The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (20 page)

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

T
he 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.”