The Naming of the Dead

  “First e-mail he sent, he said he was based in Edinburgh, signed off with his real name.”

  “And you told him you were CID?”

  Wylie nodded.

  “What’s your thinking?” Rebus asked Siobhan.

  “I’m not sure yet.” Siobhan started to get her things together. Rebus and Wylie watched her. Finally, with a wave over her shoulder, she was gone. Ellen Wylie folded the newspaper and dumped it in a wastebasket. Rebus had filled the kettle and switched it on.

  “I can tell you exactly what she’s thinking,” Wylie told him.

  “Then you’re cleverer than me.”

  “She knows that murderers don’t always work alone. She also knows sometimes they need validation.”

  “Over my head, Ellen.”

  “I don’t think so, John. If I know you, you’re thinking much the same. Somebody decides to start killing perverts, they might want to tell someone about it—either beforehand, almost asking permission, or afterward, to get it off their chest.”

  “Okay,” Rebus said, busy with the mugs.

  “Hard to work in a team if you’re one of the suspects.”

  “I really do appreciate you helping out, Ellen,” he said, pausing before adding, “so long as that’s what you’re doing.”

  She sprang from the chair, placing her hands on her hips, elbows jutting. Rebus had been told once why humans did that—to make them seem bigger, more threatening, less vulnerable.

  “You think,” she was saying, “I’ve been here half the day just to protect Denise?”

  “No...but I do think people will go a long way to protect family.”

  “Like Siobhan and her mum, you mean?”

  “Let’s not pretend we wouldn’t do the same.”

  “John...I’m here because you asked me.”

  “And I’ve said I’m grateful, but here’s the thing, Ellen—Siobhan and me have just been sent out of the game. We need someone to look out for us; someone we can trust.” He spooned coffee into the two chipped mugs. Sniffed the milk and decided it would do. He was giving her time to think.

  “All right,” she said at last.

  “No more secrets?” he asked. She shook her head. “Nothing I should know?” Shook it again. “You want to be there when I interview Tench?”

  Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “How do you plan to do that? You’re on suspension, remember?”

  Rebus made a face and tapped his head. “Short-term memory loss,” he told her. “It comes with the territory.”

  After the coffee, they got busy: Rebus filled the copier with a fresh ream of paper; Wylie asked what he wanted copied from the computer’s various databases. The phone rang half a dozen times, but they ignored it.

  “Incidentally,” Wylie chimed in at one point, “did you hear? London got the Olympics.”

  “Whoop-dee-doo.”

  “It was great actually: everyone dancing around Trafalgar Square. Means Paris lost out.”

  “Wonder how Chirac’s taking it.” Rebus checked his watch. “He’ll be sitting down to dinner with the queen right around now.”

  “With TB doing his Cheshire cat impression, no doubt.”

  Rebus smiled. Yes, and Gleneagles serving up the best of Caledonian fare for the French president...He thought back to that afternoon, standing a few hundred yards from all those powerful men. Bush toppling from his bike, a painful reminder that they were every bit as fallible as anyone else. “What does the G stand for?” he asked. Wylie just looked at him. “In G8,” he amplified.

  “Government?” she guessed, giving a shrug. There was a tapping against the open door: one of the duty uniforms from the front desk.

  “Someone to see you downstairs, sir.” He glanced pointedly in the direction of the nearest phone.

  “We’ve not been picking up,” Rebus explained. “Who is it?”

  “Woman called Webster...she was hoping for DS Clarke, but said you’d do in a pinch.”

  18

  Backstage at the Final Push.

  Rumors that some sort of rocket had been fired from the railway tracks nearby, falling short of its target.

  “Filled with purple dye,” Bobby Greig had told Siobhan. He was in civvies: faded jeans and a battered denim jacket. Looked damp but happy as the rain drizzled down. Siobhan had changed into black cords and a pale green T-shirt, topped off with a biker jacket bought secondhand from an Oxfam shop. Greig had smiled at her. “How come,” he’d said, “whatever you wear, you still look like CID?”

