The Naming of the Dead

  “You better text us when you get there,” they’d warned Siobhan. “Leave it too long, we might be in a sorry state.”

  Sorry...

  For anything and everything.

  But what had he to feel sorry about? Had he sat in the Bentley GT and listened to Cafferty’s plan? Had he climbed those stairs with Keith Carberry and stood with him as Cafferty held court? She screwed shut her eyes and ducked her head beneath the surface of the bathwater.

  I’m to blame, she thought. The words kept bouncing around the inside of her skull. Gareth Tench...so vividly alive, voice booming...charismatic like all the best showmen—just “happening along” to chase Carberry and his pals away, proving to the outside world that he was the only man for the job. A bravura con trick, finessing grant aid for his constituents. Larger than life and seemingly indefatigable...and now lying cold and naked in one of the drawers at the city morgue, turned into a series of incisions and statistics.

  Someone had told her once: an inch-long blade was all it took. A single slender inch of tempered steel could knock the whole world out of kilter.

  She heaved herself up into daylight, spluttering and wiping the hair and suds from her face. She’d thought she could hear a phone ringing, but there was nothing, just a floorboard creaking in the apartment upstairs. Rebus had told her to stay away from Cafferty, and he was right. If she lost it in front of Cafferty, she’d be the loser.

  But then she was already the loser, wasn’t she?

  “And so much fun to be around,” she muttered to herself, rising to a crouch and stretching out a hand toward the nearest towel.

  It didn’t take her long to pack—same bag she’d taken with her to Stirling. And even though she wouldn’t be staying the night, she dropped in her toothbrush and toothpaste anyway. Maybe once she was in the car, she’d just keep on driving. If she ran out of land, she could always take a ferry to Orkney. That was the thing about a car—it gave the illusion of freedom. The ads always played on that sense of adventure and discovery, but in her case ” would be more accurate.

  “Not doing that,” she explained to the bathroom mirror, hairbrush in hand. She’d said as much to Rebus, told him she could take her own medicine.

  Not that Cafferty was medicine—more like poison.

  She knew the route she should take: go see James Corbyn and tell him how badly she’d messed up, then end up back in uniform as a result.

  “I’m a good copper,” she told the mirror, trying to imagine how she would explain it to her dad...her dad who’d become so proud of her. And to her mother, who’d told her it didn’t matter.

  Didn’t matter who’d hit her.

  And just why had it mattered so much to Siobhan? Not really because of the anger at thinking it might be another cop, but because she could use it to prove she was good at her job.

  “A good cop,” she repeated quietly. And then, wiping steam from the mirror: “Despite all the evidence to the contrary.”

  Second and final detour: Craigmillar police station. McManus was already at work.

  “Conscientious,” Rebus said, walking into the CID office. There was no else about as yet. McManus was dressed casually—sports shirt and denims.

  “What does that make you?” McManus asked, wetting a finger so he could turn the page of the report he was reading.

  “Autopsy results?” Rebus guessed.

  McManus nodded. “I’m just back.”

  “Déjà vu all over again,” Rebus commented. “I was in your shoes last Saturday—Ben Webster.”

  “No wonder Professor Gates looked miffed—two Saturdays in a row.”

  By now Rebus was standing next to McManus’s desk. “Any conclusions?”

  “Serrated knife, seven eighths of an inch in width. Gates figures you’d find them in most kitchens.”

  “He’s right. Is Keith Carberry still on the premises?”

  “You know the drill, Rebus: after six hours, we charge or throw out.”

  “Meaning you’ve not charged him?”

  McManus looked up from the report. “He denies any involvement. Even has an alibi—he was playing pool at the time, seven or eight witnesses.”

  “All of them doubtless good friends of his.”

  McManus just shrugged. “Plenty of knives in his mum’s kitchen, but no sign any of them’s missing. We’ve lifted the lot for analysis.”

  “And Carberry’s clothes?”

  “Went through those, too. No traces of blood.”

  “Meaning they’ve been disposed of, same as the knife.”

