you were just saying to Mungo?” Wylie teased.

Rebus ignored her, focusing instead on the dignitaries. “Care to enlighten me?” he asked Mairie. She took a deep breath and started reeling off names. Government ministers from countries as diverse as South Africa, China, and Mexico. Most had trade or economic portfolios, and when Mairie wasn’t sure, she placed a call to one of the paper’s pundits, who set her straight.

“So we can assume they were talking about trade or aid?” Rebus asked. “In which case what was Richard Pennen doing there? Or our own defense minister, come to that?”

“You can trade in weapons, too,” Mairie reminded him.

“And the chief constable?”

She shrugged. “Probably invited as a courtesy. This man here…” She tapped one of the portraits. “He’s Mr. Genetic Modification. I’ve seen him on TV, arguing with the environmentalists.”

“We’re selling genetics to Mexico?” Rebus wondered. Mairie shrugged again.

“You really think they’re covering something up?”

“Why would they do that?” Rebus asked, as though surprised by her question.

“Because they can?” Ellen Wylie suggested.

“These men are cleverer than that. Pennen’s not the only businessman on display.” She pointed to two other faces. “Banking and airlines.”

“They got the VIPs out of there in a hurry,” Rebus said, “once Webster’s body was discovered.”

“Standard procedure, I’d think,” Mairie answered.

Rebus slumped into the nearest chair. “Pennen doesn’t want us sticking our oars in, and Steelforth’s been trying to give me a good smack. What does that tell you?”

“That any publicity is bad publicity…when you’re trying to trade with some governments.”

“I like this guy,” Wylie said, coming to the end of the Webster notes. “I’m sorry now he’s dead.” She looked at Rebus. “You going to the funeral?”

“Thinking about it.”

“Another chance to rub Pennen and Special Branch the wrong way?” Mairie guessed.

“Paying my respects,” Rebus countered, “and telling his sister that we’re getting nowhere.” He’d picked up one of Mungo’s close-ups from Princes Street Gardens. Mairie was looking at them, too.

“Way I hear it,” she said, “you guys went over the top.”

“We went in hard,” Wylie said, sounding prickly.

“Few dozen hotheads versus a few hundred riot police.”

“And who is it gives them the oxygen of publicity?” Wylie sounded ready for the fight.

“You and your billy clubs,” Mairie countered. “If there was nothing to report, we wouldn’t report it.”

“But it’s the way the truth can be twisted…” Wylie realized that they had lost Rebus. He was staring at one photograph in particular, eyes narrowed. “John?” she said. When the name had no effect, she nudged him. “Care to back me up here?”

“I’m sure you can fight your own battles, Ellen.”

“What’s wrong?” Mairie asked, peering over his shoulder at the tableau. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Rebus said. He picked up the phone, but thought better of it, let it clatter back into its cradle again. “After all,” he said, “tomorrow is another day.”

“Not just another day, John,” Mairie reminded him. “It’s when everything finally kicks off.”

“And here’s hoping London doesn’t get the Olympics,” Wylie added. “We’ll be hearing about it from now till doomsday.”

Rebus had risen to his feet, still seemingly distracted. “Beer time,” he stated. “And I’m buying.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Mairie sighed. Wylie went to fetch her jacket and bag. Rebus was leading the way.

“Not leaving that?” Mairie hinted, nodding at the photo he still held in his hand. He glanced down at it, then folded it into his pocket. Patted his other pockets before resting his palm on Mairie’s shoulder.

“I’m a bit short, as it happens. Any chance of a loan…?”

Later that evening, Mairie Henderson returned to her Murrayfield home. She owned the top two floors of a detached Victorian pile and shared the mortgage with her boyfriend, Allan. Problem was, Allan was a TV cameraman, and she saw precious little of him at the best of times. This week was turning out to be pure murder. One of the spare bedrooms was now her office, and she made straight for it, throwing her jacket over the back of a chair. The coffee table didn’t have room for even a single mug of the stuff, covered as it was with piles of newsprint. Her own cuttings files took up a whole wall, and her precious few journalism awards were framed above the computer. She sat down at her desk and wondered why she felt so comfortable in this cramped and stuffy room. The kitchen was airy, but she spent very little time there. The living room had been swamped by Allan’s home cinema and stereo. This room-her office-was hers and hers alone. She looked at the racks of cassette tapes-interviews she’d done, each one encapsulating a life. Cafferty’s story had demanded more than forty hours of conversation, the transcripts stretching to a thousand pages. The resulting book had been compiled meticulously, and she knew she deserved a bloody medal for it. Not that one had been forthcoming. That the book sold by the truckload had done nothing to alter the flat fee she’d signed up for. And it was Cafferty who appeared on the talk shows, Cafferty who did the bookstore signings, the festivals, the circuit of celebrity parties in London. When the book had gone into its third printing, they’d even changed the jacket, magnifying his name and shrinking hers.

