Ian Rankin: The Naming of the Dead

He was good at waiting.

There were a dozen residents’ parking bays, each one protected by a vertical metal pole. The silver-colored Porsche Cayenne came to a stop while its owner got out and undid the padlock on the pole, laying it flat so he could maneuver into the space. He was whistling contentedly as he walked around the car, giving its tires a kick because that was what guys did. He rubbed his sleeve over a spot of dirt and tossed his keys in the air, snatching them and returning them to his pocket. Another bunch of keys emerged, and he sought the one that would unlock the main door to the block. He seemed bemused that the door wasn’t fully closed. Then his face smashed into it as he was propelled from behind, through the door and into the stairwell, Rebus not giving him any sort of a chance. Grabbed him by the hair and pummeled the face into the gray concrete wall, smearing blood across it. A knee in the back and Jacko was on the ground, dazed and semiconscious. A rabbit punch to the neck and another punch to the jaw. The first for me, Rebus thought, the second for Mairie Henderson.

Rebus stared closely at the man’s face. Scar tissue, but well fed. He’d been ex-army for a while, growing fat courtesy of the private sector. The eyes glazed over and then slowly closed. Rebus waited a moment, in case it was a trick. Jacko’s whole body had gone limp. Rebus made sure he still had a pulse and his airway wasn’t blocked. Then he yanked the man’s hands behind his back and secured them with the plastic restraints he’d brought.

Secured them nice and tight.

Climbed to his feet, took the car keys from Jacko’s pocket, and headed back outside, checking no one was watching. Over to the Porsche, where he scored one side of the bodywork with the key before opening the driver’s-side door. Slotted the key home and left the door open invitingly. Paused a moment to catch his breath, and then headed for the main road again. Any passing taxi or bus, he’d take it. Five-o’clock train from King’s Cross would see him back in Edinburgh before closing time. He had an open-return ticket-could have flown to Ibiza for less. But it meant he could catch any train he liked.

He had unfinished business at home, too.

His luck was in: a black cab with its yellow roof light shining. In the back, Rebus reached into his pocket. He’d told the cabbie Euston-knew it was a short walk from there to King’s Cross. He took out the sheet of paper and roll of tape. Unfolded the sheet and studied it-crude but to the point. Two photos of Santal/Stacey: one from Siobhan’s cameraman friend, the other from an old newspaper. Above them in thick black pen the single word MISSING, underlined twice. Below, Rebus’s sixth and final attempt at a credible message:

My two friends, Santal and Stacey, missing since the bombs. Arrived at Euston that morning on night train from Edinburgh. If you have seen them or have any news, please call me. Need to know they are safe and well.

No name at the bottom, just his cell number. And half a dozen copies in his other pocket. He’d already flagged her as a missing person with the police national computer: both identities; height, age, and eye color; a few background snippets. Next week, her description would go out to the homeless charities, the Big Issue sellers. When Eric Bain was out of the hospital, Rebus would ask him about Web sites. Maybe they could even set up one of their own. If she was out there, she was traceable. No way Rebus would be giving up on this one.

Not for a good while yet.

There is no Clootie Well in Auchterarder. However, the one on the Black Isle is worth a visit, if you like your tourist attractions on the skin-crawling side.

There is also no Ram’s Head in Coldstream, though a decent steak pie can be had at the Besom public house.

My thanks to Dave Henderson for the extended loan of his photographic archive, and to Jonathan Emmans for the introduction.

Rebus’s joke about Basque separatists is “borrowed” (with permission) from Peter Ross of the Sunday Herald newspaper.

Ian Rankin is a #1 international best-selling author. Winner of an Edgar Award and the recipient of a Gold Dagger for fiction and the Chandler-Fulbright Award, he lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with his wife and their two sons.

Born in the Kingdom of Fife in 1960, Ian Rankin graduated from the University of Edinburgh in 1982, and then spent three years writing novels when he was supposed to be working towards a PhD in Scottish Literature. His first Rebus novel was published in 1987, and the Rebus books are now translated into twenty-two languages and are bestsellers on several continents.

Ian Rankin has been elected a Hawthornden Fellow, and is also a past winner of the Chandler-Fulbright Award, as well as receiving two Dagger Awards for the year's best short story and the Gold Dagger for Fiction. Ian Rankin is also the recipient of honorary degrees from the universities of Abertay, St Andrews and Edinburgh.

A contributor to BBC2's 'Newsnight Review', he also presented his own TV series, 'Ian Rankin's Evil Thoughts', on Channel 4 in 2002. He recently received the OBE for services to literature, opting to receive the prize in his home city of Edinburgh, where he lives with his partner and two sons.