  She hadn’t bothered replying. She kept fingering the laminated pass strung around her neck. It showed an outline of Africa and the legend Backstage Access. Sounded grand, but Greig soon explained her spot on the food chain. His own pass was Access All Areas, but beyond this were two further levels—VIP and VVIP. She’d already seen Midge Ure and Claudia Schiffer, both of them VVIPs. Greig had introduced her to the concert promoters, Steve Daws and Emma Diprose, the pair of them glamorous despite the weather.

  “Amazing lineup,” Siobhan had told them.

  “Thank you,” Daws had said. Then Diprose had asked if Siobhan had a favorite, but she’d shaken her head.

  Throughout, Greig hadn’t bothered mentioning to them that she was a cop.

  There had been ticketless fans outside Murrayfield, begging to buy, and a few scalpers whose prices were deterring all but the wealthiest and most desperate. With her pass, Siobhan had been able to wander around the base of the stage and onto the playing field itself, where she joined sixty thousand drenched fans. But the hungry looks they gave in the direction of her little plastic rectangle made her uncomfortable, and she soon retreated behind the security fence. Greig was stuffing his face with the free food, while holding a half-empty bottle of continental lager. The Proclaimers had opened the show with a sing-along of “500 Miles.” Word was, Eddie Izzard would be playing piano on Midge Ure’s version of “Vienna.” Texas, Snow Patrol, and Travis were due up later, with Bono helping out the Corrs and a closing set by James Brown.

  But the frenetic backstage activity was making her feel old. She didn’t know who half the performers were. They looked important, moving to and fro with their various entourages, but their faces didn’t mean anything to her. It struck her that her parents might be leaving on Friday, giving her just one more day with them. She’d called them earlier; they’d gone back to her place, buying provisions on the way, and might go out for dinner. Just the two of them, her dad had said, making it look like this was what he wanted.

  Or maybe so she wouldn’t feel guilty at being elsewhere.

  She was trying to relax, to get in the mood, but work kept intruding. Rebus, she knew, would still be hard at it. He wouldn’t rest till his demons had been quelled. Yet each victory was fleeting, and each fight drained him a little more. Now that the sun was setting, the stadium was dotted with the flashes from camera phones. Luminous glow sticks were being waved in the air. Greig found an umbrella from somewhere and handed it to her as the rain got heavier.

  “Had any more trouble in Niddrie?” she asked him.

  He shook his head. “They’ve made their point,” he said. “Besides which, they probably think there’s a better chance of a fight if they head into town.” He tossed his empty beer bottle into a recycling bin. “Did you see it today?”

  “I was in Auchterarder,” she said.

  He looked impressed. “Bits I saw on TV made it look like a war zone.”

  “Wasn’t quite that bad. How about here?”

  “Bit of a demonstration when the buses were stopped from going. Nothing like Monday though.” He nodded over her shoulder. “Annie Lennox,” he pointed out. And so it was, not ten feet away, giving them a smile as she headed to her changing room. “You played great at Hyde Park!” Greig called out to her. She just kept smiling, her mind on the performance ahead. Greig went to fetch more beers. Most of the people Siobhan saw were just hanging around, looking bored. Technical crews who wouldn’t be busy again until it was time to p
ack everything away and dismantle the stage. Personal assistants and record company staff—the latter wearing a uniform of black suits with matching V-neck sweaters, sunglasses on and phones clamped to their ears. Caterers and promoters and hangers-on. She knew she was one of the last group. No one had asked what role she was playing because no one thought she was a player.

  The terraces, that’s where I belong, she thought.

  Either there or the CID room.

  She felt so very different from the teenager who’d hitched her way to Greenham Common, singing “We Shall Overcome” as she locked hands with the other women ringing the air base. Already, Saturday’s Make Poverty History march seemed like history itself. And yet...Bono and Geldof had managed to breach the G8 security, putting their case to the various leaders. They’d made damned sure those men knew what was at stake, and that millions expected great things of them. Tomorrow, decisions might be made. Tomorrow would be crucial.