  McManus leaned back in his chair. “Whose investigation is this, Rebus?”

  Rebus held up his hands in surrender. “Just thinking aloud. Who was it interviewed Carberry?”

  “I did it myself.”

  “You think he’s guilty?”

  “He seemed genuinely shocked when we told him about Tench. But just behind those nasty blue eyes of his, I thought I could see something else.”

  “What?”

  “He was scared.”

  “Because he’d been found out?”

  McManus shook his head. “Scared to say anything.”

  Rebus turned away, not wanting McManus to see anything behind his eyes. Say Carberry didn’t do it...was Cafferty himself suddenly in the frame again? The young man scared because that was his thinking, too...and if Cafferty had struck at Tench, would Keith himself be next?

  “Did you ask him about tailing the councilman?”

  “Admitted waiting for him. Said he wanted to thank him.”

  “For what?” Rebus turned to face McManus again.

  “Moral support after he was bailed for fighting.”

  Rebus gave a snort. “You believe that?”

  “Not necessarily, but it wasn’t grounds to hold him indefinitely.” McManus paused. “Thing is...when we told him he could go, he was reluctant—tried not to show it, but he was. Looked to left and right as he walked out of the door, as though expecting something. Fairly hared away, too.” McManus paused again. “Do you see what I’m getting at, Rebus?”

  Rebus nodded. “Hare rather than fox.”

  “Along those lines, yes. Makes me wonder if there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “I’d still have him down as a suspect.”

  “Agreed.” McManus rose from his chair, fixed Rebus with a look. “But is he the only one we should be speaking to?”

  “Councilmen make enemies,” Rebus stated.

  “According to the widow, Tench counted you among them.”

  “She’s mistaken.”

  McManus ignored this and concentrated on folding his arms instead. “She also thinks the family home was being watched—not by Keith Carberry though. Description she gave was a silver-haired man in a big, posh car. Does that sound to you like Big Ger Cafferty?”

  Rebus shrugged a reply.

  “Another little story I hear...” McManus was approaching Rebus. “Concerns you and a man answering that same description at a meeting in a church hall, just a few days back. The councilman had a few words with this third man. Care to enlighten me?”

  He was close enough for Rebus to feel his breath on his cheek. “Case like this,” he speculated, “you’ll always get stories.”

  McManus just smiled. “I’ve never had a case like this, Rebus. Gareth Tench was loved and admired—plenty of friends of his out there, angry at their loss and wanting answers. Some of them packing all sorts of clout...clout they’ve promised to share with me.”

  “That’s nice for you.”

  “An offer I’d find it very hard to refuse,” McManus went on. “Meaning this might be the only chance I’ll be able to give.” He took a step back. “So, DI Rebus, having apprised you of the situation...is there anything at all you want to tell me?”

  There was no way to land Cafferty in it without embroiling Siobhan. Before he could do anything, he had to be sure she’d be safe.

  “Don’t think so,” he said, folding his own arms
. McManus nodded toward the gesture.

  “Sure sign you’ve got something to hide.”

  “Really?” Rebus slid his hands into his pockets. “How about you then?” He turned and headed for the door, leaving McManus to wonder just when it was exactly that he’d decided to fold his own arms.

  Nice day for a drive, even if he spent half the journey behind a truck. South to Dalkeith and from there to Coldstream. At Dun Law, he passed a wind farm, turbines on either side of the road—it was as close as he’d ever come to them. Sheep and cattle grazing, and plenty of roadkill: pheasants and hares. Birds of prey hovering overhead, or peering intently from fence posts. Fifty miles and he hit Coldstream, passed through the town and over a bridge, finding himself suddenly in England. A road sign told him he was only sixty miles north of Newcastle. He turned at a hotel parking lot and headed back across the border, parking curbside. There was a police station, cleverly disguised as just another gabled house with a blue wooden door. The sign told him it was only open weekdays, nine till twelve. Coldstream’s main drag was dominated by bars and small shops. Day-trippers took up most of the space on the narrow pavements. A single-decker bus from Lesmahagow was pouring out its chatty cargo at the Ram’s Head. Rebus beat them inside and demanded a half of Best. Looking around, he saw that the tables had been reserved for lunch. There were sandwiches behind the bar, and he asked for cheese and pickle.