Bloody nerve.

And when she saw Cafferty these days, all he did was tease her with the notion of a further installment, hinting that he might get another writer this time round-because he knew damned well she wouldn’t allow herself to be conned in the same way. What was the old saying…? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

Bastard.

She checked for e-mails, thinking back to the drink she’d just had with Rebus. She was still annoyed with him. Annoyed that he hadn’t given her an interview for the Cafferty book. Without him, it had been Cafferty’s word alone on so many events and incidents. So, yes, she was still annoyed with Rebus.

Annoyed because she knew he’d been right to refuse.

Her fellow journalists thought she’d probably cleaned up on the Cafferty book. Some had stopped talking to her or answering her calls. Jealousy doubtless played a part, but they also felt they had nothing to offer her. Work had dried up. She found herself scratching around, penning pieces about councillors and charity workers-human interest stories with very little interest. Editors sounded surprised that she needed the work.

Thought you’d cleaned up on Cafferty…

Naturally, she couldn’t tell them the truth, so she made up lies instead about needing to keep her hand in.

Cleaned up…

Her few remaining copies of the Cafferty book were stacked beneath the coffee table. She’d stopped handing them out to family and friends. Stopped after watching Cafferty share a joke with a daytime TV host, the audience lapping it up, Mairie feeling grubbier than ever. But when she thought about Cafferty, she couldn’t help picturing Richard Pennen, too-glad-handing at Prestonfield House, cosseted by yes-men, buffed to a spotless sheen. Rebus had a point about the Edinburgh Castle dinner. It wasn’t so much that an arms dealer of sorts had found himself at the top table, but that no one had taken any notice. Pennen had said that anything he’d given to Ben Webster would have been declared in the register of members’ interests. Mairie had checked, and it looked as though the MP had been scrupulous. It struck her now that Pennen had known she would look. He’d wanted her looking into Webster’s affairs. But why? Because he’d known there was nothing for her to find? Or to tarnish a dead man’s name?

I like this guy, Ellen Wylie had said. Yes, and after a few minutes’ chat with Westminster insiders, Mairie had started to like him, too. Which only made her trust Richard Pennen all the less. She fetched a glass of tap water from the kitchen and settled again at her computer.

Decided to start from scratch.

Typed Richard Pennen’s name into the first of her many search engines.

15

Rebus was three steps away from the tenement door when the voice called his name. Inside the pockets of his coat, his fingers curled into fists. He turned to face Cafferty.

“Hell do you want?”

Cafferty wafted a hand in front of his nose. “I can smell the booze from here.”

“I drink to forget people like you.”

“Wasted your money tonight then.” Cafferty gave a flick of his head. “Something I want to show you.”

Rebus stood his ground a moment, till curiosity got the better of him. Cafferty was unlocking the Bentley, gesturing for Rebus to get in. Rebus opened the passenger door and leaned inside.

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere deserted, if that’s what’s worrying you. Point of fact, place we’re going will be packed.” The engine roared into life. With two beers and two whiskeys under his belt, Rebus knew his wits weren’t going to be the sharpest.

Nevertheless, he got in.

Cafferty offered chewing gum and Rebus unwrapped a stick. “How’s my case going?” Cafferty asked.

“Doing just fine without your help.”

“As long as you don’t forget who put you on the right track.” Cafferty gave a little smile. They were heading east through Marchmont. “How’s Siobhan shaping up?”

“She’s fine.”

“Hasn’t left you in the lurch then?”

Rebus stared at Cafferty’s profile. “How do you mean?”

“I heard she was spreading herself a bit thin.”

“Are you keeping a watch on us?”

Cafferty just smiled again. Rebus noticed that his own fists were still clenched as they rested on his lap. One tug of the steering wheel, and he could put the Bentley into a wall. Or slide his hands around Cafferty’s fat neck and squeeze…

“Thinking evil thoughts, Rebus?” Cafferty guessed. “I’m a taxpayer, remember-top-bracket at that-which makes me your employer.”

“Must give you a warm glow.”

“It does. That MP who jumped from the ramparts…making headway?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing.” Cafferty paused a couple of beats. “It’s just that I know Richard Pennen.” He turned toward Rebus, pleased by the visible effect of this statement. “Met him a couple of times,” he continued.

“Please tell me he was trying to sell you some iffy weapons.”

