Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“You’ll shut this thing down.” Corbyn slapped a hand against some of the paperwork on Rebus’s desk. “And remember-DS Clarke is in charge, not you, Inspector.” His eyes narrowed a little. Then, seeing that Rebus wasn’t about to reply, he stalked out of the room. Rebus waited the best part of a minute before exhaling, then made a phone call.

“Mairie? Any news for me?” He listened to her apology. “Well, never mind. I’ve got a wee bonus here for you, if you can manage the price of a cup of coffee…”

Multrees Walk took him less than ten minutes on foot. It was a new development adjacent to the Harvey Nichols department store, and some of the shops were still unrented. But the Vin Caffe was open for snacks and Italian coffee, and Rebus ordered a double espresso.

“And she’s paying,” he added as Mairie Henderson arrived.

“Guess who’s covering the sheriff court this afternoon?” She slid into her seat.

“And that’s your excuse for treading water on Richard Pennen?”

She glared at him. “John, what does it matter if Pennen paid for an MP’s hotel room? There’s nothing to prove it was cash-for-contracts. If Webster’s area was arms procurement, I might have the beginnings of a story.” She made an exasperated sound and gave a theatrical shrug of the shoulders. “Anyway, I’m not giving up yet. Let me talk to a few more people about Richard Pennen.”

Rebus ran a hand across his face. “It’s just the way they’re going about protecting him. Not just Pennen, actually-everyone who was there that night. No way we’re going to get near them.”

“You really think Webster was given a shove over that wall?”

“It’s a possibility. One of the guards thought there was an intruder.”

“Well, if it was an intruder, reason dictates it wasn’t anyone at the actual dinner.” She angled her face, seeking his agreement. When he failed to concede, she straightened again. “Know what I think? I think all of this is because there’s a bit of the anarchist in you. You’re on their side, and it annoys you that you’ve somehow ended up working for The Man.”

Rebus snorted a laugh. “Where did you get that from?”

She laughed with him. “I’m right though, aren’t I? You’ve always seen yourself as being on the outside-” She broke off as their coffees arrived, dug her spoon into her cappuccino and scooped foam into her mouth.

“I do my best work on the margins,” Rebus said thoughtfully.

She nodded. “That’s why we used to get along so well.”

“Until you chose Cafferty instead.”

She gave another shrug. “He’s more like you than you care to admit.”

“And I was just about to do you this huge favor.”

“Okay.” She narrowed her eyes. “The pair of you are like apples and oranges.”

“That’s better.” He handed her an envelope. “Typed by my own fair hands, so the spelling might not be up to your own high journalistic standard.”

“What is it?” She was unfolding the single sheet of paper.

“Something we were keeping the lid on: two more victims, same killer as Cyril Colliar. I can’t give you everything we’ve got, but this’ll get you started.”

“Christ, John-” She looked up at him.

“What?”

“Why are you giving me this?”

“My latent anarchic streak?” he pretended to guess.

“It might not even make the front page, not this week.”

“So?”

“Any week of the year except this…”

“Are you checking my gift horse’s mouth?”

“This stuff about the Web site…” She was scanning the sheet for a second time.

“It’s all kosher, Mairie. If you don’t have a use for it…” He held out his hand to take it back.

“What’s a ‘serial kilter’? Is that someone who can’t stop making kilts?”

“Give it back.”

“Who is it that’s pissed you off?” she asked with a smile. “You wouldn’t be doing this otherwise.”

“Just hand it over and we’ll say no more.”

But she slid the page back into the envelope and folded it into her pocket. “If things stay calm for the rest of the day, maybe my editor can be persuaded.”

“Stress the link with the Web site,” Rebus advised. “Might help the others on the list be a bit more cautious.”

“They’ve not been told?”

“Haven’t got around to it. And if the chief constable gets his way, they won’t find out till next week.”

“By which time the killer could strike again?”

Rebus nodded.

“So really you’re doing this to save these scuzzballs’ lives?”

“To protect and serve,” Rebus said, trying another salute.

“And not because you’ve had a falling-out with the chief constable?”

Rebus shook his head slowly, as if disappointed in her. “And I thought I was the one with the cynical streak…You’ll really keep looking at Richard Pennen?”

“For a little while longer.” She waved the sheet of paper at him. “Got to retype all of this first though. Didn’t realize English wasn’t your first language.”

Siobhan had headed home and run a bath, closing her eyes after getting in, then waking with a jolt, chin touching the surface of the tepid water. She’d gotten out and changed her clothes, ordered a taxi, and headed for the garage where her car was ready. She’d driven to Niddrie, trusting that lightning wouldn’t strike twice…actually, three times, though she’d managed to get the St. Leonard’s loaner back to its berth without anyone spotting her. If anyone came asking, she could always say the damage must have been done in the car lot.

There was a single-decker bus idling next to the pavement, its driver busy with his newspaper. A few campers passed Siobhan on their way out to it, knapsacks bulging. They gave sleepy smiles. Bobby Greig was watching them leave. Siobhan looked around and saw that others were busy dismantling their tents.

“Saturday was our busiest night,” Greig explained. “Each day since has been a bit quieter.”

“You didn’t have to turn people away then?”

His mouth twitched. “Facilities for fifteen thousand, and only two could be bothered to show.” He paused. “Your ‘friends’ didn’t come home last night.” The way he said it let her know he’d worked something out.

“My parents,” she confirmed.

“And why didn’t you want me to know that?”

“I’m not sure, Bobby. Maybe I didn’t think a cop’s mum and dad would be safe here.”

“So they’re staying with you?”

She shook her head. “One of the riot police cracked my mum across her face. She spent the night in a hospital bed.”

“Sorry to hear that. Anything I can do?”

She shook her head again. “Any more trouble with the locals?”

“Another standoff last night.”

“Persistent little jerks, aren’t they?”

“Councilman happened by again and made the truce.”

“Tench?”

Greig nodded. “He was showing a bigwig around. Some urban regeneration thing.”

“Area could use it. What sort of bigwig?”

Greig shrugged. “Government.” He ran his fingers over his shaved head. “This place’ll be dead soon. Good riddance to it.”

Siobhan didn’t ask if he meant the camp or Niddrie itself. She turned and made for her parents’ tent. Unzipped the flap and looked inside. Everything was intact, but with a few additions. It looked as if those who were moving out had decided to leave gifts of leftover food, candles, and water.

“Where are they?”

Siobhan recognized Santal’s voice. She backed out of the tent and straightened up. Santal, too, was toting a knapsack and holding a bottle of water.

“Heading out?” Siobhan asked.

“Bus to Stirling. I wanted to say good-bye.”