“The line I keep being fed is that Pennen sells technology rather than guns.”
She snorted. “Only a matter of time. Ben wanted to make things as awkward as possible. You should look back at Hansard—speeches he made in the House, asking all sorts of difficult questions.”
“Yet Pennen paid for his room.”
“And Ben would have loved that. He’d take a room from a dictator, then spend the whole trip slamming them.” She paused and swirled her drink, then turned her eyes back toward him. “You thought it was bribery, didn’t you? Pennen buying Ben off?” His silence answered her question. “My brother was a good man, Inspector.” At last, tears were welling in her eyes. “And I couldn’t even go to his bloody funeral.”
“He’d have understood,” Rebus offered. “My own...” Had to stop and clear his throat. “My own brother died last week. We cremated him on Friday.”
“I’m sorry.”
He lifted the glass to his mouth. “He was in his fifties. Doctors say it was a stroke.”
“You were close?”
“Phone calls mostly.” He paused again. “I put him in jail once for dealing drugs.” Looked at her to gauge her reaction.
“Is that what’s bothering you?” she asked.
“What?”
“That you never told him...” She struggled to get the words out, face twisting as the tears started falling. “Never told him you were sorry.” She got up from the table, fled to the restroom—one hundred percent Stacey Webster now. He thought maybe he should follow her, or at least send the barmaid in after her. But he just sat there instead, swilling the glass until fresh foam appeared on the surface of the beer, thinking about families. Ellen Wylie and her sister, the Jensens and their daughter Vicky, Stacey Webster and her brother...
“Mickey,” he said in a whisper. Naming the dead so they’d know they weren’t forgotten.
Ben Webster.
Cyril Colliar.
Edward Isley.
Trevor Guest.
“Michael Rebus,” he said out loud, making a little toast with his glass. Then he got up and bought refills—IPA, vodka and tonic. Stood by the bar as he waited for his change. Two regulars were discussing Team Britain’s chances at the 2012 Olympics.
“How come London always gets everything?” one of them complained.
“Funny they didn’t want the G8,” his companion added.
“Knew what was bloody coming.”
Rebus had to think for a moment. Wednesday today...it all wrapped up on Friday. Just one more full day and then the city could start getting back to normal. Steelforth and Pennen and all the other intruders would head south.
There wasn’t much love lost...
She’d meant between her brother and Richard Pennen, the MP trying to stymie Pennen’s expansion plans. Rebus had had Ben Webster all wrong, seeing him as a lackey. And Steelforth not letting Rebus near the hotel room. Not because he didn’t want any fuss, didn’t want the various bigwigs bothered with questions and theories. But to protect Richard Pennen.
Wasn’t much love lost.
Making Richard Pennen a suspect, or at the very least giving him a motive. Any one of the guards at the castle could have heaved the MP over the ramparts. There would have been bodyguards mixing with the guests...secret service, too—at least one detail apiece to protect the foreign secretary and defense secretary. Steelforth was SO12, next best thing to the spooks at MI5 and MI6. But if you wanted to get rid of someone, why choose that method? It was too public, too showy. Rebus knew from experience: the successful murders were where there was no murder. Smothered during sleep, drugged and then left in a moving vehicle, or simply made to disappear.
“Christ, John,” he scolded himself. “It’ll be little green men next.” Blame the circumstances: easy to imagine any manner of conspiracy happening around you in G8 week. He set the drinks down at the table, a little concerned now that Stacey had yet to emerge from the restroom. It struck him that his back had been turned while he’d waited at the bar. Gave it five more minutes, then asked the barmaid to check. She came out of the ladies’ shaking her head.
“Three quid wasted,” she told him, gesturing toward Stacey’s drink. “And too young for you anyway, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Back at Gayfield Square, she’d taken her suitcase but left him a note.
Good luck, but remember—Ben was my brother, not yours. Make sure you do your own grieving, too.
Hours yet until the sleeper car left. He could head to Waverley, but decided against it; wasn’t sure there was much more left to be said. Maybe she even had a point. By investigating Ben’s death, he was keeping Mickey’s memory close. Suddenly, there was a question he wished he’d asked her:
What do you think happened to your brother?
Well, he had her business card somewhere, the one she’d given him outside the morgue. He’d call her tomorrow maybe, see if she’d been able to sleep on the train to London. He’d told her he was still investigating the death, and all she’d said was “I know.” No questions; no theories of her own. Warned off by Steelforth? A good soldier always obeyed orders. But she must have been thinking about it, weighing the options.
A fall.
A leap.
A push.
“Tomorrow,” he told himself, heading back to the CID room, a long night of clandestine photocopying ahead.
Thursday, July 7, 2005
19
The buzzer woke him.
He stumbled through to the hall and pushed the button on the intercom.
“What?” he rasped.
“I thought I worked here.” Tinny and distorted but still recognizable: Siobhan’s voice.
“What time is it?” Rebus coughed.
“Eight.”
“Eight?”
“The start of another working day.”
“We’re suspended, remember?”
“Are you still in your jam-jams?”
“I don’t wear them.”
“Meaning I need to wait out here?”
