The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (8 page)

“Thanks for refusing to narrow the search.”

He shrugged. “If we’d found a scarf with a soccer team’s logo on it, would we be homing in on the team?”

“All right, point taken.” She stopped in her tracks. “Do you need to get back to the autopsy?”

He shook his head. “One of us is going to have to break the news to Macrae.”

She nodded. “I’ll do it.”

“Not a hell of a lot more to be done today.”

“Back to Live 8 then?”

He gave another shrug. “And the Meadows for yourself?” he guessed.

She nodded, her mind elsewhere. “Can you think of a worse week for this to happen?”

“Why they pay us the big bucks,” Rebus told her, drawing the nicotine deep.

A fat parcel was waiting for Rebus at the door of his apartment. Siobhan was heading back down to the Meadows. Rebus had told her to drop by later for a drink. He realized his living room was stuffy so forced open the window. He could hear sounds from the march: echoey, amplified voices; drums and whistles. Live 8 was on TV, but not a band he recognized. He kept the sound down, opened the parcel. There was a note inside from Mairie—
You don’t deserve it
—followed by pages and pages of printout. News stories about Pennen Industries, dating right back to its separation from the MoD. Snippets from the business pages, detailing rising profits. Profiles praising Richard Pennen, accompanied by photos of him. Every inch the successful businessman: well-groomed, pin-striped, coiffed. Salt-and-pepper hair, even though he was still in his midforties. Steel-rimmed glasses and a square-set jaw below perfect-looking teeth.

Richard Pennen had been an MoD employee, something of a whiz with microchips and software programs. He stressed that his company didn’t sell arms as such, just the components to make them as efficient as possible. “Which has to be better than the alternative, for all concerned,” he was quoted as saying. Rebus flicked quickly though interviews and background features. Nothing to link Pennen to Ben Webster, except that both dealt with aspects of trade. No reason why the company
wouldn’t
treat MPs to five-star hotel rooms. Rebus turned to the next set of stapled sheets and gave a silent thank-you to Mairie. She’d added a list of stuff about Ben Webster himself. Not that there was much about his career as an MP. But five years back the media had shown sudden interest in the family, following the shocking attack on Webster’s mother. She and her husband had been vacationing in the Borders, renting a cottage in the countryside outside Kelso. He’d gone into town one afternoon for supplies and had returned to find the cottage ransacked and his wife dead, strangled with a cord from the window blinds. She had been beaten but not sexually assaulted. Money was missing from her bag, as was her cell phone. Nothing else had been taken.

Just some loose cash and a phone.

And a woman’s life.

The inquiry had dragged on for weeks. Rebus looked at photos of the isolated cottage, the victim, her grieving husband, the two children—Ben and Stacey. He lifted from his pocket the card Stacey had given him, rubbed its edges with his fingers as he continued to read. Ben the MP for Dundee North; Stacey the cop from the Met, whom colleagues described as “diligent and well liked.” The cottage was placed on the edge of woodland, amid rolling hills, no other habitation visible. Husband and wife had liked to take long walks and were regularly seen in Kelso’s bars and eateries. The region had been their destination of choice for many holidays. Councillors for the area were quick to point out that the Borders “remains largely crime-free and a haven of peace.” Didn’t want the tourists scared off...

The killer was never caught. The story drifted to the inside pages, then deeper into the paper, reappearing sporadically as a paragraph or two when Ben Webster was being profiled. There was one in-depth interview with him, dating back to when he’d been made PPS. He hadn’t wanted to talk about the tragedy.

Tragedies—plural, actually. The father hadn’t lasted long after his wife’s murder. His death came from natural causes. “The will to live just left him” was how one neighbor in Broughty Ferry had put it. “And now he’s at peace with the love of his life.”

Rebus looked again at the photograph of Stacey, taken on the day of her mother’s funeral. She’d gone on TV, apparently, appealing for information. Stronger than her brother, who’d decided not to join her at the press conference. Rebus really hoped she would stay strong...

Suicide seemed the obvious conclusion, grief finally catching up with the orphaned son. Except that Ben Webster had screamed as he fell. And the guards had been alerted to an intruder. Besides, why
that
particular night?
That
location? The world’s media hitting town...

