The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (21 page)

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

R
ebus 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
over
world. 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...”