Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“You’re off to the Peace Camp?” Siobhan watched Santal’s braids flex as she nodded. “Were you at Princes Street yesterday?”

“Last time I saw your parents. What’s happened to them?”

“Someone belted my mum. She’s in the hospital.”

“Christ, that’s hellish…Was it…” She paused. “One of your lot?”

“One of my lot,” Siobhan echoed. “And I want him caught. Lucky you’re still here.”

“Why?”

“Did you get any film? I thought maybe I could look at it.”

But Santal was shaking her head.

“Don’t worry,” Siobhan assured her, “I’m not looking to…It’s the uniforms I’m interested in, not the demonstration itself.” But Santal kept shaking her head.

“I didn’t have my camera.” A bald lie.

“Come on, Santal. Surely you want to help.”

“Plenty of others taking photos.” She gestured around the camp with an outstretched arm. “Ask them.”

“I’m asking you.”

“The bus is leaving…” She pushed her way past Siobhan.

“Any message for my mum?” Siobhan called after her. “Shall I bring them to see you at the Peace Camp?” But the figure kept moving. Siobhan cursed under her breath. Should have known better: to Santal she was still a pig, the filth, the cops. Still the enemy. She found herself standing beside Bobby Greig as the bus filled, its door closing with a hiss of air. The sound of communal singing came from inside. A few of the passengers waved out at Greig. He waved back.

“Not a bad bunch,” he observed to Siobhan, offering her a piece of gum, “for hippies, I mean.” Then he slid his hands into his pockets. “Got a ticket for tomorrow night?”

“Failed in the attempt,” she admitted.

“My firm’s doing security…”

She stared at him. “You’ve got a spare?”

“Not exactly, but I’ll be there, meaning you could be ‘plus one.’”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Not a date or anything…offer’s there if you want it.”

“It’s very generous, Bobby.”

“Up to you.” He was looking everywhere but at her.

“Can I take your number, let you know tomorrow?”

“Thinking something better might come up?”

She shook her head. “Work might come up,” she corrected him.

“Everyone’s allowed a night off, DS Clarke.”

“Call me Siobhan,” she insisted.

“Where are you?” Rebus asked into the cell.

“On my way to the Scotsman.”

“What’s at the Scotsman?”

“More photos.”

“Your phone’s been switched off.”

“I needed to charge it.”

“Well, I’ve just been taking a statement from Tornupinside.”

“Who?”

“I told you yesterday…” But then he remembered that she’d had other things on her mind. So he explained again about the blog and how he’d sent a message, and Ellen Wylie had called back…

“Whoa, back up,” Siobhan said. “Our Ellen Wylie?”

“Wrote a long and angry piece for BeastWatch.”

“But why?”

“Because the system’s letting the sisterhood down,” Rebus answered.

“Are those her exact words?”

“I’ve got them on tape. Of course, the one thing I don’t have is corroboration, since there was no one around to assist with the interview.”

“Sorry about that. So is Ellen a suspect?”

“Listen to the tape, then you can tell me.” Rebus looked around the CID room. The windows needed a clean, but what was the point when all they looked down on was the rear parking lot? A lick of paint would cheer up the walls, but soon be covered by scene-of-crime photos and victim details.

“Maybe it’s because of her sister,” Siobhan was saying.

“What?”

“Ellen’s sister Denise.”

“What about her?”

“She moved in with Ellen a year or so back…maybe a bit less actually. Left her partner.”

“So?”

“Her abusive partner. That was the story I heard. They lived in Glasgow. Police were called in a few times but never got a charge to stick. Had to get a restraint order on him, I think.”

Came to live with me after she…after the divorce. Suddenly, the “bug” Ellen had swallowed made sense.

“I didn’t know,” Rebus said quietly.

“No, well…”

“Well what?”

“It’s the sort of thing women talk to other women about.”

“But not to men, is that what you’re saying? And we’re the ones who’re supposed to be sexist.” Rebus rubbed his free hand over the back of his neck. The skin felt tight. “So Denise goes to live with Ellen, and next thing Ellen’s on the Net, looking for sites like BeastWatch…”

And staying in at night with her sister, overeating, drinking too much…

“Maybe I could talk to them,” Siobhan suggested.

“Haven’t you enough on your plate? How is your mum anyway?”

“She’s having a scan. I was planning to go see her next.”

“Then do it. I’m assuming you didn’t get anything from Glenrothes?”

“Nothing but a sore back.”

“There’s another call coming in. I better go. Can we meet up later?”

“Sure thing.”

“Because the chief constable stopped by.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“But it can wait.” Rebus pushed the button to pick up the next caller. “DI Rebus,” he stated.

“I’m at the courts,” Mairie Henderson said. “Come see what I’ve got for you.” There were hoots and cheers in the background. “Got to go,” she said.

Rebus headed downstairs and hitched a lift in a patrol car. Neither uniform had been involved in yesterday’s running battles.

“Backup,” they explained gloomily. “Sat on a bus for four hours listening to it on the radio. You giving evidence, Inspector?”

Rebus said nothing until the car turned into Chambers Street. “Drop me here,” he ordered.

“You’re welcome,” the driver informed him in a growl, but only after Rebus had climbed out.

The patrol car did a screeching U-turn, drawing the attention of the media positioned outside the sheriff court. Rebus stood across the street, lighting a cigarette next to the steps of the Royal Scottish Museum. Another protester was leaving the court building to cheers and whoops from his comrades. His fist punched the air as they slapped him on the back, press photographers capturing the moment.

“How many?” Rebus asked, aware that Mairie Henderson was standing next to him, notebook and tape recorder in hand.

“About twenty so far. Some of them have been farmed out to other courts.”

“Any quotes I should be looking out for tomorrow?”

“How about ‘Smash the system’?” She glanced at her notes. “Or ‘Show me a capitalist and I’ll show you a bloodsucker’?”

“Seems like a fair swap.”

“It’s Malcolm X, apparently.” She flipped her notebook shut. “They’re all being issued restraining orders. Can’t go anywhere near Gleneagles, Auchterarder, Stirling, central Edinburgh-” She paused. “Nice touch though: one guy said he had a ticket for T in the Park this weekend, so the judge said he could go to Kinross.”

“Siobhan’s going to that,” Rebus said. “Be nice to have the Colliar inquiry wrapped up in time.”

“In which case this may not be good news.”

“What is it, Mairie?”

“The Clootie Well. I got a friend at the paper to do some background.”

“And?”

“And there are others.”

“How many?”

“At least one in Scotland. It’s on the Black Isle.”

“North of Inverness?”

She nodded. “Follow me,” she said, turning and heading for the museum’s main door. Inside she took a right, into the Museum of Scotland. The place was busy with families-school holidays, kids with too much energy. The smaller ones were squealing and bouncing on their toes.