A very public gesture.

And Steelforth...well, Steelforth wanted it all swept away. Nothing must deflect attention from the G8. Nothing must be allowed to perturb the various delegations. Rebus had to admit, the reason he was holding on to the case was simply to piss off the Special Branch man. He got up from the table and went into the kitchen, made himself another mug of coffee, and brought it back through to the living room. He changed channels on the TV but couldn’t find any feeds from the march. The Hyde Park crowd looked to be enjoying themselves, though there was some sort of enclosure directly in front of the stage, sparsely filled. Security maybe; either that or media. Geldof wasn’t asking for money this time around; what Live 8 wanted was to focus hearts and minds. Rebus wondered how many concert-goers would afterward heed the call and trek the four hundred miles north to Scotland. He lit a cigarette to go with his coffee, sat down in an armchair, and stared at the screen. He thought again of the Clootie Well, of the ritual played out there. If Ray Duff was right, they had at least three victims, and a killer who had made a shrine of sorts. Did that mean someone local? How well known was the Clootie Well outside Auchterarder? Did it appear in travel books, tourist brochures? Had it been chosen for its proximity to the G8 summit, the killer guessing that all those extra police patrols were bound to mean his grim little offering was found? In which case, was his spree now finished?

Three victims...no way they were going to keep that away from the media. CC Rider...Keogh’s Garage...a cash card...The killer was making it easy for them; he
wanted
them to know he was out there. World’s press gathered in Scotland as never before, giving him an international stage. And Macrae would relish the opportunity. He’d be out there in front of them, chest puffed up as he answered their questions, Derek Starr right beside him.

Siobhan had said she would call Macrae from the march, let him know the lab’s findings. Ray Duff meantime would be doing more tests, trying for DNA fingerprints from the blood, seeing if any hairs or fibers could be isolated and identified. Rebus thought about Cyril Colliar again. Hardly a typical victim. Serial killers tended to prey on the weak and the marginalized. A case of wrong place, wrong time? Killed in Edinburgh, but the scrap from his jacket ends up in the woods in Auchterarder, just as Operation Sorbus is getting started. Sorbus: a kind of tree...the CC Rider’s patch left in a wooded glade...If there was any hint of a connection with the G8, Rebus knew the spooks would wrench the case out of Siobhan’s hands and out of his. Steelforth wouldn’t have it any other way. The killer taunting them.

Leaving calling cards.

There was a knock at his door. Had to be Siobhan. He stubbed out the cigarette, stood up, and took a look around the room. It wasn’t too bad: no empty beer cans or pizza boxes. Whiskey bottle by the chair; he picked it up, put it on the mantelpiece. Switched the TV to a news channel and headed for the door. Swung it open and recognized the face, felt his stomach clench.

“That’s your conscience salved then, is it?” he asked, feigning indifference.

“Pure as the driven fuckin’ snow, Rebus. But can you say the same?”

Not Siobhan. Morris Gerald Cafferty. Dressed in a white T-shirt bearing the slogan
MAKE POVERTY HISTORY
. Hands in trouser pockets. Slid them out slowly and held them up to show Rebus they were empty. A head the size of a bowling ball, shiny and all but hairless. Small, deep-set eyes. Glistening lips. No neck. Rebus made to shut the door on him, but Cafferty pressed a hand to it.

“That any way to treat an old pal?”

“Go to hell.”

“You look like you’ve beat me to it—did that shirt come off a scarecrow?”

“And who dresses you—the girls from
What Not to Wear
?”

Cafferty snorted. “I did meet them on breakfast TV, actually. See, isn’t this better? We’re having a nice wee chat.”

Rebus had stopped trying to close the door. “Hell are you doing here, Cafferty?”

Cafferty was examining his palms, brushing imaginary grime from them. “How long have you been living here, Rebus? Got to be thirty years.”

“So?”

“Ever hear of moving up in the world?”

“Christ, now it’s
Location, Location, Location
...”

“You’ve never tried to improve your situation, that’s what I can’t understand.”

“Maybe I should write a book about it.”

