Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“What are we doing here?” Rebus asked. But Mairie was already at the elevators. They got off and climbed some stairs. Through the windows, Rebus had a great view down onto the sheriff court. But Mairie was leading him into the farthest corner of the building. “I’ve been here before,” Rebus told her.

“The section on death and belief,” she explained.

“There are some wee coffins with dolls inside…”

This was the very display she stopped at, and Rebus realized there was an old black-and-white photograph behind the glass.

A photo of the Black Isle’s Clootie Well.

“Locals have been hanging bits of cloth there for centuries. I’ve got my friend widening the search to England and Wales, on the off-chance. Think it’s worth a look?”

“Black Isle’s got to be a two-hour drive,” Rebus mused, eyes still on the photo. The scraps of material looked almost batlike, clinging to thin, bare branches. Next to the photo sat witches’ casting sticks, bits of bone protruding from hollowed pebbles. Death and belief…

“More like three, this time of year,” Mairie was telling him. “All those RVs to get past.”

Rebus nodded. The A9 north of Perth was notoriously slow. “Might just get the locals to take a look. Thanks, Mairie.”

“I got these from the Net.” She handed over a few sheets, detailing the history of the Clootie Well near Fortrose. There were grainy photographs-including a copy of the one on display-which showed it to be almost identical to its namesake in Auchterarder.

“Thanks again.” He rolled the sheets up and put them in his jacket pocket. “Did your editor take the bait?” They started retracing their steps to the elevator.

“Depends. A riot tonight might see us relegated to page five.”

“A gamble worth taking.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me, John?”

“I’ve given you a scoop-what else do you want?”

“I want to know you’re not just using me.” She pushed the elevator button.

“Would I do a thing like that?”

“Of course you bloody well would.” They were quiet all the way back out to the steps. Mairie watched the action across the street. Another protester, another clenched-fist salute. “You’ve kept the lid on this since Friday. Aren’t you scared the killer will go deep cover once he sees it in the paper?”

“Can’t get any deeper than he is right now.” He looked at her. “Besides, all we had on Friday was Cyril Colliar. It was Cafferty gave us the rest.”

Her face hardened. “Cafferty?”

“You told him the patch from Colliar’s jacket had turned up. He paid me a visit. Went away with the other two names and came back with the news they were dead.”

“You’ve been using Cafferty?” She sounded incredulous.

“Without him telling you, Mairie-that’s what I’m getting at. Try trading with him, you’ll find it’s all one-way traffic. Everything I’ve given you on the killings, he had it first. But he wasn’t going to tell you.”

“You seem to be under some sort of misapprehension that the two of us are close.”

“Close enough for you to go straight to him with the news about Colliar.”

“That was a promise of long standing-any new developments, he wanted to know. Don’t think I’m about to apologize.” Her eyes narrowed and she pointed across the street. “What’s Gareth Tench doing here?”

“The councilman, you mean?” Rebus followed the path of her finger. “Preaching to the heathen, maybe,” he offered, watching as Tench shuffled along crablike behind the line of photographers. “Maybe he wants you to do another interview.”

“How did you know about…? I suppose Siobhan told you.”

“No secrets between Siobhan and me.” Rebus gave a wink.

“So where is she now?”

“She’s down at the Scotsman.”

“My eyes must be deceiving me then.” Mairie was pointing again. Sure enough, it was Siobhan, and Tench had stopped right in front of her, the two of them exchanging a handshake. “No secrets between you two, eh?”

But Rebus was already on his way. This end of the street had been closed to traffic, easy enough to cross.

“Hiya,” he said. “Sudden change of mind?”

Siobhan gave a little smile and introduced him to Tench.

“Inspector,” the councilman said with a bow of his head.

“You’re a fan of street theater, Councilman Tench?”

“I don’t mind it at festival time,” Tench said with a chuckle.

“Used to do a bit yourself, didn’t you?”

Tench turned to Siobhan. “The inspector means my little Sunday-morning sermons at the foot of the Mound. Doubtless he paused a moment on his way to Communion.”

“Don’t seem to see you there anymore,” Rebus added. “Did you lose your faith?”

“Far from it, Inspector. But there are ways of getting a point across besides preaching.” His face composed itself into a more serious professionalism. “I’m here because a couple of my constituents got caught up in all that trouble yesterday.”

“Innocent bystanders, I don’t doubt,” Rebus commented.

Tench’s eyes flitted to him, then back to Siobhan. “The inspector must be a joy to work with.”

“Nonstop laughs,” Siobhan agreed.

“Ah! And the Fourth Estate, too!” Tench exclaimed, holding out a hand toward Mairie, who’d finally decided to join them. “When is our article running? I’ll assume you know these two guardians of truth.” He gestured toward Rebus and Siobhan. “You did promise me a wee peek at the contents before publishing,” he reminded Mairie.

“Did I?” She was trying to look surprised. Tench wasn’t falling for it. He turned to the two detectives.

“I think I need to have a word in private…”

“Don’t mind us,” Rebus told him. “Siobhan and I need a minute too.”

“We do?” But Rebus had already turned away, leaving her little option but to follow.

“Sandy Bell’s will be open,” he told her, once they were out of earshot. But she was checking the crowd.

“Someone I need to see,” she explained. “Photographer I know…apparently he’s here somewhere.” She stood on tiptoe. “Ahh…” Pushed her way into the scrum of journalists. The photographers were checking the backs of each other’s cameras, examining the digital screens to see what they’d got. Rebus waited impatiently while Siobhan talked to a wiry figure with cropped salt-and-pepper hair. At least he had an explanation now: she’d gone to the Scotsman only to be told that the person she needed to see was right here. The photographer took a bit of persuading, but eventually followed her back to where Rebus was standing with arms folded.

“This is Mungo,” Siobhan said.

“Would Mungo like a drink?” Rebus asked.

“I’d like that very much,” the photographer decided, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead. The gray in his hair was premature-probably wasn’t much older than Siobhan herself. He had a chiseled, weather-beaten face and an accent to match.

“Western Isles?” Rebus guessed.

“Lewis,” Mungo confirmed, as Rebus led the way to Sandy Bell’s. There was another cheer from behind them, and they turned to see a young man exiting the gates of the sheriff court.

“I think I know him,” Siobhan said quietly. “He’s the one who’s been tormenting the campsite.”

“Bit of respite last night then,” Rebus stated. “He’ll have been in the cells.” As he spoke, he realized he was rubbing his left hand with his right. When the young man gave a salute to the spectators, it was returned by several of the crowd.

Including, as a bemused Mairie Henderson watched, Councilman Gareth Tench.

Sandy Bell’s had only been open ten minutes, but a couple of regulars had already settled themselves at the bar.