Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“Why do you want them?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Descriptions?”

“I think they might be the Met. Work in a team of three. Tanned faces…”

“Meaning they’ll stand out from the crowd up here,” Cafferty interrupted.

“…leader’s called Jacko. Could be working for a Special Branch guy called David Steelforth.”

“I know Steelforth.”

Rebus leaned back against one of the desks. “How?”

“He’s put away a number of my acquaintances over the years.” Rebus remembered: Cafferty had links to the old-school London mob. “Is he here, too?”

“Staying at the Balmoral.” Rebus paused. “I wouldn’t mind knowing who’s picking up his room tab.”

“Just when you think you’ve seen it all,” Cafferty said, “John Rebus comes asking you to go sniffing around Special Branch…I get the feeling this has got nothing to do with Cyril Colliar.”

“Like I said, I’ll tell you later.”

“So what are you up to just now?”

“Working.”

“Want to meet for a drink?”

“I’m not that desperate.”

“Me neither, just thought I’d offer.”

Rebus considered for a moment, almost tempted. But the line had gone dead. He sat down and drew a pad of paper toward him. The sum total of his evening’s efforts was listed there:

Grudge against?

Poss. victim?

Access to H…

Auchterarder-local connection?

Who’s next?

He narrowed his eyes at this last line. Interesting wording-it was the title of a Who album, another of Michael’s favorites. Home to “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” which they were using these days as the theme on one of those CSI shows…He felt the sudden urge to talk to someone, maybe his daughter or his ex-wife. The tug of family. He thought of Siobhan and her parents. Tried not to feel slighted that she hadn’t wanted him to meet them. She never spoke about them; he didn’t really know how much family she had.

“Because you never ask,” he chided himself. His phone beeped, telling him he had a message. Sender: Shiv. He opened it.

CN U MEET ME @ WGH

WGH meant the Western General Hospital. He hadn’t heard reports of any police injuries…no reason she’d have been in Princes Street or anywhere near.

Let me know how you got on!

He tried her number again on his way out to the lot. Nothing but the busy signal. Jumped into his car, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. It rang before he’d gone fifty yards. He grabbed at it, flipped it open.

“Siobhan?” he asked.

“What?” A female voice.

“Hello?” Gritting his teeth as he tried to steer with one hand.

“Is this…I was looking for…No, never mind.” The phone died in his hand and he threw it toward the seat next to him. It bounced once and hit the floor. He wrapped both fists around the steering wheel and hit the accelerator hard.

There were lines of cars at the Forth Road Bridge. Neither of them really minded. There was plenty to talk about; plenty of thinking to be done, too. Siobhan had told Rebus all about it. Teddy Clarke would not be budged from his wife’s bedside. Staff had said they could make up a temporary bed for him. They were planning to give Eve a scan first thing in the morning, checking for brain damage. The baton had caught her across the top half of her face: both eyes swollen and bruised, one of them closed altogether. Her nose covered with gauze: not broken. Rebus had asked, Was there any danger she could lose her sight? Maybe in one eye, Siobhan had admitted.

“After the scan, they’ll take her to the eye pavilion. Know what the hardest thing was though, John?”

“Realizing your mum’s only human?” he’d guessed.

Siobhan had shaken her head slowly. “They came and questioned her.”

“Who?”

“Police.”

“Well, that’s something.”

At which she’d laughed harshly. “They weren’t looking to find out who’d hit her. They were asking what she’d done.”

Yes, of course, because hadn’t she been one of the rioters? Hadn’t she been in the vanguard?

“Christ,” Rebus had muttered. “Were you there?”

“If I had been, there’d’ve been hell to pay.” And a little later, just above a whisper: “I saw it down there, John.”

“Looked hairy, judging by the TV.”

“Police overreacted.” Staring hard at him, willing him to contradict her.

“You’re angry” was all he’d said, winding down his window for the security check.

By the time they reached Glenrothes, he’d told her about his own evening, warning her that she might get an e-mail from Tornupinside. She hardly seemed to be listening. At the Fife police HQ, they had to show ID three times before they could gain entry to Operation Sorbus. Rebus had decided not to mention his night in the cells-not her problem. His left hand was back to something like normal at last. It had only taken a box of ibuprofen.

It was a control room much like any other: security-camera pictures; civilian staff at computers, headsets on; maps of central Scotland. There was a live feed from the security fence at Gleneagles, cameras posted at each watchtower. Other feeds from Edinburgh, Stirling, the Forth Bridge. And traffic video from the M9, the highway passing alongside Auchterarder.

Night shift had kicked in, which meant voices were lowered, the atmosphere muted. Quiet concentration and a lack of hurry. No brass that Rebus could see, and no Steelforth. Siobhan knew one or two faces from her visit of the week before. She went to ask her favor, leaving Rebus to cross the room at his own pace. Then he, too, spotted someone. Bobby Hogan had been promoted to DCI after a result in a South Queensferry shooting. But with the promotion had come a move to Tayside. Rebus hadn’t seen him for a year or so but recognized the wiry silver hair, the way the head sunk into the shoulders.

“Bobby,” he said, holding out a hand.

Hogan’s eyes widened. “Christ, John, tell me we’re not that desperate.” He returned Rebus’s grip.

“Don’t worry, Bobby, I’m only acting as chauffeur. How’s life treating you?”

“Can’t complain. Is that Siobhan over there?” Rebus nodded. “Why is she talking to one of my officers?”

“She’s after some surveillance footage.”

“That’s one thing we’ve no shortage of. What does she want it for?”

“A case we’re working, Bobby…suspect might have been at that riot today.”

“Needle in a haystack,” Hogan commented, creasing his forehead. He was a couple of years younger than Rebus, but had more lines on his face.

“Enjoying being DCI?” Rebus asked, trying to deflect his friend’s attention.

“You should try it sometime.”

Rebus shook his head. “Too late for me, Bobby. How’s Dundee treating you?”

“I’ve got quite the bachelor pad.”

“I thought you and Cora were getting back together?”

Hogan’s face creased further. He shook his head vigorously, letting Rebus know it was a subject best avoided.

“This is quite an ops room,” he said instead.

“Command post,” Hogan said, puffing out his chest. “We’re in contact with Edinburgh, Stirling, Gleneagles.”

“And if the shit really does hit the fan?”

“The G8 moves to our old stomping ground-Tulliallan.”

Meaning the Scottish Police College. Rebus nodded to show he was impressed.

“Direct line to Special Branch, Bobby?”

Hogan just shrugged. “End of the day, John, it’s us in charge, not them.”

Rebus nodded again, this time feigning agreement. “Bumped into some of them, all the same.”

“Steelforth?”

“He’s strutting around Edinburgh like he owns the place.”