“I’ll leave the door open.” He buzzed her in, collected his clothes from the chair by the bed, and locked himself in the bathroom. He could hear her tapping on the door, pushing it open.
“Two minutes!” he called out, stepping into the bath and under the nozzle of the shower.
By the time he emerged, she had seated herself at the dining table and was sorting through last night’s photocopies.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” he said. He was halfway through knotting his tie. Remembering that he wouldn’t be going into work, he tugged it free instead and threw it toward the sofa. “We need supplies,” he told her.
“And I need a favor.”
“Such as?”
“A couple of hours at lunchtime—I want to take my parents out.”
He nodded his agreement. “How’s your mum doing?”
“She seems okay. They’ve decided to give Gleneagles a miss, even though climate change is on today’s agenda.”
“They’re heading home tomorrow?”
“Probably.”
“How was the show last night?” She didn’t answer straightaway. “I caught the last bit on TV—thought I might have seen you bopping down front.”
“I’d left by then.”
“Oh?”
She just shrugged. “So what are these provisions?”
“Breakfast.”
“I’ve had mine.”
“Then you can watch me while I demolish a bacon roll. There’s a café on Marchmont Road. And while I’m tucking in, you can call Councilman Tench, fix up a powwow.”
“He was at the show last night.”
Rebus looked at her. “Gets about a bit, doesn’t he?”
She’d wandered over to the stereo. There were LPs on a shelf, and she picked one up.
“That was made before you were born,” Rebus told her. Leonard Cohen, Songs of Love and Hate.
“Listen to this,” she said, reading the back
of the sleeve. “‘They locked up a man who wanted to rule the world. The fools, they locked up the wrong man.’ Wonder what that means?”
“Case of mistaken identity?” Rebus offered.
“I think it’s to do with ambition,” she countered. “Gareth Tench said he saw you...”
“He did.”
“With Cafferty.”
Rebus nodded. “Big Ger says the councilman’s got plans to put him out of the game.”
She put the record back and turned to face him. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“Depends what we get instead. Cafferty’s view is that Tench himself would take over.”
“You believe him?”
Rebus seemed to be considering the question. “Know what I need before I answer that?”
“Proof?” she guessed.
He shook his head. “Coffee.”
Eight forty-five.
Rebus was on his second mug. All that was left of his roll was a side plate spotted with grease. The café had a good selection of papers, Siobhan reading about the Final Push, Rebus showing her photos from yesterday’s shenanigans at Gleneagles.
“That kid,” he said, pointing at one, “didn’t we see him?”
She nodded. “But not with blood gushing from his head.”
Rebus turned the paper back toward him. “They love it really, you know. Bit of blood always looks good to the media.”
“And makes us look like the villains of the piece?”
“Speaking of which...” He lifted the CD-ROM from his pocket. “A going-away present from Stacey Webster—or Santal, if you prefer.”
Siobhan took it from him, holding it between her fingers as Rebus explained the circumstances. When he’d finished, he took Stacey’s business card from his wallet and tried her number. There was no answer. As he tucked the phone back into his jacket, he could smell the faintest trace of Molly Clark’s perfume. He’d decided Siobhan didn’t need to know about her, wasn’t sure how she would react. He was still thinking it over when Gareth Tench walked in. Tench shook hands with both of them. Rebus thanked him for coming and gestured for him to sit.
“What can I get you?”
Tench shook his head. Rebus could see a car parked outside, the minders standing next to it.
“Good idea that,” he told the councilman, nodding toward the window. “I don’t know why more Marchmont residents don’t use bodyguards.”
Tench just smiled. “Not at work today?” he commented.
“Bit more informal,” Rebus explained. “Can’t have our elected politicians slumming it in cop-shop interview rooms.”
“I appreciate that.” Tench had made himself comfortable, but showed no sign of removing his three-quarter-length coat. “So what can I do for you, Inspector?”
But it was Siobhan who spoke first. “As you know, Mr. Tench, we’re investigating a series of murders. Certain clues were left at a site in Auchterarder.”
Tench’s eyes narrowed. His focus was still on Rebus, but it was clear he’d expected some other conversation—Cafferty, maybe, or Niddrie.
“I don’t see—” he started.
“All three victims,” Siobhan went on, “were listed on a Web site called BeastWatch.” She paused. “You know it, of course.”
“I do?”
“That’s our information.” She unfolded a sheet of paper and showed it to him. “Ozyman...that’s you, isn’t it?”
He thought for a moment before answering. Siobhan folded the sheet and put it back in her pocket. Rebus winked at Tench, conveying a simple message: She’s good.
So don’t try jerking us around...
“It’s me,” Tench finally conceded. “What of it?”
Siobhan shrugged. “Why are you interested in BeastWatch, Mr. Tench?”
“Are you saying I’m a suspect?”
Rebus gave a cold laugh. “That’s a bit of a leap to make, sir.”
Tench glowered at him. “Never know what Cafferty might try and hatch—with a little help from his friends.”
“I think we’re straying from the point,” Siobhan interrupted. “We need to interview anyone who had access to that site, sir. It’s procedure, that’s all.”