Cafferty laughed. “He has a stake in the firm that published my book. Meant he was at the launch party. Sorry you couldn’t make it, by the way…”

“Invite came in handy when the toilet paper ran out.”

“Met him again over lunch when the book hit fifty thousand. Private room at the Ivy…” He glanced at Rebus again. “That’s in London. I thought of moving there, you know. Used to have a lot of friends down south. Business acquaintances.”

“Same ones Steelforth put away?” Rebus thought for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Pennen too?”

“There have to be some secrets between us,” Cafferty said, smiling. “I ran a check on your pal Jacko by the way…didn’t get anywhere. You sure he’s a cop?”

Rebus answered with another question of his own. “What about Steelforth’s bill at the Balmoral?”

“Picked up by Lothian and Borders Police.”

“That’s generous of us.”

“You never let up, do you, Rebus?”

“Why should I?”

“Because sometimes you just have to let things go. What’s past is another country-Mairie told me that when we were doing the book.”

“I just had a drink with her.”

“And not grape juice by the smell of it.”

“She’s a good kid. Shame she’s got your claws in her back.”

The car was heading down Dalkeith Road, Cafferty signaling left toward Craigmillar and Niddrie. Either that or they were heading for the A1 south out of the city.

“Where are we going?” Rebus asked again.

“Not far now. And Mairie’s quite capable of looking after herself.”

“Does she pass everything along?”

“Probably not, but that doesn’t stop me asking her. See, what Mairie really needs is another bestseller. This time, she’d push for a percentage rather than a set fee. I keep tempting her with stories that didn’t make it into the book…The girl needs to keep me happy.”

“More fool her.”

“It’s funny,” Cafferty went on, “but talking about Richard Pennen reminds me of a few tales about him, too. Not that you’d want to hear them.” He started chuckling again, his face lit from below by the dashboard. He seemed all shadows and smudges, a preparatory sketch for some grinning gargoyle.

I’m in hell, Rebus thought. This is what happens when you die and go downstairs. You get your own personal devil…

“Salvation awaits!” Cafferty cried suddenly, turning the steering wheel hard so that the Bentley slalomed through a set of gates, sending gravel flying skyward. It was a hall, lights glowing within. A hall attached to a church.

“Time to renounce the demon drink,” Cafferty teased, shutting off the engine and pushing open his door. But a sign next to the open doorway told Rebus this was a public meeting, part of G8 Alternatives-Communities in Action: The Future Crisis Averted. Entry was free to students and the unwaged.

“Unwashed, more like,” Cafferty muttered, seeing the bearded figure holding a plastic bucket. The man had long, curly black hair and wore prescription glasses with thick black frames. He shook the bucket as the new arrivals approached. There were coins inside, but not many. Cafferty made a ritual of opening his wallet and extracting a fifty-pound note. “Better be going to a good cause,” he warned the collector. Rebus followed him indoors, pointing out to the bucket holder that his share could come out of Cafferty’s contribution.

There were three or four rows of empty chairs at the back, but Cafferty had made the decision to stand, arms folded and legs apart. The room was busy, but the audience looked bored, or maybe just lost in contemplation. Up on the stage, four men and two women were squeezed behind a trestle table, sharing a single distortion-prone microphone. There were banners behind them stating, CRAIG-MILLAR WELCOMES G8 PROTESTERS and OUR COMMUNITY IS STRONG WHEN WE SPEAK WITH ONE VOICE. The one voice speaking at that particular moment belonged to Councilman Gareth Tench.

“It’s all very well,” he boomed out, “saying give us the tools and we will do the job. But there need to be jobs there in the first place! We need concrete proposals for the betterment of our communities, and that’s what I’m striving for in my own small way.”

There was nothing small about the councilman’s delivery. A hall this size, someone like Tench barely needed a microphone in the first place.

“He’s in love with his own voice,” Cafferty commented. Rebus knew it was true. It had been the same when he’d stopped to watch Tench deliver his sermons on the Mound. He hadn’t shouted to be heard; he’d shouted because the noise confirmed for him his own importance in the world.

“But friends…comrades…” Tench continued without seeming to draw breath, “we’re all prone to see ourselves as cogs in the vast political machine. How can we be heard? How can we make a difference? Well, think about it for a moment. The cars and buses you used when you traveled here tonight…remove just one small cog from the engine and the machinery breaks down. Because every single moving part has equal worth-equal importance-and that’s as true in human life as it is with the infernal congestion engine.” He paused long enough to smile at his own pun.

“Preening little prick,” Cafferty muttered to Rebus. “He couldn’t love himself any better if he was double-jointed and giving himself a blow job.”

