Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“Not on your life,” he declared to the mirror.

He was determined to get some sleep. Five restless hours curled up on a slab hardly counted. But first he had to charge his phone. Plugged it in and decided to see what messages there were. One text-same anonymous caller as Macrae.

LET’S CALL A TRUCE.

Sent barely half an hour before. Which meant two things: They knew he was home. And the out-of-service number was somehow back in play. Rebus could think of a dozen replies, but decided to switch the phone off again instead. Another mug of tea and he made for the bedroom.

Panic on the streets of Edinburgh.

Siobhan had never known the place so tense. Not during the local soccer championship, not even during Republican and Orange marches. The air was somehow heightened, as if an electric current ran through it. Not just Edinburgh either: a peace camp had been established in Stirling. There had been short, sharp outbursts of violence. Still two days to go before the G8 opened, but the protesters knew that a number of delegations had already arrived. A lot of the Americans were based at Dunblane Hydro, a short drive from Gleneagles. Some foreign journalists had found themselves much farther away in hotels in Glasgow. Japanese officials had taken over many of the rooms in the Edinburgh Sheraton, just across the road from the financial district. Siobhan’s instinct had been to use the hotel’s lot, but there was a chain across its entrance. A uniformed officer approached as she wound down her window. She showed him her ID.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he apologized in a polite English voice. “No can do. Orders from on high. Your best bet is to do a U-turn.” He pointed farther down the Western Approach Road. “There’s some idiots on the road…we’re trying to herd most of them into Canning Street. Bunch of clowns, by all accounts.”

She did as instructed, finally finding a space on a yellow line outside the Lyceum Theater. Crossed at the lights, but instead of going into the Standard Life HQ, decided to walk past it, down the concrete lanes which ran mazily through the whole area. Turned a corner into Canning Street and found herself stopped by a cordon of police, on the other side of which black-clad demonstrators mixed with figures from the big top. A bunch of clowns, quite literally. This was Siobhan’s first real sighting of the Rebel Clown Army. They wore red and purple wigs, faces painted white. Some brandished feather dusters, others waved carnations. A smiley face had been drawn on one of the riot shields. The cops were in black, too, protected by knee and elbow pads, stab-proof vests, visored helmets. One of the demonstrators had somehow scrambled up a high wall and was shaking his bared buttocks at the police below. There were windows all around, office workers peering out. Plenty of noise, but no real fury as yet. As more officers jogged into view, Siobhan retreated as far as the pedestrian bridge which crossed over the Western Approach Road. Again, the protesters were heavily outnumbered. One of them was in a wheelchair, a lion rampant attached to the back, fluttering in the breeze. Traffic heading into town was at a standstill. Whistles were being blown, but the police horses looked unfazed. As a line of officers marched beneath the footbridge, they held their shields above their heads to protect themselves.

The situation seemed under control and unlikely to change, so Siobhan headed for her final destination.

The revolving door which led to the Standard Life reception area was locked. A guard stared out at her before buzzing her in.

“Can I see your pass, miss?”

“I don’t work here.” Siobhan showed her ID instead.

He took it from her to study it. Handed it back and nodded toward the reception desk.

“Any problems?” she asked.

“Couple of goons tried to get in. One’s scaled the west side of the building. Seems to be stuck three floors up.”

“Fun for all concerned.”

“It pays the bills, miss.” He gestured once more toward the desk. “Gina there will sort you out.”

Gina did indeed sort Siobhan out. First, a visitor’s pass-“to be kept in view at all times, please”-and then a call upstairs. The waiting area was plush, with sofas and magazines, coffee, and a flat-screen TV showing some midmorning design show. A woman came striding toward Siobhan.

“Detective Sergeant Clarke? I’ll take you upstairs.”

“Mrs. Jensen?”

But the woman shook her head. “Sorry to’ve kept you waiting. As you can imagine, things are a bit fraught…”

“That’s okay. I’ve been learning which floor lamp to buy.”

The woman smiled without really comprehending and led Siobhan to the elevator. As they waited, she studied her own clothes. “We’re all in civilian clothes today,” she said, explaining the slacks and blouse.

“Good idea.”

“It’s funny seeing some of the men in jeans and T-shirts. Hardly recognizable, some of them.” She paused. “Is it the riots you’re here about?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Jensen seemed in the dark…”

“Up to me to shed some light then, isn’t it?” Siobhan replied with a smile as the elevator doors opened.

The nameplate on Dolly Jensen’s office stated that she was Dorothy Jensen but gave no indication of her job title. Had to be quite high-powered, Siobhan figured. Jensen’s assistant had knocked on the door, then retreated to her own desk. The main floor was open plan, plenty of faces peering up from their computers to study the new arrival. A few stood by the available windows, coffee mugs in hand, watching the outside world.

“Come in,” a voice called. Siobhan opened the door and closed it behind her, shook Dorothy Jensen’s hand, and was invited to take a seat.

“You know why I’m here?” Siobhan asked.

Jensen leaned back in her chair. “Tom told me all about it.”

“You’ve been busy since, haven’t you?”

Jensen scanned her desk. She was the same age as her husband. Broad-shouldered and with a masculine face. Thick black hair-the gray dyed out of it, Siobhan guessed-fell in immaculate waves to her shoulders. Around her neck hung a simple pearl necklace.

“I don’t mean here, Mrs. Jensen,” Siobhan explained, allowing the irritation to show. “I mean at home, wiping all trace of your Web site.”

“Is that a crime?”

“It’s called impeding an investigation. I’ve seen people go to court for it. Sometimes we can up the ante to criminal conspiracy, if we’re of a mind…”

Jensen took hold of a pen from her desk, twisted its barrel, opening and closing it. Siobhan was satisfied that she had breached the woman’s defenses.

“I need everything you’ve got, Mrs. Jensen-any paperwork, e-mail addresses, names. We need to clear all those people-you and your husband included-if we’re going to catch this killer.” She paused. “I know what you’re thinking-your husband told us pretty much the same-and I can appreciate you’d feel that way. But you’ve got to understand…whoever did this, they’re not going to stop. They could have downloaded everyone listed on your site, and that turns those men into victims-not so very different from Vicky.”

At mention of her daughter’s name, Jensen’s eyes burned into Siobhan’s. But they soon grew liquid. She dropped the pen and opened a drawer, bringing out a handkerchief and blowing her nose.

“I tried, you know…tried to forgive. It’s supposed to make us divine after all, isn’t it?” She forced a nervous laugh. “These men, they go to jail to be punished, but we hope they’ll change, too. The ones who don’t…what use are they? They come back to us and do the same things over and over again.”

Siobhan knew the argument well and had found herself many times on both sides of it. But she stayed silent.