Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“He’s a piece of work,” Hogan admitted.

“I could put it another way,” Rebus confided, “but I better not…you two might be bestest pals.”

Hogan hooted. “Fat chance.”

“See, it’s not just him.” Rebus lowered his voice. “I had a run-in with some of his men. They’re in uniform, but no badges. Unmarked car, plus a van with lights but no siren.”

“What happened?”

“I was trying to be nice, Bobby…”

“And?”

“Let’s just say I hit a wall.”

Hogan looked at him. “Literally?”

“As good as.”

Hogan nodded his understanding. “You’d like a few names to go with their faces?”

“I can’t offer much of a description,” Rebus said apologetically. “They’d been in the sun, and one of them’s called Jacko. I think they’re from the southeast.”

Hogan thought for a moment. “Let me see what I can do.”

“Only if it means you staying under the radar, Bobby.”

“Relax, John. I told you, this is my show.” He placed a hand on Rebus’s arm, as if by way of reassurance.

Rebus nodded his thanks; decided it wasn’t his job to pierce his friend’s bubble…

Siobhan had narrowed her search. She was only interested in footage from the gardens, after all, and only within a thirty-minute period. Even so, there would be over a thousand photographs to look at, and film from a dozen different viewpoints. Which still left any security-camera evidence, plus video and stills shot by protesters and onlookers.

“Then there’s the media,” she’d been told. BBC News, ITV, Channels 4 and 5, plus Sky and CNN. Not to mention photographers working for the main Scottish newspapers…

“Let’s start with what we’ve got,” she’d said.

“There’s a booth you can use.”

She’d thanked Rebus for the lift and told him he’d best get home. She’d find a ride back to Edinburgh somehow.

“You’re staying here all night?”

“Maybe it won’t come to that.” Both knowing it might. “Cafeteria’s open twenty-four/seven.”

“And your parents?”

“I’ll head there first thing.” She’d paused. “If you can spare me…”

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

“Thanks.” And she’d hugged him, not exactly sure why. Maybe just to feel human, the night stretching in front of her.

“Siobhan…Always supposing you find him, what then? He’ll say he was doing his job.”

“I’ll have proof that he wasn’t.”

“If you push it too hard…”

She’d nodded, given him a wink and a smile. Gestures she’d learned from him, used whenever he was planning on crossing the line.

A wink and a smile, and then she was gone.

Someone had painted a large anarchy symbol on the doors of the C Division police HQ in Torphichen Place. It was an old, crumbling building, with twice the atmosphere of Gayfield Square. Street sweepers were gathering debris and overtime outside. Broken glass, bricks and stones, fast-food cartons.

The desk sergeant buzzed Rebus in. Some of the Canning Street protesters had been brought here for processing. They’d spent the night in cells cleared for the purpose. Rebus didn’t like to think how many junkies and muggers were roaming the Edinburgh streets, having been ejected from their rightful lockups. The CID room was long and narrow and always had about it the faint musk of human odor, something Rebus put down to the regular presence of DC Ray “Rat-Ass” Reynolds. He was slouched there now with his feet crossed on the desk in front of him, tie undone and a can of beer in his fist. At another desk sat his boss, DI Shug Davidson. Davidson’s tie was all the way off, but he appeared to be still working, pounding with two fingers at his computer keyboard. The can of beer next to him had yet to be opened.

Reynolds didn’t bother to stifle a belch as Rebus walked into the room. “It’s the specter at the feast!” he called out in recognition. “I hear you’re about as welcome near the G8 as the Rebel Clown Army.” But he raised his can in a toast anyway.

“That cuts to the quick, Ray. Been hectic, has it?”

“We should be on bonuses.” Reynolds held up a fresh beer, but Rebus shook his head.

“Come to see where the action is?” Davidson added.

“Just need a word with Ellen,” Rebus explained, nodding in the direction of the room’s only other occupant. DS Ellen Wylie looked up from the report she was hiding behind. Her blond hair was cut short, with a center parting. She’d put on some weight since the days when Rebus had worked a couple of cases with her. Her cheeks had filled out, and were now flushed, something Reynolds could not resist referring to by rubbing his hands together and then holding them out in her direction, as though warming them at an open fire.

She was rising to her feet, but without making eye contact with the intruder. Davidson asked if it was anything he should know about. Rebus just shrugged. Wylie had lifted her jacket from the back of her chair, picked up her shoulder bag.

“I was calling it a night anyway,” she announced to the room. Reynolds gave a whistle and nudged the air with his elbow.

“What do you reckon, Shug? Nice when love blossoms between colleagues.” Laughter followed her out of the room. In the corridor, she leaned against the wall and let her head drop.

“Long day?” Rebus guessed.

“You ever tried questioning a German anarcho-syndicalist?”

“Not recently.”

“All had to be processed tonight so the courts could have them tomorrow.”

“Today,” Rebus corrected her, tapping his watch. She checked her own.

“Is that really the time?” She sounded exhausted. “I’ll be back here in six hours.”

“I’d offer to buy you a drink if the pubs were still open.”

“I don’t need a drink.”

“A lift home?”

“My car’s outside.” She thought for a moment. “No, it’s not-didn’t bring it in today.”

“Good move, considering.”

“We were warned not to.”

“Foresight is a wonderful thing. And it means I can give you that lift home after all.” Rebus waited until her eyes met his. He was smiling. “You still haven’t asked what I want.”

“I know what you want.” She bristled slightly, and he raised his hands in surrender.

“Easy now,” he told her. “Don’t want you getting all…”

“All what?”

Walking straight into his punch line. “Torn up inside,” he obliged.

Ellen Wylie shared a house with her divorced sister.

It was a terrace in Cramond. The back garden ended in a sheer drop to the River Almond. The night being mild, and Rebus needing to smoke, they sat at a table outside. Wylie kept her voice low-didn’t want the neighbors complaining, and besides, her sister’s bedroom window was open. She brought out mugs of milky tea.

“Nice spot,” Rebus told her. “I like that you can hear the water.”

“There’s a stream just over there.” She pointed into the darkness. “Masks the noise of the planes.”

Rebus nodded his understanding: they were directly under the flight path into Turnhouse Airport. This time of night, it had only taken them fifteen minutes from Torphichen Place. On the way, she’d told him her story.

“So I wrote something for the Web site…not against the law, is it? I was just so pissed off at the system. We bust a gut to get these animals to court, and then the lawyers do their damnedest to get their sentences whittled away to nothing.”

“Is that all it was?”

She’d shifted in the passenger seat. “What else?”

“Tornupinside-sounds like it was more personal.”

She’d stared through the windshield. “No, John, just angry…Too many hours spent on rape cases, sexual assault, domestic abuse-maybe it takes a woman to understand.”