Rebus was powerless to prevent the sudden choking laugh that escaped him. He tried camouflaging it as a cough, but to little avail. Some in the audience had turned in their seats to seek out the commotion’s cause. Even Tench had been pulled up short. What he saw from the stage was Morris Gerald Cafferty patting the back of Detective Inspector John Rebus. Rebus knew he’d been recognized, despite the hand he was holding over his mouth and nose. Tench, put off his stride, worked hard to regain the momentum of his speech, but some of his previous forcefulness had evaporated into the night. He handed the microphone to the woman next to him, who emerged from her trancelike state and started reciting in a monotone from the copious notes in front of her.

Cafferty passed in front of Rebus and stepped outside. After a moment, Rebus followed. Cafferty was pacing the parking lot. Rebus lit a cigarette and bided his time till his nemesis was standing before him.

“I still don’t get it,” Rebus admitted, flicking ash from the cigarette.

Cafferty shrugged. “And you’re supposed to be the detective.”

“A clue or two would help.”

Cafferty stretched out his arms. “This is his territory, Rebus, his little fiefdom. But he’s getting itchy, planning to expand.”

“You mean Tench?” Rebus narrowed his eyes. “You’re saying he’s the one muscling in on your turf?”

“Mr. Fire and Brimstone himself.” Cafferty lowered his arms so that his hands slapped his thighs, as if placing a period on the proceedings.

“I still don’t get it.”

Cafferty glared at Rebus. “The thing is, he sees nothing wrong with shouldering me aside, because he’s got righteousness on his side. By controlling the illicit, he makes it a force for good.” Cafferty gave a sigh. “Sometimes I think that’s how half the globe operates. It’s not the underworld you should be watching-it’s the overworld. Men like Tench and his ilk.”

“He’s a councilman,” Rebus argued. “I mean, they may take the occasional bribe…”

Cafferty was shaking his head. “He wants power, Rebus. He wants control. See how much he loves being able to make his speeches? The stronger he is, the more talking he can do-and be listened to.”

“So set some of your thugs on him, make sure he gets the message.”

Cafferty’s eyes bored into him. “That’s your best shot, is it?”

Rebus shrugged. “This is between you and him.”

“I’m owed a favor…”

“You’re owed the square root of fuck-all. Good luck to him if he takes you out of the game.” Rebus flicked the remains of the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel.

“You sure about that?” Cafferty asked quietly. “You sure you’d rather have him running the show? Man of the people…man with political clout? Think he’ll be an easier target than me? But then, you’re just shy of retirement…so maybe it’s Siobhan we should be thinking of. What is it they say?” Cafferty angled his head upward, as if the words were somewhere up there. “Better the devil you know,” he declared.

Rebus folded his arms. “You didn’t bring me here to show me Gareth Tench,” he said. “You did it to show me to him-the two of us side by side, you patting me on the back…a nice little portrait we must have made. You want him to think I’m in your pocket, and the rest of CID with me.”

Cafferty tried to look hurt by the accusation. “You overestimate me, Rebus.”

“I doubt that. You could have told me all this back in Arden Street.”

“But then you’d have missed the show.”

“Aye, and so would Councilman Tench. Tell me, how’s he going to finance this takeover? And where are the soldiers to back him up?”

Cafferty stretched his arms out again, this time spinning 360 degrees. “He owns this whole district-the bad as well as the good.”

“And the money?”

“He’ll talk his way into the money, Rebus. It’s what he does best.”

“I do talk a good game, it’s true.” Both men turned to see Gareth Tench standing in the doorway, illuminated from behind. “And I’m not easily scared, Cafferty-not by you, not by your friends.” Rebus was about to protest, but Tench hadn’t finished. “I’m cleaning up this area, no reason I can’t do the same job elsewhere in the city. If your pals in the force won’t put you out of business, the community might have to.”

Rebus noted the two thickset men standing farther back in the doorway, on either side of Tench. “Let’s go,” he suggested to Cafferty. Last thing he wanted was to step in between Cafferty and a beating.

All the same, he knew he’d have to step in.

His hand was on Cafferty’s arm. The gangster shrugged him off. “I’ve never fought a battle and lost,” Cafferty warned Tench. “Think about that before you start.”

“I don’t need to do anything,” Tench shot back. “Your little empire’s turning to dust. Time you woke up to the fact. Having trouble recruiting bouncers for your pubs? Can’t find tenants for your death-trap apartments? Taxi firm short a few drivers?” A smile was spreading across Tench’s face. “You’re in the twilight zone, Cafferty. Wake up and smell the coffin…”

Cafferty started to spring forward. Rebus grabbed him, just as Tench’s men pushed past their boss. Rebus turned Cafferty, so his own back was facing the door. He gave the gangster a shove toward the Bentley.

