Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

The lines at the vegetarian food vans were longer than the one for burgers. She’d been vegetarian herself at one time but had lapsed several years back, blaming Rebus and the bacon rolls he’d kept wafting in her face. She thought of texting him, dragging him down here. What else would he be doing? Either slumped on the sofa or resting on a stool at the Oxford Bar. But she sent a text to her parents instead, then headed toward the waiting lines again. Banners had been hoisted high, whistles were being blown, drums beaten. All that energy in the air…Rebus would say it was being wasted. He’d say the political deals had already been done. And he’d be right: the guys at Sorbus HQ had told her as much. Gleneagles was for private confabs and public photo ops. The real business had been thrashed out in advance by lesser mortals, chief among them the chancellor of the exchequer. All of it done on the quiet and ratified by eight signatures on the final day of the G8.

“And how much is it all costing?” Siobhan had wondered.

“A hundred and fifty mil, give or take.”

The answer had produced a sharp intake of breath from DCI Macrae. Siobhan had pursed her lips, saying nothing.

“I know what you’re thinking,” her informant had continued. “Same sort of money buys a lot of vaccine…”

Every path across the Meadows was now four-deep with waiting marchers. A new line had formed, stretching back to the tennis courts and Buccleuch Street. As Siobhan squeezed her way past, still no sign of her parents, she caught a blur of color at the edge of her vision. Bright yellow jackets hurrying down Meadow Lane. She followed them, rounding the corner into Buccleuch Place.

And was stopped dead.

Sixty or so black-clad demonstrators had been encircled by double that number of police. The protesters had air horns, which rasped a deafening complaint. They wore sunglasses, black scarves muffling their faces. Some wore hooded tops. Black combat pants and boots, a few bandannas. They didn’t carry signs, and none of them were smiling. Riot shields were all that separated them from the police lines. Someone had spray-painted the anarchist symbol on at least one translucent shield. The mass of demonstrators pressed forward, demanding access to the Meadows. But police tactics said different: containment above all else. A demonstration contained was a demonstration controlled. Siobhan was impressed; her colleagues had to have known the protesters were on their way. They’d taken up position fast and weren’t about to let the situation develop any further than here and now. There were a few other bystanders, torn between this spectacle and a need to join the march. Some of them had their camera phones out. Siobhan looked around, making sure no fresh intake of riot officers tried corralling her. The voices from within the cordon seemed foreign, maybe Spanish or Italian. She knew some of the names: Ya Basta, Black Bloc. No sign of anything as outlandish as the Wombles or Rebel Clown Army. Her hand went into her pocket, clutching her ID. Wanted to be ready to show it if things got heated. Helicopter hovering overhead, and a uniformed officer videotaping proceedings from the steps of one of the university buildings. He scanned the street with his camera, pausing on her for a moment before moving on to the other bystanders. But Siobhan was suddenly aware of another camera, focused on him. Santal was inside the cordon, recording everything with her own digital video. She was dressed like the others, backpack slung over one shoulder, concentrating on her task rather than joining in with the chants and slogans. The demonstrators wanted their own record: to watch later and enjoy; so they could learn police tactics and how to counter them; and just in case of-maybe even in the hope of-heavy-handedness. They were media savvy, counted lawyers among their activist friends. Film from Genoa had been beamed around the world. No reason fresh film of violent policing wouldn’t be just as efficacious.

Siobhan realized Santal had seen her. The camera was pointed her way, and the mouth below the viewfinder broke into a scowl. Siobhan didn’t think it the right time to wander over and ask for her parents’ whereabouts. Her phone started to vibrate, telling her she had an incoming call. She checked the number but didn’t recognize it.

“Siobhan Clarke,” she said, holding the slim little box to her ear.

“Shiv? It’s Ray Duff. I’m bloody well earning that day out-”

“What day out?”

“The one you owe me…” He paused. “Except that’s not the deal you made with Rebus, is it?”

Siobhan smiled. “All depends. Are you at the lab?”

“Working my ass off on your behalf.”

“The stuff from Clootie Well?”

“Might have something for you, though I’m not sure you’re going to like it. How soon can you get here?”

“Half an hour.” She turned away from the sudden blare of the air horn.

“No prizes for guessing where you are,” Duff’s voice said. “I’ve got it on the news channel here.”

“The march or the demonstration?”

“Demo, naturally. Happy, law-abiding marchers hardly make for a story, even when they number quarter of a million.”

“Quarter of a million?”

“That’s what they’re saying. See you in half an hour.”

“Bye, Ray.” She ended the call. A figure like that…more than half the population of Edinburgh. It was like three million on the streets of London. And sixty black-clad figures hogging the news cycle for the next hour or two…

Because after that, all eyes would turn to the Live 8 concert in London.

No, no, no, she thought, too cynical, Siobhan; you’re thinking like John bloody Rebus. Nobody could ignore a human chain encircling the city, a ribbon of white, all that passion and hope…

Minus one.

Had she ever planned to stick around, add her own small self to the statistics? No chance of that now. She could apologize later to her parents. For now, she was on the move, walking away from the Meadows. Her best bet: St. Leonard ’s, the nearest police station. Hitch a lift in a patrol car; hijack one if need be. Her own car was sitting in the garage Rebus had recommended. Mechanic had said to call him on Monday. She remembered how one owner of a 4x4 had apparently moved her car out of town for the duration, lest rioters should target it. Just one more scare story, or so she’d thought at the time…

Santal didn’t appear to notice her leave.

“…can’t even mail a letter,” Ray Duff was saying. “They’ve locked up all the mailboxes in case someone decides to put a bomb in one.”

“Some of the shop fronts on Princes Street are boarded up,” Siobhan added. “What do you reckon it is Ann Summers is afraid of?”

“Basque separatists?” Rebus guessed. “Any chance of us getting to the point?”

Duff snorted. “He’s afraid he’ll miss the big reunion.”

“ Reunion?” Siobhan looked at Rebus.

“Pink Floyd,” Rebus answered. “But if it’s anything like McCartney and U2, I’m well shut of it.”

The three were standing in one of the labs belonging to the Lothian and Borders Forensic Science Unit on Howdenhall Road. Duff, midthirties with short brown hair and a pronounced widow’s peak, was polishing his glasses on a corner of his white lab coat. The rise of television’s CSI franchise had had, to Rebus’s mind, a detrimental effect on all the Howdenhall techs. Despite their lack of resources, glamour, and pounding sound track, they all seemed to think they were actors. Moreover, some of the CID had started to agree and would ask them to replicate the TV shows’ most far-fetched forensic techniques. Duff had apparently decided that his own role would be that of eccentric genius. As a result, he had dispensed with his contact lenses and reverted to NHS-style specs with thick black frames, the better to complement the row of multicolored pens in his top pocket. Additionally, a line of alligator clips was attached to one lapel. As Rebus had pointed out on arrival, he looked like he’d walked out of a Devo video.