Ian Rankin: The Naming of the Dead

There was more history: when Rebus and his own wife had separated, Chrissie had blamed him entirely. She’d always gotten on well with Rhona; kept in touch with her after the divorce. That was family for you. Tactics, campaigning, and diplomacy: the politicians had it easy by comparison.

Back at the hotel, Lesley had mimicked her mother, giving him a hug too. Kenny had thought for a second before Rebus put the lad out of his misery by extending a hand to be squeezed. He wondered if there would be any fallings-out; there usually were at funerals. With grief came blame and resentment. Just as well he hadn’t stayed. When it came to the potential for confrontation, John Rebus punched well above his already substantial weight.

There was a parking area just off the road. It looked newly built, trees having been cleared, chippings of tree bark strewn across the ground. Room enough for four cars, but only one was waiting. Siobhan Clarke was leaning against it, arms folded. Rebus pulled on the brake and got out.

“Nice spot,” he said.

“Been here over a hundred years,” she told him.

“Didn’t think I drove that slowly.”

She offered only a twist of the mouth, leading him into the woods, arms still folded. She was dressed more formally than usual: knee-length black skirt and black stockings. Her shoes were smudged from having walked this same trail earlier.

“I saw the sign yesterday,” she was saying. “The one leading off the main drag. Decided I’d take a look.”

“Well, if the choice was that or Glenrothes…”

“There’s a bulletin board back at the clearing, tells you a bit about the place. All sorts of witchy goings-on over the years.” They were ascending a slope, rounding a thick, twisted oak. “The townspeople decided there must be sprites living here; shrieks in the dark, that sort of thing.”

“Local farmhands more like,” Rebus offered.

She nodded agreement. “All the same, they started leaving little offerings. Hence the name clootie.” She glanced around at him. “You’ll know what it means, you being the only native Scot around here?”

He had a sudden image of his mother lifting the pudding out of its pan. The pudding wrapped in…

“Cloth,” he told her.

“And clothing,” she added as they entered another clearing. They stopped and Rebus breathed deeply. Damp cloth…damp, rotting cloth. He’d been smelling it for the past half minute. The smell clothes gave off in his old house, the one he’d grown up in, when they weren’t aired, when the damp and the mildew got to them. The trees around him were strung with rags and remnants. Pieces had fallen to the ground, where they were decomposing to a mulch.

“Tradition has it,” Siobhan said quietly, “they were left here for good luck. Keep the sprites warm, and they’d see no harm came to you. Another theory: when kids died young, their parents left something here, by way of remembrance.” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat.

“I’m not made of glass,” Rebus assured her. “You can use words like remembrance-I’m not going to start blubbing.”

She nodded again. Rebus was walking around the clearing. Leaves and soft moss underfoot, and the sound of a stream, just a thin trickle of water pushing up from the ground. Candles and coins had been left by its edges.

“Not much of a well,” he commented.

She just shrugged. “I was here a few minutes…didn’t really warm to the atmosphere. But then I noticed some of the newer clothing.” Rebus saw it too. Strung from the branches. A shawl, overalls, a red polka-dot handkerchief. A nearly new sneaker, its laces dangling. Even underwear and what looked like children’s stockings.

“Christ, Siobhan,” Rebus muttered, not really knowing what else to say. The smell seemed to be growing stronger. He had another flashback to a ten-day bender many years before, coming out of it to find that a load of laundry had been sitting in the machine, waiting to be hung. When he’d opened the door, this same smell had hit him. He’d washed everything again but still had to throw it all away afterward. “And the jacket?”

All she did was point. Rebus walked slowly toward the tree in question. The piece of nylon had been pierced by a short branch. It swayed just a little in the breeze. Threads straggling from it but no mistaking the logo.

“CC Rider,” Rebus said in confirmation. Siobhan was running her hands through her hair. He knew she had questions, knew she would have been turning them over in her mind all the time she’d been waiting for him. “So what do we do?” he prompted.

“It’s a crime scene,” she began. “A team is on the way from Stirling. We need to secure the site, comb the area for evidence. We need to reassemble the original murder squad, start going door to door locally-”

“Including Gleneagles?” Rebus interrupted. “You’re the expert, so you tell me: how many times has the hotel staff been vetted? And how do we go about knocking on doors in the middle of a weeklong demonstration? Securing the site won’t be a problem, mind you, not with all the secret service teams we’re about to welcome…”

Naturally she had considered all these points. He knew as much and his voice trailed off.

“We keep it quiet till the summit’s over,” she suggested.

“Tempting,” he admitted.

She smiled. “Only because it gives you a head start.”

He admitted as much with a wink.

She sighed. “Macrae needs to be told. Which means he’ll tell Tayside Police.”

“But the SOCOs are coming from Stirling,” Rebus added, “and Stirling belongs to Central Region.”

“So that’s just the three police forces who need to know…Shouldn’t have any trouble keeping it under wraps.”

Rebus was looking around. “If we can at least get the scene checked and photographed…take the cloth back to the lab…”

“Before the fun and games start?”

Rebus puffed out his cheeks. “Kicks off on Wednesday, right?”

“The G8 does, yes. But there’s the Poverty March tomorrow and another planned for Monday.”

“In Edinburgh, though, not Auchterarder.” Then he saw what she was getting at. Even with the evidence at the lab, the whole place could be under siege. Getting from Gayfield Square to the lab at Howdenhall meant crossing the city, always supposing the technicians had managed to force their way into work.

“Why leave it here?” Siobhan asked, studying the patch again. “Some sort of trophy?”

“If so, why here specifically?”

“Could be local. Any family connections with the area?”

“I think Colliar’s solid Edinburgh.”

She looked at him. “I meant the rape victim.”

Rebus formed his mouth into an O.

“Something to consider,” she added. Then she paused. “What’s that sound?”

Rebus patted his stomach. “Been a while since I’ve eaten. Don’t suppose Gleneagles is open for afternoon tea?”

“Depends on your credit card limit. There are places in town. One of us should stay for the SOCOs.”

“Better be you, then; don’t want accusations that I’m hogging the limelight. In fact, you probably deserve a complimentary cup of Aucherarder’s finest tea.” He turned to go, but she stopped him.

“Why me? Why now?” Her arms stretching from her sides.

“Why not?” he answered. “Just call it kismet.”

“That’s not what I mean…”

He turned toward her again.

“What I mean,” she said quietly, “is that I’m not sure I want them caught. If they are, and it’s because of me…”

“If they are, Shiv, it’ll be due to their screwup.” He stabbed a finger in the direction of the patch. “That, and maybe even a bit of teamwork.”

The Scene of Crime Unit hadn’t been thrilled by news that Rebus and Siobhan had entered the crime site. Prints of their shoes had been taken, for purposes of elimination, along with hair samples.