“Get in and get going,” he ordered.

“Never lost a battle!” Cafferty was raging, face puce. But he yanked open the door and dumped himself into the driver’s seat. As Rebus walked around to the passenger side, he looked toward the doorway. Tench was waving a gloating good-bye. Rebus wanted to say something, if only to let Tench know he wasn’t Cafferty’s man…but the councilman was already turning away, leaving his minions to monitor proceedings.

“I’m going to rip his fucking eyeballs out and make him suck them like jawbreakers,” Cafferty was snarling, flecks of saliva pocking the inside of the windshield. “And if he wants concrete fucking proposals, I’ll mix the cement myself before I whack him with the shovel-now that’s betterment of the community!”

Cafferty stopped talking as he maneuvered out of the lot. But his breathing remained fast and noisy. Eventually, he turned toward his passenger. “I swear to God, when I get my hands on that prick…” His knuckles were white as they wrapped themselves around the steering wheel.

“But if you do say anything,” Rebus intoned, “which may be used against you as evidence in a court of law…”

“They’d never convict,” Cafferty roared with a wild laugh. “Forensics will have to scoop up what’s left of him with a teaspoon.”

“But if you do say anything…” Rebus repeated.

“It started three years back,” Cafferty said, making an effort to control his breathing. “Gaming licenses refused, bar applications refused…I was even going to open a cab office on his turf, take a few of the locals off the dole. He made sure the council bounced me out every time.”

“So it’s not just that you’ve finally met someone with the guts to stand up to you?”

Cafferty glanced at Rebus. “I thought that was your job.”

“Maybe it is.”

Eventually, Cafferty broke the resulting silence. “I need a drink,” he said, licking his lips. The corners of his mouth were coated with white flecks.

“Good idea,” Rebus told him. “Like me, maybe you’ll drink to forget…”

He kept watching Cafferty during the rest of the silent ride back into town. The man had killed and gotten away with it-probably more times than Rebus knew. He’d fed victims to the hungry pigs on a Borders farm. He’d ruined countless lives, served four jail terms. He’d been a savage since his teenage years, served an apprenticeship as enforcer to the London mob…

So why the hell was Rebus feeling sorry for him?

“I’ve got some thirty-year-old malt at the house,” Cafferty was saying. “Butterscotch and heather and melted butter…”

“Drop me in Marchmont,” Rebus insisted.

“What about that drink?”

But Rebus shook his head. “I’m supposed to be renouncing it, remember?”

Cafferty snorted, but said nothing. All the same, Rebus could tell the man wanted him to change his mind. Wanted them to have that drink together, sitting opposite each other as the night circled them on tiptoe.

Cafferty wouldn’t insist though. Insisting would sound like begging.

He wouldn’t beg.

Not just yet.

It struck Rebus that what Cafferty feared was a loss of power. Tyrants and politicians alike feared the selfsame thing, whether they belonged to the underworld or the overworld. The day would come when no one listened to them anymore, their orders ignored, reputation diminished. New challenges, new rivals and predators. Cafferty probably had millions stashed away, but a whole fleet of luxury cars was no substitute for status and respect.

Edinburgh was a small city; easy for one man to exert control over the greater part of it. Tench or Cafferty? Cafferty or Tench?

Rebus couldn’t help wondering if he would have to choose…

The overworld.

Everyone from G8 leaders to Pennen and Steelforth. All of them driven by the will to power. A chain of command affecting every person on the planet. Rebus was still thinking about it as he watched the Bentley drive away. But then he became aware of a shadowy figure standing next to his tenement door. He clenched his fists and looked around, in case Jacko had brought his buddies. But it wasn’t Jacko who stepped forward. It was Hackman.

“Evening all,” he said.

“I nearly took a swing at you then,” Rebus replied, relaxing his shoulders. “How the hell did you find me?”

“Couple of phone calls is all it took. Very helpful, the local cops. Must say, though, I wouldn’t have thought a street like this was your style.”

“So where am I supposed to live?”

“Dockside condo,” Hackman stated.

“Is that right?”

“Nice young blond thing to cook you breakfast on weekends.”

“I only see her on weekends, do I?” Rebus couldn’t help smiling.

“That’s all the time you can give her. Clean out the old pipes and then it’s back to the daily grind.”

“You’ve got it all worked out. Doesn’t explain what you’re doing here this time of night.”

“Couple of bits and pieces I’ve remembered about Trevor Guest.”

“And they’re mine for the price of a drink?” Rebus guessed.

Hackman nodded. “But there’s got to be a floor show, mind.”

“A floor show?”

“Chicks!”