Cafferty grinned. “I’m thinking of a follow-up, charting a few more of our little disagreements.”

“Is that why you’re here? Memory needs refreshing, does it?”

Cafferty’s face darkened. “I’m here about my boy Cyril.”

“What about him?”

“I hear there’s been some progress. I want to know how much.”

“Who told you?”

“It’s true then?”

“Think I’d tell you even if it was?”

Cafferty gave a snarl, hands shooting forward, propelling Rebus backward into the hall, where he collided with the wall. Cafferty grabbed at him again, teeth bared, but Rebus was ready, managed to get a handful of the T-shirt. The two men wrestled, twisting and turning, moving farther down the hall until they were in the doorway to the living room. Neither had said a word, eyes and limbs doing their talking. But Cafferty glanced into the room and seemed to freeze. Rebus was able to free himself from his grasp.

“Jesus Christ.” Cafferty was staring at the two boxes on the sofa—part of the Colliar case notes, brought home from Gayfield the previous night. Lying on the top was one of the autopsy photos, and, just visible beneath, an older photograph of Cafferty himself. “What’s all this stuff doing here?” Cafferty asked, breathing heavily.

“None of your damned business.”

“You’re still trying to pin this on me.”

“Not as much as I was,” Rebus admitted. He walked over to the mantelpiece and grabbed the whiskey. Lifted his glass from the floor and poured. “It’ll be public knowledge soon enough,” he said, pausing to drink. “We think Colliar’s not the only victim.”

Cafferty’s eyes narrowed as he tried to take this in. “Who else?”

Rebus shook his head slowly. “Now get the hell out.”

“I can help,” Cafferty said. “I know people.”

“Oh yeah? Trevor Guest ring a bell?”

Cafferty thought for a moment before conceding defeat.

“What about a garage called Keogh’s?”

Cafferty stiffened his shoulders. “I can find things out, Rebus. I’ve got contacts in places that would frighten you.”

“Everything about you frightens me, Cafferty; fear of contamination, I suppose. How come you’re so het up about Colliar?”

Cafferty’s eyes strayed to the whiskey bottle. “Got a spare glass?” he asked.

Rebus fetched one from the kitchen. When he returned, Cafferty was reading Mairie’s covering note.

“I see Ms. Henderson’s been lending a hand.” Cafferty gave a cold smile. “I recognize her handwriting.”

Rebus said nothing; poured a small measure into the glass.

“I prefer malt,” Cafferty complained, wafting the contents under his nose. “What’s your interest in Pennen Industries?”

Rebus ignored this. “You were going to tell me about Cyril Colliar.” Cafferty made to sit down. “Stay on your feet,” Rebus commanded. “You’re not going to be here that long.”

Cafferty knocked back the drink and placed the empty glass on the table. “It’s not Cyril I’m interested in as such,” he admitted. “But when something like that happens...well, rumors get started. Rumors that someone’s out there with a grudge. Never very good for business. As you well know, Rebus, I’ve had enemies in the past.”

“Funny how I never see them anymore.”

“Plenty of jackals out there who’d like a share of the spoils...
my
spoils.” He stabbed a finger into his own chest.

“You’re getting old, Cafferty.”

“Same as you. But there’s no retirement package in my line of business.”

“And meantime the jackals get younger and hungrier?” Rebus guessed. “And you need to keep proving yourself.”

“I’ve never backed down, Rebus. Never will.”

“It’ll come out soon enough, Cafferty. If there’s no connection between you and the other victims, then there’s no reason for anyone to see it as a vendetta.”

“But meantime...”

“Meantime what?”

Cafferty gave a wink. “Keogh’s Garage and Trevor Guest.”

“Leave them to us, Cafferty.”

“Who knows, Rebus, maybe I’ll see what I can turn up about Pennen Industries, too.” Cafferty started to walk out of the room. “Thanks for the drink and the wee bit of exercise. Think I’ll go join the tail end of the march. Poverty’s always been a great concern of mine.” He paused in the hall, taking in his surroundings. “Never seen it as bad as this though,” he added, heading for the stairwell.

