Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“I appreciate this,” Steelforth said, rising to shake Rebus’s hand. He’d been waiting in the lobby of the Balmoral Hotel, sitting with one leg crossed over the other. Rebus had kept him waiting quarter of an hour, using that time to walk past the doors of the Balmoral several times, glancing inside to see what traps might await. The Stop the War march had been and gone, but he’d spotted its rump, moving slowly up Waterloo Place. Siobhan had told him she was headed there, thought she might catch up with her parents.

“You’ve not had much time for them,” Rebus had sympathized.

“And vice versa,” she’d muttered.

There was security at the door of the hotel: not just the liveried doorman and concierge-a different one from Saturday night-but what Rebus assumed were plainclothes officers, probably under Steelforth’s control. The Special Branch man was looking more dapper than ever in a double-breasted pinstripe. Having shaken hands, he was gesturing toward the Palm Court.

“A small whiskey perhaps?”

“Depends who’s paying.”

“Allow me.”

“In which case,” Rebus advised, “I might manage a large one.”

Steelforth’s laugh was loud enough but empty at its core. They found a corner table. A cocktail waitress appeared as if conjured into being by their very arrival.

“Carla,” Steelforth informed her, “we’d like a couple of whiskeys. Doubles.” He turned his attention to Rebus.

“Laphroaig,” Rebus obliged. “The older the better.”

Carla bowed her head and moved off. Steelforth was adjusting the line of his jacket, waiting for her to leave before he spoke. Rebus decided not to give him the chance.

“Managing to hush up our dead MP?” he inquired loudly.

“What’s to hush up?”

“You tell me.”

“As far as I can establish, DI Rebus, your own investigation so far has consisted of one unofficial interview with the deceased’s sister.” Having finished toying with his jacket, Steelforth clasped his hands in front of him. “An interview conducted, moreover, lamentably soon after she had made formal identification.” He paused theatrically. “No offense intended, Inspector.”

“None taken, Commander.”

“Of course, it may be that you’ve been busy in other ways. I’ve had no fewer than two local journalists raking over the coals.”

Rebus tried to look surprised. Mairie Henderson, plus whoever it was he’d spoken to on the Scotsman news desk. Favors now owed to both…

“Well,” Rebus said, “since there’s nothing to hush up, I don’t suppose the press will get very far.” He paused. “You said at the time that the investigation would be taken out of my hands…that doesn’t seem to have happened.”

Steelforth shrugged. “Because there’s nothing to investigate. Verdict: accidental death.” He unclasped his hands as the drinks arrived, and with them a small jug of water and a bowl brimming with ice cubes.

“Do you want to leave the bill open?” Carla asked. Steelforth looked at Rebus, then shook his head.

“We’ll just be having the one.” He signed for the drinks with his room number.

“Is it the taxpayer picking up the tab,” Rebus inquired, “or do we have Mr Pennen to thank?”

“Richard Pennen is a credit to this country,” Steelforth stated, adding too much water to his drink. “The Scottish economy in particular would be the poorer without him.”

“I didn’t realize the Balmoral was so expensive.”

Steelforth’s eyes narrowed. “I mean defense jobs, as you well know.”

“And if I interview him about Ben Webster’s demise, he’ll suddenly send the work elsewhere?”

Steelforth leaned forward. “We need to keep him happy. Surely you can see that?”

Rebus savored the aroma of the malt, then lifted it to his mouth.

“Cheers,” Steelforth said grudgingly.

“Slainte,” Rebus replied.

“I’ve heard you enjoy a drop of the hard stuff,” Steelforth added. “Maybe even more than a drop.”

“You’ve been talking to the right people.”

“I don’t mind a man who drinks…just so long as it doesn’t interfere with his work. But then I also hear it’s been known to affect your judgment.”

“Not my judgment of character,” Rebus said, putting the glass down. “Sober or drunk, I’d know you for a prick of the first order.”

Steelforth made a mock toast with his glass. “I was going to offer you something,” he said, “to make up for your disappointment.”

“Do I look disappointed?”

“You’re not going to get anywhere with Ben Webster, suicide or not.”

“Suddenly you’re ruling in suicide again? Does that mean there’s a note?”

Steelforth lost patience. “There’s no bloody note!” he spat. “There’s nothing at all.”

“Makes it an odd suicide, wouldn’t you say?”

“Accidental death.”

“The official line.” Rebus lifted his glass again. “What were you going to offer me?”

Steelforth studied him for a moment before answering. “My own men,” he said. “This murder case you’ve got…I hear tell the count is now three victims. I’d imagine you’re stretched. Right now it’s just you and DS Clarke, isn’t it?”

“More or less.”

“I’ve plenty of men up here, Rebus-very good men. All sorts of skills and specialties among them.”

“And you’d let us borrow them?”

“That was the intention.”

“So we’d be able to focus on the murders and give up on the MP?” Rebus made a show of thinking the proposal over; went so far as to press his hands together and rest his chin on his fingertips. “Sentries at the castle said there was an intruder,” he said quietly, as if thinking aloud.

“No evidence of that,” Steelforth was quick to reply.

“Why was Webster on the ramparts…that’s never really been answered.”

“A breath of air.”

“He excused himself from the dinner?”

“It was winding down…port and cigars.”

“He said he was going outside?” Rebus’s eyes were on Steelforth now.

“Not as such. People were getting up to stretch their legs…”

“You’ve interviewed all of them?” Rebus guessed.

“Most of them,” the Special Branch man qualified.

“The foreign secretary?” Rebus waited for a response, which didn’t come. “No, I didn’t think so. The foreign delegations then?”

“Some of them, yes. I’ve done pretty much everything you’d have done, Inspector.”

“You don’t know what I’d have done.”

Steelforth accepted this with a slight bow of the head. He had yet to touch his drink.

“You’ve no qualms?” Rebus added. “No questions?”

“None.”

“And yet you don’t know why it happened.” Rebus shook his head slowly. “You’re not much of a cop, are you, Steelforth? You might be a whiz at the handshakes and the briefings, but when it comes to policing, I’d say you haven’t a fucking clue. You’re window dressing, that’s all.” Rebus rose to his feet.

“And what are you exactly, DI Rebus?”

“Me?” Rebus considered for a moment. “I’m the janitor, I suppose…the one who sweeps up after you.” He paused, found his punch line. “After you and around you, if it comes to that.”

Exit stage right.

Before leaving the Balmoral, he’d wandered downstairs to the restaurant, breezing through the anteroom despite the best efforts of the staff. The place was busy, but there was no sign of Richard Pennen. Rebus climbed the steps to Princes Street and decided he might as well drop into the Café Royal. The pub was surprisingly quiet.

“Trade’s been lousy,” the manager confided. “ Lot of locals keeping their heads down the next few days.”