“You’ve got to be joking…” But Rebus could tell from Hackman’s face that he was quite, quite serious.

They hailed a cab on Marchmont Road and headed for Bread Street. The driver gave a little smile into his rearview: two middle-aged men with a few drinks under their belts heading for the fleshpots.

“So tell me,” Rebus said.

“What?” Hackman asked.

“The info on Trevor Guest.”

But Hackman wagged a finger. “If I tell you now, what’s to stop you jumping ship?”

“My word as a gentleman?” Rebus offered. He’d had enough for tonight; no way he was embarking on a lap-dance crawl of Lothian Road. He’d get the info, then leave Hackman curbside, point him in the right direction.

“All the hippies are shipping out tomorrow, you know,” the Englishman said. “Busloads heading for Gleneagles.”

“What about you?”

Hackman shrugged. “I do what I’m told.”

“Well, I’m telling you to cough up what you know about Guest.”

“Okay, okay…so long as you promise not to beat it as soon as the taxi stops.”

“Scout’s honor.”

Hackman leaned back in the seat. “Trevor Guest had a short fuse, made a lot of enemies. Headed south to London once, but it didn’t work out. Ripped off by some tart or other…seemed to take against the fairer sex after that. You said Trev ended up on some Web site…?”

“BeastWatch.”

“Any idea who posted his details?”

“They did it anonymously.”

“But Trev was predominantly a burglar…a burglar with a temper-that’s why he went into the clink.”

“So?”

“So who put him on the Web site-and why?”

“You tell me.”

Hackman gave another shrug, gripping on to the handrail as the taxi made a sharp turn. “One more story,” he said, checking he had Rebus’s attention. “When Trev went to London, rumor was that a consignment of tasty drugs went with him-could even have been smack.”

“He was an addict?”

“Occasional user. I don’t think he injected…until the night he died, that is.”

“Did he rip someone off?”

“Could be. See…I’m wondering if there’s a connection you’re not getting.”

“And what connection might that be?”

“Small-time villains, maybe getting too big for their boots or ripping off those they shouldn’t.”

Rebus was thoughtful. “The Edinburgh victim worked for our local mobster.”

Hackman clapped his hands together. “There you are then.”

“I suppose Eddie Isley might have had-” But he broke off, unconvinced. The taxi was pulling to a stop, the driver telling them it would be a fiver. Rebus realized that they were directly outside the Nook, one of the city’s more respectable lap-dance bars. Hackman had jumped out and was paying the cabbie through the passenger-side window-a sure sign he was a visitor; locals paid up from the backseat. Rebus considered his options: stay in the cab, or get out and tell Hackman he was calling it a night.

The door was still open, the Englishman gesturing impatiently.

Rebus got out-just as the door of the Nook burst open, a man staggering from its darkened interior. The two doormen were right behind him.

“I’m telling you, I didn’t touch her!” the man was protesting. He was tall, well dressed, and dark-skinned. Rebus seemed to know the blue suit from somewhere…

“Bloody liar!” one of the doormen yelled, stabbing a finger at the customer.

“She robbed me,” the suit was protesting. “Her hand was trying to extract my wallet from my jacket. It was only when I stopped her that she started to complain.”

“Another bloody lie!” the same doorman spat.

Hackman had given Rebus a dig in the ribs. “You don’t half know some classy joints, John.” But he seemed happy enough. The other doorman was talking into his wrist microphone.

“She was attempting to take my wallet,” the suit kept arguing.

“So she didn’t rob you then?”

“Given the chance, she most certainly-”

“Did she rob you? You swore blind a minute ago that she did. And I’ve got witnesses to prove it.” The doorman’s head twitched toward Rebus and Hackman. The customer turned toward them and recognized Rebus straight off.

“My friend, do you see the situation I am in?”

“Sort of,” Rebus was forced to admit. The suit was shaking his hand.

“We met at the hotel, yes? At that delicious lunch hosted by my good friend Richard Pennen.”

“I wasn’t at lunch,” Rebus reminded him. “We chatted in the hallway.”

“You do get around, John.” Hackman chuckled, giving Rebus’s ribs another dig.

“This is a most unfortunate and serious situation,” the suit was saying. “I felt myself to be thirsty, and entered what I assumed would be a tavern of some description…”

Both doormen gave a snort. “Yeah,” the angrier of the two said, “after we’d told you the admission charge.”

Even Hackman had to laugh at that. But he was cut off by the door swinging open again. This time, it was a woman who emerged. One of the dancers, obviously, dressed in bra, G-string, and high heels. Her hair was piled atop her head and she was wearing too much makeup.

“Says I mugged him, does he?” she roared. Hackman looked as though he’d found the best ever ringside seat.