“I still don’t know how you got from my screen name to me.”
“You forget, Mr. Tench,” Rebus said blithely, “we’ve got the world’s best intelligence officers here this week. Not much they can’t do.” Tench looked ready to add some remark, but Rebus didn’t give him the chance. “Interesting choice: Ozymandias. Poem by Shelley, right? Some king gets a bit above himself, has this huge statue built. But over time, it crumbles away, sitting there out in the desert.” He paused. “Like I say, interesting choice.”
“Why so?”
Rebus folded his arms. “Well, this king must have had some ego—that’s the point of the poem. No matter how high and mighty you are, nothing lasts. And if you’re a tyrant, your fall’s all the greater.” He leaned forward a little across the table. “Person who chose that name wasn’t stupid...had to know it wasn’t about power as such—”
“—but power’s corrupting influence?” Tench smiled and nodded slowly.
“DI Rebus is a fast learner,” Siobhan added. “Yesterday, he was wondering if you might be Australian.”
Tench’s smile broadened. His eyes remained fixed on Rebus. “We did that poem at school,” he said. “Had this really enthusiastic English teacher. He made us memorize it.” Tench offered a shrug. “I just like the name, Inspector. Don’t read any more into it.” His gaze shifted to Siobhan and back. “Peril of the profession, I suppose—always looking for motive. Tell me, what’s your killer’s motive? Have you considered that?”
“We think he’s a vigilante,” Siobhan stated.
“Picking them off one by one from that Web site?” Tench didn’t look convinced.
“You’ve still yet to tell us,” Rebus said quietly, “your own motive for being so interested in BeastWatch.” He unfolded his arms and laid his palms on the tabletop, on either side of his coffee mug.
“My district’s a dumping ground, Rebus—don’t say you haven’t noticed. Agencies bring us their hard-to-house, the dealers and flotsam, sex offenders, junkies, losers of all descriptions. Sites like BeastWatch give me a chance of fighting back. They mean I can argue my corner when some fresh problem’s about to land on my doorstep.”
“And has it happened?” Siobhan asked.
“We had a guy released three months back, sex maniac...I made sure he steered clear.”
“Making it someone else’s problem,” Siobhan commented.
“Always been the way I’ve worked. Someone like Cafferty comes along, same thinking prevails.”
“Cafferty’s been here a long time,” Rebus pointed out.
“You mean despite your lot, or because of them?” When Rebus didn’t answer, Tench’s smile became a sneer. “No way he’d have lasted as long as he has without some help.” He leaned back and rolled his shoulders. “Are we finished here?”
“How well do you know the Jensens?” Siobhan asked.
“Who?”
“The couple who run the site.”
“Never met them,” Tench stated.
“Really?” Siobhan sounded amazed. “They live right here in Edinburgh.”
“And so do half a million just like them. I try to get about, DS Clarke, but I’m not made of elastic.”
“What are you made of, Councilman?” Rebus asked.
“Anger,” Tench offered, “determination, a thirst for what’s right and just.” He took a deep breath, but then released it noisily. “We could be here all day,” he apologized with another smile. Then, rising to his feet: “Bobby looked heartbroken when you walked out on him, DS Clarke. You want to be careful: passion’s a snarling beast in some men.” He made a little bow as he headed for the door.
“We’ll talk again,” Siobhan warned him. Rebus was watching through the window as one of the minders opened the back door of the car and Tench
crammed his oversize frame inside.
“Councilmen often have a well-fed look,” he commented. “You ever notice that?”
Siobhan was rubbing a hand across her forehead. “We could have handled that better.”
“You ducked out of the Final Push?”
“Wasn’t really getting into it.”
“Anything to do with our esteemed councilman?” She shook her head. “‘Destroyer and preserver,’” Rebus muttered to himself.
“What?”
“It’s another line from Shelley.”
“So which of them is Gareth Tench?”
The car was drawing away from the curb. “Maybe both,” Rebus offered. Then he gave a huge yawn. “Any chance today will give us some respite?”
She looked at him. “You could stop for lunch, come and meet my parents.”
“Pariah status has been lifted?” he guessed, raising an eyebrow.
“John...” she warned.
“You don’t want them to yourself?”
She shrugged. “Maybe I’ve been a bit greedy.”
Rebus had taken a couple of paintings down from one wall of his living room. Details of the three victims were now pinned there instead. He was seated at the dining table while Siobhan lay stretched out along the sofa. Both were busy reading, asking occasional questions or pitching a notion.
“Don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to listen to the Ellen Wylie tape?” Rebus asked at one point. “Not that it really matters...”
“Plenty more subscribers we could talk to.”
“Need to know who they are first: think Brains could do that without Corbyn or Steelforth getting a whiff?”
“Tench talked about motive...could we be missing something?”
“Some connection between all three?”
“Come to that, why’s he stopped at three?”
“Usual explanations: he’s gone elsewhere, or we’ve arrested him for something else, or he knows we’re onto him.”
“But we’re not onto him.”
“Media say otherwise.”
“Why the Clootie Well in the first place? Because we were bound to go there?”
“Can’t rule out a local connection.”