“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.
br /> “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 Spe
cial 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.