  “We’ve soup, too,” the barmaid informed him. “Cock-a-leekie.”

  “Canned?”

  She gave a tut. “Would I poison you with that muck?”

  “Go on then,” he said with a smile. She called his order out to the kitchen and he gave his spine a stretch, rolling his shoulders and neck.

  “Where are you off to?” she asked on her return.

  “I’m already there,” he replied, but before he could get a conversation going the tour-bus party started swarming in. She called out again to the kitchen and a waitress emerged, notepad in hand. The chef himself, ruddy-faced and wide of girth, delivered Rebus’s soup. He rolled his eyes as he calculated the average age of the new arrivals.

  “Guess how many will want steak pie,” he said.

  “All of them,” Rebus decided.

  “And the goat cheese and filo starter?”

  “Not a hope,” Rebus confirmed, unwrapping his spoon from its paper napkin. There was golf on TV. Looked breezy up at Loch Lomond. Rebus searched in vain for salt and pepper, then found that the soup needed neither. A man in a short-sleeved white shirt came and stood next to him. He was mopping his face with a vast handkerchief. What hair he possessed was slicked back from his forehead.

  “Warm one,” he announced.

  “Are those your lot?” Rebus said, indicating the throng at the tables.

  “I’m theirs, more like,” the man stated. “Never seen so many backseat drivers.” He shook his head and begged the barmaid for a pint of orange and lemonade with plenty of ice. She winked as she placed it in front of him—no payment necessary. Rebus knew the score: by bringing his bus parties here, the driver was on freebies for life. The man seemed to read his mind.

  “Way the world turns,” he confessed.

  Rebus just nodded. Who was to say the G8 didn’t operate in much the same way? He asked the driver what Lesmahagow was like.

  “Sort of place that makes a day out to Coldstream an attractive proposition.” He risked a glance toward his party. There was some sort of dispute over the seating plan. “I swear to God, the UN would have trouble with this crowd.” He gulped his drink. “You weren’t in Edinburgh last week, were you?”

  “I work there.”

  The driver feigned a wince. “I had twenty-seven Chinese tourists. Arrived by train from London on Saturday morning. Could I get anywhere near the station to pick them up? Could I buggery. And guess where they were staying? The Sheraton on Lothian Road. More security there than Barlinnie. On the Tuesday, we were halfway to Rosslyn Chapel when I realized we’d taken one of the Japanese delegates with us by mistake.” The driver started chuckling, and Rebus joined him. Christ, it felt good...

  “So you’re just down for the day?” the man asked. Rebus nodded. “Some nice walks, if the fancy takes you...but you don’t seem the type.”

  “You’re a good judge of character.”

  “Comes with the job.” He gave a slight jerk of his head. “See that group back there? I could tell you right now which ones will tip at day’s end, and even how much they’ll give.”

  Rebus tried to look impressed. “Buy you another?” The man’s pint glass was empty.

  “Better not. I’ll just need a pit stop halfway through the afternoon, and that means most of them will follow suit. Might take half an hour to get them on board again.” The driver offered his hand for Rebus to shake. “Nice talking to you though.”

  “You, too,” Rebus said, returning the firm grip. He watched the driver head for the door. A couple of elderly women cooed and waved, but he pretended not to have noticed. Rebus decided another half of Best was in order. The chance encounter had cheered him, because it was a taste of another life, a world running almost parallel to the one he inhabited.

  The ordinary. The everyday. Conversation for its own sake. No search for motives or secrets.

  Normality.

  The barmaid was placing a fresh glass in front of him. “You look a bit better,” she stated. “When you came in, I wasn’t sure what to make of you. Looked as likely to throw a punch as blow a kiss.”

