“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.”
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 as
sume 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
Rebus 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.”