5

T
he Right Honorable Gordon Brown, MP, chancellor of the exchequer, had already started to speak when Siobhan entered the room. An audience of nine hundred had gathered in the Assembly Hall at the top of the Mound. The last time Siobhan had been there, the place was acting as temporary home to the Scottish parliament, but the parliament now had lavish premises of its own opposite the queen’s residence at Holyrood, leaving the Assembly Hall once again the exclusive property of the Church of Scotland who, along with Christian Aid, had organized the evening’s event.

Siobhan was there for a meeting with Edinburgh’s chief constable, James Corbyn. Corbyn had been in charge just over a year, having replaced Sir David Strathern. There had been mutters of dissent over the appointment. Corbyn was English, a “bean counter,”and “too bloody young.” But Corbyn had proved himself a hands-on copper who made regular visits to the front line. He was seated a few rows back, in full dress uniform, cap resting on his lap. Siobhan knew she was expected so found a space by the doors, content to listen to the chancellor’s vows and pledges. When he announced that Africa’s poorest thirty-eight countries would see a debt write-off, there was spontaneous applause. But when the clapping died down, Siobhan was aware of a voice of dissent. A lone protester had stood up. He was wearing a kilt, and he lifted it to reveal a cut-out picture of Tony Blair’s face on the front of his underpants. Security moved in quickly, and those around the man helped with the process. As he was dragged to the doors, the fresh applause was for security. The chancellor, who had busied himself tidying his notes, continued where he’d left off.

The commotion, however, provided useful cover for James Corbyn to make his move. Siobhan followed him out of the hall and introduced herself. There was no sign of the protester or his captors, just a few civil servants pacing the floor, waiting for their master to finish. They carried document files and cell phones and seemed exhausted by the day’s events.

“DCI Macrae says we have a problem,” Corbyn stated. No niceties; straight to the heart of the matter. He was in his early forties, with black hair parted to the right. Solidly built, just over six feet in height. There was a large mole on his right cheek, which Siobhan had been warned not to stare at.

“Bloody hard to keep eye contact,” Macrae had told her, “with that thing in your sight line...”

“We may have three victims,” she said now.

“And a murder site on the G8’s doorstep?” Corbyn snapped.

“Not exactly, sir. I don’t think we’ll find bodies there, just trace evidence.”

“They’ll be out of Gleneagles by Friday. We can stall the investigation till then.”

“On the other hand,” Siobhan offered, “the leaders don’t start arriving till Wednesday. Three full days away...”

“What are you proposing?”

“We keep things low-key but do as much as we can. Forensics can make a full sweep by then. The one definite victim we have is an Edinburgh guy, no need to go disturbing the bigwigs.”

Corbyn studied her. “You’re a DS, am I right?”

Siobhan nodded.

“Bit junior to be heading something like this.” It didn’t sound like criticism; he was simply stating a fact.

“A DI from my station was with me, sir. We both worked the original inquiry.”

“How much help will you need?”

“I’m not sure much can be spared.”

Corbyn smiled. “It’s a sensitive time, DS Clarke.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I’m sure you do. And this DI of yours...he’s reliable?”

Siobhan nodded, maintaining eye contact, not blinking. Thinking:
Maybe he’s too new to have heard of John Rebus
...

“Happy to work a Sunday?” he asked.

“Absolutely. Not so sure about the SOCOs.”

“A word from me should help.” He grew thoughtful. “The march passed off without incident...perhaps we’ll have it easier than we feared.”

“Yes, sir.”

His eyes regained their focus. “Your accent’s English,” he remarked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Ever given you problems?”

“A few gibes along the way.”

He nodded slowly. “All right.” Straightening his back. “See what you can get done before Wednesday. Any problems, let me know. But do try not to step on any toes.” He glanced in the direction of the civil servants.

“There’s an SO12 officer called Steelforth, sir. He may raise a few objections.”

Corbyn looked at his watch. “Direct him to my office.” He fixed his braided cap to his head. “Time I was elsewhere...You do realize the enormous responsibility...?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Make sure your colleague gets the message.”

“He’ll understand, sir.”

He held out his hand. “Very well. Let’s shake on it, DS Clarke.”

They shook.

