Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“Just a half of Best,” Mungo said when asked what he was drinking. Siobhan wanted orange juice. Rebus decided he could tackle a pint. They sat around a table. The bar’s narrow and shadowy interior smelled of brass polish and bleach. Siobhan explained to Mungo what she wanted, and he opened his camera bag, lifting out a small white box.

“An iPod?” Siobhan guessed.

“Useful for storing pictures,” Mungo explained. He showed her how to work it, and then apologized that he hadn’t captured the whole day.

“So how many photos are on there?” Rebus asked as Siobhan demonstrated the small color screen to him, using the flywheel to flip to and fro among stills.

“A couple of hundred,” Mungo said. “I’ve weeded out the no-hopers.”

“Is it all right if I look at them now?” Siobhan asked. Mungo just shrugged. Rebus offered him the pack of cigarettes.

“Actually, I’m allergic,” the photographer warned. So Rebus took his addiction to the other end of the bar, next to the window. As he stood there, staring out onto Forrest Road, he saw Councilman Tench walking toward the Meadows, busy talking with the young man from the court. Tench was giving his constituent’s back a pat of reassurance; no sign of Mairie. Rebus finished his cigarette and returned to the table. Siobhan turned the iPod around so he could see its screen.

“My mum,” she said. Rebus took the device from her and peered at it.

“Second row back?” he said. Siobhan nodded excitedly. “Looks like she’s trying to get out.”

“Exactly.”

“Before she was hit?” Rebus was studying the faces behind the riot shields, cops with their visors down, teeth bared.

“It seems I failed to capture that particular moment,” Mungo admitted.

“She’s definitely trying to push her way back through the crowd,” Siobhan stressed. “She wanted to get away.”

“So why give her a whack across the face?” Rebus asked.

“The way it worked,” Mungo offered, enunciating each syllable, “the leaders would lash out at the police line, then retreat. Chances are, anyone left at the front would suffer the consequences. Picture desks then have to choose what to publish.”

“And it’s usually the riot cops retaliating?” Rebus guessed. He held the screen a little farther from his face. “Can’t really identify any of the police.”

“No ID on their epaulets either,” Siobhan pointed out. “All nice and anonymous. Can’t even tell which force they’re from. Some of them have letters stenciled above their visors-XS, for example. Could that be a code?”

Rebus shrugged. He was remembering Jacko and his pals…no insignia on display there either. Siobhan seemed to remember something and gave her watch a quick check. “I need to call the hospital.” She rose from her seat and headed outdoors.

“Another?” Rebus asked, pointing at Mungo’s glass. The photographer shook his head. “Tell me, what else are you covering this week?”

Mungo puffed out his cheeks. “Bits and pieces.”

“The VIPs?”

“Given the chance.”

“Don’t suppose you were working Friday night?”

“As a matter of fact I was.”

“That big dinner at the castle?”

Mungo nodded. “Editor fancied a pic of the foreign secretary. The ones I got were pretty feeble-that’s what happens when you aim a flash at a windshield.”

“What about Ben Webster?”

Mungo shook his head. “Didn’t even know who he was, more’s the pity-it would have been the last-ever photo of him.”

“We took a few at the morgue, if that makes you feel any better,” Rebus said. Then, as Mungo smiled a soulful smile: “I wouldn’t mind a look at the ones you did get.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“They’re not on your little machine then?”

The photographer shook his head. “That lot are on my laptop. It’s mostly just cars whizzing up Castle Hill-we weren’t allowed as far as the Esplanade.” He had a thought. “You know, they’ll have taken an official portrait at the dinner itself. You could always ask to see that, if you’re really interested.”

“I doubt they’d just hand it over.”

Mungo gave a wink. “Leave it to me,” he said. Then, as he watched Rebus drain his glass: “Funny to think it’ll be back to old clothes and porridge next week.”

Rebus smiled and wiped his thumb across his mouth. “My dad used to say that when we came back from vacation.”

“Don’t suppose Edinburgh will ever see anything like this again.”

“Not in my lifetime,” Rebus conceded.

“Think any of it will make a difference?” Rebus just shook his head. “My girlfriend gave me this book, all about 1968-the Prague spring and the Paris riots.”

Think we dropped the baton, Rebus thought to himself. “I lived through 1968, son. Didn’t mean anything at the time.” He paused. “Or since, come to that.”

“You didn’t tune in and drop out?”

“I was in the army-short hair and an attitude.” Siobhan was returning to the table. “Any news?” he asked her.

“They’ve not found anything. She’s off to the eye pavilion for some tests, and that’s that.”

“Western’s discharged her?” Rebus watched Siobhan nod. She picked up the iPod again. “Something else I wanted to show you.” Rebus heard the wheel click. She turned the screen toward him. “See the woman at the far right? The one with the braids?”

Rebus saw. Mungo’s camera was focused on the line of riot shields, but at the top of the picture he’d caught some onlookers, most holding camera phones in front of their faces. The woman with the braids, however, was toting some sort of video.

“That’s Santal,” Siobhan stated.

“And who’s Santal when she’s at home?”

“Didn’t I tell you? She was camping next door to my mum and dad.”

“Funny sort of name…reckon she was born with it?”

“Means ‘sandalwood,’” Siobhan told him.

“Lovely-smelling soap,” Mungo added. Siobhan ignored him.

“See what she’s doing?” she asked Rebus, holding the iPod close to him.

“Same as everyone else.”

“Not exactly.” Siobhan turned the machine toward Mungo.

“They’re all pointing their phones toward the police,” he answered, nodding.

“All except Santal.” Siobhan angled the screen toward Rebus again, and rubbed the flywheel with her thumb, accessing the next photo. “See?”

Rebus saw but wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Mostly,” Mungo obliged, “they want photos of the police-useful propaganda.”

“But Santal’s photographing the protesters.”

“Meaning she might have caught your mum,” Rebus offered.

“I asked her at the campsite, she wouldn’t show me. What’s more, I saw her at that demonstration on Saturday-she was taking pictures then, too.”

“I’m not sure I get it,” Rebus admitted.

“Me neither, but it could mean a trip to Stirling.” She looked at Rebus.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because that’s where she was headed this morning.” She paused. “Think my absence will be noted?”

“Chief constable wants the Clootie Well put on ice anyway.” He reached into his pocket. “I meant to say…” Handing her the scrolled sheets. “We’ve another Clootie Well on the Black Isle.”

“It’s not really an island, you know,” Mungo piped up. “The Black Isle, I mean.”

“You’ll be telling us next it’s not black either,” Rebus scolded him.

“The soil’s supposed to be black,” Mungo conceded, “but not so you’d notice. I know the spot you’re talking about, though-we had a vacation up there last summer. Bits of rags hanging from the trees.” He screwed up his face in distaste. Siobhan had finished reading.