  Her cell was in her hand, and she was on the verge of calling Rebus. But she knew he would laugh, tell her to switch it off and enjoy herself. She suddenly doubted that, despite the ticket pinned by a magnet to the fridge in her kitchen, she would go to T in the Park. Doubted the killings would be solved by then, especially now she was officially off the case. Her case. Except now Rebus had brought in Ellen Wylie...it rankled that he hadn’t thought to ask. Rankled, too, that he’d been right: they needed help. But now it turned out Wylie knew Gareth Tench and Tench knew Wylie’s sister...

  Bobby Greig had returned with her beer. “So what do you think?” he asked.

  “I think they’re all remarkably small,” she commented. He nodded his agreement.

  “Pop stars,” he explained, “must’ve been the school runts. This is how they get their revenge. You’ll notice their heads are big enough though.” He saw that he had lost her attention.

  “What’s he doing here?” Siobhan asked.

  Greig recognized the figure, gave a wave. Councilman Gareth Tench waved back. He was talking to Daws and Diprose, but broke off—a pat on the shoulder for the former; peck on either cheek for the latter—and came toward them.

  “He’s the council’s culture convener,” Greig stated. He held out a hand for Tench to squeeze.

  “How are you, lad?” Tench inquired.

  “Just fine.”

  “Keeping out of trouble?” This question was directed at Siobhan. She took the proffered hand and returned its firm grasp.

  “Trying to.”

  Tench turned back to Greig. “Remind me again, where do I know you from?”

  “The campsite. Name’s Bobby Greig.”

  Tench shook his head at his own incompetence. “Of course, of course. Well, isn’t this great?” He clapped his hands together and looked around. “Whole bloody world’s got its eyes on Edinburgh.”

  “Or on the concert at any rate,” Siobhan couldn’t help qualifying.

  Tench just rolled his eyes. “There’s no pleasing some folk. Tell me, did Bobby here sneak you in for free?”

  Siobhan felt obliged to nod.

  “And you’re still complaining?” He gave a chuckle. “Remember to give a donation before you leave, eh? Might look like a kickback otherwise.”

  “That’s a bit unfair,” Greig started to protest, but Tench waved the complaint aside. “And how’s that colleague of yours?” he was asking Siobhan.

  “You mean DI Rebus?”

  “That’s the one. Seems a bit too friendly with the criminal fraternity, if you ask me.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, you work together...I’m sure he confides in you. The other night?” As if jogging her memory. “Craigmillar Faith Center? I was making a speech when your man Rebus showed up with a monster called Cafferty.” He paused. “I’m assuming you know him?”

  “I know him,” Siobhan confirmed.

  “Seems strange to me that the forces of law and order would need to...” He seemed to be searching for the right word. “Fraternize,” he decided. Then he paused, eyes boring into Siobhan’s. “I’m presuming DI Rebus wouldn’t have kept any of this from you. I mean, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know?”

  Siobhan felt like a fish worried by an insistent hook.

  “We all have our private lives, Mr. Tench” was the only reply she could muster. Tench seemed disappointed. “And what about yourself?” she continued. “Hoping to persuade a few bands into playing the Jack Kane Center?”

  He rubbed his hands again. “If the opportunity presents...” His voice drifted away as he saw a face he recognized. Siobhan knew it too: Marti Pellow from Wet Wet Wet. The name reminded her to raise her umbrella. The rain tom-tommed off it as Tench moved away toward his target.

  “What was all that about?” Greig asked. She just shook her head. “Why do I get the feeling you’d rather be elsewhere?”

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Greig was watching Tench and the singer. “Works fast, doesn’t he? Not shy either. I think that’s why people listen. You ever heard him when he’s giving a speech? The hairs on your arms start to rise.”

  Siobhan nodded slowly. She was thinking about Rebus and Cafferty. It didn’t surprise her that Rebus hadn’t said anything. She looked at her phone again. She had an excuse now to call him, but still she held back.

  I’m owed a private life, an evening off.