“We’re handling it,” the angry doorman said, staring daggers at his partner, who’d obviously passed the accusation along.

“He owes me fifty for the dances!” the woman shouted. She had a hand stretched out, ready to collect payment. “Then he starts pawing me! Right out of order…”

A marked patrol car cruised past, faces inside staring out. Rebus saw its brake lights come on, and knew it would be doing a U-turn.

“I am a diplomat,” the suit was declaring. “I have a right to protection from false allegations.”

“Swallowed a dictionary and all,” Hackman commented, laughing to himself.

“Legal immunity,” the suit went on, “as a member of the Kenyan delegation…”

The patrol car had stopped, two officers climbing out, fixing their caps to their heads.

“Seems to be the trouble here?” the driver asked.

“Just escorting this gentleman from the premises,” the no-longer-angry doorman said.

“I was forcibly removed!” the Kenyan protested. “And almost robbed of my wallet also!”

“Calm down, sir. Let’s get this sorted out.” The uniform had turned toward Rebus, aware of movement from the corner of his eye.

Rebus’s badge, shoved into his face.

“I want these two taken to the nearest cop-shop,” Rebus stated.

“No need for that,” the doorman began to argue.

“You want to go with them, pal?” Rebus demanded, shutting him up.

“Which cop-shop’s that then?” the uniform asked. Rebus stared at him.

“Where you from?”

“Hull.”

Rebus made an exasperated sound. “West End,” he said. “It’s on Torphichen Place.”

The uniform nodded. “Near Haymarket, yeah?”

“That’s the one,” Rebus confirmed.

“Diplomatic immunity,” the Kenyan was stressing. Rebus turned to him.

“There’s a necessary procedure,” he explained, trying to find words long enough to satisfy the man.

“You don’t want me,” the woman was saying, pointing to her ample breasts. Rebus didn’t dare look at Hackman, fearing he’d be salivating.

“Afraid I do,” Rebus told her, gesturing to the uniforms. Client and dancer were ushered toward the patrol car.

“One in the front, one in the back,” the driver told his partner. The dancer looked at Rebus as she clacked past him on her heels.

“Hang on,” he said, removing his jacket and slipping it over her shoulders. Then he turned to Hackman. “I need to see to this,” he explained.

“Like your chances, eh?” The Englishman leered.

“Don’t want a diplomatic incident,” Rebus corrected him. “Will you be okay?”

“Never better,” Hackman confirmed, slapping Rebus on the back. “I’m sure my friends here”-making sure the doormen could hear him-“will waive their entry fee for an officer of the law…”

“Just one thing, Stan,” Rebus cautioned.

“What’s that then?”

“Don’t let your hands wander.”

The CID suite was deserted, no sign of Rat-Ass Reynolds or Shug Davidson. Easy enough to secure two interview rooms. Easy to get a couple of uniforms on overtime to act as babysitters.

“Glad of the business,” one of them said.

First, the dancer. Rebus took her a plastic cup of tea. “I even remember how you like it,” he told her. Molly Clark sat with arms folded, still wearing his jacket and not much else. She was shuffling her feet, face twitching.

“Might have let me get changed,” she complained, giving a loud sniff.

“Afraid you’ll catch a cold? Don’t worry, a car will run you back in five minutes.”

She looked at him, eyes rimmed with kohl, cheeks rouged. “You’re not charging me?”

“What with? Our friend’s not going to want to pursue it, trust me.”

“It’s me should be pursuing him!”

“Whatever you say, Molly.” Rebus offered her a cigarette.

“There’s a No Smoking sign,” she reminded him.

“So there is,” he agreed, lighting up.

She hesitated another moment. “Go on then…” Took the cigarette from him, leaned across the table so he could light it for her. He knew her perfume would be clinging to his jacket for weeks. She inhaled and held the smoke deep within her.

“When we came to see you on Sunday,” Rebus began, “Eric was a bit shaky when it came to explaining how you met. I think I can guess now.”

“Bully for you.” She was examining the cigarette’s glowing tip. Her body rocked a little, and Rebus realized she was pumping one knee up and down.

“So he knows what you do for a living?” Rebus asked.

“Is it any business of yours?”

“Not really.”

“Well, then…” Another drag on the cigarette, as if drawing nourishment from it. The smoke billowed into Rebus’s face. “No secrets between Eric and me.”

“Fair enough.”

She finally made eye contact. “He was touching me up. And as for that line about me grabbing his wallet…” She snorted. “Different culture, same shit.” She calmed a little. “That’s why Eric means something.”

Rebus nodded his understanding. “It’s our Kenyan friend who’s in trouble, not you,” he assured her.

