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.