On the radio news, there was a report from the march and, in a postscript, mention that the death of international development minister Ben Webster was “being treated as a tragic accident.” The chief story, however, was the Hyde Park concert. Siobhan had heard plenty of complaints from the hordes gathered at the Meadows. They felt the pop stars would upstage them.

“Limelight and album sales, that’s what they’re after,” one man said. “Ego-tripping bastards...”

The latest estimate of numbers on the march was 225,000. Siobhan didn’t know how many were at the London concert, but she doubted it was even half that. The nighttime streets were busy with cars and pedestrians. Plenty of buses, too, heading south out of the city. Some of the shops and restaurants she passed had put signs in their windows:
WE SUPPORT MAKE POVERTY HISTORY. WE ONLY USE FAIR TRADE PRODUCE. SMALL LOCAL RETAILER. MARCHERS WELCOME.
There was graffiti, too: anarchy symbols and messages exhorting the passersby,
Activ8, Agit8, Demonstr8
. Another statement stated simply,
Rome Wasn’t Sacked in One Day
. She hoped the chief constable would be proved right, but there was a long way to go.

Buses were parked outside the Niddrie campsite. The tented village had grown. The same guard as the previous night was in charge. She asked him his name.

“Bobby Greig.”

“Bobby, I’m Siobhan. Looks busy tonight.”

He shrugged. “Maybe a couple of thousand. I guess that’s as busy as it’ll get.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Council’s spent a million on this place—could have given them all a hotel room for that, never mind a spot in the wilderness.” He nodded toward the car she’d just locked. “I see you’ve got a replacement.”

“Borrowed from the garage at St. Leonard’s. Had any more trouble from the natives?”

“Nice and quiet,” he told her. “Dark now, mind...that’s when they come out to play. Know what it feels like in here?” He scanned the compound. “One of those zombie films.”

Siobhan offered a smile. “That makes you mankind’s last great hope, Bobby. You should be flattered.”

“My shift ends at midnight!” he called after her as she made her way to her parents’ tent. There was no one home. She unzipped the opening and looked in. The table and stools had been folded away, sleeping bags rolled tight. She tore a sheet of paper from her notebook and left a message. No sign of life in the surrounding tents either. Siobhan began to wonder if her mum and dad had maybe gone out drinking with Santal.

Santal: last seen at the demonstration in Buccleuch Place. Which meant she might be trouble...might
get
into trouble.

Listen to yourself, girl! Afraid your trendy leftist parents will be led astray!

She tutted to herself and decided to kill some time walking around the camp. It was little changed from the previous night: a strummed guitar, a cross-legged circle of singers, kids playing barefoot on the grass, cheap food doled out at the big tent. New arrivals, weary after the march, were being handed their wristbands and shown where to pitch camp. There was still some light left in the sky, making a startling silhouette of Arthur’s Seat. She thought maybe she would climb it tomorrow, take an hour to herself. The view from the top was a thrill. Always supposing she could afford an hour to herself. She knew she should call Rebus, let him know the score. He was probably still at home in front of the box. Time enough yet to give him the news.

“Saturday night, eh?” Bobby Greig said. He was standing just behind her, holding a flashlight and his two-way. “You should be out enjoying yourself.”

“Seems to be what my friends are up to.” She nodded in the direction of her parents’ tent.

“I’ll be having a drink myself when I finish,” he hinted.

“I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Hope you’re on overtime.”

“Thanks for the offer, though...maybe another night.”

He gave a huge shrug. “I’m trying not to feel rejected here.” His radio burst into life with a jolt of static. He raised it to his mouth. “Say again, tower.”

“Here they come again,” came the distorted voice.

Siobhan looked toward the fence, couldn’t make anything out. She followed Bobby Greig toward the gate. Yes: a dozen of them, hooded tops drawn tight around their heads, eyes shaded by baseball caps. No sign of weapons, other than a quart of cheap booze being passed among them. Half a dozen guards had gathered inside the gate, waiting for Greig to give the word. The gang outside was gesturing: Come and have a go. Greig stared back, seeming bored with the performance.

“Should we call it in?” one of the other security men asked.