“Really?” She gave him that wide smile again, same as on Sunday. The whole dreary room seemed to brighten for an instant.

“Eric’s a lucky man.”

“You’re a lucky man,” Rebus told the Kenyan. Interview room 2, ten minutes later. The Nook was sending a car for Molly-a car and some clothes. She’d promised to leave Rebus’s jacket at the station’s front desk.

“My name is Joseph Kamweze and I have diplomatic immunity.”

“Then you won’t mind showing me your passport, Joseph.” Rebus held out his hand. “If you’re a diplomat, it’ll say so.”

“I do not have it with me.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Balmoral.”

“Now there’s a surprise. Room paid for by Pennen Industries?”

“Mr. Richard Pennen is a good friend to my country.”

Rebus leaned back in his chair. “How’s that then?”

“In matters of trade and humanitarian assistance.”

“He sticks microchips into weapons.”

“I do not see the connection.”

“What are you doing in Edinburgh, Joseph?”

“I am part of my nation’s trade mission.”

“And what part of your job description took you into the Nook tonight?”

“I was thirsty, Inspector.”

“And maybe a wee bit horny…?”

“I am not sure what it is that you are trying to insinuate. I have already told you that I have immunity.”

“And I couldn’t be happier for you. Tell me, do you know a British politician called Ben Webster?”

Kamweze nodded. “I met him one time in Nairobi, at the high commission.”

“You’ve not seen him this trip?”

“I did not have a chance to talk with him the night his life ended.”

Rebus stared at him. “You were at the castle?”

“Indeed, yes.”

“You saw Mr. Webster there?”

The Kenyan nodded. “I thought it unnecessary to speak with him on that occasion, as he would be joining us for lunch at Prestonfield House.” Kamweze’s face fell. “But then this great tragedy unfolded before our eyes.”

Rebus tensed. “How do you mean?”

“Please do not misunderstand. I only say that his fall was a great loss to the international community.”

“You didn’t see what happened?”

“No one did. But perhaps the cameras were of some assistance.”

“Security cameras?” Rebus felt like slapping himself across the head. The castle was an army HQ-of course there’d be cameras.

“We were given a tour of the control room. It was impressively technical, but then terrorism is an everyday threat, is it not, Inspector?”

Rebus didn’t answer for a moment.

“What’s everyone saying about it?” he eventually asked.

“I’m not sure I understand.” Kamweze’s brow had furrowed.

“The other missions-that little League of Nations I saw you with at Prestonfield-any rumors about Mr. Webster?”

The Kenyan shook his head.

“Tell me, does everyone feel as warmly toward Richard Pennen as you seem to?”

“Again, Inspector, I do not think I-” Kamweze broke off and rose hurriedly to his feet, the chair toppling behind him. “I would like to leave now.”

“Something to hide, Joseph?”

“I feel you have brought me here under false pretenses.”

“We could go back to the real ones-start discussing your little one-man delegation and its fact-finding tour of Edinburgh’s lap-dancing bars.” Rebus leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “These places have cameras, too, Joseph. They’ll have you on tape.”

“Immunity…”

“I’m not talking about charging you with anything, Joseph. I’m talking about the folks back home. I’m assuming you’ve got family in Nairobi…mum and dad, maybe a wife and kids?”

“I want to leave now!” Kamweze slammed a fist down on the table.

“Easy there,” Rebus said, holding up his hands. “Thought we were having a nice wee chat here.”

“Do you wish a diplomatic incident, Inspector?”

“I’m not sure.” Rebus seemed to ponder the notion. “Do you?”

“I am outraged!” Another thump on the table and the Kenyan headed for the door. Rebus did nothing to stop him. Instead, he lit a cigarette and lifted his legs onto the table, crossing them at the ankles. Stretched back and stared at the ceiling. Naturally, Steelforth hadn’t said anything about cameras, and Rebus knew he’d have a hell of a time persuading anyone to hand over the footage. It was owned by the military and sited within the military-strictly out of Rebus’s jurisdiction.

Which wouldn’t stop him raising the issue…

A minute passed before there was a knock at the door and a constable appeared from behind it.

“Our African friend says he wants a car back to the Balmoral.”

“Tell him the walk will do him good,” Rebus ordered. “And warn him about getting thirsty again.”

“Sir?” The constable thought he must have misheard.

“Just tell him.”

“Yes, sir. Oh, and one more thing…”

“What?”

“No smoking in here.”

Rebus turned his head and stared the young officer out. When the door had closed, he reached into his trouser pocket for his cell. Pushed the buttons and waited to be connected.

“Mairie?” he said. “Got some information you might be able to find a use for.”