  Otherwise, she’d become just like Rebus—obsessed and sidelined; cranky and mistrusted. He’d been stuck at inspector rank for the best part of two decades. She wanted more. Wanted to do the job well, but be able to switch off now and again. Wanted a life outside her job, rather than a job that became her life. Rebus had lost family and friends, pushing them aside in favor of corpses and con men, killers, petty thieves, rapists, thugs, racketeers, and racists. When he went out drinking, he did so on his own, standing quietly at the bar, facing the row of optics. He had no hobbies, didn’t follow any sports, never took a vacation. If he had a week or two off, she could usually find him at the Oxford Bar, pretending to read the paper in a corner, or staring dully at daytime TV.

  She wanted more.

  This time, she made the call. It was picked up and she broke into a smile. “Dad?” she said. “You still in the restaurant? Tell them to squeeze in an extra place setting for dessert.”

  Stacey Webster was herself again.

  Dressed much as she had been the time Rebus had met her outside the morgue. Her T-shirt had long sleeves.

  “That to hide the tattoos?” he asked.

  “They’re temporary,” she told him. “They’ll fade in time.”

  “Most things do.” He saw the suitcase. It was standing on end, carry handle retracted. “Back to London?”

  “Sleeper car.” She nodded.

  “Look, I’m sorry if we...” Rebus looked around the reception area, as though reluctant to make eye contact.

  “It happens,” she said. “Maybe my cover wasn’t breached, but Commander Steelforth doesn’t like to risk his officers.” She seemed awkward and uncertain, brain stuck in the no-man’s-land between two very separate identities.

  “Time for a drink?” he asked.

  “I came to see Siobhan.” She slid a hand into her pocket. “Is her mum okay?”

  “Recuperating,” Rebus said. “Staying at Siobhan’s.”

  “Santal never got the chance to say good-bye.” She was holding her hand out toward Rebus. A clear plastic wallet, within which sat a silver disk. “CD-ROM,” she said. “Film copied from my camera, that day on Princes Street.”

  Rebus nodded slowly. “I’ll see she gets it.”

  “The commander would kill me if...”

  “Our secret,” Rebus assured her, tucking the disk into his breast pocket. “Now let’s get you that drink.”

  Plenty of pubs available to them on Leith Walk. But the first they walked past looked busy, the Murrayfield concert blaring from the TV. Farther downhill they found what they wanted—a quiet, traditional place with a jukebox
sound track and a one-armed bandit. Stacey had left her suitcase behind the desk at Gayfield Square. She told him she wanted to off-load some Scottish money—her excuse for getting the round. They settled at a corner table.

  “Ever used the sleeper car before?” Rebus asked.

  “That’s why I’m drinking gin and tonic—only way to sleep on that damned train.”

  “Is Santal gone for good?”

  “Depends.”

  “Steelforth said you were undercover for months.”

  “Months,” she agreed.

  “Can’t have been easy in London...always the chance someone would recognize you.”

  “I walked past Ben once...”

  “As Santal?”

  “He never knew.” She sat back. “That’s why I let Santal get close to Siobhan. Her parents had told me she was CID.”

  “You wanted to see if your cover would hold?”

  Rebus watched her nod, thinking now that he understood something. Stacey would have been devastated by her brother’s death, but to Santal it would have mattered very little. Problem was, all that grief was still caged—something he knew a bit about.

  “London wasn’t really my main base though,” Stacey was saying. “A lot of the groups have moved out—too easy for us to monitor them there. Manchester, Bradford, Leeds...that’s where I spent most of my time.”

  “You think you made a difference?”

  She gave this some thought. “We hope we do, don’t we?”

  He nodded his agreement, sipped at his own pint, then put it down. “I’m still looking into Ben’s death.”

  “I know.”

  “The commander told you?” He watched her nod. “He’s been putting obstacles in my way.”

  “He probably sees it as his job, Inspector. It’s nothing personal.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was trying to protect a man called Richard Pennen.”

  “Pennen Industries?”

  It was Rebus’s turn to nod. “Pennen was picking up your brother’s hotel tab.”

  “Strange,” she said. “There wasn’t much love lost.”

  “Oh?”

  She stared at him. “Ben had visited plenty of war zones. He knew the horrors inflicted by the arms trade.”