Ian Rankin: The Naming of the Dead

“Go easy,” Rebus had warned. “I can’t afford to be generous.”

The SOCO-Scene of Crime officer-had apologized. “Got to get the root, else we can’t get the DNA.” On the third try with the tweezers, he’d been successful. One of his colleagues had almost finished videoing the scene. Another was taking photographs and yet another was in conversation with Siobhan about how much of the other clothing they should take to the lab.

“Just the most recent,” she told him, her eyes on Rebus. He nodded his agreement, sharing her train of thought. Even if Colliar was a message to Cafferty, it didn’t mean there weren’t other messages here.

“Sports shirt seems to have a company logo on it,” the SOCO commented.

“Your job could hardly be easier,” Siobhan said with a smile.

“My job’s collection. The rest is up to you.”

“Speaking of which,” Rebus interrupted, “any chance this could all go to Edinburgh rather than Stirling?”

The SOCO stiffened his shoulders. Rebus didn’t know him but he knew the type: late forties, half a lifetime’s experience. There was plenty of rivalry between the various police regions as it was. Rebus held up his hands in mock surrender.

“All I mean is, it’s an Edinburgh case. Makes sense if they don’t have to keep traipsing through to Stirling every time there’s something you need to show them.”

Siobhan was smiling again, amused by his use of they and them. But she gave a slight nod, too, recognizing a useful ploy when she saw one.

“Especially now,” Rebus was arguing, “with the demonstrations and everything.” He looked up to where a helicopter was circling. Gleneagles surveillance, it had to be. Someone up there wondering at the sudden appearance of two cars and two unmarked white vans at the Clootie Well. Returning his gaze to the SOCO, Rebus realized the chopper had sealed the deal. A time like this, cooperation was paramount. It had been hammered home in memorandum after memorandum. Macrae himself had said as much at the past dozen or so briefings at Gayfield Square.

Be nice. Work together. Help each other. Because for these few short days, the world would be watching.

Maybe the SOCO had been at similar briefings. He was nodding slowly, turning away to continue his work. Rebus and Siobhan shared another look. Then Rebus reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

“No traces, please,” one of the other SOCOs warned him, so Rebus moved away, back toward the parking lot. He was just lighting up when another car appeared. The more the merrier, he thought to himself as DCI Macrae leaped out. He was dressed in what looked like a new suit. New tie, too, and a crisp white shirt. His hair was gray and sparse, face saggy, nose bulbous and red veined.

He’s the same age as me, Rebus thought. Why does he seem so much older?

“Afternoon, sir,” Rebus said.

“Thought you were supposed to be at a funeral.” The tone was accusatory, as though Rebus might have fabricated a death in the family to secure a Friday sleep-in.

“DS Clarke interrupted proceedings,” Rebus explained. “Thought I’d show my face.” Making it sound like a sacrifice. The words worked, too; Macrae’s tightened jaw relaxed a little.

I’m on a roll, Rebus thought. First the SOCO, now the boss. Macrae had been pretty good actually, green-lighting a day off for Rebus as soon as news broke of Mickey’s death. He’d told Rebus to go get smashed, and Rebus had obliged-the Scotsman’s way of dealing with death. He’d found himself in a part of town he didn’t know, no idea how he got there. He walked into a drugstore and asked where he was. Answer: Colinton Village Pharmacy. He’d thanked them by making the purchase of some aspirin.

“Sorry, John,” Macrae said now, taking a deep breath. “How did it go?” Trying to sound concerned.

“It went” was all Rebus said. He watched the helicopter bank steeply as it turned for home.

“Hope to Christ that wasn’t TV,” Macrae commented.

“Not much to see, even supposing it was. Shame to tear you away from Glenrothes, sir. How’s Sorbus looking?”

Operation Sorbus: the policing plan for G8 week. To Rebus, it sounded like something a dieter would use in his tea instead of sugar. Siobhan had set him straight, told him it was a kind of tree.

“We’re prepared for any eventuality,” Macrae stated briskly.

“Except maybe one,” Rebus felt it his duty to add.

“Back burner till next week, John,” his boss muttered.

Rebus nodded his agreement. “Always assuming they agree.”

Macrae followed Rebus’s sight line and saw the car approaching. It was a silver Merc with tinted rear windows.

“Probably means the chopper wasn’t TV,” Rebus added for Macrae’s benefit. He reached into his own car’s passenger seat and brought out what remained of a sandwich. Ham salad: the first had slipped down without touching the sides.

“The hell’s this?” Macrae was asking through gritted teeth. The Merc had pulled to an abrupt stop beside one of the Scene of Crime vans. The driver’s door opened and a man got out. He walked around the car and tugged open the rear passenger-side door. It took several moments for the man inside to emerge. He was tall and narrow, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. As he secured all three buttons of his suit coat, he seemed to be studying the two white vans and the three unmarked police cars. Eventually, he peered up at the sky, mouthed something to his driver, and stepped away from the vehicle. Instead of approaching Rebus and Macrae, he walked over to the signpost, the one informing tourists of the Clootie Well’s history. The driver was back behind his steering wheel, eyes on Rebus and Macrae. Rebus blew him a little kiss, content to stand there until the new arrival consented to make introductions. Again, he thought he knew the type: cold and calculating, making a show of being the real power. Had to be security of some kind, following up the chopper’s call.

Macrae took only seconds to crack. Strode over to the man and asked him who he was.

“I’m SO12, who the hell are you?” the man replied in a measured voice. Maybe he’d missed the briefings on friendly cooperation. English accent, Rebus noted. Stood to reason. SO12 was Special Branch, based in London. One step away from the spooks. “I mean,” the man went on, his interest still apparently concentrated on the signpost, “I know what you are. You’re CID. And those are Scene of Crime vans. And in a clearing just ahead of us there are men in white protective overalls making a detailed examination of the trees and ground.” Finally he turned toward Macrae and reached a slow hand to his own face to remove the sunglasses. “How am I doing so far?”

Macrae’s face had reddened in anger. All day he’d been treated with the dignity that was his due. Now this.

“Care to show some ID?” Macrae snapped. The man stared at him then gave a wry smile. Is that all you’ve got? the smile seemed to say. As he reached into his jacket, not bothering to unbutton it, his eyes shifted from Macrae to Rebus. The smile stayed, inviting Rebus to share its message. A small black leather wallet was held open for Macrae’s inspection.

“There,” the man said, snapping it shut again. “Now you know all there is to know about me.”

“You’re Steelforth,” Macrae said, clearing his throat between words. Rebus could see his boss had been thrown. Macrae turned toward him. “Commander Steelforth is in charge of G8 security,” he explained. But Rebus had already guessed as much. Macrae turned back to Steelforth. “I was in Glenrothes this morning, being given a tour courtesy of ACC Finnigan. And Gleneagles yesterday…” Macrae’s voice faltered. Steelforth was already moving away from him, toward Rebus.