  “Therapy,” he explained, lifting the glass. The waitress had finally worked out what each customer wanted, and was fleeing to the kitchen before minds could be changed again.

  “So what brings you to Coldstream?” the barmaid continued to probe.

  “I’m CID, Lothian and Borders. Doing background on a murder victim, name of Trevor Guest. He was from Newcastle, but lived round here a few years back.”

  “I can’t say I know the name.”

  “Might have been using another one.” Rebus held up a photo of Guest, taken around the time of his trial. She peered at it—needed spectacles but didn’t like the thought of them. Then she shook her head.

  “Sorry, dear,” she apologized.

  “Anyone else I could show it to? Maybe the chef?” So she took the photograph from him and disappeared behind the partition, toward the clanking sound of pots and bowls being moved. She was back less than a minute later, handed the photo back to him.

  “To be fair,” she said, “Rab’s only been in town since last autumn. You say this guy was from Newcastle? Why would he come here?”

  “Newcastle might’ve been getting too hot for him,” Rebus explained. “He didn’t always stay on the right side of the law.” Seemed glaringly obvious to him now—much more likely that whatever had changed Guest, it had happened in Newcastle itself. If fleeing, you might want to dodge the A1—too obvious. You could branch off at Morpeth onto a road that led you straight here. “I suppose,” he said, “it’s too much to ask you to cast your mind back four or five years. No spate of housebreakings locally?”

  She shook her head. Some of the bus party had made it as far as the bar. They carried with them a jotted order list.

  “Three halfs of lager, one lager and lime—Arthur, go check if that’s a half or a whole—a ginger ale, Advocaat and lemonade—ask if she wants ice in the Advocaat, Arthur! No, hang on, it’s two halfs of lager and a beer and lemonade...”

  Rebus drained his drink and mouthed to the barmaid that he’d be back. He meant it, too—if not this trip, then some other time. Trevor Guest might have dragged him here, but it would be the Ram’s Head that brought him back. It was only when he was outside that he remembered he’d not asked about Duncan Barclay. He walked past a couple of shops and stopped at the newsdealer’s, went inside, and showed the photo of Trevor Guest. A shake of his head from the proprietor, who went on to say that he’d lived in the town all his life. Rebus then tried him with the name Duncan Barclay. This time he got a nod. r />
  “Moved away a few years back though. A lot of the young folk do.”

  “Any idea where?”

  Another shake of the head. Rebus thanked him and moved on. There was a grocer’s, but he drew a blank there—the young female assistant only worked Saturdays, told him he might have more luck on Monday morning. Same story down the rest of that side of the street. Antique shop, hairdresser’s, tearoom, charity shop...Only one other person knew of Duncan Barclay.

  “Still see him around.”

  “He’s not moved far then?” Rebus asked.

  “Kelso, I think.”

  Next town along. Rebus paused for a moment in the afternoon sunshine and wondered why his blood was coursing. Answer: he was working. Old-fashioned, dogged police work—almost as good as a vacation. But then he noticed that his final destination was another pub, and this one didn’t look half as welcoming.

  It was a far more basic affair than the Ram’s Head. A floor of faded red linoleum, pocked with cigarette burns. A frayed dartboard frequented by two equally frayed-looking drinkers. Three senior citizens hammering out a game of dominoes at a corner table. All of it shrouded in a cigarette haze. The color on the TV seemed to be bleeding, and even at this distance Rebus could tell that beyond the door to the men’s room the urinal needed cleaning. He felt his spirits dip, but realized this was probably more Trevor Guest’s sort of place. Problem was, that very fact meant his queries were less likely to yield a helpful smile. The barman had a nose like a chewed tomato—a real boozer’s face, etched with scars and nicks, each one hinting at a story for late at night. Rebus knew his own face contained a few explicit chapters of its own. He hardened his whole demeanor as he approached the bar.

  “Pint of heavy.” No way he could ask for a half in a place like this. He already had his cigarettes out. “Ever see Duncan these days?” he asked the barman.