“No sign of missiles,” Greig replied. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

The gang had steadily been approaching the fence. Siobhan recognized the one in the middle as the leader from Friday night. The mechanic at Rebus’s recommended workshop had said it might end up costing six hundred to fix her car.

“Insurance might do some of it” had been his only crumb of comfort. In reply she’d asked him if he’d ever heard of Keogh’s Garage, but he’d shaken his head.

“Can you ask around?”

He’d said he would do that, then had asked for a deposit. A hundred gone from her bank account, just like that. Five hundred still to go, and here were the culprits, not twenty feet from her. She wished she had Santal’s camera...fire off a few shots and see if anyone at Craigmillar CID could put names to faces. Had to be security cameras around here somewhere...maybe she could...

Sure she could. But she knew she wouldn’t.

“Off you go now,” Bobby Greig was calling out in a firm voice.

“Niddrie’s
ours,”
the leader spat. “It’s
youse
should fuck off!”

“Point taken, but we can’t do that.”

“Makes you feel big, eh? Playing babysitter to a bunch of scum.”

“Happy-clappy hippie shit,” one of his followers concurred.

“Thanks for sharing” was all Bobby Greig said.

The leader barked out a laugh; one of the gang spat at the fence. Another joined him.

“We can take them, Bobby,” one of the security men said softly.

“No need to.”

“Fat bastard,” the gang’s leader goaded.

“Fat-ass bastard,” one of his lieutenants added.

“Alky.”

“Pop-eyed baldy ass-licking...”

Greig’s eyes were on Siobhan. He seemed to be making up his mind. She shook her head slowly.
Don’t let them win
.

“Thieving bastard.”

“Asshole.”

“Bloated schmuck.”

Bobby Greig turned his head toward the guard next to him, gave a brief nod. “Count of three,” he said in an undertone.

“Save your breath, Bobby.” The guard leaped for the gate, his comrades right behind him. The gang scattered but regrouped at the other side of the road.

“Come on then!”

“Any time you like!”

“You want us? Here we are!”

Siobhan knew what they wanted. They wanted the security men to chase them into the labyrinth of streets. Jungle warfare, where local knowledge could defeat firepower. Weapons—ready-made or improvised—could be waiting there. A larger army could be hidden behind hedges and down shadowy alleys. And meantime, the camp was left unguarded.

She didn’t hesitate; called it in on her cell. “Officer requiring assistance.” Brief details of where she was. Two, three minutes, they’d start arriving. Craigmillar cop-shop wasn’t farther away than that. The gang’s leader was bending over, making a show of offering his backside to Bobby Greig. One of Greig’s men accepted the insult on his behalf and ran at the leader, who did what Siobhan had feared: appeared to retreat farther down the walkway.

Into the heart of the housing project.

“Careful!” she warned, but no one was listening. Turning, she saw that some of the campers were watching the action. “Police will be here in a minute,” she assured them.

“Pigs,” one of the campers said in evident disgust.

Siobhan jogged out into the road. The gang really had scattered now; at least, that was what it looked like. She traced Bobby Greig’s route, down the path and into a cul-de-sac. Low-rise blocks all around, some of the last and worst of the old streets. The skeleton of a bike lay on the pavement. A supermarket cart’s carcass sat curbside. Shadows and scuffles and yells. The sound of breaking glass. If there was fighting, she couldn’t see it. Back gardens were the battleground. Stairwells, too. Faces at some of the windows, but they withdrew quickly, leaving only the cold blue glare of TV sets. Siobhan kept walking, checking to left and right. She was wondering how Greig would have acted had she not been there to witness the taunts. Bloody men and their bloody machismo...

End of the street: still nothing. She took a left, then a right. In one front garden, a car sat on bricks. A lamppost had had its cover removed, its wiring ripped out. The place was a bloody maze, and how come she couldn’t hear sirens? She couldn’t hear any yells now either, apart from an argument in one of the houses. A kid on a skateboard came toward her, maybe ten or eleven at most, staring hard at her until he was past. She reckoned she could take a left and be back at the main road. But she entered another cul-de-sac and cursed under her breath—not even a footpath to be seen. Knew the quickest route might be to skirt around the end terrace and climb the fence. Next block over and she’d be back where she started.